#rogertaylorxreader

Pairing: Roger Taylor x reader, Brian May x reader

Summary: The year is 1981 and Roger Taylor is pretty sure he has made it. With the Game Tour stretching out before him and the band more successful than ever, he doesn’t think that anything can mess up the perfect picture that is his life. That is, until he receives a letter from an astrophysics PhD student studying abroad, and finds himself sucked into her world of secrets and mistaken identities. Roger Taylor is about to find out that his life is a lot more complicated than he ever thought.

Wordcount: 2392 (getting longer!). 

Warnings: I just love Roger Taylor a lot, okay? 

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An hour after Brian had left, Roger was still finishing up. Bags all around him on the bottom step of the never-ending flight of stairs that lead down from their apartment, he was making sure he took as much time as he could. He was late already, so he might as well be later. It annoyed Brian and he knew it - all those threats and empty promises of kicking Roger out of the band if he wasn't get to the tour bus on time weren't entirely lost on him, just had the wrong effect.

With that last thought of Brian's agitated face in mind, and the wonderful mental image of him pacing to and fro in front of the bus the way he probably was right now, Roger dropped off the last of his bags by the door, and made his way over to the little metal letter-boxes with the apartment numbers on the front. He had never really done this kind of dull domestic thing before, truth be told, and it took him a moment to pick out their box from the rows and rows stacked on top of each other. Brian was much more domestic than he had ever been, and on a nicer day he might have admitted that he could not live without him. But this was not that kind of day, and Roger Taylor was not in that kind of mood.

There were the usual parcels and notices - a wedding invitation from one of Brian's friends, a just-saying-hi letter from Tim Staffell like there was every week (Roger never read them but he knew that Brian did), a couple of bills and an advertisement for a recording studio nearby. He kept that one, put it in his pocket to show the others if he ever decided to show up at the bus as he knew he had to soon. And then at the bottom another envelope, small and neat. He picked it up, looked a little closer at the name written on the front in neat cursive script. The right house number, absolutely not the right name. Some guy called Ben, probably someone who lived somewhere downstairs. Probably the new guy, but Roger had no idea which number he was. He cast a momentary glance at all the letter-boxes in front of him, wondered whether he had the time or the patience to go through each one and look for names. True to his character and to the extraordinary number he saw, he did not.

There was a moment or two when he had to stand and think things through. The letter had been sent to the wrong address. But what to do when you had nowhere to send it to? Leave it on the side and hope for the best? Probably not a good idea - he had had a suspicion people were stealing Queen's mail for a while now, best not to put the idea to the test when this wasn't even his letter. Find Ben? God knows how many Ben's there must be in this building, and Roger was finally coming around to the idea that sooner or later he really had to get to the bus or else they might send Brian back to drag him there by brute force. What a comically horrifying thought.

So it was without much internal conflict that Roger slipped the letter into the pocket of his coat, with the advert for the studio, and locked up the letter-box once again. He could always open it and find out who had written it, maybe write back to the address it was sent from, just to explain. He figured they ought to know, at least. And it didn't seem like there were a lot of better options opening themselves up before him. Yes, he would read it as soon as they set off, get something back quickly and have no more to do about it. Or at least, so he resolved as he found his bags again, the thought already fading into the chaos of his mind, the prospect of the tour bleeding through in its place until he had almost forgotten about the letter entirely, standing by the worn front door.

With a final sigh and a grunt as he hoisted his bags onto his back once more, Roger left the building through the front door and made his way finally to the tour bus. It had to leave soon, and he was very very late.

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It was only that night, with the sun long since set and the others recently gone to bed, that Roger remembered the letter. He cursed quietly in the silence of the bed at the back of the tour bus, muttering something about the scrabble they had been playing all afternoon while the bus drove on to god knows where, and tried once more to close his eyes and fall asleep. Once more he was unsuccessful. Eyes closed and breathing slowed, the thought of the address came flooding back into his mind, insidious and unshakeable as a curse. He really had to read it now, because he was getting the idea that he could not sleep if he didn't.

He sat up, pressing his shaking hands against his thighs to steady them as he shivered in the cool night air. For the life of him he could not remember when July had got so cold. Groping around in the moonlight for his coat, he took out the letter from the pocket, straightened it out. Such pretty handwriting for someone who didn't know how a fucking address worked.

Dear Ben...

The silence in the tour bus lasted an eternity while he read, his lips moving gently as he murmured the words back to himself. From time to time he looked up from the page, lips quirking up into a soft half-smile as the words pulled him into their funny little world that he knew nothing about. And yet he had never felt as though he knew someone so well. It was almost too intimate, for a moment he had to stop and wonder if he was really doing the right thing. This was a moment when the curtain was ripped aside momentarily, and through the gap he caught a glimpse of someone else living a life that was so different to his own. He felt as though he were walking into a cinema halfway through a film, picking up a character from all the scraps of words they let him see. He could not look away if he tried.

When at last the words ran out at the bottom of the page, he blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness that seemed to have wrapped itself around him while he was unaware. How to tell this girl, (Y/N), that he wanted to, needed to, know more. There was something so addictive about this boring little life she lead, where the pigeons outside her window got more action than her. Roger could never understand what that was like.

Making sure not to wake the others as they sprawled out on the beds along the bus, Roger found the little scrabble table, the pencils and paper they used to score. He took a clean sheet and tried to write.

Dear (Y/N) (Y/L/N),

I must preface this letter with the sincere apology that I am not, in fact, Ben. Not through some lack of effort of yours, I am sure, this letter was addressed to entirely the wrong person, and has reached myself instead of whoever it was intended to go to. Which is fine - I certainly enjoyed reading your letter, and in fact I should hate to leave this here. You seem to lead such a more exciting life than I do!

I wish I could understand your PhD woes, really, but it is my primary flaw that I was never the most academic of all my friends. If I could do what you are doing, I would, but the problem is I just can't. I fear I would die of boredom and stress from the very get-go, and that would be a rather unfortunate situation for everyone involved, I fear. Still, I have no doubt that, whatever it is you are studying, you are coping brilliantly (albeit complainingly!). It seems I must rely upon you to live out vicariously my dreams of doing anything vaguely intellectual successfully; I hope you do not mind!

