#but i guess the sweet will join the ranks of bands/musicians that make me have difficult emotions haha

[robinsnest2111]

mfw i delve deeper into The Sweet's discography and discover that some of the songs are literal early childhood memories because they're songs from my parents' youth and they used to play them occasionally when I was a toddler 😭

[judylicious]

And When He Smiles I Swear I Can’t Breathe

Alan Rubin x fem!Reader

Word count: 1,618

Fandom: Blues Brothers

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Blues Brothers characters or movies. This refers to Alan Rubin as a character in the movie, not the real Alan (although he obvsly played himself but you know what I mean)

I’d like to add that I made everyone of the band a few years younger (so the age gap between the reader and Alan isn’t that big), so he’s approx. in his early 30s.

Warnings: !!! IMPORTANT trigger warning mentions of physical abuse !!!

Chapter VII

Charlotte looked up to the musician, who only stood there, scowling at the woman while anger spread through him. “Anyway.”, Lari started again. “I don’t wanna ruin your date. I see you around then.” She winked at him and started walking away, disappearing in the nearest backstreet. Alan stood there, still saying nothing and he feared looking at Charlotte. He couldn’t bear to look into her eyes. He knew they’d be full of disappointment and pain. “Alan? I’d like to go home now.” His heart sank. “Sure.”, he replied with faltering smile.

As the two got into the car, the atmosphere was tensed. And before Alan started the engine he took a deep breath. “I had ended things with her before I even met you at our concert. We wanted different things.” He looked at Charlotte with concern, who wasn’t showing any reaction but fidgeted with her hands. “You gotta believe, me since I’ve met you I can’t get you out of my head. A-and the night she was talking about, I… got weak but I can’t undo what’s done.” Finally she looked at him. “Please Charlotte. The more time I spend with you, the more certain I feel I wanna be with you. Only you.” He smiled and carefully touched her hand. “It’s fine. We’ve just started dating, Alan.”, Charlotte answered him. “Alright, let’s take you home then.” Nothing’s alright. But Charlotte knew she had to keep calm, she had no right to be angry, he didn’t do anything wrong. She told herself she had to fight off those demons in her head if she wanted a proper chance with Alan. And she wanted that chance, more than anything in this world.

The next morning Alan couldn’t help himself but paid Lari a visit. He eagerly knocked at her door. “Alan, didn’t think I’d see you so soon again.” He pushed her inside. “What the hell were you thinking last night? I don’t run around town telling people who you fucked!” “Aww, did I made your date jealous? I assume you didn’t hit a home run last night? No? How about third base.” “Lari…”, Alan warned her, being on the edge. “You’re not loosing your skills are you?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “C’mon with a girl like her, you should have had an easy time.” Alan rolled his eyes in response. She slowly made her way towards him and moved her hands over his chest, tugging at the upper buttons of his shirt. “You know she won’t make you feel like I do.” “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”, he said, pushing away her hand and made his way to the door. “Don’t tell me you’re up for anything serious with her…” “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” He started to open the door as Lari slammed it shut with one hand. “Seriously? You dumped me cos I wanted more than a casual hook-up and you didn’t! And now you do? What has changed?” “The woman at my side.”, the musician snapped and left Lari’s apartment.

Later on the band had finished their rehearsal, when Lou approached his best friend in a quiet moment. “Alan, how are things going with Charlotte?” “Um, quite well, thanks. We went dancing last night.” “Dancing? Is that the newest code word for sex?” Alan laughed. “It certainly is not. We’re… not there, yet.” Lou took a breath and was about to say something when Alan continued. “I know, I know. Don’t you say it, it’s rather unusual for me. But Charlotte, she’s different, with her it’s different. She shines and has that aura around her-“ “Speaking of auras, her’s just walked into the room.”, Lou interrupted him and gave a nod towards the door, where a slight insecure Charlotte was standing, her gaze wandering across the room, in search for her trumpet player. And when their eyes met she excitedly started walking towards him. “Hi Lou, hi Alan.”, she grinned at the short haired man. “Hi Charlotte nice to see you again.”, Lou greeted her. “What are you doing here, hun?”, giving her a peck on her lips about which she seemed rather surprised. She didn’t expected him to be affectionate in front of his boys but liked it all the more. “Wanted do ask if you’d be free for coffee?” “Sure, just let me grab my stuff.”

