angrylizardjacket:

Anon asked: Prompt: angst Roger and y/n because he’s jealous after a party

A/N: 5981 words!! What?! Like, it’s not explicit, but I might have given the reader a slight praise kink. Some sexual content. There is mentions of cheating, just to let you know if that makes you uncomfortable. There might be a problem with pacing but like… suspend your disbelief. Also…. you’ve got a big storm coming.

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Your grip is white-knuckled on the armrest as you felt the plane rumble beneath you; anxiety is clutching at your chest as the world falls away beneath the wings of the machine and you’re rising into the sky. Roger isn’t outright laughing from where he’s sitting next to you, but it looks like he wants to. Thankfully, for his sake, he contains himself, resting a hand on your thigh, rubbing it in a gentle, comforting rhythm.

“You’ll be fine, love, these things hardly ever crash, and if this one does, it’ll make the news, probably.” He shrugged, and you glared at him, trying to push down the anxiety curling in your stomach.

“You’re the single least reassuring person I’ve ever met.” You snapped, but he just grinned wider, his hand moving higher on your thigh, your legs part just a little, out of instinct, and you’re too anxious about the flight to even blush at it.

“I could distract you instead.” He offers, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze. Something eases in your chest and you relax your grip on the armrest to put your hand on his. “Love?” He asks, watching how you’re leaning your head back against the headrest, eyes closed, like you were trying to go to your happy place, wishing you weren’t trapped inside this plane. His hand twitches to move away when he doesn’t get a response, but then your own hand is guiding his a little further up, and you’re wearing a little, playful smile, though it’s strained. Roger has to bite back a laugh.

“Could you please wait until the seat belt sign is off?” John’s voice interrupts both of you, pressing his face into the space between your headrests where he’s sitting behind you, sounding characteristically exasperated.

“Or wait until we land, like any decent human being.” You can hear Brian’s sigh from where he’s sitting beside John, his words followed by a world-weary sigh.

“You were both cuter when you thought we didn’t know.” Freddie says, matter-of-factly, and Paul hums in agreement, the two of them sitting in the two seats in front of you.

“So were you.” Roger snaps back, leaning back into his chair, sullen at the sudden onslaught of bullying from his band-mates. “And get your bloody face away from mine.” He smacks John’s forehead with his free hand, which has the man retreating, but you’re silently thankful. Despite this, you’re also flushing with embarrassment, which is only quelled when Roger flips his hand over on your thigh to lace his fingers with yours, giving your hand a comforting squeeze.

It’s weird, to be in public, well, sort of public, and to be allowed to actually be with Roger. You’ve always been so hyper aware of his image, careful to keep your distance where prying eyes might be lurking, the last-performance kiss notwithstanding, but here, in the relative safety of first class – and god, that was a mind-boggling realisation – he’d wrapped his arm around you. Once the seat-belt sign has been turned off and the in-flight movie has started, he pulls you into his lap on the luxuriously spacious seat. Everyone on the flight has headphones to listen along to the movie, and the plane is almost silent as everyone looks to the overhead screens. It starts innocently enough, except sitting on Roger isn’t exactly comfortable; he’s got one hand resting on your thigh, innocent enough, and the other on the armrest, but you find yourself shifting every few minutes trying to get comfortable, but it isn’t really working.

“Are you right there?” Roger moves your headphones off of one of your ears, speaking low and quiet, only to you. When you look at him, he’s not even looking you in the eyes, he’s looking at your lips, and you feel your chest tighten, though in a very different way to the plane taking off earlier.

“What?” And you shift again, trying in vain to get more comfortable before you feel him hard and pressing against your ass through his pants, and it dawns on you. After a moment, you lock eyes with him, finally, and wiggle again, deliberate, suppressing a smile. He leans in to kiss you, rough, insistent, his hand on your thigh moving dangerously higher.

“Let’s not ruin everyone’s movie,” he breathes as he pulls back, his hand moving to give your ass a light tap, and you take the hint, taking off your headphones and making a beeline for the bathroom. You find yourself waiting for almost five minutes in the stall before there’s a knock at the door and Roger’s whispering your name. You haven’t even fully locked the door before he’s pulling off your shirt, murmuring about how you both had to be quiet, though he was grinning in that way that made you melt, and made you want to be anything but quiet.

When you head back to your seats none of the others comment on it, though they do seem pretty enraptured with the movie. Your anxiety at flying had dissolved; you’re feeling all warm and syrupy in the afterglow, and Roger clicks down the armrest that separates your two seats, and shifts so that you he can still wrap his arm around you, but you’re sitting next to him, your legs stretched out and arching over his. He puts his own headphones back on, smile supremely satisfied, and you give yourself a little, mental pat on the back, but don’t bother with your own headphones, resting your head on his shoulder and falling asleep, feeling secure and safe with his arm around you.

When you land, you find yourself whisked almost directly to the new tour bus, and you suddenly find yourself filled with a new uncertainty. The space, at least compared to what you were used to, was lavish, not a single road case in sight.

“You guys live like this?” You crowed, eyes wide as you raced through the spacious vehicle, plopping yourself down on the cushioned bench beneath the back window while the rest of the band, and the crew travelling in this bus started getting settled in.

“Well yeah, was the other bus really that different?” Roger asks, joining you, sprawling himself out across the seat. The sheer absurdity of his question takes a moment to sink in, but after that you’re laughing, loud and a little bit uncontrollable, mind alight with memories of hot, bump afternoons riding along at the back of the equipment bus, sat atop a road case, holding a light and gels and trying not to touch the drum kit where it was stacked up beside you.

“God, I would have killed for a cushion.” You breathe, wistful, relaxing further, if it were possible, into the seats. After a beat, you look around at where everyone’s gone quiet; Freddie and John were setting up a board game and Brian was lounging on one of the sofas running along the inside of the bus; you’re pretty sure Roger’s the only one who hears you anyways. “I much prefer it to flying though,” you admit, shifting until you can rest your head on Roger’s shoulder.

“Really?” He asked, voice quiet enough that only you could hear it. “I thought it was a pretty decent flight.” And he reaches up to pinch at your side playfully when the bus starts up. The two of you dissolve into play-fighting, which the others don’t pay much attention to, entertaining themselves as the trip to the first destination began.

“You’re- you- they call you Spotlight, don’t they?” The voice that greets you before for the first crew meeting is bright, eager, faintly accented, and when you turn, you see it belongs to a sweet looking boy with big, brown eyes, clutching at a clipboard. Laughing a little awkwardly, you nod, and his whole face brightens at the confirmation. “I’m Robbie; I’m stage managing, and they’ve got me operating the lights.” He sounds so damn excited, it’s a little endearing, and after a beat, he’s peppering you with questions about the American leg of the tour, which you answer with ease.

You’d been worried, not that you’d ever admit it, integrating into a whole new crew; the American tour was staffed with people you’d been working with for years, and here, everything and everyone was new to you. Seeing Robbie smile, so kind and welcoming, it felt like you could breathe.

“How the crew?” Roger asks, and he’s stuck with fond deja vu, sitting behind his drums, watching you cut a whole new set of gels. You’re humming something he can’t quite pick, but you seem happy enough.

“Yeah good,” you concede, only half paying attention as you work, “they’re nice, very welcoming.” You tell him, and he makes his way to you, sitting beside you on the drum risers, picking up some scraps of the gel. After a moment, your hands still, and you watch his, smiling with confusion, before looking at him. “What-” but he’s looking back at you, and he leans in to kiss you once you look up. Putting the gel and the scissors down, you take his face in his hands, giving him an endearing smile.

“I’m working.” You said softly, but he just grinned, leaning in to kiss you again. It’s fun and easy to be with Roger at times like this, times when neither of you had to worry about what other people thought, or who saw you together; you were happy and so was he, and that’s what mattered.

It gets a bit harder, you realise, when in Glasgow you’re leaving the hotel with the band and a few paparazzi come after you; at first they’re shouting at the band but then they spot you where you’re by Roger’s side, trying to keep your face hidden. You see your picture in some gossip rag the next day when Robbie gives it to you with a long suffering and apologetic look. 

