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mypassionfortrash · 5 years ago

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Rumours: Parts 1 - 4

It’s the mid 70′s, and your band are on tour with Queen. Rumours circulate in the music press about your relationship with their drummer, Roger. But what they don’t know is that you hate each other with a passion. Can you patch things up?

Pairing: Roger Taylor x f!Reader Warnings: A lot of smut - so this is strictly 18+. Notes: This was originally posted on my Queen blog (BoRhapRogerina) before I deleted it. If you’re new here, welcome. If you’ve read this before, I’ve reworked this quite substantially. I’m planning on finishing all of my fics for NaNoWriMo this year, so stay tuned for updates on all my WIPs!

[1/4]

“Scary?” You screeched, flinging down a copy of Creem. You whipped around to face your bandmate, Steve. “Do you think I’m scary?”

He contorted his face, continuing to work a layer of shaving foam over his jaws. “You’re… intense.”

Your mouth dropped open, ready to hurl a brutal comeback.

He was quick to halt you. “You’re not still obsessing over Roger, are you?”

Your cheeks burned at the idea, “I’m not.”

You were.

In fact, it was all you could think about ever since your manager had secured your band the gig of a lifetime. Hitting the road with none other than Queen. Supposedly, John Deacon was a fan of yours. Although Roger unquestionably wasn’t.

The press seemed to believe that you and he would make a perfect pair. You being the fierce, take-no-prisoners frontwoman of a rock and roll band. And Roger, a handsome playboy that no woman could resist. In fact, in every interview Queen did, they would pose that to Roger. What did he think of you?

At times his words were enough to reduce most to tears. You stared up at the ceiling, recalling that interview he did with Melody Maker where he called you ‘utterly terrifying,’ and claimed you had ‘less sex appeal than Elton’s backside.’ That was especially harsh. But your bandmates dismissed it as flippant trash talk; something to create a bit of controversy.

And so, on the first night of the tour, you sat in the dressing room, having never actually met Roger Taylor, wondering what exactly he thought of you. Just like the music press as a whole.

Not that you cared, of course.

Why should you?

You weren’t there to impress him.

During soundcheck, you absentmindedly trundled through your band’s five-song setlist with as much life as a rainy day. Four songs in, a shaggy mop of blonde hair bobbed through the gaggle at the side of the stage, barging its way to the front to watch. He stood with his arms folded, his hip jutting out. A cigarette daintily rested between his fingers.

You glanced at him as you sang. Your stomach was in knots, wondering if he was waiting for an inevitable hiccup. That particular song was about your ex; however, it just as comfortably fitted Roger. He had painted a dim picture of himself, even before you were breathing the same air. But now, seeing him in the flesh, you decided that you hated him. From his dazzling blue eyes to the fur coat that swamped his wiry frame. He was sickening.

Then it came to that one final line.

Something about being high and laughing about him in a hospital bed...

You screwed your eyes shut as you snarled, but the image of him was crystal clear in your mind’s eye.

He raised his eyebrows, puffing out his cheeks at your delivery.

Your insides churned, setting down your guitar and moving to join the group at the side of the stage.

Roger’s eyes might have popped out of their sockets with the savagery with which he rolled them, as you approached shook hangs, hugged and introduced yourself to everyone but him. And he was blatantly counting on you striking up a conversation with him. He drew in a breath to drip poison into the air between you. But his plans were thwarted.

“You were absolutely marvellous!” Freddie blurted, barging past Roger who sulked like an adolescent girl. Freddie flung his arms around you, threatening to squeeze all the air from your lungs. You gave his shoulder a series of tiny taps like a boxer calling it quits. He thrust you outwards, those dark brown eyes studying every detail of you. Then, he made his announcement: “Deacy was right.”

The corners of your mouth pricked up as you exhaled the last of the breath you had been desperately trying to cling on to. “Did you like it?” you asked, shaking your head.

Freddie moved closer. “I loved it!” He was beaming as his eyes darted between you and Roger. “You two haven’t met yet!”

You and Roger exchanged curt nods before you broke the uneasy silence. “Thanks for the opportunity,” you muttered, folding your arms.

Roger huffed, looking away from you. “It wasn’t up to me.”

“You’re perfect,” Freddie blurted, blasting through your stalemate. He turned to Roger who was still glowering. “Isn’t she - aren’t they - perfect, Roger?”

Roger raised his eyebrows, lolling his head from side to side.

“You tell her she’s perfect. Right now! Tell her, Rog!” Freddie pushed.

Roger’s eyes narrowed. His upper lip curled up into a sneer. “You’re perfect.” Without waiting for a response, he scampered backstage, a trail of smoke chasing close behind.

Freddie turned his attention to you, looking taken aback. “Alright then.”

“What’s his problem?”

“He’s not used to being in such close proximity to a woman he’s not allowed to shag, my dear. He’ll come round.”

“I don’t know, I reckon I could have some fun with him.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

It turned out Roger wasn’t fun. Especially not when he had a drink in him.

The gig itself was excellent. Roger confined himself to the background as the other members of Queen congratulated you after your set. He sought to make himself look busy, preening at his hair or fixing his spangly outfit, but every now and again, you would catch him staring at you. You couldn’t for the life of you figure out what was going on inside that pretty head of his. All you knew was that his games frustrated you to no end.

It came to a head at the afterparty.

Swaggering into a packed bar, you made your way through silvery swathes of smoke towards the private lounge at the back. Your bandmates had made quick work of getting ready, but you were anxious to impress. It was the day before Valentine’s day, after all. In the back of your mind, you craved as much action as the rest of them.

A tight black dress and skyscraper heels, a fur coat and skimpy knickers. It had all the right ingredients, and you felt like the fiercest creature in there. Heads turned in droves as you brushed past the sea of strangers, waltzing past a length of velvet rope.

The lounge was quiet. Your bandmates. Queen. The crew. Management. Label bigwigs. Journalists. All the right people were there - if you wanted to talk business. But not if you actually wanted to do business.

You expected Roger to be the centre of attention. But that accolade had long gone to Freddie.

