Ben Hardy Imagine - Tumblr Posts

Didn't we all.

“I don’t know about that, have you seen Roger in the 70’s? Flipping hell. Nah he’s still good looking but i’m just saying if I was in the 70’s I may have turned.”

WE ARE NOT DOING SO WELL AS WELL.

But I Love You

A Lot

We Fucking Got Him

Edit: Thank you @s-k-y-w-a-l-k-e-r and the others Gif's makers. Sorry for not making a shoutout. Go check their work!

Now what will happen to Cardboard Ben?

So it seems some shit is going on in Instagram.

He Might got a Girlfriend

Stages of Falling in Love [1/2]

▶ Summary: in which we follow the stages roger taylor took to fall completely and utterly in love; part 1 of 2

▶ A/N: i have not written a single thing in about two years, pls forgive whatever this is but i had to write it bc ben hardy looks so good with Long Hairs don’t @ me

▶ Warnings: angst, fluff, alcohol, smoking, language, mentions of shenanigans if you know what i mean, and like two (2) mentions of the marijuana

▶ Pairing: Hardy!Roger Taylor x Reader

▶ Word Count: 3.9k+

[part two]

Stage One.

The pub was crowded, as it always was on nights that a band was playing. Bodies swarmed between tables and the ground shook from the stamping of the patron’s feet. You nervously chewed your lip as your friend pulled you through the mass of people towards the counter. It wasn’t your idea to come to the bar tonight, in fact, with your looming humanities exam the next Monday, you would rather have been back in your dorm studying with your roommate for the remainder of the evening. However, since your best friend had recently been dumped and had formed an inkling to get back into the dating scene, she had decided mingling at the gig of the up and coming band Queen would be the perfect opportunity to meet someone. And you, always being the one to go the extra mile for a friend, had agreed to come with, if only to be the other girl’s wingman.

When the two of you finally broke through to the bar’s counter, your friend ordered the both of you a round of tequila shots and a pink lady cocktail, neither of which you were fond of, but you clinked glasses with your friend with zero complaints. As you recognized the burn of alcohol in your chest, you turned towards the stage to finally get a glimpse of the band performing. Your eyes traveled from the flamboyantly dressed lead singer, smiling as his performance shined in the dimly lit pub, to the curly haired guitarist whose long fingers reached chords that ripped through at an angered pace. You followed the guitarist as he strutted across the stage to stand beside the bass player, who smiled lazily as he followed the drum’s beat. This was when your gaze finally strayed to the blond drummer. The man’s wavy hair was wild as he moved his head with the beat of the song. His movements were fast and fingers nimble as they danced across the drum set, seemingly effortlessly. Your knees began to grow weak as you stared, not a care in the world except for the sweet face that was sat behind the cymbals.

A touch on your arm reluctantly caused you to tear from your haze, as you turned to see what had caught your friend’s attention. She pointed to the dance floor, and you nodded, throwing back the rest of your drink quickly as you headed towards the center of the crowd. As the band played, you swayed your hips to the beat and took a hit off a blunt that was being passed among the masses. Your friend giggled at the sight of you beginning to let go, which didn’t happen all that often. About halfway through the band’s set, your head was rightfully buzzing with alcohol and you whispered to your friend that you were going to move to the edge of the crowd. After receiving a reply of confirmation, you made your way to the front, near the stage, your eyes again finding a certain drummer. This time, however, you were surprised to see his gaze snag with yours for a second before falling back to the instrument in front of him. You blushed despite yourself but could not refrain from continuing your previous actions. In fact, the following minute, he sent a bold smirk in your direction. This time your entire body seemed to flush.

After chugging some water, and willing yourself to forget the light haired boy on stage, you slowly moved back towards your friend to carry on dancing for the rest of the show. In what felt like mere minutes, Queen had finished their set, and the spotlights were extinguished. The crowd moaned gleefully in unison as they applauded the performance. Your friend snaked her arm through your own before pushing towards the bar to grab a nightcap before heading back towards campus, and your head glanced again towards the drum mounts. You tried to ignore the sinking in your chest at the sight of the abandoned instruments.

From behind you, a husky voice inquired, “Looking for me?”

Your friend turned around first, spotting the blonde’s gaze locked on you before nudging you. Startled, you followed the girl’s opened mouth ogle to the person beyond your shoulder, finally registering that the quip from before was aimed at you. Standing before you, was the drummer of Queen who had previously caught your attention on stage. Your lips quirked in an embarrassed little smile before you shrugged nonchalantly.

This caused the man to send a grin back, as his gaze swelled with a roguish glint. “Care if I buy you and your friend a drink?”

Slowly, you nodded; finally addressing your friend for a look of approval as this was supposed to be her night of fun. She broadly smiled back before leading the way to the bar in search of the nearest available bartender. Once one was located, the drummer ordered the drinks before turning towards you again. Your friend excused herself quickly, claiming to spot another friend from uni in the crowd and disappearing.

“I’m Roger,” he introduced, following your lips as they wrapped around the straw of your drink.

“Y/N,” you replied, inclining your head to study his ruffled hair and blue eyes. “Your show sure was something else, Roger.”

His face contorted in surprise, as he uncertainly thanked you.

“It was a compliment, I promise,” you chuckled. “I just meant that energy. You all really know how to win over a crowd.”

“Did we win you over?” he quirked immediately, taking a long drink from his beer, his eyes never leaving yours.

You purse your lips in fake contemplation. “Remains to be seen, drummer boy.”

This earned you a wide smirk that sent shivers down your spine, and you returned it slyly before scanning the pub again. You watched as the lead singer of Queen chatted with the friend you had came with and you found yourself relieved that she was having her own fun while you were off making your own. You were a bit surprised that the drummer was speaking with you after the show, however. You knew that he could have had a go with any of the other girls that milled about, but somehow your company was the one that preoccupied his time. You grinned with this newfound confidence, and leaned into his shoulder, asking a feathery question in his ear about stepping outside to share a smoke. He quickly agreed, taking your soft hand in his calloused one, to which you melted, staring at his striped wristbands.

Stepping outside, a spring breeze meets both of you as you stumbled into the alley beside the pub, Roger pulling out a cigarette, and you reaching into your pocket for a light. After the both of you had taken a drag, you leaned into the wall behind you, and sighed heavily in the cool evening. “You know,” you mused, feeling the buzz of the night in your bloodstream. “You’re obnoxiously attractive.”

He let out a breathy laugh, letting the smoke dangle lazily between his loose lips. “Oh, love, the same could easily be said about you.”

Your nose crinkled sheepishly, as you plucked the cancer stick back, mumbling something about beauty being in the eye of the beholder.

Roger moved in closer, his lips an inch from yours. “Well, since I’m the beholder, I think that you are by far the most striking thing to walk into that bar tonight.” As the last word echoed into existence, you moved your mouth onto his in a desperate attempt to immortalize the statement. He eagerly responded, his own lips moving feverishly against yours, the taste of liquor, ash, and a bit of weed on one another’s breath. He pulled away with resistance, lips still touching as he softly asked if you wanted to take this back to his place.

You nodded, kissing him once more before you reached out for your hand, and he pulled the both of you into the dark of the night.

Stage Two.

It had been three months since you’d awoken, mouth parched, next to Roger Taylor in a dank hotel with your clothes scattered across the beige carpet. Although the two of you never explicitly stated that this one night stand was to be anything more, the two of you simply seemed to gravitate back towards one another, time and time again.

The second occasion that you had run into the drummer of Queen was unsurprisingly at the same pub as before. Roger never would have admitted it, but you had always suspected that he had been waiting there for you, for why else would he have been at a pub that wasn’t necessarily close to his own university or the particular gig that his band had scored for that weekend. This night was again followed by a few drinks, some laughs, and a steamy rendezvous back at his hotel. It was also when you decided to leave your landline number for him, to which he ended up using within the next week to talk about what was on the other’s mind.

You were, of course, aware of the reputation that Roger carried, and since the both of you never confirmed what kind of relationship this was, you both were free to do what you please. Although this was not something you usually did, you felt that the late night talks and the needy kisses that greeted you whenever you were alone were enough to keep you on your toes and him, in turn, to be helplessly entranced with you.

However, eventually, the phone calls became shorter. Conversations began to be brief, mostly on the drummer’s side of things. Then the frequency of the calls slowed. Whereas the two of you had shared a call every night, they dwindled to a couple a week. They finally trickled into prolonged silences from the both of you — you being too proud to appear desperate and call him first, and him cutting the already short-lived talks into mere minutes. In time, it was radio silence between the both of you, leaving you cranky and irritable among your everyday life. You felt that an explanation was in order for this, but oh, you were never one to back down, especially when you felt that you were in the right.

It was a cool brisk winter evening when Roger finally phoned you again. The suddenness of his attempt to mend this currently burning bridge left you with a sinking feeling in your stomach, and since speaking to your friends about what this could possibly mean made the feeling tenfold. They all seemed to agree that he was finally going to officially break up the relationship, whatever that entailed. They also really seemed to love branding him an asshole for this, and encouraged you to forget about him and his proposition, but you felt you had been stubborn enough and were holding off from giving up hope as you dreaded that your feelings were more complicated than just a casual fling.

His voice was hoarse on the other side of the telephone, and he didn’t bother to introduce himself. “Can you meet me?” he simply asked. You couldn’t help but notice that his voice seemed to be a bit strung, and you yourself could feel your throat tightening as you feared for the worst. You agreed, readily, before writing down the new hotel location of that week, and hanging up before completely changing your mind.

You chose to wear something subtle, something that in the worst case scenario, would appear to have had no intention of you desperately trying to get him to return to your life. You kept your makeup minimal but was sure to cover the dark circles that plagued your face.

It took a good twenty minutes to reach the location Roger had recited, and you were nervously wracking your hands as you stepped outside the cab, slowly making your way into the brightly lit lobby. The building was surprisingly quiet as your unsteady knees carried you to room 308. The door opened immediately following the sound of your knock, revealing a very stricken Roger. He glanced behind you, checking the deserted hall, before ushering you in and closing the door behind the both of you. He then relaxed a bit at the sight of you, unaware of the nerves that speed through your entire body.

“Hi, Y/N,” he said tenderly.

Your mouth twitched in response, as your bodies easily found one another in the skinny hallway. His hands were on your face, yours on his arms. Your chests were touching, and you could feel the fast-paced beat of his heart against you. “Kiss me.” He followed the instruction with no further prompting, while simultaneously moving the both of you back towards the bed that lay in the center of the room. Laying you down, he hovered over you as his eyes gawked at the reality that you were here. Time seemed to still as you again got a sinking feeling in your stomach, deciding to break the moment by tearfully questioning where he had been. Roger inhaled sharply, pulling back slightly.

“Around,” was all he replied, finally sitting all the way up with you following.

“Rog,” you prompted softly. “You sounded distressed on the phone.”

Words caught in his mouth as though there was something sticky there. His head fell forward as he fought with himself for a solid minute. Eventually, he raised his gaze to meet yours. “I have to tell you something.”

This was it. You felt it in your chest. This island of oblivion you had been residing on was about to be swept away, leaving you to drown. You tried to brace yourself, as the sinking in your chest became a ball of panic that seemed to be struggling to the surface.

Roger’s eyes scanned the room nervously, seemingly afraid that his words would be heard and snatched from this moment.

“I think I might love you, Y/N,” he breathed lightly.

You stared, stunned. This was not the way you expected this to go. You sat, your thoughts shrinking into themselves, the beautiful boy in front of you now biting his lip in pure apprehension as the seconds slipped by like syrup. The room’s air stilled with musing, and your mouth couldn’t form a sentence.

“Well,” his voice snapping through the quietness. “Are you going to say anything?”

His hands wracked through his soft, long hair, as his blue, blue eyes locked on your own. Slowly, you beamed, taking his hands in yours.

“I think I might be in love with you, too, Rog,” you reciprocated, and finally your lips were glued together once more. A swelling of infatuation formed between the two of you as the moment intensified and your hands moved from his to his belt. He grinned against your mouth, tugging on your thighs, letting you move to straddle his waist, pushing him down underneath you. The man moaned cheekily at the sight of you on top, discreetly finding it as a turn on for you to be the one in charge, and didn’t complain as you removed your cotton shirt.

Your body hummed with this newfound feeling of arousal and a happiness had settled in your heart as you gazed at the man beneath you. Things were again looking up, and you knew you never wanted to let them go.

Stage Three.

You lied awake, hyper-aware of the body next to you. The sun had just risen through the trees, and a soft glow was illuminated in your bedroom. The green curtains and messy interior resonated with your feeling of home as much as the person beside you did. In his sleep, Roger’s mouth hung open slightly, releasing small breaths into the space between you, and his hair was caught in the sunlight causing a fire around his face. His eyes were closed, his one hand under his pillow and the other thrown across your torso sometime during your sleep. The both of you were naked beneath the sheets, having fallen asleep late last night. You recalled the intimacy the previous night had brought followed by the two of you finishing off a cigarette as your head leaned against his chest, talking about nothing and everything all at the same time.

Usually, Roger wasn’t very talkative especially about his feelings, but last night had been different. He had bitched about leaving you for the American tour that was taking place for the next couple of months. He knew the strain that it was going to cause the relationship, as all long-distance ones do but he was sure to show you one final good time before the two of you were left with snatches of memories and a discontented feeling in the fibers of your beings for a seemingly unbearable while.

Thinking about this predicament now caused you to squeeze your eyes shut, in denial of not seeing the man beside you for that long. You moved closer to him, placing your head on his shoulder and wrapping his arm tighter around you. Lately, the fights between the both of you had faded out with the impending tour low over your heads. In fact, the last couple of weeks were some of the best between the two of you. You found yourself letting out uncontrollable whimpers recalling the sweet nothings between the two of you, the fun nights out with the rest of his band, and the rougher nights where he’d ride out his creative frustrations with you.

Although you tried to stop them, tears dripped from the corners of your eyes, falling onto Roger’s bare chest beneath you. Sniffling, you wiped them away with the back of your hand and prayed that you hadn’t woken him up. With such a long day ahead, you knew he should be getting a bit more sleep before he hit the road. Alas, a mixture of your mismatched breathing and the wetness that appeared on his skin had awoken the drummer. “What’s the matter, angel?” he spoke against your forehead with a sleepy kiss.