You've made me quite frantic just reading about your late night habits, my love! He's probably right, you know - you really ought to get some sleep. One of my mates keeps going on about something like that ("self care" apparently, which sounds a lot like bullshit but it seems I'll be preaching it now like the utter hypocrite that I am) to me, which of course I have never listened to because I have a horrible habit of never actually listening to my mates, but I think you need some of that. Not that you're going to listen to me. Not that you should listen to me. My advice is terrible. Just ignore me, I'm having an internal crisis here.

New York is indeed very... different to what we are used to. I used to hate it there because all I could associate it with was travelling and being away from home, but now I suppose I don't mind as much. I'm more used to travelling now. Not that that's an especially bad thing. New York does have nicer diners, and the accent makes me laugh more than I really ought to. I lose my shit every time someone orders a coffee like that. Good on your pigeons though - maybe not so good on you but good on them all the same. At least they're having a nice time. Well, at least the male pigeon is. And they say romance is dead.

How must you live without a radio? I think I would keel over and die immediately without my music. I wouldn't tell it to my friends (they'd call me a right wuss and I fear I haven't the stability of ego to withstand such a low blow) but I sometimes think my soul is made of music. That band thing sounds interesting! Maybe you should go along just in case - see if you like them. I hear they're fantastic.

Roger didn't comment on the last half of that paragraph. Something in it made him feel like he was standing in someone else's place, reading something he was never meant to see. Something he would never share, because no one had ever said those kind of things to him before. He wondered if that was love, and hoped it wasn't. He'd like to think that he had been loved before, and he knew that he had never been loved quite like this.

You know I have to ask - who on earth are Lennon and McCartney? Please god don't tell me you have half of the Beatles living in your apartment or else I really must find out who you might possibly be. Princess Bride with the Beatles... what a thought. I've never seen it - I think I should have but I haven't. Nothing personal, not really, I've just never been the sort for sappy romance films. All that nonsense about "true love" and "happily ever after", I'd feel like a 9-year-old girl with a crush. It's all just a scam, really. No way that kind of thing isn't all made up. No way at all.

A wedding? Wow, sounds nice. Sorry, I'm just not used to that kind of thing. What do you even say to it? Congratulations on not having broken up by now? Good luck doing the same things you were doing before you got married but with extra legal bindings? I can't wait until you have kids and our friendship becomes second to them? Not for me, no sir. Not for anyone like me either. Just not ideal exactly in this line of work. Think I'll have to stick with being forever alone, eh? But congratulations (or something like that) to your brother and his... spouse.

Thank you again for brightening up my boring little day, and I hope you write again "as you wish",

Anon.

He didn't sign his name at the bottom - he thought perhaps it might be better to let her form her own opinions of him in her own time, instead of telling her straight away. It wouldn't let out his address, he promised himself as he slumped forwards against the table, head in his hands. Now that that was done, he suddenly felt so dreadfully tired, and he knew his sleep would only be plagued by thoughts of this mystery girl. For there was that smaller part of him, deep down in the pit of his chest where he thought his heart must be, that whispered to him that he did not want her to know who he was because for the first time in his life he had found someone who might like him for something other than that name. He found something that might stick around.

There were no envelopes in the van, and he made a quick promise to find one at the hotel the next morning, and send it out straight away, so she got the letter as quickly as possible. To send something to her boyfriend, he thought. And then, to send something to me. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he tucked the letter away in the pocket of his jeans, sleeping in his clothes as he had taken to doing on tour, and picked his way silently back to his bed. 

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It was not hard to see that Roger Taylor had something to hide. Not when he broke away from the rest of the band the minute they had arrived at the hotel, not when he begged for half an hour in his room before they went out to check out the venue, and definitely not when out of the window John caught a glimpse of their drummer rushing off to the letter-box on the corner of the street, in his hand an envelope and in the envelope god knows what. 

Taglist:

Roger Taylor X Fem!Reader

Summary: Roger has been staying over at Brian’s flat whilst Queen record A Day At The Races because Y/N and Rog’s flat is a little further away from the recording studio. The two have been having trouble sleeping without each other, when Y/N comes to visit the studio her and Roger end up falling asleep.

Warnings: Just all complete fluff so :)

A/N: Hey guys! I’m back! Sorry its been so long, I’ve got some new stories lined up to post but this was my favourite that I’ve written. Thank you all for the great feedback on my Joe Mazzello fic <3

For the past few weeks your boyfriend Roger had been staying at Brain’s flat whilst him and the band record their new album A Day At The Races. You on the other hand opted to stay at yours and Rogers shared flat because it was closer to work for you. Though being away from Roger did cause some problems, you weren’t sleeping well without him next to you. You were getting around 3 hours of sleep at the max and that wasn’t coinciding with your job and the amount of work you had piling up. Roger was just the same, catching just over 3 hours of sleep each night then having to go to the recording studio at ridiculous times of the morning to start his day of work. The two of you were exhausted and wanted nothing more then to just curl up in each others arms and sleep the day away. For the first time in weeks you managed to convince your boss to let you have the day off so you could go and spend time with Roger and you couldn’t be more happy.

“Hey Brian!” You said excitedly as you bounded into the recording studio.

“Hello Y/N, nice to see you. Rog here hasn’t stopped complaining about not being able to see you.” Brain greeted you with a smile and a hug.

“Is that so Bri? Talking of the devil, where is he?” You asked returning the hug.

“He’s in the booth now, he’ll be delighted to see you.” Brain said leading you toward where both Freddie and John sat watching your boyfriend drumming away in the recording booth.

“Y/N! Darling! How have you been? It’s been a little while my dear. You look fantastic!” Freddie got up and engulfed you in a big bear hug.

“Hi Fred! I missed you and you look bloody gorgeous as always.” You giggled as he returned to his seat.

“Hey Deaky.” You waved at the more reserved one of the group, offering him a soft smile.

“Hey Y/N, how have you been?” John asked as you took a seat next to the shy man.

“I’ve been great th-” 

The recording booths door swung open to reveal your very sweaty boyfriend.

“Y/N?!” He asked almost in disbelief that you were sat only a few feet in front of him.

“Hello Rog.” You smiled at him. Before you had a chance to do anything you were attacked by the man you chose to call your boyfriend.

“I missed you so much!” He mumbled into your shoulder. You felt the sofa get slightly light and saw John move over next to Brain, the three of them had smiles on their faces as they looked at you two.

“I missed you too Rog.” You smiled into the crook of his neck and ran your free hand through his hair. It felt so nice to have him back in your arms. You two fitted together like puzzle pieces.

