#we were in the front row on the second level and the second stage was on our side so i could see paul pretty well <333

[livefastdrivefaster]

We Aren't Friends | LN4

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Pairing: Lando x Fem!Driver

Summary: Finding out what Lando really thinks about you.

Word count: 1.7k words

Note: This is the first thing I've ever written so I hope it's not completely awful! Bit of fluff (some angst and swearing).

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Media duties were one of the most tedious parts about your job as a Formula One driver. Every race week, you were forced into doing hundreds of interviews, shuttled in front of one camera and then another. Today was a driver’s panel, and there were a select few of you in a room full of reporters waiting to ask questions. You sat on the edge of the stage, with Alex, Zhou, Lando and Valtteri filling the remaining seats. 

“Let’s open up to the floor for questions.” The host of the session states. 

Instantly, every reporter shoots their hand into the air, starting their voice memos, checking through their notes. Just as the actual racing is competitive, the media around Formula One is especially cutthroat. You need to fight for attention in these types of events. One woman in the second row stands out in particular, and the host singles her out to ask the first question. 

“My question is for Ms Y/L/N.” The reporter states. You lean forward in your chair, smiling at the woman. Reporters often direct their questions to specific drivers, and you were frequently asked questions about your experience being a female driver, or something similar to that general theme.

“In Formula One, they say the higher you rise, the sharper the knives. As your car is particularly competitive this year, have you found that rivalries with other drivers are also being felt off the track?”  It was an interesting question. It was true that politics were constantly rife in the paddock, but you never felt that scrutiny on a personal level. You smiled politely, and held the microphone to your mouth to answer the question. 

“I wouldn’t say so, no. It’s easy to think that with the amount of drama that happens during the races, it will follow us to the paddock. But in the end we are professionals, and we can handle the competitiveness maturely. Even with my toughest rivalries, I can assure you we are friends off track.” You smile, setting down the microphone to signal you had finished talking. 

There were murmurs of agreement in the audience, and your fellow drivers on stage nodded to affirm your statement.

“But,” the woman starts again, “currently, there is a battle between you and Lando Norris for third in the driver’s championship.” 

You nod, staring expectantly at the woman, wondering where she is going with this. 

“Yesterday in an interview with Sky Sports, he went on record to say,” she paused to look at her notes, before saying “‘With Y/N Y/L/N, I wouldn’t say what we have is a friendship, no.’” She finished. 

You feel your heart breaking into pieces.

“Really?” you ask, genuinely surprised. You look over to Lando across from you, noticing how he isn’t even looking back at you. He’s staring at his shoes, motionlessly. He couldn’t even look at you.

“Right… noted.” You finish, voice laced with venom.

Another reporter stands up.

“What do you think about that, Y/N?” He asks. 

You quickly snap out of your intense stare at Lando, turning to face the reporter on the other side of the room. 

“Well,” you say, forcing a laugh to diffuse the tension in the room “my feelings are hurt.” You shrug, maintaining a fake smile for the cameras. Thankfully, the room doesn’t linger on the moment for long, the host moving onto a new question.

You slouched in your chair, wishing you could just melt away to nothing. Your cheeks were burning a shameful red, which you hoped wouldn’t show up on the hundreds of pictures that are currently being taken of you. 

“Not friends?” The question swirled in your mind, plaguing your every thought. You couldn’t understand why Lando would say that about you. Everything seemed fine between the two of you. You never argue, you hang out whenever you can. And when you can’t, you’re texting or FaceTiming each other. You just didn’t get it. 

The rest of the room blurred in your periphery as you played with your hands in your lap. You felt a burning sensation in your eyes as tears threatened to fall down your face. But just as quick as the tears formed, they were quickly washed away by a strong sensation of anger taking over your body. All the time you spent together meant nothing to him. 

What a dick. 

___

As soon as the host called the session over, you put your microphone down and got up to leave. You were the first to go, storming out of the room as elegantly as you could. You exited into a service corridor, knowing that you could sneak around any media personnel looking for more questions from you here. 

“Y/N!” You hear a voice call from behind you. It was Lando. 

“Y/N!” He calls again, footsteps picking up in speed as he races to get to you. 

When he catches you, he gently takes your wrist, using the motion to turn you around to face him. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N. About what happened back there, I’m sorry she embarrassed you like that.” He said breathlessly

“Oh, she was the one who embarrassed me?” You spat at Lando

“It was out of context, Y/N. I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.” He said, desperately trying to reason with you

“Then why didn’t you say something? You just sat there, staring at your feet.” You shot back at him

“I should’ve.” He sighed, searching your eyes for forgiveness.

“Oh. So you’re not only not my friend, you’re also spineless. Good to know, Lando.” You reply, shaking your wrist from his grip. 

Lando stands there, dumbfounded, watching your figure retreat down the hall. He wants nothing more than for you to look back at him, just for a moment, just to see your face. But you won’t, and the noise of the exit door slamming behind you snaps him out of his stare. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot.” He whispers to himself. 

_____

Throughout the rest of the weekend, Lando tried desperately to get you to notice him. He would watch you longingly as you fulfilled media duties, got in your car, out of your car, walked around the paddock, took pictures with fans. He would appear randomly while you were eating, or taking a break. He would include himself in conversations you were apart of. 

You rebuffed each of his attempts for attention with an incredibly polite cold shoulder. You were hurt, and he actually hadn’t apologised to you yet. He had texted you a few times asking to talk, but this race was too important to focus on resolving petty drama. You’d call him once it was all over. Maybe. 

Well, that’s what you had been telling yourself all weekend. But now it really was over, and you still hadn’t called him. 

The good thing about racing in Monaco was that you could actually sleep in your own apartment during the weekend, which was a rare and welcomed occasion. It was late, but you couldn’t sleep, your mind coming back to Lando every time you tried to close your eyes. It felt weird not talking to him, you kept each other sane during times like these. But now he wasn’t here for you, as he had been for so long, and you felt like a piece of you was missing. 

As you crawled out of bed to watch something on TV, you heard a sharp knocking at your door. You were hoping it was just someone at the wrong door, until you heard the knocking again. It was more desperate now, the rhythm becoming more sloppy. 

“Hello?” You called out, receiving more knocking as a response. 

You mutter obscenities to yourself as you put on more appropriate clothing, and trudge to the door annoyed. 

“Yes?” You say, swinging open the door.

It was Lando. He looked dishevelled. His curls were tousled and his eyes had deep bags underneath them. They were slightly puffy, as if he’d been crying. 

“Y/N, I can’t do this.” He exclaimed, stumbling into your apartment. You let him in, closing the door behind him. 

“Can’t do what Lando?” You ask, crossing your arms across your chest. 

“I can’t fight with you like this. I can’t not talk to you, I can’t be apart from you.” He stumbles over his words, and you see his eyes well up with tears. You instantly soften your gaze, pulling your arms from their defensive position.  “Lando…” Your voice trails off. You take his hand in yours and lead him to your couch to sit down. Even when you are both comfortable, he doesn’t let go.

“I am so, so sorry Y/N. I was so stupid in that interview, I got way too carried away with what I was saying.” He says slowly.

“What were you even trying to say, Lando?” You ask gently, appreciating finally receiving an apology from him. 

“Well- I meant what I said. What we have. It isn’t really a friendship, is it?” He responds, voice gaining confidence. 

“Something less?” You question, and he smiles in disbelief. 

“Something more, Y/N. We are so much more than friends.” You sit back in your seat, but he moves closer to you. 

“What- what do you mean?” You hesitate, watching Lando’s warm brown eyes glimmer in the moonlight. 

“You know exactly what I mean.” 

Something inside you clicked. All these years, there was an electricity between the two of you. You never let yourself think that way about him, worrying how a relationship with him would affect your career. But right now, you don’t care. You just want him. 

You didn’t say anything, but leaned towards him. He leaned in further, gently cupping one hand around the side of your face, and placing the other arm around your waist to anchor himself. His broad figure covered you completely, and you closed eyes while trying not to smile. His lips were so soft against yours, the scent of his cologne making you feel dizzy. His body felt warm as he pressed his torso against yours. You bucked your hips up, making him groan against you. He pulled his hand up, running his fingers through your hair as he moved down to kiss your neck and collarbones. You giggled at the tickling sensation, and he tentatively pulled away from you, taking a chance to fully admire your face. 

“I like this way more than being friends.”

[honeytama]

Please Please Please

Matt Dierkes x Musician!Fem!Reader

A/N: Sabrina Carpenter reference? Likely. I’m always writing Matt things when I should writing something else. Enjoy!

Summary: While at the Rock Sound Awards afterparty, you’re alerted that a frontman from another band is throwing a tantrum over your band’s win. You’re pissed, but level-headed knowing you shouldn’t do anything about it. One of your friends, not so much. You relieve him of the stress the best way you know how.

Content and Warnings: Reader is in a metalcore band, friends to lovers, smut 18+, bathroom sex/semi public, raw p n v, squirting, facial, aftercare

Word Count: 2.7k

“Y/N,” your bandmate sings in your ear as you dance with Courtney LaPlante on the Rock Sound Awards afterparty dance floor.

“What’s up?” You ask him while keeping hold of Courtney’s hip as she sways with you to Fergie.

“Our favorite band is pissed at us, again,” he sings again while shamelessly pointing his thumb over to the corner of the room.

“Our favorite band?” You whip your head around to the corner and spot them. They’re huddled together, as always, with the frontman looking angry and annoyed as all hell. “Oh. Them. What now?”

“They don’t like that we won Best Live Act for the second year in a row,” he starts dancing with the two of you. “Frontman is throwing a hissy fit as always and calling you out by name. He says your production ideas and things you came up with for us to do onstage are a joke.”

You let go of Courtney and they both can see you’re beginning to fume. “Well, if he wants to talk about me, then he might as well come say it to my face. I’m not here for drama! I’m here to have fun!” You yell over the music.

“Y/N,” your bandmate says your name in a tone that tells you you have to get ready for what he's about to say next.

“What?” You hiss.

“They’ve started a rumor that we only won because you’ve started to show more skin on stage,” your bandmate says, cautiously.

