Anon asked: lmao sorry if ur not takin prompts but if u r what about one where the boys™️ have just preformed and reader (who is a long time friend of the boys and esp rog) and is secretly dating roger but after the show reader is so proud of roger that she just forgets about the secrecy and snogs him in front of the guys and Mary and they’re all rlly surprised and shook but Fred’s like ‘lmao my kids are in love’
A/N: 4859 words. So a few of these ideas are courtesy of the lovely and kind @roger-bang-the-drum, so thank you for your help. xx This goes a lot of places, and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as the first one. Feedback is always appreciated!!
Warnings: Smoking, M rated but no smut.
There are moments, sometimes few and far between, when everything feels right in the world, and right now? The moment Roger steps out of the shower, towel hanging loose on his hips, and asks you what you want to drink as he opens the hotel’s mini-fridge, you’re letting yourself bask in it.
The sun is peaking through the curtains, which isn’t doing your headache any favours, but he hands you a bottle of water that’s probably expensive, and pulls out a Gatorade for himself. Flopping onto the bed beside you, still wearing just a towel, the drummer is quiet for a long time, basking in the easy silence of the late morning, and the sliver of sunlight that’s bouncing off his chest. You let your gaze linger, let it drift to admire him, pale and almost effortlessly attractive against the quilt.
“Like what you see, love?” And when you meet his gaze, he’s watching you, grinning smug and knowing. Embarrassed to be caught checking him out, you feel a flush creeping up your cheeks, turning away quickly. His laugh is warm in the morning air, nothing cruel or malicious about it, and when he gently moves to hold your cheek, shifting you to look back at him, his grin has shifted to something has your heart hammering against your ribs. “Come here.” Voice low and intimate, he pulls you into a kiss.
It starts gentle, but becomes more insistent, your fingers ghosting over the bare skin of his chest as he pulled you closer, his hand on your hip tugging you closer, moving you until you’re straddling him. He’s got one hand in your hair and one on your ass, until it’s trailing up your back, beneath your shirt, nails scraping gently along your bare skin as your lips move down, trailing kisses from his jaw down his throat.
With the room only growing warmer, you can feel your hangover headache pick up again, and move to kiss just below his ear.
“Put on some pants.” You murmur, and he lets out a breathy laugh, as you move back to laying beside him, watching as he retracts his hands to lay them on his chest, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment.
“Tease.” His gaze slides to you, but there’s no malice in it, maybe a little disbelief, but you just raise your eyebrows at him and take a long sip of water, pretending like your pulse wasn’t racing, like hadn’t wanted to keep going just as much as he had.
“No strenuous movements!” Shrugging helplessly as you parroted his own words back at him, he shakes his head, but rifles through his things for a set of clothes. “For now.” You amended, and the devilish grin you sported was one he mirrored, and he stepped across the room to kiss you once more before making his way to the bathroom.
The moment, that golden, everything-was-right-with-the-world moment, it filled you with contentment from the tips of your toes as you finished off the bottle of water, and got out of bed, breezing around the room as you folded up your clothes from the night before.
And in an instant, the moment shattered.
“Room service!” What sounded suspiciously like a man imitating a woman’s voice came ringing through the door, which only had you frowning.
“We didn’t order anything.” You reply, confused, opening the door without thinking, not hearing Roger in the bathroom saying your name as a warning. It was for good reason, as it turned out, as you find yourself faced with Freddie, Brian, and John, all looking bewilderingly back at you.
“Spotlight? What are you doing here? Where’s Rog?” Brian asks, and it’s John who responds, expression shifting from confusion to exasperation.
“Brian.” He says, so pointed it almost hurt, and Brian’s face lit up with realisation.
“Oh!” And after a beat, the guitarist frowned at the implication. “Oh.” And finally, he sighed deeply, resigned. “Oh.” And he pulled out his wallet, handing ten dollars to John, who suddenly looked like the cat who got the cream. You furrowed your brows at the exchange, squinting, feeling a little betrayed at it’s implications.
“Well are you going to invite us in?” Freddie asked, and it’s then that you notice him beaming.
“No way, what do you all want?” Roger glowered at them the moment he stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed, buckling his belt. He hovered behind you, careful not to touch you.
“No, no, no.” You insisted, crossing your arms and glaring at the three of them. “What was that all about?” Your words were followed by a moment of silence, and the other three boys looking at you like they couldn’t quite believe what you’re asking. After a beat you hear yourself saying, “Do you really think so little of me?” And despite Roger’s actual scoff behind you, your gaze demanded an answer from the others. John at least had the decency to look a little ashamed as he passed Brian’s ten dollars back.