“The boss wants you to be more careful about being seen.” He’s rolling his eyes at the boss’s words, however, when you ask him what he means, you learn that you’d been photographed with them in America, and people were starting to speculate that you might be part of the tour group. The Boss thinks it reflects poorly. The rest of the band is in the photo, but you’re the one being accused of being a world-travelling gold digger in the article.

When you tell Roger, or more specifically show him the article and make an offhand comment about not really being seen with the band in public anymore, he throws the magazine across the hotel room, scowling.

“They’re printing lies, Spotlight, what do you care?” He asks. You’re gentle when you step towards him, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“I care about my career and my reputation, Roger, you understand, right?” Voice soft, you don’t move until he looks at you, expression a little hurt. “I know I’m not a gold digger, but if I want to get anywhere in life, I need other people to believe that too.” You explained, and he didn’t exactly seem happy about it.

“You’re fantastic at your job, babe, isn’t that enough?” He asked, and you felt yourself flush, suppressing a grin at the praise.

“I wish it was.” You told him, voice a little forlorn, and he leaned in to kiss you, a silent agreement to your request. After a moment you pulled back, actually letting yourself grin. “You think I’m good at my job?” You asked, giggling, and Roger’s expression brightened as he huffed out a laugh.

“You know I do.” And it’s the most gentle you think you’ve ever heard him, the sweet sincerity shifts as his hands come up to rest on your hips. He knows all too well the effect he has on you when he compliments your work. “How many times do I have to tell you?” He asks, a single eyebrow raised, teasing edge to his tone.

“I mean, if you told me too much I think we both know I’d never get anything done.” And your fingers are nimbly undoing his fly. With a cheeky grin, he kisses you again, rougher, biting at your bottom lip before you pull away.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He muses, watching the way you wet your lips, smiling at him. “You’re very good at other things too, love.” 

“I know.” You watch him through your lashes, biting your lip to keep from laughing as his whole face lights up and he’s snorting out a laugh at your response, and you fall to your knees, already pulling down the waistband of his jeans.

He doesn’t like that you insist on leaving the hotel at different times, becomes a little clingy in the mornings when you go to get up, but he always manages to tug you back down to him, and you get lost in the way he smiles in the early morning sunlight, the feel of his lips on yours, the way he laughs softly against your skin. 

Despite this, he keeps his distance around other people. The band he doesn’t worry about, but he stays up by his drums during lunch, and sometimes during the after parties you attend, he’ll disappear for a few hours at a time, and you find him at the bar, reasonably hammered, surrounded by fans fawning over him. He always goes home with you though, so you try not to feel too jealous.

“Hey, Light? I’m getting lunch, do you want anything?” Things start going downhill the day Robbie pops his head in during your lunch break; you’re at the top of a ladder, fiddling with the angle of a parcan, and Roger’s at his drums.

“No thanks.” You call back, chipper, shooting the ASM a smile, and when he leaves, Roger frowns at you.

“Did he give your nickname a nickname?” He punctuates it with a laugh, but it sounds more angry than anything else.

“That’s Robbie,” your explanation does not seem to placate him. You’d been spending a lot of time with Robbie, the two of you bonding over both having worked on Bowie’s last tour. “He’s German.” You add, as if the fun fact might warm Roger to him.

“I know how to pick accents.” He snapped back at you, and you actually stopped your work to look at him, a little shocked and defensive at his tone. He’s not looking at you, he’s gone back to watching the door.

“He’s the ASM, Rog, chill out, we work together.” You tell him. He doesn’t respond, and all you can do is go back to your work, a squirming discomfort making itself known in your chest.

He disappears after the show that night, not coming to find you after bump out like he usually would, and you try to assume the best; that he’s too high from adrenaline and the endorphins of such a good show that he’d wanted to ride the hype the rest of the band. It wasn’t deliberate, you told yourself.

“You going to the after party?” Robbie asks carefully, hands in his pockets, still wearing his own theatre blacks. You realise you must look a little lost, and when you decide that you are, you tell him, and he offers to walk with him. He’s sweet, excitedly gushing about how he can’t wait for the Munich show so he could see his girlfriend, and you find yourself enthusing about how exciting it is to be travelling around Europe. Once you step foot in the pub, the two of you part ways, Robbie heading for the bar, and you seeking your own boyfriend.

His whole face lights up when he sees you, and the anxiety that had been building in your chest dissipates when he wraps his arms around you, spinning you around.

“I’m sorry, I got caught up.” He told you, but he doesn’t kiss you, just pulls you down to the sofa with him where Freddie’s in the middle of an animated discussion with Brian.

It happens again at the next stop, he leaves you behind and you make your way to the after party talking with Robbie. He’s kind, sweet, looking forward to marrying his high school sweetheart. If you’re being honest, it’s nice to have someone to talk to who understands your side of touring, being another interchangeable face to the talent you’re helping, someone down to earth and . He gushes about how jealous he is of your friendship with the band, starry eyed in the cool night air.

Again, when you arrive at the venue, Roger’s already there, and he doesn’t get up this time, just beckons you to him with a bright smile. It doesn’t ease your discomfort like you hoped his smile would.

“Are you mad at me?” You ask gently one night; the two of you were walking in relative silence, side by side, not touching for fear of paparazzi, you try to justify.

“No, why?” He asked, and you look at him, eyes narrowed as you examine him, and his smile is a little far away when he looks back at you. After a long moment of silence, he takes your hand, pulling you both to a stop, facing each other. He wraps his arms around you, still giving you that far away smile, and he kisses you. “I’m sorry I keep leaving you behind, love.” 

“So you’re not mad at me?” You confirm, stepping back and taking his hand, continuing to walk.

“Of course not; should I be?” And the way he says it, so perfectly fucking harmless, has the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.

“No!” You defend, and he’s laughing easily in the moonlight. 

It keeps happening, sporadically, and it always seems to coincide with whenever he sees you and Robbie together, or Robbie comes in to offer to get you lunch, and you know what’s happening before you dare to admit it.

On some of the nights where you opt to go straight back to the hotel, you’re woken by him flopping into bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him, warm and protective, at odds with the discomfort in your chest.

“Missed you.” He yawns, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, and one time, of faint, fruity perfume that you don’t recognise. When you ask him, he says that someone spilled a cocktail on him, and you realise you can’t even tell if he’s lying or not. 

“You jealous?” And you can hear the sleepy smirk in his words, and your own tired mind is unguarded, unfiltered.

“A little.” You whisper into the silence of the hotel room. He doesn’t answer you, but his grip on you tightens, and he hums, the meaning of which you can’t decipher. It takes you a long while to get to sleep after that.

It comes to a head a few weeks later, however, the night they perform in Paris.

“I miss her so much.” Robbie bemoaned you as the two of you walked together, his arm tucked into yours as he waxed poetic about his now-fiance. “She sent me a care package and I swear I almost cried in front of the sound operator.” 

“Why?” You laughed, and Robbie groaned.

“I opened it in the bio box because I picked it up from the front desk on my way here, like right after checking in.” By the time you get to the after party, the music is already blaring, and like always, you split up to go your respective ways. Roger greets you warmly, making room for you on the sofa he was sprawled on, wrapping an arm around you as he continued his conversation with a starry-eyed groupie, who didn’t even acknowledge your presence. You make conversation with John, who’s hovering near the arm of the sofa, bopping along to the music, looking a little bit longingly at the dance floor.

Roger goes to get a drink a little while later, smiling and asking if you’d like anything, and as soon as he’s gone, Robbie, now quite plastered, pours himself into the empty seat.

“I called her- Spotlight, I miss her so much – and she told me she loves me and she can’t wait until I get home; should I walk back to Germany? I wanna see her.” He asked, words blurring together a little from his accent and his inebriated state, and he rests his head on your shoulder.

“This is Robbie; he misses his fiance.” You explain to a confused looking Freddie, who’s expression melts into one of adoration, and he ‘aww’s at that. Robbie is starry-eyed for a long moment, before he turns to you.

