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 {Roger Taylor}
Summary: You’re a roadie and lighting assistant for Queen’s first US tour, a bit of an overachiever at your job, despite the terrible pay. It’s all worth it to spend time with the band, and when you find the lunch break you’re working through interrupted by Roger Taylor, that worth increases tenfold. Except he’s a womanizing rock star and you’re the roadie who’s secretly sleeping in the equipment bus to avoid paying for hotel rooms, but the heart wants what it wants. At least you and Freddie get along.
A/N: 5157 words. Christ. This is 100% based on the fictionalised version of Roger Taylor played by Ben Hardy. This fic is so self gratuitous it’s a bit shameful (reference, I’m an actual roadie and lighting assistant, but on a much smaller scale, obvs.). Board certified first Post-BoRhap Roger Taylor Imagine (weird flex but okay)
Warnings: Smoking, drinking, it gets a little bit M rated but no smut.
The tour bus was hot and stale, and if it wasn’t for the window up the back, you’re pretty sure you’d have suffocated by now, crammed up the back of the equipment bus, wedged in behind three amps, a drum kit, and a road case full of lights. As it was, you were struggling to keep your knee from leaning against the snare drum, a task especially difficult when you’ve got a parcan wedged between your legs, and a box of gels balancing atop your knees. It’s uncomfortable, but life on tour is just like that, and you wouldn’t complain even if you’d wanted to.
You’re part of EMI’s usual tour crew, having gone around the States with Bowie for his last tour, but now you found yourself promoted to Lighting Assistant for Queen, and though the pay didn’t greatly increase, at least you could delude yourself with the title. As it was, you were already only sneaking food from the band’s catering, and the Production Manager hadn’t noticed that you were sleeping at the back of the bus, so at least you weren’t hemorrhaging money on the trip. You could look for a better, more stable job, but where was the fun in that?
Queen was, in a word, incredible. Their passion and talent was breathtaking to watch, and they respected your work enough to leave you and the rest of the crew to their jobs, or perhaps they were just lazy. You’d never really spoken to any of them, though they smile kind enough at you as you run their cables while they set up their instruments.
“You should move.” A voice calls from the drum riser, in front of which you are sitting, legs crossed as you cut gels for the drum lights themselves. After a moment to process what had been said, you look around at the bits of plastic littered around you.
“No thanks.” You call back, not even bothering to look at who had addressed you in the first time, going back to your task.
“Suit yourself.” The voice called back, and after a moment of silence, the bass drum kicked in, following by a heart-thumping tom-and-high-hat rhythm. The thumping beat kept in time with your now racing heart, both out of a little nervousness and exhilaration at the sudden realisation that you had back chatted Roger Taylor, or someone who was going to be severely injured if Roger caught them on his drums. To your credit, you barely flinched, making yourself relax as the beat knocked your heart about your ribs.
It didn’t take you long to recognise the beat, and you found yourself bopping along while it lasted. You weren’t sure what he was doing back here, the rest of the crew was on break, but you had been left to get the last of the lights ready for that night’s show. As the stringless version of Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll came to an end, you were left in silence, broken only by the creek of the frames you were putting the gels into. Roger had pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches when you turned to look up at him from your spot on the stage.
“I wrote that one, ya know.” He mused, leaning down and reaching through the hardware of the drum kit to offer you one. You accepted without really thinking, moving from muscle memory as he lit his cigarette and held the still burning match out for you.
“‘s a bit different from some of the newer stuff.” You said, the statement neither positive nor negative, just a thought you allowed into the universe. Looking away from him, you inhaled deeply, cigarette held loose between your lips as you wrestled the frames into the parcans exhaling the smoke from your nose as you moved the first into position in front of the drums themselves.
“Careful.” Roger warned, and when you looked up to glare at him, you saw him watching you intently. Biting back a sarcastic retort, you moved your hand to your lips, taking a long drag on your cigarette, not breaking eye contact as you stubbed it out on the shifter by your ankles. You put the remainder behind your ear as you breathed out the lungful of smoke.
“Of course, Roger.” You conceded, “accidentally” knocking the parcan against the edge of the drum, to which he squawked in protest, but the sight of your mischievous grin had him smiling despite himself.
It keeps happening, like a ritual, the day you land in whatever town they were performing in, you worked through lunch, not that you didn’t take lunch later, it’s just that you enjoyed being alone on the stage in the theatre. He’d always end up tapping out a few songs, perhaps something he was trying to write and was musing over, it was different every time, as was whatever task you were up to. Usually the two of you share a cigarette or two, and Roger’s stopped hiding the way he leers at you whenever you’re working, though you’re pretty sure he’s taking the piss, since you’re sure you look grubby and sweaty, with a roll of gaff tape pushed up to your bicep for easy access.
You’ve actually really started looking forward to it, and he’s stopped complaining when you ask him to stand on stage so you could focus your lights. The way you two chat turns to easy banter, a little cruel side of teasing, but neither of you really took it to heart, in fact, he genuinely seemed to enjoy your company, and you his.
But the thing is, you knew about Roger Taylor and his reputation, had seen it from the window of the equipment bus which doubled as your secret bedroom, of girls aggressively and conventionally attractive, hanging around him like flies. It grates on you in a way you hadn’t expected, and after a while you realised that perhaps your hero-crush on his music may have turned to something more.
The day the rest of the band tags along, it’s a particularly hot day, you’re at the top of a ladder with a profile light in hand, cigarette glowing where it was held in your lips, wearing a set of cut off overalls and a sports bra with you steel-capped boots.
“Lighting Wench?” Roger calls, as you fasten the security chain for the light.
“Aye, Captain Dickhead?” You respond without even thinking.
“I like her.” A new voice comments, and from your vantage point, you see the rest of the band looking up at you, Brian wearing a shit-eating grin as Roger scowled.
“We’d been wondering where dear Roger had been squirrelling himself away all this time.” Freddie beamed up at you, which caused you to flush, more from being addressed by Freddie Mercury himself, than anything else.
“I come here to work on songs, she just happens to be here.” Roger huffed, retreating to sit on the drum risers.
“Tha’s good work ethic.” John grinned up at you, to which you smiled back. After a beat, of sudden panic facing all of Queen at once in an informal setting, you had found your voice again.
“Since you’re all here, could I get someone in centre so I can focus this spot?” You asked, breathing in a lungful of smoke and smiling to yourself as Freddie stepped forward without hesitation, the others drifting off to find their instruments. You connected the power cord, which had already been turned on at the wall, which was blatantly bad conduct, but the ladder was tall and you didn’t enjoy climbing up and down it in the heat.
“You’re so much more cooperative than Rog,” you muse on the exhale, and Freddie turns and gives you a wink, despite the fact that he’s looking directly into the light.
“Of course, darling, I’m used to the spotlight.” He said casually, ignoring the rest of the band’s snorts and Roger flipping him off. After a beat, his eyes brightened, and not just from the correctly focused light. “Spotlight.” He mused, pointing up at you. “It’s perfect, darling, you’re Spotlight now.”
“My name’s Y/N.” You spluttered, hands moving automatically to adjust the light until it was perfect, but Freddie shook his head.
“I know,” the brief phrase took you back a little, but he didn’t give you time to process it, “but you’re Spotlight now.” He sounded like he had made his mind up, and the others laughed good naturedly. After double checking the rough focus, you climbed back down the ladder. “The Light Bringer.” Freddie mused to the empty auditorium, which was only punctuated by you turning off the light at the powerpoint, leaving him in the glow of the house lights.
“I prefer Lighting Wench.” Roger called, from his seat at the drums, grinning as you flipped him off without even looking at him.
“Why don’t we see you at the after parties, you should be there?” John asked, and you suddenly went very quiet, though Brian answered for you.
“Bump out, mate. Packing up all this shit.” He gestured around, and you nodded, avoiding eye contact as you made a break for the door.
“Spotlight,” it’s Freddie’s voice, surprisingly serious, that makes you turn back, “you will be there tonight though, won’t you?” He asked, the others all giving you hopeful smiles, bar Roger who was squinting at you. You smiled weakly, your whole mind hating you for denying Queen of all people.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” You told them, and left.
They had an actual rest day the next day, even the band was staying in a hotel rather than their tour bus. The benefits of a real hotel was an actual breakfast, an all you can eat buffet. You hadn’t had breakfast since the tour started, and you didn’t think any of the boys would be awake to call you out on it; the perfect crime.
Except you woke up late, cutting it real close when you arrived at eleven. As you were piling your plate with hashbrowns, you felt someone pinch your ass, and in the next moment, an incredibly hung-over Roger found himself with a face full of continental breakfast buffet.
“What the fuck?” He yelped, stepping back and grumbling. “I’m still drunk, don’t be a-”
“Careful with what you’re about to say, Roger.” You warned, face furious,not even slightly tempted to laugh at the way your breakfast was sticking to his face in places. “What in the hell gives you the right to touch me like that?”
“‘m still drunk?” He tried again, now actually pouting, wiping food from his face, “I just showered.”
“You’re hungover, Roger, and it’s not an excuse.” After more of your glaring, Roger frowned, nose wrinkling.
“I’m… sorry?” The apology sounded more like a question, but it also sounded as though he never said the words before, so you accepted it with a deep sigh. “Why are you here? If you’re staying in the hotel you could’ve at least come to the afterparty, get a good sleep in the next day.” Suddenly nervous once more you step back, facing away from him to load your now empty plate with more food.
“Honestly? I’m just getting breakfast using the band’s good name.” Laughing humorlessly, you thought you could placate him with a small truth to hide the bigger lie.
“This your work, Spotlight?” John asked, flicking a speck of food off of Roger’s nose, stepping into the conversation, and past him to join you at the food. “Good on ya’.” He grinned good-naturedly at you, before inviting you to join him and the other boys for breakfast, which you accepted, trying your hardest to ignore Roger’s pissy look.
Despite the altercation, things aren’t strained between you and Roger, and though the other boys are more likely to join you in your pre-show set-up and chill, the ritual continues. It’s easy and familiar by now, almost a month into the tour, and most of the sting has left your banter, you’re just friends now, actual, honest-to-god friends.
It’s nearing the peak of Summer, and more often than not he’s wearing shorts and an open patterned shirt, while you’ve taken to sporting a pair of shorts of your own, and a sports bra, along with your trusty steel-caps. Usually the two of you, and anyone else who’s around for the last ten minutes of the break you share, end up lying side by side on the stage, fan on, sharing a smoke.
“I’m thinking of asking to put up-lighting in front of the risers,” you mused, staring up at the lighting rig, “but with the haze, it might block you out.”
“Freddie’ll take ‘em out with all his jumping around on the first night and you know it.” Roger half laughs, his words spoken through an exhale of smoke. He can already sense your incredulous look and he smiled. “And no light can outshine me, love.” He said, by way of explanation, turning his head to look at you.
“Not even a spotlight?” You teased, looking back at him. It hits you very suddenly how close the two of you are, practically nose to nose. His grin fades as the proximity becomes apparent to him, his eyes focusing in on your lips.
“Rog?” Your voice is so small that only he can hear it, eyes wide, heart thumping with anticipation as he props himself up on his side, leaning down to kiss you instead of answering. He’s more insitent than you had pictured, not that you were complaining, kiss becoming messier by the moment as you reached up to thread your fingers through his hair. Free hand ghosting along your side, he let himself be pulled closer until there was no space between the two of your on this Summer afternoon on the stage of an empty theatre, both of you warm, slick with sweat from the afternoon heat, hearts hammering to a tune you could both feel in your soul.