You let out a gasp and turn to give your rival frontman a harsh glare. You want so badly to give him the finger or to go storming over there to give them a piece of your mind. But you can’t. You have to remain professional for many reasons; most importantly, the cameras that float around are held by Rock Sound hires.

“What I do with my body is none of their fucking business!” You start to walk towards the restroom in the back of the venue, “I’m going to go take a breather.”

“Let me come with you,” Courtney urges while holding your forearm.

“It’s ok, babe,” you pat her to reassure her and she lets go. “I’ll be back later.”

Your feet take you as fast as you possibly can go in your chunky heels. It doesn’t help that your short, black strapless dress keeps riding down your chest.

“Hey, buddy, where are you going so fast?” Matt steps into your beeline towards the back hallways. “Congrats on your win, by the way. I knew you would get it,” he smiles wide down at you.

“Thank you, Matt—” you give him a sheepish smile back before noticing what he’s wearing. You don’t bother hiding your eyes looking him up and down. He’s wearing a tuxedo and dress shoes, still with a black cap on his hair, but he looks so good. “I haven’t seen you all night. I’m sorry.” You pull your friend into a hug.

“It’s okay?” He notices you aren’t completely there. Usually, you were ecstatic to see Matt, he’s probably your closest friend in the industry. He and Bad Omens put your band’s name out there; you had him to thank for this award. Coming to your side, you two walk together to the back hallway. It’s quieter. No cameras. There are no other bands. Just you and Matt. “What’s wrong?”

“Fucking, ugh!” You clench your hands in front of your eyes. You want to punch something so bad. “That fucking band I told you about! The one from last year! They started a rumor that the only reason we won tonight is because of my stage outfits,” you grunt out while pulling the lapels of Matt’s tux jacket.

Matt’s face twists from concerned to heated. “What? Like, slut shaming you? Are they being fucking real?”

Tears start to well up in your eyes out of anger and shame.

“How can they say shit like that when both their drummer and bassist play with their shirts off the entire show?” He barks.

“I know it’s fucking hypocritical. They’ll never realize that.” You rub his lapel soothingly. You’re glad he understands, but oh, God, what have you started?

“Maybe they need my fist in their jaws to realize it?” His eyebrows furrow and his eyes turn a shade darker. His lips purse like he’s holding himself back from saying something else.

“Matt, it’s okay,” you try to get through to him. “Just talking to you is helping me.”

“I’m gonna go do something about it.” Suddenly Matt is out of your grasp and you're jogging to catch him by the waist.

“Please, please, please,” you plead him while hugging him from behind. You use all your strength to tug him back with your hands pressed firmly on his pectorals and stomach. “Matty, please, you’ll embarrass me.” He halts in the middle of the hallway and it gives you enough time to wrap around to his front and press your hands into his chest, pushing him backward. “If you go out there and start something with him, then his band will know it was me that told you about the issue. I don’t need you to fight for me.”

His eyes peer into yours as you look up at him pleadingly. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this yourself! Those fucking assholes deserve what’s coming to them.”

“Matt, no,” you urge him with a pout in your lip.

“If I don’t go out there and defend you, then I’ll be thinking about it all night,” he hisses. “You don’t get it, Y/N. I need to do this,” he grabs your hands from his chest planning to storm out into the party again.

You step into him one last time, hoping what you’ll say next will get him to stop, finally. “Then take it out on me.” The words sound like they’re blaring in your ears, but you know they came out as a whisper.

His feet unmoving now, he holds your wrists to your sides. “What was that?” He asks with a tilt of his head.

“You heard me,” you roll your eyes and clench your fists. Why did he have to be such a tease?

“I know,” he smiles. “Just say it, again.”

“Take your frustration out on me,” you gaze into his eyes. “We can go to the bathroom.” You nod behind him at the empty women’s restroom.

His dominant hand makes its way to the small of your back and leads you down the hall to the sleek door of the bathroom. You do your best to keep up with his eagerness while in your heels.

You both push into the pristine, pearlescent room lined with shiny counter-to-ceiling mirrors, white marble countertops, and quartz flooring. Your heels click against the tiles as you make your way to the sink counters. You watch as Matt removes his jacket and locks the restroom door behind him.

He comes to you, quickly, and presses your body into the counter. The square edge of it digs into the fat of your ass as he makes his first move on your exposed chest. With hunger, he kisses, sucks, and licks the skin between your breasts up to your neck. Your whines reverberate in the empty room and you hope everyone is too distracted at the party to hear you. Your hands find themselves behind Matt’s neck, interlacing your fingers in his hair to fully pull him in. You wanted him to mark you.

Matt moans at the feeling of his dick pressing into your clit as the dress has ridden up in the process of him feasting on your skin. He undoes his belt buckle and the sound of the jingle makes your thighs quiver. Matt pulls his dress shirt from his pants and rolls up the sleeves. The sight of his toned forearms and tattoos always turns you on. He zips down his slacks before commanding, “Turn around.” You do so and lift your dress over your ass for him to see you barely covered by your tiny thong. “I want you to see yourself in the mirror when you cum on my cock.” He hooks his index finger through your thong to pull it to the side.

You gulp as you watch him tug the front of his brief down and pull his half-hard dick out. Shamefully stealing glances at the imprint of dick as you two changed next to each other on a past tour, you still would have never guessed he would be that girthy. “Matt, please, go slow. You’re bigger than I expected,” you admit.

“I thought you wanted me to take my frustration out on you,” he shakily breathes out while rubbing his tip along your slick slit.

“Didn’t think I would actually be sore in the morning,” you taunt him. He forces a moan out of you when his hard tip finds your pulsating clit. He teases you with small circles and slaps your cunt with his cock, before going right back to soft circles again. You didn’t think his dick could get harder and bigger as he played with your pussy, but it does. Your breath hitches when you feel his tip tickling your entrance.

“You’re not going to snap back from this,” he taunts as he presses himself into you. “You’ll fit me like a glove,” he groans. Luckily, with the height from your heels, your pussy is at the most perfect height for him to enter you with ease.

Matt watches your face twist in the mirror as you adjust to his size. You try to grip onto anything: the marble countertop, the polished sink, the faucet hardware? But to no avail, you keep slipping. Your legs already feel like jelly. Luckily, Matt puts both of his strong hands on your hips and supports you. You notice from his hard grasp that he’s still pissed, and you ignore the pain to urge him, “Matt, fuck me.”

He grunts and pulls your hips fully into his dick, bottoming himself out.

You moan in unison.

“Fuck—“ “Baby,—“

Your chest rubs against the cold counter as he fucks into you mercilessly. Whenever you whine or moan on his cock, the noises bounce off the mirror and you sound like heaven to your own ears. Matt smiles down at the reflection in front of him that has drool coming down her lips and hands that are searching for something to grab onto. You leave fingerprints on the mirror in front of you during your search.

The squelching and wetness of your cunt is the worst. You believe that if anyone outside of the room could hear anything, it would be that. Matt revels in the sound of his hips meeting yours as he fucks you as no other man has before.

His dick hits every spot, too. Especially the soft, bumpy spot at the roof of your cunt. His mauve tip hits it so perfectly that it makes you squeak with every thrust. The pressure building up in your lower stomach is something you’ve never felt before. It’s scary and makes you want to push Matt away, but the punishingly delicious feeling forces you to fuck Matt back.

Matt watches in awe as you gain the energy to press your hips to meet his while he pumps into you. “So. Fucking. Hot,” he grunts as he slaps your ass with each word.

“Matty, I’m gonna cum—,” the broken words come out of your moaning mouth.

“Go ahead,” he reaches around your head to grip your chin, lifting you higher up the mirror to see you clearly.

“Matt—!” Something is different than usual. Heat builds up fast and you feel like you want to pee. Without thinking anymore, you relax and let go. Something sprays your lips and trickles down your leg as Matt continues to pump himself into your sopping pussy.

You two moan in tandem at the realization of your actions. He allows you to ride out your high as he slows his thrusts. “Did you just squirt?” Matt chuckles as he pulls out slowly. His fingertips trail down your soaked cunt and thighs; it makes you shutter.

“Yes? I’ve never done that before,” your heart feels like it’s racing itself as you face yourself in the mirror. His dark eyes meet yours as he grins deliciously; he makes you feel proud of yourself.

“Where do you want me to come?” He breathes out while stroking himself languidly.

“Anywhere,” you nod your head as if saying “yes” to any place he can think of.

“On your knees, then. Let me ruin your makeup some more,” he suggests.

You take one last look in the mirror and notice your makeup is fucked. Spots of your foundation on your chin and cheeks are gone from being pressed into the counter, your eyeliner and mascara have smudged, and your lip combo has gone to nothing. It’s mixed with your drool and now dried on your chin. Fuck it.

You take his hint by slowly turning and dropping to your knees before him. Usually, no man could ever convince you to kneel before him on a bathroom floor, but Matt just gave you the best dick of your life, so…

Whatever power you have, you let it go for him. The way his demeanor changes when he wants to defend you and show he cares for you is not only heartwarming, but it turns you on. So tonight, he can have whatever he wants.

You stick your tongue out below him and bat your eyelashes as he strokes himself. You act like you're thirsty for his cum, because you are. You want to know what he tastes like so bad. This works on him. He growls as he unloads his cum in sprays that hit your cheek, forehead, and on your open lips. It just misses your eager tongue.

Matt hums when you lick your lips to try him. The salty tang isn’t amazing, but what is is the satisfying look on his face. He’s so impressed by you, in so many ways.

“Ready to stand?” He asks as he tucks his dick away and hikes his pants up.

Your head is hazy and you look up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Mhm,” you hum softly. You take his extended hand and slowly get up. Nearly slipping again, he catches you with an arm around your waist.

Once you're supported by the counter again, he lightly wets a paper towel with warm water to clean you up.

“Do you feel better?” You ask him as he carefully wipes his relief from your face.

“I do, thanks…” he kisses the cheek he’s not cleaning. “Do you feel better?” He reaches into your purse which you’ve thrown into the sink earlier and grabs two makeup wipes.

“So much better,” you respond while wiping away the sad remnants of your makeup. “Fuck them!”