They agreed on a small, welcoming café and took a seat on it’s outside area. “I’m genuinely surprised to see you.”. Alan took a sip of his cappuccino “Why’s that?” “Well, because of last night. You didn’t seem too pleased.” “I told you, I’m fine. I really am.”, Charlotte assured him and touched his thigh. “Did you find home well?” “Huh? You took me home, Alan, don’t you remember?”, the girl laughed. “I remember taking you to your neighbours house… again.”, he said in a dry tone. Charlotte sighed. “I know, I will tell them. But after the night at the Chez Paul I don’t think they will be happy to see you. I need some time to prepare them, if that’s the right word.” “I think it’s not.”, Alan raised a brow. “Anyway, I’m not keen on meeting them, I just think they should know that you’re dating, someone. Cos I don’t want you to get in trouble for constantly sneaking out of the house or lying to them. Or… you could move out.” That phrases instantly caused Charlotte to have a flashback. She could hear the glass of whisky shattering on the kitchen floor. The feeling of her knees buckling. He grabbed her throat, pushing her head up and forcing her to look at him. “Charlotte?”, Alan touched her shoulder causing her to startle. “Aren’t you feeling well? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “I-I’m fine.”, she stammered. “I will tell them, I promise.” And she tried to give him a smile. “I know your father can be difficult but he’d never hurt you, would he?”, he asked her with a concerned look on his face. “Probably not.” “I swear to God if he ever lays hands on you… You’re gonna tell me, right?” “Of course, Alan. I will.” Feeling uncomfortable talking about this issue she quickly changed the topic. “So did you pick up any new songs?” “Oh yeah, we’ve started on ‘Gimme Some Lovin’.” “You did? I love that song! Hopefully you worked out a great part for the horns.” “I think we have a quite lively arrangement, first rehearsal sounded wild already. You’re gonna like it.” “Is it in for your next concert?” “I guess so. Why, you wanna come?”, he asked her with a smirk. “Well, obviously. Someone’s gonna keep away the female groupies from you.”, she nudged his shoulder. “No one better than you hun.” and planted a warm, lingering kiss on her lips.

When Charlotte got home from her coffee with Alan, she felt confident telling her parents about the trumpet player. Sylvia was in the kitchen preparing dinner, while Frank was in his home office next door, doing some paper work. “Mum? Dad?” As she saw the glass on his father’s desk, she hesitated for a moment but felt like it was now or never. “There’s something I’d like to tell you.” “Uh huh.”, Frank murmured. “Dad, it’s really important to me, please?” He sighed and got up, joining his wife and daughter in the kitchen. Charlotte cleared her throat nervously. “So… How are you doing?” “Charlotte, what do you want?”, her father asked annoyed. “Er, alright. I-I’m dating someone.” “Oh that’s lovely, dear!”, Sylvia gave her a big smile before pulling her in a hug. “Who is it?” As Sylvia let go of her daughter Frank repeated his question. “I asked ‘who is it?’” “He’s a musician, playing with ‘The Blues Brothers’”. “The Blues Brothers?”, Frank laughed. “Shit, you know half of those thugs served time in prison?” “How do you even know?” “Fella of mine had to do some community service as a public defender.” “Sound like your fella isn’t the most honourable person either then!” “What did you just say?” “Frank! Charlotte! Why do you two always have to bicker!” “No, I’m sick of this control mania, I ain’t no teenager anymore!” “How about you introduce the young man to us, eh?”, Sylvia said with a smile, desperately trying to soothe everyone’s nerves. “You know what? You’ve already met him. It’s that sweet maître d at the Chez Paul, the one you spilled your fuckin culinary Hindenburg on!” “That kike?” “So what if he is?! Cos I don’t care.” “But honey, we are Christians, how is that supposed to work?”, Sylvia ranked on Frank’s side. “What the hell mum? We’re not living in the 19th century anymore. And by the way we don’t even go to church! Nice try!”, Charlotte scoffed. “You are about to become lawyer, Charlotte! Don’t you forget that You can’t associate with criminals.” Frank started yelling. “Bollocks to that!” “Not this again!” “Why are you two so stubborn? You’re making my life hell!” “We are making your life worth living!” “Jeez, I can’t do this anymore, I’m out of here!”, Charlotte spat. “You will not see this waiter again!” Frank grabbed her arm “Are we clear, Charlotte!?” but she could wrest herself free until he pushed her shoulder, causing her to run into the open kitchen door. As she tried to steady herself, she loosed her balance and fell. Lying on the floor she saw her father coming towards her with clenched fist. “Must I beat obedience into you once again!” “Frank stop it it!”, she heard her mother shout but it was already too late. 