With his free hand holding your upper thigh, he moves it so your leg bends gently, your knee coming to rest at his lower back, and breaks the kiss for the moment, moving instead to suck a rough, dark hickey into your neck, teeth grazing at the edges, to which you muffled a slight moan with a whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. You could feel him smirk against your throat, before he pulled away to look you in the eyes, to take in your barely debauched state, kiss swollen lips.
“Oh bravo, darlings!” Freddie’s voice rang out, along with his applause, and you and Roger scrambled away from each other. “Don’t worry, it’s just me,” Freddie’s expression was not unkind as he moved past them to the front of the stage, “and your adoring fans!” He laughed openly, gesturing to the empty auditorium.
“Don’t be a fucking perv, Fred.” Roger spat, blushing a hilarious shade of red as he took a drag on the cigarette that had remained between his fingers.
“Takes one to know one, Roger,” Freddie brushed him off, instead smiling kindly at you, “quiet the voyeur, isn’t he?” He joked, but the lazy, sensuousness of the afternoon was quickly disappearing; you felt dirty, like every piece grime in the theatre was sticking to the sweat on your skin.
“Piss off, Fred.” Roger spat out through gritted teeth, stubbing out his cigarette on the floor.
“Break’s almost over.” You said, voice flat as you got to your feet, and turning away quickly, cheeks heated with shade at being caught in such a compromising position. “Thanks for the reminder.” The smile she gave Freddie didn’t reach her eyes.
“I like her.” Freddie mused after the door shut behind you. “What about you?” He turned, smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Roger blinked a few times, the rage clearing from his expression, morphing into confusion, and then back to anger.
“What?!”
“Spotlight’s not like your usual sex-bunnies.” Freddie sat beside Roger, despite the boy’s history of violent outbursts, fingers steepling as he rested his elbows on his knees.
“‘Course not; she’s our roadie, I can’t just leave her in whatever town I picked her up in like the others.” Roger conceded after a beat, and Freddie felt himself repressing the urge to cuff the blonde about the ears.
“Do you want to leave her in a town?” Freddie asked slowly, and Roger told him ‘no’, finally simmering down. “Well, do you want to shag her and never speak to her again, except for more shagging?” Freddie asked, in that same, level tone as the first question. It was when Roger answered with ‘mostly not’ that Freddie realised he was probably going to have to spell Roger’s own feelings out to him.
You take the next three tour stops to figure yourself out, taking lunch breaks at usual times instead of hanging around the empty theatre, giving Roger only the politest of smiles in passing. At first, you weren’t sure what to make of what happened, feeling dirty for being caught, angry at yourself for being so caught up in the boy you had feelings for but-
Except that he had kissed you, in the middle of the day, sober. He still finds himself on the empty stage on a lunchtime, Brian’s told you, has tried to seem casual when asking some of the other roadies of you’re doing okay. These, you figure, aren’t really the actions of a man who has zero feelings for you.
“Didn’t think I’d see you around here.” Roger is spinning idly on his stool, shoes off, drumsticks resting on his snare drum.
“I’m doin’ my job.” You respond, but there’s no malice behind it. With practiced ease you start taping down cords, shoving them underneath the drum riser to keep them hidden, the silence only broken by the loud ripping of gaff tape.
“Come to the afterparty.” It’s not an order, you know you could say no if you’d like to, but something about the way he asks means you don’t want to say no to him.
“Why?” You hear yourself ask, and his mouth twists in a half-smile.
“I like having you around.” He admitted, and despite the sweet gesture, you couldn’t help the next words that bubble from you.
“I’ve seen the kind of girls you like having around, Rog, I ain’t one of them.” The words are punctuated by a humorless laugh and the rip of another strip of tape. You’re both quiet for a long moment.
“That’s clearly not true!” He came back with, sounding endlessly frustrated. With a groan, he flops forward, his forehead against his drum.
“Okay.” You stood, squaring your shoulders. He looks up at that, confused. “I’ll go.” Your mind’s already running through possible ways to get into the equipment bus after it was all locked up, but trying not to worry too much.
Roger’s expression brightened and when you offered him a smoke from where you had it fucked behind your ear, he grinned.
The afterparty itself was loud and dingy, the little local pub already seemingly at capacity when you arrived, having changed from your theatre blacks to something a little cleaner, though still mostly black.
“Spotlight!” Freddie crows through the crowd when he sees you, echoed by the rest of the bandmates and a few groupies. When you get to them, you see Freddie’s standing on a leather armchair, part of the seating set the boys had claimed, brightly dressed men and women alike cramming themselves into any free space that would get them closer to the band.
“So glad you could make it!” Freddie beamed, pulling you through crowd when you were within arm’s reach, sitting himself onto the armchair and sitting you on his lap. “Everyone, this is Spotlight, she sets up our lights.” He spoke to the group as a whole, and before you could even get a word in edgewise, a drink was pressed into your hands, and Freddie had moved to seat you in the chair as he swanned away to talk to someone else.
It was overwhelming, the music – Queen, obviously – swelling from the jukebox, people dancing all around, laughing and talking, barely room enough to think let alone exist. And there, across from you, was Roger, in the corner of a sofa, one arm slung across the back of the seat, beer in his other hand, with a very pretty girl practically on top of him, her hand on his chest. They seemed to be having a very riveting conversation that you couldn’t hear, but was also very clearly about three seconds away from becoming something not appropriate for the very public setting.
Gritting your teeth, you looked at the drink you were handed, sniffed it, and downed it in one gulp. It was very sugary, but the syrup and juice wasn’t enough to hide the sting of tequila. Raising your glass in the air, you worked up the nerve to ask if anyone knew where the bar was, but the empty glass itself was enough to prompt someone in the mass of people behind you to to switch out yours with a full one.
Downing the second drink as quickly as the first, which earned a cheer from some of the surrounding people, you stood abruptly, letting the man who had been sitting on the arm of the chair to slide into your place, giving you a wink in the process. You grinned back at him, trying to push down your anxiety and hoping that the drinks would kick in soon. As soon as the thought occurred to you, someone had given you a third drink, though you sipped this one, pushing through the crowd letting yourself move to the music as you tried not to spill.
“You know Spotlight’s here, right?” You hear Brian call over to the music as you’re leaving the boys, and though you see Roger immediately start looking for you, you don’t turn back. You’re here now, and you’re going to enjoy it, pretty, blonde boys be damned. After a while, you think you’re buzzed enough to dance, finishing the last of… you’re not quite sure what number this one is, but the point is you’re ready to dance, it’s all you can think about, threading yourself into the pack on the dance floor, dancing with pretty girls and pretty boys alike, even with Freddie a few times.
Sometimes you think you see Roger through the crowd, and every time you do, you quickly find yourself searching for another drink, until you’re thoroughly plastered, and can’t even remember his name in your state.
“Where’r the rest?” You ask Freddie as the song dies down, the both of you sweaty, flushed and grinning, people around clambering to be near him.
“They claim they don’t dance.” You can hear the eyeroll in his words before you see it on his face, and you snort with laughter, leaning back, accidentally bumping someone, not that you care in your state.
“Boo!” You groan, before covering your mouth, the next song picking up with a rolling drum beat, the grow moving in a frenzy to the sound. “Freds, Freddie, Mr Freddie Man, I gotta go.” You mused, hands on his shoulders, eyes wide, suddenly very serious. Freddie gives you an amused look, clearly not as far gone as you. Turning, you move to make a beeline for the door, or as much of a beeline as you can in your state, before turning back. “This’s my fav’rite song.” You’re not sure whether he heard you, but Freddie’s sad smile lets you know he had. Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll fills your ears as you make your way to the exit, and you can’t help but bop along.
“Where are you going?” You’re half a block away from the club when you hear his voice call out to you. Turning, you see Roger leaning against the side of the building, half smiling, obviously also quite drunk.
“To break into bus,” you said, with all the seriousness you could muster, before you realised what you said and stood straight up, “I mean normal hotel sleep.” The words spill out quickly, but you don’t move.
“Come on, love,” he held out his hand taking even, measured steps towards you, “stay with me.” Taking a deep breath, you didn’t move, preferring to instead scowl at him, your inhibited mind trying to make sense of his motivations. “No funny business, I promise.” He assures, expression actually fond, before it becomes panicked as you and your glare began to lean sideways, your balanced compromised by the alcohol. Surging forwards, he catches you before you hit the ground.
“What about the girl?” You asked as he brought you back to standing, his arm around your waist to support you as the pair of you started towards his hotel. Roger barked out a laugh.
“Which one?” He couldn’t help himself, and you shoved him off of you, promptly falling to the ground as he stumbled away. “Listen, I never asked any of them to be here; I asked you.” His words had made you grow quiet and contemplative, and you get him help you to your feet, the two of you walking in silence for the next few blocks.
“I sleep in the equipment bus, but that’s a secret.” You stage whispered to him as the lights of the hotel came into view, your mind having wandered a few blocks back.
“What? No you don’t.” Roger snorted, and you nodded very seriously.
“No, I do, after bump out, I sneak in and lay on the amps.” You paused, turning to face him. “It’s very uncomfortable.” You assured, and the drummer rolled his eyes, pulling out his room key as the two of you made your way through the front entrance.
“Just stay with me, love.” He offered, and you shook your head, leaning your head on his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.” You hummed with a sad little smile, detaching yourself so you could lean on the wall of the elevator as it rose, head tipped back, eyes closed. Roger didn’t answer, but he was also pretty sure now wasn’t the time to argue his point. Instead, he played with his keys in the silence, and you looped your arm through his when the doors opened on his floor, marginally more capable of keeping yourself upright.
The room itself was small but rather fancy, though you only had eyes for the big, soft bed in the middle of the room. You’re restraining yourself, taking off your boots and your jacket, but you’re not coordinated enough to stay upright where you’re trying to take off your second boot at the end of the bed before you faceplant on the duvet. By the time you’ve recovered, taken off your boots and been to the bathroom, Roger’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and has face planted onto the bed himself, though that was on purpose. You clumsily got yourself a glass of water, sloshing half of it on the nightstand when you put down, though you’re not too concerned, and you let yourself land on the bed.
There’s literally no feeling better, you decide, than sinking into a comfortable bed after a big night out.
“Did you have a good night?” Roger’s voice comes muffled through his pillow.
“I had fun,” you said, considering the night as a whole, before moving to lie on your side facing away from him, “but no, not particularly.” You mused, yawning. After a beat, you heard a soft tapping on the duvet, and looked back to see Roger’s hand searching blindly for you as he remained with his face on the bed.
“Why not?” He asked, finally finding your hip, pulling you back, so he could shift to lie on his side and hold you close. He was warm, his arm slung over your hip, chest solid against your back. You found yourself leaning into it, moving your hand down to lace fingers with his where they were brushing your stomach.
“I wanted to spend it with you.” Voice small, you punctuated it with a yawn, sinking further into the bed, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. You drift off before he responds, his soft apology lost on you.
You’re the first to wake, sort of, you stand and make your way to the shower, but as your nausea subsides beneath the warm water, you manage to fall asleep sitting at the bottom, and wake to a banging at the door, and Roger asking if you’re okay.
“I don’t have a change of clothes.” You call through the door once you’re finished, and he offers you some of his, which you accept after some hesitation. When you exit the bathroom wearing a pair of his bright red shorts and an oversized t-shirt, he grins at you.
“How do you feel?” He smirks, and you grit your teeth, taking a deep breath that irritates the dryness of your throat.
“Like I’m dying.” You rasped back, and he laughed standing, moving to the bathroom, except he stops in front of you. “About what I said last night-” You begin, even though you can only remember blurry snippets, but he cuts you off with a laugh.
