#BoRhap is the only one i know/could hear well enough to recognize the specific part of the song

[snek-eyes]

Queen instrumentals playing in Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death

(instrumentals arranged by Eos Counsell)

(insp. / template / BoRhap breakdown)

[dancing-deacon]

Let Me Be Your Lover Boy (Part 1)

BoRhap!Roger Taylor x Reader

(A/N) I’m very excited for my first multi chapter fic! Also, I know that Roger is barely in this chapter (I’m sorry) I had to get a lot established for the reader main character, promise he’ll be there soon enough. My messages and inbox are open for any questions, comments, or feedback! Next chapter should be up soon, I hope you all enjoy!

(A/N/N) I really hecking burned both my finger and my forehead curling my hair for this picture that relates to the story, so I put both my tears and pain into this story lmao, Please ENJOY both my struggles and the chapter!!!

Warnings: alcohol, swearing, unwanted flirting, mentions of death

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

11:30 PM. You read from your shattered watch face, only an hour left of your shift. You lean next to the popcorn machine which gives off a comforting warmth and close your eyes. The rest of your coworkers have snuck into the theater to finish watching Queens set. The only benefit from working in the largest theater in town was after everyone bought their beers and popcorn, you got free access to shows.

You were the unlucky manager though, once promoted there was no way you could leave the stand. If anything was stolen it would be your head on the chopping block. You couldn’t afford to lose this job, ever since your mother passed, this job was all that got you by to afford groceries and your shoebox sized flat. 

11:45 PM. Your watch reads, the applause dies down and you hear a muffled “Goodnight” from Freddie Mercury. That’s your cue to shut everything down. Alcohol is locked up first, then all the food is put away. People finally start filing out of the theater and past you in the lobby. Filing isn’t the right word, drunken stumbling is. This part of the shift is always the worst, the number of guys that come up to you to flirt, spewing atrocious words at you for free drinks.

“Hey little lady,” a middle-aged man stutters out, leaning across the counter like a slob, his just as wasted friends behind him, egging him on.

You cross your arms at your chest, having to put on a good customer service face, “yes, sir?” You say this with a weak smile, but a flat voice.

“How ‘bout a free drink,” he motions towards the empty bar shelf, obviously not seeing the area is closed, “and if you’re as sweet as you look you’ll let me take it off you.” His drunken eyes attempt a wink. His friends burst into laughs and smack his back, as if he just won a gold medal.

You roll your eyes and sink back into yourself, you’re so used to it with this job, sadly. “Sir, the concessions are closed, as is the venue, I’m going to have to ask you to leave before I call security.” This line rolls off your tongue, you’ve said it so many times.

He leaves along with his whole entourage begrudgingly. Which leaves you to finish cleaning up your area of the theater. You take a second, wondering what’s so appealing about your uniform, a lose maroon polo shirt with butter stains on it. You never look nice at work, you get hot and covered in oil, so you always have your hair tied up loosely and minimal makeup on. Maybe it’s the black strappy heels? The ones that kill your feet after an hour, the ones you always take off when walking home after a shift, carrying them in your hand, not worrying if you step in anything gross. You actually enjoy the way the cool pavement soothes your feet.

Faintly in the back of the theater you can hear music and chatter, most likely the musicians after party. You set up some snacks and a large variety of liquor in the dressing rooms and seating area behind the stage earlier before the band arrived, as you do for the rest of the performers. Lucky for you, you don’t have to clean that up. Especially seeing in the papers how hard some of the members of Queen, or should I say a specific drummer, can party and down their alcohol, you don’t care to see the aftermath.

12:50 AM. You rub your eyes, closing took longer than you thought, now you won’t get home until after one. You walk to the coatroom and grab your new red leather jacket. You saw it in the windowfront of Biba and saved up for months to buy it. It was your one big expense for the whole year, but you looked hot in it, you had to admit it was worth it.

You head toward the back-alleyway door, the only open exit after patrons leave. Most of the theater lights are off and it is eerily quiet, no music, not even chatter from the afterparty. It must be wrapping up as well.

You step outside, the buzzing of the light above the back door was familiar and pleasant, a sign you’re leaving to go home. You let the door shut behind you and grab the handle for balance. You’re at the edge of the top of the few steps leading down to the ally. You lift one leg to unclasp your heel, ready for your foot to be released from this fashionable strappy prison. The first shoe is about to come off your foot when the handle your gripping into starts to turn and the metal door slams open violently, knocking you off balance. Your grasps for something as you fall backwards, grabbing the man exiting the door. As you fall backwards down the steps you hear a long rip and you slam against the cement. Pain shoots up through your elbow as you lay on the ground, groaning from getting the wind knocked out of you. One hand is holding your shoe, the other a fistful of elegant white fabric.

“You ripped my bloody vest you git!” The man slurs out in a puff, obviously sloshed beyond belief. You immediately recognize the voice, course and low, one you’ve heard on your records a thousand times. You open your eyes and sit up carefully, staring up at a wasted, half naked Roger Taylor. 

taglist @emmadarling20 @roger-taylor-stole-my-heart @sunnnymercury @mrs-rogertaylor @a3lizalee