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 1

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: There’s also Y/N’s best friend, who is a love interest for Roger Taylor; if there’s interest, I could write sections from her POV This will be an on-going fic. I’ll try to update weekly, if not more frequently. Message me with anything. Always willing to chat.

Warnings: swearing, drinking, self-esteem issues(?) fluff for days! Later, it will get steamy AF.

Abstract: Your best friend meets Roger Taylor at a club, and he invites her (and you) to a Queen party.

“You’ll never guess who I met!” Your best friend, Lydia, screeched. Running into your bedroom.

You sat at your piano. You had been under pressure to learn a rather difficult Liszt piece for your senior showcase. Your showcase, you knew, would be one of the most important days of your life; agents and scouts from symphonies, touring companies, theaters, clubs from all around Europe would be there seeking the next big star, the next virtuoso to join their ranks. You were humble, but very gifted in music. And you always had been. Music came as easily to you as dreaming did to others. Music was your life, and Lydia knew it was only a matter of time before you hit it big and became somebody.

You had been practicing like an obsessed shut-in for weeks. Lydia kept trying to pull you away from your “hermit cave,” as she had taken to calling it. She’d rush in and interrupt your work. You loved her and had been friends for years, but your lives were taking you in different directions and you hoped you’d both find a way to maintain your closeness even if you were separated by great distances. She’d erupt into your room, and you’d be absorbed in your music, the rhythms, the sounds; playing scores, you’d teleport to places you’d never been, times you’d never seen, you’d feel everything the musician had put into his or her works. You came alive, you became irresistible, incandescent. However, since you were so caught up in the moment when you played, this was never anything you knew, or experienced or saw for yourself. Your piano your solace away from the world.

“Hello!? Y/N, can you hear me?” Lydia waved a hand in front of your face.

“Sorry, yes. What did you say?” You sounded far away even to yourself. You saw a crease appear in Lydia's forehead, half-concern, half-irritation. You took a breath and painted a smile on your understatedly beautiful face. Taking your glasses off, you said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied lately. I want to make it up to you.” You reached out and touched Lydia's shoulder to hammer the point home. The flowery, flowy shirt under your hands slipped out of your grasp as she took your hand in hers.

“I met someone tonight.” Lydia squeezed your hand to make sure you were really all there.

“Oh?” You had never seen Lydia like this before. Upon closer inspection, you noticed she was flushed, jittery, and unequivocally giddy. “What’s going on?”

“He’s a certain blond rock-god.”

“Get out of here!” You took your hand out of Lydia’s with a laugh, and turned back to your piano. Your friend had pulled this prank many times before. She was into Roger Taylor like most people were into skydiving; everything for her was an extreme sport, she never half-assed anything. It was one of the things you liked most about her; she was all passion and she had the confidence to be loud about it. You wished you had her effortless peacock-esque flare, her showy charm, and, god, she had the best hair of anyone you had ever met: wheat-colored, falling to her waist in easy beach waves. Your own hair was coarse, stubborn, thick and black like the music notes you scanned continuously.

“Y/N! I’m serious! I met Roger Taylor at a club tonight! Queen is back and he invited me to a party tomorrow night! You have to come with me! Please?”

You searched your friend’s face for a sign of duplicity, and to your surprise and delight, found none. “Okay...you’re telling me you ran into Roger Taylor at a club and he invited you to a party tomorrow night?”

“Yes!”

You knew you should stay home and practice this etude, but the allure of a celebrity party called you, and you knew you weren’t powerful enough to ignore the siren call of the most talented musicians rock ‘n roll had to offer.

“Roger. Taylor.” You smirked.

“Roger fucking Taylor.” Lydia grinned at you. You stared at each other, both starting to giggle at the absurdity of it all.

“I’ll go with you,” you smiled up at your friend, “though I have no idea how we are going to pick what to wear with only a day’s notice!”

“I know, right?!”

“What was he like? Roger?” You asked, making your way to the closet.

“Shameless flirt. Great style, though. He had this hat on, ugh I swear! the hat alone made me pregnant.” Lydia’s laugh gonged around the room.

“Was he alone?” You tried to sound as innocently nonchalant as possible, but Lydia knew you well enough to know what you were getting at; she never let you get away with anything. You saw the steely glint in her eyes and knew what was coming.

