When Things Fall Apart: PART ONE [Roger Taylor X Reader]

When Things Fall Apart: PART ONE [Roger Taylor x Reader]

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Summary: You and Roger fall out of love, but could you guys fall back into love? 

Word count: 1269

Contains: Oh, the ANGST 

A/N: This is chapter one in my FIRST EVER multi-chapter fic on this blog! Whoaaaaa! I’m really excited to keep updating it, and I really hope you enjoy! Also, if you want to be on my permanent taglist or this series’s taglist, send me an ask or a message!

“What is this,” you ask your boyfriend as soon as he walks through the front door. You’re holding up a tabloid, on the cover: him with a wide smile and an arm slung across the shoulders of another woman. Underneath, big words flash: Queen’s Roger Taylor Leaves After Party with Mystery Woman! You’ve dealt with this kind of news throughout your whole eight year relationship with Roger, the tabloids always wanting to spin something out of nothing. 

But this time––this time is different. Perhaps it’s different because it’s the final straw to your already strained relationship’s back. Perhaps it’s different because it made you realize something that should have been done a long time ago but didn’t because you were too afraid to admit it. 

It’s two o’clock in the morning. You’ve been up the whole night, sitting on the living room couch while a random show played on the TV in the background. You didn’t pay attention to it. Instead, you waited for your boyfriend to come back from a dinner, letting your anger slowly simmer and build within you.

He makes a confused sound from the doorway. He didn’t hear you as he struggles to pull off his shoes. You stand up, marching over to him. He reeks of booze, making you scrunch up your nose.

“I said, What. Is. This,” you hiss, punctuating each word with a hit to his chest using the tabloid. His brows furrow as he grabs the paper from your hand. He sighs. 

“She was just a fan. I was walking her to her cab,” he says, arms crossed. You scoff, rolling your eyes. 

“Are you actually being serious, Roger? Do you really think I’m that stupid?” 

“That’s the truth Y/N!” 

“Why do I find that hard to believe? Hell, it doesn’t even seem like you believe the bullshit you’re spewing right now,” you snap as you turn around and walk towards your kitchen. You hear him follow you.

“Nothing happened! What do you want me to say? What––”

“I want you to be fucking honest with me!” You scream at him across the island in the middle of your kitchen. Tears begin to pool in your eyes. A beat. He looks down at the ground. You let out a mirthless laugh. 

“I trusted you.” Your voice breaks.

“Y/N––”

“You know what––no––this is actually my mistake. This is my fault. I knew your reputation with girls. I don’t know why––I don’t know why I thought that I would be an exception,” you stumble through tears, and you hate yourself for it. You wanted to be strong. Wanted your voice to snap and sting and hurt. Instead, you sound broken. Tired. 

“What are you trying to say, Y/N?” he asks quietly, gripping the edge of the countertop. You can see his eyes beginning to glisten, most likely knowing what’s about to come next. 

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. You look away, biting your lip hard, focusing your gaze on that little stain on the wall right next to the stove (it was from the time you and Roger were trying––and failing––to make spaghetti for dinner. You guys ended up ordering takeaway).

“Y/N. What are you trying to say?” he repeats. You don’t answer. The only sound is the too-loud ticking of the clock above the pantry. 

“Please look at me,” he whispers. You turn your head slowly, the memory still stuck in your mind. Stuck in your mind because it reminds you of a different time. A time that is definitely not your guys’ relationship anymore. 

“I’m just…I’m just tired, Rog,” you respond, voice cracking. “I can’t do this anymore,” you say, weakly waving your arms around you. 

“So you’re just giving up on us then?” he asks. 

“You gave up on this relationship too––we both did. It doesn’t feel the same, and I know you feel that way too.” 

You’re just tired. Tired of his late nights. Tired of barely talking to him. Tired that you feel like you’re living with a stranger. Tired of sleeping in the same bed as someone who has fallen out of love with you. Tired of sleeping in the same bed as someone who you have fallen out of love with. 

“We fell out of love, Rog.” He winces at the familiar way you say his name. By now, he’s stone-cold sober. 

“We can––we can make this work, Y/N,” he pleads. 