You’re crying amplified at the pet name, and you forced out a “nothing” before trying to change positions to hide your face.

Concerned, Roger lifted his head fully, securing you in place with his arms as he held you close. “It’s not nothing, Y/N. You know I adore you; you can tell me.” You shook your head in response and gripped his strong arms tighter. This seemed to trigger an understanding, as he sighed, leaning back against the headboard. “You know that I’ll miss you, too, right?”

Relieved you didn’t have to speak the words aloud, you nodded, and said in a raspy voice, “Can I have a cigarette?” Roger let out a breathy laugh and gave you one, sadly watching your red eyes focus on his as you took a drag, blowing smoke into the air. He marveled as he stared, wondering how someone who appeared to carry mountains on their shoulders could crumble in his arms even when the source of their pain was brought about by him.

After crushing out the cigarette, you breathed deep, relieved that some of your anxiety was released along with the smoke, and reached a hand out to cup the face of the boy in front of you. The air suddenly became stuffy with sorrow, and again your eyes swelled, as the tempest inside your mind finally reached shores and spilled out into reality. “Love,” Roger solemnly said, placing his hand over your own.

You smiled a watery smile, closing your eyes. “Do you have you go?” The question was rhetorical, both knowing that the question was not to be answered as the answer was obvious and almost tangible between the two of them. The silence continues, and you nod your head, finally pulling back and beginning to get ready for your day.

You stepped into the shower and heard a holler from the room over, “Want me to join you?”

You laughed lowly. “If you want to make your own self late for your flight, go for it,” you yelled back. You received a loud groan in return, and you smiled sadly to yourself as you again remembered this would be the last morning together for a while.

After you’d dried yourself and dressed in a cropped t-shirt and bellbottoms, you moved back into the bedroom and sat next to Roger, who had fallen back asleep. You ran a hand through his curls, and placed a chaste kiss to his cheek, reminding him that his flight left in only two hours and that he still needed to finish packing. Instead of replying, Roger gently grabbed you and pulled you back down onto the bed, hugging you against his chest. He nuzzled his face into your hair, and let out a breath, signaling he was about to drift off again.

“Come on, Rog,” you muttered.

He groaned again, this time in a blue resignation, finally moving to get himself organized to face the day. You were mesmerized at the way he carried himself, with a bit of arrogance even after he had just been awoken. You dragged your own self out of bed and continued to get ready.

As Roger came back into the room, carrying the last of his toiletries, he glanced over at you watching him from your vanity chair. “You know, you could come with to the airport,” he proposed, zipping up his suitcase. “See the whole band off.”

You nibbled your bottom lip, ducking your head. “You know that would just make this harder,” you replied, locking eyes with him. He nodded in understanding, his own eyes finally welling as he realized this was the last time you’d be together for a while.

“Come here,” he said in a gruff voice, opening his muscular arms for you. You swiftly obliged, resting your head on his chest and breathed in the aromatic scent of his cologne. Roger glanced at the clock, and seeing the time, pulled away slightly, looking down at your face, the clear emotion pushing through. He pressed his lips to yours, trying to make the closeness last. You pulled away, taking a half a step back before his lips were again on yours. Your lip quivered as he moved away this time, pulling him back again. You tasted tears, from both him and you, and a hiccup formed in your chest. You peppered his lips with as many kisses as possible, him doing the same, before he finally completely broke free, grabbing his bags and stepping out.

He paused in the doorframe, opening his mouth as though he had one final thought to share. However, he doubted his own instincts and instead spared you one last gloomy twitch of his lips before closing the door between you and him. You and his new reality.

You sank to the floor, unsatisfied and worried what that last near-sentence could have been.

Little did you know it had almost been his first official I love you.

Stages of Falling in Love [2/2]

▶ Summary: in which we follow the stages roger taylor took to fall completely and utterly in love; part 2 of 2

▶ A/N: the long-awaited conclusion! thanks for reading and feel free to let me know what you think, it would be much appreciated. or drop some borhap requests on me, they are open at the moment ilyyy

▶ Warnings: angst, alcohol, language, smoking, fluff, implied sex, and a cheeky big brother reference ;)

▶ Pairing: Hardy!Roger Taylor x Reader

▶ Word Count: 4.1k+

[part one]

Stage Four.

The night Roger came back from tour was not the greatest moment of your relationship as you had anticipated it would be. The long months apart had been taxing — a blur of emptiness, unfiltered yearning, and a few shattering press articles that were a direct assault on your heart.

In fact, upon hearing the whispers of Queen’s drummer’s undying hunger for all things sex and scandal, you had come back to your flat in a rage, throwing half of his clothes out the windows before you had settled back with a few drinks, remembering the longing that his voice had held during your last phone call. You had heard from numerous sources, including your own mother, that the only way a relationship would work was to have faith in one another. You had hung onto this feeling for as long as you could, but with so much time since you had physically been able to see Rog, doubts seemed to increase and strengthen with each passing day.

Over the landline, he had begun to notice the sulking and short tone you had started to take with him and he yearned for the day you were back in his arms, kissing away all the insecurities that swarmed between. However, he knew how it must have looked. Roger was a handsome man, who had a habit of bewitching woman and was commonly known on lonely nights to not turn away a chance for company. He’ll even admit that a few times he did take a woman back to his mingy rented room where they’d usually drink some alcohol and talk about his frustrations, including the difficult situation of leaving you back home in England. If a groupie were there to get to know the band and its members, he might as well have put them to some use, even if all that use was is a makeshift therapist. He was aware this did not translate well in the media or through the eyes of his bandmates who also had their doubts of what would happen behind closed doors.

“Christ, Roger,” they’d say to him the following morning, appalled. “I thought you said you had a girl at home? Or was that just your car you were squawking about again?”

He would steadily deny the implications, but rumours spread of these fantasy affairs anyway. Which is how you ended up with your bubble burst and muddled disarray splattered on the floors and walls.

It was loud outside as Friday’s were known to be on your street and usually, you kept your second-floor window closed, but when the air got cool at night after a particularly hot day, you liked to keep it open a bit. The noise caused by the groups of primarily university students was enough to awaken you this unusual evening, and you groaned, getting out of bed to shut the window. When you had locked and closed the blinds, you heard a rattle come from your bedroom door. You stilled, eyes fixed on the door’s handle, unsure if you should be unlocking your window again to make a quick escape or pick up your bedside table lamp to hold off whoever was there. Luckily, you had left the light on in the kitchen so when the wood swung open, it illuminated the person’s yellow hair causing it to pale.

Your heart came to a standstill, one chamber longing to greet him with open arms, open legs, and maybe an open mouth, while the other reared its head like a stubborn mare, demanding a full explanation before even a finger was placed on the man.

In the dim light, you couldn’t gauge his facial expression although you thought he was probably surprised to see you still up at such a late hour.

While your heart was fighting for control of your limbs, your mouth opened on its own accord. “I think I might hate you, Roger Taylor,” you spit with tumbling lips, regurgitating the almost exact words you two had shared those months back except for one blaring change.

Instead of immediately replying, Roger reached a hand out to switch the overhead fixture on, washing the both of you in a rather unpleasant light. “You know, that usually means the makeup sex is astounding, correct?” he smirked, setting his bag down near his feet.

“I said ‘I hate you,’” you sneered, taking a menacing step forward. “And that’s all you have to say to me?” The way that he had brushed your statement to the side fueled more anger in your soul than the initial feelings when seeing him for the first time in so long which had been the cause of your previous omission.

“Y/N, you can’t hate me,” he replied simply, moving towards the middle of the room with wide strides.

“Why’s that?” you mused, frustrated.

“Because…” he faltered. You waited, arms crossed, glaring up at him despite your heart racing a mile a minute. Again, just like the last time you had seen him, he seemed to swallow his words, stand straighter and shift gears. “You haven’t told me why. Or gave me a chance to clear up what this could all be about.”

You scoffed, pushing a finger into his sternum. “You know exactly what this is about.”

His gaze trailed from the digit that was pointed at him, up your arm, over your cotton tee — which he couldn’t help notice was one of his own — and up towards your pinched lips, flared nose, and furrowed brow. “Don’t tell me you believe them over me,” he finally said softly, his features slackening with the idea that the one person he hadn’t felt tied to when he called them his own, would reject him over rumours and disgruntled acquaintances.

Your own eyes searched his for any sign of falsehood, scared to imagine a heartache that was worse than this unknowing. He was referencing the countless phone calls the two of you had shared while he was overseas in which he had brought up the lies the media was telling about his love life. He had joked that if they knew of the relationship you two were in, they’d have a field day because he wouldn’t hide any of the intimate details on how he really treats his girl. Deep down, you had always figured that a relationship with Roger was something only fleeting, all things considered. You’d get a handful of moments with the successful musician; a passing memory in that beautiful mind of his. So far it had been fun to pretend this was something more, but you knew that idea was something that scared the man in front of you more than it did yourself. His hand reached out to caress your cheek which was unexpectedly wet with salty tears.

“I don’t,” you relented, letting your head fall in his hand. “If we’re being honest, I could never really hate you. But I do hate myself for letting this doubt get so bad.”

“Hey now,” he protested, pulling your shuddering body onto his, moving the both of you onto the bed. He lied you down, his arms wrapped securely around your entire torso, placing his head on top of yours. His last words were mumbled against your hair, his breath warm in the still, cold room. “Do not hate yourself. I know how it looked, love, I do. I’m sorry for letting it get so terrible between us.”

What felt like a lifetime passed in his arms, and your bodies sniffles were washed away, leaving swollen lips and clumpy eyelashes, but you still approached your lips gingerly towards Roger’s. You pressed a heartfelt kiss there, moving one hand to cup his head, fingers stuck in the long hair that you had missed so tremendously. He returned the gesture, cradling your body down into the sheets, hand sprawled along your knickers line and around your hips.

“Undress,” he muttered on your lips, breaking the kiss. “I’ll be right back.”

After the fluorescent light was out, door closed, and the curtains undrawn to let in the street’s light, he returned, slipping his own trousers and shirt off on the floor, following you into bed.

In the half-light, you run your fingers over his arms and spine as though the skin is scattered with text that glows from his soul, giving a new definition of reading someone’s inner secrets. His thoughts seemed to be sprawled in the open only for you to see, and you knew then that he loved you; he did. Although he had not uttered the saying aloud, you knew at that moment what you had been doubting for weeks on end was just that — doubts.

“Didn’t I say the makeup sex would be breathtaking, angel,” he said boastfully, causing a light slap from you and a cascade of giggles to fall from both your mouths.

Stage Five.

With Roger, there was always something pending on the music front. Despite the band returning home, he was still unbearably busy. After the success of Queen’s first album and the abiding publicity that followed the American tour, the drummer was needed everywhere it seemed. He would bounce from the recording studio to promotional meetings and get-togethers with his bandmates — which were the ones that you sometimes tagged along too. The band seemed to get along with you smoothly and although some of their uncertainty concerning Roger’s ‘infidelity’ had dwindled, they still put up a protective front around you when anything remotely suggestive would come up during conversation.

You, of course, still had your own work to attend to, having graduated from university and now focusing on your career, but coming home to an empty flat weeknights felt even more lonely than before knowing that Roger was so close yet so unattainable.

On some of the spare nights he had off, the two of you would stay in alone, drinking tea and lounging. There always seemed to be an endless amount of conversation that rattled on into the early morning hours, which often became a pain in the ass the next day when one or both of you needed to get up for work. Mostly, however, the both of you would explore the city after the sun had set. Despite living there a good chunk of your lives, it seemed that with Roger by your side a whole world was hidden on otherwise ordinary rooftops and abandoned rooms.

These were easily Roger’s favorite parts of the evening. Sure, socializing was an added bonus as he was always up for meeting new people and experiencing new things, but when he was finally able to drag you into an empty closet or up the stairs to gaze at starry skies, he felt as if his insides were on fire, as if things couldn’t get much better than when he was with you. However, the actual idea of confessing these feelings aloud to you gave him excruciating anxiety. The mere vulnerability that came with admitting your heart was in another’s hands was not something that could be disclosed on a whim. He knew that as soon as the words left his mouth, his last bit of control over the situation and his feelings would snap, leaving him tethered to nothing but you.

As the weeks dwindled until Queen was to go to the south of Wales to compose their next album excluding any formal and normal distractions, every second that was spared from your schedules was spent with one another.

Like most weekends previous, the two of you ended up on a glowing rooftop, the ground glistening with recent rain as the streets bumbled past at alarming rates. The party downstairs was still raging, felt in the bass that echoed through the ceiling and vibrated in your chest as the two of you lied on forgotten blankets Roger had snagged from a hallway closet. Before he had come and got you, you’d been mingling with John and Brian, who’d been talking about how tightly wound around your finger Rog was. This had caused you to glance away while a wide smile crossed your face, flattered that his bandmates had assessed that much from the way you acted around each other.

The sky was now clear above you, illuminating at least two thousand stars that you could see with your naked eye. Roger’s feet were twisted with yours, one arm laid behind his head and the other under and around you, your bodies molded together perfectly, as cliché as that sounded. You felt safe and warm in the dark, and for the first time that day, you felt content, here in his arms.

In the silence of the night, you could hear only Roger’s heartbeat in his chest pounding steadily in your ear. You listened, soothed and lulled into a drowsy state as the world seemed to carry on without the two of you. It was just as you were drifting off that you heard the low words of “I love you” escaping from Roger’s mouth. Instead of freaking the poor man out by responding and acknowledging that you were still conscious enough to pick up on his voice, you sighed, cuddling into his side more and slept.

▶▶▶

The following morning, sunlight shone directly through your closed eyelids, causing you to wince and stretch away from the pain. Your head felt clear despite the drinks you’d consumed the following evening, and it took you a moment to remember what Roger had said before you crashed. You grinned, turning to stare down at the boy below you, slightly startled to find him already awake and gazing at you.

“Mornin’,” he rasped, his voice waking up slower than his mind.

You returned the greeting, raising your arms toward the sky to work out the kinks in your shoulders from sleep. Roger’s hands raised, too, but only to tickle your sides where your blouse had ridden up, which caused you to inhale sharply with laughter, collapsing back on top of him in fits. As his hands ceased, you gathered yourself, wiping the excess tears that had squeezed out from the giggling fit you had just endured.