“Should I walk to Munich? I miss her.” He reiterates, and you burst out laughing, petting his head fondly.

“No, don’t walk to Munich, you should go home, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.” You tell him, and he groans, clearly not having received the answer he wanted. Instead, you get to your feet and offer him your hand. “I’ll walk you back, we’re staying at the same hotel.”

You find Roger at the bar with one of your arms around Robbie’s shoulders where he’s pretty much legless, the lightweight. There’s a muscle jumping in Roger’s jaw when he sees you, and you hesitate, giving him a confused look.

“Hey, I’m just going to take Robbie back to his room, okay? I’m probably going to bed after.” You tell him. He doesn’t smile, just offers you the drink he got you and blinks slowly when you wave it away. “I’ll see you later, okay?” You ask gently, hoping to get a response from him, but he’s just giving Robbie a sour, calculating look. Robbie is transfixed by the lights behind the bar and does not notice.

When you finally get Robbie into bed, much later than you would have thought since he insisted on stopping at everything that caught his interest, and taking five minutes of standing still and explaining how beautiful his fiance’s eyes were, he’s still wearing his shoes. Once under the covers, he grabs your hands and looks you in the eyes, suddenly serious.

“You’re good. You’re a good sort, Spotlight.” He tells you, his accent coming in just a little thicker with his sincerity, and he pets your hands, before abruptly turning away from you and pulling the blankets up to his nose, clearly tapping out for the night.

The room you shared with Roger was just a few floors up, and you’re in the elevator when you realise you’d left your keys in your room. You usually did, you always went back with Roger, so you usually didn’t need them. When you approach the door, you think you hear murmuring from the other side, but it could have been from across the hall, you don’t think about it too much as you knock. There’s a giggled ‘shhh’ from the other side of the door that’s less easy to play off, but you’re tired enough to think it’s just mostly-asleep Roger. You knock again, but no-one replies. It’s too late to knock too much, and you know he’s a deep sleeper, so with a heavy, tired heart, you make your way down the hall.

“What do you want?” Paul’s frowning at you when he opens the door, wearing his blue pyjamas, squinting at you.

“Keys to the bus please, I need somewhere to sleep, Roger’s not answering.” You tell him, and punctuate it with a yawn. After a beat more of watching you, as if assessing your motives, he disappears back into his room and reappears with the keys.

“Don’t lose them.” He warned, before closing the door on you.

The sofa in the bus is long enough that you can spread out, and you find someone’s fur coat to use as a blanket. It’s comfortable enough, a little cold, and it’s only when you hear a banging on the door and feel the sunlight on your face the next morning that you get up.

Opening the door, you see Roger standing there, looking up at you, waiting for entrance. Moving back to your makeshift bed, you take a seat, giving him a confused smile.

“I… didn’t think you’d actually be here.” He already sounds like he’s in a mood, bitter, but a little bit hesitant.

“Of course I stayed here, I knocked but you didn’t answer- what was up with that?” You asked, punctuating it with a yawn, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. He watched for a moment before he slid his sunglasses down his nose to glare at you over them.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, voice a little hoarse and scratchy, moving from hesitant to just quietly angry, the venom in his words hurting like a physical slap, and you sat up straighter.

“I’m-” And you’re searching for the words, but none come to mind.

“Why are you still on this bus?” He explains in a hiss. After a beat, he slides his glasses back up his nose, and turns to look away from you, a clear dismissal.

You’re at a loss as to how to explain that you’re here because… well, you’re always here, it’s where you were now. He’s the one who’d brought you here. 

“What do you mean? You’re the one who wanted me here.” Standing your ground, you don’t dare let your voice betray how confused and hurt you were feeling. 

“Yeah, well now I don’t.” He snapped. His words hit you squarely in the chest, and he leaves you in your shocked, dazed silence, moving to the back of the bus. “Fuck off back to the equipment bus, since you prefer it so much better.” He snarled, and that’s what unfroze you. 

“Christ, I don’t get paid enough to deal with whatever this is and ride in that bus, so that’s a resounding ‘no thanks’. And more importantly; what the fuck has gotten into you?” Emotion comes crashing back into you, rage tearing through you like a tidal wave, and you turn on him, jaw clenched.

“’Whatever this is’” he snorted, low and bitter, “yeah, but you get paid enough to fuck that little, brown-haired cockhead?” He asked, and your eyes went wide.

“Who? Robbie?” You asked, voice dangerously calm. “You think I’m fucking Robbie? Our assistant stage manager? Who just proposed to his girlfriend at our stop in Munich? That brown-haired cockhead?” You snarled, advancing on Roger like a predator cornering her prey, bitter tension gathering across your skin.

“Was he the one crying on your shoulder last night at the after party?” Roger raised an eyebrow, but the sting had left his words. Narrowing your eyes, you confirm with a single, venomous ‘yes’. “Oh.”

“Is that why you locked me out last night? You thought I was-”

“I was angry, okay?” He cut you off, sitting down at the back of the bus, and though his tone is angry, his demeanour, the way he’s avoiding your gaze and fiddling, it’s… almost guilty. In that moment, it was as if you’d been splashed with cold water, an icy realisation slithering down your spine.

“What does that mean?” Voice level, you try not to jump to conclusions, but your heart is already sinking. He doesn’t answer. When he turns away, you see a hickey on his collar that wasn’t there yesterday. “Roger, what did you do?” You asked, and the hurt was already bleeding through into your words.

“I was… I was so fucking angry.” It’s not a real answer, it’s not even a real excuse. The way he says it, jaw clenched, heart in his throat, he’s all but bleeding guilt, too proud to ask for forgiveness.

“Bullshit.” Your can feel tears welling in your eyes and threatening to spill, but your hands are shaking with anger, hurt, betrayal, and you don’t even care. “You’ve been weird for weeks, you were just looking for the first out you could get.” 

“Y/N.” He stands, reaches out to grab your shoulder, but you step back, out of his reach.

“No.” Your voice is firm, but your lip is quivering. “I don’t want you to ever touch me again,” wrapping your arms across your chest, looking at his outstretched hand with disdain through your tears. “Being angry isn’t an excuse. Jumping to conclusions isn’t an excuse. I get that it must be fun fucking around with the girl who makes you work for it by your standards, but,” shaking your head, you sniffle, holding yourself a little tighter with one hand, you wipe away your tears with the other, “the moment you have to work, have to put in a little bit of fucking trust? You couldn’t even do that.”

“Spotlight, please-”

“I’m in fucking Europe for you, Roger! What in your fucking, dumbass mind thinks that I’m someone who travels halfway across the world with someone just to cheat on them?” You’re yelling now, grateful to be alone and worrying that others would join you at any minute. You didn’t want them seeing you like this.

“For me? You’re here for work! I’m opening doors for you in the industry that you’d never have opened yourself!” And he knows even as he’s saying it that it’s the wrong thing to say, but he’s too furious at himself, lashing out at the only person he could. He watches as your expression turns shocked, before shattering, and you start bawling your eyes out, holding your face in your hands. Regret floods through him, but as he steps forwards to comfort you, you yell for him to fuck off.

“I can’t- I can’t leave can I? If I leave the tour, they’ll think the tabloid are right, that I’m some dumb groupie.” And you turn, distraught, and curl up on the sofa along the inside of the bus, still bawling, loud and ugly, great heaving sobs wracking your body as you realise the full extent of what had happened, and what it would mean for you. “You’ve ruined my fucking career.”

“That’s a bit of an overstatement.” He can’t even bring himself to apologise, sitting back against the window of the bus, watching as you curl yourself into a ball, the only sound filling the silence being your sobbing. It hurts, his heart is fucking aching, but he couldn’t admit it. When you raised your head to look at him, your eyes red rimmed and lip trembling, he feels only a white hot guilt fill him from the inside out.

“You don’t get it, this industry is about who you know, and if all I am is some girl who Roger Taylor fucked, flew across the world, and got bored with, it doesn’t matter how good at my job I am, I’ll just be another groupie with aspirations.” And you bury your face in your hands again.

