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that-70s-page · 4 years

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Dear Friend | Part Six

Pairing: 70s!Roger Taylor x Reader

Summary: The mutual pinings of best friends. Words: ~3.8

Warnings: Language, fluff, pining, the usual

A/N: Sorry it took me so fucking long to write this, I’ll try to work on writing more now that I’m back from Yosemite! <3

Where we left off…

You turn to look at him and open your mouth to ask him what he had planned for today when the phone on your bedside table rings, vibrating against the dark wood and interrupting your thoughts.

You close your mouth and suck back in the breath you had reserved for Roger, reluctantly getting up from the bed and picking up the phone.

“Hello?” you answered, praying it wasn’t Feya calling about your missed shift.

“Y/N! It’s Thomas, from the bar a few nights ago? Sorry I didn’t call earlier, I've been swamped with work. How’ve you been?”

You are surprised by the man’s voice on the other end, having expected it to be one of your girlfriends or boss calling, but smile against the receiver.

“I’ve been good! I was wondering if you’d call,” you respond, giving Roger a wide grin as he looks at you questioningly.

“Of course I called, darling! Couldn’t forget such a pretty face,” he flirts, and you blush, your smile spreading even wider.

Roger is staring at you with such confusion that you have to suppress a giggle. “It’s Thomas from the bar the other night,” you whisper to him excitedly, covering the speaker of the phone with one hand.

He responds with a smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach his eyes. You turn your attention back to the man on the phone, and bite your lip to try and stop smiling. It had been ages since you had gone on a date, mainly because of the fear that your situation with Lucas might be repeated, but Thomas seemed really nice, and really attractive.

“Anyhow, I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite to eat? I know a great Italian place downtown if you’re free tonight,” he asks, and you feel your heart speed up at the suggestion. You fucking love Italian food. This man knows the way to your heart.

“That sounds great! I’m not busy tonight at all, what time works best for you?” You ignore the disbelieving snort from Roger and poke him aggressively with your foot.

“How about I meet you there at six thirty? The address is 2518, Arthur street,” he replies, and you agree on the time, shooting Roger another excited look.

“Amazing. Can hardly wait, love,” he says, and you giggle, bidding him goodbye and hanging up the phone with a wide grin.

“Guess who just got a hot date?” you beam at the blonde sitting across from you.

“Who-You?? That can’t be,” he says in disbelief .

“And why’s that?” you retort, trying unsuccessfully to replace your smile with a glare.

“Because, love, you promised you’d spend the whole day with me,” he smirks, raising one eyebrow at you.

“Sorry Rog, but something much more pressing came up,” you smirk back, getting up from the bed to make yourself a cup of coffee that was far overdue. You had been so distracted this morning that you hadn’t had the chance to eat breakfast yet.

“More like someone,” he shoots back, following you into the kitchen.

“Aw, is Rogie jealous? I promise I’ll hang out with you until four, how does that sound?”

“Sound like you’re neglecting your best friend,” he pouts, leaning into you as he helps you reach the coffee filters that he had replaced too high in the cabinet. You have to hold your breath to stop the small gasp that almost leaves your mouth at the sudden pressure of his chest against your back and his hand on your hip.

“Rog, remember all the times that I’ve been left alone while you were off shagging some gorgeous bird from Imperial?” you retort, grabbing the filter from him and pouring hot water over the coffee grounds.

“Hey, that’s not fair! I’m a rockstar, I have a reputation to maintain,” he replies with a flick of his hair, taking the steaming kettle from your hands.

“And I deserve a date! I’ve been cooped up with you for so long that the most action I’ve gotten was when Brian accidentally touched my ass.”

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry. You’re right love, you do deserve a date,” he smiles genuinely, shaking his head in amusement at the memory of a very flustered and overly apologetic Brian.

“Thank you, now let’s just enjoy the next five hours by watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus and eating shitty take out like usual.”

“Sounds perfect to me, love. I’ll ring the Chinese place if you swear not to ramble through the entire show.”

“I can’t make any promises,” you say, hiding your smirk below the rim of your mug and sipping your coffee timidly before flinching away at the feeling of the hot liquid burning the tip of your tongue.