“Fuck them!” He agrees with a smile.

“Either way, we should avoid them tonight. They don’t deserve our attention,” you tell Matt. “Will you come to dance with me to celebrate my win?”

“You know I don’t—,” he starts. You both start to walk towards the door.

“Please, please, please,” you beg him with your hands clenched together as he unlocks the door and ushers you out of the restroom.

“Fine, just one song,” he agrees with a huff and takes your hand in his.

The familiar tune of Sabrina Carpenter's ‘Espresso’ plays over the speakers in the main room and you hear excited screams.

“C’mon!” you yelp and scurry in your heels with Matt in tow to the dance floor.

[gretavangroupie]

Songbird

Word count: 2.4k+

Pairing: Josh x Female Reader

Warnings: Language, Angst, Drinking, Fluff.

A/N: This idea came to me after watching a soundcheck tiktok, and I had to get it out. Hope you enjoy.

Sitting in the front row of seats at The Greek Theater, you nervously pick at your fingernails. 

You could tell he was still nervous and just wanted you there for support. You typically don’t attend the soundchecks since they only last an hour or so. You like to spend the time getting ready, and packing up Josh’s bag for the night. You don't like him to have to worry about anything on show days, so doing this one small thing for him always seems to help his stress level before shows. 

Today however, was different. He has been on edge about this performance for a few weeks. The setlist was set in advance and there was no changing it. It’s the second night of the two shows for Strange Horizons in Los Angeles, and tonight they will be recording the set for the live album. Now, this usually wouldn’t be a problem but there is one thing that has Josh absolutely worked up and it’s the one thing he is usually never worried about. Singing. 

He spent all week telling you how nervous he was about tonight’s performance and how challenging one of the songs is vocally. Hyping himself up all week and practicing as much as he could. They almost never perform said song because by the end his voice is maxed out. But since these albums will be the sister albums to their newest album, they had no choice but to perform it at atleast one of the shows and tonight was the night. You could sense the anxiety in his voice, in his posture, in everything. It was rare to see him like this and knowing that there was not really anything you could do to help, was taking its toll on you. 

Josh paced around the hotel room all morning, practically wearing holes into the carpet, drinking his throat coat tea and trying to speak as little as possible. So when he finally did speak and asked you to come to soundcheck, you nodded your head in agreement. If just this one thing would help him to relax, you’d do it. Your phone buzzed on the dresser as Josh was getting dressed.

Jake: How’s he doing?

You: He’s a wreck…he has been pacing all morning.

Jake: I figured, I swear I can feel his nervous energy from 5 rooms away.

You: We will see you down there soon.

Jake: We will talk him down, it will be okay.

The entire drive to the theater, Josh fidgeted nervously, and you just held his hands, and tried to reassure him that everything would be fine. But deep in your heart you were just as nervous as he was. Jake shot you a questioning look from the seat in front of you and you nodded to him. An unspoken yeah, he’s still panicking. 

As you arrive at the venue, you all file out of the van and into the back gate. You walk hand in hand, fingers intertwined with his rubbing his knuckles to try and help him calm down. The guys make small talk with him but Josh is laser focused. The last time you saw him like this was when they were in the thick of recording the album.

As they approach backstage you give him a quick kiss and a good luck, and you and the girls retreat to your seats at the very front row.

That's where you find yourself, now. Anxiously watching them get settled on stage to begin soundchecking. 

Jake nods to Josh in a silent ‘you ready’ and Josh gives him a quick nod back. They play through a few songs and everything sounds great, Josh sounds perfect and you can see a bit of his usual confidence coming back to his demeanor.. A misstep from Sam on a chord awards him a concerned look from Jake and Josh, to which he laughs and continues. 

A little bit later you see Sam make his way over to his piano set up and you swallow harshly knowing that they are about to do it. Sam and Danny exchange a nervous look as they see Josh start to pace the stage. 

Jake walks over to Josh and says something indistinguishable, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before returning to his spot. 

Sam nods to Jake and starts the intro to Tears of Rain. 

So far so good. Josh sounds good, and he’s gonna do fine…

As he sings the first line of the song, all is well. You know the part he is questioning and it's towards the end, so if he can just hit that note now, you know that he will feel better and have a great show tonight.

Your knee nervously bounces on the concrete as you see Josh’s eyes shoot over to you. You look directly into his and hope he can find that comfort that he needs. As he sings the line in question, he clamps his eyes tightly shut and uses every ounce of effort that he has to hit that note. 

Shit. He was so close.

His voice cracks, and he stops singing all together. Sam and Jake quickly look at each other and you can tell they are nervously preparing for the blowback of Josh’s frustration. 

He is mad, and swings the microphone down to his side as he curses outwardly.

The girls clap for him to show their support and he turns to look at them, and you are pretty positive that if looks could kill they would both be dead.

You bite your lip as they turn to you. “He hates to be patronized.” you giggle.

“Play it again.” he commands. The music stops, and they all look at each other to start again.

Second and third time was not the charm. 

Fourth time came yelling, and the fifth time Josh walked off the stage. 

The guys all stayed on stage, knowing better than to approach him when he is like this. It took everything in you to not run back there to find him, but you knew he would be back out. He’s anything but a quitter. 

A few minutes later he comes back out, with a bottle of water and says something to Jake, followed by Danny and Sam. Knowing him, he is apologizing for storming off, but they all know that it's a taxing song and don't think much of it. 

Instead of playing it again, they move on and work their way through a few other songs, before calling it. You and the girls stand up, and walk back to the gate to be let through. You meet up with the guys and you can tell Josh is absolutely beating himself up even though he is trying to play it off. His hand reaches for yours and squeezes it tightly as you all walk back to the van. 

He is silent on the way back to the hotel and you know that as soon as you get back to the room he is going to unleash. His hand grazes the top of your thigh back and forth as he listens to the guys talk and your mind wanders to how you are going to approach the situation rapidly drawing nearer.

Pulling up outside the hotel, you make a plan to meet back here in 2 hours to head to the venue for the night, and you all make your way to the elevators. Stepping into the room a few minutes later, Josh dives head first into the bed, stuffing his head into the pillows.

You kick your shoes off and sit on the bed next to his feet, untying his shoes and throwing them on to the floor next to yours. As he lays on his stomach you feel his hand reach out of yours next to him, grabbing it in his. He just needs to feel you, and feel comfort.

You thought he would be yelling and tearing himself apart, but you were wrong. You push yourself back to the head of the bed to lay next to him. You both lay in silence for a few minutes as you lightly scratch his back over his white shirt.

“You know, I told them when we recorded it that I didn't know if I would ever be able to perform it.” he says muffled through the pillows. “It took nearly ten takes in the studio too.” 

You roll to your side to face him, and he turns his head to look at you.

“You can do it baby, I know you can. You did it for that candlelight session and it was so beautiful. You are just thinking too much. Just sing, you and I both know you can do it.” you say quietly.

He pulls himself closer to you, and you turn onto your back as he rests his head on your chest. You rub your fingertips through his scalp and scratch as he sighs.

“I know I can do it. I just wanted to nail it one time today. I thought maybe if I just…I just want to get it right for them. They love this song. They want to play it. The fans want to hear it. I feel like, if I can't hit the note…” he sighs again. 

“I feel like they will be disappointed. I don't want to let them down.” he whimpers, and you feel a warm wet drop on your shirt.

You cradle his head in your arms and just hold him. You know he needs to let his emotions out, so you just lay there and let him.

“No one will be disappointed baby I swear. No one.” you whisper into his curls. You feel another wet tear form a spot on your shirt. You rub his hair off of his face and kiss his head.

“When we get there tonight, just go in the bathroom, try again. If you’re still feeling nervous, talk to Jake, tell him to come in early if he sees you start to struggle. Point your mic to the crowd, let them sing it for you. Don’t stress it my love. Everything will work out exactly how it's supposed to.” you say with another kiss to his head.

“Will you stand backstage? At least for that song? Just need to see you before I do it.” he asks.

“Of course, I’ll be wherever you need me.” you reply.

He wraps his arms around your waist and kisses your stomach before laying his head back down over your heart. “I love you” he sighs. 

“Love you more.” you reply. His hand grabs yours and places it back on his head, indicating he would like more scratches so you oblige and lay there with him for just a few minutes longer wondering how you got so lucky.

An hour and a half later, you are both ready to go. His bag is packed, you are dressed and your hair and makeup is done. He has showered and refreshed his curls and he has his to-go cup of tea in hand. 

You make your way to the lobby to meet the others and you grab his hand and he spins to meet your gaze. “I know you’re about to get into your zone but, I love you. No matter what. You’re still my songbird.” you say.

His free hand slides up to meet your face, “I love you too, couldn’t do this without you.” he says, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

“AYE!” Jake shouts in his fake British accent, “No kissin in the lobby!” he laughs as he meets up with you.

You talk and laugh as you make your way to the van, loading in and heading to the venue. Josh seems to be a little more relaxed than earlier, but you all can tell he is still tense.

Making your way backstage, Josh talks to Jake, and makes a plan for if things don’t work out how he wants them to. 

God, I hope they do… 

For a few hours, you mill around in the green room, talking, drinking and watching them all get ready. You talk to Josh and help calm his nerves and he tells you that he is feeling good, and is hoping for the best. He is in a beautiful royal blue velvet jumpsuit with silver stars embroidered on it. He looks like an angel. Your very own angel.

Ten minutes till the show, you all make your way to the stage and you watch as they all get their monitors on and their respective instruments. Josh dashes over to you, and kisses you one more time. “See you on the other side, my love.” he smiles.

“Love you, I’ll be here if you need me.” you reply as he runs up the stairs. 

The first half of the show has gone amazing, Josh sounds so good and the other guys are playing amazingly. You know that there is only a few minutes until the moment of truth and you link arms with Jake's girlfriend for support. She rubs your hand and tells you that he is going to be fine and you nod as you hear the intro start. Josh tells the crowd he is scared of this one, almost giving himself an out just in case. 

Josh looks over to you, just like he said he would and you blow him a kiss, causing a smile to spread across his face. He winks and turns back to the crowd and you hold your breath as he begins to sing. 