Instead, Roger sat on an empty couch, his gaze centred on the doorway. Still puffing away on a smoke. It was only when your heart began to thud furiously against your ribcage that you realised something.

Those heavenly blue eyes of his?

They were on you.

But it was like someone had sparked a flame beneath him. You had never seen someone get to their feet with so much urgency. He shot past you, going towards the main bar, shoulder-checking you on his way out. It left you livid, seeing red.

You did the absurd.

You went after him.

You threaded your way through the crowd, hunting in the darkness. Roger wasn’t difficult to find. That shaggy blonde mop. That vivid sateen blazer. You could pick him out anywhere.

You spotted tufts of blonde above the current, over by the bar.

You couldn’t move fast enough, pursuing answers.

The bartender had just finished shifting a series of shots in front of him when you dragged yourself on to the stool beside him.

He winced, sensing your presence. Then he downed a shot, swallowing hard. His voice was hoarse through the jagged remnants of the tequila; you could hardly hear him. He didn't even look at you. “What are you doing?”

“I need to know what your problem is.”

Roger shifted around to glare at you. If looks could kill, you’d have been done for. “My problem?” he asked, pointing to his chest.

Another shot.

“My problem,” he slurred, “is that I’m sick of fucking hearing about you.”

“What?” you prodded, shaking your head.

“Everyone fucking thinks that because you’re a girl that we’re somehow…”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe if you spent less time surrounded by groupies, then maybe Melody Maker and Creem wouldn’t constantly ask you about the only girl who’s ever supported Queen and whether you intended to shag her.”

Roger sprang to his feet, jabbing his finger against your shoulder. He spoke with the ferocity of a small, yappy dog whose cage had been well and truly rattled. “Thanks to you, no one’s going to want to shag me. I doubt I’ll be getting any at all this tour!”

You were indifferent, slipping off your stool to meet his stare. You began calmly. “What do you want me to do? Roger, this is an amazing opportunity.” You couldn’t contain the frustration in your tone. “I’m not going to give that up because you need to shag everything in sight. I want people to take me seriously, more seriously than they seem to take you.”

“But you’re not that good anyway,” he sneered, screwing up his nose. “I mean, you’ve got so much to figure out. It’s laughable!”

You pressed yourself against him, your chest heaving. “I’ve heard you’re fucking lousy anyway. Tiny. Inclined to be a bit… premature.”

He smirked, knowing he had succeeded in getting a rise from you. “What makes you think I’d be interested in you?”

“You should be so lucky. Now, you’re going to do me a big, big favour and stay out of my way. And don’t you dare speak about me to the press again, do you understand?” You pointed towards the lounge at the back, widening your eyes, moving closer to him. He leaned back, trying to escape your tirade. “When we get back in there, don’t you dare look the road I’m on. It’s crawling with journalists. I mean it, Roger.”

Roger scowled for a moment. “Stay out of my way. And don’t ruin this for me.”

You took one of Roger’s shots, looking him right in the eye as you threw it back. “I’ll ruin you if you’re not careful, Princess.”

You waited long enough to see Roger’s mouth pop open at that threat. And then you made a beeline back to the lounge.

You were greeted by Freddie, who came over to you like a shot, thrusting a flute of champagne into your hand.

“Where did you get to? I saw you come in, but you just disappeared! Where did you go?” He quizzed with wide eyes.

“I had a little bit of fun with Roger,” you sighed, your words opening an inexplicable well in your stomach. “I don’t think he likes me much.”

Freddie rested his head on your shoulder to reassure you. “I wouldn’t bother fretting - he doesn’t like anyone at first. Especially not when they answer back. He’s got eyes for you, though.”

“What?” You chuckled.

Freddie didn’t explain. He simply pointed towards the same spot Roger was in when you arrived. He was still fixating on you. You couldn’t be positive whether you had incensed him or put him in his place, but you could see his shoulders rising steadily and his nostrils flaring with every breath.

Your eyes dotted from face to face through every corner of the room. One of the journalists seemed to have noticed the glances exchanged by you and Roger. And it did nothing to alleviate the foul mood Roger had put you in.

“Freddie?”

Freddie reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Yes, my dear?”

You turned to face him, feeling a wave of nerves grip you like a vice. “I have to leave.”

The next morning, the afterparty was still fresh in your memory.

After you left the party, you went back to your hotel and bought a bottle of wine, drinking the whole thing by yourself. Not ideal when your bus call was at four in the morning. But it turned out you were much soberer than your bandmates. They were out like lights. Which allowed you more time to wallow.

By eleven o’clock, your bus rocked up outside the venue in Manchester. Trudging out of the bus on unsteady legs, you feared your arms might buckle and drop the two suitcases tucked under each. You had no notion of facing the day just yet. You just ached to get to your dressing room and rest until soundcheck. The pit in your stomach deepened when you saw that Queen’s bus had already arrived. Roger would undoubtedly be lurking somewhere. You prayed that you wouldn’t bump into him on your way inside.

Being the only woman on tour granted you certain luxuries. Out of respect for your privacy, and because no one wanted to be the one accused of leering over you, you always had your own dressing room at every venue. Of course, the halls themselves were small, with even smaller backstage areas, so you regularly found yourself bundled into any place they could spare, with a fold-up chair and a mirror, if you were lucky. Tonight’s venue was kind enough to have you in a cleaning cupboard on the other side of the building from the rest of your band. But that didn’t matter. You needed the time alone. You savoured any of it you could possibly get on a tour like this.

So off you went, pounding the halls. They were painted a pale green, but it had started to chip away, and the floor was cracked right down to the concrete. The place had seen better days, you thought, looking down at your feet. Only to realise the tracks of rose petals stretching off into the never-ending distance.

You paused, squinting back the way you came. Sure enough, they were strewn that way too.

Shrugging it off as a Valentine’s Day gag, you continued to follow the path to your dressing room. Your heels snapped through the desolate corridors - it was far too early for Queen to have loaded in just yet - until you reached your destination at a dead end.

The venue had thoughtfully scribbled your name on a scrap of card and attached it to the door. But what lay on the floor was of far more interest to you.

