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[ironwoman18]

Rather Be - Part 13

Trigger Warning Alert: 

There will be some trigger warning about abuse relationships and rape. Those are my thoughts about why Melinda Desmond looks at her kids and her husband.

Chapter 13: Family Day 

“Good morning my dear students” said Mr Henderson looking at each other “I would like to let you know that this weekend we will be celebrating a special day... The family day”

All the kids looked excited and smiled at that, then Mr. Henderson continued “Mrs. Desmond and the women of the National Political Party will be organizing activities but the rest of the families must bring food and drinks and they can share with others. There will be a barbecue grill so you can bring meat, pork and chicken to share with all your classmates and families." They all looked happy and excited about it and started to chat about what they would do.

Damian knew his father wouldn't be present since he only attended those imperial students’ reunions, not a family day. Anya read this and felt sad for him. She knows how important his father is for the second son so not having him there was hard for him.

He noticed her staring at him and blushed hard and she looked around. Becky was delighted at this thinking Anya was thinking about having a good day around him so she, as her best friend, should plan something for it, like that chapter in Berlint in Love where the girl managed to meet her love interest in a secret place to have a romantic moment.

“Becky is so weird...” thought Anya rolling her eyes.

At night and back home with her parents she shared the news and of course Yor was excited “Oh my...!!! That sounds like so much fun. I will talk to Melinda to see if she needs help”

Loid’s thoughts were more towards the mission and how Yor’s involvement will help Operation Strix.

“That's amazing Yor, you should contact her and see if you both can organize it with the women of her party” he said from the kitchen.

“Daddy is always thinking about the mission... How exciting!” Thought Anya with shining eyes.

The dinner went by as usual. They ate and chatted about their day. Mostly Yor and Anya, Loid made a couple of comments here and there.

Anya knew everything about his little mission finding some information about a man who was plotting to expose some confidential documents about a politician’s bad dental health and Yor had to kill a man who was a traitor journalist. A typical Tuesday day for the Forger family.

The rest of the week went by quickly. Yor got in contact with Melinda and they were working together, they even convinced Loid to be the one in charge of the barbecue. He played it hard but was happy to meet her and have the first encounter at his door to reach his objective.

By Saturday morning the women were at the school campus preparing everything. With the help of Loid and some of their older sons they were able to finish in time for the other families to arrive and the day officially began. 

There were some really fun activities. Loid watched his wife playing volleyball with the other women and was impressed by it. He knew she was very athletic but it always amazed him how good she is at sports.

Then they forced him to play with the other men and of course he was wiping the floor with them.

“Wow Yor... Your husband is not only handsome and a good cook but also good at sports too” said Melinda while drinking water.

“Yes he's like the perfect man...” Said Yor and Melinda felt envy by the way her eyes seemed so... In love with her husband? She wished she could speak about her husband like she does.

But maybe it's because they had been married for about a year so that's why they were so in love but she never felt like it, it felt even like been raped everytime she was with Donovan, he wasn't gently or nice with her. She was just his “heir producer” as he once called her in a family reunion.

She hated him and everytime she looked at her sons she saw him in them and she felt a mix of love and disgust towards them.

She took a deep breath and looked back at the game. Loid's team was winning by a lot and the final point was an ace point by him.

Yor approached him and handed him a bottle of water and they talked under Melinda’s stare. Yor seemed so happy with him and she was happy that, at least, one of her friends was happy with her husband.

Then Loid returned to cook and the women started to give people plates with the meat, chicken or pork with a salad and baked potatoes to the other families. 

Henderson was impressed by his abilities, which were very elegant. And he could notice how happy he seemed when he looked at his wife. Sometimes he imagined that if Martha weren't sent to war, he would definitely look at her that way as his wife. 

He noticed the love Loid has for his wife and daughter, it was so elegant that he had the non elegant feeling of envy... He, an old man, envies the happiness of this young man with his wife and kid.

The teacher sighed and looked down, rubbing his hair softly and wiped out some tears of his eyes. He should be thankful, she was alive, she survived the war and that's only that matters to him.

Some other parents were playing with their kids after eating and others were offering desserts for the kids and some adults were also accepting them.

Everyone was happy to share time together and thankfully, for Anya, Becky forgot about her and Damian and just played with her, Bond and Becky's little dog.

Yor even had time to take photos of her family having fun, in the following days she will get them revealed and added the cuter ones to her personal collection.

Loid, on the other hand, made sure to chat with some politicians and important people from Ostania in case he ever needed information, after all it was his bigger mission.

The rest of the day Melinda planned more activities for the families, and at night they closed the family day with fireworks. This time Anya enjoyed them with her mom and dad and she couldn't be happier.

On their way home Anya fell asleep and so did Bond.

“Did you have fun, Loid?” She asked, smiling.

“A lot of fun. You and Mrs. Desmond did a great job planning everything” she blushed softly at his words.

“Thank you, we did our best to make it as fun as we could” she smiled big “so I'm glad our mission was completed”

He chuckled softly and said “Someone had been watching to many reruns of Bondman with Anya” he said, teasing with her, when she was about to answer him he held her hand softly, interlocking their fingers softly, as he drove and said “you completed the mission and I'm proud of you” he gave her the most honest smiles she ever saw on his face and she was melting by how beautiful it was. The husband was proud of her effort and he appreciates it.

“I...I'm glad you think you. I might keep in contact with her for more of these activities” he smiled more, this time the spy was pleased to hear it since it was his plan C and Yor was playing it to perfection.

They arrived home and while Yor laid Anya in bed and Bond returned to sleep on her bedroom's floor, Loid took a long and most needed shower.

Then it was her turn and when she was done, both of them went to sleep but before, she leaned into him and she gave him a small yet meaningful kiss on the cheek but this one was different, first it was closer to his lips and second it felt different, something neither of them understood or were aware of but others were noticing, they were falling in love slowly.

OOooOOooOO

Hope you liked this one short but I think it's a wider view of how someone noticed that Yor was, indeed, falling for Loid.

And Mr. Henderson also noticed Loid happy with his family and also that he loved them. But after all, our dear spy will never notice it on his own.

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[thedreadvampy]

like I am not trying to be unreasonable or excessively defensive when I say ‘oh my god shut up about Britishness’ or at least, not to talk the talk without walking the walk

I definitely have had a lot of unlearning to do from those heady far-off Bush administration days where we here in the UK all turbocharged our superiority complex about how America was a pit of fools led by an idiot and that made it not just ok but Noble and Politically Justified to rip the piss out of like. the McDonalds eating Walmart shopping mass media consuming oil chugging school shooting flagwaving white trailer park hyper-Christian anti-abortion racist ignorant American that lived in our heads and Spoke Weird and Thought They Were Real People and ate freedom fries and thought Iraq and Afghanistan were the same country and couldn’t do basic maths and barged around European cities in shorts and sunglasses yelling to each other about how cute it was and thought they were the only people in the world who mattered. and that’s not imo any different to the way American conceptions of Britishness tend to be framed 

(not to say that that image of Americans is a thing of the past At All and it’s something I often notice myself slipping into)

and this was viewed as a moral position, particularly among the hard left, for a lot of the reasons that ragging on Britain is also often seen as a moral stance. America was (and is) powerful and imperialistic, culturally hegemonic, politically far to the right of where Europe tended to see itself. America was the architect of the Iraq War, and a whole string of imperialist invasions before that, and the “special relationship” with America was seen as emblematic of how far right the Labour government had swung. I knew old communists of my dad’s generation who took as a point of deep pride that they wouldn’t interact with American exports and were actively hostile to Americans. America was seen through the lens of Bush (and is now often seen through the lens of Trump). It felt good to shit on America and, by extension, Americans. 

America represented imperialism and racist, exploitative global policy, filtered through a lens of glossy TV and film, stars-and-stripes-forever military glorification, Disney, loud tourists and a whole heap of shitty ideas about Things That Signified Americanness And Were Therefore Bad like

Talking funny

Simplified/differing spelling

Liking different sports

Being fat

Eating weird food

Using unfamiliar idioms

Seeing the world through a very culturally American lens

A lot of class signifiers that don’t exist to the same degree/don’t mean the same thing here (living in trailer parks, shopping at Walmart)

now you may have noticed that these aren’t.......super cool things to rag on? and also that there are a lot of parallels between that and the stuff I get pissy about when people make jokes about Britishness.

because the justification is that This Country Is Bad. It’s a Global Force For Evil. And that is, in both Britain and America’s case, definitely not wrong. Both Britain and America are violently imperial, culturally hegemonic, white supremacist world powers with a strong vested interest in considering themselves the Only Ones Who Are Really Normal People. It’s totally reasonable to hate Britain (I sure do!!!!!!). It’s also totally reasonable to hate America.

What I take issue with is the conflation of hating America with hating Americans. The conflation of hating Britain with hating the British. A country is not its people. A government is not its people. As I’m sure most of us have noticed, governments that fuck over the world are often simultaneously fucking over the poor, marginalised and vulnerable within their own borders (this is something as well that a lot of North Korean, Russian and Chinese people have brought up - that they’re held personally responsible for the shitty things their governments do even though they’re the people those things are targetted at)

That isn’t to say that people in both these countries (and indeed Canada, France, etc) shouldn’t think critically about the ways in which they benefit from their countries’ hegemonic power, or the ways in which they’re complicit in the imperialistic attitudes. But a lot of this mocking, both ways, boils down to

a) your government/country is bad and you should feel ashamed (like ‘you suck because the British Empire was a genocidal monolith’ or ‘Donald Trump just goes to show what America’s really like’) b) your country sucks to live in, haha, more fool you for living in it!!!!!! (Brexit! School shootings!) c) you are Foreign and that’s Weird (often coupled with ‘haha can you believe people in that stupid country do [thing that is generally associated with poverty]? GROSS’) d) you look/sound funny (British people all have bad teeth and are ugly, Americans are all fat and/or have had 20000 tons of plastic surgery and dental work)

and idk I just think perhaps that’s not...productive or good #praxis. like. not everything has to be Good Praxis it can just be a lazy joke about national stereotypes. but it’s not a Strong Moral Stance to hate (white) Brits or (white) Americans (and another thing is: these types of stereotypes very rarely include the racial diversity and multiculturalism of both Britain and America, choosing instead to only bring up non-white Brits/Americans as faceless Victims Of Bigotry). it’s not Good Leftist Praxis and people are, in fact, justified in getting annoyed about it even if they ARE white people from an imperialist country. because it is personal. it’s made personal.

and of course everything I and others have said in the past about classism holds true. in both the American and the British cases, a lot of the most commonly raised stereotypes other than language differences are about class (in that the things framed as gross/weird are overwhelmingly things which are looked down on within the culture because they’re associated with poverty - the Gross British Food, the People of Walmart, the lack of education, the slang, fatness, etc). 