So far so good…

As the moment comes, and he absolutely nails that high note, your heart bursts with pride. 

He did it.

You jump up and down with excitement and the girls join you as you quietly cheer for him.

As the song ends he looks back to you and you smile at him, his beaming smile flashing back. 

The rest of the show goes perfectly and they end the night on a high note. Literally. They make their way off the stage Josh runs straight into your arm and groans into your neck in relief.

“I told you, you could do it baby. I’m so proud of you.” you say.

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Love you so much.” he says, still trying to catch his breath.

“Love you too Josh, but it wasn’t me…You sang from the heart and it paid off.” you smile, walking back to the dressing rooms.

“You’re my heart, it was all for you.” he kisses your cheek and you lean into his hold on your waist. 

“But I’m never singing that fucking song again.”  he says with a cheeky smile, and a smack of your ass. 

.

.

.

.

.

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Worldwide Privacy Tour Part 2, it seems, is well underway.

"Yes, the night was pure Meghan Markle: A manufactured build-up of anticipation, a highly dramatic entrance afforded no other actual activist — Meghan climbed on stage to the Alicia Keys she-ro anthem ‘Girl on Fire’ — and then... a whole lot of nothing...This crowd was checking their watches."

"If anything, as the night dragged on and the event slipped an hour behind schedule – a sudden break announced so we could finally have dinner – the crowd bristled...Notably, not one person I spoke to nor one speaker or honoree mentioned Meghan. Not one said how exciting it was to have her there. Not one expressed the slightest curiosity at what she’d have to say."

"And this image, our renegade duchess without a palace-worthy advance team to prevent such cheap optics as the Hertz hiccup, set the tone for the evening: Fatuous, irrelevant, high on its own self-regard, all sense of purpose lost. Gloria Steinem, once the face of women’s rights, reduced to star-f***ery. It was a bizarre night."

MAUREEN CALLAHAN: Meghan's word-salad Manhattan gala appearance

She so badly wants to be the Queen of Hearts.

But, as she arrived on Tuesday night, making her grand entrance in Midtown Manhattan, sauntering past that rental-car backdrop, it was more like the Queen of Hertz.

Of course, as the world is now all too aware, Meghan Markle capped off winning a meaningless award with what we’re told was a ‘near catastrophic’, ‘two-hour’ car chase through the streets of Manhattan.

Yes, according to a spokesperson, Meghan, along with hapless Harry and mom Doria, were the subjects of a wild, impassioned hunt by the paparazzi.

Some sympathetic commentators have already made the gruesome comparisons to Princess Diana’s tragic final fate.

But to echo the statements made by New York City’s own mayor Eric Adams and the police department: Perhaps it didn’t quite happen the way it was painted.

Recollections may vary.

Naturally, their mouthpiece Omid Scobie is whining that no one from the Palace has yet reached out.

Wonder why?

One also wonders what Gloria Steinem, the 89-year-old feminist icon who chose to honor Meghan as a ‘Woman of Vision’ at Tuesday night’s Ms. Foundation Gala, must be thinking now.

After all, the car ‘chase’ debacle soon stole all the thunder from her event, which I was lucky enough to witness first-hand.

Now, it was hardly the red carpet one might expect. Hardly the pomp and circumstance of, say, a coronation.

Yet Meghan forged ahead as she always does, as if this were her crowning moment, sheathed in gold as if to symbolize a crown.

Or an Oscar statuette.

Same difference, really, if your only goal is fame. That’s our Meghan, none too subtle as ever, literally going for the gold as Harry and Doria took their positions three steps behind.

Harry may be a prince of the blood, but never forget — Meghan is The Star. Her Norma Desmond-ing is among the great spectacles of our modern age.

And this image, our renegade duchess without a palace-worthy advance team to prevent such cheap optics as the Hertz hiccup, set the tone for the evening: Fatuous, irrelevant, high on its own self-regard, all sense of purpose lost. Gloria Steinem, once the face of women’s rights, reduced to star-f***ery. It was a bizarre night.

Upon entering the Zeigfeld Ballroom, guests were asked whether they were ‘VIP’ — seems even feminist movements have their echelons — and turfed to the lobby.

My $1,500 entry-level ticket got me a hard seat with a front-row view of coat check.

After ten minutes, circumstances having changed inexplicably, the riff-raff were allowed up to the second floor.

Here were two open bars serving top-shelf liquor and the shock of post-pandemic dress code slovenliness. One unkempt guest was wearing sparkly Birkenstock sandals and a black stretchy minidress under a pink puffer jacket.

These were the VIPs?

The only recognizable person I saw was Peloton instructor Ally Love, and that’s saying something. Where were the stars? Where were the notables of the movement? The Malalas? The Fondas? The Beyoncés?

Perhaps no one was meant to outshine Meghan. Only one feminist icon was going to enter via rental car office!

Down in the ballroom, the plated salads on our banquet tables were ready waiting for us – dry, unsightly, stringy greens that resembled nothing so much as regurgitated hairballs. Notably, not one person I spoke to nor one speaker or honoree mentioned Meghan.

Not one said how exciting it was to have her there. Not one expressed the slightest curiosity at what she’d have to say.

If anything, as the night dragged on and the event slipped an hour behind schedule – a sudden break announced so we could finally have dinner – the crowd bristled.

It says something when a table of size-6 women tear into their heavily glazed steak and buttery mashed potatoes with abandon.

Yes, the night was pure Meghan Markle: A manufactured build-up of anticipation, a highly dramatic entrance afforded no other actual activist — Meghan climbed on stage to the Alicia Keys she-ro anthem ‘Girl on Fire’ — and then... a whole lot of nothing.

Verbiage and word salad that were content-free, except when speaking on her favorite subject: herself.

Here, in real time, we observed Meghan’s inability to read a room. She thanked the ‘other honorees’ without naming them.

‘Congratulations,’ she said, ‘and frankly, well deserved.’

It was all so smug and supercilious, this glorified podcaster telling these boots-on-the-ground activists — no matter what one thinks of their politics — that they had, in fact, earned their place on the same stage as the great Meghan Markle. That ‘frankly’ was so typical. It was meant to redound to Meghan’s benefit, as the lone wolf daring to speak the unspeakable.

There was the cringe-inducing humblebrag, calling her new friend Gloria ‘Glo’.

It brought to mind the forced intimacy of meeting Kate Middleton barefoot and insisting that the pair share lip gloss.

It's 'Glo' to Meghan, but Meghan is 'Duchess' to us.

‘We all bear witness,’ Meghan continued of her fellow honorees, ‘to you standing in elegance and the power of your strength.’

Huh?

This crowd was not convinced. This crowd was checking their watches. There were trains to catch, children to kiss goodnight. Alas, we were stuck with the vapidity of La Markle.

Her speech didn’t even deliver fresh content! She repeated the story, as told on her podcast, of poor little Meghan coming home from school to her TV dinner, cat collars and copies of Ms. Magazine strewn about courtesy of her mother — even though it’s well-documented that her father primarily raised her.

‘Having these pages in our home,’ she went on, ‘. . . signaled to me that there was so much more than the dolled-up covers and those images that you would see on the grocery store covers. It signaled to me that substance mattered.’

Says the former D-list actress and former briefcase game-show girl who used her looks to get ahead. Who has posed for those very same magazine covers.This warmed-over speech, less heated than our steaks, was Meghan’s greatest hits:

‘Change is just one action away.’

‘You can be the visionary of your own life.’

‘Daily acts of service, in kindness, in advocacy, in grace and in fairness.’

‘The imprints that were forged in my mind — I can now connect the dots in a much better way to understand how I became a young feminist and evolved into a grown activist.’

A feminist who, let us not forget, has publicly demonized her famous sister-in-law — ‘Waity Katie’ to Oprah and an audience of millions.

Kate made me cry! WAAAGH!

In truth, Meghan's a self-identified 'grown activist' who has done nothing. The pontification, her sing-song-y cadence as she luxuriated in her own praise, was as insufferable as it was revealing.

‘Ms.’ she said, ‘was formative in [my] cocooning. It piqued my curiosity, and it became the chrysalis for the woman that I would become and that I am today.’

Right: The woman who vilified the institution headed-up by Queen Elizabeth II in her final years. The woman who heavily alleged institutional racism until her husband finally backed away from that terrible smear.

A woman with no substance and no accomplishments as a feminist. A woman who is still trying to one-up the royals, even from a car-park adjacent ballroom with no red carpet. Meghan is the personification of Ms. as an organization that has lost its way.

Indeed, most of the night was spent advocating not for women but for trans rights and Critical Race Theory.

‘Abortion is racist,’ we were told.

Beware the ‘the white supremacist patriarchal system.’

Yes, even the Ms. Foundation – established for biological women out of a deep, and enduring, necessity – has been subsumed by men who identify as women.

How fitting then that the night was overshadowed by a grasping phony whose empty platitudes on stage failed to make headlines, whose spokesperson told a wild story of a high-stakes car chase.

Pity Meghan, but recognize her strength. Admire her, but never laugh at her. And never, ever question her veracity.

Worldwide Privacy Tour Part 2, it seems, is well underway.

[sharkbarkinnit]

Hi!! I adore your writing. Do you think we can get Schlatt who’s partner is a ballerina and tommy who’s friend is a ballerina ?

OF COURSE THANK YOU SO MUCH <3

This is Schlatt and Tommy with a ballerina partner/friend!

Schlatt:

As of recent, you spent more time in the dance studio than in your own home. After all you were the lead role in the upcoming show. It was just after your break so you were beginning to get ready to go back to practicing. Lacing up your pointe shoes and making your way back to the stage you heard some whispers and giggles coming from a group of ballerinas already in view of the stage. Not paying any mind you quickly made your way to your place on stage. Danny, your dance partner for this show wasn't able to make it to practice today so you focused on the solo parts you had.

You took your stance, taking in a deep breath and closing your eyes. You imagined the music playing and letting the feeling take over. As if you're body had mastered the choreography, you moved gracefully throughout the stage. Making your last pirouette you stopped facing toward what would soon be the audience. Though you noticed, the seats weren't completely empty, nor was it silent. There in the front row sat your boyfriend, Schlatt, clapping and cheering.