You bit your lip, staring at the man beneath you and suddenly you didn’t want to forget the words he had uttered when he thought you were sleeping. You wanted to recognize and let out exactly what your feelings were between the both of you.

“Roger,” you say steadily.

He grunted in reply, his fingers wrapped around one of your wrists you were leaning on.

“I love you, too.”

You watched as the man’s vibrant eyes widened in shock and a bit of panic. His mouth sputtered like a dying fish, and his face went red in what might have been embarrassment or bewilderment. His mind reeled, thinking back to how he had assumed that you had been either asleep or out of hearing range the handful of times he had dared speak the exposing phrase.

You placed a modest kiss on his nose, smiling. “You don’t have to say anything, Roger, because I know that you love me.”

Finally swallowing his self-consciousness, he inquired, “How?”

You reflected fondly, pulling from your memories the scenes that you could feel his love for you. “I know that you love me from how you always have a lingering touch on me while we’re at a restaurant or relaxing in your studio. I know from the way that you let me bum smokes from you all the time even though it’s a five-minute walk down to the corner store where I could buy my own. I can see it in the way that you support me and let your guard down when it’s just the two of us. I can feel it when you kiss me or you share the bits and pieces of your life that might not seem like anything particularly interesting, but mean the world to you, and therefore the world to me,” you cease for a moment, taking a breath before tenderly continuing. “And I know it now. The way you’re staring at me like the sun isn’t blinding you at the same time and how your hands been around my wrist since I woke up.”

You stop, gaining his realization that you have been listing unconscious instances that he had probably thought weren’t all that groundbreaking but had actually blared with a significant love behind them.

“You’ve never said it to me before, Roger, at least not a time that really counted,” you explained. “But you’ve shown it to me. Actions can speak much louder than words.”

Roger absorbed this newfound information quickly, his mind finally making the connection that his heart had already found it’s pristine new home in you, but he also came to realize that it had been an even trade. Your love was nested in him and he beamed, trying to fully fathom how he became as fortunate as to be existing in this moment of time with you.

“I love you,” he announced, pulling your head down for a kiss planted perfectly on your lips. You melted with the affection, allowing yourself to be brought closer, in bliss at hearing the words audibly despite what you had just said. Roger seemed to catch onto this as well, pulling back to breathe out, “Nice speech too, by the way. Could tell I really get you going,” on your lips.

You exclaimed, trying to pull yourself from the dream beneath you, but the man kept you from moving, hands wandering about your back. Eventually, you relented, your mock hurt turned a bit erotic as you whispered against his ear, “Sometimes, Rog, you really, really do.”

Stage Six.

In the first few years that followed Freddie Mercury’s confession of his life-threatening disease to his ever-so-faithful bandmates, Roger had been having a tough time accepting the slow demise of this fellow coworker and, quite frankly, best friend. Although Freddie himself never wanted to mention or address it again, the news settled over the heads of his friends with a sadness that lurked in their everyday lives.

After coming home late, totally wasted, following one of the band’s practices before their performance at Live Aid, Roger had relayed the devastating news to you, his now wife. The both of you had sat in silence as the clock on the wall logged the time that passed in soft ticks and occasional chimes of the new hour.

Years later, the news a mere speck in the horizon behind, Roger still fought off inner demons that fashioned themselves in countless ways. Insomnia, aggression, and a few bouts of depression hit the artist in spite of the happy arrival of a darling baby girl, a five year wedding anniversary, and the overwhelming response to Queen’s return to the stage. He was able to hide it fairly well, particularly around Freddie himself, but after a long day, Roger returned home with his heart in his feet, shoes dragging across the dark wood.

Although you had brought up the topic of seeking some type of counseling for the everlasting effects of his woe, the man refused, chalking it up to being normal and tiptoeing around the shadows of his old life.

The most recent manifestation of Roger’s terminals was insomnia. You started to notice that he had begun to take precautions when getting ready for bed. He stopped smoking in the bedroom, or anywhere in the house for that matter. He wouldn’t have wine with his dinner anymore, and often he’d want to have sex right before bedtime in a hope that it would quiet his mind to have his only focus be of you. However, this would usually end with you being too sleepy to stay awake alongside him for much longer after the both of you had finished, leaving Roger alone and sleepless again.

Why couldn’t he just go to sleep? That’s all he really wanted — some damn sleep. A break from the reality of this world that seemed to be crushing his windpipe with every mismatched breath. It seemed as though sleep was always just out of grasp, and his eyes began to hurt from squeezing them shut, willing, praying that he would drift off. He felt the slight heaviness of your hand on his chest and he subconsciously thought of the how his tossing and turning was bound to wake you up soon. With a sigh of defeat, he carefully removed himself from beneath your grasp and padded delicately down the hall towards the living room, halting only once to take a quick peek at his daughter resting peacefully in the room over from his own.

He sat on the couch facing an open window as a cool breeze wafted in. The moon was a waxing crescent against a muddled sky, the light reflecting on his pale face and waning mind. Physically, Roger was tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he was able to snatch more than a couple hours of sleep at a time. His brain, however, refused to turn itself off no matter what the rest of his body was telling it. His feet were cold on the hard floor, but he paid little mind to this inconvenience and leaned back on the sofa, an arm thrown over his eyes in an attempt to perhaps quiet the racing in his mind.

Across the house, you awoke to an empty bed, having felt the lack of warmth beside you. You stole a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table. 03:47 glowed in the twilight. You frowned, climbing out of the four-poster, following the path your husband had taken not thirty minutes prior, looking inside your child’s room to see if perhaps your daughter had awakened the blonde. However, he wasn’t there and the girl was still resting peacefully on her back, thumb in her small mouth.

You found Roger sprawled on the downstairs couch and you instinctively reached a hand out, but the man must have sensed your approach because he tentatively verbalized, “I’m up.”

“I thought so,” you mused, retracting your hand, and moving to crouch beside him. “Why are you out here and not in bed with me?” Roger chuckled humorlessly, his arm moving to reveal his slightly bloodshot eyes. “Did you miss me, love?”

You smiled softly at him, quietly agreeing. You placed a warm hand on his cold cheek. “Come back to bed, Rog.”

Roger opened his mouth to accept the suggestion, but instead, a soft whine escaped his lips. Alarmed, you straightened, crawling to sit in his lap when he arms opened with an invitation. As your head leaned on him, you listened to his breathing as he miserably clarified, “I can’t, Y/N. I can’t fall fucking asleep.” He was near tears in frustration as he expressed the words, baffled as to why his body was doing this to him.

You wince at the desperation in his voice, trying to wrack your brain with any way to help him. “I read once that weight can help with sleeping. We don’t have any heavy blankets in the house though,” you mull over thoughtfully, your chin moving to look up at him.

“If we lay down, would you be comfortable?” he questioned, as he leaned his head to look at you. You nodded. “Then I think you can act like my blanket, don’t you?”

“Are you calling me heavy?” you mocked hurt.

“No,” Roger protested immediately. “That’s not what I —” He stopped speaking as he felt your laugh on his chest. “You twit,” he exasperated as you continued to giggle. “You think you’re funny?”

You shrug, pleased with yourself, feeling him pull you closer to his chest, the world stilling as the two of you stayed in this loving moment.

There is a myth that when you die, your life’s greatest moments flash before you in a reel of film or like a roller coaster ride created just for you. Roger wasn’t sure if that was true and even if it were, he’d only want one image to present itself to him. This one. The one where Roger stayed put in pure rapture, the weight of your body so close to his, your hands placed delicately on his shoulder and the other in his hair, and finally, finally, the blissful callings of sleep at the edge of his overexerted mind.

Roger decided then that if loving you were to suddenly be considered a sin in the eyes of the deity in the clouds above, then he wanted no place in heaven because the way your body molded perfectly with his was the epitome of nirvana for him.

A Rock ‘N’ Roll Love Affair — Roger Taylor

▶ Summary: in which roger taylor has a favourite groupie

▶ A/N: i do have somewhat of a storyline for a part two of this bc everyone knows you can’t be a groupie forever, just let me know if you’d be interested pleasee and thank you

▶  Warnings: mentions of drug use and sex (i’m afraid to post anything even remotely explicit now bc of the new terms and conditions fuxk), alcohol consumption, language

▶ Pairing: Hardy!Roger Taylor x Reader

▶ Word Count: 5.1k+

1970.

Just shy your eighteenth birthday, you had seemed to have unexpectedly submerged yourself in a wild streak of sorts. It manifested itself in a fidgety feeling in your feet which was quickly followed by the overwhelming urge to dance naked in a flower field. You could physically feel summer creeping in through spring showers and the buzzing excitement of pending high school graduation which would be preceded by attending a college your parents had chosen for you, and suddenly, you found you were tired of the same old small town you grew up in.

One crisp early morning, you ended up on your knees reaching under your parents’ bed to grab the money box they kept hidden. You stole the crumpled dollar bills in clenched fists and caught an east coastline bus headed towards the legendary metropolis, New York City. This act of rebellion subsequently caused you to drop out of school a mere month before getting your diploma, and for you to cut family ties without a care in the world.

The following couple of years in the late 60s were a blur of drugs, alcohol, and sex, much of which you couldn’t recall the specifics. At times you would take so many tabs of LSD at once that real life and fantasy began to morph into one, leaving you confused and often stranded after you’d come down. After the iconic Woodstock music festival, you took part in a brief stint of following the Who as they toured which eventually dropped you off somewhere near central London.

Not one to look back, you opted out of calling up your former friends you had made on the road or your seemingly long forgotten family for any kind of monetary or emotional support, and instead, you applied for a job at a local fashion store, Biba. In the beginning weeks of staying in England, things were very much touch and go, seeing as the pay itself wasn’t all that great and you almost lost your job on multiple occasions as you were always one to put your two cents in even when it wasn’t wanted. If it weren’t for your fellow coworker, Mary Austin, who promised to vouch for you, you would have been back to square one in no time. Especially after she learned that you were essentially homeless, and had graciously struck up a deal for the two of you to split rent on her first floor flat together.

Soon enough, Mary and you were becoming closer; sharing clothes, makeup, and gossip as though the two of you had known each other for years rather than months. She even invited you to a group called Smile’s gig this Saturday night. You had cordially accepted the offer, body aching to fall back into your old habits of dancing, drinking, and just plain letting loose.

When the two of you arrived at the pub, she informed the bartender that you were on someone’s tab that had already been opened for the night before turning to you and sending you a mischievous wink, sliding a couple of shots into your hands. You smirked back, liking your newfound friend more and more. As the lights dimmed, you watched as the crowd, including Mary, cheered in unison at the sight of the band mounting the stage. Your bones seemed to buzz in the smoky room as the show began and you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol in your bloodstream or the vibe in the pub itself but you felt warm and bold.

There were three members — Tim, the bassist and lead singer, Brian, the guitarist, and Roger, the drummer. You couldn’t help but giggle at the bright crimson banner behind the band that read Don’t Forget To Smile with an adjoining pair of lips next to it. Despite not knowing the songs that they played, you could feel your hips begin to sway to the beat of the bass, hands steadily climbing into the air. As you became tipsier, you tilted your head back and listened to Mary giggle at the sight of you enjoying the night.

You grabbed her hand in response, making her move along with you. She was a bit more shy, as the two of you were now sticking out like swollen thumbs, but you didn’t care, letting your wild hair fill with cigarette vapor, heart thudding steadily with the band’s song about doing alright.

As Mary soon noticed nobody else was dancing, she let you drift on your own, and you did, lost in your own world when the guitarist spotted you moving against the flow of the crowd. He shook his curly-haired head and nodded towards the drummer, pointing you out to the man that sat behind the cymbals.

The sight made the musician fill with a slight sense of arousal at the sight of your body moving to the beat of his drums. You looked straight out of a magazine shoot in your black stockings and revealing dress. Your eyes find Roger’s as his drumsticks smash down on the beer coated instrument, the tempo picking up slightly. The man seems to be laughing a bit, probably at you, and you can’t help but giggle as well, your smile wide, completely entranced in the song and the flirty gaze from the heart of the stage. Roger had neat blonde hair and soft features which carried more than a trace of mischievousness when he smiled. You’d always fancied the drummers, despite the unspoken hierarchy in a band that told the tale of it usually being the lead singer who was the most sought after at the end of the night.

Once the show had come to a close, you found yourself back at Mary’s side as she made her way towards another group of woman who’d come to watch the performance. “Hullo, girls,” she greeted them with a bright smile to which they returned. “This is Y/N.”

“Hi,” you replied, waving a hand.

“Oh, you’re American!” one of them, a redhead in platforms, exclaimed. As you weren’t sure how to reply to this blatant fact, you simply nodded, smiling at the woman. “We saw you dancing. It looked like you thought you were at Woodstock or something.” This caused a majority of the girls to giggle, hands covering their painted lips and you frowned heavily, disappointed that this was the group of friends Mary hung around. The said girl looked apologetically towards you, seemingly embarrassed by their behavior.

“Actually, she was at Woodstock,” Mary defended you, and you ducked your head, grateful at her attempt to defend you although you knew this wasn’t going to better you in her friend’s eyes. Instead of sticking around to hear any of their retorts, you gesture towards the bar to signify you were going to get another drink. Mary seemed to understand, giving your arm a squeeze, and mouthing to come and find her after.

You knocked back another shot, finally hearing the tab name your roommate had put your drinks under — Staffell —  before turning towards the bathroom as the first of the alcohol finally made its way through your system. The minutes dragged from the liquor as you made your way through the dingy back hallway of the pub in search of your friend.

When you finally located her, she was thankfully standing with one of the girls who hadn’t laughed at the wisecrack aimed at you earlier. In fact, the dark-haired girl was very intrigued with your time as a roadie, gushing over how she herself had always wanted to be one. You had laughed at this, simply telling her to go ahead and commit if that’s what she really wanted.

You weren’t surprised when she faltered at the comment. Many people weren’t serious when they spoke their wishes such as this out loud, and in actuality being a groupie was an acquired taste as it could be difficult on the road with no money in strange cities. But for you, the feeling of being needed and wanted by someone who could hold the utmost attention of a crowd was enough to look past the skipped meals and nights spent on foul hotel floors.

Mary, who had been laughing at this exchange, leaned towards her friend and said, “Oh, I know. Hasn’t her life been so bizarre!”