“We could… pretend like nothing happened, until the end of the tour.” He offers, quietly, the weakest hail mary pass you’d ever heard, and you roll your eyes at him.

“I’d rather have my dignity, thanks.” You spat, taking in a deep shaking breath as you finally sat up, wiping fruitlessly at your eyes as tears continued to flow, though you tried to pull yourself together.

“You’re not under contract, you can leave if you want.” And it might literally be last on the list of things you’d wanted to hear at that moment.

“I get it, Roger, you don’t want me around.” You snap, standing. “You are who you are; I was stupid to think you were better than that.” You sniffled. When you turn and leave, he’s silent, replaying your words over and over again in his head until he’s absolutely livid at what he’s done. 

When the rest of the band returns almost a full half an hour later, he’s trashed the entirety of the bus, even going to far as to rip up the cushioning on the bench beneath the back window. 

“So you’ve heard the news I take it.” Brian looks at the scene before them, voice and demeanour both surprisingly nonchalant, and Roger, breathing heavily amid the carnage, gives him a sharp look. “Spotlight’s heading home, something’s come up with her family.” He explains. Behind him, John’s already started picking up a fractured mug, and Freddie is just frowning at Roger.

“Yeah?” Is all Roger says, snatching up the cushions from where he’d thrown them, and flopping himself onto the back bench, facing away from them all. 

“She’s just talking to the production manager if you’d like to say goodbye.” Freddie offers, carefully neutral, and Roger suspects he knows something’s up with the story.

“She doesn’t want to see me.” He huffed sulkily, and the others lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. They can tell it’s a touchy subject but they don’t pry. They don’t hear from you, don’t even know how to contact you if they had been able to, instead they watch Roger pick up different girls night after night, trash hotel rooms, and grow shorter when interacting with the crew, especially the assistant stage manager.

“I am who I am.” Is all he says, lips around a cigarette where he’s chain smoking in the empty theatre at lunch when Freddie finds him and finally asks what’s wrong. Freddie wants to ask what happened, wants to ask why you really left, but he knows Roger well enough to figure most of it out. Roger’s a ticking time bomb nowadays, so he doesn’t pry. 

The band doesn’t talk about you, not when paparazzi and reports yell out asking where you are, not to the crew, they barely talk about you to each other, and they never talk about you around Roger. 

The bus is quieter now.

Roger’s louder now. 

There’s an ache in his chest that won’t go away, that he’s filling with meaningless sex and too much booze because he can’t stand waking up alone, and he still thinks about what you said, and the way you had smiled at him before it all went to shit. He remembers how you’d risked your life for a light beneath his drums, and sometimes at breakfast he finds himself thinking about how you’d thrown a plate of food in his face before you were even real friends, and he wants to yell, to scream, because how could he be so fucking stupid? You’d seen him for who he was, and chose to be with him despite it, you thought he could be better than his reputation, but he’d just managed to prove he wasn’t. 

It hits him when he’s got his hands on some girl whose name he doesn’t know that all he can think about is you, and he hates himself when he leans into the fantasy, not that the other girl notices. He’d rather fuck around than admit he’d developed feelings for you, and so he does, and pretends like he doesn’t miss your sleepy, morning grin, or the casual way the two of you would chat as you were rigging the spotlights for the band.

The day he finds out they’ve replaced you, the kid they’ve got is at the top of the ladder during lunch when he walks in, and he’s hit with such a sense of deja vu that he stops in his tracks.

“I was told this is the best time for me to get work done.” Her voice, thank god she sounds nothing like you, is hesitant, with none of the calm confidence you exuded at the top of the ladder.

“It’s none of my fucking business.” Roger snaps, and turns on his heel and leaves, pretending like it hadn’t felt like he’d just seen a ghost. He gets another drink.

bensroger:

Summary: Roger and Reader are best friends, or were, but recently he’s grown more distant. While cleaning her apartment, Reader finds an old letter that was accidentally tucked away. In said letter, he pours his feelings out to her.

Word Count: 2515

Warnings: Just a bit of swearing

A/N: This is my first Roger Taylor fic, and the first fic I’ve written in awhile. It might be boring at first but just try to keep reading, I’m sorry. I really hope you enjoy this, because I worked hard on it. I’m not sure how I feel about this so feedback would be greatly appreciated. If you liked this enough to want a part two, please tell me!  Also, this is inspired by Love, Rosie. (I didn’t proofread excuse any errors)

The winter air in Seattle was crisp and cold, and you had bundled yourself up with a cozy, light pink sweater. You struggled trying to find the correct key to your apartment due to your nonstop shivering, and your filled hands. You had just gotten your groceries for the week, and it was the coldest week of the year so far.

You had finally entered your apartment, and the warmth from the heater hit your face. You let out a sigh of relief, only for your phone to start ringing. You rushed to the kitchen, as you were afraid the person calling would hang up after too long. You reached for the phone and held it to your ear. “Hello?”

“Y/N! It’s Roger! I just wanted to call and say hi!”

“Oh, hey.” You said in an awkward tone. He hadn’t called in so long, and he’d just seemed so out of reach lately.

“So, how’ve you been?”

You sighed. “I’ve been alright. The hotel’s been busy with the holidays coming up soon. We also got new furniture in most of our rooms. How about you Rog?”

“Well the tour’s been crazy I’m not gonna lie, but a good crazy. Right now we’re in this crazy fancy hotel, the Blue Moon Hotel. You’ll have to take tips from them.” He laughed to himself. You really missed his laugh… “We’re gonna perform in Los Angeles tomorrow night, we’ve been all over the US now…” He said trailing off. “Tour’s almost done, thankfully.”

“Oh did you already come to Seattle?” You said biting your lip, hoping he’d say no.

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to bother you,” he said, in a quieter voice now, “Plus we were just busy…”

“I wish you would’ve come by and visited… I miss you, Rog.” You sighed, trying to think of the last time you had seen him.

“Yeah… Look Y/N, Brian’s bothering me, says I’m taking too long, but I’ll talk to you soon hopefully.”

“Wait Rog—“ You started, but he had already hung up. With a sigh, you put the phone back on the wall and thought about Roger. He had been so distant the past few months, and it honestly hurt you. You had known Roger since college, and you even kept in touch after you moved across the globe to Seattle to run your own hotel. You’d gone to a lot of his concerts and talked to him all the time before. Now you were lucky if he called once per month, and for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out why. He used to be one of your closest friends.

You’d never admit to it, but you fell for that annoying blonde boy years ago. Back when you were in uni, your boyfriend at the time cheated on you, and Roger found you crying after class. At that point you were already close friends, and he comforted you. You saw your ex-boyfriend later that day with a black eye, and you didn’t suspect Rog until you saw his knuckles. You thought it was kind of an ass thing to punch the guy, but sweet at the same time.

However, ever since he’s been in Queen, he’s always occupied with some skinny, tall girl, and you never think he’d look at you that way. So over the years, you gave up hope, but it’ll always hurt to know he never loved like that.

The rain began to tap on your windows, and you decided to watch the television to take your mind off things. A christmas movie was playing before it cut to a commercial that you had seen fifty times before for soap. You rolled your eyes and grabbed an old magazine that had been sitting on your table for too long. Instantly as you grabbed it, a piece of paper fell out. You frowned and realized upon further inspection that it was a letter addressed to you.

At first you figured it was just a card from your mom but when you opened, you recognized Roger’s handwriting immediately. The letter was dated from six months, and it dawned on you that it got stuck in the magazine during delivery.

What puzzled you the most was that he wrote an actual letter, it was so unRoger-like… He wouldn’t have done this unless it was important. You could feel your heart beating in your chest as you nervously ripped open the sealed envelope.

You began to read the letter as you held your breath in attempt to prepare for what the letter might hold.

Dear Y/N,

Look, don’t make fun of me for writing a letter. I know it’s weird, and not “Rogerlike” as you say, but I didn’t know how else to get this off my chest. Tour starts up again soon, which is why I’m writing this letter now. Everything I’ve been thinking and wanting to say to you for years are overflowing from this pen. I’m leaving this letter so you don’t feel pressured to give me an answer in a moment, so you have a lot of time before we see each other again. I know you will need to take your time trying to decide the answer to what I’m about to say. It’s a lot.