“I thought you had work today?” He asked moving into a more comfortable position, looking at you with the same tired eyes which matched yours.

“Managed to convince Ali to let me have a day off, that in itself was tiring.” You let out a soft laugh. The two of you let a simple but comforting conversation flow as Freddie, Brian and John got back to work leaving you guys alone. As the conversation went on, you got increasingly tired and it was getting harder to keep your eyes open. After awhile you stopped getting detailed replies from Roger and just got the occasional hum out of him but when you finished your sentence you heard Roger’s soft snores. Looking up at him, he had his eyes closed, mouth slightly agape and breathing gentle. He looked incredibly peaceful and you couldn't help but feel slightly jealous. You quietly repositioned yourself and drifted off too. When the boys came back, they expected to see the two of you running around and being loud as usual, what they didn’t expect to find was you and Roger cuddled together completely passed out.

“I’m so happy that man is finally sleeping.” Brain whispered to his other bandmates.

“Why?” Freddie asked.

rating: fluff ! evocation of sexual act ?

Please be indulgent ! That’s my first “fic” and english is not my native language !

(thanks to my school friend for the correction !)

It was an unusual morning, and light filled the room. The blanket was soflty creased against your skin. Next to you, a man was still asleep.

“Hi honey...” you whispered camly.

The blonde groaned, head in the pillow. He turned to face you and a small grin appeared on his face. His blue eyes staring at you.

“Hey babe.”

His scent was just a mix of cigarettes, and alcohol. The previous night was back in your mind. You were a longtime friend of Smile members. Roger, Brian, Fred and, newly, John were here, outside of the van, smoking softly, joking about how people were not flirting with you. It is true, you are not a loverboy, as Rog’. You’ve always loved being alone and peaceful, while the guys were always chatting around with girls.

Roger and Brian were so different this night, you thought. They were cold to each other and remained silent. Usually Brian was around Rog’, teasing him jokingly. You were not paying attention to it. Surely a fight about music, or something close. Later, after the show, Roger was punching Brian in the face, while the guitarist was cursing. He was yelling at Roger. You ran between them, separating each other. Roger was bleeding. His hands were bleeding. Brian was holding his own cheek, frowning, calming his nerves on the fact that Freddie just came in the room. You were holding Roger’s hands, panic-striken. His hands would not be able to play tomorrow. Fuck.

“What the hell? Why were you yelling at each other lovey?” Fred asked to Brian.

“Roger fuckin’ Meddows wanted to.. “ His words stopped as he looked at you. His eyes were lost in yours a second, and his mouth began again. “He wanted to date her.” You turned red imediatly, a step back from Roger. What ?  “.... He would have thrown her, after... y’know.”

“NOT TRUE BRIAN” Roger was yelling again, with his raspy voice. You could tell the blonde was blushing a little bit.

Fred glanced at you and you pulled Roger by his collar. You just looked at the van, suggesting him to go in it. He was doing it, and you followed him. After the door was close, the drummer looked at you. His eyes were lost in his mind, far away. You felt suddenly the door against your back. He was pressing you against it.

“Bloody bastard” you sighed. He just grinned and kissed you. You pushed him gently. You were so hot, inside. Your brain was just leaving you, breathless. Your eyes were fixed on his. His beautiful blue eyes.

“Why did you punched Brian ?” you asked softly, holding his chin. Your mind was back. You were holding his bleeding hands, paying attention to not hurt him.

“Because he said that i would have thrown you. That’s not true. I would have never thrown you.” he looked like a worried child. You grabbed soflty his blonde locks and smile at him. “I like you.” he murmurs.

This time, it was you, kissing him. Softly, your lips were brushing his. His hand went on your waist. You said in a low-voice “I like you too.”. A smile brightened his face. His bloody smile. His mouth went down your neck, peppering kisses in it. “And i trust you, Rog’ ”. You exhaled. “I would have let you go the next morning.” He was lowering his mouth on you. Driving his head in your décolleté. You thightenned your grip on his locks and sighed.

“Y’know, even for sex, i would’nt mind.”.

please tell me what you are thinking of it ! sorry again for the mistakes, i’m a french girl! 

Chapter One

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Watching my friend’s band, Smile, play instead of studying my business management is how I always spent my nights.

Sitting alone all in jeans and a shirt with a beer in hand, sitting on a busted stool chair in a loaded pub, listening to all the rude things people have to say. Two thirds of the band was great.

However, the one third, Tyler, was lacking the passion that Roger and Brain had. As there Official, official manger it was my job to make sure they sounded great. However, with Tyler still singing it made it every, every hard.

Once Brian and Roger started to pick up the pace and play a little bit of rock. The crowd start to whistle and cheer. I knew what I had to do to make them stars.

After Smile finished performing, I started walking to the car park to our van.

“Humpy Bong?” “Humpy Bong. Trust me it is going to be big,”

“Humpy Bong! You’re Joking,” “Don’t do this to us,” “Sorry,”

As I walked closer I heard the boys arguing with one another. Hearing the name ‘Humpy Bong’ I started to laugh like a mad women.

“What kind of name is ‘Humpy Bong’?” all eyes were on me as I learned on the side of the van “ The thing only you guys are going to be humping are each other,” I say walking closer to Tyler, Roger and Brain were trying not to laugh.

"Good one Lucinda," Roger mutters.

“Listen I don’t need to hear this kind form a bitch like you,” Tyler spat, picking up his bass guitar, Roger got up to hit Tyler but I put my arm out to stoop him.

“You’ll be sorry!” I yelled at Tyler “We’ll find a better singer and bass player and become the best band in this known planet!” I yell at his retreating form.

Pulling the jacket I wore closer, I sat down in the back of the van with my head in my hands the cool night air blowing my hair slightly.

“What are we going to do?” I think aloud “I think he was right about leaving,” Roger starts tugging his long blond hair “I have better things to do. I can give you their names,” Brian and I give Roger a disgusted look, while Roger took a huff for his cigarette.

A man came and stood in front of us “I enjoyed the show,” the mystery man said “Thank you,” Brain said as Roger nodded along “I’ve been following you for a while actually.

Makes sense for a Dental major,” he said motioning at Roger. “You’re Astrophysicist, aren’t you?” The man said motion to Brain “You’re business management,” finally motioning at me.