You also laughed at this quip, having figured out that poking fun of her friends was Mary’s sort of humor, but found yourself discontinuing the action as you caught sight of a man staring at Mary. He had a big mouth, big eyes, and a jawline that would probably give you a papercut if you got too close. He was striking in a very unique way.

“You alright?” Mary inquired after some time, beginning to shift under his gaze.

The man bit his lip as he said, “Sorry. I was just looking for the band.”

Mary gestured towards the rear entrance. “They’re usually out back.” He followed her direction, turning away.

“Mind if I come with you?” you asked. “I want to congratulate the band on their performance.” He simply shrugged with a slight grin on his mouth.

Halfway out the door, he paused to direct another comment at your blonde roommate. “I like your coat.”

“It’s from Biba,” she replied.

“That’s where we work,” you added, sending a playful thumbs up towards Mary. You could hear her sarcastically thank you as you moved away.

The warm air threaded itself into your breaths as you stepped into the night, easily spotting the large loading van that was parked. The back doors were thrown open and two pairs of legs could be seen in the space beneath.

“I’m Y/N,” you filled the silence. “That girl who you were talking to, Mary, she usually works the day shift at the boutique off Kingston High Street.”

“Freddie.” He gave a peculiar look, one that was between appreciative and plain curiosity.

As you approached the car, a voice could be heard saying, “There was room for improvement, yeah.”

Immediately following, another voice joked, “I’ve got better things to do with my Saturday nights. I could give you their names.” Roger took a drag from his cigarette following this remark, which is when he caught sight of you and your newfound companion breaching from behind the doors.

“I bet that list starts and ends with your hand,” you contend good-naturedly, coming to a standstill in front of the members of Smile.

This earned snickers from Freddie and Brian whilst the drummer simply shifted, staring you in the face, retorting, “And here I thought the list would be starting with you, love.”

You jutted your chin out in amusement, asking if you could bum a cigarette. Instead of pulling out another one, however, he passed you the one that had previously sat between his pink lips, staring entranced at the way your own wrapped around it.

“Those were some charming dance moves you pulled,” Brian told you to which you answered the remark with a mock bow.

“We enjoyed the show,” Freddie spoke up.

“Thanks,” the guitarist responded.

“Yeah, thank you,” Roger said.

“I’ve been following you for a while, actually. Smile,” mused Freddie. “Makes sense for a dental student.” Roger seemed startled at the Asain’s knowledge of his studies, but the comment merely made you giggle thinking of the musician as a family dentist. “And you’re astrophysics,” Freddie addressed the curly haired man. “Makes you the clever one.”

This made Brain smile, as he stared directly at his bandmate. “Yeah; suppose it does.”

“I study design here,” Freddie said, maneuvering the conversation back to himself. “I also write songs. Might be of some interest to you.”

The Smile members glanced at each other before Roger spoke up. “Your five minutes too late. Our lead singer just quit.”

This seemed to perk the boy next to you up, however, as his face morphed into one of thought. “Well, then you’ll need someone new,” he stated with a lively glint in his eyes.

“Any ideas?” inquired Brian, subsequently agreeing with that fact.

“What about me?” he offered.

“Not with those teeth, mate,” Roger scoffed almost instantly. You frowned at this comment, watching as Freddie’s face fell. He seemed to go to leave, but stopped, turning back to the duo perched in front of him and began to sing their song to them. Eventually, the drummer and the guitarist opened their own mouths to harmonize with him, causing you to smile at the fresh sound they’d created. Freddie had heard it too because he simpled told them he’d consider their offer before waltzing away.

“That was wonderful,” you consider, inhaling another drag from Roger’s cigarette. The two boys nodded still staring at the spot where the confident man had vanished. “Hey, your lead singer’s name wasn’t Staffell, was it?”

Roger glanced at you. “Yeah. Tim Staffell.”

You shook with mirth. “Well, then, it serves him right to have unknowingly paid for all my drinks tonight, if he ditched you all.”

Brian shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t believe Mary is still pulling that.”

Roger finished off his beer, standing to place himself directly in front of you. “How about I buy you your next drink then?” You agreed with a sultry look on your face. A smirk graced his features as he wrapped an arm around your waist, leading you back the way you came. Little did you know, that this small interaction would be the starting point of a new life for you.

“Pleasure to meet you, Brian!” you called over your shoulder with a wave.

The man returned the sentiment, clearly thinking he’d never see you again.

1974.

“Y/N,” Roger called into the adjoining room of the inn. “Come on, love, you’re going to make us late!”

Huffing, you tripped, trying to put on your shoes while walking as you appeared in the doorway across from the slightly fuming blonde. “If I remember correctly, love, it was you who insisted on having sex just before we were supposed to hit the road, so if anything this is completely and utterly your fault,” you bite back, fixing your shirt and grabbing your coat from the hanger near where he was standing.

He smiled, his lush lips pulled back ever so slightly. “Stop tempting me then.” This comment was followed by a bold pinch on your ass as you maneuvered your way around him and out the hotel door. You squealed in response, practically skipping to escape his lingering touch as you headed through the hall towards the downstairs where a private car was waiting.

Following the night in which you had met the members of Smile — now known as Queen — you had continued to turn out and support the band. Preceding that performance, they had added Freddie as their lead singer which was not a surprise to you as Mary had shared this information with you a couple of days prior during her shift at work. A man named John Deacon had also been auditioned and hired as the bass guitarist. You found him fun to watch as he played his instrument with his fingertips instead of a plectrum and bopped along to the songs in a cute, introverted way. Witnessing this new lineup solidified your inkling that they would go far.

In fact, on a day much like this one, Roger had called you up, quite upset about his “perfectly good van” being sold off like a piece of rubbish. You had promised him you’d head over to his flat to lift his spirits if he would just stop whining; he was recording his first album for Christ’s sake. This was a cause for celebration not moping.

You hadn’t meant for your sexual relationship with Roger to occur more than that once, the night you met, but seeing as you were always around to support Queen, the both of you couldn’t deny the obvious attraction towards each other and your flings became monthly, then weekly. You weren’t complaining, Roger was everything you wanted out of this experience; he was a spitfire that’s for sure, but then again so were you. In fact, Roger loved that on the outside you were like any typical American dream girl, but when you climbed into the sheets, your vixen tendencies emerged to match his own.

Although never verbally spoken, your understanding of the relationship that had been established was that if he couldn’t find an alluring enough girl after a night performing with his band, he would approach you. Usually, you were willing to ditch the second-rate blokes you were picking up if he did come to you. It didn’t offend you in the slightest as this would usually give you a bed to sleep in for the night and grant Freddie and Mary some much appreciated alone time.

Roger did enjoy having you around. Your more mild, flower child vibe seemed to fit well with his passionate state. More likely than not, you were usually up for spontaneous late night drives or grabbing a quick bite to eat at the 24/7 dinner across town. Often, you’d find yourself seeing him for more than half of the nights in a week.

During your time spent, he began to notice an ever-growing list of small characteristics concerning you. He knew you were enticing, anyone could see that, but he started to observe that he enjoyed tracing the simple curve of your nose, and the way your brows furrowed with thought after Brian would say something particularly clever got his heart skipping beats. He also took pleasure in the way that your American phrases would appear in conversation despite being corrected by your British friends many of times prior. Soon it was known to many who hung around the band that you were simply his favorite.

Which was how you found yourself invited to join the band on their several month tour around the United States. You had experience as a roadie from your days with the Who, and seeing as Roger had some unusually persuasive methods (i.e. throwing tantrums) the band agreed to add you as a hired hand. You were excited. This wasn’t the first time you had followed Queen around — you had gone with to Japan for a few weeks and any European tours, you were right there with them —  but this was the first time in many years that you would be back in the United States since moving and officially becoming a citizen of England. Your family was even going to be attending the show that was closest to your old hometown.

The very commitment that Roger was complaining about being late to was Queen’s one o’clock soundcheck for that night’s show in New York City. On the drive to the stadium, Roger’s hand was rested on your thigh as you leaned into his shoulder, letting the breeze from the opened windows mess up both of your hair.

You felt a wave of nostalgia pass as you watched the familiar buildings go by. You pointed out one that you and a few fellow free spirits had rented a room out of during the summer of ‘68. There had been so many of you, the rent was mere dollars per person and you don’t think that you ever met all of the residents staying there at that time. Roger stared at you in disbelief, shaking his head at the former hippie next to him. His life seemed quite straightforward compared to the many detours you had taken to get to this point in your life.

When the car pulls into the back parking lot of the music hall, you kiss Roger on the cheek wishing him luck at the show and inviting him to join you as you visited your old stomping grounds before you left tomorrow. He replied with a direct kiss on your mouth promising he’d find you and he went to the stage while you went to find your boss who was bound to be annoyed by your tardiness.

As per usual, the show was sensational. Freddie’s lively personality matched the crowd’s enthusiasm as he strutted about in his unitard, smile glowing as bright as sunlight. Brian was a delight to watch as he interacted with the fans, serenading them from afar. John was naturally moving along with his beat and had even sent a wink your way as you watched the concert near the side of the stage. Finally, of course, there was Roger, who’s effortless falsettos were something you’d never get tired of hearing.

When the show let out, you were waiting downstairs with the band’s managers and other acquittances. There was a gaggle of lustrous girls who wouldn’t stop glaring at you from where they sat at the bar and you felt a bit of dejection sweep over you. Lately, you had noticed that instead of the other roadies approaching you with kindness as they had used to, they seemed to be throwing you a cold shoulder despite you having never met them before. You suspected this had something to do with a certain drummer, but you could never seem to prove it.

These thoughts were fortunately scrubbed from your mind as the first member of Queen descended into the room. Brian advanced towards you with open arms. “What did you think, Y/N?” he asked warmly, a look of true ecstasy on his face. This was common after a show. The giddiness and excitement that went hand in hand with performing didn’t discriminate against anyone.

“Terrific as always!” you say, laughing a bit.

Ever since the second time he’d met you, Brian seemed to be the first to notice that you would be sticking around indefinitely. He had not been able to ignore the stirring of revolutionary ardor that was on Roger’s face as he noticed you next to Mary during that following gig. Since then he had made a point to always let it be known that you were welcome and wanted around the band in whatever form that took.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he replied, something catching his eye from the corner of the room.

“Of course,” was all you said as Brian pulled away.

John was the next member to join the huddled groups of people, followed by Roger, and then, the actual life of the party, Freddie.

Roger approached you from behind, two drinks in hand from his brief stop at the bar counter. He gave one to you before whispering in your ear, “Hurry up and drink, love. I want to get out of here before I’m bombarded.”

You quirked a brow. “That’s quite pretentious, isn’t it?”

Roger just gave you a pointed look, gesturing with one hand from his head to his feet as if to say ‘Take a look and tell me I’m wrong.’ Disbelief was evident on your face as you smirked at the man in front of you although you did agree with his innuendo. You did as he asked and chugged the alcohol he’d brought you causing Roger to grin at your actions before taking your hand and pulling you towards the exit.

Once you emerged from the bowels of the building, he turned to you, his eyes a glow in the dim light. “Where to first?”

“Well,” you dragged the single syllable out, pulling away from his body but still gripping his fingers. “Usually, I would say your room…”

Roger caught you by the waist, wrapping his arms around your front, burying his face in your neck, humming his response into the space between your shoulder and head. “That would work perfectly, darling.”

You laughed from within his grasp, pulling away to look at him. “I agree. Although, I want to show you this park where I used to spend my evenings. I want to see if my old stash is still there, too.”

Roger groaned, not in malice but benevolence as he watched your face fill with eagerness to show this man a small part of your past. He really did love you. Four years was a long time for someone to be in a relationship without it evoking any type of affection for the other person. Likewise, you also felt this deep in your heart when you stared at the doe-eyed drummer.

“Come on, Rog,” you say softly, breaking the moment as you tugged him towards an awaiting cab — there always seemed to be a taxi nearby in this city.

The park was dark in the twilight. There was a group of college students drinking beers around a campfire on the edge of the walkway, but besides that, the place was deserted. You pouted with disappointment. In your late teen years, this place was usually packed with people, many of whom had known you by name which had made it easier to buy a smoke off of someone.

You lead Roger over to the edge of the woods. In the grass surrounding a tree trunk, there was a pile of dirt that had been slightly disturbed. Without explaining, you crouched down, shoving your fingers into the soil, digging for a string tied bag you had placed there. Eventually, you found it and brought it out for Roger to see. “It’s so dry now,” you said sadly, mourning the weed in your hand. “I really thought I would be coming back for it.”

Roger couldn’t help but chuckle at the miserable way you were looking at your once treasured item. “Why didn’t you?” he finally asked, when you gave him a glare for spoiling the melancholy atmosphere you were trying and failing to convey.

“Hitched a ride too far north. Couldn’t find one back down,” you replied, eyes glazed as your mind returned you to the previous decade. A lot of your past decisions were clouded with at least some regret — about being a bit too reckless or perhaps ditching good people that you had met along the way. You’d never been the greatest at goodbyes, and that feeling of restlessness you felt at the end of your high school days had never ceased which caused you to move around a bit too much, not stopping until you’d met Roger.

The wind blew your hair from your face, causing it to frame your cheekbones as you turned to look at the man next to you. You hadn’t realized this before, but the buzzing in your nerves and the prickle in your toes hadn’t been present since you had met him all those years ago in that smoky pub.

The said man had been watching you as these reflections raced through your head, not wanting to interrupt. He seemed to notice as you came out of your trance, locking your eyes with his. “There’s my pretty girl,” he said softly, his hand reaching out to stroke your face.

You smiled gently back, leaning in to plant a kiss on his lips. Roger responded by deepening it, eventually leaning his hand against the tree behind the both of you to support himself. Your hands found their way from his chest to the base of his neck, supporting yourself as he gripped your thighs up towards his waist, resting your back on the rough bark. Eventually, your legs were wrapped well around him, feet locked together just above his butt. You were in a paradise only he could take you to as he found the sweet spot on your neck. Biting your lip to keep from moaning you looked up at the moon.

“Roger,” you whimper.

He grunted in response against your chest, where his lips had now found themselves.

“I think those kids can see us,” you choke out, feeling his lips end their attack on your skin.

“Let them watch,” he finally said after a moment, leaning in to kiss you once more. You laughed quietly.