(also don’t get it twisted. a lot of people thought the last time I mentioned how class affects British stereotypes people thought I was making some class reductionist Working Class People Are Exempt From Racism And Benefitting From Imperialism argument which. no. but you’re not criticising racism or imperialism you’re criticising Poverty Food, just like you’re not criticising lack of global political awareness or a culture of rampant neoliberal capitalism when you laugh at Americans for being fat. you’re just shitting on people for things they’re already being shat on for.)

this is obfuscated by the fact that these stereotypes slap together high and low class signifiers at random, but the high class signifiers that get mocked, at least in the American stereotype, are mocked because in a British  context they are low class signifiers. like a lot of what gets mocked in Britain about Americans is the high-capitalist Conspicuous Consumption of the Trump and McMansion types, and the plastic surgery and glow-in-the-dark Hollywood smile. but it’s mocked because it’s, at its heart, seen as gauche and tasteless and Not Classy, whereas the British rich know how to be Tastefully Rich (boke)

like I’m not saying people outside a country shouldn’t criticise that country. both Britain and America deserve to be criticised roundly, not just on a political level but on a societal level. yeah man I do benefit from power and I am very able to slip into cultural supremacist ways of thinking. but ‘har har they talk funny’ isn’t criticism, it’s bigotry. To Be Clear: it may be bigotry but it’s not oppression. It’s not a matter of ‘oh woe the Americans are Bullying Us From A Position Of Power.’ Neither side of this holds hegemonic power over the other, realistically (Americans are not oppressed by Britons for being American; Britons are not oppressed by Americans for being British) But what it is is round after round of the same sneering cultural supremacist oneupmanship that’s characterised the relationships between powerful imperial nations (and particularly between Britain and America) for centuries. we’re both, nationally speaking, desperately pitching the argument that We’re The Good And Civilised Ones and They’re The Stupid Weird Embarrassing Ones.

we’re BOTH weird embarrassing countries with sordid, racist, imperialist political structures. we’re both horrendously shitty nations it’s not a competition about which country is shittier because the answer is always Who Cares They’re Both A Nexus Of Awful Global Consequences.

also nations are not real. we should criticise nations as they exist but people? bully people about something real you cowards. “britishness” or “americanness” is only as real as you make it

[rogerstoast]

Garage Band//Roger Taylor x Fem Reader

warnings: fluff ig, really simple and cute

AN: I wrote this a long ass time ago and never revised it so apologies in advance for errors.

You were in your second year at Imperial College, and struggling to get through your second set of finals this year. Only three more exams to get through and you could finally say hello to summer.

The fact that you have been sitting at your desk studying for the last six hours, didn't help with stress either. No matter how much you studied, you just couldn't seem to grasp any bit of information from the papers in front of you.

Figuring it was going on six, and you have been sitting in an old wooden chair since noon, a well deserved break was needed. Capping your pen, you got up, stretched, grabbed your jacket and headed out of your dorm for a walk.

As you were walking down the streets of London, subtle music began to play in the distance. It wasn't half bad either. Quite decent actually. The music grew louder and you noticed a few, small groups of people, mostly girls, were gathered on the driveway of the house.

You looked both ways before crossing the street to see what was going on. Once you reached the house, it was hard to get about considering so many students were crowding the lot. Squeezing through and shoving past all the bodies was a struggle, but you managed to get to the front and into the garage.

Just as expected, it was a band. Now that you're here, you remembered your friend telling you about them a few days ago. But you weren't expecting them to be this good. The group was made up of three uni students. A tall one with wavy dark hair playing the guitar, and another dark haired guy, a little shorter, playing the bass. They both were singing. Along with the fella who caught your eye instantly. He had blond, wavy hair and played the drums wonderfully. Never missing a beat, and harmonized with the group beautifully.

About two songs in, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

"(Y/n)! What are you doing here?" It was your friend Lorali, the one who told you about  the band.

"Needed to get some fresh air after sitting at that desk for so long. Thought I'd see what was so special about this band you were telling me about" I told her.

"Well I'm glad you came! Wanna go get a drink with me? Bars inside."

Accepting the fact that it was a Friday night and you studied enough for the day, you gave into her offer.

"Sure thing!" Following Lorali to the door located behind the band, you figured you would steal another glance at the drummer, as you were about to past him. However, he seemed to have caught your glance just as they were finishing their song. You immediately looked away, and followed your friend through the door, as you felt a slight blush rise to your cheeks.

"What are you blushing about," she asked you, noticing your obvious flushed complexion.

"Wh-what? Nothing. Just need a drink that's all."

"Oh please (y/n), what kinda twat do you think I am. Do you really think I didn't see you making heart eyes at the drummer a second ago?"

Damn it Lorali.

She could always see right through you.

"Oh shut up! Doesn't matter, it's obvious he's the womanizer of the group, what should it matter to me?" But before she could deny anything, I poured myself a shot of whisky and downed it as fast as I could. Feeling a wave of relief already, I gave her a look as if to say alright, go on.

"The night is still young, (y/n). Let's go back out there, they're almost done!

Following her back out to the garage, you noticed it had got darker outside, and string lights lit up the garage as students gathered around a fire pit on the driveway, smoking and dancing along to the music.

Lorali led you to the couch up front, and you took a seat right next to her, each with a beer in hand. Facing the band, they sang and rocked their hearts out to their closing song. You happened to really like it. Wether it was the subtle head bops, or the perfect rhythm he managed to keep, you couldn't keep your eyes off of the drummer. He played perfectly. The song then came to a faster, more rock n roll bit and the guitarist played a rif while blondie hit the drums harder and faster than before.

This time when he caught you staring at him, you didn't look away immediately right after. Same goes for him, giving you a wink and a cheeky smile. Doubting the possibility he could be looking at you, you turned your head around to see if the group of girls from earlier was behind you or something. Only to find them outside, and groups of guys behind you instead. When you turned around, he seemed to notice your disbelief, and subtly laughed to himself. You blushed and looked down, feeling slightly embarrassed that you thought he wasn't gesturing towards you.

Drinking from your cup, they finished the song and ended it with harmonizing their voices and it sounded like the most spectacular thing you have ever heard before.

doooiinnn allllllrrrrrriiiggghhhhhtttt

The guitarist then spoke into the mic, "Thanks for coming out everybody, we really appreciate it!"

You sighed to yourself, that the live music was over for the night. But just as a record started playing from the corner of the room, you stood up for your spot on the couch, next to your friend. In need for a quick smoke, you informed her you were going to stand outside for a bit and warm up by the fire.

Noticing people have either left or gone to get their second round of drinks, you stood next to the fire pit, struggling to warm up. Pulling a pack and a lighter from your coat pocket, you were slightly disappointed to see that you were all out.

"Having a bit of trouble over there?" You heard a deep voice ask you from behind, causing you to turn around.

Crap. It's him. "Oh I uh, I uh, I'm all out, that's all," you awkwardly chuckle and look down.

"No worries," the drummer then pulls out a pack and offers you a cigarette.

You take it as your fingers lightly brush over his. "Thanks," you say, with a small smile.

You both light your cigarettes and you allow yourself to really let it sink in before taking a long breath out.

"I'm a, I'm Roger by the way," the drummer offered is hand out for you to shake

"(Y/n)," you reply, shaking his hand in return. 

"Wow, that's a nice name. How come I've never seen you around here before?" he asked.

You blush a little and turn to meet his eyes. Wow, you thought. It was the first time you saw his big blue eyes. Just as you were about to get lost in them, you remembered he asked you a question.

"Oh, I uh, I came with my friend. You guys were amazing by the way, should've come around sooner."

He chuckled and took a small step closer to me, "Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I feel like I've seen you around." his mention came off more as a question.

"Yeah, im a uni student. Second year actually, majoring in fashion design. What about you?" I asked him, bringing my cigarette back up to my lips.

"Dental student. Doesn't seem to be working out well. Hoping this band thing works out," he said, looking back at me.

"Ah I wouldn't worry about it, you guys were amazing," I reassured him with a smile, hoping I wasn't coming off too obsessive with all the compliments I was giving him.

But Roger loved how you would blush and gawk over the band. Although you never noticed him until this night, he has noticed you since the beginning of his second year at uni. He sat at the very back in a class you two shared with each other, but you never seemed to noticed he existed until today. Roger on the other hand, was the total opposite. He noticed you the first day, and couldn't get over how beautiful you were. The way you concentrated so hard in class to make sure you took all the right notes, and the way your tongue would poke out of your mouth when you were focused. Roger admired all of it. Everything about you. But, he never had the courage to talk to until tonight. It was almost as if he had been intimidated by your perfection, and it made him nervous, which is not in his nature. Being known as the womanizer and all. 

"If I don't know any better, I'd say you have a little crush on the band," he brought up, trying to mess with you.

"Oh shut up!" you joked back, nudging his shoulder with yours, both of you lightly chuckling. It was only then when you realized how close you too actually were. Standing there, shoulder to shoulder.

You then realized your beer was empty when you went for another sip. Figuring you walked here, maybe it would be best to start heading back

"Well, i uh, I should get going I guess."

"Wait"

But just as you were about to walk away, Roger grabbed your hand to turn you around. Very quickly actually, resulting in your noses almost bumping each other as your faces grew closer all of a sudden. Neither of you said anything for a second, but just looked at each other. Both sets of eyes quickly looking down at each other's lips, then back at each other's eyes. Yet the awkward tension took over, making the moment suddenly uncomfortable.

"Let me get you another drink at least?" He offered.