“Stalk much?” I ask weirded out, the man just gave me a smile. “Yeah…,” Brain trailed of ignoring my question, “Makes you two the clever ones,” he said talking about Brain and I.

Brain turns to Roger and gives him a smirk “Yeah it does,” “I… Umm… write songs,” The mystery man says digging into his pocket and pulling out a couple of small pieces of paper and handed me the paper I started to look over it while the others talked.

“This are pretty good,” I say aloud smiling at him “Yeah, will you’re five minutes to late,” Roger says “Our lead singer just quit," Brain says sadly.

The man starts to smirk “Well, you’ll need someone new,” “Any ideas,” Brian asks stupidly “Obviously, he means himself,” I think looking at Brain. What about me?” the man in the blue jacket put his hand on his hip and questions “Orr… Not with those teeth mate,” Roger laughs; I elbow him in the ribs and give him a glare.

The man nods sadly and starts to walk away “I know what I’ll do,” The man sings turning around, his black hair swaying as he did. “Where I go feeling,” this person actually was not that bad “I should be doing alright,” Brian looks to me and Roger as the man hits the high notes “Doing alright,” all three sang together. It sounded much better then when they sang with Tyler.

I knew I had to get this guy in the band.

They all start to chuckle “I know I was born with four additional supernumerary incisors,”he states“ More space in my mouth means more range, ”Brain and Roger looks amazed“ How you would like to join the band?” I ask snapping the boys out if there trance “I’ll consider your offer,” the man says coolly, and starts walking off. The guys and I share a glance before Brain starts to nod his head.

A look of realisation appears on his face “Err. Do you play base?” Brain asks “No,” the man replies bluntly still walking off.

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Pairing: Roger Taylor x reader, Brian May x reader

Summary: The year is 1981 and Roger Taylor is pretty sure he has made it. With the Game Tour stretching out before him and the band more successful than ever, he doesn’t think that anything can mess up the perfect picture that is his life. That is, until he receives a letter from an astrophysics PhD student studying abroad, and finds himself sucked into her world of secrets and mistaken identities. Roger Taylor is about to find out that his life is a lot more complicated than he ever thought.

Wordcount: 3507. 

Warnings: Okay so this one is Not Good. Look, I know, you know, we all know. Let’s give me a fucking break, okay? 

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You had been coming up the street, back to your apartment and the comfort of your bed, when the letter came. Leaving the library a little later than usual, you caught the evening post in front of you as you walked, the postman with his shiny bald head and neat uniform driving up beside you, stopping here and there to duck into buildings and empty out his bags. By the time you had got to your apartment block he was already in front of you, opening up the letter-boxes and sifting through his piles and piles of letters. One by one by one, the pile dwindling quickly until at last one went into your box, and then another minute and he was leaving, the front door banging shut behind him. Unlocking your box, you took out the letter, turned it over in your hand.

There was your name on the front, messily written in some strange handwriting that you did not recognise at all. The right apartment address, all the same. And then, in the very corner, the stamp of some hotel address, from where it had been sent. Dover. Why would you be getting a letter from an unknown sender in Dover? You locked up the letter-box and hurried up the stairs to your apartment. Opening the door, you found the apartment all but quiet. At eight thirty on a Friday night you really shouldn't have expected it to be, still you felt your heart sink at the crowds of people in the sitting room, draped all over the sofa and coffee table and spilling out into the kitchen and the bedrooms. You knew better than to try and go into your bedroom - you didn't want to know what you might walk into.

Turning on your heel, you backed out into the corridor, retraced your footsteps down the stairs and through the front door, out onto the street. The light was dimming quickly, the streetlamp on the corner turning on as the night drew in and the warm ebbed from the city that never slept. You were beginning to think you would not either. Under the streetlight there was a bus-stop which was really only a narrow bench and an awning, a poster of the bus-times plastered on the post of the streetlight. Sitting there, you took a deep breath and opened the envelope, closing your eyes and only opening them when you had unfolded the letter in your hands.

Dear (Y/N),

You read it all, and then read it through one more time when you were done, a little surprised and a little more amused. It seemed like a silly thing that you would do, and you might have laughed at yourself if you weren't outside, in public. That might be a bit weird, even by your measures. There was something about it that was so very strange, so very endearing. You felt all at once like you were doing something very secret and very wrong, a dirty secret or a love affair. You had never done this kind of thing before.

When you looked up from the page at last it was all but dark, the street deserted as the last of the students walking home from college had disappeared into the buildings along the way. There was a glow of lamplight from each window opened onto the street, the leaves of the trees painted an ethereal gold. All at once the night was beautiful, New York not so bad. All at once this little letter had made things so very complicated.

You knew this was the end of it. You had written, they had written back. No more to make of it, nothing else you had to say. You'd write to your boyfriend tonight, tell him what a foolish thing you'd done by mistake. By tomorrow morning you'd have forgotten about all of this entirely. Still there was that part of you that buzzed with questions they had left unanswered in one letter that was nowhere near enough. You could not be satisfied, and deep down you knew that this was never going to be only one letter.

Rubbing your tired eyes and standing from your bench, you walked a little way down the street, over to the park a few blocks over that you had coffee in sometimes. You needed to clear your head, you needed to come to your senses. Your head was filling up with thoughts you had never seen coming, never thought you'd have to deal with before, and the truth was you did not have the space. You needed your head for thought of space, for thoughts of astrophysics and houses and rent and employment and affording a plane ticket back to London in four months; not for random letters from strangers in Dover who asked you about your day more than anyone else had this past eight months. After all, it was just a letter. So why did this feel like something so much more?

You looked again at the letter in your hand, the words growing bigger and bigger in your mind until they wrapped around your throat, the insidious promise of something that no one knew that you. The adventure that you had dreamed of when you took girls to the observatory and looked above the line of their lips to the stars that flickered on the ceiling. Oh these letters, oh this person, who was the stars to you with every word they had written. You cursed the words they had not said.

Their questions in their letter - how could you just not answer. How cruel it must be to leave them so unsatisfied. Would that they cared enough to be unsatisfied for you. From the pond in the park, the pigeons rose up into the sky. You would write when you got home.