“I don’t think so,” you counter. “We don’t need another public indecency on our records.” You were hinting at the last time the two of you had indulged in semi-public sex in his old van off the side of a road. Luckily, you’d been let off with a fine, but that didn’t mean you wanted to get caught by a policeman with your knickers around your ankles and breasts in Roger’s mouth again. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, letting your feet back down on the soft moss beneath you.

“You got me there,” he said lightheartedly. “But just know, as soon as we make it to the hotel, I am going to ravish you.”

“Just know that I am completely fine with that,” you profess as a cheeky smile illuminates your features. Roger again found himself miffed at how the perfect girl for him was somehow still by his side after so many years spent together. Usually, he’d get bored with a fling, leaving them in the dust behind, but with you, it always seemed you were able to hold his attention whether it just be from your stories or the way that you bit your lip when glancing at him from across a crowded room. The more time you spent together, creating your own memories and stories, the more Roger felt that you were the one for him. The only one. He hadn’t been able to find anyone remotely as captivating as you after any of the last shows. While he used to have many lovers, nowadays there was just you.

When the two of you returned to his rented room, Roger kept his promise, so much so that you didn’t end up actually falling asleep until the early hours of the morning.

The following day was rushed, as the band and its crew moved to pack up the equipment and necessities needed for the next sold-out gig that management had booked for Queen. Despite the hectic atmosphere that surrounded you, by high noon Roger and yourself could be found sound asleep again on the back of the tour bus, his arms around you, jacket still smelling of cigarettes, alcohol, and expensive leather. At one point, the sound of a picture being taken awoke you. For a moment you thought Roger’s temper would emerge in a ball of fury, but instead, he simply looked over at you with a knowing smirk before drifting back to sleep.

You smiled yourself, snuggling back into his chest, deciding then and there that this right here was exactly what your anxious mind and wild heart were searching for all those years ago. To be in Roger Taylor’s arms, sleeping the days away and enjoying one another’s company all night long as the outside world whizzed by.

MASTERLIST

This is where all my writing will be! Requests are now open, so request away! Also, I hope you all enjoy!!! Love ya! xx Del

Last updated: 3.20.20

(Under each person, the fics go from newest to oldest)

ROGER TAYLOR

Roger’s on Tour, and You Miss Him Terribly

Falling

You Get Back at Roger

Say You Won’t Let Go

Roger Comforts You After You Have a Bad Day

Promises

Roger’s Being a Flirty Little Shit, and You Get Flustered

Being Best Friends with Roger Would Include

You and Roger Get Drunk and Try to Cook Dinner

You’re a Famous Actress, and Roger Has a Crush on You

You and Roger are Best Friends, But He Wants to be Something More

You’re Brian’s Younger Sister, and Roger Tries Flirting with You // PART 2

Roger catches you jamming out to Queen while wearing his clothes

LONGER STORIES: 

Make Believe: ONE || TWO || THREE || FOUR -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.

When Things Fall Apart: ONE || TWO || THREE || FOUR –You and Roger fall out of love, but could you guys fall back into love? 

BRIAN MAY

4 Times Brian Tries to Ask You Out, and the 1 Time He Does

4 Times Brian Tries to Say I Love You, and the 1 Time He Does

You’re Roger’s Younger Sister, Secretly Dating Brian

1K BLURB CELEBRATION WRITING

Roger catches you jamming out to Queen while wearing his clothes [Roger Taylor Imagine]

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Fem Reader (can also be Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor––doesn’t really matter)

Word count: 1120

Contains: FLUFF, light smut???, idk read the A/N

A/N: This is actually my first fic I’ve ever written/first time I published my writing on Tumblr!! I would really appreciate some feedback! Requests are open, so feel free to message me HERE (you can message me just to say hi, introduce yourself, anything really). Like I said, I’m a little new to this whole thing, and I would really love to meet you guys! I hope you enjoy! 

“DRUM SOLO!” you yell as you bang your imaginary drum sticks in the air (one of them is the wooden spoon you’ve been using to mix the tomato sauce) on your imaginary drums. “Keep Yourself Alive” is blasting throughout your apartment from the record player sitting on the kitchen counter (you moved it from its usual spot on the small coffee table in the living room). You’re bopping your head so hard that one of Roger’s many black Ray-Bans you stole from his closet have almost fallen off your face too many times to count, causing you to hastily shove them back up every time they slip down your nose. You’re wearing one of Roger’s white button-ups that just grazes the tops of your thighs, and as a finishing touch, you don a pair of his sweatbands around your wrists to really emulate your famous rocker-drummer boyfriend’s look.

With the music playing so loudly that you know the neighbors will most likely leave a passive aggressive note tacked on your door tomorrow morning, you don’t notice your boyfriend leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, and a fond smile spread across his face as he watches his girlfriend recreate his drum solo––quite successfully––he thinks, too. 

With a final, dramatic flourish of the wooden spoon, signaling the end of the famous solo, he finally lets out the laugh he’s been holding in while also shaking his head. 

“You know, I’m surprised you didn’t stain my shirt more than you already have with that vigorous drum playing,” he calls out. You shriek, wooden spoon flying towards the intruder. He ducks as it goes soaring past him, just grazing the top of his head. It hits the white wall behind him, spraying tomato sauce everywhere. 

“ROGER. You nearly gave me a heart attack!” you yell. “When did you get her––how long were you standing there??”

“Long enough to say that I think you should replace me for our next show,” he replies with a grin. You roll your eyes and laugh. 

“Shut up,” you say, feeling a slight flush creep its way up your neck, but you turn the stove’s heat to low and make your way to your boyfriend. 

He opens his arms and you wrap your own around him, hugging tight. He pulls away slightly and gently cups your face with both hands, tilting your chin up to pull you into a sweet kiss. 

“Hello, darling,” he murmurs when you separate, your foreheads pressed against each other. 

“Hi,” you whisper back, biting your lip as you smile a little shyly under his intense gaze. A little shyly because by the expression on his face, it seems as if he wants to rip his shirt right off of you. 

“I like this on you,” he says, fingering the cotton that’s hitting the top of your thigh. 

“Oh, this old thing?” you joke as you twirl out of his grasp with your arms raised by your sides. Raised just enough to have the shirt ride up and show a bit of your bum and the lacy underwear hiding underneath. You can feel his heated gaze burning into your back as you walk over to retrieve the spoon you so violently threw, and you jokingly wiggle your bum at him when you bend over to pick it up. He laughs under his breath, and you smile to yourself.

You hand him a damp paper towel and ask him to wipe up the wall before returning to stir the rest of the sauce in the pot. A few minutes later, he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder. 

“Yeah, really, really like it on you,” he says softly, his breath hitting the shell of your ear, making you shiver. You continue stirring, but you get distracted by Roger’s mouth. Distracted by his mouth moving along your neck and his hands that slip underneath your shirt. You stop mixing all together when you feel a calloused hand grip your hips deliciously, and your breath catches as you feel the other one flick the middle button open. He moves his hands from your hips to your now exposed stomach. You feel him smile against your neck when he feels your abs clench. 

“Mhmm?” You hum as he mouths over a particularly sensitive spot right at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. 

“Yep. But you know…it would look a lot better on the bedroom floor,” he whispers in your ear. You let out a snort. 

“Oh my God, Rog. That was really bad,” you laugh as you roll your eyes.

“You know you love it.” You press back against him in response, and he lets out a low groan, dropping his forehead back onto your shoulder. 

“You’re lucky I only put up with you because you’re handsome,” you tease, your voice a little breathless.

He fake gasps, grabbing you and backing you up into the marble island behind the two of you. 

“Is that so?” he asks.

“Mhmm, I only use you for your body. And to get closer to Deaky. Do you think he’ll say yes if I ask him out? He just has the most adorable––” He cuts you off with another kiss. This time, with a little more force. He takes your hands that are currently gripping the edge of the countertop and puts them behind his head. And you pull slightly on his blonde strands, making him grunt into your mouth. He lifts you up onto the counter, stepping in between your legs. You hear a faint clatter from behind you, but you don’t care. Don’t care when he’s gripping your thighs that are now wrapped around his hips like that. Don’t care when his fingers slip underneath the band of your underwear.

You notice a distinct burning smell and pull away. His eyes are still closed and his lips chase after yours. 

“The sauce!” You exclaim. You quickly untangle yourself from him and lunge to turn down the heat. 

“Hey, let’s forget about dinner, huh? I have a better idea on what we could do instead,” he says, panting lightly, hair disheveled. You know you probably look the same, imagining the dark blush that’s probably staining your cheeks. 

“Nuh-uh, I spent the last hour making us a nice dinner, and we’re going to sit down and eat it, Mister. Now go get some plates,” you say, patting his cheek lightly as you button up your––well, his––shirt and dodge his grabby hands. He groans, but you hear him walk over and open the cupboards.

“You are gonna be the death of me, Y/N Y/L/N.”

You’re Brian’s Younger Sister, and Roger Tries Flirting with You [Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor Imagine]

Pairing: Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor x Reader 

Word count: 677 (I know, très short)

A/N: This was fun to write. Also, Happy New Year! Wishing everyone a fantastic 2019 :)))

PART 2

It is Brian’s birthday and fortunately, his birthday falls in the summer, so you get to join in on the celebrations as you’re back home from Uni. This time though, your older brother thought it was the perfect opportunity to introduce you to his bandmates and have you finally meet them. 

––––––––––

Happy Birthday was sung (it was quite a performance thanks to Freddie and his piano skills) and the cake was sliced. Now, while the others engage in their own conversations (Brian’s going off about a comet that’ll pass “extraordinarily close” by Earth next week) and sipping some tea, Roger saunters over, taking the empty seat next to you, which was previously occupied by Mary (she went to the bathroom). He stretches his arm across the back of your chair and leans over, his face now inches away from yours. Although Brian had known Roger longer than the newer band members, Freddie and John, this birthday breakfast was actually the first time you both were officially introduced to each other.  

“So Y/N, what are you doing later?” he murmurs close to your ear. From the corner of your eye, you see Brian’s head whip towards you guys, his excited chatter trailing off––distracted.

“Hmm, nothing really, you wanna come over? I always keep my window open, and there’s a big tree you can easily climb,” you say without missing a beat. He blinks, clearly taken aback at your upfront response. 

“Y/N!” your mom scolds. You flash her an innocent smile.

Across the table, Freddie laughs loudly, clapping his hands together. “Oh, I like her,” he says, pointing at you. You smirk and take a bite of your cake. Mary–– conveniently––comes back from the bathroom, wiping her hands on the sides of her dress.

“I would have to agree with Fred,” Roger whispers so only you can hear when he gets up to let Mary have her seat back. You bite your lip, suppressing a smile. 

The rest of the breakfast consists of you raising your brows and wiggling your fingers at the blonde drummer when you catch him staring at you in addition to Brian’s narrowed eyes tracking each exchange. And each time you meet that gaze from across the table, you get a little flutter in your chest as you see a sort of amusement––and something else you can’t put your finger on––in his bright green eyes.

––––––––––

“Hey, Y/N, if you’re free, you should come to our next show. It’s this Friday,” he says as you’re making your way up the stairs. 

“Ooh, the ol’ show invitation. You know Brian told me about you,” you say with a smile. 

“Oh? You talked about me?” 

“Mhmm. He warned me actually. Practically gave me a bloody lecture. From what he said about you, I thought of a great title for your biography. Roger Taylor: Hot, Edgy Drummer and Heart Breaker Extraordinaire. Hide your sisters!” you say in an exaggerated announcer-type voice.  

“You think I’m hot?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Hey, that was Brian’s word, not mine.” 

“Ouch, you’re a mean one,” he says, holding a hand to his heart. 

“Aw, you know, you’re cute when you pout.” 

“And you’re cute,” he replies back with a cheeky grin. You scoff, rolling your eyes although you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. 

“You’re real smooth, Taylor,” you say as you make your way up the stairs once again. 

“So, about that show…?” he asks. You think you hear a bit of hopefulness in his voice.

“Hmm, I’ll check my schedule, I might have something that day, but once I know, you’ll be the very first person I’ll tell,” you call down from behind your shoulder.

“I’m truly honored,” he calls back from below. You wink at him and blow him a kiss before you head upstairs to your bedroom. What he doesn’t see is you, flopping onto your bed and squealing into your pillow with glee. What you don’t see is him, blushing slightly and smiling to himself, his heart rate a tad bit faster than normal. 

“What’s got you so happy?” John asks as they’re all about to get back into their respective cars. 

“He is totally in love with Y/N!” Freddie yells as he’s about to enter his car. 

“He is most definitely not!” Brian yells back almost immediately. 

PART TWO

You and Roger are Best Friends, But He Wants to be Something More [Roger Taylor Imagine]

Pairing: Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor x Reader

Word count: 1186

Contains: angst?

A/N:  I’m currently writing a part 2 of this piece, so hold tight! (It will probably come out tomorrow). Also, would you guys want to see a part 2 of this one? Let me know. 

When you left your house this morning, you were excited. Excited for exactly two reasons. First, your last class just ended and winter break has officially started. Second, you were going to visit the boys at the house they’re currently holed up in, recording their new album. Roger invited you to stay for a bit, and you happily agreed, not wanting to miss an opportunity to see your best friend and watch the band create music. You and Roger actually knew each other since you both were babies, and he introduced you to Brian when they were still at Uni. You, also majoring in Astrophysics, already sort-of-knew Brian as you shared many of the same classes and quickly became friends (he was also the best study buddy). 

But a couple hours in, whilst sitting on the couch in the recording studio, your eyes begin to droop a bit. Maybe it was because you got absolutely no sleep due to that damn paper you spent all night working on (wanting to get a head start on the winter homework) before driving down to visit the boys. Your head falls forward, and you quickly jolt up, annoyed. But not even a second––okay, maybe like five seconds––later, you let your head rest on Roger’s shoulder, and he immediately wraps his arm around you. It wasn’t unusual. In fact, it was familiar, snuggling close to him. You and Roger always had a very touchy-feely relationship ever since you were little as you both are very touchy-feely people. 

You feel your eyes drooping again. But you couldn't help it. Roger’s warmth, (he’s always unusually warm––you don’t know why––but he’s like a furnace all year round), the way his arm is wrapped tightly around you, and the feeling of his hair lightly tickling the top of your cheek are all making you oh-so comfortable. 