Roger just rolls his eyes and pinches you on his way to the phone. You slide past him into your small living room to set up the TV as Roger orders the food, and wait for you coffee to cool while sitting on the couch.

Roger comes into the living room holding his own steaming cup of coffee and sits next to you, throwing an arm loosely over the couch and across your shoulders. You turn to smile at him and he smiles back while taking a long sip from his teal mug. He grimaces as the fiery hot liquid coats his throat, and you bite your lip to stop from laughing at him.

“Fuck, that’s scalding,” he sputters, setting the mug down a safe distance away on the coffee table.

“I was going to warn you, but I figured you were smart enough to wait. Apparently I was wrong,” you snort as he uses a timid finger to push the drink even farther from him.

“Shut up, I need coffee more than I need taste buds.”

“It can’t hurt you from all the way over there, Rog?” you tease, eyeing the mug that now sat on the opposite side of the table, almost touching the edge.

“Nope. Don’t want to tempt myself,” he replies, stretching out his legs and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

“Gotcha. Sounds like a foolproof plan to me,” you laugh lightly, joining your feet with his on the tabletop.

You flick through the channels until you find Monty Python, and settle further into the couch as the episode begins, leaning against Roger’s arm.

He sighs contentedly and wriggles closer to you, pulling you into him, and you feel your heartbeat speed up at the simple action. You allow yourself to melt into his side as the familiar music of Monty Python’s Flying Circus fills the small room, ignoring the tight feeling in your chest at the sensation of his arm around you and his fingers tapping out a beat absentmindedly on your arm.

I wish everyday could be like this...Easy, comfortable. No job to worry about, no school to stress over, no relationship complications.

You brush off the small voice in the back of your head whispering warnings to your subconscious. But every so often it gets a few words through your mental barrier.

You want to be more than just friends. You shouldn’t lead Thomas on when you’ve got feelings for someone else. You don’t deserve him, and he certainly won’t ever feel the same.

You are totally, utterly, and completely whipped, and as much as you try to ignore your feelings, you know you have to either confront them or find someone else to focus them on. Thomas could be that person, right? Thomas had to be that person, otherwise you would be forced to tell Roger how you feel and risk ruining everything.

You spend the rest of the day watching T.V. in comfortable silence, spare the occasional comment from Roger about how “bloody delicious this chinese food is”. You both stay curled up on the couch for hours, eating greasy noodles out of small paper takeout boxes and laughing with your mouths full. You are on your fifteenth episode when you remember your date, and you almost fall off the couch in alarm.

“FUCK!” you yell, jumping away from Roger who drops his chopsticks in surprise at your sudden outburst.

“Christ, what the hell Y/N?” he looks at you with wide eyes, setting the half-eaten food on the coffee table.

“My date is in twenty minutes and I’m still wearing sweats and your old t-shirt!” you exclaim, looking down at your disheveled appearance.

“You really need to quit stealing my clothes.”

“That is SO not important right now, Roger! I look bloody awful and it takes ten minutes to drive there!”

“You look fine, go put on real clothes and I’ll drive you,” he says easily, and you give him a withering glare.

“Roger. Under no circumstances can you drive me. Imagine how bad that would look! Thank you, but I can get a cab, I just need to find my wallet, and- and I have to do my hair- shit, I’m going to be so late. The first date and I’ve already screwed everything up,” you groan, whipping around to rush into your bedroom and throw on something more attractive than a sweat-stained Zeppelin shirt.

Roger gets up from the couch and grabs your arm, forcing you to turn around to look at him.

“Love, you haven't screwed anything up, I’ll help you find your wallet, you won’t be late because I’m giving you a lift, and your hair looks perfectly wonderful as it is. Now calm the fuck down.”

“...Alright, I’m calm. And thank you, but you're not the one I need to impress. Thomas has never seen me in sweats so I have to put in a little more effort,” you mumble, your gut twisting at hearing his compliment and feeling his hand around your arm.

“You're gorgeous either way, Y/N. You don't need to do much to impress him, just quit worrying and get dressed so we can get you to your date on time,” he says, and you feel your heartbeat increase tenfold at his words.

