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lonelyasawhisper · 2 years

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Queen's Four-Fold Strategy for Global Conquest

Ron Ross, Circus Raves, March 1975

FROM A SINISTER MOAN, like a furious fiend lurking in a deep cave, Brian May's fed-back power chords slid up to a piercing demonic howl. With three giant strides, Freddie Mercury emerged out of the darkness and with a sweeping display of white pleated satin, he raised proudly an arm gleaming with silver jewelry beneath the intense spotlight. Roger Taylor's drums rolled like storm clouds over John Deacon's pulsating bass, signalling the commencement of Queen's ‘Ogre Battle’. Then, stopping Roger's thundering tom-toms dead in their onslaught, Freddie smiled at the hysterical front rows of the packed English audience, and asked rhetorically, "How do you like the show so far?"

The self-assured and sensual vocalist already knew the answer to his own sly question. Within mere weeks of its release, Queen's third album, Sheer Heart Attack (on Elektra), rose to regal dominance on the British charts. ‘Killer Queen’, a delightful ditty straight from Albion's gaslit dance halls, became Queen's first Number One single. Although no fewer than twenty bands brought modern times rock 'n roll to England's farthest reaches last winter, only Queen's tour had inspired total sellouts of every concert hall they played. The theatrical band with musical muscle had retained their intellectual following at the universities, while their legion of fans among Britain's younger ravers was snowballing like an unstoppable pop juggernaut.

But America remained to be conquered. Certainly Brian May's untimely bout with hepatitis during their fateful first tour had prompted sympathetic support and positive publicity for Queen in this country. Queen II had sold surprisingly well, even without the added promotional punch the tour would have provided. Now Queen, again intact and more full of impact than ever, were determined to pick up where they had reluctantly left off a year before. A new album, a new show, new costumes, lights, and sound, were all designed to allow an invasion of the States to follow smoothly their most successful European tour to date.

Queen to Led Zep One: On the eve of their second American expedition, Freddie Mercury's hopes ran higher than ever before. "A lot of things in Queen just seem to fall into place," he predicted optimistically. So confident was Fred that he could remark without hesitation, "The whole situation is an exact replica of Led Zeppelin back in 1969." And the United States was the only missing link. Their tour of the European continent late in 1974 had all but incited riots, while in Japan, the world's second largest music market, Queen had miraculously become the most popular hard rock group. Even Jethro Tull, Yes, and Emerson, Lake and Palmer had given way to Queen's majesty. Queen's American manager, Jack Nelson, was himself amazed: "They're getting even bigger than Deep Purple there, and they used to own Japan."

Although Deep Purple in particular have become notorious for recurring personnel changes provoked by Ritchie Blackmore's resolute moodiness, Queen are a group in the truest sense. Not that Queen's rock comes together as sweetly and smoothly as whipped cream, but constructive controversy does bring out the best in four superb musicians, each indispensable to the Queen sound and style. "'We have the most outrageous rows, " which Mercury readily admitted to an English writer. "There are so many things we don't see eye to eye about in the group, even as to the titles of our albums. We row about everything, even about the air we breathe. But I think that's good, because we get the cream of the crop. It's good, that's healthy."

Mercury does indeed speak for the rest of Queen when he insists, "I don't like compromises--everything has to be done to perfection. I have always put everything into things that interest me, so I put everything into my music." The key to the solidly four-square Queen cartel is an intensity, professionalism, and dedication built in to the band's four distinct personalities. Fred's conscious that the glare of public attention is usually focused on himself. "I know the others have been feeling a little neglected," he confided to a close friend. "I'm trying very hard to persuade people that I'm not the leader of the group, that there's no such thing, but it's not easy."

Outside looking in: The amazing diversity of material on Sheer Heart Attack, with striking contributions from all four Queens, should go a long way toward giving the credit for the group's success where it's due. Although May's illness appeared at the time to be a disaster, his temporary absence brought Freddie, Roger, and John even closer together. The result is a healthier, happier Queen. Brian, in his first interviews after his recovery, was quick to note the difference.

"When I came back, I was able to look at Queen as if I were an outsider--I'd never realized what it sounded like, or how much the group had to offer," he declared to the press. "They'd got so much done without me--they were really good about it. All I had to do was to go in and put my bits on. The only thing that really suffered from my illness was that I only have about three and a half songs on this album." May's next observation is at the heart of Queen's strength as a band. "That does not really matter, because I play my best guitar on other people's songs," he said, drawing attention to the group, not himself.

May's opinion of Sheer Heart Attack indicates that Queen have already completed their first era, and are more ready than ever for the Big Time. "This is the first album on which we sound like a band rather than four individuals," he feels. Brian appreciates how much Queen's concentrated road work abroad has prepared them for an even more demanding American jaunt. "The experience we've gained on our tours is beginning to show now. The whole thing gels together."

Sheer Heart Attack is far more flavorful, however, than the average serving of musical jello. Especially stunning are the pennings put in by John Deacon and Roger Taylor. As Queen's rhythm section, John and Roger are the rock bottom-line of the band's masterful metallic sovereignty. But as songwriters they supply the change of pace so important to the making of a truly superior album.

Enigmatic brooder: John Deacon has been called the "most enigmatic member of Queen," by Rosemary Horride, a British music paper writer close to the band who has supported them in the press from their inception. Evidently, Deacon is reticent enough to make John Entwistle, another dark brooding bassist, appear a blabbermouth. A graduated Master of Science in acoustics and vibration technology, his ears, along with those of producer Roy Baker, must be part of the secret of Queen's scintillating recorded sound.

Nevertheless, ‘Misfire’, his short sweet tune on Sheer Heart Attack, is as acoustically melodic and appealing as an Eagles hopper. It's neither as complex as physics nor as monolithically direct as John's pounding bassbeats on the maniacal rocker ‘Stone Cold Crazy’ (a group composition, by the way). ‘Misfire’ is a love song that could easily be a hit single by one of the many pleasant teen groups currently stimulating pop madness in England. Only at the end would a new initiate to Queen recognize John Deacon's unmistakable trademark: the bass runs under the fade are as fast and facile as any to be heard. The least well known musician in Queen is one of his rock generation's most able.

Roger Taylor's sunnily striking good looks are a compelling contrast to Freddie Mercury's curiously satanic brunette appeal. He looks every inch the rockstar in the stylish portrait on the Sheer Heart Attack liner. No drumming fool, he studied to be a dentist. His background seems a world apart from ‘Tenement Funster’, a no holds barred rave-up he composed and sang on Sheer Heart Attack.

There's a menace to the track compounded by Brian's cripplingly effective guitar. The lyrics are classic rock 'n roll. "My purple shoes bin' amazin' the people next door/and my rock 'n roll 45's bin' enragin' the folks on the lower floor/I got a way with the girls on my block/Try my best to be a real individual/And when we go down to Smokies and rock/They line up like its some kinda ritual." Yet this would-be billion dollar baby was offered the job of percussionist in the ever so literary and fey Genesis. If Roger is physically confined to his drum kit onstage, he's hardly likely to stand for being categorized or repressed as a musician.

Screaming Queen: It's impossible to have heard Queen without having been rivetted and stunned by Brian May's guitar. A screaming flash on the frets, May's notes seem to sonically seek and destroy in the merciless manner of a Hendrix or Townshend. He is a half year's study away from being a Doctor of Philosophy in Astronomy. The most technically minded member of Queen, he must take himself and their future most seriously; ulcers, another of his afflictions, are not the product of peace of mind.

His restless authority takes a romantic turn on Sheer Heart Attack. ‘She Makes Me (Storm Trooper In Stilettos)’ has a Stones-like swagger to it that is somehow melancholy like the unforgettable ‘Heart of Stone’. Brian's inner conflicts seem reduced to simple sincere terms. "Who knows who she'll make me/As I lie in her cocoon/And the world will surely heal my ills/I'm warm and terrified/She makes me so." With all the massiveness of a Phil Spector "wall of sound," echoing funereal drums give way to an intense finale laced with horns, awesome phasing effects, and a bit of heavy breathing in the background (and from the listener).

Strange that the most unexpectedly impressive tracks on Sheer Heart Attack are so little like their most distinctive musical medium: the large-scale epic song with mythic proportions. ‘Ogre Battle’ is only one earlier example of Queen's ability to create an otherworld where the forces of good and evil, black and white, clash like fiery dragons battling with knights. The sheer volume of the band only serves to reinforce their legendary musical fables.

Sulky sensualist: It is no coincidence that Freddie Mercury is the multi-instrumental master of this almost medieval aspect of Queen. A sultry sex symbol who's often compared to Rod Stewart and Robert Plant in England, he is also a graphic artist who designed Queen's noble logo. A man who definitely believes in physical impact, his songwriting reflects a more thoughtfully passionate nature. On one of several lovely ballads he composed for Sheer Heart Attack, Fred sings with rare tonal clarity, "I lie in wait with open eyes/I carry on through stormy skies/I follow every course/My kingdom for a horse/But each time I grow old/Serpent of the Nile/Relieve me for a while and cast me from your spell and let me go." His image is that of a macho superman with a heart of gold.

So each of Queen's four young pop princes has helped to prepare the band for perhaps the heaviest, rockingest assault on these shores we've enjoyed in some time. Sheer Heart Attack was the musical cement for their pact. Hampered by bad luck that might have broken up lesser bands, Queen rose to the occasion in the studio where it counts. "Sheer Heart Attack was conceived in the studio," Mercury has revealed. "It wasn't planned out note for note beforehand."