You easily obliged with a simple, "okay," and a small smile.

He took your hand and led you through the garage past the bunch of people who were still there, and into the house to the kitchen.

While Roger went to the fridge to grab two beers, you hopped up and sat on the corner.

"So Rog, is this your house?" You asked curiously. 

He walked over to stand in front you, and handed you the can.

"Yeah, I've been rooming with Brian for a couple of months now."

You don't know why, but you felt so at ease around him. A sudden wave of confidence washed over you, causing the next question to come out of your mouth without a care in the world.

"I assume that means you have your own room then?"

Roger knew what you were intending with that question. He raised an eyebrow with a smirk on his face as he walked closer to you, standing in between your legs.

"I suppose it does," he replied, your faces merely a few inches away from each other.

Roger placed a hand on your thigh, taking you  a bit by surprise. But you allowed it, and you couldn't help but feel more at ease because of it. The moment, it felt so right. But why? You barely knew him. You feel like you did, but you didn't.

"Hey (y/n)" Roger whispered, as our faces grew closer

"Yeah"

"I know you barely know me, but I need to be honest. Ever since I saw you the first day of uni, I thought you were absolutely stunning. I always sit at the back of class, and I can help but admire your perfection. It kills me, everyday when I see you."

This took you by surprise even more. That's why Roger looked familiar to you. But what he just confessed to you made your heart skip a beat, and cause butterflies to literally explode in your stomach. You were blushing uncontrollably and had a huge smile plastered on your face. Why? You didn't know. Even though you barely knew each other, everything felt as if it was meant to be happening.

"Roger, I-"

But before you could say anything, he leaned in and crashed his lips into yours. It was fast, but sweet and loving at first. You flung your arms around his neck, running your hand through his hair. He brought his other hand up to your cheek as the kiss became more heated. Both of you craved each other, need each other. Roger has been the missing thing in your life all along.

Roger then took his hands, slid them under your thighs, signaling for you to jump on him. Which you did, wrapping your legs around his torso as his hands made their way under your ass to hold you up. He then started kissing you down your neck, leaving love bites all over. The feeling completely melting your insides, you grabbed his face with both hands and connected your lips together yet again.

Before you knew it, Roger had already carried you upstairs. Your lips not letting go for even a single breath of air, the two of you pushed the door open, only for him to slam it shut with his foot, ready for night of his life.

——————————————————

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Lily reads Star Wars: Red Harvest (part three)

Previously: Sith happens and orchids are snarky, to the point where @threadsketchier dubbed this one “Miette”:

Orchid: “you make me cold??!?1!  oh, JAIL FOR MOTHER!  JAIL FOR ONE THOUSAND YEARS”  

Unfortunately, the orchid and its Jedi keeper have been kidnapped by a bounty hunter and are en route to Sith Hogwarts... so of course we cut to Geonosis to meet the Hard-Boiled Jedi Detective who’s going to track her down.

...who also happens to be her brother???

Geonosis: once a hellhole, always a hellhole. We learn that Coruscant got sacked by the Sith a while back, but that’s pretty much it in terms of backstory or context for people like me, who are fuzzy on what’s supposed to be happening in this part of the timeline. Oh, well.

Anyway, there's a belligerent Jedi named Rojo Trace, who is based on Liam Neeson's character in Taken, right up and including parroting some of his dialogue. I'm just gonna call him not!Qui-Gon, because he's basically Qui-Gon but with even more issues, and... a biological sister who is also a Jedi?? How does that even work??!! Suffice to say it will not be explained, because explanations are for losers.

Not!Qui-Gon is grumpy and a loner and Not a People Person, which is HILARIOUS given how the Jedi are supposed to be diplomats and peacemakers.

She stepped toward him, casually brushing his arm with her own. “I have to confess, I’ve always admired the Jedi Order, but I’ve never had the opportunity to get to know a Jedi Knight personally.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen today,” Trace said.

She frowned a little. “But—”

Before she could continue, Trace moved past her, turned, and jumped straight into the crater.

Yup, definitely Qui-Gon in literally everything but name.

Also, he's a psychometrist by profession:

Trace exhaled, reminded now of other terms he’d heard used to describe the Republic’s role in crash sites like this. The officers might call them investigators, but the enlisted men on the ground had other names. Names like corpse counters and dirt tourists.

The nicknames meant little to him. That was the job; everything else was a distraction, including female officers who wanted to get to know him personally. He was aware of his reputation for being cold and impersonal: it didn’t bother him in the least.

LOL, attachments are for other people. Not THIS Jedi. The only thing that’s missing from the usual hard-boiled detective stereotype is the drinking problems! The only person he cares about is his sister Zo, and he has a vision of her screaming as she's kidnapped, so he's going to track her down and rescue her! Because he's a tracker named Trace! (LOL, I see what you did there.)

What’s his relationship with Zo? Why does he care about here so much? How did they both end up as Jedi? Why did she go to the AgriCorps and why did he take this particular job? What was their training like? How often do they talk? What are Rojo and Zo’s relationships with the rest of the Jedi like? I have so so so so so many questions, none of which will ever be answered in the text.

This character has the potential to be really interesting, but the author provides me with zero personal details to explain why Rojo Trace is the way he is, and how he got to this point, so instead it’s like every action movie Liam Neeson ever made. Strip away the Determinator tropes and there’s not much left. 

Meanwhile, Zo comes to in the Whiphid bounty hunter's trophy room, which is full of decaying skeletons and skins and super gross, along with space!dermestid beetles gnawing on the flesh of recent kills. I'm reminded of the Imperial governor in the Truce of Bakura whose desk is one giant tooth and wants Leia's for his private dental collection. And, of course, the orchid macguffin.

The initial process of communication was never easy. At first it had felt almost unnatural. Yet with practice, through countless mornings spent sitting alone with the orchid, she’d soon reached a level of mastery that eased the transitory awkwardness into a smoother and more organic leap.

Are you there?

Within its glass vessel, the plant finally twitched, brightening slightly in recognition of her presence. Zo watched its dust-colored stem inclining toward her like a beckoning finger. At the same time she felt its life essence stirring within her, filling an almost physical void directly behind her breastbone and between her lungs, a place she thought of almost colloquially as her soul. At the same time she heard the first coarse whispers of its voice, gender-neutral, incoherent at first and then becoming clearer, like a foreigner adapting to the nuances of an entirely new language.

Zo? What happened? Are we well?

Zo gave a rueful smile, felt the lump on the back of her head. I wouldn’t exactly say that.

The orchid shares what details it can about their captor:

Solitary, a bloodthirsty species, and aggressive.

Zo waited, processing the comment. The orchid had a gift for understatement, and she couldn’t help but wonder about the criteria for this assessment.

And a flower collector to boot, she told it.

If the orchid had an opinion on this, it didn’t voice it.

The orchid stayed silent. Staring at it, Zo began to realize how her fully wakened presence had already affected the trophy room’s biosphere. The naturally occurring moss on the ship’s ceiling had started spreading at a noticeably accelerated pace, sprawling to swallow up the exposed bolts and seams in the interior walls. There was some kind of switch plate just above her head with a sign written in another language—the Whiphid’s mother tongue, she assumed—but it was already so moss-covered that she couldn’t make out the letters. Scraps of green rot within the skulls had begun extending their first initial tendrils up as well, reaching outward through eye sockets and trepanned holes. Simply by being here, she’d jump-started the growth of the Mirocaw’s incidental flora.

This is so cool, and I wish we'd see more of this, but sadly, we have to go to Sith Hogwarts, which is traumatizing for everyone, but especially the orchid, who is, as we established, A Delicate Flower.

In her arms, tucked against her, the orchid had started to make the same repetitive clicking sound over and over again, as if it were stuck on a thought, a compulsive stammering noise that she didn’t like at all.

Meanwhile, not!Qui-Gon arrives at the scene of the crime and sets to work:

The silver-haired agricultural-lab attendant stood with his hand extended. Trace paused just long enough to give it a perfunctory squeeze, his eyes already scanning the area, taking in everything at once as they walked across the landing bay. The ship he’d commandeered was a generic midsized star skiff, big enough for a crew of eight, small enough to escape scrutiny, retrofitted with ion engines and a Class One hyperdrive for long-range travel. He traveled alone.

OF COURSE HE DOES.*cue “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” by Green Day*

So here's the explanation of the (lame) reason why Zo can't be separated from the orchid macguffin:

Emmert nodded. “The Murakami orchid is renowned for its Force abilities. It possesses power, but it requires a keeper, someone with an equally high midi-chlorian count, to keep it fully alive.”

How the fuck did this plant evolve? Did someone breed it to be like this? They had to have bred it for this, there's no way this could happen in nature. Why did they do that? Because it was cool? Because they could? Because it’s useful for something besides nefarious Sith alchemy? If it was bred by the Sith, that would explain a lot, but why would the Jedi being growing it if it were a creation of evil? Is the orchid going to become evil? (Please don’t let the orchid be evil!) WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING HERE??

And how far away can its keeper get from it before it dies (or turns into a zombie, given the “fully alive” remark)? Can it switch keepers? What do midi-chlorians have to do with anything? How does that... even... work...?

Never mind, because not!Qui-Gon is also space!Sherlock:

“What’s that?” Trace pointed at the screen, at a series of pale bluish green discolorations along the [photo of the] Mirocaw’s portside. The marks had an oddly phosphorescent glossiness, almost as if that portion of the ship’s outer plating had been streaked with a layer of iridescent oil.

“Carbon scoring?”

“No.” The Jedi Knight shook his head. “That’s Thulian vapor residue—it’s a galactic anomaly, a mixture of post-industrial airborne pollution and crystal fog. You only find it in about three places outside the Mid Rim.”

Emmert gave him a blank look.

“Have my ship ready,” Trace said. “I’m leaving in five minutes.”

At least he's efficient, I'll give him that.

[dunmeri-bitch]

thank you @forevervobla for tagging me! I've never written something in this format before, so i hope i can get it right XD I'm tagging @iamthekingofsass ***

Name -> "I'm Volmasie Matdel, nice to meet you!"

