When Things Fall Apart - Tumblr Posts
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
Hello! I have a question! In your new series is it set in modern times?? Because you mention the reader texting her friend so I was a little confused which time period
Hello lovely! When Things Fall Apart is NOT set in modern times. I just realized that the texting was a mistake!! (I just fixed it). It was really late when I was editing it, and I guess I completely missed that! SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION! xx Del
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.
––––––––
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.
––––––––
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.
––––––––
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.
––––––––
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.
––––––––
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
Permanent taglist:
@thefirstkillerqueen @hysterical-queen-trash @clara-who @ladycataztrophe @ghost-in-love
WHEN THINGS FALL APART Taglist:
@perriwiinkle @professionofviolence @wint-er-voices @soulmates8 @borhapqueen92 @dreamer7black @ma-ntequilla @benhardyjones @discodeakyy @aylinnmaslow @yyyycykaaaaaaa @nasa-freak @majorlyextra
also, I’m writing part three of When Things Fall Apart...sorry it’s taking so long, this week is pretty busy for me with school and everything. I promise it will be up this week though!
When Things Fall Apart PART 3 [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: 1077
Contains: fluffiness I think? idek
A/N: Ah sorry this took so long to post!! School actually kicked my ass this week. Good news: I’ve basically finished the next couple of chapters (just need to make some revisions and such), so they’ll be up VERY SOON. Thank you so much for reading!!!
PART ONE // PART TWO
3 years later
You’re at a bakery, looking for some sweets to bring for one of your employee’s birthdays. You were surprised with your decision as you don’t normally go to this bakery (it used to be one of your favorite spots, but overtime, you just stopped going). Stopped going because after you moved, it was just too far away––too far away even if they had your all time favorite pastry. Today, though, you had a particularly strong craving for their lemon and poppyseed scones (you used to eat their scones everyday for breakfast on your way to work), so you decided to make the drive down.
“Y/N! I haven’t seen you in ages!” the old woman behind the counter exclaims when you walk through the door.
“Hello, Mrs. Clarkson!” you reply with a smile, a bit surprised but touched that she still remembers you.
“You are one mean lady, Miss Y/L/N. Leaving me all of a sudden with no explanation!” she scolds, hands on her hips. You laugh a little and scratch the back of your head, blushing.
“Uh––I––I had––”
“I’m just giving you a hard time, lovie,” she says with a wink and a wave of her hand. “The important thing is that you’re here now, so what can I get for you, sweetheart?” You know that she knows when you see her eyes soften with sympathy and the fact that she doesn’t ask, but honestly, you wouldn’t have minded if she did.
“I mean, I was just going to get a lemon and poppyseed scone for myself, but I forgot about all of the other amazing things you make,” you say, eyeing the array of glazed pastries and fluffy breads behind the glass display case.
“Aw! Stop it, you flatter me!” she says, shaking her hand.
As you hunch down to look at the various baked goods while catching up with Mrs. Clarkson (“How’s Mr. Clarkson?” “Oh, he’s good, sorry he isn’t here right now, but he had to take Will to the vet”), the chimes above the door ring as another customer walks in.
“Good morning Mrs. Clarkson, you’re looking beautiful as always! I was wondering, do you have––” The voice stops.
“Y/N?” you hear someone ask from behind you. Looking over your shoulder––you see him. You blink, not quite believing the sight in front of you. The sight of him: him in sweatpants and a knit sweater, his usual black sunglasses sitting atop his head, blond hair messy (you assume that he just woke up before coming here to get some breakfast). His arms hang limply by his sides, his jaw slack.
“Oh, hello Roger dear!” Mrs. Clarkson greets back, and you snap out of your state of slight paralysis.
He doesn’t look at her, though. Doesn’t even seem to hear her. Doesn’t look as his eyes are too busy trained solely on you. Drinking in the sight of you. In any other situation, you would’ve blushed under his intense gaze, but you don’t notice.