“I’m leaving to stay with my friend,” you say, your voice hollow. “I’ll pick up the rest of my things in the next couple of days.”

“Y/N. Please.” You walk back to your shared bedroom, a small suitcase already packed and ready to go at the foot of the bed. Roger tails close behind.  

“Y/N, please, sweetheart, please don’t go,” he says, his eyes almost frantic. But you know that this panic won’t last this long. That this panic is derived from his fear of change. You were his comfort blanket. And you know the reason you haven’t broken up sooner was because you guys have been together for such a long time. You were safe to him. You were familiar. 

You’re at the door of your house, turning the handle.

“Y/N, please I love you,” he says, desperate. Your lower lip wobbles violently, and you reach up with a shaky hand to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, holding your wrist to his face.

“I know you do. And––and I love you too. But this isn’t working anymore. It isn’t and hasn’t since a long time ago,” you say, and by his face, you know for certain that he’s going to let you walk out of that door. And so you do. 

You force yourself to not look over your shoulder, your back––rod straight, your jaw––clenched so tight, your right temple begins to throb. Once you get down to the street and walk down a couple of blocks, you let yourself break down. You already called your friend to pick you up, so while you’re waiting, you fold over yourself––squatting down, putting your face into your hands. Your sobs are muffled by your fist. 

–––––––

In the house, Roger stands in the doorway in a daze––still staring out the door where he watched you walk out of his life. He doesn’t know how long he stands there for, but eventually, the cold from the outside becomes unbearable, and he stumbles back inside, collapsing onto the couch. But then he spots that little rip on the cushion from the time you and he agreed to babysit one of Freddie’s cats (the cat did not like you two whatsoever), so he moves to the bedroom, tumbling into the bed. But the sheets smell like you, and so he rips off the sheets, the comforter, the pillows. 

The truth is that he truly did nothing with that woman, but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter because even though he didn’t, he did seriously consider it. Considered it because he knew his relationship with you wasn’t the same. It changed. He knew––he knows.

He doesn’t know how much time had passed, but he finds himself staring at the ceiling in the middle of the bare mattress. He eventually calls the first person he can think of. Picking up the phone on the bedside table, he dials Brian’s number. His friend picks up at the sixth ring. 

“Roger?” Brian says, his voice groggy from sleep.

“I lost her,” he whispers into the receiver. 

PART TWO

Permanent taglist: @thefirstkillerqueen @hysterical-queen-trash

Hi! I just wanted to pop in and say that I absolutely ADORE your writing! I feel so happy when I read your stories! I hope you have/had an awesome day 💖💖

This is all I’ve ever wanted when I started this blog. I feel like crying!!!!! Thank you so much, and I’m so glad that you’re getting joy from my writing!! I’ve had a great day, and I hope you are having a wonderful day as well! xx Del 

4 Times Brian Tries to Say I Love You, and the 1 Time He Does. [Gwilym!Brian x Reader]

Pairing: Gwilym!Brian x Reader

Word count: 2646 (this is the longest fic I’ve posted so far!) 

Contains: PURE PURE PURE FLUFFINESS 

A/N: This is kinda a part two to this fic where the reader is a guitar tech (so check it out if haven’t read it already). ALSO: I LOVED WRITING THIS & I’m currently in a Brian/Gwilym mood, so if you have any requests for either of them, let me know! If you want to be on my taglist, message me :)

PREFACE: 

Brian doesn’t remember exactly when he started loving you. Can’t pinpoint the moment where he stopped in his tracks and declared, I am in love with Y/N Y/L/N. 

It crept up on him, really. Crept up on him when he sees you laugh as if you don’t have a care in the world––a laugh that brightens up the whole room––makes others laugh as well. Crept up on him when he sees the way you furrow your brows when you’re trying to figure something out, a pen held between your teeth. Crept up on him when he wakes up to your warmth seeping into his side, the light streaming in from the gauzy curtains embracing you in an angelic glow. It truly crept up on him one day while eating the pancakes you two made together, and he realized with a jolt that he would happily spend the rest of his life with you. 

–––––––

“Does he talk about anything else besides Y/N?” Roger asks from his seat on the recording studio’s sofa, legs sprawled wide. 