Another note with ‘RMT’ scrawled on it.

Roger. Meddows. Taylor.

Kicking the note aside, you cracked the door open, only for a single, red rose to roll out, stopping short of your foot. You thought nothing of it. Apparently, Roger was in a remorseful mood. You wondered how long that was going to last, not allowing yourself to think of anything more before he got back to being his bitchy little self again and….

Roses. Roses everywhere.

Taking in the spectacle in front of you, you could feel the anger simmering away inside you. They were hoarded waist deep. To get inside, you would have to wade through them, clamouring over goodness knows what. But it was your dressing room. God forbid you would have to share with your bandmates. Being on the tour bus with three sweaty men after a show was bad enough, but being locked in a room with them while they prim and preen was another matter entirely.

So you did it.

You tossed your suitcases into the void ahead and followed suit.

Instant. Regret.

With every wary wade, a thousand tiny pinpricks burned against your legs. It was only then that it dawned on you.

Roger Meddows Taylor wouldn’t bother to have the thorns pruned.

[2/4]

Hide it. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

That’s what you told yourself the whole day. When you deposited the bulk of the roses back out into the hallway. When you kept discovering petals in every nook and cranny of your clothes. Even when your bandmates asked about the mysterious amount of flowers in and around your dressing room, you remained nonchalant, trying to stifle back a giggle. “A secret admirer, I guess.” You kept it up all day, flitting between annoyance and feeling pleased with the revenge you had plotted for Roger.

During your soundcheck, Roger took up his place at the side of the stage again, simpering away as you shook rose petals out of your pockets. No sooner had you caught him staring, but he turned, exhaling a trail of smoke that lingered long after he had left. You couldn't broach the subject with him yet. Instead, you kept your head down, waiting him out for the perfect moment to strike.

You even waited in the wings while Queen themselves ran through their set, pacing back and forth to catch Roger’s attention. You pitied how much he misread the situation as he smirked over his drum kit at you. You were out to humiliate him.

Locked in a game of cat and mouse, you were gone before he could gloat about it. You knew that would rile him up the most, leaving him exactly where you wanted him.

Later on, before the show, both bands on the tour joined forces to have dinner backstage. Everyone around the table chattered mindlessly about how much they missed their other halves sinking bottle after bottle of wine. But not Roger. He looked utterly livid, sitting at the head of the table, opposite you. Not because he had no one to miss back home. But because you had said nothing about his grand and elaborate prank. It was apparent on his sharp little features just how much rage he was harbouring about the fact that it had backfired. The way his body seemed to vibrate as he sulked, balling up his fists around his cutlery as he ate his dinner.

You beamed across the table at him, raising your glass and giving him a wink. This cracked the wall of silence he had built.

“What about you?” Roger sneered, piping up above the rabble. “Did you get anything nice?”

You quirked an eyebrow, silently challenging his sudden boldness. “Oh, you know, just some flowers.” You shrugged off as if it was nothing. You were just getting started, draining another glass of wine. “They were absolutely gorgeous.”

Roger scrunched up his nose, snorting. “Who would buy you flowers?”

Freddie’s mouth dropped open as he whipped around in his seat to smack Roger on his arm, earning a pained ‘ouch’ from the drummer. “She’s a delight! You take that back right now!”

“Look at her!” Roger squeaked, throwing a hand in your direction.

Everyone around the table simultaneously shot him a disdainful look. But you couldn’t help choking back a laugh. Roger hadn’t realised that you could unravel his grandstanding in seconds flat.

“Do you really want to go there, Roger?” you asked widening your eyes.

“And the attitude she’s got on her…” Roger huffed.

With a deep intake of breath, your hand delved into the pocket of your jeans, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “It’s funny, Roger, this note was with the flowers in my dressing room. I think,” you began, squinting down at the handwriting, “RMT does like me enough to buy me roses on Valentine’s Day.” You smoothed the note out on the table and shifted it to the centre, for everyone to get a better look at the incriminating evidence.

Brian glanced over at the note, chuckling to himself. “It’s his handwriting.”

“There was rather a lot of flowers, actually,” you continued, grinning at Brian. “Enough to fill my dressing room, actually. Whoever this RMT guy is, he must have gone to so much effort to get them all in there before I arrived this morning.”

Freddie’s face wildly lit up. “How many flowers were there?”

“They were piled waist deep. I had to wade through them,” you beamed, bypassing Freddie’s gaze and looking towards Roger instead.

“That’s absurd,” Brian chimed in. “Who would do that for someone they don’t even like? What do you think… Roger?”

“It screams pettiness,” Stewart, your band’s own drummer, agreed.

Roger sulked, rolling his eyes. “It was a prank! To inconvenience her!”

“I think it was rather lovely,” Freddie chimed in.

Roger became increasingly flustered at the narrative his friends were giving his actions.

“What’s wrong, Roger?” you cooed.

Roger’s cheeks were scarlet as he screeched: “I’m just not attracted to you!”

Sitting back in your seat, you gave him a satisfied smirk. There was no point pressing the issue any longer than you needed to. Everyone else around the table did that for you, erupting into hysterics and relishing the opportunity to make him the butt of all their jokes for the evening.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were exhausted. Even after five songs, your hair was drenched in sweat, your makeup smeared and your muscles burned. A hot shower was just the thing to round off your day.

But the venue had communal showers.

Usually, if you were on tour with your own band, this would never have bothered you. Your bandmates had seen you naked on multiple occasions and in many a drunken state. But the fear of a complete stranger seeing you in the shower had you making a beeline for them midway through Queen’s set, desperately hoping no one would be in there.

However, robe and accoutrements in hand, you were greeted by various members of Queen’s crew - the ones who weren’t working away on the backline, taking the opportunity to clean up before they had to load out for the night. They didn’t see you. Something that you thanked your lucky stars for because the look on your face as the realisation set in must have been something to behold. You closed the door swiftly, going undetected.