“Oh my God. Roger?” you finally say––that being the only thing that you could come up with as a response. The first thing you notice is that his hair is a bit shorter.
He gives you a hesitant smile, raising his hands out from his sides, palms facing up.
“The one and only?” he asks with a sheepish grin.
And despite the shock and the surprise and the fact that you haven’t seen nor talked to him in three years, you smile at him. A real, genuine smile.
And despite his shock and his surprise and the fact that he legitimately thought his heart had stopped beating when he saw you, he smiles back. A real, genuine smile. The first thing he noticed is that you’re absolutely glowing.
You’re the first to make a move and walk over to him. You pause before wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He hugs you back. The embrace feels familiar and alien at the same time. He thinks the same thing.
“How are you?” you ask after pulling away.
“I’m good, I’m good,” he replies, his hands fiddling with the sides of his sunglasses. He eventually just shoves them into his pockets.
“I watched your last show on the telly a few nights ago––you guys were amazing,” you say. He blushes fiercely.
“Oh that––that was nothing.” You raise your brows.
“Don’t tell me the infamous Roger Taylor’s gone all modest now?” you joke. He barks out a laugh.
“I’m trying something new…except I don’t think it’s working…people can’t seem to get enough of my irresistible charm,” he says back, making you laugh, and he smiles, seeing you happy. “What are you doing down here? Don’t you live more uptown?” he asks.
“You know, I was really craving a lemon scone…” you admit. His eyes soften with memories. “Which reminds me––I’ll take a lemon scone, a coffee, and, uhh, two dozen of those Danish pastries,” you say quickly to Mrs. Clarkson who’s standing behind the counter. Eyes shining bright with joy as she watches the two of you together again.
“It’s on the house, my dear,” she says, sliding the box of pastries to you.
“Oh my god, no, I can’t take all of this,” you say, reaching into your wallet.
“Oh, please, I haven’t seen you in years, please take it, for me,” she says, refusing to take the credit card you’re holding out towards her. You sigh.
“Okay, fine, but I’m going to take you out for dinner in exchange,” you say before taking the box and coffee.
“It was really nice seeing you Rog.” As you grab the door handle, you stop as he starts speaking.
“Hey Y/N?” you turn around once again. “Would you––would you want to have some breakfast together some time?” he asks. You pause.
“Yeah––yeah, I would love to,” you say. “And Mrs. Clarkson––make sure your schedule is free next week because I’m taking you to a nice dinner––I’m being serious!” you call out, hearing her warm laughter follow you out the door and to the sidewalk.
“Such a nice girl,” Mrs. Clarkson says. Roger makes a noise of agreement as he watches you walk to your car. She raises her brows at him.
“You know, it was nice seeing you both together again,” she says carefully while grabbing his order.
“Yeah, yeah it was.”
PART FOUR
Permanent taglist:
@thefirstkillerqueen @hysterical-queen-trash @clara-who @ladycataztrophe @ghost-in-love
WHEN THINGS FALL APART Taglist:
@perriwiinkle @professionofviolence @wint-er-voices @soulmates8 @borhapqueen92 @dreamer7black @ma-ntequilla @benhardyjones @discodeakyy @aylinnmaslow @yyyycykaaaaaaa @nasa-freak @majorlyextra @maem-rae @nowisours-nowisforever
could you tag me in your When Things Fall Apart series? please and thank youu 💗
yes! just added you/the third part is out! thanks for reading! :))
!! i need insight !!
Do you guys like when a fic chapter is shorter (~1000 ish words) or longer (~2000+)? Please let me know because personally, I like shorter chapters + more parts, but I want to see what you guys like!
Can I please be tagged in When Things Fall Apart, I loved it.
yes! just added you :) and thank you for reading!!
hiii could you please add me to the taglist if When things fall apart? i love your work lovie!
Yes!! and thank you much love!! :))