“We’re here to say that we’re leaving in a few hours, and came to see if you wanted breakfast.” And though his knowing smile had died down, part of you could tell he didn’t believe you for a second. He leaned in, almost conspiratorially, though his voice was loud enough that the others heard. “You know, wearing his clothes does hold some implications, darling.”
“I had a shower because I felt like I’d body surfed through a dumpster last night. But being incoherent is such a turn on, right?” The last bit dripped with sarcasm, and Freddie held up his hands defensively, taking an actual step back.
“No need to get bitchy, we’re just here for breakfast. You’re welcome to join.” And at his offer, you let your anger dissipate, uncrossing your arms. “We’re sorry if we offended you.” He added, and you smiled gently.
“Let me just put on some proper pants.” And with that, you close the door, leaning against it with your eyes closed, breathing in through your nose to steady yourself until you hear the other three leave. When you open your eyes, Roger is looking expectantly at you, and he does not look happy.
“What was that about?” He asked, and your expression fell as you stepped past him to grab your jeans.
“I don’t want to seem like just some groupie, not to them, not to anyone on this tour.” You mused, not looking at him as you stripped off the shorts he’d given you, pulling on your own pants. He didn’t respond, but you knew he was waiting for you to elaborate. “This is my job, Roger, and I’m happy to try things out with you, God knows I’m looking forward to sleeping on a bed again, but if things go south, I don’t wanna look unprofessional, like I was abusing my position to get close to you.”
“And what do you think they’ll say about me?” He asked, crossing his arms. “Rock-star lures in crew member with promises of fame and fortune?” He scoffed, and you looked up at him, expression softening.
“They’re not going to say that, you’re a man, Rog, and you’ve already got a reputation. You can go on living your rock-star life after me.” You mused quietly, and Roger takes a deep breath, making himself relax before nodding.
“Fine, I get it. We keep implications to a minimum for a while.” He agreed. Once your pants were finally buckled, you stood, giving him a thankful smile, moving to kiss him gently. “You know they don’t see you as just a groupie.” He said, half-smiling as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Good; I mean I am,” you admitted with an amused smile, “but I don’t want them knowing that.” And he kisses you, warm, hands on your hips holding you steady, grounding you in the moment.
“We should get to breakfast.” He sounds like he really doesn’t want to leave, but you know the boys are already suspicious, and so the two of you head down to the dining area.
The moment you step back onto the equipment bus, there’s a sinking sensation in your chest, the discomfort practically crawling up your spine as you breathe in the stale air, and see the rest of the crew already sitting themselves in the most comfortable positions they could find.
“You’re not usually so late.” One of the sound guys frowns at you, and you clench your jaw, ignoring him and making your way to the back of the bus. You take your place, trying not to let the heat or the bumpy ride make you motion sick, resigned to the long trip to the next city.
Things have changed between you and Roger, obviously, the dynamic had shifted, and for the first two stops, neither of you were sure how to maneuver your usual breaks, especially since the other boys had been insistent on joining you. It exasperated you, clearly they didn’t believe that nothing had happened between you and Roger, but you kept professional, and kept conversation light.
The thing is, nothing really had happened between the two of you, not yet; after gigs, he would go to the afterparty, and you would be too exhausted from bump out to do more than make your way to his hotel room and crash on his bed. It’s nice to wake up next to him, his arm around you where he’s also crashed, almost fully dressed, but there was never enough time to enjoy it by the time you had to leave to get to the equipment bus before anyone got suspicious.
Except that they were, because you were usually the first one there – obviously, you’d been living there – but now, if even one person arrived before you, people’s eyebrows would rise.
“We’ve blown a bulb in the drum risers!” Everything changes the night that you’re pretty sure you’re going to die. A bulb blows in one of the parcans beneath the drum risers, and the sound operator from his spot in the bio-box, is losing his goddamn mind. The stage manager tells you, and you’re just confused.
“We have spares but-” You’re cut short by the frantic stage manager feeding off of the sound operator’s panic.
“Where? How fast can you get to them?” He asks, and you take a deep breath, re-centering yourself in the chaos before answering that you can get to them in less than a minute, but you’re not sure what- “Can we go to black at the end of this song?” The stage manager is speaking into their headset, and you feel adrenaline flooding your veins as you realised what you would have to do.
The space behind the drum risers is not a lot, and there’s even less beneath them; space enough to fit one person, maybe. And yet here you were, spare parcan in your hands as Killer Queen comes to an end and the lights fade to black.