And then the chill of the night breeze, running its fingertips up your spine, whispering into your skin. The sting of reality creeping back in, and the letter felt heavy in your hand. Was it even any of your business? It had all been some bizarre mistake, all your own fault, and you had dealt with it. You promised yourself that you would have nothing to say, not when each night you passed the hall phone, knew you could not call Ben, your Ben, when there was not a thing that you could say. He always seemed so far away. The pigeons settled back onto the grass, the sound of wings beating the air fading away into the low hum of New York nights. There was a couple on the bench by the waterside; as you passed, you saw their hands together. It had been so long since anyone had held your hand. It had been so long since anyone had asked you about your day.

You wanted to reply. You wanted to know more. You wanted to talk to them again. You wanted to ask the, all those things that they had left unanswered in their letter, because they probably thought that you would leave it there. Strangers who had once had something that for a moment might have tied them together but made no sense anymore. And all the world could know that you should leave it all that way.

Don't reply, don't keep secrets. But:-

Don't you deserve to have this, just this once? One person, one secret. It wasn't like the world would end. It wasn't like you were cheating on anyone. The only person getting hurt was you.

You sank to your knees by the water's edge, took from your pocket the fountain pen and began to write. Writing on the back of their letter, sloppy but you were smiling. You wondered what they must think of you.

Dear Anon. ,

Won't you tell me your name at least? I feel I know so little about you, the poor stranger who now knows all my woes because they had the misfortune of being at the receiving end of my sheer idiocy. That being said, I think I have to agree. I should hate to leave it here too.

And there it was - the final seal. No turning back now. The only way to go was onwards, to do the things you should never do. What would Ben think of you now.

As for that "exciting life" of mine, I can very much assure you that that is entirely untrue. Astrophysics is lovely, but it's not exactly the kind of thing that keeps one going the way that music does. I think if I could do anything at all with my life, I would become a musician. At least that way I could get out of bloody university. Must be nice, all that stuff. I wonder...

Don't do a PhD, it's a lie. Doesn't teach you anything but how to hate something that you thought you could do forever. I love the stars, I love the theories, I love the things I'm learning, I just... I hate having to learn it all. You know what I mean? I should rather hope you didn't die of boredom. It might make our letters a little more strained, I should think. Thank you very much for your delightful vote of confidence in me, telling me that I'm "complaining". I can't quite tell whether to feel insulted or called out! Either way, I shall in turn rely  upon you for my glimpse of reality and whatever it is you do. There. I need you and you say that you need me. I think we have a (strange) arrangement. Still, it occurs to me yet again how unfair it is that you know so much of me, and I nothing at all about you.

Tell me who you are; or if not that, what you do. What keeps you up at night. What do you dream of? What dark secrets have you never told another soul that you must now tell to me, because it is not very likely that we shall meet randomly in the street. I want to know so much about you.

You really must not worry about me, my love. I shall sleep plenty when I am back on my home soil and out of this damn university. Even right now my roommates are holding another party. I know I really shouldn't blame them - it's Friday night, I get it, and I'm glad that they're having their fun, it's just not my scene. I don't know, I've just always been the sort of person to prefer the quiet evenings to the ones with so many other people around. I fear you'll never have met a person as horrifically introverted as me.

I hope you do not blame me for this, but I really must agree with your friend. You say that Ben is right about me, but your friend is not wrong about you either! We may both be hypocrites together, for it seems that you will not rest until I get some sleep, and I will not sleep until you get some rest. Checkmate, dear. I know for a fact that I should not listen to you, a stranger in Dover writing me one letter when a mistake of mine has inconvenienced him, still I think you know I always will. Your advice may be terrible indeed, still it cannot be any worse than my own.

Get some sleep. Take care of yourself. (My wonderful words of wisdom).

Are you away from home a lot? I should hate that. You are free to call me a terribly boring creature of habit (for that is exactly what I am), still I cannot bear to be away from my home; my cats; my bookcase. I won't lie, the books are most of it. I am a bit of a nerd. I must make myself content with all the stories you must have. All the wonderful places you have been; the people you have seen. I want to know everything about it. You must have the most incredible of lives.

New York is getting better now that I am learning to see it the way you do. The diners, the people, definitely the accent. I am particularly fond of the accent. I shouldn't laugh at my roommates, but that doesn't mean that I don't. It's just so very endearing! I wonder what is the sound of your voice. I love to read your words. I think I should love to hear you say them even more. Then at least it will not feel as though we are on opposite sides of the Earth.

I am afraid to say that tonight I cannot hear our beloved pigeon orgy while I am writing to you - as I have mentioned, I have been quite driven out of our apartment by the party that's positively raging there by now. You must not laugh at me when I tell you that I am writing to you from the park on the corner. I like to sit by the lake when I am thinking, and I suppose this means you make me thoughtful. I shall let you wonder whether I am thinking of you, my dear Anon, but then again you know I am. For now at least, you have quite fixed yourself into my brain. I could not not think of your letter if I tried.

I am sure that my pigeons are quite content, getting more action than I do. Not that I envy them. I mean, I envy them a little, but not... nevermind. Romance is quite definitely dead, I hate to say. At least, that is what I have found. Not that you should set much store by the pessimistic ramblings of a girl you shall never have the misfortune to meet. Still, love is not a luxury given to the lowly and working-class of us. We must reserve that right for the rich and the famous. The politicians and the rock-stars.

If I were larger than I am - smarter or prettier or simply somewhat interesting - I think that I could fall in love eternally. I think that I would love at first and every sight. I think that I could be the most hopeless of romantics that you would ever have known. I am only now wondering if that is a good thing, or something very bad.

You live on music - strangely that makes sense. You and I are just the same that way. "Your soul is made of music"... however can you say that you are not a poet or a writer or a philosopher or a god, and then say such things, so beautiful, that I think you write like no one ever will. Your soul may be made of music, but in your hands your soul bleeds through.

I wish that I could go along the concert of that band, but I do not have the strength to face the crowds they say will be there (or the money to spare for a ticket, but that doesn't sound half so impressive to say). But... I have listened to their music, the way everyone seems to want me to so much. I like them. Kind of. I do adore the singer, I mean. The guitarist seems a little over-confident, I have to say. Definitely a fan of the bassist (I do have a thing for good bassists). And the drummer... Oh, the drummer. I think he's quite fantastic. I've never really noticed the drums in a song before. I suppose we should just hope that this poor man never finds out that I think he's grand (I think he might find that a little bit weird)! I suppose it is this hopeless anxiousness of mine that's keeping me from going, nothing more, although I don't think they mind too much. It's not like they're ever going to know. I hope.

