letmeletmetrashyourlove:

Ben!Roger 

Author’s Note: Another part? Maybe? Probably? If you like it? 

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I groaned to myself as I flung the pillow that was once over my head across my bedroom and against the wall I shared with my neighbor. He seemed to have no regard for the fact that other people lived in this apartment building and was up at all hours on his drum set.

It was 4:30 am, and I had to be up in three hours to go to work. It was the last straw. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and rested my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. Another groan escaped my lips as I stood up, wrapping my blanket around my shoulders. I yanked my front door open and stomped over next door. My other neighbor, Charlotte, was on the same page. She’s a 97-year-old woman who invited me in for dinner every once in a while. One of the sweetest women I had ever met, yet she had fire in her eyes as she stepped out into the hallway.

      “I got it, Charlotte,” I told her, shooing her back into her apartment.

She muttered something to herself about an entitled asshole before slamming her door shut.

I pounded on the door with both fists, but it was to no avail.

     

“Hey! Asshole! Hey! Open the fucking door!” I screamed, continuing to hit the door.

Nothing.

     

“I swear to fucking god,” I muttered to myself before taking the bold move to reach for the handle on the door. To my surprise, it was unlocked. I swung the door open hard enough for the handle to hit the door behind it. The culprit was sitting behind his drum kit, a cigarette hanging from his lips with several empty beer bottles on the surrounding floor. Despite the fact that I had just broken into his apartment, he was still playing.

Since shouting hadn’t worked before, I reached for the light switch, turning it off an on a couple times.

     

“What the bloody hell!?” He exclaimed as his gaze finally met mine.

     

“You’re asking me that?” I hollered, “It’s 4 in the fucking morning, mate! What the fuck are you doing?”

     

“Is it?” He asked himself, glancing at the clock, “Christ, sorry. Must’ve lost track of time.”

     

“Our neighbor is 97 fucking years old, you’re gonna give her a heart attack and I’ve got to be up in 3 fucking hours so I’d appreciate it if you quit until then,” I growled, grabbing the door and slamming it behind me as I stepped out into the hallway.

I trudged back into bed, falling asleep once more as soon as I hit the mattress. I awoke again at 7:30 to the sound of my alarm clock. I swung wildly at my nightstand until I hit the snooze button. 8:30 rolled around, the sound of drums now continuing in the apartment next door. I silently thanked my noisy neighbor, if he hadn’t started playing again, I would’ve been late for work. I cursed to myself as I sprung out of bed and fumbled trying to get on the dress I had draped over my chair the night before. I slipped on my boots and staggered towards my front door, nearly tripping over the cup that was sitting on my doormat. I squinted, leaning down to pick it up along with a note scribbled on a paper napkin that was tucked under it.

     

“Sorry for last night. Maybe this will wake you up. -Roger”

It was from the cafe across the road from the apartment complex. They marked the cup as a coffee with one cream and two sugars. Not exactly the way I would normally take it, but I scooped it up anyway, taking a sip as I scrambled to the elevator. I recoiled after taking a sip, finding it was cold. He must’ve put it there a while ago.

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borhap-babies:

A/N: hey sweet babies, im baaaaack with a little ben!rog fic full of all the angst xo love you, my babies ❤

so yeah, I just finished writing this and I kinda hate it, im so sorry eek

~

“So, how often do you come here?” The brunette man shouted over the sound of Smile playing onstage.

“Oh, every weekend, almost.” You replied, trying to be polite but secretly hoping this man would just leave you alone.

“You’re not one of those groupies for the band, are you?” The man laughed, but the comment stung.

“No.” You replied flatly, glaring up at him. His face fell, realising he had offended you, and he became a blubbering mess trying to cover his tracks.

“I’m so- look, I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear-”

“It’s fine.” You huff, directing your attention back to your boyfriend and his three best friends performing a cover of one of their favourite songs, much to the crowd’s delight.

“Let me buy you a drink to make up for it.”

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the-useless-reptile:

YOU ASKED I DELIVERED. Here are just a few headcanons! If you guys like them, let me know! I’m down for writing more about Roger or the other boys!

• Tongue kisses.
• Though french kissing is something that Roger absolutely loves, he loves this one as well. It’s when one of you stick out your tongue and the other presses their tongue against it. Sometimes, that’s all there is in the action, and other times, it gets more heated.A more flirtatious sort of kiss that you both thoroughly enjoy. It started early on in your relationship by accident. Having just seen your first ever Queen concert, you were perched in Roger’s lap backstage, your fingers tangled in his hair, petting him gently. By the blissed out look in his face, he seemed to have been enjoying the moment of relaxation you were giving him. You were talking with the boys, listening and joking around. Freddie and John were snuggled near each other on a couch with Brian standing in front of them, and off the the left on a single sofa were you and Roger. “I’m just saying,” Brian held up his hands in what looked like defense, “if I were a girl, I would not throw my bra and underwear on stage no matter how much I loved that person. That’s valuable money. Why just toss it away?”

  Tilting your head back in a small laugh, you understood where Brian was coming from. “It’s a gesture of…” You hummed, gazing at Roger for the word you were thinking of as it was right on the tip of your tongue.