“Don’t worry about it, love.” A new intensity in his eyes as he leans forward to plant a kiss on your lips. After the brief shock had worn off, you leaned into it, heart fluttering as he wraps his arms around you, deepening the kiss.
“You still drunk?” You asked, nervous, but smiling slightly, he grins back at you, shaking his head and you meet his lips with yours, with enthusiasm this time. He walks the two of your back to the bed.
“What about you?” He asked, and you moved back a little with a strained smile.
“No, but I am pretty hung over.” You admitted, sitting on the bed, trying not to squint as the light from the gap in the curtain hit him. He laughs, but reaches over to the nightstand, passing you the water you had left there.
“No strenuous activities then?” He asked, eyebrows raised. You spluttered by way of denial, and he shrugged, stepping back to head into the shower. “Well I guess that can wait until next time.” He grinned. “Get rest, love.” He’s halfway into the bathroom when you call out.
“What do you mean, next time?!” You crowed, and he popped his head around the corner.
“You don’t think you’re still sleeping in the equipment van do you?” He asked, continuing to talk over your protest. “You can stay with me.”
“You don’t have to do that.” You called to the now closing door of the bathroom.
“I don’t have to do anything, I want to.”
always been close {Roger Taylor}
Anon asked: okay i LLOOOOVe your Ben hardy/roger taylor fics and i was wondering if you could write more of them? I don’t have a particular request (anything you write will probably be fantastic) but i do really like a smug or cheeky roger taylor…. so do what you want with that…
Anon asked: Could I request a Roger Taylor x reader fanfic where they’ve been good friends for years,the other members know the reader too but one day the hook up and the other members notice that something happened between them and at the end they somehow end up together.I want a lot of shocking reactions from the boys as I live for them.You don’t need to write it if you don’t like the idea.But thank you ! 💗
A/N: 2870 words. Me, cramming as many prompts into a singular trenchcoat and shoving it out into the world: are you not entertained?! also…. like, light to medium smut….. i might start writing all out smut. Not exactly what was asked for, but it was a fun time. Jealousy warning as well.
“So how do you know Rog?” Deacon smiles at you when you offer to help the boys pack up after their first show, it’s a kind smile, a smile you can trust. Brian and Roger like him well enough, and you at least trust Brian’s judgement enough to be friendly to their new bassist.
“I don’t.” You tell him, straight-faced as you haul the bass drum into the back of van. Deacon’s expression turns confused as Roger passes you another piece of equipment. Looking the newest band member directly in the eyes, you double down on the bit. “I’ve never met this man before in my life.”
“I’m getting a beer, you want your usual?” Roger calls to you, and you turn back, making a face at him. “I’m done packing up, Brian’s the only one left.” He responded to your nonverbal complaint by making a flippant gesture to the guitarist, who was clicking the last of the latches shut on his guitar case. “Drink?” He asked you again, and instead of answering you just beamed at him. Poor Deacon just looked confused.
“Pay them no mind, Deaky.” Brian said, sliding his guitar case in the back beside the bass. “It’s a blessing they’re even coherent half the time.” Brian, exasperated, turned to you. “How’d you meet Rog?” He asked, voice flat as if it were a question he’d asked a hundred times before, and you looked back at him.
“He killed me in a past life and I’m biding my time for revenge.” You responded, expressionless, to which he shook his head.
“That’s a new one.” He would give you that much, before turning to John. “Y/N and Rog grew up together.” He said by way of explanation, speaking over the top of Roger shouting from the door that they’d run out of your favourite drink, but that you could share his beer if it came to it.
“You drink piss-water and I can see mine in your hand.” You accused, while Roger leaned down, his lips at the rim of the glass that held your drink.
“These are both for me.” Somehow, he thought the best course of action was to take a drink from the one obviously for you, slurping the top of it obnoxiously.
“Children, children, get in the car.” Freddie called over the top of you both, and you took the opportunity to snatch your drink from Roger’s hand, spilling it both on him and yourself, though you still thought a crow of triumph was warranted.
“So how do you know Roger?” The girl he’s brought along to the band’s first album recording is pretty enough, dark hair, cute shorts. She smiles at you and it’s all teeth, something a little bit nasty and insinuating in her tone. It takes a moment for you to suppress your eyeroll, you’d dealt with this before any girl who was into Roger seemed to see you as competition, and as flattering as it was when the two of you started hitting the town together, it was wearing thin now.
“I’m his personal bodyguard.” You tell her, and the girl purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything else. Mary hides her laughter behind her hand, and drapes her other arm against the back of the sofa, an open invitation for you to lean against her and watch as the boys set up in the other room.
They record for hours, trying everything and anything, experimenting with everything they had, making music, dancing, living electrically for the time they had in there. The woman he’d brought takes most opportunities to throw herself on him, dance with him, keeping it relatively tame for present company, but you knew the look in his eyes, and in hers.
The last take of the night is when her thinly-veiled jealousy shtick is wearing thin on you, and you leap up after his final recording session, jostling the sleeping Mary where she was lying on your lap, running to him. Wrapping your arms around him, you let him spin you around in elation.
“That was good! That was so good, wasn’t it, Y/N?” And he’s glowing with excitement, eyes only for you. You answer in kind, gushing about the music, how excited you were for it. There’s triumph running through your veins when the other girl has to clear her throat to get his attention. He went home with her, but you still feel victorious.
It’s a feeling you’d always experienced, since you were young; at first it was only the two of you, both of you going to the same high school a district away, not knowing anyone. But Roger had a magnetism to him, and an aggression that brought in a certain type of person. You weren’t lonely, no more than any other high schooler, but for all yours and his friends, you both made damn sure to stay best friends.
It continued into university; he’d brought you in to meet the band at the first gig, and they took to you immediately, so you kept coming, would help them pack up, make yourself indispensable, earn your place as Roger’s best friend in this world he’d cultivated around himself.
And now here you were, the final gig before he and the others officially drop out to become serious musicians… Or, there you were, because after half an hour of drinking and throwing peanuts at Roger and the girl he was with – who had said the band was shit, though the drummer was cute, while in the bathroom – Roger had dragged her out to the car he had managed to scrape together enough cash for.
“Roger?” Now you’re just tired, lying in his bed, wearing his shirt. “Why’d you bring me back here? I was a dick to you, to-” you can’t remember the name of the girl he was with, but she was just trying to have a good time, you know you shouldn’t have-
“Stop talking.” He yawned as he walked into the room, wearing his pyjamas shorts and drinking from a half-filled bottle of water. When he sense you’re about to say something else, he puts up a hand, eyebrows raised at your possible defiance, and you close your mouth, sulking.
Climbing into bed with you, the two of you shift automatically, your head resting on his chest as he wrapped an arm around you, looking up at the ceiling. The two of you hadn’t shared a bed like this in years.
“Sorry.” You find yourself murmuring as he strokes your back, well, as much as he can with half of it being used as part of your pillow.
“Why’ve you gotta be like this?” He sighed, but you just tucked up closer to him.
“I thought we weren’t talking about it.” Voice low, you feel a quiet, self-deprecating laughter rumble through his chest, and his hand comes to rest at your hip, fingertips brushing against your thigh where his shirt ends. You’re waiting, holding your breath to see what he would do. You know he’s looking at, can feel his gaze on your face, but he doesn’t stop, fingers moving slowly just beneath the fabric of the shirt to your underwear. His thumb slides beneath the elastic, and finally you look up at him. He’s so serious, God, you could cut the tension with a knife, and it snaps as he does, pulling the elastic of your panties up in one quick flick and letting it snap against your side.
“Ow! That hurt, you asshole!” You laugh, shifting to prop yourself up on your elbow, but he’s already pulling you down for a kiss, grinning against you lips. It feels like it should. You fit together easily, his hand moving to keep your hips steady as you shift automatically to straddle him. “You’re such a dick sometimes.” You pull back, still grinning, lips still only inches from his. He raises his eyebrows pointedly at you, and you’re pretty sure there’s nothing hotter than Roger’s smug fucking face, as he then proceeds to graze his nails up your thighs, kissing you to swallow the whimper that escaped you.
It feels like it’s been a long time coming. It’s fun, but its not unfamiliar; you’ve known each other for so long it’s like it’s a natural progression. You can read each other like a favourite book, somehow instinctual and a little awkward, which is, well, it’s perfectly you two.
“You know what? I don’t think I’m actually sorry for cockblocking you tonight.” You mused, a little out of breath, shooting for serious. Though it takes Roger a moment to process what you said, he grins up at you, gently poking a spot on your inner thigh where he knows a hickey will bloom.
“Maybe should thank you.” He snorts, which only goes to set you off laughing again. The sound of it, warm, syrupy and at ease, it makes him grin, proud of being able to illicit such a genuine laugh from you in this situation, and soon you’re pulling him up to kiss him again, still thrumming with laughter.
No-one notices at first. Well, to be fair, you and Roger are weirdly touchy, so if he’s pinching your ass more than usual, no-one seems to care enough to comment on it. Well, you notice, but you couldn’t care less. Things between you have shifted; not gotten weird or bad, just shifted sideways. Roger’s still sleeping with any practically any girl that throws herself at him, and you’re free to hook up with anyone and everyone you like, but sometimes… you just find yourself together at the end of the night.
One night, the girl he’s talking to at the bar gives you a catty look when he’s not looking. She saw the two of you come in together, never mind the cute guy who had been buying you drinks for the past hour. Excusing the poor guy who you know is now probably going home alone tonight, you make your way to the bathroom, leaning against the wall beside it, watching Roger and waiting until you catch his eye.
He frowns slightly at you, but you just nod towards the bathroom and raise your eyebrows in silent question. It’s almost comical how fast he leaves the girl at the bar. When she follows his trajectory with her eyes, she sees you waiting; you wink at her, the grin on your face stretching into something smug as Roger wraps his fingers around your wrist, pulling you into the bathroom. Mine.
It’s not like you do that every time you go out together, just if you get bad vibes off whoever he’s with, or if she makes a face at you like you’re some sort of competition… which you are, but you don’t want to seem like it.
The thing is, Roger does it too, he’s just a tad more possessive. Sometimes he’s subtle, mentioning to you and whoever you’re with that you had to go; band rehearsals early the next morning, even though it was usually a lie. Your favourite, however, was the night you both went to a dingy little pub with a jukebox rather than a band, and the guy who had been plying you with alcohol had come back from the bathroom with a grin. You were tipsy, feeling on top of the world with this stranger’s hand on your thigh, when out of nowhere, Roger’s arms wrap around you, warm and familiar.
“You right there, mate?” The man at the bar had snapped.
“He called you a ditzy bitch in the bathroom.” Roger had murmured against your ear, low enough so only you could hear, and in your liberated state, you were ready to yell at the man, though the man had enough yelling of his own to do.
“Alright, you wanna go, mate?” He growls, standing, and your smile turns poisonous as a new thought occurs to you.
“Yeah, Rog, do you wanna go?” The soft, amused nuance in your voice conveyed such a different message that it was laughable, you turn your head to rest your forehead against his where he’s perched his chin on your shoulder. The man at the bar deflates a little as you lose interest in him, and Roger’s smile widens.
“Sounds like a plan.” She mine. It’s there in his eyes, the way he keeps an arm around you as you leave the bar, you feel it thrumming through him as pulls off your shirt in the back of his car.
Sometimes you head to bars with the boys and Mary, sometimes they still play pub gigs, and yet they still don’t seem to realise. Or, most of them don’t seem to realise.