“Oh, Roger, darling, just because Brian’s found the love of his life, doesn’t mean you have to be so bitter about it,” Freddie says.

Just as Roger’s about to respond, Brian cuts in, “I––I don’t––I mean, love is a really strong word…” 

“Oh come on, Brian, are you honestly telling us that you don’t love her?” Freddie asks, arms crossed. 

Brian pauses. No. That is not what he is telling them. He really just didn’t realize it––loving you. Loving you––well––it crept up on him, really. Truly. 

“I love her,” he whispers, more to himself. “I really, really, really, really love her.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you?” Roger says with a shit-eating grin and a hand up to his ear. 

“I love her!” he exclaims, a bit too loudly. “I love her so much, I feel like my heart is going to burst. I don’t know what to do!”

“You know for someone who has a PhD, you are so stupid sometimes.” Brian stops pacing to glare at his friend.

“And what do you suggest I should do Mister ‘I Know Everything’?” 

“Say it to her, you dumb idiot!” 

Brian stops at that, his hand stills in his hair. 

“Dumb idiot?” he asks, surprised at Roger’s pretty moderate word choices. 

“You said I shouldn’t say ‘fuck’ so much.” 

“And you listened to me?”

“No, I just thought it would be funny to sound like you for a bit.” 

“Rog, I hate you.”

“You love me.”

ONE: 

It shouldn’t be this hard, he thinks, frustrated at himself while waiting for the coffee to finish roasting. But it is. He’s scared. Scared of rejection. Scared of vulnerability. Scared because he cares so much for you and doesn’t want to mess it up. 

After pouring some cream and two cubes of sugar into yours (he keeps his black), he pads back to the room where you’re currently buried beneath the covers, trying (futilely) to escape the frigid morning air. 

“Good morning, beautiful,” Brian says, handing you one of the two steaming mugs of coffee he’s holding. He puts his down on the table next to the bed and sits on the mattress. You take yours with two hands, giving him a grateful smile. Taking a small sip, you sigh in content. 

“Thanks, Bri,” you say, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep. His heart melts at that. Melts at you in his bed, his shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders, hair messy, eyes still hazy with sleep. Melts because you look absolutely stunning. Melts because he absolutely, positively adores you. 

You catch him staring and put down your cup on the bedside table. 

“You know, staring’s rude,” you tease, flicking his nose. He covers up his embarrassment from getting caught by pulling you down for a kiss, making you squeal in surprise and delight. You’re now laying wholly on top of his body, elbows resting on his chest as you look down at him. His heart skips a beat. 

“I––” he starts. You look at him, your face centimeters away from his, so close he can see the way your eyelashes graze the tops of your cheeks. “I––I should be going over to Fred’s. We have a few more songs we want to hash out.” You groan, flopping off of him. 

“Fine then, leave your poor girlfriend all alone on this cold winter’s day,” you lament, flinging an arm across your face. He chuckles, flicking your nose, causing you to stick your tongue out at him.

“I’ll be home soon,” he says before giving you a quick kiss and rolling out of bed to start getting ready for the day. 

TWO:

Brian storms into Freddie’s living room where the band has been holed up all day writing new songs. He just arrived after spending the morning at your apartment. 

“I almost said it. I almost did. And then I backed out,” Brian babbles, hands roughly running through his hair, making his curls stand up even more than they already do. “God, I’m such an idiot.” Freddie and John whip their heads up from the song lyrics they were scribbling down in a notebook. Roger mumbles something incoherent with a cigarette dangling between his lips while lazing against the couch. 

“Well, hello to you, too,” Freddie says. 

“Almost said what?” John asks. 

“That I love her––that I love Y/N!” A pause. “I’m just gonna call her,” he says in an impulsive “I just need to get it out” kind of moment. He reaches for Freddie’s landline that’s sitting on the small table to the side of the couch. 

“What? NO!” John yells before slapping his hand away. “That is a terrible idea.” 

“Why are you so nervous for this anyway?” Fred asks, now absentmindedly stroking his cat who had just sauntered over and perched itself on his lap. 