Are you single? ->  Volmasie smiled and chewed on her lip, twiddling her fingers together. "Sort of? I have feelings for someone, and i suppose i have a bed-partner, but it's not official yet." she smiles and blush "Also, don't tell him I have feelings, please" Are you happy? -> “yeah I suppose so. a little stressed with the dragons and the war, still not over what happened in Helgen," she looks down for a moment and shakes herself out of the bad memories, "But I've had worse, so i suppose I'm okay"

Are you angry? ->  “no, not right now. I can get angry pretty quickly. Valtir says I make my feelings too obvious" she smiles a little and rubbed the back of her head

Are your parents still married? -> Volmasie shook her head, "No, my biological dad was never in my life, I don't know who he is, I've never met him. My mother and stepfather are happy together, despite the lack of a wedding ring"

NINE FACTS Birth Place? ->  "I was born off the coast of Tear. My mother moved from Morrowind to Bravil when she was pregnant, and i was born a little earlier than expected. she used to say that's why I've always been short for my age, and for a dunmer" she grins widely

Hair Colour? ->  "Ginger, or well when it's grown out. right now it's shaven so it practically looks dark brown" she runs her hand across her head and shrugged a little.

Eye Colour? ->  “snow-berry red, well maybe a little pinker than that"

Birthday? -> “5th of Sun's Dawn“

Mood?-> “little nervous, not sure what you'll ask me, but It's fine"

Gender? ->  “Female, I don't see why this is important though, unless you want something specific from me? know that I don't work for free, the fact that I'm letting you be so nosy is already more than I'm comfortable with"

Summer or winter? -> Volmasie shook her head, "neither of those, I like Spring and Autumn, I love the colors" she smiles and thought for a second, putting her index finger to her lip "although i do love swimming during the summer, so i guess every season besides winter. way too cold for my comfort"

Morning or afternoon?-> “afternoon, I love watching the sun set and seeing the inns fill up with life. that usually means septims for me"

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE Are you in love? -> “I don't know to be sure. I've been in love a few times, one in particular was during the war with the Thalmors, this Altmer, Runiel, saved me from- from some imperial solliders, and we slowly fell in love with eachother. sadly his family didn't approve of him being with a dunmer, much less a prostitute, so they forced him to come back to summerset.” she shrugged, looking down a bit, "I've had flings since then, but nothing like that" Volmasie looks up and peeked out the window where her companion was stood "Although... maybe something new is growing... if he'll return the feelings"

Do you believe in love at first sight? ->“not first sight, maybe second or third? i believe in quick love, but never firsts”

Who ended your last relationship?-> Volmasie thought for a moment and pursed her bottom lip "none of us did actually, we just drifted appart, and I haven't heard from them in ages, I honestly don't know if they're even alive still"

Have you ever broken someone’s heart? -> “not intentionally no, but sometimes costumers have taken too much liberty in how they view me. just because they becvome a regular doesn't mean I'll want to marry them and have their children” she shudders and frowns, crossing her arms.

Are you afraid of commitments? -> “gods, yes!" Volmasie groans and leans forward, holding her forhead "it scares the living daylight out of me"

Have you hugged someone within the last week? -> “Does hugging for warmth count?” she smiles a little "because if it does then i pretty much hug someone, at least once a day" she laughs and smiled widely, showing off her little tooth gap.

Have you ever had a secret admirer? ->  "Not sure which one you mean? I've had stalkers, yes" she grimaced and took a little sip of ale "but the romantic kind? not that i know of"

Have you ever broken your own heart? -> "would it upset you if I said that's what I'm doing right now?" she looked out the window and sighs

SIX CHOICES Love or lust? -> “why can't I both?"

Lemonade or iced tea? -> “Flin”

Cats or Dogs? -> “cats, definetly cats” she smiles "I think dogs are cute, but I don't want one of my own"

A few best friends or many regular friends? -> "again why do people always assume you can't have both at the same time?!"

Wild night out or romantic night in? -> "depends on who's asking?" she smirks a little "I'm very open for both options"

Day or night? -> “Nights, you'd be suprised at how much life there is during the dark hours, It's so beautiful in it's own way"

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS Been caught sneaking out? ->  "Oh deffinetly, so many times, which got me grounded and led to me sneaking out again” she snorts and shook her head "I was a restless kid, there was no chance of keeping me in one place"

Fallen down/up the stairs? -> “Weeeel i did slipp quite far down the steps up to the Greybeards.... don't tell anyone though”

Wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ->  “ugh, yes, so many times.” she groans and pouts, crossing her arms "It's unfair, honestly"    

Wanted to disappear? -> “next question please”

FOUR PREFERENCES Smile or eyes? -> “Smile, not only is dental hygiene very important in my line of work, but a smile tells so much about a person.”

Shorter or Taller? -> “well I'm pretty short myself, but it has it's perks. Have you ever been lifted up by an orc sailor? experience for life” she grins "also makes me the perfect size for cuddling"

Intelligence or Attraction? -> “not sure actually, both are very nice”

Hook-up or Relationship? ->  "both have their ups and downs, it honestly depends on my mood"

FAMILY Do you and your family get along? ->  Volmasie nodded a little and smiles. "I do," she leans back in her chair "I was never an easy kid, so I may not always have given off that impression, but I love my mother and stepdad dearly, they've helped me so much during my early years. i miss them" Would you say you have a “messed up life”? -> “Depends on how you choose to view it. I'm an exotic dancer, sex-worker, and I don't have much wealth, and I can't read. but on the other hand, I'm traveling with friends, I get to see corners of the province people have long since forgotten, I've held ancient artifacts in my hands, and I get to see the immense beauty this place has to offer. I have enough money to go to bed with a full tummy most nights, and I'm traveling with someone with an appetite you barely can describe. I may have made stupid choices, but I'm quite happy"

Have you ever run away from home? -> "I've run away a few times as a kid, ended up kidnapped by gobblins once and got into bad groups other times, but it never took long before I found my way home again, one way or the other"

Have you ever gotten kicked out? -> “you mean from taverns, right?” she snorts and nodded "Let's just say me and Valtir aren't welcome at the bannered mare before we replace that bed we broke"

FRIENDS Do you secretly hate one of your friends -> “I have a few friends i wanna punch sometimes, but I don't hate them” she laughs "But then again i reckon they want to punch me too sometimes"

Do you consider all of your friends good friends ->  “yes!” she nodded and smiled widely

Who is your best friend -> “hmmm Dahika is a dear friend of mine, things are never boring when she's around, and Valtir is a dear friend too."

Who knows everything about you -> “well you are very close, but i supose Runiel or Dahi would be the ones with the most blackmail material on me" she smiles and giggles

[melyzard]

War And/or Peace

“We’ll allow you to keep the cargo, of course,” says the man with the grey uniform, smiling. They always smile with their lips closed, Jyn thinks. Frown that way, too, in her experience. Noses high, eyes flat and empty regardless of what the rest of the face was up to, and lips always turned just so at the corners but firmly closed. She wonders what the Empire has against teeth.

At her side, Cassian isn’t distracted with Imperial dental concerns. His question is much more to the point. “At what price, Major?”

The Imperial smile twists the other way for a brief moment, corners bending the way his spine never does. “Colonel,” he corrects sharply, and not for the first time. Jyn would smirk, if it didn’t feel a little too…similar.  “And the price is, Mister Harrington,” the fake name drips from his mouth like poison so foul that for a moment he nearly curls his lip in disgust at the taste. For a moment, he nearly shows his teeth. Jyn’s heart quickens, her truncheon warm in her hand and the Stormtroopers’ tiny movements blazing across the corner of her eye. They might as well be holding signs, this lot of carbon-copy ‘troopers (here is what I plan to do next! There is where I will aim! This is the spot you can shoot to me to kill me quickly!), practically choreographing the fight for her. But then the officer’s expression smooths back into the sterile, disengaged smile. Empty. Toothless. Slightly distorted by the barely-visible force-field shielding his guard station from outside attack. “The price is no more, no less than what it has always been here.”

Cassian does not move for one second. Two seconds. Jyn is not holding her breath to listen to his. She is not clenching her teeth behind closed lips. She is not flicking her eyes nor turning her head slightly to mark which ‘trooper she will kill first. (She’s not that fucking sloppy.) She gives no sign that she is waiting for a sign.

“The price,” Cassian says (in his voice there is the glimpse of a sharp edge, a razor blade tucked into the soft words), “has always been too high,” a pause, barely more than a breath, “Major.” (A razor blade, or perhaps a fang.)

The Imperial steps forward, close enough that the extra four centimeters he has over Cassian are obvious, and threatening. Close enough that the force-field almost shimmers with his breath. “Colonel. And I’m not certain you understand your situation here, Mister Harrington,” (now the whole title oozes poison, the upper lip trembles but does not pull all the way back, not yet, not yet, and Jyn rests her truncheon against her thigh and does not look at the Stormtroopers surrounding them, not yet). “But if you cannot pay the fee, then I fear you are out of luck.”

“We are simple farmers,” Cassian begins again, but Jyn can hear the whetstone against his words already, can hear that he is tired of saying them. Tired of the lie. Judging by the Imperial officer’s face, it’s not working now anymore than it was ten minutes ago, either. Cassian has kept up the act doggedly, over and over, peaceful farmers bringing their cargo through the checkpoint, and Jyn has stood quietly and played her part (her part right now is to stand quietly. When it’s time for that to change, he’ll let her know, but right now, this is Cassian’s show).  “We can’t afford that kind of tariff. We barely make any profits these days as it is, and –“

“Yes, you have spoken your struggles with the fluctuations of market value,” the Imperial interrupts, this time the sneer so strong his nose wrinkles slightly, “extensively. However, Mister Harrington, as I have said, the use of this gate is a privilege. And privilege, as you know, comes at a cost.” He moves forward one more time, towering over Cassian now. Cassian dips his head, smiles sweetly, passively, the nervous not-quiet broken smile of someone who knows they are in an awkward situation but has no idea how bad it might really get. (The Imperial glances to the side, only a brief movement but Jyn has spent a lifetime reading faces, a lifetime studying eyes and noses and proboscis and antennae, a lifetimes watching for the quick look, the tiny betrayal, the moment when it all goes terribly, violently wrong. She sees the move. She sees the nearest Stormtrooper’s small nod in response. She sees the black-gloved finger slide onto a standard-issue trigger. She sees the tip of the canine, just peeking through the officer’s tight smile.) “So it will be the full cost, Mister Harrington, or we shall have, as they say, a bit of a scene.”