You felt your face heat up at his unexpected visit. You made your way to the edge of the stage him meeting you there. You sat on the edge dangling your feet in front of him to be more at eye level.

"What are you doing here?" you questioned him.

"What? Can't I come support my girlfriend?"

"You can I just thought you were busy today!"

"Well things came up and people had to cancel. Plus I would much rather watch you dance for hours than stare at a screen."

"That if very sweet of you." You smiled at him before giving him a peck on the cheek and getting up.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Back in position, I'm going to run this a few more times before I head home."

"You mean we?"

"You don't have to stay babe."

"I'm going to anyway."

You laugh quietly at his persistence and went back to position. He didn't lie, you ran through your parts for the next 3 hours and every second of the way he stayed and watched.

Tommy:

10 minutes. You had 10 minutes before you were on stage and you would be lying if you said you weren't freaking out. This was the first recital you had the lead role in. Yes you were super excited but were terrified you would mess it up and on opening night. Through all your panicked thoughts you managed to almost miss your que but you made it on stage in time.

You took your position, closed your eyes and taking a deep breath to calm your nerves. Opening your eyes you heard the music that had been drilled into head so much it was the sound track of your dreams begin. Taking that familiarity and running with it, you took your first step and into your dance.

You started off strong, not tripping over invisible walls or getting dizzy from all the spinning. Half way through the show you began to get tired, maybe all that practicing before show was a bad idea. But no matter how tired you were you had to push through. You wanted this to be perfect.

The music began to speed up indicating that you were going to have to follow suit. This was the part you always struggled with. There were a lot of contradicting movements back to back and you were only nail it once and that was months ago. You grounded yourself and your thoughts before leaping straight into the section of dance.

You were focusing so much on the moves and landings you barely had time to realize you actually made it through and did it right. You kept this concentration for the rest of the recital. Finally after what seemed like forever you found yourself in your final pose and staring straight at the audience.

There was a roar of applause and shouts. The one you could make out the most was of that of your best friend, Tommy. You and the rest of the dances took their final bows and made their way off stage. Once to your locker you changed back into your regular clothes and grabbed your bag.

You walked out from back stage and into the lobby area. It didn't take long for Tommy to find you with your parents in tow.

"Y/N HOLY SHIT THAT WAS AMAZING!" Tommy shouted pulling you into a death grip of a hug.

"Tommy shut up! People are gonna stare!"

"Wow honey! You were absolutely stunning up there!" You hear your mother comment.

"Way to go sport!" Your dad exclaimed.

"Haha. Very funny Dad."

"Ok but for real! You were outstanding dear!"

"Thank you guys!"

"Are you still coming over Y/N? You said you'd teach me how to be a ballerina!"

"No duh! Why do you think I have my bag idiot!"

"Oh I didn't see it..."

"Well you two stay safe, say hi to your mum for me Tom!" Your mom said giving you a quick hug before leaving with your dad.

"Can you teach me how to do that big leap thing? OH AND THE REALLY LONG TWIRL!"

"Sure Tom, but tomorrow I am exhausted..."

Thank you so much for reading and thank you for the request again! :) I hope you liked it! I'm going to be totally honest I know nothing about ballet so I used my limited knowledge that I have gotten from tv and movies! any way! stay safe fishies <3

[ahappydnp]

here is a collection of unorganized thoughts i had about the ian interview with anthony in relation to dnp’s working relationship

smosh talking about being best friends who ended up being business partners and then roommates and how bad it was and how they were passive aggressive with each other because they couldn’t fight bc they had to be best friends for youtube 

at first i immediately got sad hearing it but also i do think there’s a slight difference in how smosh interacted, especially them saying they never ever talked about feelings or emotions and their relationship was always surface level anyway

as opposed to dnp who’s dynamic/relationship is inherently more emotion based and vulnerable so talking about what’s upsetting them is going to come more naturally when it comes to the business side

but obviously that kind of relationship in any context is going to be INTENSE and hard to maintain when your lives are that intertwined

anthony talking about growing up individually and then feeling like they had to regress back into their 17 year old selves when they did hang out (“all we did when we hung out was play mario kart and talk about what we were doing”) 

also something that made me slightly sad for a second, especially remembering dan’s whole thing about phil pulling him back and the jokes about regressing bc he’s back on youtube blah blah blah it’s not refined or representative of his growth (which i hope he’s dealing with that whole mindset please dear god) 

but also dnp have grown individually and as a duo and i think they’ve given each other the space to do so while also having the front row seat to that growth that smosh didn’t? 

them saying the new content is NOT going to be nostalgia base and they’re not going to revert back to their old personas is actually really interesting and i wonder what that’s going to look like.

it makes me think about how dan and phil would approach consistent joint content again pcou, especially given the ~vibe~ of the last few videos together (mostly thinking about the 2022 texting video that felt...off a bit? which is so rare for dnp). it’s gotta be hard to not slip back into those old roles especially when being on camera together again is still novel 

ian and anthony talking about how the audience shaped their friendship in their peak and how they tried to play into the characters the fans made for them and it caused resentment/ anthony said being the ‘hot one’ and ian being the ‘funny one’ upset him a lot because it made him question his value. i find that whole section fascinating because i think that’s one thing dnp held onto? like they didn’t let the audience decide their dynamic or personalities 

but dnp also had the added element of more intimate outlets like liveshows where we got to see natural dynamics or even gaming channel stuff while smosh only really did scripted sketch stuff, so the audience got to see a more well rounded version of dnp and not just like....TATINOF stage personas

also and idk how to say this articulately....dnp also were actively hiding a part of themselves and working against audience perspective so they’re less susceptible to succumb to being their personas off camera with each other (especially going back to the first point of their relationship being more complex emotionally than the 2 cishet dudes who said they didn’t share feelings for the first 20 years of their friendship)

smosh talking about their work styles and creative processes and how they mesh well together which i would LOVE to hear more about that from dnp in how they come up with ideas or the details of their process together ESPECIALLY now 

tbh i was never a smosh fan for a variety of reasons and i’ve never been fond of anthony but i appreciate what smosh meant to a lot of people and how big of a win this is for youtube creators in general. it is interesting to hear them talk about this new era and how excited they are for the future of the channel 

maybe other people will have a chat about what a revamped version of a beloved channel that was also a fun project for them could look like, especially without the pressure of making money off of it

please dnp i will buy yet another fucking channel membership off you 

[xthe-writing-vampirex]

Can you possibly do something with either glamrock Freddy or your OC Ah'kari comforting someone after a seizure?

I shall do my best. I'll do glamrock Freddy since he's the most well known but I can do another one for Ah'kari too if you want💕

🍄🍄🍄

Glamrock Freddy Comforting Someone After a Seizure

TW: Seizures and mental health mentioned

🍁🍁🍁

If you'd know the bright flashing lights of the show would be too much you would have sat them out. You'd gone without a seizure for months and thought you'd be able to handle a little concert. Unfortunately for you, you seized a few moments in and the show was quickly stopped. Freddy Fazbear himself came jumping off the stage into the crowd to catch you and keep you from hurting yourself much to the happiness of the multiple children around you.

Coming too from a rather long and bad seizure, headache the size of Texas and California combined, you see an orange colored room with the lights around you dimmed thankfully. Standing a bit away from you, standing in front of the huge glass that looks out onto rockstar row, you spot Freddy Fazbear, his orange casing shining in the dim light of the hallway in front of him.

Seeming to have noticed an increase in your heart rate the star turns, quickly noticing you're awake and staring at him. Smiling happily the large bear approaches saying,

"You're alright! I was worried you wouldn't come out of it but your guest profile states that we shouldn't contact a hospital unless a seizure goes beyond the 5 minute mark. Your seizure was 3 minutes and 21 seconds long and seems to have impacted your breathing and brain function." He explains, getting down to your level and keeping his voice down in case sound may cause another one.

Groaning, you try your best to sit up but your now weakened body refuses to allow this, causing you to fall back down. Freddy catches you quickly much to your surprise and slight embarrassment. You didn't want the star of the show meeting you at your worst.

"I-I'm sorry......I didn't mean to cause trouble." You manage, words slightly slurred from your brain still trying to get it's shit together. The idea that you'd possibly cut their performance short made you sick to your stomach. It was all your fault and you felt like shit. You should have been more careful. As if he were able to sense your distress somehow the bear gently holds your hand.

"You're alright superstar, no one is angry with you. They're just glad you're alright and so am I." The animatronic states with a genuine smile. His glowing blue eyes, which he intentionally dimmed to avoid triggering you again, stay on you. "Please don't feel bad for something you cannot control."

With that you start to cry, earning a concerned look from the bear. People always made you feel like your seizures were an inconvenience. That you having them was your fault and you could control them. Having someone genuinely care about you was completely new to you and you couldn't stop the rush of emotions you were feeling. Reaching out towards the bear, he immediately understands what you're asking and gently picks you up like he would a child, your legs wrapping around his midsection and your arms going around his neck. One strong arm wraps around you and the other holds you up as you lay your head on his chest, crying your eyes out. This was all just a lot and you couldn't really think of what you're actually doing for the moment, enjoying the strong embrace that made you feel safe and protected. If only you got a feeling like this every time you had a seizure, maybe they wouldn't be so scary.

Eventually coming too from your crying haze you look up at the bear, realizing what you're doing and immediately apologizing for being such a baby. The bear simply smiles, continuing to hold and hug you.

"It's okay superstar, I'm here if you need me."