I know you, Y/N. You’re my best friend. I can see it in your eyes when you’re happy or sad, angry & mad… You can never lie to me, because your eyes betray you. I know you more than anyone in the world, maybe better than you know yourself. And I don’t want just any guy to date, because that isn’t what you deserve.

You deserve someone who loves you with his entire heart, and thinks about you every second of the day. Someone who constantly just wondering where you are, what you’re doing, who you’re with, and if your okay. You should be with someone who loves all of especially your flaws. You should be with someone who can make you laugh, dance your weird dances, and someone who will never hurt you. Someone who should’ve taken a chance to be with you years ago insteading of being afraid to try.

But I’m not afraid anymore, Y/N, and I’m not afraid to try like I used to be. I want to be with you and I want to be the person who gets to love you. I know it’s crazy and I know it’s a risk. I love the little things you do, your laugh, your smile, the way you care for others…

And don’t think I’ll constantly be sappy like this. This isn’t the Roger you know and trust me this is kind of weird for me too, but I don’t know any better way to tell you.

I can be a lot, I know that. And so can my life, the whole band thing with the tour and fans… It can be a lot, too. But I hope that you love me enough too that it won’t matter.I get it if you don’t feel the same way about me, and when I come back, we can act like this never happened. I never wrote this letter, and I never told you all this sappy stuff.I’d be okay with that, as long as you’re happy. We can still be best friends, and I’ll be okay with knowing that I tried. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t love me that way.

But if you do maybe like me… Fucking tell me! Please.

Love ya,

Rog.

You blinked, still trying to process. You could feel how much emotion Roger had poured into the letter, and that was a lot for him. You were left breathless, and just sat there in silence with the rain pouring down outside. Roger loved you…
He really did.

Roger, the boy who made your nineteenth birthday by throwing you a surprise party. Roger, the boy who you had gone out as friends with so many times, hoping it end up to be a date. Roger, the boy who promised he’d always be there for you and protect you. Roger, the boy who you had fallen in love with over the years. He loved you back…

You could barely think, but you knew all you wanted to do was see him. And that’s how you ended up shoving anything and everything in a suitcase. You speeded out of the building and into the pouring rain. Somehow, you were able to buy a ticket for the next flight to Los Angeles. It was a crappy aisle seat, though.

The flight there was short in comparison to others, but for you, it was the longest flight in the world. It didn’t help that the kid behind you kept kicking, and the gross man next to you was snoring. But you couldn’t complain, because you were finally going to see Roger.

Once you landed in LA, you were astonished by how warm and sunny it was at this time of year. The roads were packed and the hustle was nonstop. There weren’t any hotel rooms available last minute, so you unfortunately had to settle for a dingy motel room that smelled like mold and burnt popcorn. But again, you couldn’t complain because you were finally going to see Roger.

You remembered during the phone call he said he was staying at the Blue Moon Hotel for the weekend, because you liked the name and it did sound really fancy…

You took a cab and twenty minutes later, you were there. Roger was right, it was crazy fancy. There was a long, soft, shaggy carpet that stood out against the pristine marble floor, and the couches in the lobby looked incredibly soft… Your admiration of the hotel’s lobby was cut short by someone calling your name.

You swiftly turned on your heel to find Brian all alone, smiling at you. “Hey Y/N, how’ve you been?” He brought you in for a hug. Brian was always so nice to you, so were Freddie and Deaky. “We’ve missed you!”

You beamed at him. “I’ve missed you guys a lot, too. Sorry I’ve not been around as much.”

“Don’t worry about it, I know it’s not your fault. Anyway what are you doing here?” Brian said.

“Well I came to look for Rog, I’ve got to tell him something.”

“That’s a long way to come for Roger, but I’m glad you’re here. He’s in room 2187 on floor 4.”

“Thanks a lot Brian.” You said, pulling him into another quick hug. “I’ll see you later.” He smiled at you.

You sped walk to the elevator instead of running so you didn’t stand out as much. The elevator ride seemed to take forever, and you regretted not taking the stairs. You heard a ding and once again sped walked out.

The hotel hallway was bright and clean, and you hated how nice it was here. The numbers drew closer to Roger’s room, and you were currently at 2179. Then 2185… And then you froze.

You stood for a moment, only holding the letter he had written a few months ago. Nerves began to bubble up and you were terrified. But nonetheless you softly knocked at the door. You could feel your heart practically beating out of your chest. You could hear footsteps from behind the door, and then you heard it unlock. The door swung open, and you couldn’t help but grin.

Your smile faded quickly when you weren’t met with the face that made you come all this way. It was a brunette, and she was wearing nothing but a button up shirt. “Are you here for room service or…” She began. The girl must’ve understood by the confused look on your face that you weren’t. “Are you lost? I don’t know what you’re here for.” She said in almost a rude tone.

“Who is it Connie?” You heard his voice. Your face burned and you felt like crying right then and there. However, you wouldn’t allow yourself to do so.

“I— Nevermind.” You said, and with that you turned around. You clutched the bag that hung across your body as some sort of security. Your hands were empty now, and you realized you dropped the letter at the doorway, but it didn’t matter now, did it?

“It was just some girl…” You heard the brunette say far behind you.

You were close to the elevator now, and far away from Roger. This dream turned into a nightmare and all you wanted was to go home.

Roger, back in his room, walked over to the where Connie was standing. “Who was it?”

“I think she was lost, but whatever. God, why is room service taking so damn long?” She rolled her eyes, heading back towards the bed. Roger stepped out in the hallway, looked left and right before hearing a crunch under his foot. He studied it before picking it up… It was really crumpled at this point, but he was able to make out “Love ya, Roger.” And he instantly knew it was the letter he had written you.

“Shit” he mumbled to himself. He tried to chase after you down the hallway, and ran as fast as he could.

You pressed the lit up button in the elevator and then you saw him standing there, at the end of the hallway. His blonde hair was a mess and he wasn’t wearing a shirt, just sweats. It was the first time you’d laid eyes on him in months… You locked eyes with him, and then shook your head. “Y/N, wait I can explain!” Roger began to run toward the elevator, but then the doors in front of you closed.

Finally alone, you started let the tears roll down your face, and sobs escape. You felt foolish to think it’d work out, or that he’d even wait for you. Of course you didn’t mean that much to him, how stupid could you be… The elevator doors opened, and you wiped your eyes as you entered the hotel lobby.

You started to head for the door when you heard, “Y/N wait!” You froze instantly recognizing the voice, and didn’t turn around.

“Please go back Rog, I shouldn’t have come.” You sighed out. “Connie—Is that her name—I’m sure she’s waiting for you.” You said, almost in a whisper, your voice quivering. You squeezed your eyes shut.

Although you didn’t mean it in a rude way, your last words were a slap in the face to Roger. He was left speechless, and couldn’t find the words to say, even though he wanted to say so much… He noticed the pain and the sadness in your voice, and he didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Roger just thought you ignored his letter.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, a sad smile on your face. “Goodbye Rog.” You walked out of the hotel, leaving the man who you once believed was the love of your life, behind.

bensroger:

Summary: After what happened with Roger in Los Angeles, the Y/N quickly goes back to Seattle, and isn’t sure where to go from there. Meanwhile, Roger has problems with another girl, who threatens to get in the way of Y/N and Roger finally getting together.

Word Count: 2911

Warnings: Swearing, the usual

A/N: This has been asked for so much, and I really hope you all like this!! All the messages I got were super sweet so thank you! I didn’t proofread so excuse any mistakes please! Don’t forget to leave feedback in my inbox or by messaging me, anything helps!! Also my requests are always open! 🙂 Enjoy! Also it kind of switches between POV’s but you’ll see

Part 1 

| Masterlist

The patter of the rain against your windows was loud, and was occasionally accompanied by a flash of lightning and a boom of thunder. The clock next to your bed read 11:02 AM.