  “Lust?” He offered you which rewarded him with a bright smile.
  “Yes, lust! Brian, it’s a gesture of lust. Like,” You made a funny gesture with your arm as if you were throwing something, “‘here are my underwear. I want to shag you.’”

  “That still makes no sense. Would you throw your clothes at Roger, not expecting to get them back in the end?”

  “I would throw a lot more than just clothes.” You teased quietly, looking down at your love who had a cocky smile on his face, as if he were proving a point to Brian who then directed the question at John in the form of ‘would you throw your clothes away?’

  “What else would you throw at me?” Roger finally inquired in a smooth voice, right into your ear. Turning your head to the side so you could look down at him properly, a shit-eating grin spread across your face as you thought of the answer.

  “Rocks. They’d most definitely get your attention and they shout at you that I myself am seeking attention from my one and only.” You cooed, your hand now resting on his shoulder so you could turn in his lap a bit.

  “Rocks.” He nodded, thinking that over for a few seconds.

  “Rocks, baby.” You stuck your tongue out playfully, and without even thinking about it, Roger was leaning towards you and pressed his own tongue against yours with a soft laugh.

  “Still,” He murmured, now pulling you in for a kiss, his tongue peeping out to lick your mouth momentarily, “you could throw something even worse.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You could throw Brian at me.”

• Keep-away kisses.
• This is a more of a teasing sort of action, something that Roger doesn’t particularly like to admit to enjoying. Leaning in as if to give him a kiss, you’ll smile rather coyly and pull away instead of giving him a kiss to the lips like he was expecting. He’ll chase after you for an actual kiss, usually cupping the side of your face with some hope that maybe he can coax you into it.Sometimes you’ll continue teasing him and just kiss him on the cheek instead of on the lips, pulling back with a laugh as Roger stumbles a bit and laughs sarcastically. “Oh, that’s funny.” He’ll say, grabbing your waist and pulling you flush against him. Resting your hand on his chest, you can feel his heartbeat under your chest. “You don’t want to make me beg for a smooch, do you?”

  Roger looks at you with his puppy dog eyes and you find yourself caving in and giving your love a soft kiss, his fingers curling around your ear and keeping you in place. His blond hair is tickling your face as you tilted your head to deepen the kiss, a small sound peeping past his lips as he was the one to pull away. “That wasn’t too terrible, was it?”

  I’ve had better.”

  “Oh, ha. Ha. Seems we’ve got ourselves a joker. Come’re…” He mumbled, pulling you into another sweet kiss.

• Collarbone / chest kisses.
• Of course, these are some of his favorite sorts of kisses. He loves to kiss your neck, diving his head down and pressing a trail of pecks along your collarbone. He also loves to leave marks there, biting and sucking at your skin. Roger likes to tease, barely brushing his lips against your chest as you make love. He likes your reaction as your back arches in desperation for more than just that.
• Imagine sitting in Roger’s lap, facing him with your legs wrapped around his waist as the two of you lounged in bed together. He’s got his back against the headboard to keep himself from slouching all the way down, knees bent as he conformed to being a chair for you as you let your fingers slip through his thick blond hair, tangling and detangling absentmindedly. The sun was draining into the room through the blinds, giving Roger the impression that he had stripes adorning his skin, and in the light, his hair seemed to glow like he had a halo. The only thing that was covering your two naked bodies was a white sheet that you had been using as a blanket for the actual duvet had ended up on the floor, across the room. Peaceful would be the way to describe how you felt as Roger’s head rested on your chest, ear down as he listened to your heart beating for a few seconds, his fingers tapping on your back to the beat as if he were playing the drums.

  You swirled a piece of his hair between your fingers, sighing deeply. Roger shifted ever so slightly under you, tilting his head upwards so he could gaze at you. His eyes were shining in the golden strips of sunlight that warmed your skin. You returned his glance and felt heat hit your cheeks. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Roger shrugged his shoulders, giving you a small smile that spoke some sort of innocence as if he were falling in love over and over, his long eyelashes seemingly tickling his cheeks as he shut his eyes at the sensation of your fingers digging deeper into his hair, massaging his scalp. “I just like to look at beautiful things, is all. You’re like a bloody piece of art.” Pressing his hot lips against your sternum, Roger moaned quietly and whispered against your skin, causing goosebumps to rise, “You make me so weak.” Another kiss, this one was tilted upwards a bit more, towards your collarbone that was already littered with a few love marks that he had given you previously. Some were fresh and red while others were more a deep purple, older.

  “That’s a bold thing to say, babe. You’re like, the prettiest.”

  “Only sometimes.” He joked, giving you a cheeky smile as you tilted your head down to give his pouty lips a small peck. “Okay, most of the time but that’s beside the point. You’re the prettiest right now.”

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Thanks for reading! Reblogs and likes are much appreciated and requests for the rest of the movie!verse Queen are still open!!!

–<3 Emmy

angrylizardjacket:

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.

[part 1]

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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.”

angrylizardjacket:

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.

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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.”

angrylizardjacket:

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?”