(A transition scene, Jyn thinks but does not say. Between his show, and mine. And her mouth pulls at the corner, her teeth scrape at the inside of her closed lips.)

“That would be a shame,” Cassian’s voice is still low and soft and thoughtful, a peaceful farmer with his hat in his hand, head down, blades tucked safely away in his mouth. A silly man, trying to get away with the tiny crime of not paying the ransom expected of him. “All these people waiting to pass through to the supply station. All those fellow officers of yours, waiting for their goods to be delivered. Someone might come looking to see what’s the hold up,” he shifts his weight again (none of the Stormtroopers react, the Imperial officer doesn’t react, but Jyn hears the soft ring of a blade being pulled from a sheath, hears the hint of the snarl creeping it’s way out from between clenched teeth). “Be a shame if they mistook you for the culprit, wouldn’t it,” (a pause, a smile, a flash of canines in the corner of her eye), “Major?”

“Colonel,” hisses the Imperial (the Stormtrooper to the left shuffles a step to the side, to further ring around Jyn, but his steps are clumsy, his grip on the rifle weak, sloppy movement, sloppy gunmanship, and in the back of her head Saw shakes his head at the sloppiness and stretches out his hand. Once upon a time, that was Jyn’s cue. But this isn’t that time, and this isn’t Jyn’s show, so she doesn’t move. She doesn’t turn her head. She doesn’t let her lips peel back. She doesn’t bare her teeth.)

(Not yet.)

“You will pay the tariff or you will remove yourself from this gate, Mister Harrington, you will remove yourself from this town, and I strongly suggest,” he steps closer now, his eyes narrow, his mouth sneering higher (just the tips of the fangs, cutting through), “you remove yourself from this system.”

“So…” Cassian shuffles his feet, a nervous, meaningless fidget (Jyn sees the pattern, recognizes the stance, and her truncheon is warm in her hand. Her teeth cut at the inside of her lip), “you won’t be letting us pass through, then, Major Trucidator?”

The Imperial’s face tightens, whitens, lips pulling back and there, at last, the fangs bared (not yet, not yet, not yet) (but soon). “The next time you call me by the incorrect rank – “

“My apologies,” Cassian cuts him off, lifting his head, and Jyn sees the Imperial register how close the man is at last, how close Cassian’s nervous little shuffle has brought him while the Imperial looked elsewhere. “Colonel Henrick Trucidator, Commander of Platoon Five-Seven-Three.”

“How did you know about – that unit was dissolved – “ the Imperial startles, begins to step back (back into the shimmer of his protective force-field), but it’s too late, too late, because Cassian’s smile vanishes, his shoulders drop, the peaceful farmer gone as if he never was (he never was) and the last thing Colonel Henrick Trucidator, Commander of Platoon Five-Seven-Three (known officially as “The Ascendants,” unofficially as “The Arsonists,” and all across the Expansion Region as “those genocidal bastards”) ever feels is the bite of the vibroblade in his heart.

(And now, at last, it’s Jyn’s show).

The first ‘trooper’s helmet shatters under her truncheon, white plas-steel splintering inward and burying jagged shards into his shaved head (they really make them cheap these days, the Empire contracting out trillions of credits to the company that will use the fewest of them in the manufacturing), and he dies without a shot, without a sound. Jyn doesn’t watch (she doesn’t shake her prey after it dies, doesn’t see the need, dead is dead and she has to keep moving). She spins, catches the rifle barrel as it lifts (of course she knows where it will be, they practically held up signs) and drags it up faster than the ‘trooper intended, drags it up and it shoots wide over Cassian’s head instead of into it, bursts into the air like a firecracker, like a flare. (Someone nearby starts to scream, feet stamping, a crowd roaring, because this is Jyn’s show and she’s about to make a scene.) The black gloved finger on the trigger twitches again, another wild shot into the sky, but Jyn’s truncheon connects with the chin and the helmet snaps back, the gloved finger goes limp, another little pile of jagged white shards at her feet as she lets it drop. Flash of white in the corner of her eye, the last Stormtrooper rushing in and Jyn flips the newly-orphaned rifle in her hand, flips the script on the ‘trooper, and fires before he can reach his mark. He makes the most noise of them all, a short sharp screech that the filter in his helmet distorts and garbles into something terrible, something less then Human, and then he crashes at her boots, smooth gleaming white shapes that once held a living being and now hold…well, something less than Human.

Distantly, she still hears screaming, stamping feet, a crowd fleeing what was not (for them) a very good show. But where Jyn stands there is only the cadence of her breathing, the rush of blood through her ears, and the warmth of the truncheon in her hand.

“It’s done,” Cassian says quietly from the side, and suddenly Jyn’s jaw aches. (Not true, it was already aching, she’s just suddenly aware of it, aware that her jaw is clenched. Aware that her teeth are bare.) “It’s done.” In his hand, he holds a cylinder. Colonel Henrick Trucidator, the cylinder will say to anyone who scans it. Highly decorated Imperial officer. Terror of the Expanded Regions.

Jyn snaps her truncheon into her holster and barely glances at the grey-coated body behind Cassian. She has better things to do than look at trash. More importantly, she doesn’t shake her prey, and she doesn’t prod Cassian’s. She has better manners than that, at least.

“Time to go,” Cassian says, and slides his hands into his pockets. The cylinder vanishes from her view. So does the blood. Behind them, a siren begins to wail. “Quickly.”

She starts to turn, to follow his cue, but there’s a tremble in his upper lip, an edge in his voice, a razor blade just barely slicing through his calm expression (when his eyes glance to the side, she doesn’t follow his line of sight. She has better things to do than look at trash). She can deal with it later, she knows. They both can. This is probably not a great time.

But hell with it. It’s never a great time, is it?

So Jyn doesn’t follow the cue, doesn’t let the scene shift. It’s not his show. Not yet. Instead, she steps forward, close enough that the extra fifteen centimeters he has on her are obvious (but not threatening, never threatening), and grabs his wrist. Not the one with the cylinder (she has better things to do) but the one with the blood, and she tugs. He resists, briefly (his jaw tightening, lips pressed closed, spine rigid), but Jyn keeps it up doggedly until he sighs and lets her have his hand.

“It’s done,” she tells him carefully, and presses his bloody hand to her throat, fingers to her pulse. “We did it.” His fingers are slick against her skin, and she feels him flinch at the touch, flinch at the smears of blood he is leaving on her. She tightens her fingers, doesn’t let him flinch away. “We did it,” she says again, and knows he hears the emphasis. “For them,” she adds, although that’s maybe too much, to invoke the victims (past, present, almost future) of the Terror now dead behind him. This is why Jyn doesn’t do the talking scenes. (But what’s said is said and she doesn’t take it back. She’ll never take any of it back.)

Cassian closes his eyes (sirens growing louder, but still far away enough. Just enough. Jyn does not clench her jaw. She does not count the breaths. Now it is Cassian’s show again, and she can only wait her cue). “The price always feels too high, Jyn,” he says at last, and for the first time since they arrived at this Imperial gate, Jyn hears no blades in his voice, his edges blunted when he speaks to her, gentled when he whispers her name.

Jyn hunts for the right words, but she can’t find them in her mouth and the sirens wail closer (the scene is almost over) so she does instead the only thing she can. She leans up and kisses him, hard, hands buried tight in his hair and body slammed up against his chest until he staggers (teeth scrapping over his lip once, and to the point).

“Alright,” he breathes a moment later, when she lets him. “Alright. You’re right.” (the sirens are around the corner, the bodies growing cold at their feet; it’s time to go.) “Thank you.”

She grins at him, wide as her mouth can stretch, and turns on her heel. Their escape vehicle isn’t far, and the agent waiting to take Colonel Dead Man’s proof of death is waiting just outside the system for them. There will be celebrations in the Expanded Regions tonight (there will be nightmares and tight grips and half-spoken promises in their room tonight), but Jyn isn’t thinking about that right now. She’s not even all that concerned about the blood on her neck, the pounding of boots running towards them, or the cargo of stolen goods they left sitting in the middle of the gate (huge and blocky and difficult to move out of the way of responding Stormtroopers trying to reach the security checkpoint just beyond).

At this moment, all that Jyn really cares about is the warmth of the sun on her face, the pounding of her heart in her chest, and the way Cassian’s mouth has twisted into an almost smile (slight and careful and for the briefest moment, flashing white with just the hint of teeth).

[beautifulyou1]

Unleashing the Power of IMPERIAL DENTAL SPECIALIST CENTRE: The Top Treatment Options

Imperial Dental Specialist Centre is a premier destination for comprehensive dental and aesthetic care. The centre is renowned for its commitment to providing first-class service and exceptional patient experiences, leveraging state-of-the-art technologies and the expertise of highly skilled specialists across various fields of dentistry and aesthetic medicine. The focus on integrating dental care with overall physical health sets Imperial Dental apart, ensuring that patients receive holistic treatment that considers their entire well-being.

The centre is known for its three core specialties: the Smile Design Clinic, Implant and Orthodontics, and Invisalign treatments. These specialties offer both surgical and non-surgical solutions tailored to create beautiful, natural smiles for each patient. The Smile Design Clinic focuses on enhancing the aesthetics of patients' smiles, utilizing the latest techniques and technologies to deliver customized results. The Implant and Orthodontics specialty provides advanced treatments for tooth replacement and alignment, ensuring optimal function and appearance. Invisalign, a popular choice among patients, offers a discreet and comfortable way to achieve straight teeth without traditional braces.

Dental Treatments

[stormtrooper-in-clogs]

“Written in the Stars”

I wrote this for A Night at the Fandom, hosted by @dtfrogertaylor, for my “secret Santa” recipient @jessahmewren. Enjoy!

Summary: Roger tries out for Smile and meets his new band mate.

Pairing: Maylor

Word Count: 2548

Warnings: the usual (drinking, kissing, implied sex, vomiting)

A/N: I literally had no idea where this was going, but somehow it got there. 