[awsugar]

Please tell the story about meeting Anthony 👀

ok so in philly i was second row center and anthony held my hand at one point and the venue was such that there was no barricade or anything and there wasnt any lighting system either cause it was a church basement, the house lights were off but the lights were on on stage so you could see the band and so those of us in the front were just really exposed like everyone on stage and all of their family members side stage could just SEE US. cringe. im in so many pictures.

but basically after the show i was waiting outside the bathroom for my friends and anthony walked out of a doorway directly next to where i was standing with his daughter and just walked out to the venue like the room where the show happened, this is a REALLY small venue there is only one entrance/exit both for fans and band/crew. and im not even like an anthony stan but yes i have been kind of seduced and charmed by him so i was like omg...anthony green. but i didnt say anything. we went out to the main room after everyone was done in the bathroom and i was talking to some friends of mine in the merch line and he was again standing right there talking to whoever was selling the merch but he was with his daughter so i felt weird saying anything plus there was a ton of people around.

but THEN after that as i was finally leaving i was like walking out and there was a guy handing out fliers for future shows there and i was like 'im not from here' and he was like 'but you came to this one' sDFLSKDFS and i was like walking out but i turned back to look at the guy and i was like 'lol yea thats true!' and when i turned around to start going up the stairs anthony was just standing there. and i was like 😳 😏 'oh....hiiiii' sDFLISJGKSJDF and basically he just said hi and thanked me for singing along he was like 'i saw you all night' and i was like 'thank you!' and that was it we both started walking in our opposite directions cause he was going back into the venue and i was leaving and my friend goes 'HE WANTS YOU' like. LOUDLY. why 😭 i was embarrassed i hope he didnt hear her

and then in boston i was front row and center stage and every single crowdsurfer came directly over my head and at one point he came down to eye level with me and was like ARE YOU OKAY and i was like yea im fine but the funniest part of the show was when he was standing right in front of me and literally. literally he was straddling my head because the stage came up to my chest and my head basically came up to his crotch and he had one leg on each side of me and im sorry but i was just LAUGHING i was cracking up i couldnt stop it was soooo funny. anthony green straddling my head. and also he was like dragging the mic cord across my face every time he was in front of me i cant

and then in brooklyn i didnt speak to him but after the show and after frank had come out and signed things for people, we were still hanging around and anthony was meeting the few people that were left and he was like standing against the building and i was on the opposite side of the car of someone i know like i was standing in the street talking to my friends and i look up and anthony was waving at me lmfao i was like...hi......and waved back....and then when he was leaving i like kind of wanted to speak to him one more time and maybe introduce myself and get a picture with him but i was standing directly next to him as he was talknig to a couple other people i know but i was too nervous to say anytjing lmao i got too shy....so he just walked away but its fine....next tour i will have a real conversation with him i suppose

[theuniversitychallengereview]

I wrote a blog called No Spoiler last year, about how easy it had been for me to avoid spoilers for the previous day's episode of The Challenge, and how that was an oddity in our information-dense, social-media flooded lives. Well, on Tuesday I innocently logged onto Twitter, having missed this week's episode due to my Book Club, and had the result spoiled for me. It was my own fault - as I said in the other post, when you log on to a Twitter account which is specifically for University Challenge then that is the kind of fire you are playing with. 

For the past few weeks, I've been watching the Netflix Tour de France documentary with my girlfriend. With no prior interest in the sport of cycling she really got into it (and really loved Wout van Aert, which did make me a bit jealous, but who doesn't?). Despite the fact that it was about last year's Tour, the result of which has been known for nearly a full twelve months, and despite the fact that we watched several stages of this year's race together, she made it to the final episode with no knowledge (besides her correct inclination that there was no way redacted would be coming back from such a large deficit going into the final few days) of the overall victor. 

What's the moral of this story? Nothing particularly profound, just that its interesting how siloed our consumption of things is. If I had to estimate, I'd say that I read/heard the fact that cyclist A beat cyclist B in the 2022 Tour de France more than a hundred times in the past month, but if you're not looking out for something, or if your personal Internet isn't pre-programmed to show you it then this sort of thing is far easier to avoid. 

It would be pretty funny, I think, if I did go ahead and not review this week's episode, but I've already spent a while looking up cool stats and I don't want to waste them, so with that in mind; here's your first Starter for Ten.

You can watch the episode here before reading my review...

Birkbeck were regulars in the early years of the Paxman era, appearing six times in the first nine series, culminating with victory in 2003, after which they weren't seen for seventeen years. Oxford Brookes, meanwhile, have only been on five times in total, making the quarter-finals twice.

Brookes skipper Manton buzzes early on the first starter, but he's wrong, and McMillan swoops in for Birkbeck to steal the points. An easy bonus set on films nets them a full house, before Manton makes up for his earlier mistake with epiphany. They grab a hat-trick on the Biafran war, but remain behind thanks to the incorrect interruption.

Another from McMillan stretched the Londoner's lead, but Gardner hit back for Brookes to keep things tight. McMillan is then able to give one of the coldest possible UC answers of all time when asked to complete the phrase written on Woody Guthrie's guitar, 'This machine... kills fascists". Rajan shows off his cricket credentials, scolding Birkbeck for mistaking a doosra for a googly, and demonstrating the bowling action at his desk. 

The first picture starter continues the ping-pong nature of the game so far, with Broadbent, eyebrows plastered in a kindly frown, quickest to recognise the Togo flag. He blitzes the bonuses too to tie the game. Two more consecutive starters for Brookes open up the biggest lead of the game, but Birkbeck fought back through Huntley and McMillan. 

It looks like no one knows the musical on the music starter, but Chadha guesses Funny Girl after hearing the lyric 'good for a laugh', which is excellent quizzing. After the bonuses we're back level, at 110 each. 

The scoring has been going at quite the clip and doesn't let up in the second half. Brookes get a couple to go ahead again, but three in a row from Birkbeck nudge them back in front. No one is allowed to build up too much momentum though, and Broadbent buzzes rapidly with games console to regain the advantage for Brookes. Its an absolute basketball match of a quiz, but who is going to be the one to score the dagger?

McMillan puts Birkbeck five points clear, and skipper Chadha gives Taylor Swift (an answer for the second time this series) to put the game beyond Brookes.

Birkbeck 220 - 205 Oxford Brookes

Phew! You can definitely see the effect of Rajan's quicker questioning here. 

This was the first match with a combined score of 400 or more since Durham thrashed Strathclyde 360-55 in 2018. You've got to go back to 2014 for the last match where both teams scored more than 200, when Trinity beat Manchester 285-205 in the quarters.

So despite the fact I think the average score is going to be a bit higher this series than in recent history, Oxford Brookes can count themselves supremely unlucky, and will definitely be returning as high-scoring losers. 

See you tomorrow for Southampton vs Christchurch

[lottiecrabie]

also this same teacher usually lets us do our ‘hw’ in class so that we don’t have hw. and one day he said that next class we would have 10-15 mins to finish our worksheets before going over them. so when we got there the next class he was like ‘ok everyone let’s go over the worksheet.’ and all of the kids that are outgoing and give me anxiety when they act out were like ‘what the heck mr.s you said we would have time!’ and a girl named niki thats very popular but also kind of sweet to me said ‘ask macy she will tell you the truth cause she’s a good student’ and since i sit in the first row (second row but first row is empty so that he can sit on the desks and teach) he was like ok and said ‘is this true macy’, and he walked over to the desk in front of me and did the thing where he sits on the desk with his feet on the chair (our seats are connected to our desks) and he said ‘come on guys let macy tell the truth.’ and he just leaned forward and was like all up in my face. i was just trying not to sweat because like idk praise but also like in my face. and then i was like ‘yes actually, you said we could have more time’, and he was just staring at me trying to see if i was telling the true. like reading my facial expression. and i was licking my lips or closing my mouth weird everytime i said i wasn’t lying or something and (licking my lips is like a weird habit i have anyway but that’s besides the point, I WAS UNDER PRESSUE OK?!) and i was looking away. so he was like ‘look she keeps looking away you guys are lying’ and then looked at me and said ‘see you keep doing a weird thing with your mouth’ like what am i supposed to do in this situation besides freak out. and i thought i was keeping my cool very well so i was a little embarrassed. they always address me like i’m not in the room if that makes sense in that class. like why is everyone chatting for me?!!!? like that’s a weird power thing and i was under STRESS. like these people aren’t supposed to interact with me. i’m supposed to sit here quiet and act like i’m not questioning things i’m not supposed to be questioning. and this is the same teacher that said i remind him of his daughter because i dress really nicely. after the same girl niki complimented my outfit and so i was already BLUSHING. because like i said before these people aren’t supposed to be talking to me and giving me compliments, and especially not KNEELING IN FRONT OF ME AT EYE LEVEL AND CALLING OUT MY NERVOUS/ BLUSHING HABITS wtf? (he also asked me if i was going to a funeral one day because i wore an outfit that matty healy wore on stage one day that was all black (which was a complete accident btw)(it was a black shirt, black leather blazer, black baggy jeans, black boots, and a slick back ponytail) BUT TEASING ME IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE CLASS NO THANK YOUUUUUUUU) sorry i just had to share this with someone because why did i feel so embarrassed ahh

oh i would have been blushing too like don’t look at my lips if you don’t me to kiss you old man🤭🤭 i hope he’s a little attractive😋 i don’t know if i give off this vibe on the Internet but i’m the type of person 🧍‍♀️ in the back while someone else says she asked for no onion so i def get you😭 i would have been shaking having this attention on me. i don’t think you should feel embarrassed!

[philcatelinet]

I posted 1,361 times in 2022

43 posts created (3%)

1,318 posts reblogged (97%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@icanbeyourriver

@supersnarky

@lifesgrandparade

@greenekatgrey

I tagged 28 of my posts in 2022

#hell yes - 1 post

#not great bob - 1 post

#sweden can have some eugenics ig - 1 post

#*coronavirus - 1 post

#*death - 1 post

#us and no - 1 post

#i grew up in the 80s and just missed nuclear war duck and cover drills - 1 post

#smbc - 1 post

#hiveworks - 1 post

#comic - 1 post

Longest Tag: 94 characters

#sorry if this is a spoiler but the book has been out for years and the show aired 10 years ago

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I had to share my impressions of the New York Philharmonic in the newly renovated David Geffen Hall. For reference: our seats were on the orchestra level, row EE, in the center rear of the hall just under the first tier. For further reference: I’ve been a season-ticket subscriber to the NY Philharmonic since 2007. They have performed in the same hall since 1964 but it just underwent a renovation that fixed its notoriously bad acoustics, moved the stage forward by 30 feet so the audience is closer, and updated all the facilities. Tonight’s concert was Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 22 and Bruckner’s Symphony No. 7, two of my favorite pieces by two of my favorite composers.

