Anon asked: okay i LLOOOOVe your Ben hardy/roger taylor fics and i was wondering if you could write more of them? I don’t have a particular request (anything you write will probably be fantastic) but i do really like a smug or cheeky roger taylor…. so do what you want with that…
Anon asked: Could I request a Roger Taylor x reader fanfic where they’ve been good friends for years,the other members know the reader too but one day the hook up and the other members notice that something happened between them and at the end they somehow end up together.I want a lot of shocking reactions from the boys as I live for them.You don’t need to write it if you don’t like the idea.But thank you ! 💗
A/N: 2870 words. Me, cramming as many prompts into a singular trenchcoat and shoving it out into the world: are you not entertained?! also…. like, light to medium smut….. i might start writing all out smut. Not exactly what was asked for, but it was a fun time. Jealousy warning as well.
“So how do you know Rog?” Deacon smiles at you when you offer to help the boys pack up after their first show, it’s a kind smile, a smile you can trust. Brian and Roger like him well enough, and you at least trust Brian’s judgement enough to be friendly to their new bassist.
“I don’t.” You tell him, straight-faced as you haul the bass drum into the back of van. Deacon’s expression turns confused as Roger passes you another piece of equipment. Looking the newest band member directly in the eyes, you double down on the bit. “I’ve never met this man before in my life.”
“I’m getting a beer, you want your usual?” Roger calls to you, and you turn back, making a face at him. “I’m done packing up, Brian’s the only one left.” He responded to your nonverbal complaint by making a flippant gesture to the guitarist, who was clicking the last of the latches shut on his guitar case. “Drink?” He asked you again, and instead of answering you just beamed at him. Poor Deacon just looked confused.
“Pay them no mind, Deaky.” Brian said, sliding his guitar case in the back beside the bass. “It’s a blessing they’re even coherent half the time.” Brian, exasperated, turned to you. “How’d you meet Rog?” He asked, voice flat as if it were a question he’d asked a hundred times before, and you looked back at him.
“He killed me in a past life and I’m biding my time for revenge.” You responded, expressionless, to which he shook his head.
“That’s a new one.” He would give you that much, before turning to John. “Y/N and Rog grew up together.” He said by way of explanation, speaking over the top of Roger shouting from the door that they’d run out of your favourite drink, but that you could share his beer if it came to it.
“You drink piss-water and I can see mine in your hand.” You accused, while Roger leaned down, his lips at the rim of the glass that held your drink.
“These are both for me.” Somehow, he thought the best course of action was to take a drink from the one obviously for you, slurping the top of it obnoxiously.
“Children, children, get in the car.” Freddie called over the top of you both, and you took the opportunity to snatch your drink from Roger’s hand, spilling it both on him and yourself, though you still thought a crow of triumph was warranted.
“So how do you know Roger?” The girl he’s brought along to the band’s first album recording is pretty enough, dark hair, cute shorts. She smiles at you and it’s all teeth, something a little bit nasty and insinuating in her tone. It takes a moment for you to suppress your eyeroll, you’d dealt with this before any girl who was into Roger seemed to see you as competition, and as flattering as it was when the two of you started hitting the town together, it was wearing thin now.
“I’m his personal bodyguard.” You tell her, and the girl purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything else. Mary hides her laughter behind her hand, and drapes her other arm against the back of the sofa, an open invitation for you to lean against her and watch as the boys set up in the other room.
They record for hours, trying everything and anything, experimenting with everything they had, making music, dancing, living electrically for the time they had in there. The woman he’d brought takes most opportunities to throw herself on him, dance with him, keeping it relatively tame for present company, but you knew the look in his eyes, and in hers.
The last take of the night is when her thinly-veiled jealousy shtick is wearing thin on you, and you leap up after his final recording session, jostling the sleeping Mary where she was lying on your lap, running to him. Wrapping your arms around him, you let him spin you around in elation.
“That was good! That was so good, wasn’t it, Y/N?” And he’s glowing with excitement, eyes only for you. You answer in kind, gushing about the music, how excited you were for it. There’s triumph running through your veins when the other girl has to clear her throat to get his attention. He went home with her, but you still feel victorious.
It’s a feeling you’d always experienced, since you were young; at first it was only the two of you, both of you going to the same high school a district away, not knowing anyone. But Roger had a magnetism to him, and an aggression that brought in a certain type of person. You weren’t lonely, no more than any other high schooler, but for all yours and his friends, you both made damn sure to stay best friends.
It continued into university; he’d brought you in to meet the band at the first gig, and they took to you immediately, so you kept coming, would help them pack up, make yourself indispensable, earn your place as Roger’s best friend in this world he’d cultivated around himself.