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“You see Ursa Major up there?” Brian asked, pointing at the sky.  “And that star there, the North Star.  If you follow it like this...” he traced a path across the night with his finger.  “...you’ll see Ursa Minor.  And if you look over here,” he directed his attention to another cluster of stars.  “This constellation is called…”

Roger lay there on the blanket with his head in Brian’s lap, gazing up at him as he mapped the darkness.  He could listen to that man ramble on about the cosmos all night.  He just adored the way his boyfriend’s eyes lit up as he described each constellation and planet that peppered the sky.  Roger sighed contently as Brian ran his free hand through his silky locks, gesturing at yet another twinkling dot with the other one.  He closed his eyes as Brian absent-mindedly scratched his scalp, surrendering to his touch.  The guitarist’s voice disappeared into background noise as Roger concentrated on the fingers massaging his head. About a minute later, he stopped, earning a small whine from the drummer.

“Roger, are you even listening to me?” he asked, snapping the blond back to reality.

“M’listening,” he mumbled, opening his eyes again.

“Really?” Brian smirked, raising an eyebrow.  “Then what are the brightest stars in the sky?”

A mischievous grin spread across Roger’s face at the question.  “Your eyes,” he answered, teasing him.

Brian blushed at Roger’s response, a hand shooting up to hide his dopey grin.  He usually didn’t get this flustered over one simple comment, but Roger had learned early in their relationship just which buttons to push to make him lose his cool.  He had the guitarist wrapped around his little finger and he knew it.

But it hadn’t always been that way.  After the night they first met, Roger could barely look him in the eye.

The year was 1968, and a young dental student was responding to an ad looking for a drummer.  He entered the auditorium and his gaze fell first on the drum kit that had been set up in the center of the stage.  He made his way toward it, stopping just short of the instrument when he heard a voice:

“Name,” called one of the two men seated in the fourth row.

“Roger,” he responded, his voice cracking.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “Roger Taylor,”

“Alright, Roger.  Well, I’m Tim, and this-” he nodded to the man sitting next to him.  “-is Brian.  “You may begin whenever you’re ready,”

Roger nodded and sat down at the kit.  He grabbed a pair of sticks and tested the snare.  Ugh, flat, he thought to himself.  He tested it again and adjusted the tension rods until it sounded right.

“Perfect,” he whispered.

“What are you doing?” asked the man called Brian, as Roger moved on to the next drum.

“Tuning,” he said, lifting his head to face him.  “The snare was a bit flat, so I just thought I’d test the rest of them,” he explained.

Brian looked genuinely impressed by that.  It was like he had never seen someone tune drums before.

He hadn’t.  Truthfully, Brian didn’t even know drums could be tuned.  In a few short minutes, this man, who may or may not be joining their band, had completely overturned his understanding of the instrument.  

Once Roger was satisfied with the sound, he began his audition.  While he drummed, Tim had brought out a metronome to test his ability to keep time.  He would periodically call out different time signatures, and Roger would change the pattern that he was playing.  This went on for about five minutes, then the two men in the audience grabbed their instruments and joined him on the stage.  

The rest of the audition must’ve gone really well because the next day Roger was officially asked to join the band.  He of course accepted.  

That night the three of them were going to go for a drink to celebrate.  Unfortunately, Tim came down with a pretty bad case of food poisoning and couldn’t make it.  Even though it would be just the two of them, Brian and Roger decided that they would go out anyway.  

“To Smile!” Brian toasted, raising his glass.

“To Smile,” Roger agreed.

As they drank to the beginning of a new era in their lives, Roger couldn’t help but notice Brian’s hair.  At the audition his hair was straight, or straightened, but now it had begun to re-curl itself into a messy afro on top of his head.  With his hair pulling away from his face, it revealed the straightest jawline Roger had ever seen.  Now that Brian was right in front of him, and the blond could see him clearly, there was certainly no denying that he was handsome.  With his hazel eyes and charming smile, Roger’s stomach was tying itself in knots whenever the guitarist looked at him.

As the evening progressed, one drink turned into two, then three, four, and so on, until Roger could no longer think straight.  As he finished his sixth(?) beverage, he could feel the alcohol clouding his judgement.  Once his inhibitions were basically nonexistent, he found himself leaning toward Brian, lips puckered.  

Brian must’ve been sufficiently drunk as well, because instead of pulling away from Roger’s kiss, he welcomed it.  Soon the pair were snogging like a couple of hormonal teenagers right in the middle of the bar.  Fortunately Roger looked enough like a girl, so they didn’t get many funny looks.  

“You wanna, -ah- take this, -ohh- back to mine?” Brian gasped between kisses.

Roger nodded eagerly, and the pair paid their tab and hailed a taxi.

During the ride there, Brian and Roger continued getting familiar.  Turning the backseat of the taxi into a sloppy, drunken gropefest.  

The next thing the drummer remembered was waking up in a bed that was most certainly not his.

“Wh-where am I?” he wondered aloud.

His fuzzy gaze wandered around his unfamiliar surroundings, landing on the sleeping body lying next to him.  Upon closer inspection, Roger realized that it was Brian!  How much had they had to drink last night?  He asked himself, although his pounding headache seemed to provide an estimate.  And the ache in his groin provided a clue as to what transpired before they fell asleep.

As he tried to recall the chain of events that lead to him winding up in what he assumed must be Brian’s flat, his stomach lurched.  Evidently, whatever he had consumed last night decided that coming back up was preferable to going out the normal way.  

He threw back the covers and ran out into the hallway in an attempt to find a toilet.  On the way, Roger discovered that he wasn’t wearing any clothes! One problem at a time, he thought.  As he searched for Brian’s bathroom, he cursed himself for leaving his glasses at home.  Eventually his blind eyes were able to locate it, thank goodness.  A few more minutes and the drummer probably would’ve hurled on the carpet like a sick dog.  

Once his nausea had passed, he made his way back to the bedroom.  Apparently Brian was a heavy sleeper because Roger’s “episode” hadn’t woken him.  He was still snoring lightly as the blond grabbed his clothes off the floor and re-dressed himself.  He thought about leaving a note, but decided against it.  What would it even have said? “Sorry I apparently had sex with you last night. -Some guy you barely know. '' No, the best course of action was probably to pretend that it hadn’t happened.  Besides, if Brian had been as drunk as Roger was, then he wouldn’t remember it anyway.

When Roger got home, he made himself a cup of tea and tried to put the events of the previous evening out of his mind.  What had he done that had lead to them going to Brian’s flat in the first place?  What had he said to convince the guitarist that having sex was a good idea?  Admittedly, it wasn’t his first time waking up next to someone who was practically a stranger, but why did it have to be Brian? The morning after usually wasn’t so bad because he could almost guarantee that whoever else was in the bed was someone he would never see again.  But he and Brian were in a band together.  They would have to see each other at every practice, every show, and every. Single. Afterparty.  And to make matters worse, Roger had actually kinda fancied him.  If he hadn’t been so impulsive, maybe they could’ve even dated.  That could never happen now, not if Brian remembered.  The blond would be labelled a tactless slag, and any chance they might’ve had would be gone forever.

That night at band practice, Roger couldn’t bring himself to look at Brian; instead, he kept his eyes glued to his drums.  

After practice, Tim invited his two band mates out for a drink.  After Brian agreed, Roger made some excuse about not feeling well and went home.  He knew it wasn’t a convincing narrative, but he didn’t trust himself to get drunk around Brian ever again.

“What was that about?” Tim asked.  Even he had noticed something off about Roger’s tone.  “Did something happen with him last night?”

“He probably blacked out and woke up next to some disgusting slut,” Brian snapped, spitting out the word slut as if it were poisonous. 

There was a hint of sadness in his voice.  But the anger that surrounded it was enough to make Tim back down.  He knew the guitarist well enough to know that if he wanted to talk about it, he would.

This became the routine.  Roger would attend rehearsals, avoid making eye contact with his fellow musicians, and then leave before anyone had the chance to suggest going out.  This pattern continued for almost a month until he stumbled upon a situation where he couldn’t escape.

It was a Saturday night in London, and Smile had a gig at a pub not far from Imperial College.  They didn’t have a real following yet, so attendance was sparse.  But, as Tim would say, “you’ve gotta start somewhere.”  

The tension backstage was palpable.  Between the expected pre-show jitters, and the fact that Brian and Roger were still refusing to acknowledge each other, Tim was using every ounce of his strength just to maintain his sanity.  They had all gotten on well enough at the audition.  And they had felt comfortable going out drinking without him afterward.  Then at practice they had barely looked at each other.  And Brian’s comment.  Something had obviously happened that night.  But what?

He managed to push these thoughts aside long enough to perform.  And he discovered that his band mates were good actors as well as good musicians.  He was glad that they were at least professional enough to hide their bullshit in public.

After the show, however, it was a different story.  No sooner had they stepped off the stage, than Roger and Brian were already back to giving each other the cold shoulder.  It was in that moment that Tim chose to put a stop to this nonsense.  

“Hey guys, where are you going?” he called after them, as they turned to leave.  “The night is still young, and the bar doesn’t close for another hour,”

As his band mates visibly cringed at his suggestion, Tim decided to try a different approach.  He sat them both down and told them very gently that if they didn’t work through whatever issue they’d been having by tomorrow afternoon, Smile would be disbanded.  He then went back out and ordered himself a drink, leaving the pair backstage to deal with their problems.

For the first time since Roger had woken up in Brian’s bed, the two men were alone together.  It seemed that neither of them could find their voices.  It was as if they couldn’t bear to relive what they had done.

“Sod this, I’m getting a drink,” Roger announced, breaking the most uncomfortable silence of his life.  

Just as he got up, a small voice stopped him.

“No,” Brian squeaked, eyes still firmly pointed at the floor.  “Tim’s right.  We need to talk about this,”

“Alright then,” Roger retorted, turning to face the guitarist.  “Let’s talk about it.  Let’s talk about how we got piss-drunk and fucked.  Let’s talk about how I ended up in your bed with no recollection as to how.  And let’s talk about how you’ve been ignoring me ever since,”

The rage that had been building in Roger’s chest for weeks exploded through his words and pierced his bandmate like a hurricane of daggers.  But what stung Brian the most was the tears welling in the drummer’s eyes, threatening to spill out.