It had been only two days since you returned home from Los Angeles, and since that return you’ve only moped around your apartment. It made your heart feel heavy whenever you thought about what happened with Roger. Despite the painful emotions that came with the memories of Los Angeles and the letter, they were all you could think about. You kept replaying it in your head, contemplating whether or not you should’ve run. After all, he chased after you and maybe would’ve said he loved you still, or maybe he would’ve said he didn’t care anymore. You felt guilt over the way you reacted and just left him standing there in that hotel lobby. Roger wanted to tell you something, but you freaked out and ran off.

You no longer had the letter with you, but you would recite bits and pieces to yourself. You just sat in bed all day in a depressive state. You looked around your messy bedroom and knew that it wasn’t healthy to be stuck like this. It was healthy to keep thinking about Roger, who didn’t love you like you loved him.

You got up out of your bed and put your messy hair into a somewhat neat bun. You were still in your pajamas, and you couldn’t imagine how awful you looked in the moment. You knew you had to move on, and you only knew one way how to.

The desk light shone brightly on the blank sheet of paper that now sat in front of you. You tapped the pen on the desk as you thought about what to write. All of the sudden you knew what to write, just as a light bulb would turn on in a cartoon. Once your pen started writing, there was no stopping it.

You smiled to yourself as you reread it to yourself, knowing that every word you wrote was true. You carefully placed it in an envelope, and wrote his address on it. You knew he wouldn’t be home for another week or so, but you felt you could wait another week after waiting for years to tell him.

Once you dropped the letter off at the post office, you felt like you get on with your life until he responded (If he responded, that is).

Sure enough, a week later, Roger walked up to his own door, and struggled with his keys to open his apartment, his hands full with his luggage. Connie, the girl from the hotel, trailed behind him. He didn’t know why he kept her around, honestly. Roger didn’t like her, she was too boring and quite a klutz. He barely wanted to bring her too his house, but she just kept pestering.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you and the last time he saw you, no matter how much he tried. Six months ago, he made sure to push every thought of you out of his head, because it was like salt in the wound every time he was reminded of you. Roger believed you rejected him altogether when he didn’t get a response to his letter.

With an aggressive tug at the door knob, it finally swung open, and he dropped all of his stuff on the ground. “Finally…” he murmured out. His eyes immediately landed on a framed photo you and him at one of his first gigs with Smile. That picture felt worlds ago…

“So this is your place then?” Connie said with a smirk on her face. “It’s nice I like it…”

“Yeah well don’t get too comfortable.” Roger scoffed. “You’re not staying here that long.”

The brunette rolled her eyes, “Come on don’t be such a dick. Why don’t you show me your bed.”

Roger pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Oh my god Connie, not now…” He sighed looking up to face her. “Can you get the mail or the other bags from downstairs or something, I need a moment.” He nearly yelled, annoyed with the girl.

“Whatever.” She huffed out, clearly annoyed with him, too.

Roger sat down on the couch, and was once again faced with the picture of you two. “Damn it.” He whispered, feeling the emotions of losing you all over again. He turned the picture away from him, and thought in the silence that filled his house.

In Roger’s pocket, the crumpled up letter gave you sat. He didn’t know what to with it now, and it was quite embarrassing to reread it. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why you’d come with an answer now…

Roger sat down on his couch and leaned his head back, and took a deep breath. Where did we go wrong? That single thought repeats itself over and over again in his mind. The pain, the feeling in his chest and stomach made him second guess sending the letter all those months ago. There was no going back. No do overs. And because of the timing, he had likely lost you forever. His fingers trembled around the cigarette as he began to light it. The smell and taste were just as bitter as he was.

Connie came back in a split second with the mail, a smile on her face. He could tell she was using him, but at this point he didn’t care, he just needed a distraction. “Did anything important come in the mail?” He said to her.

Connie swiftly looked through the many envelopes, and her eyes were narrowed when she laid eyes on one addressed to Roger from a Y/N Y/L/N. She remember that name, and she hated it. He’d talk about her every once in awhile, and even mumble her in name in his sleep. Connie felt jealous rise up, and she rolled her eyes at the thought of that girl. She was threatening everything Connie had done to get this close to Roger…

She took one glance at Roger, to see if he was paying attention to her, and then when he wasn’t, Connie discreetly shoved the letter in her purse. She sat down next to Roger on the couch and handed him the letters. “Mostly bills and everything, maybe a few letters from your friends.”

He skimmed the letters and then threw them on the coffee table after he felt there was nothing important. “We’re going out tonight, are you in?” He said, without even looking at her.

The brunette smiled and cuddled up against him. “Of course, I’m always in.”

Later that night, Roger was waiting for Connie to finish. He was honestly tired of this girl, but kept her around for company because the worst thing in the world is being lonely. She was still putting on her makeup, and he stood by the door, impatient. “Can you hurry up already? The damn thing will be almost over by the time you’re ready.” He yelled across the house.

“I can’t find my lipstick,” her voice rang from far away, “Can you check if it’s my purse?”

Roger rolled his eyes, but did so anyway. Nothing was in her purse except some money, her lipstick, and a piece of paper. As he pulled out the piece of paper to investigate, he frowned. He turned it over. His eyes widened as he read your name. Roger was confused at first, and then infuriated.

“Did you find it-” Connie said walking up, stopping once she saw the letter in his hand. “Oh.” Was all she said.

“What the fuck is this?” He held it up to her, not looking in her direction.

“I was going to give it to you, but I knew you were going to leave once-”

“What Y/N writes to me doesn’t concern you.” Roger said, his voice shaking with anger. He was gritting his teeth now, and he wanted to scream.

“Look I’m sorry but that Y/N bitch-”

“Don’t you ever call her that!” He seethed, snapping his head toward her. “Don’t even say her name. Get out of my house.”

Connie whined, “Roger, baby, please let me explain.”

“I said get the fuck out now!” Roger yelled at her, pointing aggressively to the door.

“Whatever, let me grab my things…” She mumbled, to the point of tears.

He walked closer to her, “No, I said get out!” Connie was clearly terrified, and headed toward the door with a quick shuffle.

Roger angrily swung the door open to his bedroom, grabbing her bags and heading towards the window. He slid it open and chucked her belongings out the window into the snow below. He picked up the picture frame on the end table and threw it at the door as hard as he could. He should’ve never been with Connie in the first place, the way you looked at him in that lobby was like a knife in the chest. He should’ve left Connie right then and there. Roger began to walk to the kitchen when he saw the picture of you and him on the floor, covered in shards of glass. He gently picked up, and smiled at it.

Roger looked at the crumpled envelope that he smashed when he was yelling at Connie, and his anger slowly melted away. It was written in red ink in your recognizable handwriting; another one of the things you did that he loved. His hands were shaking as he tore it open, and began reading.

Dear Roger,

I’m sorry to have gotten back to you about your letter so late. You must understand it wasn’t my intention to ignore you, but that it just happened. Your letter was stuck inside of an old magazine, and I hadn’t known it was there until the day I last saw you. But now, I’m writing my own letter, and I only hope that you receive this faster than I received yours.

You may be right. I do deserve someone who loves me with his entire heart, and thinks about me every second of the day. Someone who is constantly just wondering where I am, what I’m doing, who I’m with, and if I’m okay. I should be with someone who loves all of me, especially my flaws. But so you do, Rog. You deserve that someone too.

You deserve a girl who always is thinking about you, if even it hurts. Someone who counts down the seconds until they see you again. Someone who loves your stupid flaws, like the way you throw things when you get mad or how jealous you get. Someone who loves your dorky quirks and understands you. I don’t know if I’m that someone, honestly, that’s for you to decide. As for me, you will always be my someone.

When I got your letter I ran to you, but you didn’t even answer the door. I don’t want a repeat of that. It hurt so fucking much to know that I embarrassed myself and that you probably don’t even care anymore. I don’t want a repeat of that.

That’s why I’m writing my own letter, to avoid the heartbreak. If you want to be with that Connie girl, that’s okay. I’d understand I was too late. It’d hurt like hell, but I would understand.