There was nothing to do but wait for them all to file out. Sliding down the wall to take a seat on the floor, you listened intently to Queen’s performance. The sound of the crowd made the building shake as they chanted every word of Killer Queen back to Freddie. You kept time, tapping your foot on the floor, fixating on getting out of your sweaty stage clothes. Every time the door opened, plumes of steam would hit your skin, sending shivers through you. The warmth was so deliciously enticing that it took every bit of restraint you had to stop yourself from diving into the already crowded bathroom. It took half an hour for everyone to leave and Queen were nearing the end of their set.

Throwing off your clothes and stowing them in a locker, you wandered over the grimy tiled floor towards the row of showers at the back of the room, firing one up. Better than any fluffy blanket on a cold winter night, the water cascaded over you, soothing all the aches and pains of the first few nights of the tour. It surprised you how quickly the twinges in your muscles accumulated on tour. Another layer of luxury in situations like these were the lotions and potions you always brought with you. You could feel yourself becoming more human again as you worked a violet-scented lather over your skin, cleansing your body of the sweat and dirt of the day. Breathing deeply, you let out a satisfied groan and wondered just how long you would be alone.

The cheers from the crowd had died down. A dull chatter seemed to make its way down the hall outside. It ripped you away from what you were about to do and hurried your movements along as you rinsed the suds from your skin.

Something in the corner of your vision caught your attention. Horror coursed through you as you realised that someone else was showering next to you. When you noticed who it was, you gave an audible, “what the fuck?”

Roger’s gaze was fixed straight ahead as he lathered his hair into a foamy pile on top of his head.

“Don’t speak to me,” Roger droned. “Fucking humiliated me in front of everyone at dinner.”

You groaned, slamming your hand against the taps to shut off the water. Roger winced with such ferocity that bubbles dripped in his eyes. “Fuck,” he hissed, wiping his hands over his eyes in an attempt to alleviate the sting.

“Not so smart now, are you?” you taunted.

Roger hadn’t looked at you properly until now. His lips parted, drawing in a sharp breath.

“Get over yourself,” you scolded.

Roger’s entire body sank in on itself, he looked even smaller under your heated gaze. His voice was a mere squeak. “Sorry.” He averted his eyes, looking at anything but you.

“Tell me, Roger,” you began, cornering him. “When a guy buys a girl that many flowers on Valentine’s Day, why do you think that is? What do you reckon runs through that person’s head?” You reached out to him, pushing back a stray strand of hair.

Roger begrudgingly keened into your touch, closing his eyes.

“If I was really ruining your chances of getting laid, then why are you so desperately trying to woo me? Roger. Meddows. Taylor.”

“I’m not,” Roger sighed, poking his tongue out slightly to lick his lips. The temptation was too much. He opened his eyes, and made no effort to conceal how much they roamed. They came to rest on your lips. “I’m really not.”

You closed the gap, pressing yourself into him, your chest squeezed against his. He trembled at the contact, swallowing hard. You looked up, raising your eyebrows. “Really? Then why are you in here with me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just needed a show-”

“That cock of yours is awfully fucking hard, all things considered, Princess,” you taunted, drawing your finger along his length. “Are you sure?”

“No one’s going to take you seriously if you do this,” Roger warned. Even that was feeble as his breath caught in his chest the second that your hand wrapped around his shaft.

“We’ll see about that,” you said, relishing the way he was coming undone at the slightest touch. The way your hand ghosted up and down his cock could hardly be considered firm or giving. But that wasn’t the point.

You wanted his back against the wall; all yours, latching on to the promise of something more. His head thrown back, jerking his hips forward, begging you for more. But most of all, you wanted to take that away from him just as quickly.

Roger whined when you moved your hand away from him. Once more, you sandwiched him between yourself and the cold tile wall, planting your hands on either side of his head. Your lips brushed over his neck making him shiver. The power you felt at that moment was utterly intoxicating. “No one’s going to know about this. Because, unlike you, Princess, I don’t leave evidence behind.”

Before Roger had an opportunity to retort, you were already on the other side of the bathroom, slipping your robe over your shoulders. “I’ll see you at the afterparty.”

[3/4]

The skintight material of your new red dress threatened to squeeze the life out of you. Being trapped in a room fit to burst with partygoers didn't help either. Your feet ached, hiked up in leopard print heels, as you snaked your way through the crowd. None of the afterparties had been this busy. And none of them had attracted as many creeps like this one.

Finally, just when you thought you were about to hit the floor, the door to the club opened, spitting you out into the night.

Being able to guzzle air into your lungs again revived you momentarily. Enough that you could take in your surroundings at least.

The alleyway outside was littered with revellers, and a blanket of cigarette smoke draped itself over the scene. You couldn’t see anyone that you knew.

Not that it mattered. After a show, you were never really in the mood for talking anyway.

Especially not after being flirted with by countless strangers.

Sucking on a cigarette, you looked up to the sky with your back pressed to the wall. The vibrations of the music inside the club shuddered against you. It soothed you. Your eyes drooped closed, drinking in the sensation.

Then, something caught your attention. Darting your eyes to the left, just a few paces away, you saw Roger.

He, too, had a cigarette dangling between his lips. And he looked utterly exhausted as he sank against the wall. It must have been an exhausting business, being Roger.

After all, he had spent the last few hours flocked by women, all eagerly vying for his attention. And space in his bed for the night.

But now, he looked spent.

Not that you could pity him.

Every time you caught sight of him, you had the overwhelming urge to launch him through the nearest window. He kept talking to the press about you, from what you overheard in his interviews with student rags up and down the country. Spilling poison in their ears and on to their pages. And then he had the cheek to avoid you like the plague backstage, instead choosing to eye you up from afar.

Tonight was the closest the pair of you had been since the shower incident.

You still had scratches all over your legs from his prank; you would never be able to look at roses again without getting flashbacks to that cramped little cleaning cupboard. Even now, days later, your legs itched.

You weren’t sure whether it was the Dutch courage or the burning desire to be the bigger person, but you shuffled along the wall towards him.

He could hear you coming. But his eyes shot away in any direction they could find. Except yours.

“You don’t want to talk,” you began, backing down instantly, “fine. I’m only out here for a smoke. I’ll be gone in a minute.”

“Good,” he huffed, scuffing his feet against the pavement.