Ah, Lennon and McCartney. Unfortunately not two of the Beatles (that would indeed be intriguing of me, and would make my life a great deal more exciting, I should think), but my cats. If I had half the Beatles living in my apartment I'm sure you should be the first person I would tell, my dear stranger. There: another secret, and I do not even know your name. I feel as though I am at quite the disadvantage here.

How can you not have seen the Princess Bride? It is my absolute favourite - I always used to watch it with my father when I was little. "Sappy romance films"? It's a classic! True Love may be a myth, but it's the best thing to come of our miserable little lives. We can at least dream, or else we are but pointless. And don't tell me no one has ever made you feel this way! (I take it from your misplaced derision of 9-year-old girls that you are a man, which actually makes a lot of sense now). Romance is not made up, just hard to find. I'm sure someday you shall write to me and apologise, because then you'll have to admit how wrong you are about this. Someday.

God, don't remind me about the wedding. I can't stand the thought of it as it is. All those godawful dresses and the sitting around for the ceremony and everyone crying and old people I've never met before asking me when I'm going to get married too. I think I'm going to kill someone if they ask me when "my turn" is. I think you're meant to say Well Done with whatever, and Best Of Luck for whatever else. And then inevitably drink too much, hook up with someone questionable (which I can't even do because, as you have found out, I have my wonderful boyfriend there - sarcasm) and generally regret the whole affair. I am sure I shall be very much wanting of your enthusiasm. And whatever else you may give to me.

You mention your 'line of work' so much that I cannot help but speculate (I hope you will forgive me)... You travel much, are generally single, love music... an artist or a musician or an actor. Someone famous, someone very beautiful I am sure. Won't you tell me who you are?

Take comfort at least in the promise that you can never be 'forever alone' when I am likely to plague you with letters for as long as you respond. Although perhaps that is not the most comforting of thoughts.

Reply soon, or as soon 'as you wish',

(Y/N) x.

Your knees ached when you stood at last, your trouser-legs damp and grass-stained from the ground where you had knelt. There was a coldness in the park that you had not noticed before, and you pulled your coat closer around you to keep from shivering. The couples on the benches were drifting away, one by one, and you would soon be alone again. You signed the letter with your name and a little kiss that was nearly two, but two might have been too friendly and none might have been too aloof, at the bottom of the page where your words were cramped in a tight black tangle so as to make them all fit. You could have told him everything, if you had had the room. Slipping the note back into its envelope and folding it closed, you crossed out your address on the front and wrote the hotel's address again. You could only hope that it would get to him. You could only hope that he would read your words at all.

The postbox at the entrance to the park seemed further away than every day before, and the letter was heavy in your hand. You knew you shouldn't post it; you wanted to more than ever. In that moment all you could think about was everything, and everything was him. You dropped the letter into the letterbox and hurried away. No going back now; it was done.

At the apartment, the party was raging. More people than before were crowded in the living room, where your notes spilled over the coffee table around the champagne glasses and beer bottles. Tomorrow you would search for them, gather them up, resume the tedious life that you had left behind for that sweet hour or so alone with him. Tomorrow you would reenter the world, resume humanity, become an adult. Call your boyfriend.

Right now you pushed through the people, to the bedroom door down the hall where they would be already. People on your bed, kissing with the lights off. You turned them on, sent them out and locked the door. Tonight was for you, and tonight was for the boy who was half a world away. On the table by your bedside, a champagne bottle was opened, left behind; you took a long swallow, your hands around the neck, and let the night begin.

Taglist:

Pairing: Roger Taylor x reader, Brian May x reader

Summary: The year is 1981 and Roger Taylor is pretty sure he has made it. With the Game Tour stretching out before him and the band more successful than ever, he doesn’t think that anything can mess up the perfect picture that is his life. That is, until he receives a letter from an astrophysics PhD student studying abroad, and finds himself sucked into her world of secrets and mistaken identities. Roger Taylor is about to find out that his life is a lot more complicated than he ever thought.

Wordcount: 2920. 

Warnings: It’s basically just a filler chapter because NEXT CHAPTER things really start Going On. Yeah, this one’s just me trying to stay on track of writing when I can, but we kinda need this weird-time-skip-explanatory-bullshit to fill in the blanks. Hope you understand, sue me if you don’t. See what happens. 

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And so the hurricane began.

If anyone had asked you what had been going through your head when the second letter returned the next day, you could not have said at all. All the world was going through your head in a single moment, and all that you could catch and hold was the thought that the address on the front was different now. Vancouver, a little motel with a funny little name that could almost have been a pun except that you did not get the joke.

And then the letter, and he asked you about your day, the way he would every day forever if only you knew that then. Told you you wouldn't like him if you knew who he was, and you whispered into the evening light that you would, you always would. There was nothing about him that could push you away now, from this most mysterious of boys and the stories that he told.

Day after day after day, and every other day his letters came. Regular as clockwork, like the banks of the Thames you missed so much, and soon you would be there in time. The addresses on the letters changing time after time as every night you dreamed of where he might be now. If he was thinking about you, ever. Seattle, then Memphis, then Dallas, Houston, Atlanta. Indianapolis, so close you thought that you could feel him as you read him back again and again, sitting on your windowsill as the world fell away behind you.

He was loud, he was annoying, he was the one that people noticed - after they had noticed everybody else. He was the one that they forgot the morning after, he was the lonely one. You didn't think that you had ever met anyone quite so lonely in your life. With every letter you thought this time you knew him, and with the next you knew that you had never known him at all. He was an enigma, and his answer would change the world.

An enigma who wrote to you everyday, the way your boyfriend never did.

Sure, you had called Ben. One morning when it had rained overnight, and you had sat in the hallway for over an hour, waiting for the phone line to be free. Waiting for the girl with the phone to stop telling her boyfriend that he was the best thing in the world to her. Wondering why you had never said those things to Ben. Knowing that the best thing in the world to you was some boy you had never met before, and the words he wrote like starlight. Like the magic that he wrote into the work you had never loved so much in all your life before. The universe you knew, the universe you loved again and again in every letter he wrote, for suddenly he was close enough to touch.

When the girl had left the phone behind at last, the only thing that you could tell your Ben was that you loved him, and even that was never true.