“You and Roger are hanging out a lot.” Mary smiles at you, a glint of mischief in her eyes as you watch the boys complain about trying to fit their gear in Brian’s stationwagon.
“Of course, he’s my best mate.” Shrugging noncommittally, you hear Mary hum, unconvinced. Shooting her a suspicious look, she just shrugs in return, mimicking your own dismissive gesture.
“You want me to give you a lift home?” As if to prove Mary right, Roger calls out to you, pulling out his keys. You can feel Mary’s pointed look, and your expression falters, shaking your head with a smile, though your heart’s not in it.
“No, I-” you start, but then the rest of the band is looking at you, “there’s someone at the bar.” Gesturing over your shoulder awkwardly, you give them all a strained smile and head back inside. Catching Roger’s expression, he actually… looks hurt, and a little jealous, though he covers it up quickly.
“Can I ask you something?” The pub’s doors closed behind you, and you’re fully intending to stumble into a taxi when a voice is heard behind you. Whipping around and almost losing your balance, you spot Roger, leaning against the edge of the building.
“Do not sneak up on me like that Rog.” You admonished him, reaching an arm out to him for support, and he’s there automatically, wrapping his arm around you.
“What are we doing?” It’s actually snowing outside, and you’re tempted to say freezing my ass off, but he seems serious.
“Fuckin’ around.” You mumble, turning to wrap both your arms around him. “You’re my best friend.” Voice dreamy, you feel it when his arms tighten around you.
“Best friend.” He repeats, quietly, and you hum thoughtfully for a moment.
“Mine.” The word is firm as you speak it, and he leans back, eyebrows furrowed.
“What does that mean, Y/N?” He asked, and with the distance between you, he watches as snowflakes drifted about, settling on your closed eyelashes.
“Means I hate that you fuck other girls, Rog, but you’re my best friend and an adult so you can do what you want.” It takes you a moment to get the full sentence out around your vaguely uncooperative tongue, but when you open your eyes, he’s smirking at you.
“There was no guy at the bar.” It was a statement rather than a question, but you snorted with laughter anyways.
“’course not, you knob. Mary was getting suspicious though.” You told him, and he had to muffle a laugh at that. After a beat, you raise your eyebrows at him. “And yet, Roger, you walked all the way back here and waited until I was kicked out to spend time with me.”
“Yeah, well, gotta look after what’s mine.”
“Those look fresh.” Mary poked at the hickey on your throat, commenting loud enough for the boys to hear as the two of you draped yourselves across the sofa in the rehearsal room. Giving her a shit-eating grin, you can see Roger’s own wicked smile where he’s tweaking his drum kit.
“That’s because they are.” Swatting her away, you pulled a magazine from your bag, flipping it open.
“So the boy at the bar-?” Mary giggled, shifting to read over your shoulder, though you weren’t paying attention to the words.
“Oh no, this is all Roger’s work.” Shooting for nonchalant, you can hear the others stop their tuning as Roger continued to set up. Looking up, you can see Mary grinning out of the corner of your eye, Brian looking like he was quickly forming a headache, John frowning into space, deep in thought, and Freddie looking between the two of you.
“How long’s this been going on?” He asked, seemingly still unsure about the nature of the relationship.
“A while.” Roger supplies, which John echoes as a question.
“Year, maybe?” You look to Roger, for confirmation, and he shrugs, making a noise of vague confirmation. Brian finally unfreezes where he’s got his base in one hand, and other pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What the fuck, guys?”
a long time coming {Roger Taylor}
Anon asked: What if you did one where it’s like roger and the reader have a fight and he kinda storms out and goes to the studio cause the guys are there or some shit and the reader shows up later just like we can fix this for the sake of our family or you can leave and that’s how he finds out shes pregnant… sorry if it’s stupid you don’t have to do it
Anon asked: could i request an imagine where you tell roger you are pregnant and you are scared that he doesnt want kids and he starts crying bc he is so happy? thank you 💞💞
Anon asked: can you please write more angsty ben hardy!roger taylor x reader? ❤️
A/N: 2008 words. I sort of mangled all three prompts together, a little angsty in the middle. I hope you enjoy!!
“We’re gonna be late!” Roger’s voice rang out through the apartment, while you were buried in the drawer full of clothes that had slowly become yours over the past year. Pulling out a brightly coloured button up, you pulled it on, leaving the front unbuttoned over the top of the rest of your ensemble.
“I thought I left this shirt at my place.” You breezed past Roger who was waiting by the bedroom door, jingling his keys impatiently in his hands.
“Then why would you try and look for it?” He asked, rolling his eyes and following you from the apartment.
“Because I thought it might be in there anyways,” after a beat, you turned to flash him a sunny smile, “and it was!” Halfway down the stairs, on the second landing, you give him a little twirl, showing off the shirt. He looks you over, slight smile tugging at the edge of his lips, and you continue to traipse down the stairs.
“We’re still gonna be late.” He was smiling as he said it, and followed you out to the car. “Was everything alright this morning?” He asked, unlocking the passenger door for you before moving around to his side. You knew he was referring to the fact that you’d woken up at the crack of dawn to be sick. You hadn’t realised you woke him, or that he’d heard, and you tried to brush it off.
“Yeah, just must have had some bad food last night.” Your smile was weak and unconvincing, though he didn’t seem to notice. When you considered it, however, you wonder how he’s not noticed, it wasn’t the first time you’d woken up unbearably nauseous. Even on the days where you woke up fine, there was a chance that you’d have it wash over you like a wave, and you’d need to find the nearest bathroom. Though you had your suspicions of the cause, and the tests to back them up, you were hesitant to raise the idea with him.
“I’m just saying,” you steered the conversation back to the previous discussion, tone picking up, “it would be easier if I knew all my stuff was in the one place.” You pulled on your seat-belt as he started up the car. He was very quiet. “Like, if we officially moved in together.” You’d been thinking about it for a while. The words terrified you, but in reality, it wouldn’t be much of a change, you hadn’t actually stepped foot in your own house for the past two and a half months, and between the two of you, you could afford the rent of a slightly bigger apartment.
“Why?”
The two of you sat in the silence that his answer had created, you shocked, him looking a bit like he regretted being so blunt, not that he’d apologise.
“Because it’s… it’s what people do, Rog.” There was an anger, a panic rising in you, your fingers laced together, resting over your stomach as you turned to frown at him.
“Isn’t it a bit-” He clenched his jaw, stopping himself mid sentence, and you could see his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“A bit fast?” You asked, the panic turning to disappointment, anger now bubbling away, “I’m sorry that I suggested living together after over a year and a half of dating.” He’s got the gall to be angry, and you turn back to face the road, both simmering in the silence.
“If we move in together, I’m gonna be on tour and you’re eventually gonna leave.” He spoke through his teeth, as if he had to force the words out. It took you a moment to consider what he had said, but your anger began to dissipate.
“Why would I leave you, you dipstick?” Leaning back, you could feel the heat of the car making nausea swirl within you.
“Did you just call me a dipstick?” He asked, turning for just a moment, to squint with confusion at you, before turning back to the road.
“Why would I leave you?” You repeated for emphasis, leaning forward to crank the air conditioning.
“You’ll get bored of being by yourself, or find something you think is better,” he paused for a minute, “which is ridiculous, but not out of the realm of possibilities.”
“God, you’re so used to kicking girls out of bed, it’s just a step up to kick something good out of your life, isn’t it?” You hissed, vitriol dripping from your words as your own fear and paranoia picking up, your nausea increasing. Roger pulled over, furious.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He snapped, and you took in a deep breath to steady yourself before turning. He’s still holding the steering wheel, white-knuckled, whole body tense where he’s still looking through the windshield.
“If we move in together, I’m not going to be there.” You repeated back to him the underlying message you’d heard, and watched as his muscles relaxed as he began to realise what he’d said. “Do you see a future with me, Roger, at all?” You asked, voice quiet as you turned to look ahead, blinking back tears you hadn’t realised had begun to form.
“What kind of question is that?” He asked, and you let out a humourless laugh, unclipping your seatbelt.
“One with a wrong answer.” You replied, opening up the door and stepping out. “Go to practice; if you’ve got a different answer after, you know where I live.”
All the anger that had been building in your body dissolved the moment he turned the corner, and you burst into tears on the side of the road. Every fear you had about your future since discovering your pregnancy had hit you tenfold, and after a moment, the nausea breaks and you’re throwing up into the bushes, teary, sick, and alone.
All you want is a fucking hug, and to be told it’s alright. You knew getting involved with Roger was a bad idea at the start, knew he wouldn’t want the family life, or something long-term or committed, and here you were, a year and a half later, with the potential of all three, and he’d thrown it back in your face.
Without thinking, you start treading the now unfamiliar route back to your old home, weary already despite the early hour, your whole body aching. You’re half a block away when you realise you don’t have your keys, and a fresh set of tears tracks down your cheeks as you head back to Roger’s.
“Y/N, dear?” You pick up the phone at his house out of instinct, and Freddie knows it’s you without even letting you speak. You make a small noise of confirmation, wrapped in a towel, taking advantage of the facilities while you could, with Roger still at practice. You hear what can only be the sound of a tambourine going flying in the background of Freddie’s end of the line. “Roger’s in a mood.”
“Serves him right.” You mumble, and you can hear Freddie covering the receiver, but not well enough to completely muffle himself.
“Well, you’re right, she is there, and she’s in a mood too.” Another crash, and someone else yelling distantly, followed by a third crash. “Please come and talk with him, he’s already broken three individual drumsticks and a tambourine.” He uncovers the receiver to talk to you, and you hear what is distinctly Brian’s voice calling ‘two tambourines’ and another crash. You take in a deep breath.
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.” You huffed, and Freddie sighed deeply. “Ask him if he sees a future with the band.” You sneer, catty at the suggestion that simply waltzing in and talking would be enough to fix what Roger had implied.
“Absolutely not.” Freddie replies automatically. “Come and collect him before he kills Brian or Deaky.”
“And what about you?” You ask, and you hear Freddie laugh.
“Bold of you to assume Roger could kill me.” And he hangs up, just like that. After hanging up the phone, you step into the shower to brood, before finally getting dressed and hailing a taxi.
You knew what you needed to do, you needed to get a straight answer out of him before you told him about the baby; you had your family and friends if it came to it, but whether or not you’d need to call on that support network depended on his answer.
Brian, John, and Freddie were all sitting on the one sofa in the reception area of their studio space. They tell you he’s in there, but none of them make a move to lead or follow you in.
He’s laying in the middle of the space, not wearing shoes, holding a single broken drumstick, one half in each hand.
“What do you want?” He asked, not looking at you, flicking half the broken drumstick to the side of the room.
“To stop you from killing your band members.” You responded, voice level as you approached him.
“They all ran out, I think they’re safe.” He’s speaking in the same, level tone as you. Emotionless. A little heartbreaking. “You should go with them.”
“Why would I leave?” Voice soft, you finally sit beside him, parroting your own words from earlier. His gaze is still shallow when he turns to look at you, there’s no anger there, no bitterness, there’s nothing.
“Because I’m a liability. Can’t be trusted and all that shit.” He paused, looking back up at the ceiling and flicking the other half of the broken drumstick to join the first. “I break things, Y/N.”
“You haven’t broken me.” As you say it, you finally see some expression return to him, shock, a little awe even. “A year and a half, and,” you let yourself smile a little, reaching out to take his hand, which he lets you, threading your fingers together, “I’m still whole.” And then some, you think, though you’ll get to that later. “I have friends and family outside of you, Rog, I won’t be alone when you’re on tour, so if that’s your main reason for not wanting to move in together or whatever, I gotta ask again; do you see a future with me?” He’s quiet for a long moment, contemplative, before he frowns a little, finally looking you in the eyes.