“Don’t you mean, ‘was a certain bassist there?’”

You instantly blushed a deep crimson, the same color as the t-shirt you were wearing. You hid your head in your hands and groaned loudly. Your head crashed onto the keys of the piano, and a clanging chord rang out sympathetically, as if your piano knew your embarrassment, too. You had a certain weak spot for John Deacon; Lydia always said the best friends had different tastes in potential partners. If you had different tastes, you’d never fight over who got someone, who saw whom first, who had a claim. In this respect, your friendship was sheer perfection.

“He wasn’t there, but Roger did say something like ‘If you come to this party, I’ll be able to show you off to the band--beauty like yours should be shared’ or something like that anyway.” She tried to sound casual.

“Roger Taylor said that to you?” You looked at Lydia, in a blouse and jeans, she was glistening. Not even a stitch of makeup on her face, and the most famous drummer in the world was smitten with her. What hope did you have of being noticed, you wondered? You frowned, looking down at the familiar keys.

Lydia read some of this in your face and sat next to you. “Y/N, you know you’re gorgeous. I know--before you start--I know you think I’m supposed to say that because I’m your friend. But you know I don’t just say things to please anyone. I’m just not made that way, I’m too honest. You’re beautiful. I know you don’t always believe it. I hope you do someday. Or at the very least, that you’d trust your best friend wouldn’t lie to you. We’ve known each other forever. You’re the most talented person I know; you never had to work hard at school, you’ve always been able to do whatever you put your mind to, you can play any instrument you pick up. You are so worth knowing and loving. That, and you’re the sneakiest person I know, with the most uncanny wit.”

“So, I have a great personality? I’m the great personality girl?” You asked, with a sarcastic smile.

“You know what I mean! I’m just a pretty face,” Lydia said, “and that’s all I’ll ever be; you have a pretty face and a brain; you’re lucky.”

This is why you kept Lydia around; she was selflessly loyal, and always knew what to say to trick you out of an emotional black hole. She didn’t think much of her mind, but only someone truly keen could weave together words into self-confidence. “Come on, let’s pick out options for tomorrow night.” You hugged her tight, and you knew she was satisfied.

***

You settled, with help, on an olive-green dress, the same color as your eyes. It wrapped around your body, highlighting your waist, and your hourglass curves. You didn’t yet understand the kind of power your body had over people; you felt out of proportion constantly, too short to have your sweet ass and flashy chest. You’d have to buy shirts that were too large, pants that were too baggy, too long because they just didn’t make close for shorter people that weren’t shaped like teenage boys. And a teenage boy, you weren’t! You had the body to prove it. You always looked a little under-tailored because of it, a little accidentally shabby. This dress, however, was a rare exception in your closet. It created a great V-neck to expose just a pleasant hint of your breasts, and did little to obscure the geography of your round ass. Your arms, you were secure with more than any other part of your body; from hours at the piano, holding your arms up, they were toned and tattooed. The sleeves of the wrap-dress covered the colorful art and words you had painstakingly chosen for yourself. You felt incognito when you hid the tattoos, like you always had a secret up your sleeve, an extra card to play, a slight mystique to add to the atmosphere most people never expected to come from a self-confessed nerd like you. You adjusted your large glasses, and reapplied your lip-gloss. Looking in the mirror you adjusted your bangs, squeezing clumps of your hair to make the natural ringlets sing. You had added to the outfit, at your instance, black spangled tights, and black heeled oxfords. Maybe a little dated, but they made you feel good, and that’s what mattered most. You checked your light makeup, glitter-blush and thin foundation was all you felt inclined to do. Lydia said she’d help you do more, but you refused; if you had to change who you were to impress someone, they weren’t worth it.

Lydia came around the corner and poked her head in the doorway, “You ready?” She was wearing a dark red dress that kissed her body to the floor. She was fully clothed but looked naked at the same time; she was a true diva and you had no idea how she did it. All silk and lush hues, she was ready to stop anyone and everyone dead in their tracks. Her hair was half up on her head in a way that looked planed and like a happy accident simultaneously. Her lips, full of daring, were lacquered cherry-red. She had a gold chain around her neck, dropping to her navel; she could have been a movie star.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again, your dress seemed demure by comparison now, and you were second-guessing everything. Was a high-low wrap dress the way to go to a Queen party? Was the color terrible? Was going at all a mistake? You twisted the large statement ring on your finger.