“Go! Go! Go!” You’re urged on stage, pushed by the stage manager, and you move as quickly as you can in the almost complete darkness, sitting yourself down behind the drum risers as the lights come up.
“What the fuck?” You hear Roger murmur to himself, unaware of you currently shifting to lay on your belly and wriggle beneath the about-to-be-active drummer. The rest of the band also confused, none of them having known what had happened, but they played it off well, Freddie laughing with the others about a technical difficulty before starting their next song.
You unplug the faulty light from the power board the moment the first bass drum beat kicks in, and you jump, whacking the back of your head on the drum riser, swearing loudly and profusely, though it was drowned out by the music. Pulling the light from it’s position as the drum beats set your teeth on edge, deafening you with every passing moment, you burn your hands on the still hot light. Gritting your teeth despite the tears welling in your eyes, you pull out the scalding gel in it’s frame from the parcan, shifting it into the spare. As the song died down, you moved the spare light into position, waiting for the lights on that level to die down so you could plug it back in, and have it come up naturally with the others.
Heart in your throat, you can feel every movement of the drum risers above you, and you’ve never felt closer to death before; large burns on your already calloused hands, whole body being knocked around by the beat of the bass drum. Once you’ve finished you’re job, you pull the broken light from it’s position, and lay behind the drum risers in shock, staring up at the ceiling, tears in your eyes as the adrenaline has already started numbing your hands, and the music turns to white noise in your ears.
Roger catches sight of you at the tail end of the set list, and his eyes go wide, mid-song, but he can’t stop playing. Looking up weakly, you see the stage manager giving you the thumbs up, but clearly signalling for you to stay where you are, and you do, pressing your burning hands to your cheeks in an attempt to cool them down as the adrenaline slowly vanishes and you’re left with the realisation of what had happened.
The lighting designer and operator yells at the stage manager for a full fifteen minutes while you sit on a road case, still in shock after the gig.
“One light doesn’t fucking matter in that situation; she could have died! Look at her; look at her!” He hollers, and you realise vaguely that he’s talking about you. Looking up, the stage manager meets your blank, shocked gaze with a guilty one. “Get her to the fucking medical officer, that was so fucking irresponsible.”
Once there’s cream and large bandaids on the burns on your hands, you make your way outside, having been given the night off as compensation, and almost immediately you’re swarmed by the band, asking what had happened.
Freddie calls you brave, calls you darling, kisses your forehead and brings the others in for a group hug.
“I don’t get paid enough for this.” You’re definitely still in shock as the laugh escapes you, but it makes the rest of them smile, and they offer to buy you drinks at the afterparty. You’re too dazed to say no. The others seem happy that you’re okay as you walk to the pub, but Roger trails behind the group, expression dark.
He keeps you close all night, always by your side though Freddie is also just as likely to be on your other side. The boys are true to their word, keeping your hands full of cool drinks all night, though you mostly sip them, pacing yourself to keep your balance as the night progressed.
“You seem really rattled, Rog,” John sits on your other side as you take a moment of peace at the bar.
“She was beneath my drums.” It’s the first time he’s said it all night, angry and a bit afraid. John’s expression fell and he nodded in understanding, wrapping an arm around you to give you a squeeze, and moving to clap Roger on the shoulder before moving on.
When you suggest leaving, Roger agrees without hesitating, telling the others he would walk you back to your hotel room; they all gave him understanding smiles, knowing how much seeing you in pain and shock behind him, mid-show, had freaked him out.
The walk back to the hotel is quiet, his arm around your waist for the whole duration, though he still radiated an anger.
“Are you okay?” You’re pulling off your shoes, sitting at the edge of the bed.
“Me? I-” the question seemed to bewilder him, and he frowned, still lost in his own thoughts, “I’m fine, you- are you okay?” He asked, and you smiled gently at him, still not having fully processed everything that had happened. “Who fucking let this happen?” He snapped, not at you, just bitter at the universe, now pacing.
“Roger.” You stood, reaching out to catch him by the shoulder, and he turned to you, anger melting away.
“You looked scared and hurt. I know how loud I play, I can’t fucking imagine being trapped beneath that.” He admitted, quietly bitter. “I can’t believe they made you do that.”
“It’s my job.” Was all you could say in response, expression falling. “Sometimes I love it, sometimes I-” something catches in your throat, finally looking in his eyes, and you suddenly understand, and you scowl. “You shouldn’t have to worry about me, Roger, it’s how I make a living.” You snap, defensive, turning away to get changed into the pyjamas you’d thought to bring along when he checked in earlier in the day.