Still, Freddie Mercury understands full well where he'd like Queen to aim. "There are so many things we want to do and I feel we have a great deal of room in which to achieve them. There is room for progress especially now that we have a following. We want to get audiences more involved with our music." Soon no one may refuse an audience with Queen.

Retrieved from rocksbackpages.com

#article #interview #1975 #circus raves #freddie mercury #brian may #queen band #freddie #bri

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mypassionfortrash · 4 years

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Nothing Serious (Parts 4, 5 & 6)

Summary: You and Roger go for a drive around Ibiza after which, he makes a shocking admission. When you arrive home, you find out that your privacy has been well and truly violated. But what does that mean for you and Roger?

Roger Taylor x Reader; Modern AU; Strictly 18+

💫 Catch up here! 💫

Tags: @jennyggggrrr; @sarahgurl09

Notes: Thanks for reading! Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated! I’ll post the next parts when this reaches 50+ notes! They’re cute and you’ll love them!

[Part 4]

Puffing out your cheeks, you eyed your reflection. Your heart thudded inside your ribcage with the urgency of a caged bird pining for freedom. Roger waited for you in his bright red Porsche – you knew that. But it provided no impetus to make your legs move. So you threw handfuls of freezing water over your face then swiped some blood-red rouge over your lips. That always perked you up.

You took a few wavering paces backwards.

Your form slipped into view for you to appraise the whole package. Your fingers grazed over the fabric of your candy-striped dress, flattening out the creases. This was the kind of playful dress that Hollywood starlets donned on their days off, but it had a long way to go before it made you feel like one. You swished your hips, allowing the a-line skirt to flow like liquid around your body. A scarf lay beside the sink, curling into the damp bowl. Slipping it from the counter and draping it around your head, you let the sumptuous silk to kiss your skin. To finish the look, you reached for your sunglasses, propping the thick, black frames over the bridge of your nose.

Assessing the changes to your appearance, you concluded, with an approving nod, that you looked like a film star from the 50’s – straight from the silver screen. Roger wouldn’t be able to resist you.

Or at least that’s what you told yourself.

See, Roger’s ex wife wasn’t pretty; she was drop-dead gorgeous, with her mane of dark shaggy hair and her big doe-like eyes. He hadn’t told you much about her, but you knew she had outstayed her welcome in Roger’s mind, and she’d be even harder to evict. The pictures tucked inside Roger’s nightstand told you that much. You wondered whether he’d take them out and imagine what life might have been like had they stayed together, every time he felt alone. You wondered whether anything could compare – whether you were enough for him.

And that was enough to make tears form in your eyes, stinging like the icy wind of a winter’s morning. They didn’t have time trickle down your cheeks before you shunted them with your wrist.

You pulled your back ruler-straight and gave your reflection a stern look to bolster yourself. Gulping down a searing mouthful of air, you turned. Sweeping out of the bathroom.

You scurried along the hall and down the stairs and into the foyer.

Of course, Roger waited outside. You heard his foot blipping against the throttle with the impatience of a racehorse holed up in the gate. He, in his little red Porsche, was ready to go.

At the threshold, you could see the willowy threads of smoke curling up into the air from the drivers’ side of the car. Roger’s back was turned, but you could tell he looked as gorgeous as ever.

The morning glow caressed your face as you stepped out into the courtyard, adorned with neat rows of plants and lewd sculptures that were oh so Roger. This was the first time you had seen it for yourself and it didn’t disappoint; the sweet smell of freesias and exotic blooms wafted through the air, clashing with the sickening scent of petrol pumping from the exhaust of your ride.

Your legs trembled more with every step you took until you came to a halt at the passenger side of the car, looking down at Roger. He was lost in his own world, sinking his foot down on the accelerator and taking in the roar of the engine, and a rock and roll radio record from before your time.

You cleared your throat to draw his attention.

He looked up, his eyebrows peaking above the rims of his sunglasses.

“Like it?” you mumbled, giving him an awkward twirl that made the folds of your dress billow outwards.

Through a mouthful of cigarette, Roger purred. “I love it.”

It took nothing for Roger to fluster you. You looked down at your dress as heat travelled to your face. “Thanks.”

“Are you gonna hop in or am I going for a drive on my own?”

You nodded – like a gleeful teenager staying out past her curfew – and hopped in beside a roguish looking Roger.

No sooner had the door thudded shut, but the power of the car pushed you back into the plush leather seat. You had to claw at your headscarf to keep it in place when an almighty gale ripped through the cabin. He sped along the twists and turns of the coast; it had you fearing for your life in less time it took to finish one song on the radio. And it didn’t help that every so often, Roger would glance over at you. He spent more time with his eyes on you than on the road.

Roger must have noticed the swell of horror that gripped your body because, after ten minutes of silence, he pulled into a passing place. He whipped off his sunglasses, exposing a furrowed brow and concerned eyes that matched his seafront backdrop. The lines around them showed his age. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Travel sickness.”

A mischievous smirk grew on Roger’s features. “Do you want a go?”

“What?” You scowled. “Driving this?”

“Yeah!”

“No, I’m fine thanks!”

“Scared you might like it?”

“Scared I might crash!”

“You won’t! And besides, what a way to die. Looking at this?” Roger wittered, waving his hand across his face.

A moment of silence wedged between you.

His attempt at persuasion made you cave. “Oh, alright, then!”

You flung yourself out and hauled around to the driver’s side, while Roger got in the passenger seat. The car looked daunting. Screens and dials and instrument clusters sprawled around you, none of which you knew how to operate. It didn’t have a gearshift. This wasn’t your battered old Ford Fiesta. Pushing the start button, the engine roared to life and died down into a dull thrum that vibrated through your entire body. You searched around and slipped the new-fangled dial into drive. Like a bullet, the car hurtled down the deserted road.

You could have driven Roger’s Porsche forever. But you settled for all day, as you stopped at various beauty spots around Ibiza to admire the view. You always thought Ibiza was for hardcore ravers and partygoers, and the odd stag do, but there were also much more beautiful spots. The sprawling villas of San Carlos and the glitzy inhabitants of San Joan reversed your perception. Not to mention how uplifting driving across the island, sitting beside Roger as he belted Springsteen’s entire back catalogue at the top of his lungs was. The views were so breathtaking that you had forgotten to eat the picnic Roger packed for you both. Above the roar of the engine, as the sun hung low across the bay, you could hear your stomach growl again.

“Christ, I’m starving,” you laughed, placing a hand on your abdomen in the hopes that the sound would die down.

“Do you want to pull over?” Roger asked.

“Yeah! Let’s park up here,” you said. Easing the car to a stop in yet another layby, you and Roger felt like you were alone together – at last.

He wasn’t prepared to risk distracting you when you were driving his favourite car.

And you could feel the anticipation that gripped him after being subjected to that for hours on end.

His eyes lingered on your mouth long enough to make your breathing hitch. And the one way to solve that problem was to edge closer to him, gently pressing your lips to his.

Like something off the silver screen, you collided in a slow, tender embrace, savouring every second. The soft back and forth of tongues running over lips, and low contented sighs, and fingers raking through each others’ hair. Until, at long last, you broke apart. More breathless than when that gentle exchange began.

Coy smiles mirrored each other as the pair of you cast your eyes in opposite directions, feeling the weight of the day’s unbearable anticipation dashed from your shoulders.

Roger’s hand found yours resting on your thigh. He took it, sweeping his thumb over your knuckles in light circles. “I’ve wanted to do that all day,” Roger whispered.

“Me too.”

The sunset in front of the car was stunning. Strips of indigo and violet reached into space, descending into blazing reds and brilliant oranges as the sun met the sea.

But it wasn’t about the view that captivated you, it was who you shared it with.

Roger’s desire to say something was palpable. Even as your gaze took in the wonder right in front of you, you could picture the way his lips attempted to form silent words. He couldn’t make a sound. Nerves took hold; a rarity for him.

“Hungry?” he stuttered.

Darting your eyes towards him with a questioning look, you shrugged.

“I made us sandwiches, and some strawberries and cream – and virgin margaritas,” he rambled.

Your stomach gave another protesting growl, cutting through the silence.

But it gave Roger permission to spring into action. He popped a latch in his footwell and left the car to prop up the bonnet. When he reemerged, he had a cool box in his arms.

The sounds from your starving gut grew as if your eyes were sending it taunting, tantalising previews of what they were seeing.

Roger dumped its contents, handing you your own cling-filmed sandwich.

Without a second thought, you unwrapped the soggy cheese and Branston Pickle monstrosity and crammed as much of it into your mouth as you could. Roger observed in awe, taking mousy bites from his sandwich. So lost in how incredible the sudden influx of sustenance tasted, you failed to notice Roger slipping out his phone until it was too late.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him lining up his shot, a small smirk on the edges of his lips.

“Smile,” he chirped.

Looking up from your sandwich like a disgruntled gremlin, you mustered a grimace when the obnoxious shutter sound went off.

Roger admired the image on his phone screen.

“What’s that for?” you asked.

“Wanted to capture the view,” he said in a cheerful drowse.

“Well, let me see it.”

It was as bad as you thought. Not only did you indeed look like you were having the worst time ever, but glowing orange saturated every detail. You looked like a demon about to devour Roger’s soul.