And now here you were, the final gig before he and the others officially drop out to become serious musicians… Or, there you were, because after half an hour of drinking and throwing peanuts at Roger and the girl he was with – who had said the band was shit, though the drummer was cute, while in the bathroom – Roger had dragged her out to the car he had managed to scrape together enough cash for.
“Roger?” Now you’re just tired, lying in his bed, wearing his shirt. “Why’d you bring me back here? I was a dick to you, to-” you can’t remember the name of the girl he was with, but she was just trying to have a good time, you know you shouldn’t have-
“Stop talking.” He yawned as he walked into the room, wearing his pyjamas shorts and drinking from a half-filled bottle of water. When he sense you’re about to say something else, he puts up a hand, eyebrows raised at your possible defiance, and you close your mouth, sulking.
Climbing into bed with you, the two of you shift automatically, your head resting on his chest as he wrapped an arm around you, looking up at the ceiling. The two of you hadn’t shared a bed like this in years.
“Sorry.” You find yourself murmuring as he strokes your back, well, as much as he can with half of it being used as part of your pillow.
“Why’ve you gotta be like this?” He sighed, but you just tucked up closer to him.
“I thought we weren’t talking about it.” Voice low, you feel a quiet, self-deprecating laughter rumble through his chest, and his hand comes to rest at your hip, fingertips brushing against your thigh where his shirt ends. You’re waiting, holding your breath to see what he would do. You know he’s looking at, can feel his gaze on your face, but he doesn’t stop, fingers moving slowly just beneath the fabric of the shirt to your underwear. His thumb slides beneath the elastic, and finally you look up at him. He’s so serious, God, you could cut the tension with a knife, and it snaps as he does, pulling the elastic of your panties up in one quick flick and letting it snap against your side.
“Ow! That hurt, you asshole!” You laugh, shifting to prop yourself up on your elbow, but he’s already pulling you down for a kiss, grinning against you lips. It feels like it should. You fit together easily, his hand moving to keep your hips steady as you shift automatically to straddle him. “You’re such a dick sometimes.” You pull back, still grinning, lips still only inches from his. He raises his eyebrows pointedly at you, and you’re pretty sure there’s nothing hotter than Roger’s smug fucking face, as he then proceeds to graze his nails up your thighs, kissing you to swallow the whimper that escaped you.
It feels like it’s been a long time coming. It’s fun, but its not unfamiliar; you’ve known each other for so long it’s like it’s a natural progression. You can read each other like a favourite book, somehow instinctual and a little awkward, which is, well, it’s perfectly you two.
“You know what? I don’t think I’m actually sorry for cockblocking you tonight.” You mused, a little out of breath, shooting for serious. Though it takes Roger a moment to process what you said, he grins up at you, gently poking a spot on your inner thigh where he knows a hickey will bloom.
“Maybe should thank you.” He snorts, which only goes to set you off laughing again. The sound of it, warm, syrupy and at ease, it makes him grin, proud of being able to illicit such a genuine laugh from you in this situation, and soon you’re pulling him up to kiss him again, still thrumming with laughter.
No-one notices at first. Well, to be fair, you and Roger are weirdly touchy, so if he’s pinching your ass more than usual, no-one seems to care enough to comment on it. Well, you notice, but you couldn’t care less. Things between you have shifted; not gotten weird or bad, just shifted sideways. Roger’s still sleeping with any practically any girl that throws herself at him, and you’re free to hook up with anyone and everyone you like, but sometimes… you just find yourself together at the end of the night.
One night, the girl he’s talking to at the bar gives you a catty look when he’s not looking. She saw the two of you come in together, never mind the cute guy who had been buying you drinks for the past hour. Excusing the poor guy who you know is now probably going home alone tonight, you make your way to the bathroom, leaning against the wall beside it, watching Roger and waiting until you catch his eye.
He frowns slightly at you, but you just nod towards the bathroom and raise your eyebrows in silent question. It’s almost comical how fast he leaves the girl at the bar. When she follows his trajectory with her eyes, she sees you waiting; you wink at her, the grin on your face stretching into something smug as Roger wraps his fingers around your wrist, pulling you into the bathroom. Mine.
It’s not like you do that every time you go out together, just if you get bad vibes off whoever he’s with, or if she makes a face at you like you’re some sort of competition… which you are, but you don’t want to seem like it.
The thing is, Roger does it too, he’s just a tad more possessive. Sometimes he’s subtle, mentioning to you and whoever you’re with that you had to go; band rehearsals early the next morning, even though it was usually a lie. Your favourite, however, was the night you both went to a dingy little pub with a jukebox rather than a band, and the guy who had been plying you with alcohol had come back from the bathroom with a grin. You were tipsy, feeling on top of the world with this stranger’s hand on your thigh, when out of nowhere, Roger’s arms wrap around you, warm and familiar.