“Do you see a future with me?” He asks back, he actually sounds a little nervous, but you smile, and you see the nerves vanish.
“Of course.” You admit, and he sits up at that. Hesitating for a moment, you drop his gaze, pulling your hand from his your rest it on your stomach. It was now or never. “I’m pregnant.” When you’re met with silence, you feel your blood run cold, and look up at him. His expression reads nothing but shock, before bursting into a smile. Relief washes through you as he reaches out and takes your hand.
“Pregnant?” He asks, and you nod, a small smile on your lips. “And it’s-?”
“Yes, Roger, who’s else would it be?” You snorted, and he pulled you in for a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around you, joy seeming to seep from his pores. All the fear and stress you’d been bottling up for the past few weeks dissolved in that moment, the worry that he’d reject you the moment he found out, that he’d see it as as burden or something that distracts him from the band.
“I’m- I’m a dad?” You could hear his disbelieving murmur by your ear, and when he pulls away from you, there’s something almost awestruck in his eyes. “I love you.” He tells you, kissing you passionately.
“Everything alright in here?” You hear Brian at the door before you see the rest of the band peering through, and Roger leans back and grins.
“Everything’s great!” He assured them, and you lean forward, letting him wraps his arms around you as you rest your forehead on his shoulder with a giggle. “Everything’s bloody fantastic.”
ask your destiny to dance [4] {Roger Taylor}
A/N: Non-explicit smut.
When Ash wakes the next morning, Roger’s still there, his chest against her back and arm draped over her hip. Something in her chest aches a little, he’s so warm and it’s been so long since she’d had someone stay over; sunlight isn’t even peaking through her shitty blinds, so she lets herself relax, lets herself lean into his warmth a little, and fall back to sleep.
“Your heart doesn’t feel broken.” Before she even opens her eyes, she can feel Roger smiling against her shoulder as he speaks, hand gently cupping her left boob, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth against it. Even the gentle touch has a shiver running down her spine, but before Roger gets the chance to be amused by it, she’s shifting to lie on her back. His hand moves with her, but he stays propped up on his side, grinning at her as he trails his fingers down her ribs, feather light touches moving across her stomach until he’s at her hips, holding her.
Reaching up, she cups his cheek and brings him in for a kiss, his lips warm against hers as he deepens the kiss, tongue gliding against her bottom lip until she parts them obligingly. She’s got a hand on his waist, gently tugging at him, silently insistent that she have him on top of her, which he agrees to without hesitation.
It’s not frantic like it was last night, a little sloppy and a little rough; she knows she’s got bruises on her hips from how hard he held her, and she can see the bite marks on his shoulder that she’s a little bit proud of.
He’s golden in the mid-morning light as it peeks through her blinds, fucking her into the mattress in her dorm in the uni housing, movements deliberate and deep, and so fucking gorgeous where she’s looking up at him. When she’s got a hand pressed to her own mouth to muffle her gasps and moans, he takes her hands and holds them above her head, gripping just tight enough to be a little thrilling, kissing her to swallow the sounds he knows he elicits from her.
“How’s your heart, lover boy?” She asks, grinning and breathless as he moves to sit beside her, reaching down the side of the little, single bed, looking for his jeans. “There’s smokes in the bedside table.” Ash grinned, moving to sit up against the headboard.
“My heart? Absolutely shattered.” He snorted, voice dripping with sarcasm, not even attempting to be serious as he pulled open the drawer, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. “Do you have anything else in there?”
“What else would I need?” And upon hearing her say that, Roger has to actually take a moment, watching her grin at him unapologetically, not bothering to pull the blanket up to cover herself, unselfconscious in her post-sex, late morning glow. His expression is curious, even a little awed. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Fuck, we really are alike, aren’t we?” Shaking his head in disbelief, he doesn’t see her face fall, but they’re shoulder to shoulder on the tiny bed, and he can feel her shift to cross her arms over her chest.
“Stop saying that.” The way she says it, quiet, a little hurt, he’s never heard her like that before, and when he looks at her, she’s avoiding his gaze, expression sullen. However, Roger can feel the indignance bubble up inside of himself.
“Do you really think so little of me?” He asked, lips around the cigarette as he flicked on the lighter, scowling at the sudden shift in mood. There’s silence as he takes a long drag, looking around her room, waiting for her answer. She doesn’t give him one. “Oh what the fuck, Ash?” He asks, and she’s snatching the cigarette out of his hands, taking a draft to avoid answering. “You can be a right bitch, you know that?” He snapped, and Ash pulled the cigarette from her lips once she had inhaled, passing it back and holding the smoke in her lungs for a long while.
“So I’ve been told.” She breathes the words out with the cloud of smoke, and after a beat she adds; “Roger, if we were alike, either I wouldn’t be here because I’d be with someone else, or you wouldn’t be here because -” But she cuts herself off, sighing deeply. Her accent is a little thicker when she continues. “Doesn’t matter.” And she clambers to stand on the bed, stark naked, stepping over him to get to the rest of her room.
“No.” Roger snaps, frowning at her, cigarette sitting loose in his grip. “That’s not an apology or a real answer; do you really think so little of me?” He watches as she rifles through her drawers before pulling out a sundress.
“I think you’re a guaranteed good night, Rog, which honestly, I haven’t had in a long time, despite what you may think. I just don’t think we’re that similar, and, if we were, we wouldn’t be here.” She’s entirely too nonchalant about the whole ordeal, carefully casual in a way that let Roger know that she was quite on edge. Once dressed, she stretches, avoiding his gaze, and he does take the moment to admire her in the sunshine yellow dress with little red flowers all over it. He takes another drag of the cigarette.
“What the fuck does any of that mean?” He finally asks, and Ash hums, not actually answering, heading for the door. “Ashley.” That gets her attention, and she turns, giving him a tight, thin-lipped smile.
“We’re good, okay? No, I don’t think so little of you, yes, last night was fun; you’ve fulfilled your promise. No heartbreaks, no strings. Everything’s fine.” She assured him, before stepping out into her hallway and closing the door behind herself.
He’s not there when she returns, holding singular coffee, not expecting anything more. She doesn’t like to think about the way her heart aches, just a little bit.
When they see each other next, there’s a weird tension in the air. It’s almost three weeks later, Smile walks in the front door, and Uncle Dave had disappeared over half an hour beforehand in anticipation. Her shirt this time is white, the same style as the last, sequinned in the front, silk at the back, and Brian tells her she looks snazzy.
“Yeah, really nice shirt, you’re really knocking it out of the park with this one, Rocket.” Tim agrees blithely. Roger is very quiet, just nods at her and starts loading in his equipment.
“He’s quiet for once, it’s a damn miracle.” Brian laughs, but Ash is quiet too, just smiles at his joke and heads back to the bar.
“You okay, sweetie? You seem off tonight.” Maureen asks, pouring a beer and passing it to Ash without hesitating. Ash downs half of it in one go. Maureen, while impressed, given the girl’s size, only grows more concerned.
“I’m fine.” Ash doesn’t make it sound questionable, voice firm, meeting Maureen’s gaze. “I’m just ready to get on with the night-”
“Oi, Rocket.” It’s Roger, and Ash fixes the most artificial, glassy-eyed smile on her face as she turns to him.
“Hi Roger! How can I help you?” At the sound of her high, fake, customer-service voice, he frowns, and just asks for some beers. Once she gets uncaps all the drinks, Roger hesitates.
“I also- uh, I need your help, if that’s okay.” He asks, and she can feel her heart sink; this, she’s pretty sure, isn’t going to be a band-related decision.
“Sure, ‘Reen, just gimme a few to deal with this.” She smiles at Maureen, who gives her a kind, understanding smile in return, watching as Roger delivers the drinks to the other boys, leading Ash out the front door to where the van is parked.
“What’s up with you?” He hisses through his teeth, and Ash fixes him with a smile, though it’s still not her real one.
“Things got weird and personal between us, so I’ve decided it’s easier to go back to passive-aggressively hating you.” And she’s using the customer-service voice that he’s learning to fucking hate.
“So like nothing happened?” He asked, still practically fuming in the face of her chipper mask.
“Like nothing happened.” Ash agreed, and Roger stepped back from her, rubbing at his forehead, eyes closed as if the very sight of her pained him.
“So you’re just going to keep treating me like shit and glaring at me when I order drinks?” He asked, and when he was met with silence, he opened his eyes, and saw the hesitation on Ash’s face. She’s looking at the hand he’s got by his side, gaze a little glassy as if she’s watching a memory, a faint blush rising on her cheeks.
“I- I guess I shouldn’t.” She said, wetting her lips, voice soft, and once she realises he’s looking at her, again, her gaze snaps to his, face flushing a darker red. “I mean, it was one of the reasons we hooked up in the first place, right?”
They both know he knows what she was recalling, and he can hear her faint, panting whimpers in his memory, a smile spreading across his face.
“Right.” He agreed. Neither of them break eye contact. “I feel like I’ve earned that.” With the teasing edge in his voice, he sees the moment she stops being embarrassed by the memory, and resumes being exasperated by him in the present.
“Yeah, okay fine. You get that one.” She conceded, turning back to head back inside, though he calls out after her.
“What’ll it take for you to actually be nice to me?” It’s half a joke, but she actually stops, suppressing a smile as she swivelled back to face him.
“You’ll have to really work for that one.” She told him, mischievous glint in her eyes, though there was reservation in her voice. Roger crossed his arms, tipping his head to one side with a smirk.
“Could I do it in a night?” And that gets her to actually laugh, giving him her genuine smile that he’d only seen maybe twice.
“You can certainly try,” she teased, but immediately followed it with, “or you could if I was looking for something like that.” Stepping backwards toward the pub, her smile became tight. “I’ll try not glaring, lets see how we go from there.”
“We’re good though, right?” He asked, his own mask cracking just a little as the concern slipped out in his face. Her smile warmed, and she nodded.
“We’re all good, we had our fun and now we’re string and glare free.” She shrugged, before spinning on her heel and heading back inside.
“What’d he need help with?” Brian asked as soon as you stepped in the door, his brow furrowed. Ash smiled brightly at him.
“He asked me to take in the bass drum; I told him it wasn’t my job and where he could shove his drumsticks.” She lied easily, stepping through to the bar, feeling only the slightest pang of guilt when Brian said it served Roger right, that he had a band to help with equipment, that he shouldn’t ask Ash.
Things are a helluva lot easier after that, and Ash thinks that it could work out, that she could have a passing friendship with the band whenever they would play at the pub, and that if she played her cards right, she probably wouldn’t end up hooking up with Roger again. The very idea of it fills her with anxiety, not from Roger himself, her disposition towards him had mellowed considerably, but her past experience in friends-with-benefits sort of situations put her on edge.
She just wanted things to be light and breezy.
“Ash, I think I’ve joined the band. I need your help with deciding what to wear to my first show.”
Freddie calls her the very next day, and Ash can already feel a headache forming.
“Start from the beginning, what?” She answered. Freddie took in a deep breath over the phone, and she could hear him grinning with pride as he started up his story. So much for a passing friendship; Freddie doesn’t do things by halves, and it seems he wants her there… Not that she’s actually complaining.
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ask your destiny to dance [3] {Roger Taylor}
“I think I’m going to start wearing sequins to work.” It’s an idle thought that Ash speaks into existence on Wednesday afternoon in the back of a lecture hall. Freddie’s slumped over his desk, barely paying attention to the professor at the front, and makes a noise of agreement.