“Delete that,” you ordered, folding the remainder of your sandwich and shoving it into your mouth.

“Why?” Roger whined, glancing down at his screen. “I like it. I think you look lovely.”

“Delete it.”

Roger huffed. “Fine.”

“Right,” you began, balling up the clingfilm in your hands. “Let’s try that again – with both of us.”

Shimmying closer to him, you rested your head on his shoulder as he took another goofy photo. This time, he was the offending party; his precarious tongue poked from his lips like a surly member of a boyband.

“Can you pose like a normal person, Roger?” you giggled.

Roger turned, pressing his nose to yours. His breath felt hot on your lips. “Only if you give me another kiss.”

He didn’t need to ask you twice. A quick peck on the lips later and you posed again.

Roger snapped a few and flicked through them for your judgment.

You felt an enormous swell of contentment looking at the images. Like everything might work between you.

It was all in the little details. The way you leaned into him. The way his nose nuzzled against your cheek. Those hopeful smiles.

This had to work.

You made a promise to yourself that it would.

With your picnic disposed of, Roger resumed driving duties for the short trip back to the villa. Darkness had fallen and the roads were still deserted. He could have let impatience get the better of him, but he chose to take it slow.

You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or making sure your dinner didn’t resurface. Maybe he enjoyed listening to you hum along to Fleetwood Mac, the cold night air sobering him up from the loved-up high of the day.

The revs died down and the lights clicked off, and you and Roger sat in the courtyard of the villa.

“I’ve got some proper margaritas in the fridge,” Roger said.

You turned to him, absorbing every detail of his picture-perfect profile. “I think I saw a hot tub on the balcony of the spare room.”

“Fire it up and I’ll be up in five.”

Without missing a beat, the pair of you burst into the house and moved in opposite directions. He dove for the kitchen, while you sprinted upstairs and into Roger’s spare bedroom. Throwing off your clothes as you marched through the room, you emerged on to the balcony, overlooking the sea; it glistened in sapphire moonlight.

You began to fill the tub, watching as jets of water pumped their way into it. The steam rose in delicate silver wisps, kissing your flesh and staving off the chill in the air. It made you more aware that you were naked.

Hearing Roger’s chipper humming getting closer, your arms enveloped your body in a bid for modesty.

Through the billowing sheer curtain, you saw him enter the room, a jug of drink in either hand, then stop dead when he caught a glimpse of your dress and your underwear discarded on the floor. He proceeded with caution, “are you decent?”

Yesterday, he was fucking your brains out at 37,000 feet, and now he has the cheek to make sure you’re decent. He must like you, you thought. “Am I ever decent?” you half laughed.

Roger wore the biggest, beaming smile when he stepped on to the balcony. He looked comical, standing there in his jean shorts and his loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt with his mouth agape.

“Too much?” you asked. You tried to sound coy, as you turned from side to side. But there was a devilish undertone there. There always was. You were always on and you always wanted him. That much was true. But not right now. There was so much to talk about and ask him.

“Perfect,” Roger smiled.

You noticed the tub was full; you stepped in and let the water lap away at your taut muscles. “This is heaven,” you sighed. Tilting your head back, your eyes closed.

You sensed the urgency with which he shrugged off his shirt and his shorts, and the way he slumped down beside you. Then his arm snaked around your waist.

The cold had seeped into your bones, but the water, and Roger, were so warm. You moved into him, pressing yourself to his body and basking in the heat he radiated. God, he was intoxicating. Everything about him.

Soon, his fingers twirled strands of your hair around them, settling into a comforting rhythm.

“Roger?”

“Yes, Kitten?”

Curiosity got the better of you. “How many women have you slept with?”

A chuckle reverberated through his chest, transmitting it to you. “Too many to count, why?”

“I’m curious. Got a rough estimate?” you pressed, peering up at him.

“Hmm,” he hummed, taking a swig from his jug of margarita. “Maybe somewhere in the… eighties.”

You removed yourself from him at once, looking him up and down with wide, horrified eyes. “Eighty?”

Roger nodded and chugged. And when he stopped, his eyes narrowed. “Why? What’s your number?”

Embarrassment burned. “Well, nowhere near that amount, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, but surely you’ve had a few.”

You clamped your lips together in a resigned, defeated smirk and shook your head. “Not even close.”

“Twenty?”

“Lower.”

“Fifteen?”

“Lower.”

“Fuck… eight!”

“Lower.”

“You’re not a virgin, are you? Because… I definitely put it in on the plane. You felt that. I’m not making that up. It wasn’t a dream, was it?”

“No, but you’re close.”

“I was your first?” Roger asked, jabbing his finger to his chest. He looked taken aback.

You rolled your eyes, feeling like you were about to kick a puppy. “Second.”

Roger settled back against the seat and exhaled long and slow. “Wow,” he said. “You weren’t half bad, either!”

You shrugged. “I don’t have much experience. And it’s been bugging me a bit. But anyway – how the hell have you managed to sleep with over eighty people? You’re only 37!”

“I’m the drummer in a band and I’m the good looking one, there’s not much to tell!”

“But you’ve been married for years! You must have clocked up a fair amount when you were younger. Jesus Christ!”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Can we talk about your lack of experience please?”

This silenced you straight away. His posture softened, scooting closer to you. “Does it bother you?”

“I don’t know. I knew you’d slept with a lot of people... and I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Oh, Kitten,” Roger sighed, running his fingers through your hair. “You could never.”

“I want to be able to impress you.”

Roger leaned in close, pressing his nose to yours. “Can I tell you something?” he asked with a smile.

“I guess.”

“I’m kind of out of practice myself.”

“Yeah but–”

“I haven’t slept with anyone since my bitch of an ex wife last year. And I think it’s about time I get back into the swing of things.”

The shame you felt almost melted away with those words and that admission. But an iceberg of doubt lingered in spite of the strange sense of comfort. “You could definitely teach me a thing or two.”

“And I could use you as a guinea pig for some weird new-fangled sexiness.”

His goofiness earned a giggle from you, but his smile fell again, taking the shape of something a more serious. “What did you enjoy when you did it?”

“Oh,” you began, feeling flustered again. “I don’t know.”

Roger tipped his head to the side, running his thumb over your cheek. “Did he do anything to make you feel good?”

You tried to remember a time that your ex boyfriend attempted to give you any semblance of pleasure. But you drew a blank. You shook your head. And then a lightbulb illuminated, only to be dimmed when you realised. “He almost got me off when he went down on me once,” you admitted. “But he wouldn’t listen to me when I told him what felt good. Said his neck hurt or something. I don’t remember.” Oh god, did you have go into that much detail with Roger? Your jug of margarita called out to you; you brought it to your lips, taking a series of swift swigs.

“You poor fucking thing.”

“Do you want to go to bed before we turn into prunes?” you asked, changing the subject.

Roger looked uneasy, but nodded. He stumbled to his feet first, and offered you a hand out.

Fifteen minutes later, you and Roger sat perched at the end of the bed that you woke up in that morning. You were both clad in matching silk robes and shrouded silence. Nerves raged away in your gut once more, wondering whether Roger would make his move tonight.

“What you thinking about, Kitten?” Roger asked, glancing over at you.

You met his gaze. “Just worrying about what comes next. When you go out on tour.”

Roger shrugged. “We're perfect for each other. I don’t have eyes for anyone else.”

[Part 5]

Fresh from another visit to the mile-high club aboard the private jet, you and Roger sat bundled in the back of another expensive car. A Jaguar, this time, much to Roger’s disgust. His hand rested delicately on the exposed skin on your thigh, rubbing pensive circles on it. He was quiet, staring off into space as the dull grey motorway zipped past in never-ending silver lines flecked with green.

You glanced at him. It was as if you didn’t exist and it dumped a freezing bucket of panic over you. “Are you alright?” you asked, your voice coming out small and pathetic as you sank into yourself.

Roger turned to face you, breathing a laboured sigh. He looked defeated.

“What’s up?” you pressed.

“Are you really interested in me?” he asked.

The noose of rejection curled around your throat, not a second before you choked out your next question. “What sort of question is that?”

“I think I fucked up, telling you how many people I’ve…” He trailed off with a shrug and he couldn’t meet your eyes.

“I promise you didn’t.”

“But you said it yourself, what comes next? How can I get you to trust me when I’m away on tour. This counts for nothing if we don’t.”

You rolled your eyes and squeezed his hand. His skin was papery and felt like ice under your touch. “We’ve got a while to go before that happens though, haven’t we? We can work on it.”

Roger met your gaze for a split second. In his mind, he scrambled for answers; ways that this could work. But his track record wasn’t so promising – if anything, it was damning.

“And it’s more of a ‘me’ problem than a ‘you’ problem,” you added.

Roger shook his head. “It’s both of us.”

Your stomach churned at the prospect of him dropping you there and then, wondering why the hell he took you out to Ibiza, and what all the seemingly frank conversations and reassuring words were for. Tears pooled in the corners of your eyes. An enormous weight of dread jumped on your shoulders; your body, much like your resolve to keep calm, buckled. “You know,” you squeaked, “if you weren’t that interested in me, why did you drag me out there?”

Roger’s eyes raged with concern as he shuffled over to you; his hands planted firmly on your shoulders. “I like you,” he affirmed. “I really fucking like you. And I want this.”