“That’s not how I remember it,” he said softly, lifting his face to look at the man yelling at him.

“Really,” the blond deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.  “Then why don’t you tell me how you remember it,”

“I remember us kissing at the bar.  I remember the taxi ride back to my flat.  I remember us making love in my bed and you falling asleep next to me,” Brian’s voice was shaking at this point.  “But my clearest memory from that night-” he took a deep breath and wiped a tear that ran down his cheek.  “-is waking up alone,”

Roger was shocked at the curly-haired man’s comments.  That’s what he was upset about?  

“You’re not mad that we slept together?” he asked with wide eyes.  “You’re mad that I left?”

Brian nodded, tears flowing steadily now.  “And then you refused to acknowledge my existence for weeks.  If you think I’m disgusting just tell me,”

“No! Nononono!  I don’t think you’re disgusting!” Roger attempted to calm his band mate.  “I left because-” he sighed heavily.  “Because I was disgusted with myself,”

“Why?”

“Because we barely knew each other, and I just… threw myself at you.  I thought you would think I was some kind of whore,”

“So we’re both upset because of your impulsiveness,” Brian clarified.  “Where do we go from here?”

“Well, clearly trying to pretend it never happened didn’t work.  What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know,”

“Obviously I find you attractive because I initiated our little “night of fun” a few weeks ago, and you must find me attractive as well because you didn’t tell me to go fuck myself, like a sane person,”

“Right, and based on our behavior since then, I don’t think we could handle a purely platonic relationship,”

“Well, I don’t see a way around it,” the drummer shrugged.  “I guess we have to go on a proper date.  How about Friday, I’ll pick you up at seven?”

The guitarist cracked a genuine smile for the first time that night at Roger’s suggestion.  “Sounds lovely,”

Once the pair had calmed down a bit and dried their eyes, they went out and joined Tim at the bar.  Brian ordered two rum and cokes and passed one to Roger.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” he said, raising his glass.  “To Smile!”

“To Smile,” his band mates echoed.

“So I take it you two worked out your problem then?” Tim inquired.

“Yeah,” Roger grinned.  “By the way, we’re gonna need to cancel practice on Friday,”

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A/N: This was fun! I’m looking forward to the next event!

[hearts-hunger]

“D’you need a pencil, love?”

Part Two || Masterlist

Pairings: College!Roger x Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: None!

A/N: My darlings!! Your love for part one was so encouraging; I’m so glad you enjoyed it! This part is a little dialogue-heavy, but I think it’s v cute. My update schedule is nonexistent, so I don’t know when part three will be up, but I promise I’m working hard on it! I hope you like part two! ♥

The minutes ticked by painfully slowly through your next two classes. Though you took thorough notes, hardly anything you wrote down registered with you. You promised yourself you’d have a real look-over later that night, but currently you were too distracted by thoughts of the slowly-but-steadily approaching coffee date.

Your initial excitement hadn’t worn off, but it had started to become outshone by an ever-increasing nervousness. You hadn’t thought when getting ready this morning that you would be going on a date, and you fussed with the pleats of your knee-length peasant dress, wondering if he liked it. It didn’t really matter, since he’d already seen you in it this morning and you hadn’t given yourself time to change into anything else before you were supposed to meet him, but you still worried. Honestly, what was a guy like him doing asking out a girl like you? He could have any girl he wanted.

None of your worrying could change the fact that he’d asked you out, though, and eventually you packed up your notes from your last class and headed towards the library. There was a café frequented by most of the students at Imperial College London right across the street, and you usually popped in to get a cup before you went to study in the book stacks. You wondered if you’d be the first to arrive, or if he would already be there. You felt your heartbeat start to jump higher and higher the closer you got to the café.

As you came up to the door of the quaint little coffee shop, you gave yourself a second to compose yourself and not show outwardly the panic and excitement that were warring for dominance in your chest. You caught your reflection in the window; you looked fine, a little nervous, perhaps, but ultimately as good as you could have hoped. You tucked a stubborn curl behind your ear and opened the door.

You saw him almost immediately, back to you, blue shirt stretched over his broad shoulders as he leaned on the counter and talked to a man standing catty-corner to him. You didn’t want to interrupt their conversation, so you hung back, waiting until Roger turned around so you could get his attention.

The man Roger was talking to glanced over at you; he nudged Roger’s shoulder and nodded towards you. Roger turned, smiling when he caught sight of you.

“Y/N,” he said happily as you came over. “Right on time.”

“You did say not to be late,” you reminded him.

He grinned. “So I did.” He motioned to the man standing next to him. “This is my mate Brian. Brian, this is Y/N.”

Brian smiled at you and held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

“And you,” you said, shaking his hand. He was taller than Roger, with dark, soft curls and brown eyes.

“We’re in a band together,” Roger supplied.

You looked to him in wonder. “Really? What band?”

“It’s called Smile,” Roger said, flashing you a smirk that left you no doubt that he used that line all the time.

“Yeah, because Roger here is studying to be a dentist,” Brian teased.

Roger’s smirk faded. “I was gonna leave that bit out for the moment, mate, until she though I was a bit cooler, but thanks.”

You laughed. “Dental school is great,” you said. “Very up-and-coming.”

“Yeah, well, Brian wants to study space dust for a living,” Roger said. “Which is kind of even less cool than dentistry.”

“I’ll have you know that astrophysics is very cool, Roger Taylor,” Brian said, unruffled. “Plenty of girls think it’s very rock n’ roll.”

“Space dust?” Roger asked, doubtful.

“Well, maybe not space dust, per se,” Brian admitted. “But they do like that I know all the constellations. What can you do, tell them to floss every day?”

You laughed. You liked Brian, and you could see why girls would like to lay under the stars with him and have him point out constellations. Roger didn’t seem to upset by his friend’s ribbing, and you could tell they were good mates.

“Don’t you have a class to get to, Mr. Astrophysics?” Roger asked. Brian grinned.

“Yeah, actually. Sorry I can’t hang about and let Y/N know what you’re really like.” He grabbed a stack of books from the counter. “Don’t forget they moved us to 7, so we’ll need to be there by 6:30.”

“I got it, I got it,” Roger said, waving his friend off. “Tim’s the one you need to remind.”

“You should invite Y/N to come,” Brian suggested.

“Yes, thank you,” Roger said, lightly shoving his friend towards the door. “I’ve got it covered.”

Brian smiled at you. “It was nice meeting you, Y/N.”

You smiled back. “You too, Brian.” Roger watched as Brian left, his expression affectionately exasperated.

“A real charmer, that one, isn’t he?” Roger said.

“What did he mean about inviting me tonight?” you asked. “Not that you have to,” you added quickly.

“No, it’s alright,” he assured you. “I was going to anyway. We’re booked to play the Rose and Crown tonight.”

“Smile?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, we’re not bad, you know, you might like it. You don’t have to come, of course, but it’d be great if you did.”

You smiled. “I’d love to,” you said, all plans to go over your notes later that night forgotten. “When should I be there?”

He considered this. “Oh, maybe 6:45-ish? If you want to get a spot close to the front? And that way I could have a chance to see you before we go on.”

“I’ll be there,” you promised. “What kind of music do you play?”

“Rock n’ roll,” he said confidently, a hint of pride in his voice. “Real Led Zeppelin-type stuff.”

“I don’t know that much about Led Zeppelin,” you admitted.

He put his hand to his chest and feigned like he’d been shot. “Bloody hell, sweetheart. Tell me it isn’t true.”

You giggled. “I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, man, I’ve got to show you their album sometime,” he enthused. “The way Bonham starts out real subtle and jazzy on ‘How Many More Times’, and then about thirty or so seconds in, he just goes wild on the ride cymbal and starts in on the toms and drives the whole song along...” He seemed to notice he was rambling and cut himself off with a bashful smile. “Anyway, he’s a really great drummer.”

“Are you a drummer too?” you asked, endeared to his enthusiasm.

You could have sworn he blushed. “Not anywhere as good as Bonham,” he said, “but yeah. Brian plays guitar, and Tim’s on bass guitar. He’s also our lead singer.”

“Do you sing at all?”

He shrugged. “Sure, sometimes, for backup.”

“Well, I’m excited to see you play tonight,” you told him. “You can teach me what real rock n’ roll is like.”

He inclined his head in a bow. “I consider it an honor to be your guide into the wonderful world of rock music, my lady.” He looked back up at you. “I’ve just realized I’ve never asked if you wanted a drink. I apologize.”

“Oh, no,” you said, blushing, flattered at his apology. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He raised a brow. “You’re sure? This is technically a coffee date, remember.”

“Right,” you said. “Um, a cappuccino would be lovely, thank you.”

He looked pleased that you’d allowed him to get you something. “Coming right up.”

You waited by the counter as he ordered cappuccinos for both of you; a few minutes later, he brought them over and handed one to you.

“There you are, love,” he said.

You took a sip of the hot drink and was glad you’d let him get it for you. “Thank you. For buying, I mean.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “I did ask you out, after all. Shall we find a seat?”

You followed him to a two-person table by the window and sat across from him, noticing how golden his hair looked in the light of the afternoon sun.

“So, what’s your story?” he asked, studying your face with a gentle kind of curiosity.

You smiled. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything you’d like to tell me,” he said easily. “For instance, what are you studying?”

“History,” you said. “I think. I’m taking a lot of history classes, anyway.”

“So you’re in the chemistry class just for the requirement?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “I’m afraid I’m going to fail, though - I’ve always been horrible at science.”

“I don’t believe you could be horrible at anything,” he said sweetly. You blushed.

“You’re very sweet,” you said, “but you don’t know how bad my grades were in my high school science class.”

He leaned back in his chair, draping his arm over the back of it. “I could always help you out, you know,” he said. “I’ve had to take loads of chemistry classes to qualify for medical school. I’m not a mastermind, but I could show you a few tricks.”

“That would be great, actually,” you said sincerely. “Thank you. And - ” You pulled his pen from your bag. “I’ll try to remember to bring my own when we study.”