The pair of you stood, backs against the wall, looking in opposite directions. A steely silence lacing through the moment.

It took everything in your to hold back what was in your head. You weren’t sure what you wanted to blurt out, but it probably would have started with, ‘I just think it’s funny how…’

Or something to that effect.

Suddenly, a familiar voice got yours and Roger’s attention. It came from the door of the club and swiftly closed in.

It was Freddie.

“There you are! I’ve been hunting all over for you.”

“I just needed a break from all that in there,” Roger explained.

Freddie was quick to silence his bandmate, casting his hand in the air and nodding at you. “Not you! Her!" And then an inquisitive look spread across his face. "Why? Have you two made up yet?”

“Us?” You asked, darting a finger between you and Roger. “Oh god no.”

“She’s a bitch, remember?”

“And he can't behave like an adult, remember?”

Freddie raised his eyebrow at the display you and Roger put on. “Alright, well there are a few people I’d like you to meet,” he said, seizing your arm and hauling you back inside.

You threw a glance over your shoulder, to Roger, who had a wicked grin on his face. He fluttered his fingers in the air, waving you off.

“You’re going to love them.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Freddie flitted from group to group, introducing you to anyone who would listen. After only fifteen minutes, the balls of your feet burned, so you bid him farewell and wandered over to the bar. Hauling yourself up on a stool, your eyes began to wander over the faces around the bar. It was an oval shape that allowed you to peer over to the other side at the patrons sitting opposite you.

Studying the band of drunks, you tried to decide if you knew any of them. Or if any of them were attractive enough to take back to your hotel room.

Too tall.

Rubbish dress sense.

A little bit too drunk.

And then, there was Roger.

He stared at you.

The same way he had been the last few days.

Those sleepy eyes. Lips slightly parted.

You couldn’t help but gaze back at him.

It only dawned on you when it was too late.

And he noticed.

The corners of his mouth perked up into a self-satisfied smile as he raised his glass. Toasting to you.

Batting your eyes from left to right, you were determined to focus on anything - anyone - but Roger. But somehow, they always found their way back to him.

He drained his glass and slipped off his seat, making his way around the bar to you.

Your whole body tensed. He was looming far too close to you; so much so that his breath ghosted over your skin.

“I don’t blame you,” he said.

Turning to him, you narrowed your eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“No woman can resist me.”

It flipped like a switch. That was the reminder you needed of how much of a prick Roger was. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine resisting you, Roger.”

“I won’t hold it against you if you can’t,” he pressed, raising his hands.

“You’re doing a terrible job of avoiding me tonight, Roger. What's changed?”

“I’m not going to lie, you look incredible in that dress,” Roger hummed, leaning on the bar, slithering into your field of vision. “I’m rather tempted.”

“Let’s make one thing clear, Roger,” you began, leaning into him, “I’m not interested.”

“Really?” Roger asked touching his nose against yours. “Then why do you look like you’re about to kiss me?”

He had you in a fix. The only way out was to give in to him. But your surroundings were painfully obvious to you, and if the rest of your night was going to go how you thought it was, then you wanted to make sure you were in private. Away from prying eyes.

“I could make you melt just like that,” Roger goaded with a click of his fingers.

“You weren’t saying that in the showers the other day. How long did it take you to get yourself off after I left? Seconds, I take it?”

“You bitch.”

Pulling yourself away from him, you could see the cogs in Roger’s brain inventing something more impactful to say to get you to climb down. Or climb into bed with him. You weren’t about to keep him hanging any longer. “Do you really want to see how bitchy I can be?”

Roger stared at your lips, licking his own. “Ok?"

Checking your surroundings one last time, you grabbed Roger’s arm, pulling him through the throng towards the door with more momentum than a gunshot.

You kept your heads down, bursting out on to the street.

The hotel was only a block away, so the pair of you power walked, arm in arm with your heads down so that no one would notice either of you. It felt like the longest journey of your life.

Opening the door to your hotel room and you both stepped inside. You folded your arms, sizing him up.

He stood in the middle of the room, gormless and wracked with nerves, waiting for you to take the lead. It was as though being alone with you made Roger's bravado melt away into nothing.

“Do you really think I look good in this?” you cooed.

“You look so beautiful,” Roger admitted.

He couldn’t even look at you. Rather, his eyes were glued to his pink, sparkly shoes as they drew circles in the carpet with the tip of his toe.

“Are you sure this isn’t hurting your chances, though?”

Roger’s head shot up. “What?”

“You being here?” you prodded, folding your arms and circling him.

“No one needs to know,” Roger shrugged, trying to play it cool.

The tension in your stomach reached boiling point, hearing that. If Roger really wanted you to be his dirty little secret, you were going to play just as dirty. “Take off all your clothes.”

“What?” Roger asked, taken aback.

“If you ‘what’ me one more time, I’m not going to give you what you want.”

Roger didn’t need to be told twice. He kept his stare low, never once planting his eyes on you. He shrugged his decadent embellished blazer down his shoulders, and his fingers nimbly undid the buttons on his pinstripe shirt. He flicked his shoes off. Then he hesitated on the fly of his jeans.

“All of it,” you dictated.

He swallowed hard, pulling off his jeans.

“Even your underwear.”

Roger looked at you, wordlessly protesting your directions. His arms wrapped around his torso, shielding him from the cold air in the room.

“You were the one who wanted me to show you how much of a bitch I can be. We haven’t even got started, Princess.” You moved closer to him, caressing his chest. “And besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Roger signed, realising what he needed to do to get what he wanted and pulled down his briefs.

You groaned to yourself in satisfaction, seeing what your minimal amount of teasing was doing to him. “I think you were lying about me having less sex appeal than Elton's backside. Was that all a ruse, Princess?” you remarked, stroking his throbbing length.

Roger didn’t care, trying to focus on not falling apart under your touch.

You were determined to make that troublesome for him.

“I’m going to show you exactly what I think of you,” you warned, spreading drops of precum over his cock.