“Then why are we having this conversation? Why aren’t we making a go of it?”

“We are. I want to. I promise. I just feel like I messed up. Because something’s bothering you.”

“There’s a lot to unpack. But I hope we get past it,” you sniffed.

Roger darted his eyes over you, concern growing with each subtle movement. “Alright.”

“Are we alright, though?”

“Yeah. It’s just teething issues, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Interrupting the moment, the car stopped. You peered out of your window to see your block of flats. With a sigh, you turned your attention back to Roger and fell into his arms for a warm, departing hug.

He smelled like heaven. He always did. You inhaled his scent, nose buried in the wisps of hair on his chest. “I hope to God we’re ok because I like you.” Removing yourself, you looked up, catching a faint smile flickering at the corners of Roger’s mouth as he stared down at you through his lashes.

“I really like you,” he sighed.

The following morning, you blitzed back into the office on a more positive footing, doling out toothy smiles to everyone that looked your way.

But that only lasted so long. You realised they weren’t smiling back. Rather, their smirks were laced with the malice of a gaggle of popular, teenage girls that had juicy gossip on you.

Your insides churned like a fairground ride until lunch.

“That’s her,” they told their colleagues in the canteen. The whispers from behind hands and filthy looks followed you right to your seat.

By the end of the day, the constant whispers had worn you down. The only thing you could be bothered doing when you got home was moping on the floor in a puddle of tears and wine. You weren’t sure whether the comedown from Ibiza made things worse than they actually were – after all, you had a knack for blowing things out of proportion. All you wanted was for someone to reassure you that the dread you felt wasn’t totally unfounded.

So you picked up your phone and scrolled through your contacts. Your finger lingered over Roger’s name. But you thought better of bothering him so soon after your outburst in the car. So you scrolled back up through the list until you found the letter ‘J’.

It was a long shot. Jade recently became a mother for the second time in two years. You were convinced she would be too exhausted to listen to whatever high-schooleqsue woes you were going through. But she was your best friend. If you couldn’t tell her. Who could you tell?

You pressed ‘call’ and waited, with tears streaming down your face.

Fifteen minutes later, Jade stood in the hallway outside your flat, clutching a bottle of wine and a copy of the Sun. She wore a sullen but understanding expression as you ushered her inside.

“That for when you get bored of listening to me?” you quipped, pointing to the paper.

She shook her head, handing it to you. “You might want to turn to page 15.”

You narrowed your eyes and flipped the pages. And then you recoiled in shock.

Splashed across the page was a collection of grainy photographs, obviously taken from afar, against a blue-skied backdrop. But one thing was clear – the people in them were you and Roger. Cutting across the page was the headline: “Younger Model Gets Roger’s Motor Running.” And then the even more damning subheading: “Drummer Taylor trades in devoted wife of ten years for young office worker on dirty weekend in Ibiza.” Your eyes batted across the tightly packed lines of newsprint, taking in all the gory details about his past affairs and outrageous sex parties. Even a screenshot of his Tinder profile appeared in the tell-all feature. Suddenly everything fell into place and all your worries had come to pass. Another surge of frantic emotion overcame your drained exterior. Your entire body rocked with hysterical disappointment as Jade wrapped her arms around you.

“He said we could make it work,” you whimpered.

“I know. But did you really expect things to go how you planned?” she reasoned, holding you out by your shoulders. “Did you really trust him, deep down in your gut? You knew he was divorced.”

“Actually,” you sniffed, holding the paper up, “it says his divorce is still going through.”

“Sounds acrimonious from what I’ve read. He must have done something wrong for it to be taking this long. And him whisking you off to Ibiza after knowing you for, what, a week? And you getting yourself into this state? It’s pathetic. He wasn’t the love of your life. He was never going to be.”

Something inside you snapped. “Well, I’m sorry for wanting what you and the girls have,” you seethed. “I’m sorry for wanting to be loved.”

Jade’s hands slid from your shoulders as she gave an exasperated sigh. “Here we go again.”

“What?”

“You don’t put yourself out there. That’s why you haven’t found a man yet.”

“That’s hard to do when none of you support me.”

“I’m sorry I can’t go out to clubs with you every other night. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got Brooklyn and Kaden to look after now. It’s about time you grew up.”

“I’m fucking trying.”

“I don’t know what you were thinking, going out there with someone you met on Tinder anyway.”

“Not everyone meets the love of their life in school.”

“But you won’t find yours on there.”

“So I’m supposed to resign myself to being alone. Godmother to all of your little rats? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride?”

So engrossed in winning the argument with your best friend, you hadn’t noticed the way that your body trembled uncontrollably as you choked out strangled sobs and dripped with murky, mascara stained tears.

Neither had Jade until silence tore through your squabble. Her shoulders sank around her frumpy, stout frame. To look at her, you wondered why on earth anyone could love her, but couldn’t love you.

You supposed that’s what kids did to you. She didn’t always look so haggard, at least not when you were in school together. “I’m not asking you to always be on your own,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m just asking you to be careful about who you go off and meet on Tinder.”

You couldn’t see past the lecture she doled out to you. Less than an hour had passed but you wanted her to leave. “Right, now that I’ve got my life sorted out,” you began, straightening your back and regaining control, “I think it’s time you left.”

“I’ve only just got here, I thought we were going to have a girls’ night like old times. Watch Dirty Dancing and drink some wine. I’ve got loads of pics of the kids to show you! They’re getting big.”

But she missed the point. Completely.

“I’m not up for it, Jade. Thanks for coming over.”

It’s funny how the tears stopped as soon as you realised how exhausting your life was. You were stony, staring her down and warning her to leave before another argument ensued.

“Alright!” she caved, flapping her hands in front of her. “I’ll go. But if that pillock decides to bother you again, you call me.”

You made a mental note not to do that as you escorted her over the threshold.

“Give my love to Kaden and Brooklyn,” you smarmed, slamming the door in her face.

And then, you were alone again.

It wasn’t as if you could call Roger. Your pride curtailed the briefest thought of that. You shook your head and wandered into the kitchen; there was another bottle of prosecco chilling in the fridge. Who cares if you had already guzzled one? You could manage another. Desperate times, after all.

You popped the cork, neglecting to pour it into a glass and sauntered through to the living room. Your mind raced with questions for Roger.

Did he know about this? Was this staged? How the hell did The Sun know you worked in an office, for crying out loud? You didn’t dare to entertain the notion that someone inside your circle would feed information to the tabloids.

Dropping the needle on ‘Born in the USA,’ you remembered how Roger rifled through your collection of records a fortnight prior; when you knew right away that he might be the one for you. Not caring to think that there had been hundreds of ‘ones’ in his lifetime and that you were another sad notch on his bedpost. It made the wine fizz in your gut.

Soon enough, you were hunched over the toilet, regurgitating a slurry of prosecco into the plumbing. Hair stuck to your face, you pulled back and sat on the cold, tile floor. The sour scent of bile permeated your sardine tin of a bathroom, forcing itself into your nostrils. If only Roger could see you now.

You must have fallen asleep on the floor, face resting against the rim of the toilet bowl, because when you opened your eyes, the hall was dark. Your head pounded as your thoughts were immediately gobbled up by more questions for Roger. Heaving yourself upright, you wracked your brain for a way out of this. A way that meant you could still have him. And not be the butt of sick jokes around the office.

Fuck what time it was.

You were calling him right reason or none.

With alcohol still coursing through your system, you scrambled to your feet. ‘Where did I put my phone,’ you mumbled to yourself ducking in and out of your bedroom, and the kitchen, and then into the living room. You found it on the coffee table. Next to the offending exposé.

It rang and rang, and on the very final ring, Roger’s voice cracked over the line.

“Hello, darling,” he said, sounding very much awake.

“Hi Roger,” you said, sinking your teeth into your knuckles.

“What’s up? It’s three in the morning. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I-I…” you stuttered. Telling him that you downed one and a half bottles of wine probably wasn’t going to be the best opener. So you lied. “I can’t sleep.”

“What’s keeping you up?”

“I need to see you.”

You heard him sigh. And the picture of his shoulders dropping, and that line forming between his eyebrows was so clear in your mind. Guilt twinged in every fibre of your being. “Is this about the ride home?”

“No. It’s… it’s… it’s all of it.”

“Alright, I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

The line went dead and you must have stood in the centre of your living room for half that time before you realised that he couldn’t see you in the state you were in; hair matted and remnants of last night’s liquid dinner still souring your breath.

So you scurried to your bedroom. That was your first port of call, rifling through your pyjama drawer and pulling out a clean set. Then the linen cupboard. This was nothing a washcloth couldn’t fix. And then finally into the bathroom. You swiped off last night’s make up and spritzed dry shampoo through your hair, giving it a rudimentary brush. And then your teeth and then a once over with the washcloth.

It was wonderful how such a minimal effort could make you feel that much better. Staring at your reflection all red-faced and bleary-eyed, that familiar feeling of your heart hammering against your ribs returned with a vengeance.

‘How long ’til he gets here?’ you asked yourself, jabbing a finger on to your phone screen.

‘3:17am,’ it read over the photo of you and him in his little red Porsche.

Three minutes.

You had three minutes to make yourself feel incrementally better again.

So you took a series of deep, laboured breaths and attempted to unscramble your thoughts. Steeling yourself to ask him everything about his wife, and his affairs and the story, the buzzer ripped through your flat, earning a shocked squeak from you as you high-tailed it through the hall.