“You should; more people should wear sequins to work.” Yawning loudly, he waves off the professor’s stare with a weak smile, before resting his head on his arms to look at Ash. “You’ve already got it ready, don’t you?” Half-smiling as she nods, grinning bashfully.
“Black sequinned, button up, sleeveless.” Whistling low through her teeth, Ash’s eyes glazed over at the mere thought of the shirt. “I’m gonna get so many tips.” After a beat, she flushed, turning her mischievous expression on Freddie. “And Smile’s playing, so Dave’ll be in the back room all night.” At his confused look, Ash leaned down to rest her own cheek against the desk, eye to eye with her friend. “Okay, so they’re the only uni band we hire, usually it’s just middle-aged dudes trying to be hip,” she rolls her eyes at that, and Freddie has to repress a smile of his own, “and good ol’ Uncle Dave takes one look at ‘em walking through the front door and he’ll grab a bottle o’ rum from the back shelf and wave me over to them,” her voice has dropped so that only Freddie could hear her, and he can see her barely contained laughter, “which, while hilarious, means I can wear basically anything I want.”
“Don’t you do that anyways?” Freddie’s grinning outright now, amused at Ash’s quiet passion, but she doesn’t seem offended by the question, just laughs.
“I mean, yeah, but Dave’s always there and I don’t want him seeing me with like, more than three buttons undone.” Sighing wistfully, Ash closes her eyes, lets herself relax against the desk. “But every time Smile plays, he fucks off, I can undo a few extra buttons- Fred, I made like fifty pounds in tips last time! Fifty! Ate like a king at McDonalds that night.” It took everything Freddie had in him not to burst out laughing at her content expression, but moments later when the class was dismissed, he couldn’t help himself.
“At least buy yourself some real food now that you’ve got a job.” He admonishes her, ignoring her groan of protest.
“But no shops are open at two in the morning, Freds,” she whined, dragging her feet as she trailed behind him, cutting through the swathe of other students as they headed to the exit, “at that point I’m just hungry, and hamburgers are easy to find and so good.”
“How you function in regular society continues to baffle me.” He said fondly as the two of them made their way to their favourite afternoon coffee spot, bickering back and forth as they were often want to do. The week passes relatively uneventfully, and by the time it’s Friday, and Dave has complimented her appropriately buttoned, sequinned shirt, – “It’s nice; it’ll go over well with the kids.” – he’s all but absconded into his office as the band walks through the door.
“Evenin’ boys!” Maureen greets them warmly from behind the bar, drying off cups and hanging them up. Ash is already making her way around to greet them, grinning brightly at the trio.
“Hey, how’s it going boys? Ready for a good show?” It’s the fifth time they’ve performed here in just over two months, and Ash feels like she’s really getting to know them. After their final set for the past three times she’s taken a smoke break, the first time she and Brian shared a cigarette, the two of them looking up at the stars as he tried to point out constellations around the light pollution.
“You really know a lot about this stuff, don’t you?” She smiles at him, fondly amused, and he smiles back, a toothy grin filled with pride.
“I’d hope so, uni’s too bloody expensive to have it wasted.” And that’s how she learns he’s studying astrophysics. He joins her again the next time, though she’s quiet, listening as he and Roger banter back and forth about the quality of their performances for the night. Her hatred of Roger had softened somewhat, though it’s probably because she refuses to speak more than three words to him outside of serving him at the bar, so she feels like she hasn’t had to really deal with him.
She’s seen him, of course, picking up pretty girls at Maureen’s end of the bar, the way they practically drape themselves over him at the sofa by the stage, has heard Brian complain more than once;
“At least go to her place, need I remind you how thin our walls are?” And maybe when she hears it for the first time she chokes on smoke in her lungs and Brian has to slap her on the back to try and help her through it. And maybe the second time her pencil presses down on the line of the dress she’s sketching a little too harshly, a little off from where she wanted, enough that she has to scrap the whole page, but that’s just what he’s like, she knew it from the moment she saw him, and part of her thinks she’s happy to be proven right.
The last time they’d played, Tim talked her ear off about his own performance while Roger and Brian loaded their stuff into the back of Roger’s van, and while Tim’s self-importance bored her almost to tears, she amused herself watching Roger become increasingly annoyed. Small victories.
“It’s going well, thanks Rocket, how about you?” Brian puts his guitar case down by the stage to walk forward and wrap Ash in a hug, which she returns.
“I’m good; always better with you guys around, I can pretend I’m in charge.” And she’s grinning brightly when she steps back. Brian’s always been the friendliest of the bunch, well, Roger may take the top spot for that in general, but not in the way that counts. Speaking of Roger, when she spots him, he’s actually giving her a smile, though his eyes are fixed more on her shirt.
“You’re very sparkly tonight, Ash.” Tim’s mild grin snaps her out of where she was forming a suspicious glare at the drummer, and she smoothed out her shirt, enjoying the sensation of the sequins passing beneath her fingers.
“It’s a good look on you.” Roger adds, gaze moving up to look at her face, and she gives him a proud little smirk in return.
“Made it myself.” And she lets herself bathe in the surprised compliments they offered, ignoring Maureen laughing over by the bar. The boys start setting up and Ash heads back to grab them each a drink before students start pouring in.
By the time the first set’s finished, she’s unbuttoned two more buttons on her blouse and had an old man who looked very out of place surrounded by students try and slip
£10 directly into her cleavage. Taking the money from him and placing it there herself, she gives him his drink and her most winning smile before turning to the next customer.
“So that’s what it’s for, to distract hapless young men so you can take their cash?” Roger was grinning at her across the bar and Ash felt her whole body tense.
“What?” She snapped, not taking her eyes off of his as she tucked the note further out of sight, though his own eyes followed the movement.
“The shiny shirt.” He explained, finally pulling his gaze back up to meet hers. Gaze icy, she cocked her hip, crossing her arms beneath her chest. A single raised eyebrow was all the answer he received, though it seemed to be enough of a confirmation for him as his smile stretched into one of mischief, and he ordered another round of drinks for the band. She gives him her sharpest smile when she passes them over, but doesn’t say anything, and he leaves with a smirk and an eye roll.
“This whole passive-aggressive ‘hating-me’ thing is getting old, Pocket Rocket.” He’s the only one of the band members who uses the full nickname anymore, and she’s pretty sure he’s taking the piss every time he does. The other two band members are still inside when she goes on her break after they finish for the night. She hasn’t even pulled out her lighter when the back door comes crashing open and Roger walks through; he doesn’t even see her before he starts talking, just knows she’s there.
“Alright, I’ll drop the passive;” she said, focusing on the flick of her her lighter and taking the first puff of the cigarette before looking up at him, “fuck off.” The words were spoken around the cigarette, but even so, a phrase that universal was understandable no matter how it’s said.
“I’m just wondering what I did to warrant it.” Turning, he leaned against the closed doors of the van, crossing his arms as he looks back at her.
“I don’t like you, Roger,” Ash leaned back in kind, kicking her legs out in front of her, crossing her ankles as she relaxed against the brick wall, “because you’re the sort of boy who breaks pretty girls’ hearts.” As if to punctuate her statement, she takes another draft on her cigarette, and tries not to read into the way Roger’s regarding her curiously.
“Pretty girls like you?” It takes her a moment to recognise his tone, not that she hadn’t heard it before, not that hadn’t even used it herself before, but because he’d never been so brazen about it with her. He was flirting! The nerve!
“Oh, you wish.” Ashe couldn’t help but laugh at that, hating the blush that rose in her cheeks as she looked away, casting her gaze to the road at the edge of the car park. Roger watched for a long moment, enjoying the genuine, if amused, smile that lit up her face; he was so used to seeing the artificial mask she put up whenever she focused on him.
“You’re a hypocrite, love.” He calls, and the smile is gone in an instant, replaced with a frown that she levels directly at him. It doesn’t deter him, however, it was something he’d been wanting to bring up for the past two weeks, after he did a little digging about her, seeing if any of his friends from uni knew about her. “Yeah, I know about you and your first year, Ashley.” Her blood runs cold, expression was unreadable, which only served to make him more smug. “We do have a few friends in common, you know; pretty boys with broken hearts.” And finally he felt like he had clawed back to an inch of moral high ground.
For a long moment, she looks at him, expression fading to a thoughtful frown, cigarette sizzling away in her grip, though she did nothing about it. It’s still mostly intact, but she throws it on the ground, stamping the cigarette out with the heel of her boot against the gravel.
“‘s not the same.” Her voice is hollow, lips pursed, avoiding his gaze. Standing, she seems to hover for a moment, unsure of whether or not she was going to head back inside. “I’m a slut but I’m not a romantic about it, I’m not some wannabe rockstar reeling in boys with doe-eyed looks that promise the world, unlike some people.” Whole demeanour shifting, Roger’s surprised when she steps towards him, sneering.
“I never really went for boys.” Roger mused, deliberately missing the point of her words as he moved from the van, meeting her halfway.
“You know what I’m saying; I only ever promised one night, don’t flatter me by thinking that’s all it takes for me to break a heart.” Her voice was a dangerous purr, the two of them standing barely a foot apart.
“And you think one night with me- ?” He’s grinning at her, nothing but amused in the face of her anger.
“Don’t flatter yourself either, you prey upon girls who already think you hang stars in the sky, it’s not the night that breaks them, it’s the morning after.” Ash snarls, her rant having filled her with adrenaline, and she waits, buzzing with anticipating about how he’d respond.
“You willing to test that theory?” With a tilt of his head and a slight smile, he looks her up and down, quietly delighting in the way her expression shifts from thinly veiled rage to shock.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The words spill from her mouth, as if she’s barely aware of them, but Roger huffs out a laugh.
“I’m willing to try anything to get you to stop glaring at me when I come up for a beer.” He murmured with a cheeky grin, and there’s that rage again, clear as day in her eyes. “Love, you’re like me,” he says it like it’s a compliment, reaching his hand to hold her chin. Something in his heart grew warm watching the way the gentle touch changed her expression from furious to softly surprised, “so we can both know it’s just a bit of fun, nothing more.”
“So which girl do you have lined up for when I say no?” Her voice tone was quietly accusing, and Roger raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“None.” He admitted easily. “I’m only promising one night, and you get to test that broken heart theory of yours.”
“God, you’re so fucking arrogant,” she mumbled under her breath, squinting up at him; “one night,” she agrees, “and no I don’t think you hang stars in the sky, so there’s no chance of heartbreak.”
“But what if you’re the heart breaker?” Roger asks, mostly joking, though he’s already sliding his hand around her waist, pulling her close.
“Then you should have developed a harder heart before trying to sleep your way across the UK.” And she’s smiling in return, moving with him as he pulls her in for a kiss. He tastes like beer mostly, the scents of the pub sticking to him as she wraps her arms around him. Pulse racing, she’s the one who deepens the kiss, shifting to her tiptoes to get closer to him, but that only makes him laugh and pull away.
“This is the single worst pick up I’ve ever been on the receiving end of.” She purses her lips, breaking the embrace as she begins to step back to the bar.
“Does that include the middle-aged man slipped a tenner in between your boobs?” Roger calls after her, and to his surprise, Ash is smiling back at him when she looks over her shoulder, sunny and amused.
“Well yeah, I got a ten pounds out of it, didn’t I?” And he can’t really argue with her logic as he begins to follow her back inside to the rest of the band. “What do I get from you?” She smirks, and Roger lengthens his stride to join her as she walks through the door.
“I can’t tell you with company around.” His voice low as he murmured in her ear.grinning as she let out a quiet squeak of surprise. “But it’ll be worth it.”