“If you think I’m not going to worry about you,” his hands are on your hips the moment you pull off your shirt, his voice a low growl in your ear, “you’re dead wrong.” A shiver runs through you, and he turns you around, pulling you close enough that he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, bodies pressed together where you’re only wearing a bra and your jeans.
Seeing the fear in your eyes when he had looked back had fucking terrified him, and he can’t get the image out of his mind. When he opens his eyes now, however, you’re looking up at him, pupils blown wide, smirk on your lips.
“Shut the fuck up, just tell me I’m good at my job-” You tease, but you don’t mind when he interrupts you with a kiss. All he wants to do is to hold you, be with you after everything that had happened; the realisation that his feelings for you ran a lot deeper than he thought began to shift to a primal need to show you what you mean to him in the best way he knew how.
“You’re incredible at your job, okay?” He murmurs, walking you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you sit back on it. “What you did tonight? Dedicated to a fucking fault, you know that right?” He’s making quick work of his own shirt as you slide further back onto the bed, grinning as he praises you. “At the top of a ladder, you’re the queen of the goddamn stage and you know it, don’t you?” He follows you onto the bed, leaning over you, seeing the equal parts pride and mischief in your eyes, splayed out and waiting beneath him on top of the duvet. Your grin morphs into a smirk, the only confirmation he gets before you’re pulling him into a heated kiss.
When you wake the next morning, your burnt hands ache a little, but that’s nothing compared to the ease and contentment that you find yourself filled with. Roger’s got an arm slung over your hip, you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing with his chest pressed against your back. You lace your fingers with his, feeling him give your hand a gentle squeeze in his sleep, and let yourself fall back to sleep.
Things get easier after that, between the two of you, easier and more comfortable. After everything that had happened, it seemed the other band members’ suspicions had died down, which you were thankful for, and it seemed like things almost went back to normal.
You spend your breaks up ladders and shoving lights into the drum risers from the front, and you have a smoke with Roger as the break comes to an end, though now more often than not you’re using his stomach as a pillow. Freddie’s the only one who’s seen the change, you think, but he has the decency not to say anything.
The sex is pretty incredible; you’re given a few nights off from bump out after the incident had occurred, which you and Roger took full advantage of. Even after, you started to attend more of the afterparties, integrating yourself into the culture he was already so submerged in.
Sometimes, you’d get there late, and there’d be girls hanging around like flies, and you’d have to beat your own rising jealousy with a stick, because once you arrived, still wearing theatre blacks, he’d have eyes for no-one else.
So maybe you got comfortable in the new, easy dynamic, been a little bit careless.
“Lighting wench?” He calls, and you make a noise of discomfort in the back of your throat.
“You know I hate that.” You call to him from where you’re sitting against the drum risers, and ask him to retrieve the stack of gels from where they were resting on the edge of the stage. He does so without complaint, pulling out a cigarette and patting his pockets for a lighter. He doesn’t even need to turn and ask for you to pull the one from your pocket.
Lighting the cigarette as you cut a new gel for the ones that had been burned through during the last show, you feel him put the lighter back in your pocket, and hear him take a long drag, leaning back. It’s a comfortable silence that spreads between you, and he’s offering you the cigarette after he takes a second draft. When you look up, he presses a quick kiss to your lips, more as a greeting than anything else, and you take the cigarette from him with a smile, passing him the stack of gels to hold while you worked.
“Um, Y/N?” It’s the sound operator, and you look up suddenly, unsure of how long he’d been there. “I was told you’re the person to talk to if I want a cable run?” He asked, a little confused.
“It’s Spotlight.” Roger doesn’t look at the interloper, looks instead out to the empty audience. The sound operator doesn’t look less confused.
“I’m your gal!” You reply, smiling far brighter than you necessarily needed to, pointedly ignoring Roger. After being handed a cable for the weirdly positioned amps in this particular theatre, the sound designer leaves, giving an awkward smile to Roger, who’s been sitting, smoking, and crinkling a gel between his fingers while he waited.
“Thanks, uh- thanks Spotlight.” And with that, he leaves you and Roger to yourselves. Roger’s smiling to himself.
“Shut up, you barely call me Spotlight anymore.” You roll your eyes at him and begin to run the cord, listening as Roger mutters something about it being the principle of the thing, and moving to practice a song you didn’t recognise.
From that moment on, there was a tension in the air, and it felt like everywhere you went, the other members of the crew were watching your every move. It made it difficult to steal from the band’s catering, but it made it substantially worse to try and have a private moment with Roger.
“How’d you get so close with the band?” The assistant stage manager actually chose to sit with you at the back of the equipment bus on one of the shorter journeys you would be taking.