He thinks you're gorgeous? Damn it, don't let it get to your head, he’s just saying that to calm you down.

You tear your arm away from his grasp and turn around so he can’t see your reddened cheeks. You go to your closet and quickly pick out a casual but flattering dress to pair with your high-heeled boots, and a fur coat that Roger stole from his stand in Kensington market.

Roger waits on your bed as you change in your bathroom and try to tame your hair using some stray bobby pins that you found lying on your nightstand.

You step out of the bathroom and he looks up from his spot on the foot of your bed, blinking at you from under long blonde lashes. His mouth twitches into a smile and he holds up his car keys.

“Stunning. Ready to go?”

“Yeah, just need to find my wallet,” you respond with a soft smile, rooting through your desk.

Roger just smirks and raises his other hand, which is holding your worn leather wallet. You smile in thanks and grab it from him, heading out the door and waiting for Roger in the living room. He grabs his own coat and the two of you leave the warmth of your flat and step out into the cool dusk air.

“It’s bloody freezing out. I hope the restaurant has seating inside,” you shiver as you follow Roger to his car. You really need to get your own, but college eats away most of your money, and the rest is spent on rent and food. You can vividly picture the bills sitting on your counter, and you and Roger both know neither of you can pay them. You’ll just have to settle for extra blankets and infrequent showers again this winter.

You settle into the passenger seat and watch your warm breath fog up the windshield. Roger starts the car and slowly peels away from the curb, humming under his breath and fogging up his side of the glass making the road look blurred and faded. The two of you drive in silence for the ten minutes it takes to reach the restaurant, only the soft music of Hendrix playing from the car radio filling the background, so quiet that it can almost be considered white noise.

Roger parks as close as he can to the front doors, and you step out of the car, wrapping your coat around you to block some of the chilly evening air. You plant a short kiss on his cheek in thanks and smile back at him as you walk towards the restaurant doors. He shoots you a reassuring wink and mouths “Go get ‘em,” through the foggy glass, and you wave him off as you step through the tall glass doors.

The restaurant is very classy but nothing too fancy, and you let out a breath of relief. You glance around at the tables draped in white linen and the couples sitting around them, sipping from tall glasses and eating steaming meals. Your mouth waters at the sight of all the delicious Italian food, and you approach one of the waiters.

“Hello, I’m here to meet someone, has anyone under the name Thomas checked in yet?” you ask, clutching your wallet in one hand.

“Yes, right this way, a server will be with you shortly,” the waiter replies in a heavy American accent.

You smile and follow them to a small two person table by a window, your face brightening when you recognize the head of soft brown curls that sits opposite an empty chair. Thomas turns around and breaks into a grin when he sees you, his eyes twinkling under the pale orange lighting of the overhanging lanterns.

You sit across from him and smooth your hands over your dress, already blushing as his eyes travel across your body.

“You look lovely, that’s an excellent coat,” he smiles warmly at you, sliding a large menu towards you.

You flush at the compliment and run your fingers over the soft fur. “Thank you, I got it from a friend. He’s got a little stall in Kensington, they sell loads of neat clothing, although a lot of it is an acquired taste,” you laugh lightly.

“That sounds wonderful, maybe you could show me sometime,” he says, and you nod, absorbed in the menu.

“Christ, I have no idea what to get, everything looks so good,” you marvel, trying to decide whether you want a pasta dish or a salad.

“Get whatever you’d like, love. My treat of course,” he winks, and you smile gratefully at him.

“What a gentleman,” you tease, sipping the tall glass of ice water that the waiter had left for you.

“I try to be.”

“It’s really very refreshing. My roommate is the sole reason the phrase ‘chivalry is dead’ was coined,” you laugh, setting down the cold drink that now is painted with a pattern of fingerprints interrupting the thin layer of condensation on the icy glass.

“That’s a shame. Who’s your roommate?” he laughs with you, glancing up to try and flag down a server.

“One if my best mates, Roger. I’ve known him since grade school, and we happened to get accepted into the same college, which was perfect, because I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“What are you studying?” Thomas asks politely, sipping at his own water.