I love the sound of the renovated hall. I’ve never FELT the Philharmonic’s sound like I did tonight. The basses and cellos, and all the strings, had a depth to their sound. I could hear the articulations more than ever. All of the instruments could be heard more clearly than before. I thought the delicacy of the Mozart piano concerto came out and that the piano was almost too soft compared to the orchestra. Maybe the piano was too loud before? Or the orchestra was straining to be heard over the piano? I thought the concerto was lovely nevertheless.

Bruckner’s Symphony No. 7 was incredible. I was hanging on every note. The brass sounded clear as bells. It helped that all of the brass were in the center of the stage, behind the winds, (and directly in front of where we were sitting in the center rear of the hall) instead of off to the side and way in the back like they used to be. I could feel those gorgeous brass chorales in the second movement. And the cymbal crash and timpani roll at the climax of the second movement was like an explosion of sound! There were other little things that I hadn’t noticed all the times I’d heard the piece before, like harmonies in the winds, or the first horn doubling the cellos in the opening, or some sharp menacing notes from the basses in the finale.

I almost feel cheated for all the years that I heard this orchestra in the old hall. I didn’t know what I was missing! I can’t wait to go back and hear them play there again. We have tickets to 3 more concerts this season and I might have to go by myself once or twice.

6 notes - Posted November 5, 2022

#4

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7 notes - Posted September 29, 2022

#3

FreshDirect misdelivered someone else’s order to our building and now there’s fresh produce and two cases of Lacroix sitting in the hallway. I feel bad about food waste but we don’t have that much room in our refrigerator for more produce. And would taking the food be stealing, like taking someone’s package?

On the other hand FreshDirect is not going to come back and pick up this order and redeliver it. So it’s going to sit in the hallway for a couple of days and then one of us will put it in the trash.

8 notes - Posted February 19, 2022

#2

We’ve gone all black for concert dress! I’m taking this look to our orchestra concert just off Times Square tonight.

8 notes - Posted October 15, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I made one of my favorite dinners: Cook’s Illustrated’s chicken parmesan, and I added some pepperoni because why the hell not? And some sautéed green beans for our health, and a Sicilian red blend.

9 notes - Posted January 29, 2022

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[bardofsomerset]

Allison Russell at Omeara, Part Two: Live and Singing

Previously, in Part One, I was introduced to the music of Allison Russell and made the big decision to go to London and see her in concert. This caused me to reminisce on all the other concerts I've seen, hence, Part Two, with even less Allison Russell in concert than the first part.

Maybe it’s because my taste in music leans so heavily to before I was born, but going to watch live gigs has always seemed a rare and special thing. I’m never going to get to see Nina Simone or Dusty Springfield or Ella Fitzgerald in the flesh. When I saw Cleo Laine for the first time, she was in her eighties (having lost absolutely nothing of that voice) and I was the youngest person in the audience by a couple of decades.

That’s been a bit of a recuring theme since my first ever concert (not including musicals, which play a bit differently), seventeen years before I ventured out to see Allison Russell. When I took my seat in front of Joan Armatrading’s stage, I was very aware that I was possibly the only child in a room full of adults.

(Well, technically Joan Armatrading was the second concert, but as the first one started an hour and a half late and we had really bad seats, I don’t count it as a full experience.)

Joan Armatrading…there was no first listen to Joan Armatrading. Those melodies crawled into my ears while I was still in the womb, and they’ve been floating through my body ever since. She’s my mother’s favourite, has been ever since the 1970s heyday of Back to the Night and, of course, the eponymous album that introduced the world to “Love and Affection”, the song you probably know best:

I hear that opening and I’m a child again, home and safe and certain of the shape of the world. Funny, really, when uncertainty is part of the fabric of the song. It’s not music I “discovered”, there was no moment when it found me, but that makes it important in a whole different way. It’s how I grew with it, when the lyrics stayed the same but something changed in the way I listened; how every subsequent replay remade what I thought I knew.

It’s probably fair to say Mum was more excited than me as she directed the car through the growing evening darkness of 13th October 2005 and took us into Bristol. Yeah, there was some budding anticipation, but after that failed first gig I didn’t really understand. I could be sitting comfortably at home and still hear my favourite songs. I liked Joan Armatrading, but not in the way Mum did. How could I, without all those decades of following her, without those songs echoing through all the days of my life? You can trace the history of a person in their album collection, but I was barely a teenager. I hadn’t had time to build musical connections like that.

Plus, there was the fact that my literary analysis wasn’t quite at the level it is today. Joan Armatrading is a poet, and not one who explains her every thought and feeling to you. She wraps mysteries around her lyrics, leads you in and leaves you to draw from them what you will. Back then, I still didn’t have a clue what it all meant (I mean, I’m not going to say I understand it perfectly now, but I can see silhouettes and build something meaningful around them). It can be hard to fully appreciate something that you don’t understand.

Did preschool me hearing “Drop the Pilot” for the first time have any comprehension of a bogey outside of something that came out of your nose? Nope. Did I have the faintest conception that the titular “Rosie” might be a man in lipstick and heels? Not at all. I just knew I liked the songs with a faster rhythm, the ones where I could sing along with enthusiasm. “Drop the Pilot” is still one of my favourites, and that’s partly because I remember how it felt as a child, and partly because I can hear it now in a way that was impossible back then.

There was no sitting up in the gods this time like that failed first concert, we were right there in the front row, knees to the stage and almost in the centre (a feat that wouldn’t be repeated until 2014, when my parents finally bought me tickets to see Elaine Paige, after previously missing her twice. That evening took me through every show she’d ever played, every character I’d never had the chance to see, where every slight hunch or stretch of her shoulders was all that was needed to turn the actress who sings into someone completely new).

Any worries about disappointment vanished the moment Joan Armatrading took her place.

I may have preferred the more up-tempo tunes when I was little, but on that night, sat in what was still known as the Colston Hall, before renovations and renaming rebirthed it as the Bristol Beacon, it wasn’t “Drop the Pilot” that hit me most. It got me, don’t get me wrong, I think pretty much every song landed twice as much as I’d ever heard before; in that way that only happens when you and the singer are barely a breath apart, but the moment of the night was one I hadn’t remotely expected.

By the time we reached that point, I’d already seen tunes that I thought I recognised shimmering with a new kind of life. I’d journeyed through songs that were completely unfamiliar, but that settled as old friends by their final note. My ears had opened to the jokes and backstory woven between the music, the phrases delivered in that Birmingham accent, until it was suddenly clear to me that the disembodied voice coming through my speakers for so many years was actually a real human being. Just like the rest of us, except there was that melody, that talent, so far beyond my imagination.

It couldn’t have been better. That’s what I thought, but it turned out there was another space I didn’t even know needed to be filled. When the end was rolling close, but the audience wasn’t ready for her to leave, that’s when Joan Armatrading decided to sing “Willow”:

“Willow” wasn’t one of my quick and bouncy tunes where I already liked to sing along. I wasn’t yet at the point in my life where I could dig into its deeper meaning. When it started to play, I didn’t even know the words. It was immediately clear that everyone else did, so all I could do was listen to them, and to her.

I knew by this point that Joan Armatrading was a poet, but somehow this was the moment where it became real to me, when her voice and theirs drew out those shapes from the lyrics. I could hear it in the thunder, see it illuminated in the edge of the lighting, wrap myself in the softening storm. “Willow” was shelter from everything else in the world, leaving nothing but us. Everyone was singing along, even me, and I still didn’t know the words exactly. It just felt right.

It was the first time I realised that a concert isn’t you watching them. It’s them sharing with you. It’s you giving back. For so many of the people in that audience, it wasn’t just that moment but all the memories that accompanied it, reliving every replay since the original 1977 release. I found myself joining them in a place they created before I was born. It was learning not just the lyrics, repeated in every chorus, not just the melody, poured nectar-like over the congregation, but also how to experience the song as a living thing.

I’ve seen Joan Armatrading twice more since then, first at Warwick Arts Centre (one of the great advantages of attending the University of Warwick was having that right there on campus) with two brilliant supporting acts – part of her mission to bring attention to the local talent who it’s sometimes easy to miss, in this case Jamie Sheerman and Chris Wood  – and once again she fed her distinctive lines of humour between some of the most beautiful love songs ever written. Now I was finally in a place to hear “Dry Land” (one of that small cluster of early songs that weren’t hers alone, but with lyrics by Pam Nestor) and “The Weakness in Me”. I was ready to wonder how I ever missed their depth before.

Second was at my old friend the Playhouse, right at home in Weston-super-Mare. That was when she was scaling down her touring and it was just her on the stage, an entire band within one woman’s fingers. There was nothing between her and us. She made the switching between instruments look so easy, and she crafted those songs into whole new shapes yet again.

In between, I heard the way other musicians, famous and important and influential ones, talked about her, the way they all honoured her with such boundless respect. I watched the documentary, the one about how in the 1970's no one had seen or heard anything like her before, and that’s still true today, about all those poor, confused white, male record execs who saw a black woman who wasn’t singing blues or jazz or soul and didn’t have a clue how to respond, whilst she just kept on doing her own thing and the listeners kept finding her, because you might not be able to describe Joan Armatrading’s music in relation to anything else, but you know it’s something special. By the time I was in my twenties my appreciation was on a whole new level. Small me couldn’t have conceived of it.

When I was at uni, Joan Armatrading became one of the artists I played as an antidote to homesickness. She just reminded me of listening with my mum. She was top of a list of singers that also included Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits and Elkie Brooks. Other than Tom Waits, I’ve had the immense privilege of seeing all of them live.

Leonard Cohen I saw twice (July 2009 in Liverpool, September 2013 in Cardiff), and both times he seemed so bemused that we’d all made the effort just to go and listen to him. He took off his hat and pressed it to his heart, ever the gentle romantic, a poet who sang whilst his backup, including the Sublime Webb Sisters (his description) turned the occasional surprise cartwheel and band members, including the man he called “maestro of the wind”, played along. He rendered the full version of “Hallelujah”, the proper one, no verses cut and no meaning lost, enough to silence the drone of all those inescapable covers (I once had to watch a performance of “Hallelujah” by a choir of teenagers in a Christmas concert. It didn’t have quite the same weight), and he sang all the melodies I try to press on people when they complain Leonard Cohen’s music is depressing. Who hears “Anthem” or “If It Be Your Will” and feels anything less than hope? As for all when he asked to see you naked, and made his vows of devotion, I’m pretty sure there was some actual swooning amongst his long-adoring fans. Even in two big arenas, not remotely intimate spaces, there was still a closeness that’s hard to describe.