“Hello?” you asked, pressing the receiver to your ear.

“Hi, darling. It’s me.”

“Come up.”

You put the receiver down and folded your arms, pacing back and forth at the door. You knew it wouldn’t take him long to reach the fourth floor and you had to think fast. You almost broke a sweat thinking it through at breakneck speed.

And then, Roger’s knuckles rapping against the door knocked you out of your daze. You opened the door.

He looked gorgeous, considering how late it was; his bright eyes peering over his glasses, waiting for you to explain why you had summoned him in the dead of night.

But all you could muster was a hug. A bone-crushing, rib-cracking hug that screamed, ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

He knew something was wrong. His arms embraced you for what felt like an eternity, as your bodies swayed together.

You couldn’t for the life of you remember what was wrong.

“Can we go inside?” Roger whispered.

You gazed up at him and nodded. Taking his hand, you led him inside towards the living room.

“I’m sorry for calling you at this time.” Your voice was nothing more than a croak after throwing up so violently earlier.

“It’s ok. You sounded awful on the phone,” he said, getting a good look at your dishevelled appearance. “You look awful now. Has something happened?”

You scowled, searching the room for something to lead into what you wanted to ask him, your eyes shifting in manic bursts. “Yeah,” you sighed.

He always looked so worried when he stared at you like he knew your brain was a bomb waiting to explode.

Then you found what you were looking for. The Sun. Still on the coffee table and open on page 15. You grabbed it and held it up to Roger like damning criminal evidence. “Have you seen this?”

“That’s us?” His eyes flitted from the page to you. And back again.

“Did you know about this?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “But they’ve been out to get me and the guys since we started out. Fred even had some of their guys hiding out in his bins a few months back.”

“Fuck Freddie. This is about you. They’ve got dirt on you. And they know what I do for a living. Look!”

“I know they’ve been after me since Dom and I separated.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I was never a good husband. But she was never a good wife either,” he said wistfully.

You rolled your eyes. “Is there something you want to tell me about your divorce? I mean I can read it all in there, but it’d be nice if you sat down and told me everything. Because you’ve been doing a bang-up job of avoiding talking about her since we met.”

“I think we should,” he agreed. “If I’ve dragged you into all of this then you deserve to know the truth. So that you know what you’re getting yourself into at least.”

This was too easy. Your brain tried to prepare you for the worst, sending you stumbling back on to the sofa with a thud.

“Where do I start?” Roger mused.

“Start with why you got divorced. Was it because you cheated?”

Roger shook his head. “No, actually. Well, yes. Partly.”

“Well, what is it – yes or no?” you pressed.

Roger wandered over to you and flung himself down. He spoke slowly. “Dom wasn’t what I’d call the easiest person to deal with. When we were together, she was manipulative, controlling, she had a spending problem and probably worst of all, she was a compulsive liar. You need to understand that most of the time I spent married to her, I was miserable. She was never like that before she got that ring on her finger,” he reminisced with a sharp, nervous laugh. “And I knew I couldn’t just divorce her there and then. She’d take me to the cleaners. So, I stuck around, stayed married, and started seeing other people behind her back.”

You raised your eyebrows. “And you thought she wouldn’t find out?”

“I’m not condoning what I did, but I was trapped in a marriage with a narcissist. And she’s still taking me to the cleaners. And that–” Roger continued, pointing at the newspaper in your hands, “is probably her doing. Jim’s been telling me that she’s dripping poison in the ears of anyone who’ll listen to her. But I didn’t think they’d come for you.”

“Well, they have.”

“And I’m sorry about that.”

“How far are they going to go?”

“If they can pester your friends and your family, they will. Unfortunately, that rag still sells and they’ve got money to burn.”

“And how do I deal with this?”

“You can hold your head up, ignore it, and stick around. Or we can go our separate ways. I don’t want that, but if you can’t hack it, then I understand.”

You sighed, searching the room for something to focus on other than Roger and his ultimatum. If you stared at him too long, you might have ended up in another flood of tears. “I really believed this was the start of something good for me,” you admitted. “My best mate came over with that earlier. And I’d had the worst fucking day at work. All the whispers and the funny looks.” You gave in, shooting him a pained glance. “And it’s all because of that. What they’ve written.”

Roger looked away, too, fumbling his hands in his lap, unsure of what to say.

“My friends are all married off with kids. And they just don’t get it. They’re over all this. They make it sound so fucking simple, lecturing me about how careful I should be. And maybe they were right? Maybe this was doomed from the start?”

Roger’s expression descended into palpable discomfort; he gnawed his lower lip between his teeth.

“You could at least say something,” you hissed, turning to him.

“I don’t know what to say. I wanted what you wanted, too.”

“Well, maybe your kind can’t have it,” you paused, allowed the hurt to boil over with a flourish of your hand. “Maybe you’re just not allowed to find happiness outside of your own little celebrity world.”

He looked like a wounded puppy. His mouth dropped open and his eyes sagged beneath his oversized circular frames. You noticed tears lapping at his lash line. He cleared his throat and sat up straight. “Maybe that’s true.”

“And I’m just unloveable,” you huffed, throwing yourself back into the sofa. “And I’ll have to be ok with that.”

Roger leaned forward, nodding in resignation. “Guess we’re going to have to get used to that.”

“Guess you should leave.”

Roger rose to his feet and wandered towards the door. You watched as he walked down the hall. Just before his hand found the handle, he turned to you, tears still stinging his face. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.”

“Me too.”

“And you’re not unloveable.”

“You’d have still cheated.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Bye, Roger.”

He shook his head as he left, closing the door gently behind him.

The alarm on your phone rang obnoxiously at seven in the morning. For a moment, everything felt fine until you looked at the coffee table and the newspaper on top of it. You huffed, turning back to the ceiling. If Roger wasn’t around anymore, you reasoned, you might as well get back out there. Back to the clusterfuck that was Tinder.

It took half an hour to get ready, and over your morning coffee, you mindlessly swiped through hundreds of people.

Mike, 28, seven miles away. A gym rat who overdosed on fake tan. And who clearly couldn’t grasp simple grammatical concepts. Mainly full stops. Left.

Shaun, 30, 12 miles away. He looked young. That’s because he was actually an 18-year-old, pretending to be a 30-year-old. Definitely left.

Andy, 30, five miles away. Cute. Sad blue eyes and a sad-looking labrador puppy to boot. You seriously considered it. But something about him just looked a little… soft. Like he was the kind of self-deprecating asshole that would drag you right into the depths of despair with him. Left.

Lewis, 29, 20 miles away. Tall, dark and handsome. Well dressed. Enough to raise your eyebrows by a few millimetres. He deserved it. Right.

It was such an innocuous action, swiping right and then going about your day as normal. You went to work and never gave him a second thought. He was forgettable, though, compared to Roger.

At least the office was more bearable. The whispers died down. People became more upfront about their curiosity. One colleague, Julie, even stopped by your desk, looming for a good two minutes while you worked with your headphones in. Her presence made you jump when you noticed her out the corner of your eye.

You whipped out your earbuds and waited for her to talk. You couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to her; you were sure she worked in Accounts.

“Hi,” she cooed, waggling her fingers. “I read the thing in The Sun yesterday and I definitely thought I recognised you. And here you are! Isn’t that wild?”

You gave a terse nod. “Yeah? And?”

“What’s he like? Roger Taylor? I’m a big Queen fan and it looks like you hit the jackpot there.”

You couldn’t even cry about it. As much as you wanted to. You were so distracted by the spinach between Julie’s teeth and the way her foundation creased around the laughter lines surrounding her bulging brown eyes that nothing else cycled through your thoughts. “He’s great,” you shrugged. “Really lovely.”

“Well,” Julie grinned, doing a weird sort of curtsey. “Tell him I love him!”

“Will do, Julie.”

That was one of many awkward conversations that ensued during your working day. The stilted questioning from your co-workers was more painful than losing Roger because of the ease by which it bored you.

A repeat performance of the previous day, you went home and grabbed another bottle of wine on the way back. Cracking it open, again, you ditched a glass and drank straight from the bottle. But, right before you travelled too far down the path to inebriation, your phone vibrated and lit up your darkened kitchen. Slowly, you set the bottle down and tapped your finger against the screen. A notification from Tinder.

‘It’s a match! Send Lewis a message now!’

You puffed out your cheeks and unlocked your phone. Your fingers danced over the keyboard, trying to find the right words to impress him. But he got there before you. ‘If you were a fruit, you’d be a fine-apple!’

Where had you heard that line before?

[Part 6]

Roger sat across from a gorgeous, young, leggy blonde. She didn’t have much going for her in the intelligence department, but boy, was she stunning. Especially the way she leaned against her hand and looked over at him across the candlelit table with those glimmering green eyes. And with a few more glasses of wine in her, Roger knew she’d be even more fun.

“So what is it that you do again, Charlotte?” Roger asked, pouring more of the good stuff into her empty glass.

“Well,” she beamed, “I’d quite like to be a model. I’ve done some glamour shoots and stuff. So I’m definitely on my way to making it. But enough about me. I absolutely love Queen.”

“Really?” Roger said, the brightness in his eyes dying in an instant. “How nice.”

You, were also preparing yourself for a date of your own. It turns out Lewis was equally as handsome and far more charming than Roger – with less baggage to contend with. You poured yourself into a skintight red dress and were busy eyeing yourself in the mirror, searching for imperfections.