“You right there, mate?” The man at the bar had snapped.
“He called you a ditzy bitch in the bathroom.” Roger had murmured against your ear, low enough so only you could hear, and in your liberated state, you were ready to yell at the man, though the man had enough yelling of his own to do.
“Alright, you wanna go, mate?” He growls, standing, and your smile turns poisonous as a new thought occurs to you.
“Yeah, Rog, do you wanna go?” The soft, amused nuance in your voice conveyed such a different message that it was laughable, you turn your head to rest your forehead against his where he’s perched his chin on your shoulder. The man at the bar deflates a little as you lose interest in him, and Roger’s smile widens.
“Sounds like a plan.” She mine. It’s there in his eyes, the way he keeps an arm around you as you leave the bar, you feel it thrumming through him as pulls off your shirt in the back of his car.
Sometimes you head to bars with the boys and Mary, sometimes they still play pub gigs, and yet they still don’t seem to realise. Or, most of them don’t seem to realise.
“You and Roger are hanging out a lot.” Mary smiles at you, a glint of mischief in her eyes as you watch the boys complain about trying to fit their gear in Brian’s stationwagon.
“Of course, he’s my best mate.” Shrugging noncommittally, you hear Mary hum, unconvinced. Shooting her a suspicious look, she just shrugs in return, mimicking your own dismissive gesture.
“You want me to give you a lift home?” As if to prove Mary right, Roger calls out to you, pulling out his keys. You can feel Mary’s pointed look, and your expression falters, shaking your head with a smile, though your heart’s not in it.
“No, I-” you start, but then the rest of the band is looking at you, “there’s someone at the bar.” Gesturing over your shoulder awkwardly, you give them all a strained smile and head back inside. Catching Roger’s expression, he actually… looks hurt, and a little jealous, though he covers it up quickly.
“Can I ask you something?” The pub’s doors closed behind you, and you’re fully intending to stumble into a taxi when a voice is heard behind you. Whipping around and almost losing your balance, you spot Roger, leaning against the edge of the building.
“Do not sneak up on me like that Rog.” You admonished him, reaching an arm out to him for support, and he’s there automatically, wrapping his arm around you.
“What are we doing?” It’s actually snowing outside, and you’re tempted to say freezing my ass off, but he seems serious.
“Fuckin’ around.” You mumble, turning to wrap both your arms around him. “You’re my best friend.” Voice dreamy, you feel it when his arms tighten around you.
“Best friend.” He repeats, quietly, and you hum thoughtfully for a moment.
“Mine.” The word is firm as you speak it, and he leans back, eyebrows furrowed.
“What does that mean, Y/N?” He asked, and with the distance between you, he watches as snowflakes drifted about, settling on your closed eyelashes.
“Means I hate that you fuck other girls, Rog, but you’re my best friend and an adult so you can do what you want.” It takes you a moment to get the full sentence out around your vaguely uncooperative tongue, but when you open your eyes, he’s smirking at you.
“There was no guy at the bar.” It was a statement rather than a question, but you snorted with laughter anyways.
“’course not, you knob. Mary was getting suspicious though.” You told him, and he had to muffle a laugh at that. After a beat, you raise your eyebrows at him. “And yet, Roger, you walked all the way back here and waited until I was kicked out to spend time with me.”
“Yeah, well, gotta look after what’s mine.”
“Those look fresh.” Mary poked at the hickey on your throat, commenting loud enough for the boys to hear as the two of you draped yourselves across the sofa in the rehearsal room. Giving her a shit-eating grin, you can see Roger’s own wicked smile where he’s tweaking his drum kit.
“That’s because they are.” Swatting her away, you pulled a magazine from your bag, flipping it open.
“So the boy at the bar-?” Mary giggled, shifting to read over your shoulder, though you weren’t paying attention to the words.
“Oh no, this is all Roger’s work.” Shooting for nonchalant, you can hear the others stop their tuning as Roger continued to set up. Looking up, you can see Mary grinning out of the corner of your eye, Brian looking like he was quickly forming a headache, John frowning into space, deep in thought, and Freddie looking between the two of you.
“How long’s this been going on?” He asked, seemingly still unsure about the nature of the relationship.
“A while.” Roger supplies, which John echoes as a question.
“Year, maybe?” You look to Roger, for confirmation, and he shrugs, making a noise of vague confirmation. Brian finally unfreezes where he’s got his base in one hand, and other pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What the fuck, guys?”
always been close {Roger Taylor}
Published
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