“I’m currently taking a bunch of different classes, because I’m not entirely sure what I want to do, but I’m leaning towards anthropology,” you respond, deciding on one of the least expensive salads and a glass of your favorite wine.

A server finally reaches your table and takes your order, and the food comes much faster than you expected. You exchange light conversation with Thomas for most of the meal, just learning the basic facts and interests of one another. By the time you both finish your meal you feel warm and fuzzy inside, mainly because of the continuous refills of wine that your server supplied you, but also because of the delicious food in your stomach and the man sitting across from you. You feel utterly content and happy, and you can tell that Thomas feels the same way by how touchy and flirtatious he starts to be after a few glasses.

You are sitting and listening to him tell a story about how he broke his nose when he was fourteen while he plays with your fingers across the table. Outside it is completely dark and you wonder what time it is. It feels like you have only been there for an hour or so, but when you excuse yourself to use the restroom and check the clock above the sink, it reads 10:30. You make a mental note to make sure leave before midnight so you don't wake Roger up and have to suffer through one of his sleep-deprived rants about never interrupting his ‘beauty sleep’.

When you return to the table, Thomas smiles at you warmly and stands up, holding your coat in one hand and handing it to you as he pays the bill.

“Ready to go, love?” he asks as he slides his jacket over one arm.

“Yes, I’m knackered,” you say with a soft smile as he leads you out of the restaurant with a large hand on your lower back.

“Was I that boring?” he says with a mock gasp, his eyes glowing in the yellow light from the street lamps.

“Not at all, I had a wonderful time, just a bit too much wine,” you giggle as you lean into his side and immediately feel warmer despite the cold night air.

“I’m glad, so did I. To both the great night and the wine,” he laughs as he leads you to where he is parked.

“What’s your address?” he asks as you slide into the soft leather seat, your thighs pressed together to prevent your dress from riding up.

You give him the street of your and Roger’s flat as he pulls away from the sidewalk, watching the street lights blur and mix together through the window. You are lost in the warm haze of the lights and the alcohol swimming through your veins as Thomas drives you home, mind emptied completely of any previous anxieties. You can’t help but smile as you pull the fur coat closer around your body, enveloping yourself in the soft material, breathing deeply. Something about the smell of the coat is familiar and makes you want to bury yourself in it and fall asleep. It smells like a mixture of early morning teas and lazy afternoons, and a bit of something that you can’t quite place until Thomas stops the engine and you see the outline of your front door washed in the yellow of the headlights.

In that fleeting moment you recognize the warm, comforting scent, and it makes your stomach flip and your toes curl with a combination of desire and dread. It smells like Roger; his cologne, the laundry detergent he uses, his own natural scent, and all the things you associate with him. You almost want to tear off the jacket in frustration, but instead you feel yourself step out of the car and walk with Thomas to your door, standing in front of it in heated silence.

He leans forwards and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek, but you decide to take initiative and rotate your head to press your lips against his. He responds enthusiastically, kissing you back gently but passionately, and you pull away smiling. He smiles back and places one last short kiss on your lips as a goodbye.

“You’ll call again, won't you?” you ask nervously from your doorstep as Thomas turns to leave, hoping the feelings you have for him aren't too one-sided.

“Of course, darling, I had a fantastic evening,” he replies sincerely, turning back to look at you.

“Good, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Night,” you call after him, your voice disappearing into the darkness as you watch his car slowly return the way it came.

You unlock the front door as quietly as possible, wincing as the hinges creak in their frame. You tiptoe your way to the kitchen to get a glass of water and freeze when you hear voices drifting softly from the living room. Your heartbeat is thumping so loudly in your chest that you fear it’s going to jump right out your throat as you approach the noises.

You reach the hallway that opens into the living room and stop in your tracks. The voices are coming from the television that Roger had apparently fallen asleep watching judging by the human-sized lump sprawled over the couch. You let out a sigh of relief and grab the remote from the armrest to turn it off, glancing down at Roger’s sleeping form.

He is wrapped in a fleece blanket, only his face peeking through, but he still looks cold and is shivering in his sleep slightly. His slow breaths make the soft threads of the blanket look as if they are being swept by a soft breeze, and his eyelids twitch as he dreams, unaware of your presence.