Your heart raced and raced and there wasn’t much you could do about it. Deep breaths only did so much. Happy thoughts only took your mind off things for so long. You still had time to kill, but here you were, ready to go. You always had to be early for these things. But what else could you do?

You couldn’t sit in your flat and get drunk. That might ruin your chances.

So you wandered over to the door where you had laid out a pair of gold heels and a matching gold clutch next to your coat. You slipped on your heels. Pulled on your coat. And picked up your bag. And you left.

The walk to the tube made your legs ache – a small price to pay to look this good, you thought. By luck, the carriage was empty, so you settled in for your journey into the city. Entertaining yourself on these journeys was always an issue. You loved to people watch, but being a woman on her own presented certain difficulties; if you looked at someone else the wrong way, you might well end up dead. You glanced around the carriage, taking in your fellow passengers. They all sat in silence with their eyes glued to their phones. Nothing untoward. You followed suit, pulling yours out of your pocket to look over your messages with Lewis.

You scrolled through them. There were well over two hundred. A lot, considering you only matched two days ago. Maybe this was too soon? A swell of fear and nerves and dread forced beads of cold clammy sweat down your brow. Soon enough your hands shook so much that it was impossible to read any more of those cheeky exchanges with your suited and booted Tinder match. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea?

Too late. Your stop rang clear as day over the tannoy, coaxing you to your feet and off the tube. The station bustled with revellers; great swarms of them generating a dull thrum that overwhelmed you as you weaved your way to the exit, trying to avoid bumping into them at all costs. You could feel the eyes on you. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe you looked terrible.

The dread seemed to force your dress to cling even tighter to your body, uncomfortably so.

Maybe you actually looked good? The more positive side of your brain fought back feebly.

Don’t be ridiculous. You were nothing compared to… Roger’s ex wife.

Fuck.

There he was again, pressing his poisonous fingers into your brain.

Your footsteps kicked out a clacking beat against the pavement, transporting you to where you needed to be. Not that you wanted to go there anymore. Roger sucked the fun out of what should have been an exciting night.

The neon sign of La Rouvenaz buzzed out from three blocks ahead, projecting a tropical haze of pink and yellow out into the dusky, smoggy street. Your destination was already in sight. All you had to do was make it there without stumbling. That was simple enough to do. Just move a bit faster.

The breath in your lungs disappeared; they felt like they could shrivel up at any moment, making you pant in time to the clicks of your heels. And all you hoped was that no one noticed you silently falling apart as you walked to your date.

Reaching the restaurant, you paused, grasping your hand around the golden door handle. You dipped your head and caught your breath, you shoulders bobbing up and down far quicker than they should. It felt like the outside world didn’t exist, and if it did, you viewed it from an amniotic bubble. Everything looked fuzzy like it was hidden behind a sheet of frosted glass and the sounds of the street around you thumped like a faraway rave. Was this what dying felt like?

And then, a sudden tap on your shoulder.

It sent an almighty scream bursting from you. It echoed down the street in a way you didn’t think possible. You turned around, ready and raring to give the offender a piece of your mind, but instead, you came face to face with your date. Tall and handsome and exactly like his picture. Perfect.

“I thought that was you,” he grinned, giving you a glimpse of two rows of straight, white teeth.

“Yeah, I—” you bumbled. “I had a long journey to get here.”

Lewis was gorgeous. In his expensive-looking plaid suit and his crisp white shirt, closed at the wrists with opulent cufflinks. He had a killer smile and a habit of sweeping his fingers through the hair at the top of his head, teasing it into soft, haphazard peaks. He listened intently as you talked about work and life in general, how long you had been single for and why you were on Tinder. The usual first-date fodder. All the while, those intense dark eyes of his bore through you.

Still, you eased yourself into the experience, completely abandoning the nerves you harboured with every little sip of expensive red until your shoulders relaxed and the words kept tumbling from both of your mouths; like a frenetic game of verbal ping-pong.

But something was off. All evening there was something that wasn’t quite right about Lewis.

It had nothing to do with how he looked, or what he said. This was more about his manner.

And then it all became clear when you announced you were nipping to the bathroom. You, much like every other woman you knew better than to leave your drink sitting in front of a total stranger. So you drained the glass, still three-quarters full and snarled at the taste as you slapped it back down.

Lewis eyed you. His slender fingers massaged his temple as he raise a disapproving eyebrow.

“What?” you shrugged.

“I’m not into date rape,” he said flatly. Then he flashed you that beacon white grin again.

Your eyes widened and your stomach dropped. It felt like someone had taken a dull-edged knife and dragged it over your abdomen, leaving your insides to pool out on to your lap. Especially as the fear set in.

“I like watching them struggle,” Lewis added.

Without a word, you rose to your feet and marched straight for the bathroom. You hoped that this would all be a bad dream, that somehow the noise of hand dryers and the bustle of the restaurant outside would swallow you whole and allow you to fade into obscurity undetected. Sitting on the toilet seat, you ducked your head between your knees and tried to breathe. Apparently, that helped, but you weren’t one to buy into things daytime television therapists told the masses about how to deal with panic attacks. They were all hacks anyway.

You wondered what Jade would make of your current situation. The danger you put yourself in tonight, all the in name of desperation to be loved. And then your thoughts turned to Roger.

Where was he? What was he doing? How was Queen’s new album coming together? Were Brian and Deacy still squabbling and had Roger had to thump either of them yet?

You reached down towards your bag and opened it. Your phone snapped into your grasp, but you didn’t unlock it, or try to call anyone. You just propped it under your chin, wondering what your next move should be.

How long had you even been in there?

Would Lewis be getting suspicious?

You couldn’t go back out there. You needed to find a way out without him knowing.

You glanced around the cubicle. There was a window in the end stall. Your dress was awfully tight – it warped your brain into thinking you were huge and that gap, that little crack of light outside, looked awfully narrow.

Plan B.

Unlocking your phone, you immediately called the only person who probably wouldn’t judge you for wanting to be rescued. Half out of desperation, and half out of missing him.

“Roger?” you gasped before he had a chance to speak. “Roger, can you hear me?”

“Yeah. What’s happening?” he asked. “Are you alright?”

In the background, you heard the delicate chatter of a bar or a restaurant on his end. He was probably too busy to come to your rescue. Disappointment seared through you again. “It’s nothing. Sorry.” You hung up. The instant the call ended, your body shook from the rush of sadness you felt; it rocked every part of you, sending tears cascading down your cheeks and wounded whimpers from your lips. He wasn’t going to save you.

And then your phone began to vibrate underneath your chin. You looked down to find Roger’s name flashing on the screen. You spent so long wondering whether or not to pick up that it rang out before you could make your mind up. Your failure to answer that one call made the tears fall that much faster. And then came another quiet vibration: ‘Are you ok?’ the message read. And then another popped up. ‘If you need me, I’m here.’

The reminder of the enormous potential you wasted, was all you needed for you to loll your head against the divider, sink in on yourself and cry with even more ferocity. It was of no consequence to you anymore that your date had probably up and left by that point. He could sing for your share of the bill; God knows, he looked rich enough to fend for himself.

Then your phone began to vibrate again in long, loud bursts. It was Lewis this time.

You sent him straight to voicemail.

And then again, another series of vibrations, your phone blowing up with both objects of your desire vying for your attention. Ironic, really, that you didn’t want to be pestered by either of them. You just wanted to wallow. But Roger wasn’t giving up.

You knew he’d probably be frantic. You were certain of it. You could picture those baby blues of his and his furrowed brow, as he wracked his brain for something to make you feel just a little bit better. Fuck.

You caved, smacking your finger on to the screen to pick up the call. “Roger?” you sniffed.

“I’m worried sick about you. Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.” He was so matter-of-fact when he spoke, but you found it reassuring.

“I’m at La Rouvenaz. It’s a French place on—”

“I know where it is. I’ll be there in five.”

“I’m in the bathroom and I can’t leave,” you added before he had the chance to hang up on you.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m on a date and he’s fucking terrifying.”

“I’ll come into the ladies’ if I have to,” he reassured. “I’ll get you out of there. Just sit tight.”

Those were the longest five minutes of your life, sitting there in that stinking, cramped cubicle waiting to be rescued.

And then a knock came at the door. A familiar voice cut into the crowded bathroom, stopping all the preening women at the mirrors in their tracks. “Darling? Are you in there? It’s Roger.”

Hearing his voice made you raise your head from between your knees. Rather than go out to get him, you stupidly sat there in your cubicle. “I’m here!”

“Are you coming out?” Roger asked curiously.

You sighed, defeatedly. “Yeah.” You got to your feet and opened the cubicle door. The gaggle of girls in front of you had stopped applying their lipstick and fluffing their hair to watch as you slipped from the bathroom.

Roger looked stunning, waiting out in the dark red hallway. A blue velvet jacket, a bright white shirt. Both brought out his eyes, making them look even more angelic. But perhaps that was because you missed him so much.

“Hey,” you croaked.

No time for introductions, he touched your waist pulling you in, wearing that same anxious look you were used to seeing on him. “You’ve been crying.”

You nodded, unable to look at him.

“What’s happened, darling?” he coaxed, brushing your hair from your face.