“I don’t know! I just don’t want to mess it up,” he mumbles, a blush tinting his cheeks. “I––I just really care for her.” What he doesn’t tell his best friends is that, he really, really, really cares for her. That he’s absolutely in love with her––knows that he wants to spend his whole life with her. He doesn’t tell them that he feels unworthy of her love. That he thinks that she deserves so much more. She deserves so much better. 

Roger finally pipes up, head looking up at the ceiling as if in deep thought. “Which part of the car do you think is sexier––the grease gun or––” 

“Rog, did you even hear a word I just said?” Brian asks, sighing. 

“Roger, not this again,” Fred says.

“What the fu––what is wrong with you?” John asks, slightly disgusted but honestly unsurprised. 

THREE:

The band agreed to play a small gig as a favor to one of their favorite pubs. And so, one can find Brian May backstage of said pub, currently jumping up and down and shaking out his shoulders while Roger’s slightly hunched over, hands on his knees.

“So what are you going to say?” Roger yells, trying to pump Brian up. 

“I’m gonna say that I love her!”

“What? I couldn’t hear you!” 

“I’M GOING TO SAY THAT I LOVE HER!”

“Huh? One more time!”

“I LOVE YOU, Y/N!”

“Bri, Rog, you guys are up in ten,” you say, popping your head into the room. Brian screams a very high, almost shriek–like scream. Roger just slowly puts his hand up to his open mouth, eyes wide, the sound of a low “ohhhh,” coming through his fingers. You look at them in confusion before taking off your headset. 

“You guys got that?” you ask, a bit slower, having heard nothing that was said in the last few minutes with the stage manager constantly yelling through your headpiece. Brian realizes this and lets out a breath. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, overcome with relief. You smile before pecking him on the cheek. 

“Good luck,” you call out to him before exiting the room. 

“Mate, you gotta stop yelling confidential information in the dressing room with your doors closed when you’re girlfriend is the bloody guitar tech,” Roger says as he lets out a chuckle, running his hand down his face.

Brian just flops down on the couch, face down. Freddie walks in. 

“Ooh what did I miss?” he asks, clapping his hands together. Brian simply groans in response. 

 “Fred, I have a serious question, how do you think Brian managed to get a PhD with a brain like his?” 

Brian flings a pillow at Roger, catching him on the head, and thus, knocking the black RayBans off of his face and messing up his hair. 

“Oi! Watch the hair!” Roger says before hurrying to the mirror to try to fix it. Deacy walks in a few seconds after. 

“‘Lo, mates, did I miss anything good?” he asks, his usual smile on his face. 

“Deacy––I have a serious question for you––” 

“ROGER.”

FOUR:

Brian tiptoes into the room to see your figure already fast asleep underneath the covers. It’s around two o’clock in the morning, and he just got back home from a recording and writing session. He changes quickly and quietly, running the sink as low as possible. After he stripped down to his boxers, he gently worms his way under the blanket which causes you to shuffle in your sleep. 

“Bri?” you ask, sleep heavy in your voice. 

“Yeah, it’s me, love, sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep,” he whispers, stroking your hair. You yawn, knuckling at your eyes and sitting up a bit. 

“How was the studio?” 

He smiles. “I’ll tell you in the morning,” he says before pressing a kiss to your temple. You yawn again and snuggle into his side, wrapping an arm across his middle. Your soft breaths hitting the bare skin of his chest. 

“I love you,” he whispers into your hair. But, you’ve already fallen back asleep, soft snores breaking the silence of the room. He sighs because he knew you were asleep when he said it. Knew that he could finally whisper these words aloud without having to worry about your reaction. He leans over to turn off the lamp before pulling the covers a little higher over your sleeping body and wrapping his arm a tad tighter around your shoulders, bringing you closer. 

Placing a gentle kiss onto your head, he whispers, “Sleep well, my love.”

FIVE: 

The boys thought it would be an excellent idea to drive a couple hours down to the beach for a bonfire and s’mores night as a break from writing and recording songs. So, after hanging out at a small pub they used to perform at and grabbing a quick dinner, you all pile into the car for the drive. You finally make it to the beach (after approximately two hours––it would’ve only taken one, but Deacy had to stop for the restroom every ten minutes).