Without the light from the T.V. casting a dim glow over the small room, you have to feel your way to the hallway closet, brushing your fingertips over the smooth walls so you don't bump into any furniture and wake up your sleeping roommate. You take a quilt from the shelf in the hallway closet and return on tiptoes to the couch, laying the blanket over Roger and smoothing it gently with your hands. You stand back and watch him for a moment, frozen in place and powerless to the feeling that washes over you as he stirs in his sleep and lets out a small sigh before curling tighter into the cocoon of blankets. You shake your head to snap out of your trance and force your feet in the direction of your bedroom.

You ignore the tightness in your chest and the way your head is swimming with pent up emotion as you bury your face in your pillow to try and quiet your mind. You ignore the desire that threatens to tug your legs back in the direction of the living room, of the couch, of curling up next to Roger, of falling asleep in his arms, of forgetting about Thomas, and about Lucas, and just jumping headfirst into something you were much too afraid of in your normal state. You ignore it all, and instead drift off into a restless, cold sleep, with dreams of stolen kisses and pale blue eyes interrupting the empty, black ocean behind your eyelids.

Taglist: @benders-diamond-earring @brokenheartedjubilee @shutup-sorry @thefairyfellersmasterstroke @spaghetittiesbcimgay @lacontroller1991 @luvborhap @chlobo6 @turquiosenights @rogershoe @mercurycrowley @took-me-hours-to-steal-those @itsakindofqueen @hitchhike42 @immostlytired @quirkydeaky @funitrog @liliah39 @getagriponmyboyracerrollbar

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that-70s-page · 5 years

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Dear Friend | Part Five

Pairing: 70s!Roger Taylor x Reader Summary: The mutual pinings of best friends. Words: ~2.1

Warnings: Language, fluff, slight angst maybe?? idk anymore lol

A/N: Originally this chapter was going to be longer, but I wanted to split it into two parts so I can post more often ;)

Where we left off…

“Today you have come down with a cold, and are going to spend all day with me watching cheesy movies and eating junk food.”

“Roger, I have to work. As inviting as that sounds, I really need to get going,” you sigh, struggling to latch the claps of your bra beneath the sweatshirt.

“Can I use your phone?”

“Roger-”

You could hear him already punching in numbers to the phone on your bedside table, and you turn around to glare at him. He ignores you and continues dialing, holding the phone up to his ear.

*Click*

“Hello?”

“Hello? Yes, this is Roger Taylor...great to talk to you again too, Feya...thank you, I’m glad you liked it, s’one of my favorites on the album as well...listen, I just called to let you know that Y/N isn’t feeling too good and is going to have to miss her shift today...yes, of course. No, she’ll be back by Monday...common cold, I think...thank you so much, have a great weekend. You too. Bye.”

“Roger.”

“What?” he stares at you innocently, giving you a proud, toothy smile.

“You shouldn't use your fame to get me out of work. It’s immoral, and it’s giving poor Feya false hope that you will someday introduce her to Brian,” you chide him, making your way to the armoire that holds your small collection of makeup.

“Not my fault your boss loves my band. Who doesn’t?”

“Roger Meddows Taylor, everyone. The most modest member of Queen.”

“You should hear Freddie. He’s easily Queen’s biggest fan and he’s lead singer,” he snorts, easing himself back down onto your bed.

You fiddle with the mascara wand and glance back at Roger, who is laying with his legs crossed and his arms behind his head, watching you from under hooded eyes.

“Hey Rog, c’mere a sec,” you beckon, an idea popping into your head at the sight of his big, blue eyes staring up at you.

“What now?” he looks at you suspiciously but gets up from the mattress.

You flash him a cheeky grin and brandish the eye makeup, holding it like a weapon in front of his face.

“Dear God, no. Y/N, I only wear makeup during shoots and when Freddie insists on it for a show. Get that bloody stick away from my eyes, woman!” he struggles away from you but you grab his arm and pull him back, grinning from ear to ear.

“C’mon Rogie, it’ll be fun! Don't you want me to feel better?” you pout, sticking your bottom lip out and batting your eyes dramatically.

“Of course I do, just not at my expense!”