Then, a voice shattered the bubble Roger tried to build around you. “There you are!” It was Lewis; his handsome face crimsoned and fizzing with rage. “I’ve been waiting out here for over an hour, thinking the worst. But you’re here…” He turned to Roger, eyeing him up and down. “With him.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Roger snarled, tightening his grip on you.

“I’m her date.”

Roger dropped his hands to his sides and squared up to Lewis like a chihuahua sizing up a rottweiler. “Are you now?”

Lewis quirked an eyebrow and puffed out his chest. “We were having a great time.”

“Not likely,” Roger hissed, holding his hand out towards you. “Come on, darling, let’s get you home. And away from this arsehole.”

Despite your messed up hair and running mascara, you had never felt prouder than when Roger marched you out of that restaurant, leaving a humiliated Lewis to pick up the bill. People were going to talk – you knew that – but at least Roger cared enough to get you out of there.

Bundling into the passenger seat of Roger’s illegally parked Panamera, you felt safe for the first time that night. As if being near Roger again gave you all the comfort you needed. He got in beside you, and the pair of you sat in silence for a moment, staring straight ahead.

Then you turned to him, looking at the beautiful jacket he wore. And how his hair was styled just right. “Were you doing anything nice tonight?”

He exhaled and fidgeted with his fingers. “I was on a date, too.”

The sinking in your stomach was too much to bear. But you asked another question to hide your disappointment. “What was she like?”

He turned to you, wearing a sheepish smirk. “A royal fucking nightmare. So, thanks for saving me from that at least.”

It never ceased to amaze you how Roger could always u-turn your mood like that. Now, you grinned from ear to ear, clutching the seatbelt. “Thanks for saving me too.”

“Any time.”

“If you ask me, you’re well shot of that guy. I hope he doesn’t know where you live or anything. Gave me the creeps just looking at him.”

“He doesn’t. I’m sure.”

“I’m curious though,” Roger began, glancing at you. “What got you into this mess?”

“It’s stupid,” you shrugged.

“Just tell me.”

“He made a joke about spiking my drink,” you explained. “And it was just the kind of joke you’d have got away with. But when it comes from someone like him it’s just…”

“A bit unnerving,” Roger nodded.

“Yeah.”

You only really wanted him to get you out of your horrific date, but Roger insisted on accompanying you back to your flat. He meant well. All he wanted was to make sure you were alright.

The pair of you stumbled through the dark hallway, his fingers trailing on the wall to find the light switch, while you made a beeline for your bedroom, itching shed your skintight dress.

“Let me make you a cuppa,” Roger said soothingly, as you reached the door to your bedroom.

You turned to face him; his figure bathed in the glow from the kitchen. A kind look washed over his features making your heart melt and your stomach flutter. “Alright.”

“You go and get into something comfier. That dress, as lovely as it is, can’t be fun to wear.”

You laughed and sighed at the same time. “It’s not. It’s fucking awful.”

“Right, pyjamas on. I’ll pop the kettle on.”

Alone in your room, you allowed yourself to catch your breath. How could you be such a bad judge of character? Shaking your head, you turned towards your drawers and rummaged through them for a pair of pyjamas that covered you – you didn’t want to be half-naked around someone you weren’t dating anymore. Your flannel Christmas ones would have to do. If those were good enough to wear around your parents, they were good enough to wear around Roger. You struggled, clawing for the zipper at the back of your dress.

You were interrupted by a knock against the door frame.

Roger stood out in the hall, holding two cups of steaming hot tea, his cheeks puffed out in a quiet smile. He had shed his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow; he had even slipped on those round-framed glasses that you loved. They made him look softer, kinder. You got so lost in how handsome he was that you hadn’t realised that you had left the door open. Force of habit after being on your own for so long. You also hadn’t noticed how you stared at each other for what felt like an age.

“Sorry,” Roger said, shaking his head.

“It’s ok,” you squeaked.

“Do you–” Roger began, awkwardly entering your bedroom and pointing at your dress. “Do you need a hand out of that?”

Looking utterly gormless, you nodded, turning away from him. “That’d be nice.”

You could feel his presence behind you. The heat from his body, the chill of his breath on your neck. “I won’t look,” he whispered, easing down the zip.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll wait in the living room. Do you want me to leave your tea here?” he asked, picking up your cup from your nightstand.

You turned back to him, holding your dress up around your chest. “Stay.”

Not needing to be told twice, Roger sank down on to your bed, putting your cup of tea back down. “I’ll just close my eyes while you’re doing your thing,” he said, leaning back and letting his eyes droop closed. He took a sip from his tea and continued. “Tell me when.”

Certain that Roger’s eyes were closed and that he wasn’t going to peek, you shimmied out of your dress, allowing it to slip to the floor. Off came your bra, too. You couldn’t be wearing that at home. And then you pulled on your pyjamas. When you were done, you stood at the foot of the bed with your hands on your hips, admiring Roger in all his sleepy glory.

“I’m done,” you announced.

He shook his head to wake himself up. “Took you long enough,” he smirked.

“Fuck you!”

The pair of you exchanged an awkward laugh and then silence descended, your gazes trained on each other.

You sighed. “You haven’t told me about your date yet.”

“Come over here and I will,” he said, patting the space next to him.

You clamoured up and he passed you your tea. You took a sip, allowing the liquid to inject some much-needed warmth into your body while you eyed him expectantly. “Continue.”

“Oh right,” he laughed, wrapping his arm around you.

You leaned into him, enjoying how soft he felt underneath you. “What was she like?”

“Well,” he began, drawing circles over your shoulderblade with his thumb, “her name’s Charlotte and she’s going to be a model. She’s done a couple of glamour shoots, but she’s convinced she’s going to make it soon.”

You buried your face into Roger’s chest in an attempt to stifle a fit of hysterics.

“What’s so funny? She’s very serious about her work. She was one of this year’s FHM High Street Honeys.”

“I bet she was,” you grinned.

“Bet she’ll sell her story to the papers.”

You flashed your hand out in front of you both. “Old man ditches younger model for one with bigger bangers.”

Roger laughed, tilting his head from side to side as he considered your journalistic marvel. “It’s catchy.”

“Isn’t it just? I’m telling you, I should be working for the rumour mill. Just imagine the shit I could spread about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Roger said raising his eyebrows. “What would you write about me?” He inched his face closer to you until your noses touched. “What dirt do you have on me, Lois Lane?”

“Well, I know for a fact that Roger Taylor, 37, drummer of infamous dad rock band, Queen, loves to sing in the shower. His favourites are the hits of Taylor Swift and Katy Perry.”

“That seems entirely plausible, but definitely not true. Go on…”

“Inside sources tell me that Roger Taylor, 37, once stuck his penis inside the fuel port of his early 70’s Porsche 911. Just to see what it felt like.”

“I don’t own an early 70’s Porsche 911, but I did do that with my 2018 Porsche Panamera, which is so perfectly parked outside this very building if you’d like photographic evidence of the unconventional sex act.”

You looked up at him with a mischievous look. “I’ll take your word for it,” you murmured, throwing your head back down on his chest. You retrieved his hand and dragged it around your shoulders so you could absentmindedly play with his fingers. They were so delicate and slender; definitely one of his best features.

“What you thinking about?” he mumbled, kissing the top of your head.

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“I don’t know if I did the right thing.”

“You were upset. I don’t blame you. And you never asked for any of this.”

You wrapped your arm around him tighter.

“And just so you know, I would never cheat on you. Because I know that’s in the back of your head after everything. I really, really fucking like you.”

“Why, though?”

“Because you’re normal. There’s none of this, ‘oh my god, so what’s it like being a rockstar?’ You’re just so chilled out about it and you don’t treat me differently. I’m just another person. I love that.”

“That’s because you are. Why should I treat you differently because of your job?”

“You shouldn’t. It’s nice to get recognised when I’m out and about, but when it comes to finding someone to spend the rest of my life with,” Roger grumbled shaking his head, “Nah.”

“Is that what you want?” you asked drowsily.

“Yup,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Me too.”

“Tinder thrown up any other handsome young perverts for you?”

“Nah. How about you?”

“Just that titted fucking idiot.”

“That’s a shame. You’re rich, gorgeous, have a fuck load of mansions all over the world. Prime sugar daddy material.”

“You’re right. I’m a catch. But so are you.”

“Not that anyone realises.”

“I do.”

“But that’s you. I bet you’d tell any old lie just to make me feel better.”

“That’s also true. But I’m not lying. If you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

Those words made your stomach flutter. He was yours. All yours and no one else’s. And you wouldn’t have to go on any more dates. You’d just have to contend with worrying that you wouldn’t be good enough for him. You were brilliant at that.

“How about it?” Roger asked, shaking your shoulder.

“Hm?” you groaned.

“You and me?”

A smile spread across your lips. “You and me, Roggie.”

“We should probably seal it with a kiss. That’d be romantic, wouldn’t it?”

You scrambled to sit upright, and when you looked back at Roger, he was comically puckering up, eyes screwed shut. “God, that’s a sight to behold.”

“You love it.”

“You’re right,” you purred, leaning in close to him. “I do.”

“Prove it.”

A small giggle left your lips as you closed the gap between yourself and him, allowing him to cradle you in his arms as you tumbled on top of him. Your tongues danced together with increasing urgency as your hands roamed. Unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt, you deepened the kiss, with warm, wet laps and your fingertips curled the fine hairs on Roger’s chest.