I’m sorry I was afraid to tell you I loved you in the first place. But I have loved you since college and I will likely still love you, even if you break my heart.

This is our opportunity. Let’s stop being afraid and take the chance. Please don’t lose this letter like I did, and take care, Roger.

Love Ya,

Y/N

Roger couldn’t help but smile at the way you copied his “Love Ya.” He didn’t realize it, but he was nearly crying, and he wasn’t a super emotional person in the first place. He put the letter down and stood in the silence of his own home.

Back in Seattle, you sat behind the counter at the hotel you managed. It was dry, cold day that still had dark clouds looming above. It had been a particularly slow day, with only a few people checking in. You had just checked in someone wearing a Queen shirt, bringing your thoughts to Roger and the whole letter ordeal. Almost lost in thought, you realized your shift was over and you should get home. You grabbed your brightly-colored umbrella and exited the building, with the blonde drummer still occupying your thoughts. You still felt hopelessly in love with him, and upon that realization, you let out a heavy sigh, your breath appearing in front of you.

As a drop of crystal-clear water appeared on your face, you smiled to yourself. The rain was something that stopped your thoughts from buzzing, calmed you, but at the same time excited you. The waves of the salty liquid washed the pavement creating a melancholic song. Waiting for the rain to wash all of the misery away, you stood there, your gaze burning into the horizon, staring at the beauty of the upcoming storm and the crying clouds. You took in a breath of the fresh, crisp winter air, and found yourself calmer. You quickly got in your little red car to avoid getting anymore soaked.

Once you got home, you made yourself some tea, put on your favorite vinyl, and enjoyed watching the rain fall on the city below. You felt peaceful and happy for the first time since Los Angeles, and with that thought you smiled to yourself.

A soft knock on the door brought out of your thoughts. “Just a second!” You called out to the person, putting the cup of tea down on your coffee table, and standing up from your comfortable spot on the couch.You opened the door without looking up. “Sorry I look like such a mess it’s just-” You stopped when you were finally met with those beautiful blue eyes that you fell in love with all those years.

Roger was soaking wet, slightly shivering, and his hair a mess. “Why…” You cleared your throat, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to spill. “What’re you doing here.”

Without saying a word, he reached into the pocket of his coat, and pulled out the opened envelope addressed to him. Your eyes fell to what he was holding, and your mouth fell open. “I’m sorry.” was all you said, it came out as whisper.

He laughed slightly. “What are you sorry about? I’m the one who had some random girl answer the door.” Roger saw your eyes start to get misty. He titled your chin up with his hand. “Hey, don’t be sorry.” He pulled you in for a hug, and you closed your eyes shut, and just took in the moment.

You open your eyes and frowned. “Roger, you’re soaking wet.” You recoiled. “How long were you out there?”

He shrugged. “About a half hour… I didn’t know what to say when I saw you.”

“Roger! You could’ve caught a cold! Look at you your freezing!” You exclaimed. Roger only chuckled at your reaction.

“I love you.” He blurted out, smiling at you. You just stared up at him, not sure what to say. Roger had written it on paper before, but now here he was, actually saying it to you. Slowly, he presses his lips to yours. It’s soft and gentle, and maybe there’s no fireworks or sparks, but it’s better than that – it’s a wave of warmth that fills you up, spilling out from your heart and the warmth of Roger’s lips on yours and rushing to every corner of your body: the cracks in between your toes, the crooks of his elbows, the tips of his ears. Every inch of your body is saturated with love.

You pulled away with a smile, and grabbed his hands. “I love you, too, Rog, but you’re shivering please let me make you some tea. Come inside and you can tell me all about your tour.” You said, still beaming.

Roger rolled his eyes playfully, “Well how can I say no now?”

You walked more into your apartment, and made him a cup of hot chocolate while he sat at your counter. He was telling you all about the shows and the crazy crowds of fans; both which he adored. You turned around and gave him a good look, admiring how happy you were that everything worked out in the end. “Rog,” you interrupted his story.

“Yeah?” Roger looked up at you with a cute smile on his face, and you almost melted right then and there.

“I really missed you…” You said, and couldn’t help but grin.

He walked over to you, wrapped his arms around you and murmured, “I really missed you, too.” You gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and you couldn’t ask for more. Here Roger Taylor was, the boy you deserved, with Y/N Y/L/N, the girl he deserved.

Tags: @your-idiotic-excellency @mentamaree @rogersfalsettos @miahelizaaabeth @amberlikestoomanyfandoms @secretsweetscollectionblog @littlesaltybrat​ 

hiken-no-stark:

Finally is here! 😀

Thank you so much @singlemothersteveharrington​ and @rip-redbeard​ for the help 💖💖💖💖💖💖

And thanks to everyone who offered to help me. I really appreciate it.

ENJOY!

Warning: NSFW.

*Gif’s not mine*

A = Aftercare
(What they’re like after sex)

• It depends if he’s drunk or
  not.
• If he’s drunk, he will immediately wrap around you
  and fall asleep.
• If not he’ll smoke a
  cigarette, resting one arm behind his head.
• After exhaling the smoke he
  gives you a playful smirk.
• “Do I have something on my face?”
  He’d ask.
• You giggle and get closer
  to him, resting your head on his chest.
• He’s
  usually a bit closed off and reseved when it comes to his emotions, but when
  he’s alone with you, laying on the bed, blissed out with cigarrette smoke
  wafting above your heads, he’ll talk to you about anything and everything. 
• His
  voise is always soft and raspy during these moments, and sometimes he’ll shift
  his body so that he’s murmmuring into your hair, smiling against your ear when
  the sensation makes you giggle.
• Then
  he caresses your hair until you fall asleep. 

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part of their partners)

• Roger loves your ass. 
• He likes to subtely tuck his hand into
  the back pocket of your jeans
• When you nap together he always pulls
  you on top of him so that he can feel you pressed against him, resting one hand
  on your back underneath your shirt and the other on the curve of your ass. 
• He’s always playfully
  spanking you.
• Especially before starting
  to record or before a concert.
• “Roger! Stop it!”
• “It’s for good
  luck, petal.”
• “Do you want to spank my
  ass for good luck?” Freddie ask.
• “Fuck off, Freddie!” Roger yells, giving
  him a swift kick in the ass. 

C = Cum
(Anything to do with cum basically)

• Well, well, well, our Roger
  loves to cum all over your ass.
• He loves the contrast with
  your skin.
• But he also loves to cum in
  your mouth and breasts.
• Especially when you’re on your knees
  before a concert.  
• You would lower your blouse
  enough to show your breasts and open your mouth waiting for him to give you
  what you want.
• “Fuck (Y/N).” 

D = Dirty Secret

• He wants to fuck you over
  his drums. 
• Or at least use his
  drumsticks to make you cum. 

E =
Experience (How experienced are they?)

• Let’s be real… Roger is a
  womanizer, so he has a lot of experience.
• He has slept with enough fans
  to know exactly what he does. 

F =
Favourite Position

• Well if Roger loves your
  ass, he loves fucking you from behind.
• Holding your ass up for
  him, leaving some bruises
  on your waist.
• “Ah! Right there, Rog!”
• “You like that, petal?” He
  asks and then spanks you hard,
  making you scream.
• But he also likes having
  you on top.
• He moves his hands from
  your back to your breasts, pinching your nipples and making you moan.
• Then his hands move to your
  ass, squeezing it.
• “Ride me, baby.”
• And when you start bouncing
  up and down, he adjusts his arms behind his head, enjoying the view with a
  smirk on his face. 

G = Goofy
(Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc.)

• Roger can be making jokes
  at the beginning, only to relax you.
• But when he starts to fuck you,
  he leaves the jokes aside and start with the dirty talk. 

H = Hair
(How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

• I think he shaves but not
  all of it.
• Only a little to make it
  look more aesthetic (?) 
• He doesn’t want a jungle down there. 

I =
Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

• He can be romantic if he
  wants.
• Maybe not the type of guy
  who will lay you on a bed of roses.
• But he has his own way of showing his love.
• For example… Kissing you
  like his life depends on it. 
• He can kiss every part of
  your body, leaving bruises, whispering compliments to you. 
• Also he holds you close to
  him, feeling each other’s heartbeating and heavy
  breaths.  