“I won’t do very much! Plus, you’ll look so pretty.”

“No.”

“Just the eyes. I promise.”

“...Fine,” he surrenders, grumbling as you command him to sit in your desk chair.

You lean down and he shys away from your hand, closing his eyes and grimacing at the feeling of the wand brushing his long lashes.

“You have incredible eyelashes, it’s so unfair,” you say, pulling out a pencil eyeliner from your drawer.

You bring your face closer to his to smudge a thin black wing across his lid, and you notice his nose twitch with a sharp intake of breath. You try hard not to look at his lips, which are closer to yours than they have ever been, and you busy yourself with the other eye.

“Open up,” you order him, snapping the lid of the pencil back on.

He opens his mouth wide and scrunches his eyes together in an attempt to mess up your carefully drawn wings.

“Your eyes, you git,” you scold him and use a small brush to sweep a bright shade of blue over his lids, adding a darker color in the corners.

“Has Timmy called?” Roger speaks up, mouth twitching as you continue working on his eyes.

You shoot him a look and reply “It’s Thomas, and no, not yet.”

“Tom, Timmy, Teagan, whatever. All sounds the same.”

“Be nice,” you frown, gathering up your makeup supplies and shoving it back into your drawer.

“Why should I be nice? Your last boyfriend was a twat, Thomas is probably the same.”

“Lucas is a different species entirely, Roger. Not every guy I meet is an arse.”

“That’s right, I’m not an arse,” he smirks, opening his eyes.

“Roger, you’re not even a guy. Look at yourself,” you tease, tugging at a strand of his long, blond hair.

He stiffens underneath your fingers, his eyes blowing wide at the sharp pull, and you draw your hand away. Shit, did that actually hurt him?

He quickly recovers and his shocked expression is replaced with a mocking glare from under his painted eyelids. He stands up, walking to the mirror to admire your handiwork.

“Wow, I look like one of your girlfriends,” he laughs somewhat breathily, poking a finger to graze his clumpy lashes.

“Sure, Rogerina, wanna come to the mall with me? Get our hair and nails done, maybe talk about boys?” you giggle, pulling his blond curls away from his neck and gathering them into a low ponytail.

He flinches away from you, twisting his head to try and escape your fingers. You pull away, worried that you had taken the joke too far and actually hurt his feelings. He keeps his gaze on his own reflection, avoiding your eyes as he studies himself in the tarnished mirror. He frowns and violently shakes his head, attempting to return his hair to it’s usual unruliness.

You try to get him to look at you, giving him a weak smile as he finally flits his eyes towards your own. He gives you a tired look and brings his hand up to rub his face, but remembers the makeup and leaves it hovering by his nose, fingers itching to massage his aching eyes.

“This stuff come off with water?”

“I’ve got makeup wipes,” you reply quickly, grabbing the pack from your bedside table and handing it to him.

“Thanks,” he says softly, pulling a few out and bringing them to his eyes, smudging the carefully applied liner across his cheeks. After a few more desperate swipes he looks like a high school girl after a bad break up. The mascara is streaked down his face, and the eyeliner has smudged around his lids, creating a raccoon-like shadow circling his pale blue eyes.

Roger lets out a loud groan, “Y/N- I thought you said this shit would come off. It’s just spreading.”

“Sorry Rog, I swear it will come off with soap and water, I’ll go grab a wet towel,” you apologize, regretting ever bringing up the idea of giving him a makeover.

He was acting much stranger about the situation than you had anticipated. Usually, he wasn’t bothered by your playful teasing, and he had never expressed discomfort when Freddie made him wear makeup for shows. In fact, it had always seemed like he enjoyed getting dolled up when the band had photo shoots. Your heart would always jump in your chest whenever he approached you with a sly grin asking you to “make him pretty like you.”

Did I do something wrong? He seems so uncomfortable around me all of a sudden, he’s never acted like this before. Just minutes ago he was joking around, but now he’s acting so...distant. I must have done something to upset him, you worry, wringing out the dripping towel in your sink.

You poke your head out of the bathroom door to look at Roger, who has busied himself with picking at the clumps of mascara dotting his eyes, and shoot him a sympathetic smile through the mirror.