“Y/N?! You look stunning! Perfectly engineered to destroy any room you step into.”

You sighed, “Okay, you’re right; Let’s do this, or I never will.”

Lydia waved down a taxi. She told the driver the address Roger had given her, and off you went. The taxi sped along the night, and you wished the anticipation of arriving could last forever. The going to a party was almost as exciting as the arriving at the party itself. The feeling of possibility, of not knowing what was to come, and yet knowing anything could happen was intoxicating. You felt a shiver run up your spine. You were happy to be here with your best friend on the edge of limitless opportunities. Eventually, the taxi stopped and you paid the fee.

You and Lydia left the taxi and approached the door, and a man stood outside; he had the unmistakable air of security. He scrutinized you and Lydia. “Names?” He asked, lazily. You noticed he had list with him, and suddenly worried if you’d be allowed in or not.

“Lydia Taylor,” your friend said, not missing a beat.

The guard laughed to himself.

“Hey, wishful thinking pays off, mister.” Lydia flipped her hair, and you knew the guard was under her spell, too. “Lydia Wesmor, and I brought my friend with me. Y/N L/N,” she hooked elbows with you.

“Well, Lydia Taylor and Y/N, enjoy yourselves.” He gave you a slight smile and stepped aside.

As you and Lydia entered the vast townhouse, you saw glimpses of room after room decorated in splendor and--well, if classy ostentation exists, it somehow does in this space. High ceilings, rich window hangings, art adorned the walls, and sculptures, too many to count, and probably priceless in worth, decorated the rooms in view. Balloons and streamers cascaded floor to ceiling over a large, full bar, manned by a pleasant-looking man with a safe-looking disposition and mustache. One wall had a largest in-home aquarium you’d ever seen. One room, had large bookshelves with black and white photos on the walls. Every room you peaked snippets of had healthy plants, clearly lovingly cared for by the owner. And those were only the rooms you could see from the main one you entered into. More rooms were blocked by people, costumed and coiffed to perfection. You felt like you had stepped into a dream, and you never wanted it to end. For a brief moment you had to remind yourself this was real, and happening to you.

One room had a fantastic grand piano, and you felt your heart being pulled towards it, but you didn’t want to lose sight of Lydia, who was heading for the bar. So, you turned, and followed her, pushing past people lightly to keep pace.

“Lydia, have you ever seen a place like this? It’s like Valhalla!”

The man at the bar smiled.

“Can you speak English please, Y/N?” Lydia laughed with you; she wasn’t as well-read as you, but there was just no other way to describe this wonderful party unfolding before your eyes.

“It’s magical. Truly majestic.”

“Now, that I’ll agree to.” Lydia smiled at the man at the bar. “Could we have two appletinis and one Roger Taylor?” She added a wink.

“If I were straight, I wouldn’t even let him near you; I’d whisk you away myself.” The man said matter-of-factly.

“Ooh, you’re definitely a catch! I’m Lydia--the soon-to-be wife of Roger Taylor.”

“Does he know yet?” the man asked, mixing your drinks.

“No, but he will.”

“I’m Jim,” he grinned at Lydia, laughing at her tenacity, and then he looked at you. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you, Jim.”

“You’re right about the house.” He said, “We will have to give you the full tour later, as host--well, one of the hosts--it’s my duty to make sure someone as appreciative and scrumptious as you gets the full experience.” He passed you your drinks. Normally, this kind of attention made you nervous, but from Jim, it was so well-meaning, so genuine, you found yourself thinking whoever had partnered with him could only be the luckiest man on earth.

“That’d be great!” You liked Jim instantly; he was easy to talk to, kind-eyed, and, after a sip of your drink, knew he could make a killer cocktail.

“So, divide and conquer?” Lydia asked.

You felt comfortable with Jim, and knew if you wanted to pass the entire party here, chatting with him, you’d have an enjoyable time; you nodded at Lydia, “Yeah, you go on; I’ll be fine here, and I’m sure I’ll get braver with this,” you waved your cocktail in your hand like a conductor, “I’ll get brave enough to explore and mingle.”

“Okay; be safe.” Lydia pressed her hand to yours briefly, and slinked away, a woman on a mission.

You watched her go, and before you could turn back to Jim, across the room, you saw him. John Deacon.

You locked eyes with him, and just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

What you didn’t know, was that he forgot how to breathe, too.