And oh-so sleepy.

 I’m just going to close my eyes for a second, you think as you snuggle deeper into his side. His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. 

––––––––––

“I just feel like there needs to be something else––it’s just––it seems like something’s missing,” Freddie explains with furrowed brows. 

“Well, I like it,” Brian says, shrugging.

“Yeah, me too…what did you think about that Y/N?” Roger asks. No response. He looks down and sees you: your eyes closed, breathing heavily through your nose, your nose twitching a little. 

And his heart clenches at the sight. 

“No, I need to figure this out.”

“I’ve got an idea!”

“Shut up!” Roger whisper-yells, looking pointedly at each member and then back down to his sleeping best friend. Brian raises his eyebrows, giving his friend a knowing look, but Roger pretends he doesn’t see. 

“Y/N,” he says, gently shaking your shoulders. 

You rouse, blinking up at him owlishly, which causes his heart to flutter once more. 

“Hey, Sleepy, you wanna go back and take a nap in a proper bed? I don’t think I’m a very comfortable pillow.” You nod your head, rubbing at your eyes. 

“Sorry, guys, I stayed up late writing this paper…stupid Professor Gable…I don’t even know why I took his class,” you say through a yawn. 

“Oh! I had him, I can give you my notes if you want,” Brian offers. 

“You’re actually the best, Bri,” you say before walking out with Roger. 

––––––––––

“Here, you can crash in my room,” he says once you make it back to the main house. 

Spotting the plush bed in the middle of the room, you immediately flop face first into the fluffy sheets. 

“Oh my God,” you groan. You flip around, burrowing yourself in the blankets. The bed wasn’t made, but it smells like Roger, and you sigh in content. Roger comes over, and nudges you over, so he could take a seat at the edge of the mattress. 

“I’m glad you were able to make it,” he says. 

“Of course, Rog. I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see my best friend’s beautiful face. Anyway, I haven’t seen you in like forever.” You yawn, closing your eyes. He chuckles lightly. 

You guys talk for a bit, just catching up. Him, asking you about the drive down, schoolwork. You, asking questions about the new album, the band. 

“I should be getting back,” he says lowly once he notices the way you start responding back to his comments with incoherent mumbles. But he doesn’t move. Stays there next to you for a bit longer, not wanting to leave as he thinks you look absolutely breathtaking with the sun’s orange rays filtering through the window, painting your face in a warm glow. As he’s about to leave, you gently touch his wrist. 

“You know, you’re very comfortable, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, your voice a tad slurred, sleep about to have you in its clutches. He smiles fondly down at you.

“Sleep well, love,” he murmurs before treading lightly across the room and walking out the door. You don’t hear it as you’ve already fallen fast asleep, face smushed into the pillow. 

After grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen and walking back towards the makeshift recording studio, he overhears his bandmates talking. Talking specifically about him. 

“Why won’t he just tell her he likes her?” Roger hears John ask. 

“Because he’s scared,” Brian responds, and he hears Freddie hum in agreement. Roger clears his throat after opening the door. 

“I thought we were recording an album, not gossiping about my love life,” he says, strolling back into the room. 

“Well, we were waiting for you to come back. Done pining over Y/N, yet?” Brian asks while strumming a few chords on his guitar. 

“Fuck off,” he says, but it lacks venom, not wanting––too tired––to think of a better comeback. Instead, he pops a cigarette in his mouth and lights it, taking in a deep inhale of the smoke. 

––––––––––

Later on in the night, after you’ve woken up from your nap, and now “feel like an actual functioning human being again,” the boys and their girlfriends, who were also invited, sit around the fireplace in the living room. You’re snuggled up with Mary, the two of you sharing a wool blanket, each holding a glass of red wine. Someone in the room says a joke that causes you to laugh. But, Roger didn’t hear the joke, too busy watching you. Watching you laugh. The one that makes you throw back your head and scrunch up your face. The one that Roger absolutely loves. Especially loves when he’s the cause of that unfiltered happiness. The one that makes Roger fall in love with you over and over again.

And as he’s sitting by the fire, holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other, gazing at you, his heart clenches in a different way. Clenches, thinking about the fact that you have a boyfriend. Clenches, thinking about how he’ll never get the guts to admit his feelings for you. 

You’re Brian’s Younger Sister, and Roger Tries Flirting with You || PART 2 [Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor x Reader]

Pairing: Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor x Reader 

Word count: 1460

Contains: light smut!

A/N: The part two of this piece has been so requested, so here it is!! I really hope you guys enjoy it and thank you for all the support that I’ve gotten!! You all are the best!!!!! Also, I’ve started to get requests, so I’m working on those right now! (If you want to request anything, message me!) Also, I am sleep deprived. Okay goodnight!! 

PART 1

You didn’t tell him you were going. In fact, you didn’t even know you were going yourself. It was really a last minute decision, actually. But here you are in the crowd of people watching your brother and his band perform at this small pub. You, specifically watching that blonde, green-eyed drummer. That blonde, green-eyed drummer who currently has a cigarette dangling from his mouth, head bopping lazily to the music. 

You see him look up from his drum playing, scanning the crowd with a little smirk on his face. And your eyes meet. It was almost comical––the double take he takes when he sees you. You wiggle your fingers at him with a playful smile, and he laughs, shaking his head, before looking down to focus on his drumming. 

Maybe it was just you, but during the rest of the show, it seemed as if he was playing more intensely than before. At the final cymbal smash, you make your way over to the bar and order a scotch. 

––––––

“You made it.” You hear a deep voice say next to you as you sit at the bar. 

“Yeah, I heard the drummer of this band is mighty fit, so I had to see it for myself.” 

“And what did you think of him?” 

“Hmm, I thought the bassist was cuter.” 

“Still mean, I see.” 

“Still cute when you pout, I see,” you retort and notice that his eyes are bright with amusement. 

“Hey––”  

“Rog, dont even think about skipping the afterparty. You missed the last four,” Freddie scolds, coming up from behind and interrupting him. 

Roger groans, “You’re joking?” 

“Nope––Y/N, darling, you are more than welcome to join us! It’s at my place,” Freddie offers, a warm smile on his face.  

Roger raises his brows at you, a question in his eyes. You shrug. 

“I’ve never been to an infamous Queen afterparty before.” 

––––––

When you arrive at Freddie’s house, the music is already booming, and the room is already filled with hordes of drunk partygoers. Roger stretches out his hand, and you take it, letting him lead you through the crowd.  

“I know somewhere we can go that’s a tad bit quieter,” he says before grabbing two beers and leading you out the door and to a little nook in the backyard. Roger reclines down on the grass, and you join him, stretching out your legs, and leaning on your hands behind you. He lights a cigarette, taking a deep drag, and then offers it to you, which you take. 

You guys talk. Talk under the night sky with the booming music and the excited chatter that only occurs when the whole room is shit-faced as background noise. You guys talk about everything and anything, your beers become forgotten on the grass next to you. And it seems as if you and him are the only people in the world. Perhaps it’s because of the hedges blocking him and you from the rest of the party, the soft light of the moon illuminating your faces. Perhaps it was because he’s looking at you like you are the only person he wants to spend his time with. And he makes you laugh––real laughs––telling you all kinds of stories about their experiences creating music, touring, performing. You laugh especially hard at the story he tells of him accidentally spitting in Brian’s hair during a show, and Brian never noticing. You throw your head back, grasping at your sides, tears springing into your eyes. 

What you don’t see is that whenever you tilt your head back and laugh, his eyes brighten. And when your laughter trails off and you wipe your eyes, you look up, and he’s staring at you. 

“What?” you ask, a little shy all of a sudden. Perhaps it was due to the intensity in his green eyes or the way your faces were mere inches away from each other, so close you can see how long his lashes are. 

“You’re beautiful,” he responds, quietly. Almost reverently. Any other time, you would’ve scoffed. But––this time––this time you smile, a blush tinting your cheeks. 

“So cliché, Mister Taylor,” you whisper.

“Is it working?” he whispers back, his eyes flick down to your mouth. Instead of replying, you lean forward, brushing your lips against his. A little hesitantly. And he grasps your jaw with two hands, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. He tastes like cigarette smoke and beer, but you don’t care––don’t really notice. You probably taste the same. You gasp in his mouth, and he slips his tongue in. He sits up straight, not breaking the kiss, and you crawl into his lap. 

“So does this mean you think I’m cuter than that bassist?” he asks, panting slightly. 

“Shut up,” you say through a breathless laugh, reconnecting your lips, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands quickly take off your jacket before holding onto your waist and then making their way beneath your shirt, stroking the sensitive skin there. Your hips jolt against his, and he groans quietly, stoking the growing fire deep within you. Pulling away to catch your breath, you gulp down the fresh night air, and he takes the opportunity to pepper kisses down your neck. He undoes the first few buttons of your blouse before shoving your collar down to your shoulder, sucking love marks onto your skin, drawing out small whimpers from you. And you start grinding down on him, moaning at the friction from his rough jeans. Your forehead is pressed onto his cheekbone, and he can hear you panting into his ear. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he hisses, hands gripping your hips tightly, helping you move along him, his eyes closed. 

“Rog,” you groan, and he looks at you, his pupils dilated, eyes hooded, absolutely loving the way his name sounds coming out of your mouth. And he’s starstruck when he sees you: you with your lips red and swollen, hair messy, brows furrowed, cheeks flushed with such a pretty pink. And right then and there, he knows that he’s absolutely, positively, fucked. That he’s already falling in love with you. 

He reaches underneath your skirt and––

“Oh for fucks sake!” Brian shouts. 

“Oh fuck!” Roger exclaims. 

“Shit! You scared me!” you yell at your older brother. He’s standing at the entrance of the little nook, looking down at his feet with one hand covering his eyes. He looks back up, mouth open in disbelief. 

“Can you leave? We’re busy,” you say, making shooing gestures with your hands. Brian sputters, at a loss for words. Roger chokes, coughing into his hands, and Brian shoots him a glare.

You see John’s face pop up from behind Brian’s shoulder, and he quickly covers the youngest member’s face. You snort. Your brother whips his head around to give you a death glare. 

“I was just getting to know Roger a little better. I mean, we really hit it off at your birthday breakfast,” you say while adjusting your shirt. Brian pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving his arms in front of him. He points at you, “Car. Ten minutes,” he says before walking away, John and Freddie trailing behind him. 

He stops a few feet ahead of you. “Ugh!” he says in disgust and then continues on his way. You see his curls jiggling as he shakes his head, face in his hands. 

“I think they’re cute together!” You hear Freddie exclaim to Brian. 

You bury your face into Roger’s shirt in a fit of giggles, and he cups your head to him, pressing a gentle kiss to the top as he laughs too. You sigh. 

“I should probably go. I’m pretty sure Brian’s having an aneurysm right now.”

“Y/N!” Brian yells for you across the lawn. 

“Coming, coming,” you grumble, pulling yourself off of Roger’s lap. 

“So, when am I gonna see you again?” he asks, his eyes sparkling up at you. 

“Bye Roger,” you tease, waving at him. 

You take a few steps, leaving him still sitting on the grass. You stop. And you turn around to grab his face and give him a long kiss. 

“Oh my God. Y/N!” Brian yells. `

“Call me,” you whisper before springing back up and skipping towards your brother. 

“I don’t have your number!” 

“You know where to get it!” you call back, blowing him a kiss. 

He watches you leave in awe, watches as you cheerfully loop your arm through the arm of a disappointed Brian. He flops back down on the grass with a content sigh, looking up at the stars, smiling to himself, a certain emotion tugging at his heartstrings. One day, I’m gonna marry that girl, he thinks. 

You’re a Famous Actress, and Roger Has a Crush on You [ROGER TAYLOR x READER]

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Summary: You and Roger meet at the afterparty of your movie premieres and really hit it off. 

Word count: 1218

Contains: fluffyyyyy

A/N: I wrote this fluffy piece when I was a lil’ sad to try to cheer myself up. Also, sorry for not posting that much in the last couple of days, I got sick and school just started again. ALSO ALSO: thank you to the lovely people who responded to my question about taglists and now that I know what it is, if anyone would like to be on my taglist, let me know/message me!

“Roger, there’s someone I would like you to meet,” a mutual friend of yours (his name is John) says to Roger as he chats with a model (you’re guessing) by the bar. You see that he’s wearing his usual RayBans even though it’s pretty darkly lit in the room. He turns towards you. 

“Oh yes, hello…” he trails off once he fully faces you, now staring. Staring at your beauty that leaves him speechless as you look absolutely breathtaking in that long golden dress you’re wearing. Staring at you because he recognizes your face from the multitude of movies he’s watched you in. Recognizes you as the star of the movie premiere he just attended. And keeps staring at you whilst sitting at the bar of said movie premiere’s afterparty. 

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you say, holding out your hand. 

“Hello, I’m Roger Taylor,” he says with one of his signature smirks, trying to recover from his blunder a few seconds ago. You smile, liking the way he pronounces his name as “rog-ah.”

“Nice to meet you Roger Taylor.” 

“Loved your movie by the way.”

“Eh, it was pretty shit,” you reply with a shrug. 

“Hmm, in that case, can I offer you a drink?” 

“Ooh, I didn’t know the famous Roger Taylor was known to be so chivalrous.” He gives you a dazzling smile before ordering two glasses of whiskey (per your request).

He hands you your drink. “So the movie was shit?” 

“Didn’t you think so?”

“Too busy looking at you to pay attention,” he says with a cheeky grin. You chuckle at that, rolling your eyes. 

“You’re quite the romantic, you know that?”

“I’ve been told that I’m an even better lay,” he responds in an exaggerated whisper as he leans closer to you, a small smile playing at his lips. At that, you burst out laughing, and he joins in as well. 

“I like you Roger Taylor.”

––––––––––

“Hey, do you want to go somewhere a little more quiet? I’m getting sick of this party,” you ask him after talking for a bit (albeit it was pretty hard to hear anything with the blasting music and hundreds of other people in the room). “I know a place we could go.” You order two more whiskeys before heading up to the hotel’s rooftop. 

“Whenever I make a movie with Fox, they always insist on having the afterparty here, so I always ask the hotel to leave a blanket on the roof for me,” you say while grabbing said blanket sitting at the side of the stairs right in front of the door. You open the door to the outside, reveling in the fresh air.