He cracked a surprised smile. “I was only joking earlier, you really can keep it,” he said. “One less pen seems a small price to pay for getting to know you.”

You couldn’t help the shy smile that his words brought out. He certainly did know how to make a girl feel good about herself.

“Well, thank you,” you said, putting the pen back. “I’ll cherish it forever.”

He laughed, dimples showing in his cheeks. “You’d better.”

You took a sip of your coffee, mostly to hide behind while you recovered from how very much you wanted to kiss those dimples.

“So you’re from America, right?” he asked.

You raised a brow. “However did you come to such an astute observation?” you asked in your best posh British accent. He rewarded you with an amused smile.

“What part of America?” he asked.

“Virginia,” you said. “It’s right on the east coast, kind of in the middle between Maine and Florida.”

“Why’d you decide to study here, then?” he asked. “No schools that fit your fancy back home?”

“I’m actually with an exchange program,” you said. “I technically go to the University of Virginia still.”

“So you’re only here for this term?” You wondered if you were reading too much into it or if he really did sound disappointed.

“No, I’m here for the whole year,” you said, trying to gauge his reaction, but you didn’t need to. His broad smile was plain as day on his face.

“That’s great,” he said. “I mean, that you don’t have to just be here for a few months. You can’t really fit the whole London experience into one term. Are you going back to Virginia for the holidays?”

“I am,” you said. “It’ll be nice to see everybody.”

“Any special chaps back home?” he asked.

Your heartbeat jumped. “No. No one special.”

He leaned his forearms on the table and studied your face, a smirk playing across his own. “I bet you’re a heartbreaker, aren’t you?”

Your laugh was a little embarrassed. “No way. I think you’re projecting.”

“Me?” he asked, playfully incredulous. “So you think I’m the one breaking hearts up and down the isle, do you?”

“Oh, I know you are.”

He leaned back in his chair again and looked at you with amusement in his pretty features. “Well, I won’t deny it,” he said. “But where’s the fun without a little risk?”

You frowned. “Getting your heart broken isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

He gave you a knowing look. “There was a special chap, wasn’t there?”

“Was being the operative word here,” you reminded him as he took a sip of his coffee. “It didn’t really count, anyway, because he didn’t even know I liked him. I don’t even know if you can qualify me as a person who’s had their heart broken because I’ve never even been on a real date before.”

Roger almost choked on his coffee. “What?”

His surprise amused you. “It’s true.”

“You are joking, aren’t you?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “You mean to tell me that this is the first date you’ve ever been on in your whole entire life?”

You blushed. When he put it that way...

He ran a hand over his face. “Well, that really puts the pressure on me, now doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

He bit his lip. “I mean, I’ve got to make this one really good. If it’s your first one ever.”

“You��re doing a pretty good job so far,” you told him, endeared to his concern.

“You’re not just saying that?”

You laughed. “No, I really mean it. I’m glad my first date is with you.”

“It’s probably the best first-date experience you could have hoped for,” he teased.

“Oh, definitely,” you agreed. If only he knew how right he was. “And since you’re going to be a fixture in my memory even when I’m old and gray and telling my granddaughters what my first date was like, I think it’s time I got to ask you some questions.”

“Ask away,” he said easily. “Though we’ve pretty much covered everything already.”

You gave him a doubtful look. “So the only thing there is to know about you is that you’re studying dentistry and you play drums for a band called Smile?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“I refuse to accept that,” you said. “There’s got to be other things a girl should know before getting tangled up with a guy like you.”

He raised a brow as the ghost of a smirk crossed his face. “Tangled up, eh?”

You blushed. “I only meant - ”

He chuckled, easing your embarrassment. “I know, I’m sorry. Continue. What kind of things would you like to know?”

You met his eyes; they were more green than you had remembered. “What’s your favorite color?”

“I don’t have one,” he said with certainty.

You frowned. “There’s not one color you like more than the others?”

“No,” he said. “I like all of them equally.”

You huffed. “Well, do you have a favorite food?”

He looked amused at your slight frustration. “Anything Japanese.”

“What’s your favorite movie?”

He didn’t have a lightning-fast answer for that one. “Oh, let me think on that one for a second.” He tilted his head back, as if looking to the ceiling to remind him of what his favorite film was; you took the opportunity to appreciate the view of his jawline and the steady pulse under it. Before you could get too distracted, though, Roger’s attention was back on you.

“I’ve got it. Have you seen that movie that just came out last year, 2001: A Space Odyssey?”

You shook your head. “I heard it was weird.”

“It was,” he agreed. “But in a good way. What else?”

You thought for a minute. “Hmm... what’s your middle name?”

“Meddows,” he said. “Roger Meddows Taylor.”

You considered him. “Meddows,” you repeated. “It’s pretty. It suits you.”

You thought you saw his cheeks redden a bit. “Thanks. What’s yours?”

“Y/M/N,” you told him. “Not nearly as unique as yours.”

“It’s lovely, though,” he said. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

It was your turn to blush. “Oh, hush,” you said. “Go on, ask me a question before you say anything else entirely untrue.”

He asked you what kind of music you listened to, and from there you spent the next two hours asking each other things and talking about anything and everything. He was funny and easy to talk to; being with Roger was easily the most fun you’d had since coming to Imperial College London. Some part of you wondered if this was all a game to him, if he was having fun in the moment but had no intention of following up with you after you parted ways. You ignored that cynical part of you and decided to just enjoy spending time with him for now, irresistibly drawn to the boyish charm, laid-back confidence, and surprisingly gentle sincerity you found in him.

Besides, he’d invited you to his show that night, so at least the spell would remain unbroken until then. You supposed it was his right to never see you again - though you suspected that wouldn’t be the case - but at least you had tonight. You were fairly glowing from his attention, and you were going to enjoy it while it lasted.

Just when you’d come to an impasse in your argument over who was the most attractive Beatle - “Paul’s too, I dunno, cute. George was a real stunner in the early days, though.” - Roger’s gaze caught on your watch and he cocked his head to be able to read it.

“Bloody hell, is that the time?” he asked.

You checked your watch; it was already past 6. You searched his face, mildly panicked.

“You’d better go,” you said. “You don’t want to be late.”

“Yeah,” he agreed as he stood. You followed suit. “Brian already thinks I’m incapable of getting places on time.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “D’you want to, um, just come with me now? I mean, you’d be getting there earlier than you thought, but it might be easier. We’d just be setting up for the show. And I can take you back to your flat after.”

“Sure,” you agreed, going through the door he held open for you. You didn’t mind spending more time with him. “Thank you.”

“My van’s just over there,” he said as you walked, indicating the student parking lot by the library. “It’s not exactly a boy racer, but it gets the job done.”

“Would you be disappointed if I told you I don’t know what a boy racer is?” you asked.

He laughed. “Yeah, I’m absolutely gutted. This whole date’s been a waste now,” he teased. “No, ah, a boy racer is a kind of sports car that’s got a lot of modifications. I think Americans call them hot rods?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, rubbing your arms against the chill of the light breeze. “That makes sense. Some of the guys at my high school were into hot-rod racing. I always thought it was kind of dangerous.”

“It’s really cool, though, you’ve got to admit.” He looked over at you. “You cold, love?”

“A little,” you said. “But it’s no big deal.”

“Here,” he said, shrugging off his denim overshirt and leaving a red tee underneath. He held the overshirt out for you, and you gratefully put it on over your dress.

“Can’t have you catching cold,” he said.

You gave him a bashful smile. “Thank you.” His shirt was warm and smelled like him, kind of sweet and smoky.

He opened the passenger door of his van for you when you reached it.

“Your carriage awaits, my lady,” he said gallantly, flourishing his hand. You giggled. Between his shirt tucked around you and the smile on his face at your laughter, you did feel like royalty. You didn’t know what could have made such a sweet and charming boy like Roger Meddows Taylor want to take you out, but at the moment, you didn’t really care. It was only you and Roger and the Beatles’ new single “Hey Jude” on the radio of his van, both of you singing at the top of your lungs. You couldn’t imagine any girl had ever had a better first date.

Read Part Three ♥ 

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[stesichoreanpalinode]

Smiliversary: Making the Band part 2

We left our youthful hero Roger Taylor having arrived like Dick Whittington alone in London to make his fortune, leaving his precious drum kit behind and armed only with some toms. Would he tread the straight and narrow path to a virtuous life polishing teeth and inserting fillings for the good of the nation, or would he be led astray by the demon rock'n'roll? Anyone who knows anything about Roger Taylor knows that the nation's dental hygiene never stood a chance. Almost as soon as he arrived in London, his schoolfriend Les Brown told him about a note that had been posted on his college notice board. Let's give a shout-out to Les Brown, who is as important to the history of British popular music as Ivan Vaughan, the boy who introduced John Lennon to Paul McCartney. Without Les choosing to study at Imperial College and taking a moment to peruse his college notice board on that fateful day, all that followed would never have happened. The notice Les saw said that a band was looking for a 'Ginger Baker/Mitch Mitchell-type drummer'. Roger, a Jimi Hendrix/Cream fan, immediately got in touch. Within a few days he received a long letter from Brian May. Roger later recalled this letter with fondness: unlike almost everyone else who knew Brian in those days, he never seems to have been phased by Brian's tendency to witter on about things. Brian and Tim came round to Roger's flat where he played the bongos, the only drums he had to hand. There was an instant connection and the next thing that happened was that Roger played with them for a proper audition in a music room at Imperial. This is the audition where Brian's mind was blown by Roger tuning his drums (if you read Queen in Cornwall, Roger tuning his drums very carefully before playing has a long history). 'He was punchy and flamboyant ... Smile were really enhanced by Roger's energy' said Tim Staffell. Brian and Roger instantly found musical synergy - they were both great players, probably each the best the other had ever met - who shared a love of what was then the best new thing in British rock - the heavy psychedelic sound of Cream and Hendrix, and singers who could harmonise. This would be the bedrock of the sound that would evolve into Queen - technical brilliance, rich harmonies, strong and equal rhythm and guitar sections. Smile now had its three pillars. Brian, the geek who loved music, and Tim, the creative bohemian, had found Roger, the consummate musician with a drive to make it in the music business. Now all they needed was to play.