He sighed, wrapping one arm around your waist, pulling you down by your hair into him. You weren’t going anywhere, but it felt like this was right where you needed to be.

The arm around your waist travelled down towards your thigh, squeezing, while you rolled your hips against Roger’s. The need inside you steadily built, as did those familiar nerves. He looked so good. But you weren’t so confident making the first move. At least, not as confident as you were on the plane to Ibiza. You were missing one important ingredient tonight – champagne.

But you didn’t want to be drunk for this. You couldn’t be. You wanted to remember it.

You yanked open the last of Roger’s buttons, exposing his soft abdomen to your touch; kneading the skin above the waistline on his jeans. You adored his body. He wasn’t ripped and toned like guys your age, but he wasn’t fat and bloated either.

Roger’s efforts moved away from your lips, travelling down your neck, brushing against the collar of your pyjamas.

It earned a slight roll of your hips; and only now did you notice the bulge in Roger’s jeans, pressing against where the heat inside you radiated. You sighed, letting him undo your buttons. But you wanted more of him. You needed him in control.

Slipping off him and on to your back, you waited with bated breath for him to get on top of you. The tension rose in your gut when he got to his knees to throw his shirt into a heap next to your dress.

You wanted more; to see more. You sat up and reached out towards his belt, nimbly undoing the buckle.

“Someone’s lit a fire under your arse tonight, Kitten,” Roger chuckled, pouncing on you before you could undo his jeans.

You remembered how thick he was, how he stretched you. Allowing yourself to ache even more as Roger pinned you down with his weight. His movements were so compact, but so delicious at the same time, daintily unbuttoning your shirt, as he shuffled chaste delicate kisses over your chest. You gasped, eyeing him as he nipped and sucked at your nipples, and rolled them between his fingers.

Roger relished the way your body reacted to his efforts.

He used his teeth even more, dragging them along your stomach before he marked you up. You were certain this was his way of letting the world know who you belonged to, and it felt incredible. He had you arching your back in no time as he bruised your hips, dancing so dangerously close to the waistband of your pyjama bottoms.

Your hushed gasps were music to Roger’s ears. You could feel that devilish smirk of his against your skin. But he wasn’t moving fast enough for your liking.

Tangling your fingers through his hair wasn’t on Roger’s agenda; he gripped your wrists and held them by your sides, giving you a look that told you everything you needed to know about how tonight was going to go. He was doing all the work and he’d decide when to speed things up. Not you.

It earned a petty whine from you.

His laugh shot shockwaves through you. Breathless pleas escaped you as his fingers slowly, painstakingly dragged your pyjamas – and your underwear – over your hips. His lips trailed behind. With your clothes out of the way, somewhere south of your knees, Roger grinned. The real work was about to begin.

He settled between your thighs, gently and wordlessly parting them so he could lay claim to the sensitive skin on the inside. He let his tongue sweep across your inner thighs, stopping on occasion to give them a short sharp nip.

You sighed as he moved his way up between your legs, stopping just short of your aching slit.

Roger hummed, deciding to hold off just a bit longer, transferring his attention to your other leg. He took the underside of your knee, easing your leg over his shoulder so he could bury his face against it. He took his time. Inching up and up.

And when he was just about to give you what you wanted, disappointment ripped through you once more.

He gripped your hips and watched in wonder as you pleaded; writhing with need. His lips trickled over your abdomen like silk in an attempt to rile you up even more.

“I fucking love teasing you, Kitten,” he purred, brushing his thumb over your slit. “I think it’s done the trick, don’t you? You’re soaking, you dirty girl.”

Hammering home your uncontainable need, you tried to spread your legs in front of Roger’s face as wide as you could, struggling against his grasp. “I want you so much, Roger.”

“I know you do, Kitten,” he said, finally moving closer. “Just relax for me.”

Relax? How could you possibly relax? Not when sparkling fireworks of bliss exploded inside you with every precise movement of Roger’s tongue. He licked flat, broad stokes over you, parting your folds ever so slightly, savouring how you tasted.

It had felt like an eternity since he did this, and it drove him wild. He couldn’t bear to tease you much longer, overcome with his own need. Then his efforts intensified. He lapped and sucked every little patch of skin he could find, tugging at you between his lips.

You could see his cheeks turning red as he peered up at you from beneath his glasses. The more you sighed and arched your back into him, the more feral he became. He just wanted to get you off now. He had abandoned his teasing in favour of something more, that’d surely get him the result he craved.

Your body put up no resistance when he slipped a finger inside you, so he pushed another in, and curled them up against that one spot guaranteed to make you writhe and howl as he fucked you. And then came the kicker.

His tongue felt razor-sharp as it moved, darting swift, purposeful circles around your clit. It made you keen and claw at the sheets, balling them up in your sweaty little fists and when that wasn’t good enough for you, you hooked your legs over Roger’s arms and tugged at his mane. Urging him to keep going. You moved with his fingers as they pumped in and out in slick, wet motions.

“Oh god,” you mewled. “Keep going, just like that!”

Every noise you made encouraged Roger. He felt so emboldened, giggling away against your pussy. His tongue still drew those torturous circles around your clit, drawing out your pleasure, withholding a smidge of something extra.

When the tip of his tongue flicked over that swollen bundles of nerves, you swore you saw stars. Pleasure, golden and glorious, soared to every single part of you. You couldn’t control the way your body convulsed as Roger set about an even more unforgiving rhythm, dragging you slowly up that rollercoaster ascent. Every single moan you gave got louder and louder, as your grip on Roger’s hair tightened. His fingers and his tongue moved in tandem; in electric pulses topping up the tension little by little, until you overflowed. Hurled over the edge and plummeting back down to earth, the pleasure subsided as quickly as it hit you. And when your orgasm was over, and you got back to reality, Roger was still between your legs.

His eyes were still closed, lost in sheer bliss, and he still lapped at you. Lazily this time. As if removing himself from you completely might have disappointed you. And he surely didn’t want that.

You groaned, stretching your limbs like a lazy cat.

“Yeah?” Roger whispered, kissing your thighs and blinking at you with those big doe eyes of his.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Come up here and fuck me.”

Roger delivered one final kiss to your pussy with a cheeky grin, before he got back on to his knees. “What the lady wants,” he began, unfastening his jeans, “the lady gets.” He kept his eyes trained on yours as he took them off. You could see the prominent outline of his cock through his tight, white briefs; it strained against the material, a damp patch had formed, giving away just how arousing he found the whole situation. “You like what you see, Kitten?” he pouted, palming at his erection with a smirk.

You nodded, licking your lips. “Come here.”

Roger grinned, inching his underwear down his hips. It felt like ages since you last saw him naked. You swore his cock was bigger this time around, as he plopped it against your stomach. The weight of it alone made your body tingle with renewed desire.

You reached down and stroked your hand over him, jerking him off ever so gently.

Roger looked gorgeous, looming over you. He still had his glasses on as he stared down at your efforts, pinching his lip between his teeth. “Steady on,” he sighed. “You’ll get me off in no time.”

You whined, skirting your thumb over the pink, swollen tip. “Maybe I wanted to tease you.”

“With any luck, you’ll have a lifetime to tease me.”

“That’s also true,” you commented, drawing his cock over your slick, sensitive slit. It glided against you so easily, and your body simply ached to have him.

Instinctively, Roger moved into you. The sensation of him filling you forced contented sighs from you both as he collapsed on top of you, leaning his weight on you in exactly the way you loved. His rhythm gathered pace and no more words were said; your bodies rocking together in a tight embrace.

The feeling of him taking you so gently, so lovingly was absolute bliss. Lewis felt like a million miles away; The Sun was but a mere footnote in your mind as you gave yourself to Roger. You craved more, to have more of him. More than he could possibly give. Mewling against his collarbone as his painstaking rhythm struck all the right notes with you. It didn’t stop you from trying, latching your legs high around his torso, or raking your fingers through his dishevelled mane to pull him in for a feverish kiss.

The gruff groan Roger sighed into your mouth reverberated all the way from your mouth to your cunt, making you clench around his cock and earning another, louder groan from him.

He was getting closer. You could tell by the way he grasped his fingertips into your thigh, snaking one hand underneath your hip to pull you in. Like he had exactly the same idea about needing more. Holding on was becoming unbearable for him.

You could feel his shoulders tense. And the way his breathing came in jagged peaks. But more than that, the soft to and fro of his hips had quickened. Swift, shallow stabs came thick and fast.

“Come on,” you urged, “come for me.”

That was met by Roger burying his face against the crook of your neck. His teeth grazed against your skin as his orgasm washed over him, sending ropes of cum into you.

And then his movements stilled.

Finally, Roger rolled on to his back. His torso dipped and rose in slow, measured movements as he came down. His eyes drooping closed.

“You’re still wearing your glasses,” you whispered, reaching over to pinch them off his face.

He never opened his eyes. Instead, he acknowledged that by giving a small, satisfied hum.

“Thank you, Roger.”

Then his eyes opened. “For what?”

“For tonight.”

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, raking his fingers through the hair at the front of your head.

“I think so. How are you feeling?”

“Well, you’re no glamour model, but you’re alright,” he giggled, earning a smack to his side from you.

“I think we’re going to need to talk about us after this.”

“What’s there to say?” Roger asked, turning on to his side and flashing you an exhausted smile. “We’re a good fit, why fight it?”

>>NEXT PARTS>>

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #queen

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