He looks at you in awe. It’s dark enough and late enough to see the stars in the sky. And it’s summertime, so tonight is warm with a nice breeze––the perfect temperature for a midnight chat. 

Hiking up your dress, you plop down onto the blanket and kick off your heels, sighing. Roger follows suit, taking his sunglasses off his face and placing them on the floor beside you. 

––––––––––

“Okay, I have a serious question for you,” you ask after a while––after you talked about each other, life, all the topics one talks about with the star speckled sky as their ceiling and with a person who they feel oddly connected to besides them. Your tumblers are now empty and discarded to the side. Both of you lie next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the sky. Sitting in a comfortable silence, now simply enjoying one another’s company. It’s strange, you think. It’s strange because you feel so comfortable around this man––a man who you’ve only just met––but nonetheless, you feel as if you really know him. You feel as if you can tell him anything. 

And you don’t know this, but he feels the exact same way towards you.

“Uh-oh, don’t make it too personal,” he says with a laugh.  

You take a deep breath in. 

“Why do you always wear sunglasses inside?” you finally ask after holding out the suspense. He pauses for a second, surprised. And then he begins to laugh. He turns his head to look at you, and you do the same, now looking into his eyes––his usual bright blue eyes now looking like a dark indigo in the nighttime, his pupils a tad dilated. And you see that his eyes slightly crinkle at the edges when he smiles. 

“Prescription. Can’t be a rock n’ roll star if I wear glasses all the time––kinda ruins the image don’t you think?” 

You laugh with him, nodding your head.

“This is such a beautiful view,” you say after turning your head back to look up. 

“Yeah, I agree,” he says quietly, still looking at you. 

––––––––––

“So, we only have time for one more question: who is your celebrity crush?” the interviewer asks the four men in front of her. 

“Oh, well, we all know who Roger’s crush is,” Freddie says with a knowing smile. 

“Yeah, seriously, nonstop, this one,” Brian says, pointing at his friend. 

“Met her once at an afterparty for one of––uhhh––one of her movie premieres, I think, and now she’s the only person he talks about. It’s quite adorable, actually.”

“Fred, I’m going to kill you,” Roger says before bringing a cigarette to his lips. 

“Oh? Now you’ve got to tell us! You’ve practically broken every girl’s heart in the audience now,” the interviewer teases. Roger laughs, scratching the back of his head while the audience yells at him to reveal the name.

“Oh fine, it’s Y/N Y/L/N!” The crowd goes wild. 

“And why is she your celebrity crush?” 

“Beautiful. Smart. Funny. What’s not to crush on?”

––––––––––

“Y/N, Y/N! What do you think about Queen’s Roger Taylor saying that you’re his celebrity crush?” a paparazzi asks as you exit your car. 

“I think that he’s mighty cute, and tell him to call me,” you say with a wink, holding your hand in a phone-like gesture to your ear. 

––––––––––

Roger is sitting at the breakfast table at the hotel suite where all the boys are staying at to record their next album when Brian walks in, yawning and scratching his curls. 

“You see this?” Brian asks, slapping down a newspaper in front of his friend. The headline: Y/N Y/L/N CRUSHES ON ROGER TAYLOR: FUTURE COUPLE??? with a photo of you with your hand up to your ear as the front picture. Roger puts down his glass of orange juice and takes the paper, smiling. 

Later in the afternoon, Roger tells the others that he’ll be out before meeting up with you for a lunch date. 

Giving him a quick kiss, you ask,“So, who’s gonna tell them?” 

––––––––––

The next day, Brian comes into the breakfast room, slapping down this morning’s newspaper on the table again. The headline: ROGER TAYLOR AND Y/N Y/L/N’S RELATIONSHIP: CONFIRMED. Underneath: Sources say that this newfound relationship has actually been going on for months! The picture of you and him embracing each other in the streets yesterday at lunch dominates the front page. 

“What the fuck is this?” Brian asks, exasperated and confused. Roger simply shrugs, smiling into his coffee mug.

You and Roger Get Drunk and Try to Cook Dinner [ROGER TAYLOR x READER]

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Word count: 968 (a little shortcake)

Contains: lots and lots of domestic Roger FLUFF

A/N: Writing Roger fluff just makes me très happy. Hope you enjoy! If you want to be on my taglist, message me! :))

It was supposed to be a nice, homemade dinner. However, a few glasses of wine in––well, more than a few––and now you and your husband, Roger, are sitting––more like sprawled––on the floor of your kitchen, giggling uncontrollably while the nice, homemade dinner is currently burning on top of the stove. 

“The spaghetti is burning!!!” you shriek, laughing, trying to stand up. 

“Fuck the spaghetti!” Roger yells, a little slurred, also laughing. His arms wrapped around your legs trying to prevent you from getting up, his head unmoving from his place on your lap. 

“Get off of me, you big oaf!” you laugh, swatting lazily at his arms. 

“Never,” he says, burrowing his head into your stomach, gripping onto you even tighter. You sigh, carding your hands through his hair. You sit there for a bit, back leaning against the drawers underneath the counter while John Lennon’s voice rings softly throughout the room from the record player on the counter. Roger, with his eyes closed, hums quietly along with the music, his head resting in your lap while your legs are stretched out in front of you. 

“Rog Rog Rog Rog Rog,” you say, patting his arm nonsensically, breaking the quiet reverie. 

“Yes yes yes yes yes?”

You bend over and lean in close to his ear. “Have I ever told you how absolutely gorgeous you are?”

“Oh, I forgot how nice you are when you’re drunk! You should just carry a flask with you all the time.” 

“Hey!” You hit his shoulder. “I take back my previous comment,” you say with a pout. “Brian has replaced you as best looking.”

He lets out an exaggerated gasp. “How dare you?” but he didn’t give you any time to respond as he pounces on you. You’re now on your back with his body hovering over you, legs straddling your waist, pinning you to the floor. He has a an all too familiar gleam in his eyes, and you hesitate. 

“Rog…” you warn, but before you can say any more, he attacks. Fingers mercilessly poking and tickling at your sides. 

“STOP!” you shriek, laughing and kicking, trying to free yourself. 

“Tell me that I am the best husband in the world and the most handsome person and that you love me––and you have to give me a kiss!” he declares with a goofy grin.

“Never!” you shout back.

“Fine then,” he says before attacking you with another onslaught of tickles––tickles to your sides, to your armpits, making you gasp for air in between giggles and laughs. 

“Okay okay okay! I’ll do it,” you choke out. He stops, a triumphant smile on his face. He leans down for you to give him a kiss, and you lean in as well. And right when you’re mere centimeters away, you give him a long lick from his chin to his ear that causes him to jerk back. Using his surprise to your advantage, you wiggle out from underneath him. 

You stumble out of the kitchen, laughing so hard, you grip your sides, using the walls to balance. You quickly find a place to hide, throwing yourself on the carpet in the living room. Snatching the wool blanket that you and Roger were using to snuggle in hours before, you lay it on top of yourself, giggling quietly, feeling like a child again playing hide-and-seek. A certain type of giddiness flows through your veins, making your head dizzy––or maybe that was the wine (a mixture of both, most likely). You hear Roger walk (you actually imagine him sauntering) into the room a few moments later.

“Hmm, I wonder where my lovely wife went?” he asks himself. You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. A pause, and then you feel a weight flung atop your own and the blankets are ripped off of you. You scream, hair strewn across your face. 

“There you are!” he exclaims, victorious. His face now mere inches away from yours. 

Using both of his hands, he gently grasps your face, pushing the stray strands of hair away to the side. “Hello, darling,” he whispers, “Now, I think it’s time for my prize.” You fake an annoyed sigh and sit up. 

“You. Are. The. Most. Handsome. Man. And. The. Best. Husband. Ever,” you say, each word punctuated by a kiss to his face. 

“And…?” he asks with a grin, a slight blush on his cheeks. 

“And I love you so so so so so so much.” 

“I love you too, my beautiful, beautiful wife,” he says, giving you a sweet kiss of his own. He scoots his way into the blanket next to you on the carpeted floor. He turns on his side to face you, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you in close. You do the same, tangling your legs with his. 

The feeling of being young and totally in love washes over the two of you during nights like these. And although you’ve been together for a quite a long time now, you still feel like two kids in love. Feel as if you’re falling in love over and over again. 

He stares at you with this feeling fluttering around in his chest. Stares openly at you with those bedroom eyes. With those blue, blue eyes that you love so much.

“Stop staring you creep,” you scold, lightly swatting his arm, cheeks a little hot. 

“I––” he begins, but a beeping sound rings throughout the apartment seconds before water starts to spray all over the both of you––all over the apartment. The smoke detector went off. You smell something burning. 

“Oh shit, the spaghetti,” you remember with a groan. Roger laughs maniacally on the floor next to you. You can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth. 

Permanent taglist: @thefirstkillerqueen

Being Best Friends with Roger Would Include:

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Best Friend Female!Reader

Word count: 956

A/N: THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE!!! THANK YOU TO THE ANON WHO SENT THIS REQUEST (your messages really made me smile too!). I hope this fulfills your request! I’m probs going to write a part 2 to this since I have so many ideas. Also also: I’m still working through some of the other requests, so if you don’t see yours, dw, I’m writing it!  

You guys became friends in high school.

He was the outgoing, popular boy, and you were more of the “I hate everyone and everything in this school” kind of girl.

“I don’t get this,” he drawls with a smirk, flashing a wink to the girl sitting in the desk next to him. That was the fifth time he said that during the class period.

“Maybe a) you should stop flirting with Cindy over there b) pay attention for once and c) get your head out of your ass, and stop distracting the entire class. Then maybe you’ll start to understand the lesson,” you snap from your seat across the room. 

The whole room goes silent, and the teacher scolds you slightly (she was secretly relieved someone said something).

He whips his head towards you––and smiles. A real genuine smile. You roll your eyes and go back to doodling in your notebook.

After class, he catches up to you as you walk down the locker hallway.

“Hey, I don’t think we’ve talked that much––or even at all––but I’m Roger. Roger Taylor,” he introduces with an outstretched hand.  

Ever since that afternoon, you’ve been best friends (and inseparable) as you guys meshed surprisingly well together. 

You guys went to the same university together (where he met and introduced you to Brian).

SO MANY PRANKS ON THE OTHER BAND MEMBERS

Mostly jump scares 

Brian threw his hairbrush at you two once. (It hit Roger in the eye, and then he accidentally smacked you in the face while he reached up to clutch at his own face) 

You scared Deacy once, and you both swore to never do it again (you guys just felt so bad afterwards). 

Freddie never gets scared (it’s a bit unnerving to be honest). 

Him protecting you from the douchebags after shows.

“Hey if she said to leave her alone, leave her the fuck alone, mate.” 

“Oh––uh––I’m so sorry,” the guy stutters, not knowing you were friends with the band members. 

“Thanks, dude,” you say with a relieved grin and hug as the guy slumps away. 

You do the same for him when he gets stuck talking to someone he doesn't want to, but he doesn’t want to seem rude.

(He stares at you with pleading eyes from across the pub).

“Hey Rog, Brian told me he needed help…with something,” you say once you walk up to him, grimacing at how horrible of a liar you are. 

Roger says a quick goodbye to the now pouting girl who is now also sending you death glares as you guys walk away. 

“For someone as smart as you, you are a god-awful liar,” he snickers once you’re both out of earshot. 

“Hey! At least I got you out of there,” you say though a laugh, bumping his shoulder with yours. 

If a girl that he’s interested in/dating doesn’t like you, she’s out. 

Late night movie marathons

During Freddie’s parties, you two would hang out on the grass in the backyard and smoke. 

“Do you think penguins feel sad that they can’t fly?” 

“No….No, since they’ve never really experienced flying, yeah? So it’s not like they’ve already known the feeling of flying and suddenly lost it, right, which would make them sad…but then again, they always look like they’re trying to flap their wings…so do they want to fly???”

He doesn’t answer, already moving on to another high/drunken ramble-question, “If you were to date any type of car…which would it be?”

“What the fuck Roger.”

Always getting McDonald’s fries and chicken nuggets after every party. 

Being each other’s wing people !!! 

Always sleeping over at his house after every party.

Unless him or you brings someone home for the night. 

You guys give each other a thumbs up while the other one gets into the cab with said someone. (You roll your eyes when you see him with two big thumbs up and a goofy grin while wavering a little on the grass he’s standing on). 

Then, the morning after, you two would meet up for breakfast and talk about it. 

“She took all my briefs from my drawers before leaving!” 

You howl with laughter in the small café, causing the other patrons to glare at you over their coffee mugs. 

You visiting him on tour, shrieking when you see him and jumping into his arms at the airport. 

You guys gossiping catching up on all the new things going on in your lives while you eat room service in his hotel room. 

You guys ALWAYS having brunch the day after he comes back home from a tour, going to your guys’ favorite coffee shop near your house. 

You always get the waffles (with extra whipped cream and a side of berries), and he always gets the full breakfast fry up. 

You always having to give him advice with girls.

“For someone who has such a reputation with girls, you really are clueless,” you say with a scoff. 

After a particularly nasty breakup, you call him immediately, and he comes rushing over with sweets and snacks before cutting your now ex completely out of his life (he knew them, too).

Him sleeping over because you don’t want to be alone. 

The tabloids always mistaking you two as a couple.

Queen’s Roger Taylor Eats Lunch with a MYSTERY WOMAN: WHO COULD IT BE???

Both of you loving all sorts of board games, you two get especially heated when playing Monopoly. 

But then you help each other cheat when you play Scrabble with the other band members.  

Him buying you all sorts of knick-knacks/souvenirs from all the different countries he’s traveled to. 

Lots of “Roger, don’t do that”’s.

Permanent taglist: @thefirstkillerqueen @hysterical-queen-trash

When Things Fall Apart: PART ONE [Roger Taylor x Reader]

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Summary: You and Roger fall out of love, but could you guys fall back into love? 

Word count: 1269

Contains: Oh, the ANGST 

A/N: This is chapter one in my FIRST EVER multi-chapter fic on this blog! Whoaaaaa! I’m really excited to keep updating it, and I really hope you enjoy! Also, if you want to be on my permanent taglist or this series’s taglist, send me an ask or a message!