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ask your destiny to dance [2] {Roger Taylor}
“So what do you think?” Freddie’s eyes are shining when he accosts Ash on her way back from the bathroom. Giving a gentle shove, she weaves through the crowd, picking up various empty glasses scattered about the room while there’s a lull between sets.
“Yeah they go pretty alright.” She concedes, pretending like she didn’t have Doing Alright’s harmony running through her mind. That seemed to sate Freddie well enough, and he followed along behind her, picking up a few glasses here and there before she headed back to the bar.
“Hey, Pocket Rocket,” the way the nickname is said makes Ash’s hair stand up on the back of her neck, and she fixed her best ‘customer service’ smile on her face. Roger’s grinning back at her, almost completely ignoring Freddie, who turned sharply to Ash and mouthed the nickname at her with raised eyebrows. His incredulity, which she catches out of the corner of her eye, still making unwavering eye contact with Roger, makes her sharply professional smile crack as she represses a genuine grin.
“Yes, Roger? Can I help you?” Voice sweet, she sees Freddie’s eyes widen even further, if it were possible, recognising the poison in her voice from a mile away.
“Me and the boys are about to start our next set, could I grab some beers?” There was nothing innocuous in his words, and he kept his gaze focused on hers, but he’s grinning like it’s a challenge. She doesn’t back down.
“Of course.” She sets about her work, grabbing three bottles from the refrigerator behind the bar, uncapping them, and handing them over. His fingers brush against hers where he’s quick to pick them up, and Ash retracts her hand like his touch burns. “Well, if you need anything else-” Tone chipper, she’s quick to fold her hands behind her back, bouncing quickly on the balls of her feet.
“I know where to find you.” Roger agrees, his gaze lingering just a little too long on the tightness of her smile before turning away.
“You guys are playing really well, tonight.” Freddie adds, and Ash chuckles at his earnestness, the sound fond and sincere where she were artificially bright only moments ago.
“Yeah, thanks mate.” Roger looks over his shoulder, her soft, genuine laughter catching him off guard, but she’d moved to start washing up the glasses she and Freddie had collected.
As soon as Roger had gone, Freddie rapped his knuckles against the bar top to get her attention, practically bursting with questions. With the band starting up, however, she can barely hear him over the buzz of the music and the crowd, and so she offer to take her break early. Waving off her offer, Freddie seems far more content listening to the music, but she knows that he’d bombard her with questions at the next given opportunity.
By the time the last set is winding up, Freddie’s had to head home, like Cinderella before the strike of midnight, and a lot of the crowd had dispersed.
“You boys did such a good job.” Maureen’s voice carries over from where she’s uncapping three bottles of beer for the guitarist. Ash, tries not to eavesdrop, but Maureen’s speaking loud enough so he can hear her across the bar, over the jukebox.
“Yeah, we’ve never really played here before, what made you guys try and find us?” Brian, leaning against the bar, takes a sip of his own beer, letting the other two sit patiently beside him, getting gradually warmer.
“Ash is the one who asked, actually.” As soon as she hears her name come from Maureen’s mouth, Ash freezes. “Yeah, apparently her little friend is a fan.” And there’s a fond note in her voice that has Ash smiling abashedly.
“He around? Should thank him for getting us a gig.” Brian’s smile is bright as he turns, gaze roving over the crowd, though Ash joins them, grinning faintly.
“I think you’re talking about Freddie; he’s left.” And at the sound of her voice, Brian’s turning back, though Ash’s attention shifts to Maureen. “’Reen, I’m gonna have a smoke, can you manage this lot for ten minutes?” Grinning, she doesn’t even need to cast her gaze around the bar to know that everyone at the bar was too busy fawning over Tim, the singer, to be bothered to order much.
“I think I can manage, my little Pocket Rocket.” Maureen ruffles her hair, stepping out of the way as Ash went to swat at her, making a beeline for the back door.
“Ash, could you do us a favour?” Calling out after her, Brian holds out one of the beers as she turns back with a half smile. “Rog is out by the van, can you take this to him?” After a beat of hesitation, she forced a smile on her face and took the beer, heading much slower towards the back door.
He’s sitting in the open back of his van, leaning against the side door, wearing shorts that exposed way too much of his thigh. He’s got one leg hanging down to the ground while the other was drawn up to him, where he’s propped his hand which held a gently smoking cigarette. His head was leaning back, his eyes closed, and after a beat of watching him, so relaxed, taking a moment in the cool night air, Ash watches him exhale a lung full of smoke, watches the smoke turn rose gold in the glow of the streetlight. There was something pretty, even calming, about the sight, his aura of easy confidence apparent even without his usual posturing.
“This is yours.” Breaking the silence, Ash steps from the back doorway, onto the gravel of the back car park, letting the door swing closed behind herself. He doesn’t start when he hears her, just cracks open his eyes and gives her a once over, eyes zeroing in on the beer. Neither of them move for a long moment, and then he’s turning, grinning at her as he legs hung over the edge of the back of the van, holding out a hand for the drink.
“Thanks, love.” The crunch of the gravel sounds so loud in the silence created by the closed door. Once he has the beer, she’s moving back to the door, pulling one of the crates from the stack by the bins, and sitting on top of it, patting down her pockets. Part of her knows he’s watching, curious, possibly a little amused, watching as she finally pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one, stashing both the remaining smokes and her lighter in her back pocket.
“Where’s Pocket Rocket come from?” Roger’s the one who breaks the silence. Ash looks like she’s trying to melt into the brick wall, head back, shoulders loose, heels resting in the gravel where she’s got her legs straight out in front of her. Smoke drifts from her lips, eyes looking up at the stars, and at first she doesn’t answer him, he thinks perhaps she didn’t hear him, and he opens his mouth, but she speaks over the top of him.
“Me or the nickname?” Unsmiling, she digs her heels further into the gravel, listening to the stones shift against one another. Roger takes a long draft from his cigarette, gaze wandering across the back of the building, along the parking lot that was mostly empty, save for the staff cars.
“Surprise me.” He finally says, and Ash makes a noise in the back of her throat that he can’t identify, though it does sound a little amused, but not necessarily in a good way.
“Why?” She snorts, finally looking at him, smiling sharp and uncooperative.
“Why what?” He asks, frown creasing his brow, and her smile widens.
“Surprise me.” It’s a challenge not an answer, and he knows he met her a few hours ago, but he thinks her grin has turned a little more genuine, a little more playful. Or maybe he’s imagining things. Either way, he finally looks away, goes back to leaning against the inside of the van with one leg up, looking up at the sky.
“I’m just trying to make conversation, aren’t I? We’re probably going to be working together again, after all.” He lets himself smile at her snort of amusement, or perhaps derision, but continues anyways. “Fine; you first, then the nickname.”
For a long time, Ash is quiet, watching him, trying to discern his intentions, and he waits patiently for her to respond, sipping his beer, flicking his ashes onto the gravel.
“Fife.” After a beat, she sighs, knowing before he even opens his mouth that he has no idea where that is. “Northern Scotland.”
“Hence the accent,” Roger muses, squinting up at the sky.
“Hence the accent.” she agreed, taking a moment to breathe in another lung full of smoke and lean back against the wall of the pub, joining him in his stargazing. “And I’m Pocket Rocket because I am.” It takes a long moment for her words to sink in, Roger flicking his cigarette butt away.
“That’s not an answer.” He scoffs, and Ash makes a hum of agreement, cigarette hanging from her lips as she pulls out her notebook. Her answer was incomprehensible to him as she spoke both through her accent and around the cigarette between her lips. “What?” He actually turned to her, brow furrowed, trying to decipher what she’d actually said. After a beat, and without looking up from her work, she takes the cigarette out and breathes out.
“‘s not like I owe you my origin story.” The way she drew out her annunciations made Roger feel a little bit like a fool, though there was something about her accent that he found charming. “What are you even doing out here? Shouldn’t you be inside with your groupies and whatnot?” Not even letting him get a word in edgewise, she goes back to speaking normally, which he can decipher easily when she’s not mumbling around a dart.
“Can’t a man have a smoke and get ready to load his van in peace?” Roger grinned, standing and stretching. Ash mumbled something else, too quiet for Roger to even hear, though it was accompanied by an eye roll where she was looking at what she was drawing. “Oi, watch it.” He went out on a limb trying to call her out, and when she looked up at him, flush with embarrassment, he at least knew what she’d said hadn’t been exactly polite.
“Watch yourself, drummer boy.” Despite the retort, she was bright red. Her gaze met his and she could see the triumph in his eyes. She could feel it rising within her, that anger from before at his sheer arrogance, even as he stepped out of the shadow of his van, haloed by the streetlight, smiling at her despite the situation, perhaps challenging, though, she thought it looked more playful than anything else.
Breaking the look, she turned away, face still warm with embarrassment having been caught shit talking under her breath. Stubbing out her cigarette, she put away her notebook and pencil, standing and taking a moment to kick the crate back to the stack beside the bin. Roger watches her all the while, his arms folded over his chest, as if analysing her; she doesn’t look back at him. The only sound is the aggressive crunch of gravel beneath her feet as she makes her way back to the back door of the pub, pulling it open to fill the night with the sounds of people talking and laughing, and the jukebox playing. They don’t exchange any more words, and when he comes back inside to start loading the van, she’s nowhere in sight.
“Ash, the band wants to see you!” Maureen calls when Roger leans against the bar, asking about their pay for the night once everything’s been loaded into his truck. All the bands get paid cash in hand, and Dave had left Ash in charge.
“If I have to talk to some long-haired muppet about how I owe him more than what I promised, I’m gonna retire on the spot.” Dave had said to her, looking exhausted at the mere prospect and putting a stack of notes in the till with a rubber band securing them together. “This is how much they get; no more, no less.” He’d been very serious about that part, and Ash took pride in the fact that he’d trusted her after so little time.
The smile she gives Roger is tight as she passes him the money, and he raises his eyebrows at her, finally picking up on her strained professionalism.
“Thanks again for the gig, uh, Pocket Rocket, was it?” He asked, feigning innocence, something inside of him delighting at the way her jaw tightened.
“Sure,” Ash said, working to untense her jaw, “it was lovely having you play.” After a beat, he gave her a nod, his own grin now just amused as he leaves to join the other members of the band where they’re talking to some, what Ash assumed to be, fans.
Roger catches her humming Doing Alright as she wipes down tables a little later in the night, and, for reasons he’s not quite certain of yet, he smiles.
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ask your destiny to dance [1] {Roger Taylor}
A/N: Here it is, folks, the first installment of my long-running OC fic. Please leave feedback if you have anything! My inbox is always open!
Love at first sight isn’t real, or, not with people at least, but when Ash sets her eyes on the dingy little bar that’s three blocks from her dingy little apartment, she thinks she’s as close as she’s ever gotten.
“Listen,” the gruff owner of the pub, Uncle Dave, as the regulars call him though he’s not really anyone’s uncle, claps a hand on her shoulder, “you’ve gotta be made of stern stuff to work here, girlie, you think you got what it takes?” He’d been sceptical of her, barely five-foot-three and soft faced, but her character references had been glowing enough for him to put her through training behind the bar.
“I think I can give it a go.” She grinned up at him, expression one of unwavering determination. It’s that determination that gets her through her first shift, thrown in the deep end on a Saturday night during the second week of term for the university half a block away, and everyone’s already looking to blow off steam. The band they’ve hired is… mediocre, and getting progressively worse as they fuel up on their free drinks between sets, and the guy they’ve got on bass slaps her on the ass when she’s going around picking up empty glasses. Even so, she manages to keep smiling, and doesn’t throw the leftover beer that someone had put out a cigarette in, in his face.