Summer passed you, every minute, and before you knew it summer was over, and the park was golden with the leaves that fell around your ankles when you knelt by the river to write your letters every day. Writing, writing more and more every day like you were drunk on the ecstasy of the love you could pretend was his. Like you were his with every breath you took. And with every day it was getting more difficult to pretend that you were not.

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Roger had never been very good at keeping secrets. Not when he had kissed the teacher's daughter when they were twelve, and he had run home to tell his mum. Nor when he was fifteen, and had failed one of his GCSE's and tried to keep it from his parents for fear of being kicked out. He wasn't kicked out, as fate would have it, but perhaps that would have been kinder than the row he came home to that afternoon. Nor even when he had kissed the girl that Tim had liked, aged nineteen and rich off the fame of a world that knew his name, even when it didn't really. That had been the worst of it, the fight that might have torn apart Smile if Brian hadn't been there to break it up. Brian, who was never part of any drama. Only the peace-maker in every fight that Roger had to start. He didn't know entirely why he got into fights so much. Perhaps it was that people never liked him very much.

Even now he wasn't stupid enough to think that he was the favourite member of Queen by any means, nor the prettiest, nor the most intelligent. He was just... Roger. He slept with people more than the others did. Was that really all that came to mind? He used to think that made him the closest to them all, all those people who came to their shows to watch Freddie, or Brian, or sometimes even John, but now he knew it more than ever: that he was the furthest from them of them all. He was floating around in his little universe, and he was a million miles from home.

Only you to find him now, and you had never let him down. His little yellow lifeboat, his spaceman. Spacewoman? His confidant, and sometimes he wondered how you knew him better than any of these boys that he had known all his life. You were just a little special that way.

But Roger had never been very good at keeping secrets, and you were just that. The little secrets that the others could not know. Of course they knew - how could they not. They had known since the first day, they had known since the letter had gone and John had apprehended him at the doorway to his hotel room. Who were you, who were you to him. Of course he could not answer. It was not long before the whole band knew, until Roger was running off the bus to get to his hotel room, paper and pen in his hand, until Roger was waiting by the hotel letter-boxes every morning for the morning post, until Roger was writing every day, twice a day, whenever he thought of you, sitting at the back of the bus or on the floor or leaning against the walls of the dingy pubs and service stations when they stopped. Roger Taylor was bad at being in love, but he was very good at you.

And suddenly touring wasn't about the music. Suddenly the music was not about the muses. Suddenly everything was all about you. Every note and every night, the venues with their backrooms where he could hide away from all the people asking about him when he could not care less. The bedrooms and bathrooms and dining-rooms and ballrooms where he could have had the girls and boys from the parties, the groupies from the shows, and all he had were the letters in his pockets and the thought of you as he locked the door and stood by the windows, trying to pick out the shape of you in all the darkness he could see outside. Suddenly everything was about trying to make you his.

But you didn't even know who he was yet.

There was a moment in Indianapolis where he was so close to telling you. Sending you a ticket. Begging you to see him again where he didn't have to hide. And he was sitting at the back of the bus, where the bodies were sprawled, sleeping, on the sofas like the ghosts of the evening left behind, and he had had the pencil in his hands and the words inside his head. He knew what to say, and for a moment he might have said it. But then Brian had woken, stirred in the darkness as he lay against Roger's legs and muttered something about the show. Fallen back asleep again as Roger shushed him softly, but by then the moment had passed. Roger would not tell you now - he thought he never would. He loved you, and in all his wildest daydreams while he was on the stage, half-drunk and reeling from the music and the eternal thought of you, he almost could pretend to himself that you could love him to.

And how could you love the drummer boy who never slept alone. You had had a thing for drummers. Not a thing for prostitutes, men with loose morals and open arms. The loud ones and the lonely ones. You had a thing for Roger Taylor Of Queen. But no one had a thing for Just Roger.

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It was only in November that you called Ben again. A cold morning, and the sun was just now rising over the city that loomed around you, the graveyard of a world you would soon leave behind. Not that you would miss it here, still there was something about it all, the park around the corner where you still loved to write, the apartment where each Friday night the parties raged, that made you think that somewhere since now and then, since you had arrived here a year ago, life had found a way to creep in and fill the gaps your love had left behind.

You didn't blame Ben for not being here. You did not blame him for not calling. He had that way of pulling you in, a million miles away and through the phone for seconds at a time, that had you knowing you could not blame him for a thing.

You dialed the phone and waited, standing in the hallway where the cold and light were flooding in, through the windows from the street. Waited for him to pick up. And nothing came. You called again, your fingers shaking as you messed up his number once, twice, only half from the cold that was biting at your skin. All of a sudden you were wishing you had stayed in bed.

But then the line was crackling, and on the other end the phone was picked up from the hook you could see in your mind. The phone hook in his kitchen, next to the fridge and next to the countertop. That tiny little apartment. You could still be there, if you closed your eyes. And so you did.

And on the other end of the line there came a voice from far away, the calling of a name you could not quite make out. His laugh, soft and distorted from the distance. And then, clear as day and more dreadful than all these icy winter mornings as one by one they froze your heart to bleak, grey stone, the sound of her laughter. A woman's laughter, ringing down the line like venom slipping through your blood. In that moment you were not sure that the latter would not hurt you less, for there were no words in you left to say. All the words had dried up on your tongue - in your throat there was a lump that choked you, kept you from breathing at all.

"Baby, someone's here?" her voice was smooth and soft and pretty, and you hated it. You had never hated anyone more in your laugh. "Benny?"

You heard him walking, down the hall where you wondered if your pictures still hung. You wondered if he had taken down every photo of you the minute you went away. You wondered if he had waited a day before he brought her in to him, to the life that was never yours to have and to lose. And then, crueller still, you wondered if he had ever really loved you at all. And in that moment you really could not say.

It was only when you heard him kiss her, the sound of his lips against her skin as she hummed against him, that the phone slipped from your hands. Fell, jerked harshly up as the cord snapped back into place. With shaking hands that moved without you noticing, you hung up.

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Your heart had broken before. Your heart had been broken many times, by the boy who had asked you out as a joke, the boys who had been bored of you, the boys who had been cruel to you. But never by a boy who had not loved you even enough to tell you that he loved another more. Never by the boy who had promised you the world and never told you that he had given it a thousand times before, to girls who were not you. Your heart had broken before, but never like this. Never as agonisingly slow as you know this would be.