Too deep in his own head, Roger couldn’t hear a word of what you were telling him as he rolled his head back, dragging up images of what he so desperately wanted to do to you. The nerves and fear kept him from going any further. He just stood there, relishing the feeling of your hand as it worked up and down every inch of his shaft. He was enjoying this far too much for your liking.

“I think you like it when I do this to you, Princess,” you suggested. “Do you like it?” It still fell on deaf ears. Annoyed with Roger’s lack of focus, you ran your fingers through his hair. Just long enough for him to nestle against your hand, like a lazy cat, begging to be petted. And then you grasped a handful of those long, blonde locks, tugging sharply.

A shrill, pained whine escaped Roger as his eyes flew open in fright. “What was that for?!”

“Answer me when I speak to you,” you commanded.

Roger rubbed the source of the pain, blinking. “What was the question again?”

Giving up, you withdrew your other hand from his cock. A look of frustration bled across Rogers features as he moved to cover himself with his arms. You pointed towards the bed, backing away from him. “Bend over. I’m going to teach you how to listen.”

Roger’s mouth popped open as he slinked across the room to the foot of the bed, bending over at the waist. “Like this?” he asked.

“Exactly like that,” you said. “Now, stay there.”

A thick, black leather belt lay at the top of your open suitcase. You wore it daily, and over time it had softened, but it was perfect. You picked it up, wrapping it around your hand as you moved behind Roger.

He clung to the sheets with his eyes trained forward. In his anticipation, his hips swayed from side to side. The sight of it left you unable to resist giving his skin a series of open-handed smacks that made him hide his face in the covers.

“Is that too much for you, Princess?” you teased.

Roger was back on the defensive; his form stiffened as he raised his head. “No!”

“Good,” you sang, running your fingertips over the strap. “Because we’re just getting started.”

“What are you going to do to-”

An abrupt, sharp snap cut him off, substituting his question with a yelp. He hopped from foot to foot, trying to process the pain that had been bestowed upon him, but it was no good. No sooner had he caught up, but you had already struck his behind again and dug your fingers into his hair, leaning in to speak directly into his ear.

“Now, we’re going to have a little bit of fun, Princess. I’m going to show you what happens when boys like you mess with me. You’re going to beg for my forgiveness. And then, when I’m completely convinced you’re sorry, I might do something to take care of that constant hard-on of yours. Do you understand?”

Roger struggled against your hold on his hair to turn his head. He looked at you in wonder, as if this was the first time a woman had dared confront him. It was if all his Christmases had come at once. “I understand.”

You almost felt sorry for him, thinking about what you had in store for him. But deep down you knew he deserved it. And you knew he wanted it. Getting to your feet again, you glanced down at his pale skin, streaked pink from the two blows you had previously dealt him. “If it gets too much for you, what’s your safe word?”

Roger had to think about that, darting his eyes left and right. “Um… Pineapple?”

You smirked, resting the strap against Rogers back and watching him squirm. “Pineapple it is.”

“Wait,” Roger said, just as you were lifting the strip of leather. “Do you want me to count? I-I’m good at that!”

“Nope.” You brought the belt down on to his cheeks sending another smack echoing through the room. “I want you to apologise.”

Roger, was infuriatingly quiet. Even though you weren’t holding back, he never made a peep. You had mentally counted twenty strokes - a number even you couldn’t handle. You had to talk yourself out of respecting him for that. “Are you alright, Princess?” you asked, reaching forward to stroke his mane.

“I’m getting there,” he sighed, wiggling his bottom enticingly. He sounded delirious. “Am I being good now?”

The way he said that hit you like a bolt out of the blue. It was strangely endearing. “No, Princess, you’ve been bad, remember?” you reminded, snapping the belt against the back of his thighs. “I don’t hear you apologising.”

"Maybe if you hit me harder, I might."

Your grip on his hair tightened, pulling his head back, “What was that, Princess?”

“Maybe you should hit me harder,” he repeated, louder this time.

He had a point, but something didn’t add up. His face was flushed, and his eyes were so glassy that you questioned his inability to acknowledge the punishment you were doling out to him. You reasoned that his pride had everything to do with how quiet he was being.

So you sent the belt cracking down on his ass again. “I know you can feel that you little shit,” you hissed, wrapping his hair around your fist to force his gaze forward. Your smacks were so unrelenting that Roger quickly began to writhe and squirm below you. “Are you fucking sorry? Hm? I could do this all evening, and you won’t be able to sit right for a week after this. Go on, I want you begging.”

Roger’s resolve started to crack around strike number forty. His entire backside had been struck raw, and you genuinely feared for his ability to sit behind a drum kit for the remainder of the tour. He stuck his arms out in front of himself, hissing at the searing pain. “I’m sorry,” he whined, his voice low and trembling.

At first, you didn’t hear him, continuing to spank him. But he piped up again.

“I’m sorry!”

His body was heavy, slumping to his knees when he was sure he had caught your attention.

Giving him a reprieve, you turned him by his shoulders to look up at you. His skin was soaked, and his chest heaved, and you were convinced that real tears were forming in the corners of his eyes.

Passing the belt through your hands, you raised an eyebrow. “Are you really?”

Roger nodded, sighing deeply. His arms were spread out at either side of him as he drifted back. “Yes. I'm so sorry.”

You took a step back, getting a better look at Roger. He looked utterly hopeless but equally as enticing. “Princess,” you said, snapping your fingers. He looked at you from beneath his eyelashes. Beckoning him forward, you gave him your next instruction. “Come here and kneel at my feet.”

It was the lewdest thing you had ever seen. The most handsome man you had ever seen, crawling on all fours across the room, coming to rest at your feet. Like an obedient puppy, eager to please its master, he gazed up at you. The amount of venom you had grown so accustomed to seeing in him whenever he looked at you had dissipated entirely.

“Are you ready to show me how sorry you are?”

With a coy look on his face, Roger responded: “yes, Boss.”

You loved that term. ‘Boss.’ So much that it earned Roger a ruffle of his hair. “Now, you’re not allowed to touch me just yet, Princess,” you warned, backing away to unzip your dress.

