{Roger Taylor x reader} oneshots

Long distance

Roger can't sleep and calls a random number left of a napkin. He expected to find someone to help tire him out. He never thought he'd find love.

[Reposting and major editing of an old fic I had posted on an old blog & crossed posted on ao3]

Warnings: SMUT, +18 ONLY - MINORS DNI; swearing & cursing; unclear timeline (lmao); Brian is a bit of a douche. It's a long ass one, over 20K words. Read at your own risk!
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Sometimes, being a rockstar isn't all it's cooped up to be.

Especially when on a world tour because it really has a way of derailing one's internal clock. It's the reason Roger can't sleep. He had been hopeful that between the jet lag, the excitement of being back in his own bed, the hectic rehearsal and recording schedule as well as the copious amounts of alcohol he'd consumed at the local dive bar with his mates would be enough to tire him out. Apparently, he's very mistaken.

He'd done what he usually does: counts sheep, lays in the dark, read the really boring book Brian has suggested. Nothing seems to be working this time around.

For what feels like the thousandth time, Roger turns over in his bed. He almost misses those rock-hard mattresses and non-existent pillows in the hotels around the world. He groans, casting his eyes to the red numbers glowing in the dark room. It's nearing 1.30am and as much as his body is begging for sleep, his mind wouldn't shut off.

Throwing the light blanket to the side, Roger swings his legs off the bed. There's no point in laying around, letting his frustration build. He eyes his discarded jacket, deciding that a quick smoke might help him relax just enough to be able to finally fall asleep. Stretching his arms above his head, his back cracks and with a loud sigh, quickly followed by a loud yawn, he lazily crosses his bedroom to reach the jacket he left by the door, fishing his half-empty pack of cigarettes from the pocket. As he rummages around the pockets for his lighter, a crumpled piece of paper flutters to the ground.

With furrowed brows and cigarette dangling from his lips, Roger picks it up from the ground. After having found the lighter, Roger starts walking towards his bed. Lighting the cigarette, he takes a deep drag, letting his lungs fill with nicotine, immediately giving him a sense of calm.

Feeling more relaxed, Roger clamps his teeth gently around the filter, using his now free hands to uncurl the piece of paper. Once he sees the hastily scrawled digits, his lips stretch into a massive grin.

Taking another drag and flicking the ash into the empty ash-tray on his bedside table, he tries to recall when the number was slipped into his pocket. It had to be from earlier that evening as the number had the London area code and he hasn't worn the jacket on tour as he'd forgotten it at home. However, no matter how hard he thought back to his evening, no specific girl sprang to mind. There had been quite a few that came to chat him and the lads up, but none of them stood out. He doesn't even remember being particularly flirty with anyone of them.

Roger casts another quick glance at the clock. It's still early enough that if the girl really was out at the dive bar with them, she's probably getting home now as he left much earlier than regular, hoping that the jetlag and general exhaustion would lead to a good night sleep.

Deciding that the woman had clearly hoped for a call from him, Roger picks up the receiver and dials the number. Making himself comfortable, he waits for someone to pick up.

It rings much more than he thought it would and he debates if maybe he shouldn't be calling this late, if it's better to try again during working hours.

Suddenly, the phone stops ringing, and there is a very groggy and angry voice coming through the line, "Someone better be dead."

Rogers chuckles. "Well, hello to you too love".