“What is this,” you ask your boyfriend as soon as he walks through the front door. You’re holding up a tabloid, on the cover: him with a wide smile and an arm slung across the shoulders of another woman. Underneath, big words flash: Queen’s Roger Taylor Leaves After Party with Mystery Woman! You’ve dealt with this kind of news throughout your whole eight year relationship with Roger, the tabloids always wanting to spin something out of nothing. 

But this time––this time is different. Perhaps it’s different because it’s the final straw to your already strained relationship’s back. Perhaps it’s different because it made you realize something that should have been done a long time ago but didn’t because you were too afraid to admit it. 

It’s two o’clock in the morning. You’ve been up the whole night, sitting on the living room couch while a random show played on the TV in the background. You didn’t pay attention to it. Instead, you waited for your boyfriend to come back from a dinner, letting your anger slowly simmer and build within you.

He makes a confused sound from the doorway. He didn’t hear you as he struggles to pull off his shoes. You stand up, marching over to him. He reeks of booze, making you scrunch up your nose.

“I said, What. Is. This,” you hiss, punctuating each word with a hit to his chest using the tabloid. His brows furrow as he grabs the paper from your hand. He sighs. 

“She was just a fan. I was walking her to her cab,” he says, arms crossed. You scoff, rolling your eyes. 

“Are you actually being serious, Roger? Do you really think I’m that stupid?” 

“That’s the truth Y/N!” 

“Why do I find that hard to believe? Hell, it doesn’t even seem like you believe the bullshit you’re spewing right now,” you snap as you turn around and walk towards your kitchen. You hear him follow you.

“Nothing happened! What do you want me to say? What––”

“I want you to be fucking honest with me!” You scream at him across the island in the middle of your kitchen. Tears begin to pool in your eyes. A beat. He looks down at the ground. You let out a mirthless laugh. 

“I trusted you.” Your voice breaks.

“Y/N––”

“You know what––no––this is actually my mistake. This is my fault. I knew your reputation with girls. I don’t know why––I don’t know why I thought that I would be an exception,” you stumble through tears, and you hate yourself for it. You wanted to be strong. Wanted your voice to snap and sting and hurt. Instead, you sound broken. Tired. 

“What are you trying to say, Y/N?” he asks quietly, gripping the edge of the countertop. You can see his eyes beginning to glisten, most likely knowing what’s about to come next. 

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. You look away, biting your lip hard, focusing your gaze on that little stain on the wall right next to the stove (it was from the time you and Roger were trying––and failing––to make spaghetti for dinner. You guys ended up ordering takeaway).

“Y/N. What are you trying to say?” he repeats. You don’t answer. The only sound is the too-loud ticking of the clock above the pantry. 

“Please look at me,” he whispers. You turn your head slowly, the memory still stuck in your mind. Stuck in your mind because it reminds you of a different time. A time that is definitely not your guys’ relationship anymore. 

“I’m just…I’m just tired, Rog,” you respond, voice cracking. “I can’t do this anymore,” you say, weakly waving your arms around you. 

“So you’re just giving up on us then?” he asks. 

“You gave up on this relationship too––we both did. It doesn’t feel the same, and I know you feel that way too.” 

You’re just tired. Tired of his late nights. Tired of barely talking to him. Tired that you feel like you’re living with a stranger. Tired of sleeping in the same bed as someone who has fallen out of love with you. Tired of sleeping in the same bed as someone who you have fallen out of love with. 

“We fell out of love, Rog.” He winces at the familiar way you say his name. By now, he’s stone-cold sober. 

“We can––we can make this work, Y/N,” he pleads. 

“I’m leaving to stay with my friend,” you say, your voice hollow. “I’ll pick up the rest of my things in the next couple of days.”

“Y/N. Please.” You walk back to your shared bedroom, a small suitcase already packed and ready to go at the foot of the bed. Roger tails close behind.  

“Y/N, please, sweetheart, please don’t go,” he says, his eyes almost frantic. But you know that this panic won’t last this long. That this panic is derived from his fear of change. You were his comfort blanket. And you know the reason you haven’t broken up sooner was because you guys have been together for such a long time. You were safe to him. You were familiar. 

You’re at the door of your house, turning the handle.

“Y/N, please I love you,” he says, desperate. Your lower lip wobbles violently, and you reach up with a shaky hand to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, holding your wrist to his face.

“I know you do. And––and I love you too. But this isn’t working anymore. It isn’t and hasn’t since a long time ago,” you say, and by his face, you know for certain that he’s going to let you walk out of that door. And so you do. 

You force yourself to not look over your shoulder, your back––rod straight, your jaw––clenched so tight, your right temple begins to throb. Once you get down to the street and walk down a couple of blocks, you let yourself break down. You already called your friend to pick you up, so while you’re waiting, you fold over yourself––squatting down, putting your face into your hands. Your sobs are muffled by your fist. 

–––––––

In the house, Roger stands in the doorway in a daze––still staring out the door where he watched you walk out of his life. He doesn’t know how long he stands there for, but eventually, the cold from the outside becomes unbearable, and he stumbles back inside, collapsing onto the couch. But then he spots that little rip on the cushion from the time you and he agreed to babysit one of Freddie’s cats (the cat did not like you two whatsoever), so he moves to the bedroom, tumbling into the bed. But the sheets smell like you, and so he rips off the sheets, the comforter, the pillows. 

The truth is that he truly did nothing with that woman, but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter because even though he didn’t, he did seriously consider it. Considered it because he knew his relationship with you wasn’t the same. It changed. He knew––he knows.

He doesn’t know how much time had passed, but he finds himself staring at the ceiling in the middle of the bare mattress. He eventually calls the first person he can think of. Picking up the phone on the bedside table, he dials Brian’s number. His friend picks up at the sixth ring. 

“Roger?” Brian says, his voice groggy from sleep.

“I lost her,” he whispers into the receiver. 

PART TWO

Permanent taglist: @thefirstkillerqueen @hysterical-queen-trash

When Things Fall Apart PART 2 [ROGER TAYLOR x READER]

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Summary: You and Roger fall out of love, but is it possible for you guys to fall back into love? 

Word count: 1799

Contains: Angsty McAngstyton

A/N: I’m quite shocked at all the positive response to the first part of this series! THANK YOU! I hope you enjoy, and once again, if you want to be tagged in this series or be on my permanent taglist, don’t hesitate to let me know! Love you guys!

PART ONE

The weeks after you left were…rough. Brutal, you thought to yourself as you lied in your friend’s guest room bed with greasy hair and tubs of old ice cream pints on the bedside table. He tried calling you during those weeks after. Practically called everyday. But you never picked up the phone. Made your best friend answer and say some bullshit excuse as to why you couldn’t talk at the moment. 

But sometimes, when your friend wasn’t there, you would let the ringing go to voicemail, flinching every time you heard his voice through the receiver. 

Today was one of those days. 

You let the phone go to voicemail, and you (still) start when you hear that familiar voice. 

“Hey Y/N, I know you don’t want to hear from me, and I won’t call again after this, but I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to talk about the breakup at our next press conference. It’s just that––it’s just that I don’t want them to twist anything, you know?” His breath catches afterwards as if he wants to say something else. Instead, he lets out an exhale. “Okay, that’s it. That’s all I wanted to say. I promise I won’t call again…I…I hope everything’s alright,” he says, his voice a little hoarse before hanging up. 

And like he promised, that was the last time he called. 

––––––––

Several months have passed, and surprisingly, it got…easier. He kept his promise, and you haven’t seen nor spoke to him since that last call. You moved into your own apartment. Hell, you even got promoted at your job (you began working to the point of exhaustion so that you would fall asleep the moment your head hit the pillow instead of spending hours awake at night when the thoughts would hit you the hardest). It got easier. He’s about to go on tour for the next several months. Your eyes stopped watering when you heard his name (although you would still wince). 

But it was getting easier. 

––––––––

But then, while you’re searching for some pesto sauce, you pass the tabloids section at the store. You see him with his arms wrapped around another girl, walking out of a club. 

That night you go out with your friends and get absolutely, positively shit-faced, downing shots of you don’t even know what to numb out the pain. Taking shot after shot so that when you get back home, you won’t lie in bed and think of him. Gritting your teeth at the nauseating burn of the liquid slithering its way down your throat so that you can tumble into sleep’s comforting embrace. Would rather wake up with a nasty hangover than to wake up in a bed that doesn’t smell like him.

Your friend, Michael, has to practically carry you out of the club and into the taxi with your other girl friends.

––––––––

Roger moved out of the house. Couldn’t stand staying there afterwards––couldn’t bear the constant reminders of you––of your failed relationship. But the house is still in his name––he couldn’t stand to sell it. Couldn’t bear erasing all of the reminders of you––of your shared memories. So he’s staying with Brian now––has taken over one of his many guest rooms. 

Having just got out of the shower, he walks downstairs and goes to the kitchen to make some breakfast. As he pads over to the fridge, he spots a newspaper hastily shoved into the trash bin. On any other occasion, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance––wouldn’t have even noticed it. But he stops. Stops because he sees your name on the headline. Breakfast leaves his mind. He’s not hungry anymore. And with shaky hands, he fishes the paper out of the bin. 

And he sees you. You with the arms of another guy wrapped around your waist, walking out of a club. 

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Brian comes home to find Roger––sitting in the middle of the kitchen with a swollen, bloody fist and glass shards scattered around him. The window on the backdoor leading from the kitchen to the garden outside has a fist-sized hole punched through it. 

“Shit Rog, what happened?” Brian asks with wide eyes. But then he sees the crumpled newspaper on the counter. He internally berates himself––he was in a rush in the morning and didn’t have the time to properly hide it. A sniffle. His head whips back to his friend. Roger rests his head against the cupboards under the sink. He lazily––almost sluggishly––looks over at Brian. Brian notices his red-rimmed eyes, disheveled hair. Brian notices that he looks broken. 

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At first, Jim absolutely rages at Roger when they all pile into the tour bus the next day. Freddie, John, and Brian stay quiet in the back, pretending not to listen. 

“How could you do this? Your first show is tomorrow! How the fuck are you going to play?” he asks, hands making wild gestures around him. 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, the doctor says I can still play,” Roger mumbles, his head hung low. He fiddles with a string that had come loose from his gauze wrap. Jim sighs, and his eyes soften. 

“Hey,” he begins, putting a warm hand on Roger’s shoulder, “I know the past couple of months have been hard for you. Just––just please take care of yourself, okay?” he says, so gently that Roger’s eyes begin to burn. 

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At the grocery store, you pass the stand with all the latest trashy tabloids. Not being able to help yourself, you drift over. Most of the headlines talk of Queen’s first show that they just performed on their European tour. On the front of one, there’s a nice picture of Roger playing the drums. You see that his hand is wrapped in a large white bandage.

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Roger chats up a girl at the afterparty that someone who he doesn’t know the name of threw for Queen’s second show. The girl––a pretty brunette with long legs and sultry eyes is practically in his lap. And to be honest with himself, he’s actually pretty excited to bring her home. 

“Wanna get out of here, Rog?” she whispers in his ear while running a manicured hand down his chest, and he jerks back. Jerks back because for just a split second, she sounded exactly like you. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, thrown off guard. 

And suddenly, it’s all too much. The noise. The hundreds of people. The girl’s perfume is making his head ache. Her nails are digging into his skin. It’s too much. He stands up quickly––too quickly as he basically throws her off of him in the process, causing her to slosh her drink all over herself and fall onto the carpet. 

“What the fuck?” she yells. He doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care. She scoffs before throwing the rest of her drink in his face and stomping off. A flash of a camera goes off.

He finds Freddie, Brian, and John. “I need to go,” he quickly mumbles before stumbling out, ignoring his friends’ calls. 

He rushes home, and without thinking, he picks up the phone and automatically dials a number he’s had memorized for nearly his entire life. Your number. You pick up at the fourth ring. 

“Hello?” your voice is hoarse from sleep, and he hits himself, forgetting that it’s two o’clock in the morning. But your voice makes his heart stop. He doesn’t say anything, holding his breath. 

“Hello?” you repeat, confused. He can imagine that little crease in the middle of your furrowed brows––that little crease that he would always smooth over with his thumb. He doesn’t say anything. He knows he’s being absolutely selfish. But tonight, he can’t help himself.  

“Rog?” you whisper. You sound wide awake now. He shuts his eyes, almost whimpering at the sound of you saying his name. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping the phone until he notices red spots bloom through his white bandages, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t feel it. 

You know it’s Roger on the other line, but you don’t hang up. He starts talking.

“I wish––I wish that I did things differently. You were right. I gave up––I gave up on us, on our relationship, on our love––and I hate myself for it. And––and I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry. I should have tried harder. Should have tried harder for us. I should have fought harder, and letting go––giving up on what we had––” 

“Roger, please don’t do this.” you whisper. 

“I’ll always love you, Y/N. You know I’ll always love you, and I know you’ll always love me. And I’m––and I’m just––I’m sorry.” He’s slurring his words a bit, and the voice of reason in his head is desperately telling himself to stop this rambling. But he can’t. Doesn’t want to. And his heart breaks when he hears you crying on the other line. 

“I can’t––” your voice catches in your throat. “Bye, Roger,” you manage to get out before you hang up. He hears the click of the phone disconnecting followed by the hum of the receiver in his ear. 

He lets out an exhale that sounds more like a sob. Putting his face into his hands, he stays there on the couch, still in his rumpled white button up and jeans until the sun begins to make its way across the sky. 

You lie in your bed, still clutching the phone to your cheek. Hot tears streaming down your face. And at that moment, you hate him. You hate him for calling you. You hate him for saying that. Hate him for making you feel heartbroken all over again. Hate him because you thought you were over him, but this just proves that you aren’t. This just proves that he isn’t. You fall asleep to the hum of the receiver in your ear and with your hands in front of you, grasping at nothing. 

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When the sun comes up, he finally peels himself off the couch, takes a shower, calls a local florist to send a bouquet of flowers with an “I’m sorry” card to the girl he practically threw off his lap last night, and finally, vows to never call you again. Promises himself that he’s going to move on for the sake of his own wellbeing, but more importantly, for yours. 

And when you wake up, eyes crusty from sleep and tears, you make your way to your kitchen to cook your favorite breakfast (blueberry pancakes and a fried egg), and while you listen to the birds chirping and take a sip of your coffee, you also make the same promise to yourself. 

PART THREE

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