Roger’s eyes were fixed on you as he sat on his knees, waiting patiently for you to shed your clothes. He ached to have you, fumbling his hands in his lap while you shimmied the tight, crimson fabric down your curves. His cock was still begging for release. You could see that much, even with his hands partially covering it.

“And you’re most certainly not allowed to touch yourself until I tell you,” you scolded, unclasping your bra.

Roger made it clear that he had no plans to, dropping his hands down by his sides. Instead, he opted to dig his teeth down into his lip. He was practically panting as your underwear slipped down to your ankles.

“Do you like what you see?” you asked.

Roger’s mouth was agape, unable to respond.

When you sashayed his way, he instinctively moved into your path, filled with the hope of being able to finally touch you.

But his hopes were dashed when you bypassed him and settled on the edge of the bed.

Once again, you clicked your fingers, pointing at the floor in front of you. “If only those groupies of your’s could see how pathetic you are right now, Princess,” you began, pushing back rogue strands of his hair. “You’re so obedient for me. You’d do anything for me right now, wouldn’t you?” you asked, trailing your finger over Roger’s jawline.

“Yes.”

“I think you should call me Boss,” you prompted.

“Yes, Boss.”

You could feel how agitated Roger was becoming.

He was so close to you, he swore he could smell your arousal. His prize, mere inches away from his face.

Finally, you pulled him into you by his hair.

“Show me how sorry you are.”

[4/4]

You and Roger stayed silent, waiting for the lift to the lobby. Your bandmates were already down there, enjoying breakfast and you couldn't wait to join them. Anything was better than the agitated awkwardness between you and Roger.

You hoped that last night might have cleared the air between you, but it had the opposite effect. You knew that when you woke up in an empty bed.

You both stared ahead, waiting for the doors to ding open. Roger folded his arms, blowing a strand of his hair up into the air. You danced from foot to foot, with your hands thrust into the pockets of your jacket.

It felt like an age before the doors slid apart. Both of you rushed forward, only for your bodies to collide. “Sorry,” Roger grumbled, moving aside. “After you.”

The journey from the fifteenth floor, down to the first, seemed even longer as you stood on opposite sides, the whimsical elevator music occupying the silence. You prayed someone would get in and join you around floor seven when Roger dared to glance at you. But you were granted no such luck. Instead, Roger’s lips were moving before you knew it, a heavy, annunciated, “don’t you dare breathe a word to anyone,” seething from them.

You gave a flippant nod, smirking. “How’s your arse?”

“I mean it,” Roger added, his eyes manic as the lift reached the bottom of the shaft. “And my arse is fine. The lotion helped. Thank you.”

“Good.”

All of your bandmates had assembled in a faraway corner of the dining room. Even from that far off, they filled the room with excited chatter and hilarity, earning them disapproving looks from the other guests. All despite the hangovers they were undoubtedly nursing. Like every other morning.

And then they clocked you and Roger.

From one end of the table to the other, silence fell when you sat down. You squeezed in beside Brian and Deacy. “Don’t stop on our account,” you quipped, throwing a napkin over your lap.

Roger picked a space opposite you, between Steve and Freddie, grimacing as he lowered himself on to the seat.

“Roger’s clearly had a rough evening,” Deacy chuckled from behind his hand.

You cursed underneath your breath when Roger’s features darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“I’m just saying, whoever did you last night must have been pretty rough with you,” Deacy explained. “How big was he?”

Tugging your lower lip between your teeth, you rolled your eyes. The jig was up. And they knew everything.

“Right boys - and girl,” John - Queen’s manager - announced, waltzing over to the table, “the buses are loaded up. Let’s get to Edinburgh.”

Everyone around you got up and filed out of the room. Except for Roger. His eyes were glued to you. You hung back until he got to his feet and you left the dining room together, staying out of earshot of the others. “I mean it,” he muttered, lighting a smoke. “If you breathe a word of this to them-”

“Roger! For the last time, I’m not going to say anything.”

Roger paused in the middle of the lobby, turning to face you. His cheeks were flushed, and his nostrils flared. He wasn’t in a joking mood. “Why do I get the feeling they know?”

“Because you’re a lousy actor,” you jibed, slapping his side.

He seized your wrist, leaning into you, “They can't know about us.”

“So we’re back to this?” you asked, widening your eyes and challenging his stance. “Remember what happened last night because of that mouth of yours.”

Roger huffed, storming off. He knew you had beat him. This time.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From the side of the stage, you watched as Roger wandered towards his kit, throwing a glance over his shoulder at you. He hovered over his stool for a second, eyes down, as if he was mentally attempting to navigate the best way to tackle the situation. Until, finally, he bit the bullet and plonked himself down with an audible grunt.

Entertained, you grinned, trying to cover your mouth with the cuff of your jacket.

Like a well-oiled machine, Queen’s soundcheck didn’t take long. Towards the end of their run-through, you stalked through Roger’s band members and stopped in front of him. His face was etched with discomfort with every little move he made. He tried to relieve the pain by sucking on a cigarette, but every twist and turn of his body had his eyes squeezing closed. In the back of your mind, you knew he deserved this after everything he said about you. But you just couldn’t help yourself.

“Need me to rub more of that lotion on that bum of yours, Rogie?” you cooed.

Roger threw away his smoke and glared at you. Then he spat a venomous, “fuck off,” before continuing into Queen’s next track.

Not wanting to rub salt into Roger’s wounds any longer, you got on your way. Back to your dressing room, to tart yourself up for the night ahead. Your thoughts turned to what you would wear tonight; how you might do your hair and your make up. And how you were sick of those platform boots - an integral part of your nightly getup. Your feet ached just thinking about having to wear those for another show. Your poor arches deserved a rest.

So immersed in your own mind, you hadn’t noticed the rapid footsteps echoing through the hallway. Or the fact that the music from the stage had ceased. Not until someone grabbed your arm and spun you around.

Roger.

He looked around before leaning in close. “What the hell were you thinking? Anyone could have heard you out there.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of nerves flood your stomach. “I couldn’t resist, you just looked so adorable up there.”

Roger pushed you against the wall. He wasn’t playing games anymore. “I know why you do this. You’re so fucking insecure you need to control everything.”