“Here Rog,” you say, handing him the damp towel.

“Thanks,” he mutters, dipping his head down to his hands to wash away the black streaks.

You stand behind him as he washes his face, placing your hands on his shoulders. He stiffens at first under your touch, but relaxes as you begin to knead his tight muscles.

His mouth lilts upwards as you return your fingers to his hair, gently brushing through it to soothe his nerves. He sighs and leans back against you, eyes no longer black and smudged, but clear and blue, staring intensely into your own.

“I’m being an arse, aren’t I?”

“...Yeah, a bit. Something wrong?”

“No, no, everything’s fine, just...stressed, I guess. But since I was an arse, that makes me one of your guys, doesn’t it?” he smirks, blinking slowly up at you.

“Fine Rog, since it means so much to you, you’re a guy. But that’s not much of a compliment. I prefer the sweet, funny Roger Taylor over the cocky arsehole one.”

“Good to know. I’ll continue being a cocky arsehole then.”

You laugh and remove your fingers reluctantly from his scalp, earning a plaintive whine from Roger.

“Why’d you stop?” he complains in a high-pitched voice that makes your stomach flip.

“Arseholes don't get messages, Rog.”

“Excuse you, it’s Rogerina,” he sniffs, saying the nickname with such sarcasm that you wince.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was just taking the piss,” you apologize, grabbing the smudged towel from Roger’s hands and bringing it back to your bathroom.

“Well...take your bloody piss elsewhere, Y/N!” he shouts after you, leaning back in the chair so far it almost topples over.

You snort in amusement at his weak retort and grip the chair with both hands to prevent it from falling.

“Watch it, Taylor. I like this chair.”

“Ouch. You care more about your chair’s safety than your own best friend’s?”

“When that certain best friend is being a right tosser, yes,” you smirk, spinning the chair back and forth causing Roger to have to follow you with his eyes as his body rotated.

“Alright, stop that now, I'm getting dizzy,” Roger groans, reaching out to grab a hold of the side of your desk.

You let go of the chair, giving it one final spin right as he tries to stand up. He lets out a yelp and trips forwards, almost landing on top of you. He stops himself on the dresser and gives you a withering glare, his vision spinning.

“You wanker. I’ll get you for that,” he growls playfully and makes a grab for you.

He is still unsteady on his feet however, and as he reaches out he falls into you, pushing your body back onto the bed and landing on top of you.

Heat immediately envelopes your entire body. You can feel almost every part of him pressed against you, and his face hovers inches above your own, his warm breath on your cheeks sending needles down your arms and legs.

You lay there awkwardly for a moment before his mouth opens into a wide grin and he tilts his head to the side, distancing his perfect, pink lips from your own.

You let out a nervous laugh and struggle to move beneath him, wishing for an escape from your feelings. But Roger doesn’t move. He stays laying on top of you, every intake of breath pushing against your chest and causing your heart to nearly burst out of your rib cage.

“Rog, get off, you’re going to suffocate me,” you manage to get out between the tension in your throat and the pressure of his body on yours.

“M’still dizzy. Shouldn’t move yet,” he answers matter of factly.

You laugh and push at his chest, urging him to release some of the pressure on your lungs.

“C’mon, I seriously can’t breathe with you on top of me.”

“Are you calling me fat?” he gasps, grinning down at you.

You roll your eyes and give him one last feeble shove before he succumbs and flips himself off of you.

“No, but some exercise never hurt anybody,” you tease, poking the soft mound of his stomach that peeks up from underneath his shirt.

He rolls his eyes and puffs out his cheeks, and you lay next to him in silence, thoughts still whirling from the feeling of his body on yours.

You turn to look at him and open your mouth to ask him what he had planned for today when the phone on your bedside table rings, vibrating against the dark wood and interrupting your thoughts.

You close your mouth and suck back in the breath you had reserved for Roger, reluctantly getting up from the bed and picking up the phone.

“Hello?” you answered, praying it wasn’t Feya calling about your missed shift.

“Y/N! It’s Thomas, from the bar a few nights ago? Sorry I didn’t call earlier, I've been swamped with work. How’ve you been?”

To be continued...Part Six!

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