“They started hanging around me, I sort of had no say in it.” You shrug as much as your pretzeled up position in the back allowed.
“But they like, really like you.” She grinned, eyes shining as she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Like, Freddie gave you a nickname, Spotlight.” She said, pointedly, and you shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, he saw me… doing my job.” You mused, unsure if your discomfort wasn’t clear, or if she was just choosing to ignore it.
“And I heard about how Roger spends all his lunches with-”
“Yeah,” you laugh, loud and uncomfortable, cutting her off, “listen, why are you asking me this? You know you can just talk to them if you want to get to know them… they’re just people.” She looked taken aback by that, and you think she’s finally starting to get it. Except that you’re pretty sure you’ve offended her with your bluntness, and she purses her lips.
“Well, anyways, I’m glad he’s got a little ‘tour girlfriend’.” She sneers, and her words hit you squarely in the chest. She stumbles back to the front of the bus as it continues along, and you feel like you’re gasping for air.
“Hey, what are we?” It’s only a few stops until this leg of the tour is over, and the ASM’s words have been playing on a loop in your head for almost a week. Roger, laying beside you in the morning sunlight, is quiet for a long moment.
“Whaddya mean?” He asks, propping himself up on his elbow to properly look at you, though you’re staring at the ceiling, slight frown creasing your brow.
“I mean… well what happens after the tour?” You still can’t bring yourself to look at him, even as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“We’ll get to that when we get to it.” Though he may have thought it would be assuring, you feel tension knot in your stomach at his words.
“Rog, if you wanna leave me after, I- I mean I’ll understand.” It hurt you to say the words, and you don’t see the way his expression falls. He hadn’t thought about it, not really, you’d been together for almost two months, and he’d sort of just expected that you’d be on the next leg of the tour too. “They don’t usually keep the same crew for the full, cross-continent tours.” You admitted, heart sinking a little at your own words.
“What if I had a word to them?” His words surprised you, caused your heart to soar momentarily, though you tried not to get your hopes up.
“You really don’t need to do that.” You laughed humorlessly. “It’d be easier, honestly, less paperwork and hassle and shit.” Turning away from him, you feel him reaching for you, resting his hand on your shoulder, tapping a gentle rhythm.
“It’s not a hassle.” He tells you, and then, much quieter, “and it’s not like I want to leave you behind.”
The week and a half of the tour is nice, but different. You and Roger don’t talk about the future, just make the most of your time together, oftentimes becoming frantic and desperate to leave reminders of your existence on one another. Holding tighter than necessary, leaving pleasant bruises and scratch marks in places no-one else would know about, never speaking about what was to come.
He’d never made mention that he’d talked to EMI, not until the night of the final show.
It had been ethereal, he was glowing when he played, so focused and energetic, you tried to listen to the music, thinking it was one of your last chances to hear this set live, but you kept getting lost in the image of him. He beams at you when he catches you watching from side of stage, starry-eyed. You can’t even bring yourself to be irritated by the ASM’s eye roll. As soon as they finish, you feel the adrenaline flooding through your veins at the prospect of the final bump out, and he heads off stage to the dressing room.
As soon as the auditorium is cleared, the crew is given the go-ahead to start bump out, and you get to work. He comes out fifteen minutes later, and you’re both thrumming with energy.
“Spotlight!” Roger calls to you where you’re pulling up taped down cords. Looking up, startled, you see him making a beeline for you, before he wraps his arms around you, swinging you around. Surprised, you make a squeak before he puts you back down, pressing his lips to yours. You melt into his embrace, kissing him back, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“What’s that for?” You asked a little breathless, grinning at where he was beaming back at you.
“You’re coming to Europe with us.” He told you, and your eyes widened, before you hugged him tightly, laughing with disbelief. “Told EMI you’re the best lighting assistant we have; told them the show’d be a mess without you.” You murmurs in your ear, giving you a squeeze. Looking at him, there’s awe in your eyes, and he can’t help but kiss you again, in the middle of bump out.
“Okay, so who had ‘final show’?” You hear John’s voice behind you, and when you and Roger break apart, you see the crew crowding around him, all withdrawing their wallets.
“Me, obviously.” Freddie said, and the rest of the crew groaned. “I knew you too had a flare for the dramatic.” Freddie grinned at the both of you, accepting as people offered him ten dollar notes. “Good for you two.”
“Did everyone bet on when we’d get together?” You asked, frowning, and at that, you heard a chorus of laughter rippled through the crew and band members.
“Oh, we’ve known for ages, we’re betting on when you’d make it public.”
and then there was light [2] {Roger Taylor}
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