“You alright, honey?” Maureen, the only other female bartender, pouring a beer for a kid who looks suspiciously young, gives her a concerned look, but Ash gives her a sunny smile, and heads to the back, arms piled high with empty glasses, to start washing up. Despite the groping, the snide remarks, and occasionally spilled drinks, she loves it, the hum of people talking, of music playing, the smell of smoke and stale beer that she had become so accustomed to during her first year, now a place she hopes she’ll find herself a regular within.
Her saving grace of the night is Freddie, who shows up halfway into the second set, grinning brightly and waving at her over the bar.
“What is the fanciest drink this establishment offers?” He’s leaning both his elbows on the bar, chin resting on his hands when she comes to serve him. She can see the amusement sparkling in his eyes, and playing along, she leans against the bar on her side considering.
“We have the Long Island Iced Tea,” she’d heard a woman at the bar order it about an hour ago, though Maureen was the one serving her, and she recalls what she can where she had been half paying attention to the process, half pouring a beer for a guy who had told her to smile more, “it involves several of the bottles we have behind the bar, and a fancy glass from the back.” She mused, faux serious.
“And you know how to make it already?” Freddie seemed part-surprised, part-impressed, and Ash struggled to keep a straight face.
“No I do not. Would you like a pint?” She asked, already pouring the drink for him, anticipating his answer. He, unsurprisingly, broke out into a grin, agreeing, handing over the money for the drink.
“Do you know when Don’t Forget To Smile is playing next?” Freddie leans against the bar, beer in one hand, watching the band with mild interest, but Ash can’t answer for the customer beside him.
“Dunno, Freds, it’s my first day.” She reminded him pointedly, smiling brightly at the other patron as she passed over his drink and collected his money. To his credit, Freddie lets her finish her job, hanging around the bar and cringing as the band crashed to an uneven end for most, if not all of their songs.
She’s given her second break of the night at the start of their third set, having been at the bar since six, her feet killing her as it just edged on eleven, and Freddie joins her as she sits on a milk crate out the back, lighting up a cigarette.
“Enjoying it?” His eyes are closed, enjoying the thump of the bass and drums though the building without having to endure the actual song. Ash takes a long drag, pulling a notepad from the back pocket of her jeans, along with a pencil she’d swiped from the gambling section.
“It’s fun,” she admitted, sketching out an idea she had gotten when admiring a girl’s fringe skirt across the room. “’m mad that I can’t tell some of the blokes to shove it,” she let out a humourless laugh, taking another a long drag from her cigarette, pausing in her drawing to pull a few bills from where she’d had them tucked into her bra, “but I’ve made like twenty bucks in tips so,” and she shrugs instead of finishing the thought, putting the money back to her bra before passing off her cigarette to him. Hunching over for a moment, she struggles to add detail with the little pencil, but settles for what she can manage.
“Homework?” Freddie breathes in a lung full of smoke and lets it out with a chuckle as she affirms. “Still haven’t finished the ten thumbnails we need by Monday?” Again, she affirms, and he just laughs harder.
“I’ve been making my own clothes for years, it’s dumb that I need to take Intro to Fashion Design before I can get into any of the higher grade subjects.” Frowning at her work, Ash pauses for a long moment, considering her own words. Snapping her notebook shut, she shoves it back into her back pocket and takes the cigarette back from Freddie, leaning her head back against the wall as she inhaled out of frustration.
“I know darling, you’re a powerhouse and they’re holding you back.” Freddie pet her knee affectionately, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“They just want all this commercial bullshit.” Ash played up the childish whine in her voice, before leaning forward, suddenly intense as she stared off into the middle distance. “Where’s the pizzazz?” She demanded, looking back at where Freddie had his eyebrows raised. Without breaking eye contact, as if still demanding an answer, she takes another drag on her cigarette, before putting it out on the wall behind them.
“The pizzazz is with you, it’s always been with you, fuck what they think.” Freddie told her, and Ash’s expression softened from intense to fond as she tucked the half remaining cigarette in the breast pocket of her blouse.
“Fuck what they think.” She parroted back with a nod, and Freddie smiled at her, accepting her hand as she stood, getting ready to head back inside. After stretching out her legs, getting ready to spend the rest of her shift on them, she turns to him as he leaned against the door. “Is Smile really that good?” She’d been hearing about them for weeks now from Freddie, who presently, smiled, amused.
“They have potential.” He conceded, to which Ash narrowed her eyes.
“They better than these clowns?” She pointed at him, past the door to where the band was struggling it’s way through it’s final set. That gave Freddie pause.
“Yes?” Though it sounded more like a question, which only made Ash more suspicious.
“Fredward, if you bring garbage music into my establishment-” She warned, but Freddie just recoiled, expression disgusted.
“Fredward? That’s awful, and like I said, they have potential.” After a beat, he moved, opening the door, mouth twitching into a smile. “And it’s hardly your establishment, darling, you’ve been here a day.” Which, okay he’s got a point.
Until he doesn’t. She goes home at the end of the night with almost forty dollars in tips, and Dave looks rather proud, promising that he’d have Maureen teach her how to mix drinks. He asks her to come in the next day, for the Sunday lunch crowd, and she doesn’t say no.
Ash works weekends now, starts on Friday afternoons, finishes on Sunday nights, learns her way around the bar, learns the faces of the regulars. The men who come in on Sunday, drink beer and watch the dog races, they take to calling her the Pocket Rocket, for her stature and bright red hair, and her boundless enthusiasm. She’s found the brighter she smiles, the more she laughs at their stupid jokes, the more they tip her, and as a poor uni student, she wouldn’t dare pass up the opportunity.
The nickname carries over with Dave and Maureen, as well as the other staff, as Ash becomes known and liked for being able to put up with the uni students the best, and for being a quick study when it comes to mixing drinks. They favour the nickname, actually, they think it’s cute and quirky, and it does make her smile.
If she’s not Pocket Rocket, she’s just Ash, rather than Ashley, which was on her resume, and though she’s thankful, it’s what she prefers. She’s Ash on Friday and Saturday nights, when the uni students flood the pub and she’s the shortest one in the room, and on her second night, two different people also answered when Maureen called to her through the crowd. It’s easier, it’s less of a mouthful to yell when help is needed at the bar.
Her classmates frequent the bar, Freddie included, and so even to them the nickname spreads; no longer Ashley, as read from the roll, Ash, who might be failing Intro to Fashion Design, who’s always quiet in class, but wears a smile as big as she is at the pub.
“Do you know when Smile’s playing?” Freddie’s almost finished his drink by the time he asks, which is a new record for him. It’s a quiet Friday, they’ve got the jukebox going tonight instead of a band, and Ash is drying glasses behind the bar and hanging them up, everyone having been served at the bar.
“Tomorrow.” She informs nonchalantly, and he actually rises from the stool he had been sitting on, affronted.
“And how long have you known?” He demanded in mock outrage. She’s been at the bar for almost a month before she realised that the band didn’t actually play at her pub. After a word to her boss, telling him about the reputation the band had for bringing in customers, basing all her information off of things Freddie had told her, he looked into them.
“I had a hunch, but Dave confirmed it for me earlier today.” She grinned at Freddie, who’s eyes lit up with excitement. “They don’t play here, Fred, why’d you keep asking me-?”
“Because I wanted to show you for a while, but you’re always working when they’re playing, my dear.” He sighed dramatically, though it was all for show, and he let up with a grin. “Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this.” He mused, finishing off the last drops of his drink, pushing the empty glass towards her. “They really are quite good.” He assured, and Ash let herself smile.
“I thought they just ‘had potential’.” She asked, raising an eyebrow at him as she washed his glass in the sink behind the bar.
“They’ve been practicing.” Freddie told her with an air of finality, and Ash chose not to pry into whatever that truly entailed, as it seemed Freddie was heading home for the night.
The next day, Dave calls her from where she’s sipping water behind the bar, where she sees three guys all standing by the stage they had set up in the corner of the pub.
“If ya need anything, Pocket Rocket’ll be the one you go to.” It’s clear by his tone that Dave’s already tired of dealing with uni students, and Ash realises he’s talking to the band, here to set up. She picks up her step, brightens her smile, and fixes the way her shorts are sitting against her thighs. There’s no uniform at the pub, and Dave is pretty much of the opinion that everyone can dress however they want, as long as there’s no high heels.
Both Ash and Maureen wear black blouses, with the sleeves rolled up past their elbows, showing perhaps more cleavage than was strictly necessary, though it did garner more tips. Maureen usually opts for black pants, though Ash, still in uni, can get away with wearing sheer tights with very short shorts over the top. No-one’s complained thus far, and she’s pretty sure they’re not going to.
“Pocket Rocket?” She hears one of the band members scoff, and her smile gets a little stiff at the derision, but she straightens her posture, tightens her ponytail, and makes her way to her place by Dave’s side.
“That’s me!” Her usually chipper tone ringing out loud and clear as she looked over the three guys.
“Ash, this is Smile, uh,” Dave held out his hand, as if to introduce them to her, though he seemed to have already forgotten their individual names. When Ash holds out her hand to shake theirs, Dave takes that as his cue to leave, and he heads for the back door, probably to have a smoke.
“I’m Ash, they call me the Pocket Rocket ‘round here. I guess I’ll be your contact for tonight, lemme know if you need anything.” She rattles of automatically, as the first one grasps her hand, shaking.
“Well, I’m Tim, and this is-” the man with the dark hair and a dopey smile was waved off almost as soon as he started to shake hands with her.
“People who are capable of introducing themselves. I’m Roger.” The moment Roger looked at her, his smile was all teeth and the promise of a bigger bite, pretty and charming in a way that was so effortless. She knew that smile, the way his gaze dipped for just a moment, and how his eyes followed her once she had shook hands with Brian and began showing them around the space. She’d watched playboys work at the bar far too often to be blind to one right in front of her.
This was the band Freddie raved about? Brian seemed okay enough, Tim was a bit dopey but alright, but then there was Roger. After showing them around, still smiling, as was her job, she headed back to the bar, taking a long drink of water.
They caught her attention once more as they began a sound check later in the night, and when she looked up, she watched for a moment before Roger caught her gaze, and he grinned, sharp and mischievous. She did not smile back, just raised her eyebrows at him, which only made him grin wider; they both knew exactly the type of person he was.
So no, love at first sight isn’t real, of this Ash is sure, but as she looks away, called by another customer, her mind still fixed on Roger’s infuriating grin, she knows one thing; hate, absolute loathing at first sight, it was entirely possible.
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Anon or not, make me choose between:
Show: _______ or ________ ?
Character: ________ or _________ ?
Pairing: _________ or _________ ?
Anything: ________ or _________ ?
greek goddess asks
aphrodite – who do you love most in this world?
hebe – what’s you’re fondest memory from your childhood?
melpomane – what is your favourite song?
nike – what are you most proud of?
thalia – who can always make you laugh when you’re feeling sad?
urania – do you believe in astrology? why/ why not?
selene – would you rather the sky had no moon or no stars?
polyhymnia – do you belong to a religion? which one?
pheme – which celebrity do you find most inspirational?
hecate – if you were a witch, what kind of animal would your familiar be?
clotho – do you want children? what do you want to call them?
artemis – are you a vegetarian/ vegan?
athena – do you have a favourite piece of art? what is it?
enyo – do you get angry easily?
harmonia – if you could learn to play any instrument, what would it be?
hestia – would you rather live in the countryside or the city? why?
hygenia – are you a tidy person?
nyx – when was the last time you stayed out past midnight?
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