You made a cup of tea. Sitting by the window in the pyjamas that reminded you of that last Christmas and the way he used to sleep when he was by your side, you sat on the windowsill. Stood and changed, into the jumper he had never seen on you. New, one he did not know you owned yet. There was so much he had yet to know about you. There was a second of excitement, where you forgot that now he never would. Would he even want to know you at all? Had he ever?

Bunching up your hands in the thick grey cotton, tugging it up to your eyes as you pushed away the tears that were spilling out around your eyes, a folded piece of paper fell out, fluttered down to the floor. You reached out for it, pulling it open and reading through. Another letter, the one you had read a thousand times and learned all but by heart, for you had learned every word he wrote. You had his soul committed to memory, his poetry written on your heart. Him. That boy that you had loved so well when you had not loved enough this boy who was your boyfriend. Perhaps it was all your fault after all. Or perhaps it was not. Perhaps you owed your secret lover a secret explanation. That the boy between you was not a boy anymore. Now he was nothing at all. There was only you and him, your unknown confidant, your mystery boy. Couldn't you know who he was now?

You took up the paper you now kept by your bed. Early morning; maybe you could still catch the morning post. With a deep and shaky breath, you began the day again.

Dear Anon.,

I fear I finally have some news that you might like to know. That is, I believe I must be returning home, and sooner rather than later. You see, the worst has really come to the worst for me, and this may really be the only thing I can do. Come home and figure it out from there.

I am sure you must be desperate for an explanation, so I shall give you one. My dear beloved Ben has now resigned himself from my life entirely, in the worst way possible. Although I am sure the same is not thought by the pretty girl who picked up the phone instead of him. Don't ask me how I know she's pretty - she must be, for she has stolen his heart. And he has broken mine.

I hope you do not pity me, because quite honestly that would not be of any help to me at all. No, don't pity me but listen to me and learn from what an utter idiot I have been. I really think I might have, should have, seen this coming. But the unfortunate truth is that I did not, and now I have been made the fool. There is nothing but deception and pain in New York now for me.

I shall resume my course in Cambridge promptly, and carry on like I am meant to do. It is no use letting this man stand in the way of my career, though every word I read makes me sick to my stomach because the awful truth is that once he was my universe, and every galaxy and moon and star therein, and I fear somehow he always will be. I have not loved him like I should, perhaps, but I will love him forever.

I want to write to you, and I will write to you always and forever 'as you wish',

your (Y/N) x.

On the front you wrote the new addresses, his in Surrey like it had been for some months now. And underneath it yours, the street and house and postcode of the little apartment you had left behind. The world you would return to soon, when all of this madness had run its course and the world had turned again. Outside the building the day was dawning, and the light was cold and peachy-pink, the day beginning as you relearned how to breath. The postman was not due for quite some time, and so with legs that barely held you up you stumbled down the flights and flights of stairs that led to nowhere, down to the letterboxes outside the building. Sitting on the top step, waiting for the day to come creeping in like all those thoughts you were trying to leave behind, you were already thinking of the plane that would take you away.

Taglist: 

Chapter 3

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The next day when I saw the Mystery, again we learned his name was Farrokh Bulsara, and I ended up giving him the lyrics to the song they would play later that night at the usual pub. Hours past and I am sitting in my usual seat waiting for smile to start. To say I was excited was an understatement.

“Hello everybody we have a few fresh faces,” Brain started “John Deacon our base player,” the crowd and myself hooted “And our new lead singer Farrokh Bulsara,” Brain had terrible saying Farrokh’s name, still through the crowd hooted. “And Roger, of course, the biggest member of us all,” They women in the crowd started to call at Roger, while he gave them a smirk I simply rolled my eyes.

“Hello all you Beautiful people,” Farrokh started, I know we made the right diction on Farrokh being the lead singer; already he has the right charisma.

“Where’s Tyler?” a man in the crowd called out “You’re just a Paky,” I stood up atop my stool taking on long swing of my beer I yelled out “Listen here Hobo!” all eyes were on me now “Your precious Tyler has joined Humpy Bong. So sorry ladies and you strange man wearing my grandfather’s clothes. The only thing Tyler will be doing is playing Base and Humping his band mates.” I did a little bow as I sat back on me stool “Well what are you waiting for play the song,” I command.

Brain started playing his guitar and soon eyes were not on me any more they were on Smile. Farrokh bend down and picked up a tambourine, everyone in the band including myself were confused “That is a part of the song,” I thought getting anxious.

Playing the tambourine Farrokh tried and failed to pull the mic out of it stand, people started to laugh at Farrokh’s misfortune. Deciding to leave the mic in the stand Farrokh started to sing, “She’s Alive,” He started panic flashed across my face, no, no, no, no, no, this is not the song.

Finally just ripping the top half of the mic stand form the rest, Farrokh nearly knocked out John “What are you doing Farrokh,” I muttered under my breath. As Farrokh sang the rest of the band looked to me “Just roll with it,” I mouthed once they looked away and into the crowd, I drank the rest of my drink and started to slam my head on the counter top.

I did not hearing Booing as I thought, instead I heard people cheering and nodding along. I smiled this might actually work. Once the finished I started to walk to the van to wait for the band.

I felt a hand grab onto my wrist, I spun around to see the man that called Farrokh a paky glaring at me. “I would appreciate if you would let go of my hand,” I said trying to yank my wrist from his grasped. However, my efforts were futile as he just tightened his grasp on me. I wince slightly “You must think you are real smart calling me out like that,” he spits in my face “I don’t like I’m smart I know,” and with that said I swang on leg up and kicked him in between the legs. His grip on my arm loosened enough so I could retract my arm.

I start to run to the van where I see Farrokh, Brain and Roger arguing, “You sang the wrong lyrics,” Brian cried out “Not worry, Darling, they loved it,” Farrokh defended. John saw me approaching and gave me a small wave, by insist I waved with my right hand, I winced straight after relacing that was the hand the man grabbed by.

John Obviously seeing my discomfort frowned his eyebrows “What wrong with your hand?” John asked as I sat down “Nothing,” I answer “Don’t worry about it,” Roger hearing my voice stopped arguing and looked over to where John and I sat.

“That’s one ugly bruise,” John commented Roger speed over to where we sat and took my injured hand in his “Who did this?” Roger asked angrily. By now, Briand and Farrokh stopped arguing to watch the scene before them unfold.