Once finally setting up the bonfire (which took way too long as no one knew how to do anything––Mary ended up saving the day), you all settle down around it, blankets on your shoulders. Soaking in the cozy warmth and smell of the fire crackling in front of you. Each holds a stick with a marshmallow stuck at the top near the flames.

“Hey! Stop hogging all the marshmallows, Roger!” John accuses in which Roger responds with a noise of disbelief. 

“What? I didn’t have dinner,” he grumbles, but grudgingly hands the bag over. 

“That’s because you were too busy trying to flirt with that girl at the bar and in doing so, rudely ditched having dinner with us instead,” Fred says promptly before carefully assembling his own s’more. 

You snort into your palm, and Roger looks at you with a betrayed expression on his face, as if saying, “Hey, I thought you were on my side,” as you and Roger have grown quite close as friends (and partners in crime when stirring up mischief). You shrug your shoulders with raised brows, replying, “Sorry. Your fault, and that girl was rude.”

Hours in, after all the chocolate and marshmallows and graham crackers were long gone (thanks to Roger, they ran out before the first hour), you and Brian pick a spot on the beach away from the others and lay a large blanket on the sand beneath you. You both plop down, stretching out your legs, watching and listening to the waves crash onto the shore. 

Eventually you lie back, both of you side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, looking up at the night sky. The stars are so much clearer, so much brighter––finally able to shine––without being smothered by the city smog, and they’re beautiful. 

You lean your head against his shoulders as he points at the sky, identifying all the different constellations to you. His eyes are bright, and you love seeing him like this––talking about the things he’s passionate about. 

“And that’s the Big Dipper,” he says, drawing out the little outline with his pointer finger in front of you. 

His other hand rests on your stomach where you play with his fingers. Mindlessly twisting his rings around and around. He rolls over onto his side, gazing at you, gazing at the stars, and you turn your head too, smiling at him. His face is soft, and his eyes are serious.

“I love you,” he says softly although his heart is thundering in his chest. He waits with bated breath, waits to see your reaction. 

He sees your face light up with pure joy, which makes him want to say “I love you” a billion times again just to see your reaction a billion times more. You place a hand to his cheek and press your lips to his for a long kiss. 

“I love you, too, Bri,” you say when you pull away. And just like what he saw in your face, you see in his what you imagine could only be pure, unadulterated love. That pure, unadulterated love directed at you. 

Silence stretches on as you simply look at each other, your fingers dancing along his jaw, his cheeks, his nose. He leans in to give you a kiss on your cheek, and then on the tip of your nose (you scrunch up your face when he does that), and then on each of your eyelids, and then the corner of your mouth. Impatient, you tilt your head to catch his lips with your own. 

“Say it again?” he asks after you separate. Vulnerability shining bright in his eyes. 

“I love you, Brian May. I love you with all of my heart,” you whisper with a smile. He closes his eyes––almost reverently––a soft smile on his lips as he listens to your voice. 

And you––your heart swells in your chest, and you feel like crying. You don’t even realize you are until you sniffle, and he reaches out a hand to brush a tear from your cheek. You move closer to him, resting your head right above his heart. You can feel its rapid beat, and he places a large hand to cup your head to his body, stroking your hair. 

And you know this is so cliché, but lying down with the stars as your ceiling, the love of your life’s warmth pressed against your side, and the laughter of the others and the waves as background music, you feel like this moment is completely and utterly perfect. 

“FUCK,” you hear Roger yell. 

“Why the hell would you put your hand in the fire?” John asks, exasperation and incredulity in his voice. You break down in giggles, Brian chest shakes as he laughs alongside you. 

Yep, absolutely, completely, utterly perfect.

Permanent taglist: @thefirstkillerqueen

i am her. she is me. 

- … and um Roger of course the biggest member of them all

- hi Roger

*s a m e girl*

I only got 3 hours of sleep, and I’m tiredddddddd. And it’s too early to go to bed but too late to take a nap

I have been reading some of your work and I REALLY love your writing style. I plan on reading the rest but they have been REALLY good so far. Is there any way I can be put on your tag list?

Yes of course!! I’ll add you to the list right now!! thanks so much !!!!! xx Del