J = Jack
Off (Masturbation headcanon)

• Oohla la.
• Mr. Taylor absolutely does it.
• Mostly when you can’t go
  with the band for the tours. 
• He needs a way to relieve his stress
  after a concert.
• Even though he can have any girl he wants, he prefers
  to drink and smoke, waiting impacientely to
  go back to the hotel.
• Once he’s there, he’ll jerk off until he cums all
  over his abs. 

K = Kink
(One or more of their kinks)

• Spanking you all the time.
• And, of course, dirty
  whispers in your ear. It
  doesn’t matter if you two are alone or not.
• “I want to fuck you right
  here on this couch.”
• “We can hear you, Roger.”
  Brian says, without removing his attention from his guitar. 
• “Come on guys, are we
  here to make music or have a fuckin’ orgy? That’s disgusting.” John says, lifting up his arms.
• “I vote for the orgy.”
  Freddie announces, lifting his cigarrette above
  his head as he enters
  the studio.  

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

• ALL THE PLACES ARE GOOD FOR
  SEX.
• Your bedroom. 
• The studio. 
• The bathroom (Shower sex
  is a must)
• The tour bus.
• In the back of taxis and limos.
• His car. 
• Freddie’s
  bedroom.
• In the dressing room before shows.

M =
Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

• Seeing you in his clothes.
• And much more because he
  knows that you are only wearing your panties under his shirt.
• During sex… He loves the
  way you bite your lip to hold in
  your moans, so he increases his pace to make you scream.
• And of course when you say
  his name. 
• “Rog please… Don’t stop.
  Roger!” 

N = NO
(Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

• Anything that includes him
  hurting you.
• He can be a little rough
  sometimes, but he’s always careful not to go
  too far.
• He’s not a fan of exbozitionism. He’ll
  have some fun stealing a quickie here and there, but when it comes to actually
  being in the company of others, he almost
  never goes further than a swift kiss or a pinch on the bum. 
• There are some sides of you that  he doesnt want anyone but him to get to see.  

O = Oral
(Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

• He likes giving. Likes the way you squirm
  under him and hold his hair. 
• “You taste so sweet,
  baby.” He smirks at you,
  licking his lips.
• BUT… He loves receiving even more. 
• Roger holds your hair in a
  ponytail to see your red cheeks while you suck him off.
• “Good girl.” He
  says, caressing your cheek.
• He grunts while you take him
  deeper in your mouth.
• Then he holds your head in
  place while he start fucking your mouth. You close your eyes and place your
  hands in his waist.
• “I’m close.” He
  whisper, trying to control his moans. 
• So you move one of your
  hands to caress his balls.
• “Shit.” With a grunt he
  cums in your mouth.
• He lets his head fall back and when
  returns his eyes to you, he smirks when he sees you licking your lips. “That’s my girl.“ 

P = Pace
(Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

• Roger can start s of slow and
  sensual and filling your body with wet kisses and sweet compliments.
• Then he slowly
  increases his pace. 
• Holding on the
  headboard with one hand and the other grasping
  the sheets.
• Your nails mark his arms and back. 
• “Rog… Harder.”
• He smirks and stops for one
  moment. 
• “Hands and knees,
  petal.” He holds
  your waist and flips you, giving your ass a spank. 
• You shake your ass, making him
  smirk. 
• “Naughty girl.”
  He says and enters you in one thrust. “Fuck.”

Q =
Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

• Roger always is busy, so quickies
  are an important part of your lifes. 
• No matter where you are.
  You can bet you’ll find him between your legs.
• “Roger, you have to
  go.” You says, while he’s kissing your neck and holding up
  your skirt. Outside you can hear all the screams calling for Queen. “The
  concert is about to start." 
• Before he takes it too far, he always
  presses a few urgent, sloppy kisses to the side of you neck, murmurring “Tell me you want me to stop” into the
  skin just underneath your ear.
• You never do. 
• "Don’t worry petal,
  i’ll be quick.” He whispers, lowering your panties.
• Sometimes he ask you to go
  to the studio with him to practice before recording. But it always ends with you two
  fucking on the couch.
• And of course you have been
  caught sometimes.
• “For fuck’ sake, Roger!”
  John yells. “I eat on that couch!" 

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

• Well I think it’s already
  clear.
• He loves taking risks.
• Dirty whispers, fucking
  everywhere, spanking in public. 

S =
Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

• He’s not superhuman. I
  think he can go for at least 3 or 4 rounds. Especially when you two haven’t seen each other in a
  long time. 
• And in those rounds
  he will give you all the orgasms he can before he cums.
• For sure he goes in-between
  your legs and take his time to get you ready to fuck again. 

T=Toy (Do
they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

• Do drumsticks
  count?
• If so, then he’d
  love to fuck you with them. 
• But he thinks is a dirty
  thing to ask for. So he only caresses your breasts with them.
• One day he will. 

U =
Unfair (how much they like to tease)

• I think he doesn’t like to
  tease.
• He loves to see you cum for
  him, so he doesn’t deny you your release as long as you scream his name over
  and over again. 

V =
Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

• He’s very loud when he’s drunk. Moans, grunts, bad words.
• Normally he only grunts and
  moans when he’s close to orgasming. 
• He loves to breathe heavily
  in your neck and tell you dirty things in your ear. 
• "Fuck (Y/N), you’re so
  fuckin’ tight. So fuckin’ good for me, baby.” He grunts and slaps your ass.
  “Cum all over my cock, petal." 

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your
choice)

• You decide to
  make his dirty secret come true.
• At first you’ll be very
  nervous, so he begins touching you with his hands, caressing your folds. 
• "You’re so wet,
  baby.” He bites your ear. “I like it.”
• Then you feel something hard against
  your pussy. 
• “Roger!" 
• "Relax, baby.” He
  says and then slowly slides the drumstick into your
  wet hole. 
• “Roger.” You moan
  and he kisses your cheek, starting to slowly move
  the drumstick. Being careful not to hurt you.
• You grab his
  shoulders and squirm under him. 
• You lower your hand and
  start touching your clit, moaning loudly while he kisses your neck. 
• “You like it?”
  You only nod with heavy breaths.
• “Don’t stop,
  please.” He smirks and bites your neck, leaving a red mark.
• “I don’t plan on it." 

X = X-Ray
(Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

• He’s an average size.
• The perfect dick to make you
  scream and beg for more. 

Y =
Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

• Come on… It’s Roger
  Taylor, that says everything.
• f he can… sex 24/7.
• The smallest things will get him going from the way you sit in your chair to the way you bite your lip when they get
  dry during the winter months. 

Z = ZZZ
(how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

• Like I said, it depends on whether or not he’s
  sober. 
• When
  he’s drunk, he’ll want to pass out right away, but will refuse to until you
  come back to bed. 
• If he had it his way, the two of you
  would just curl up and worry about the mess in the morning- but you usually
  pull yourself out of his embrace- with much difficulty-, and get up to change
  into clean clothes (much to his chagrin)
• When lying down in bed and complaining
  doesn’t do the trick, he’ll drag himself to where you’re standing in the
  bathroom, and sit down to help wipe you up and dress you in one of his clean
  shirts, before scooping you up in his arms and uncerimoniously dumping you into
  the bed, and practically collapsing on top of you. 
• When he’s sober, he always  stays awake and smokes while you fall asleep, carassing
  your hair and smileing softly as he watches the rise and fall of your chest. 

Taglist: @lemonlockers​

buckyofthemyscira:

Summary: You couldn’t help but fall in love with your best friend, Roger Taylor. The only problem? He has no clue. So with the lovely assistance of Freddie and the guys, they team up together to help try to make him notice this before it’s too late. 

Word Count: 3,791.

A/N: First Roger fic! Tried my best to do our boy justice. Big thank you to @yourealegendfred for being a great help during the process of this story and beta’ing. Hope you guys enjoy! Feedback is always, always appreciated.

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