You could feel your cheeks flush. Roger was turning the tables on you, and you were so helpless to stop him. You tried to explain. “Roger I-”

“I think you’d look amazing on your knees, by the way,” Roger added, loosening his grip.

How could he get to you? Just like that?

Roger traced his thumb across your lower lip.“A mouthful of cock, and that mascara running down those cheeks,” he continued, pinching your cheek. “You could be gorgeous if you weren’t such a bitch.”

Batting away Roger’s wrist, a pang of hurt seared through you. You had to get away from him.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It played on your mind all night. The feeling that you had finally got somewhere with Roger. You might finally be scratching the surface.

But then he made it personal.

Maybe he was right, though? Maybe you were insecure? Maybe you always had to be in control?

He was right.

The music in the bar blared so loudly that the bass pounded through your chest. The air hung so thick that it made breathing near impossible. The only thing you could focus on was the tequila and Roger. A glorious sense of masochism kept you firmly planted on your seat, preventing you from leaving. What else could you do? Go back to the hotel and think about Roger?

Downing another shot, you slumped over the bar. You had lost count of how many of those little blighters coursed through your system, but, studying the shot glass between your fingers in the dim purple haze, you concluded that it still wasn’t enough.

So you bought the whole bottle, carelessly pouring yourself another line of them.

“Rough night?” a voice asked from the stool next to you.

You were ready to blurt out a scathing response. Until you realised it was Roger, looking tired and bedraggled. He looked good, though, as always. Your mouth just hung open, no sound coming out of it.

“I was really harsh earlier-”

Before Roger could finish his apology, you cemented your lips to his own. Your tongue bypassed them as it skirted over his. He tasted like tequila and cigarettes, and you couldn’t get enough of him, pulling him closer, tugging at his hair. He gave a muffled groan, pushing you off him by your shoulders.

“What was that for?” he sighed.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your chest burdened with nerves.

Roger pondered that for a split second, nodding to himself. “Alright.” Then his attention turned back to you, with an expression so laden with lust it almost made your heart stop. “Let’s go back to my room.”

The second the door to Roger’s suite closed, you had him pressed to the wall. Shedding his coat. Then his shirt. Moving closer to the floor until you were on your knees. The excitement had gone straight to his cock, which strained against his jeans just inches from your face. You wasted no time in tugging down his zipper and wrapping your hand around his girth. Impressive, you thought. He was bigger, thicker than you remembered from last night.

Roger watched in quiet awe as your gazed up at him, licking a long strip over the underside of his cock, dancing the tip of your tongue over the swollen head.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” you admitted. A surge of shame and need coursed through you, leaning forward to take as much of him as you possibly could, working your way up to a pace that earned you hushed, contented sighs from Roger.

His hand gently tangled through your hair, taking you with him as he supported himself against the wall. “You look so fucking beautiful,” he groaned.

It was exactly what you needed to hear. You sank back on your knees, pumping your hand around Roger’s cock. A broad smile broke over your features, gazing up at him, “do you really think I’m beautiful?”

“So beautiful,” he replied, running his fingers through your hair. “But I love that gorgeous mouth of yours the most. Let me see what you can do with it,” he encouraged, guiding you back to his cock.

You duly complied. Taking so much of him made tears sting at the corner of your eyes, gagging desperately. But something willed you on. The heat between your legs grew. You just wanted to please him, and to have him say sweet things to you.

But it was no good.

Something about it didn’t sit right with Roger. “Kitten?” he said, trying to back away from you, the wall getting in his way. "Kitten?"

When it was clear that had fallen on deaf ears, he had to tear you away from him, placing his fingers under your chin to look at him again. “This doesn’t feel right,” he sighed, before wandering away from you.

You turned around, following him with your eyes across the room from your spot on the floor. The tears were flowing from embarrassment more than anything now. “What’s wrong, Roger?”

He sat down at the edge of the bed, patting the space beside him. “You’re not yourself.”

It took every bit of energy you could muster to scramble to your feet and stumble over to him.

But it was worth it, throwing yourself down beside him and nestling into his chest. “You’ve been a prick to me all day,” you sulked, trying to focus on how good he smelled. How soothing the gentle rise and fall of his body felt around you. How warm he was. Bliss.

Roger placed a firm kiss to the top of your head. “You haven’t even given me a chance to apologise for that.”

That earned him a glare from you.

“What happened to that strong badass babe from last night, hm?” he asked, giving your shoulder a shake. “I quite liked it when you were in charge. I’m not used to it, sure, but I liked it. And I'm sorry I snapped at you. I just don't want everyone knowing my business before I've even figured it all out yet. It's confusing for me.”

“You just don’t have to be a total prick about it. I know we agreed that no one can know, but I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with you.”

“I’d rather you were coming,” Roger chuckled.

“I'm serious,” you huffed, flopping on to your back.

Roger turned on to his tummy and took your hand. His eyes closed as he peppered delicate kisses across your knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

You sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “What you said to me earlier. About me being insecure. You really hit the nail on the head. But sometimes, I don’t feel like… you know… That person you think I am.”

“How about,” Roger began hiking himself up on to his elbows. His eyes narrowed, at a loss for the right thing to tell you.

“How about what?” You asked, curling strands of his hair through your fingers.

Roger sighed, smirking. “I think that’s why you and I found each other.” He gave the mattress a quick swat. “How about that?”

You covered your eyes, grinning. “What does that even mean, Roger?”

“Well, I clearly need someone to keep me in check. And I know you’ve got it in you.”

“Have you even been listening to me?”

“Yes!”

“Did you hear the part about me not always being like that?”

Roger crawled on top of you. The light from the crystal chandelier formed a halo around him. “But I can make you feel like that person,” he beamed so innocently, it almost made you melt. “I’ll worship you day and night if I have to.” He paused, pursing his lips. “In secret, of course. We've both got appearances to maintain.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re not exactly a good old fashioned lover boy.”

He leaned down, kissing the tip of your nose. “But I could be, Kitten.”

That made your heart flutter. "I quite like that."

#roger taylor x reader #roger taylor #queen

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