Then there was Elkie Brooks, with that voice worn in over decades, with every new texture just elevating the whole. She’s going on her Long Farewell Tour in 2024 and beyond, so if you want to see her, now’s the time. I’ll definitely be there.

We saw her in Yeovil, at the Octagon (I think this was May 2010), a present to make up for missing her most recent appearance in Weston. She has this gift, Elkie Brooks, across all the genres, whether on her own or back with the woefully unappreciated Vinegar Joe. One moment you’re in a pub or bar, rowdy and rousing, dancing, probably on the table, with a glass in your hand. Then you stop, dead still, ears clinging to each lingering melody as she takes you to a club 1940-something where it’s long after dark and the music curls around you like smoke.

(Also, as I discovered when searching for the best videos to illustrate this section, she was once a cavewoman.)

When we saw her, she was half apologetic about the fact she had a new album out. It was just after the release of Powerless and, perfectly understandably, she wanted us to buy the CD. That meant she needed us to hear stuff like the title track and “Why”, which for someone still relatively new to all this were two absolutely beautiful songs, but for everyone else clearly didn’t have the weight of the classics. I can’t find it on YouTube, but her version of “I Can’t Make You Love Me” was the first I heard, and remains up there with Bonnie Raitt’s for me.

Elkie Brooks knew the new album was not the main reason her audience was here. She was very aware that most of them (this was another one of those concerts where I was a different generation to everyone else) had been loving “Lilac Wine” and “Pearl’s a Singer” for many, many years. They were going to need to be satisfied.

How do you keep a song alive on the hundredth time through? The thousandth? What’s left other than reciting it like a child with their times tables? Can you really find a new emotion every night, whilst still keeping the core that made people love it back then?

The answer was in her own personality, in the spaces where she found room for character and conversation. The knowing pause and raised eyebrow on “I drink much more than I ought to drink” in “Lilac Wine”, a moment that made us all chortle. Introducing “Pearl’s a Singer” and playing up her exasperation at just how many times she’d had to perform it. After all, its success took even her by surprise back in 1977. We couldn’t help but laugh again, just before she emphasised how she was going to need our help to work up her enthusiasm:

(Obviously not a concert version, but the closest I could find to how it was when I heard it.)

We obliged, hanging on that moment of stillness in the middle of the song before rushing into the acceleration. You could tell, through every moment of that gig, that Elkie Brooks was someone who’d lived her whole life on the stage, that she knew and understood every inch of it, so utterly comfortable with every shift in tone, with how she reached us and how we responded. There wasn’t a single moment when that connection wasn’t there, us and her and the music all together.

Which brings us back to Cleo Laine, who, as I mentioned, was in her eighties when I saw her. July 2009, I’d just finished the first year of my A-Levels and she was more than fifty years into her career as Britain’s greatest jazz singer. I swear if Cleo Laine was American, she’d regularly be mentioned in the same breath as Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan. That quite frankly ridiculous vocal range (four octaves? Five octaves? I’ve heard it debated, but either way, seriously?). That glorious scat singing (the whole video is worth watching, but go to 6.35 for when it starts getting really fun). The fact she decided to do an album of Shakespeare set to jazz. I mean, really, is it possible to design something more specifically to my taste?

If we’re talking concerts that were particularly special to me, not just my mother, then we have to talk about Cleo Laine. My mother still has a role to play (we share a lot more music than I do with my dad, though he’s probably the reason I like country, and he was also the one who stood next to me through the non-stop, three hours and no interval experience at Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium as Bruce Springsteen piled the energy higher and higher, until he sent off all his band and perched there at the end of the stage, just him and his guitar, playing “Thunder Road”). No, my mother was the one who bought me a Cleo Laine CD one day, having seen it at random in a shop, and told me she thought I’d like it. Being a teenager, I ignored her. That was very silly, as I discovered when I finally hit play.

Jazz doesn’t have to work as hard as other music to make me fall in love with it (don’t ask me to explain the technicalities of why that’s true. It’s not a conscious thing), but that CD wasn’t actually a particularly jazzy one. At Her Finest took the songs of some of the great songwriters: Billy Joel, Stevie Wonder, Stephen Sondheim, each of them so capable of creating an image, a story, an insight into our own nature, and it strummed them to that unmistakable, unsurpassed voice. Into this potent mix, Cleo Laine had added her own pen, painting lyrics over the rippling melody of “Cavatina” to create “He Was Beautiful”. What all those tracks had in common was a humanity, poured into words and music and feelings, that found its way deep inside you.

That first time I saw Cleo Laine live was in St George’s Hall, Bristol, where we’d also later see Curtis Stigers jazzing things up. It literally used to be a church, one small enough to hold everyone close. It was a most appropriate sort of venue for a divine experience. We were only a couple of rows back, right at the heart of it all, and it almost seemed she was staring directly at me as she sang. At other moments she didn’t forget to look up and to the sides, to the people tucked in at the edges who weren’t necessarily in the line of view. She was there for her audience. I had no doubt she saw every one of us.

The thing about someone having that much experience on the stage; they have so many stories. There’s nothing they haven’t seen, no escapade they haven’t enjoyed. Dame Cleo Laine and Sir John Dankworth were side by side, and their banter flitted between every song, the embodiment of a 50-year marriage and shared life between two people who understood each other’s music better than they did their own. They would be mocking each other one minute, then harmonising perfectly the next. She’d make fun of him, he’d menace her with his clarinet while she wasn’t looking. Behind them, shoulders curling around the deep, heavy voice of the double bass, their son Alec carried the family tradition in fine form.

They dusted every moment with fun and good humour, like they’d just invited us into their everyday lives. One time, as Cleo was introducing a song, she told us she’d first heard it sung by a lady (I can’t remember who and it’s really annoying me) who’d been 91 at the time. Still a decade away from that, despite being well past what most people would consider retirement age, with absolutely impeccable delivery, she explained, “It gave me great hope.”

On the other hand, when she sang “Sonnet 18”, or as you may know it, “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day”, the world stopped.

Melody by John, lyrics by that Shakespeare guy. I mean, as Cleo herself said, if someone wrote you a poem like that, would you have any option but to fall in love?

The second time we saw her, a few years later, John was gone but the whole rest of the family was there, children and grandchildren: Jacqui, Alec and Emily, singing and playing along, and we were in their back garden at The Stables near Milton Keynes. A shared communion indeed.

We saw Jacqui Dankworth on her own once, back in Weston, just a few days before I left for uni. Cleo Laine had sung the classics, but this night was about something new, songs I’d never heard before. I could hear the similarities to her mother’s voice, and the differences too. She’d inherited something special, but despite the almost irresistible urge to compare, there was no denying she could stand alone. That was also my introduction to Charlie Wood, his piano dancing around her voice as they both fed off the other. They weren’t married yet, but you could see the connection between them.

At uni, I saw Alec Dankworth with his Spanish Accents in the Warwick Arts Centre. Someone said to me once, and I think it might be true, that it’s impossible for a double bass to sound bad. No screeching, no wailing, none of those completely inexplicable noises that my saxophone sometimes decides to randomly make when I blow it. There’s just something about that deep, earthy rhythm that gets right into your blood.

Getting the CD of Back to You signed after Jacqui’s gig, she asked if I was a musician (I think it was because I was again on the young side of the audience and that was the most obvious reason for me to be there), always a slightly awkward question. Technically, I suppose, but not really how she meant. She also commented on my unusual name.

That’s another recurring theme at these events. Lesley Garrett (possibly the most exuberant singer in the world, and equally enthusiastic about encouraging my own singing), and Clare Teal (Yorkshire again, a voice so familiar from the radio, who’d introduced me to so much jazz, but who I’d only recently realised was a singer in her own right) would both say similar things. “That’s an unusual name.” “Are you a musician?” like there was anything comparable between me and them.

Of all the concerts that have been and could have been, of all the old favourites given new breath and surprise discoveries brought to life in the chamber of an auditorium, only one still seems like a dream, like something like that could never have happened. Aretha Franklin had given up on international tours long before I became a fan. There was no chance she’d be coming to the UK any time soon.

No, she wouldn’t come to me, but I did go to America in 2011, one year on a university exchange, from Warwick to Vanderbilt, from Coventry to Nashville. Flicking through the internet and seeing that Aretha Franklin was on a US tour and suddenly realising, “yes, I’m in the US.” Opening the list of dates and seeing “Ryman Auditorium, Nashville” and barely taking time to consider. I walked to the Ryman (I wanted to make sure it was an easy journey so I’d know I could do it on concert night) and I bought my ticket there and then, taking the opportunity to do a little tour of the building too. I didn’t realise quite how much history was in the Mother Church. Yet another religious experience hallowing the halls where music plays.

It was raining on the night, the weather was absolutely foul and I was not looking forward to trudging down Broadway, but it turned out one of my professors was going with her family and she offered to give me a lift. I had a very good seat, down and near the front, but frankly I could have been sat on the roof outside, right in the heart of the weather, and it still would have qualified as the experience of a lifetime.

I’ve been trying to construct a narrative for that evening, one that sums up every moment and emotion, the crowd of that stage with its band and more band and singers and dancers filling in every corner, the second piano they rolled on halfway through so she could play for us on the most beautiful (and longest) version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” that’d I’d ever heard, the audience overflowing with love and her love in return, the fact that not a single word or note mattered in the face of that feeling, but I don’t think it exists. Could any description do it justice?

It’s a good place for music, Nashville. I realise you already know that, but I also saw Sonny Rollins while I was there (a very good reminder of what the saxophone is meant to sound like when I’m struggling myself), and I took in Memphis the Musical just weeks before I actually visited Memphis for the first time. A lot of fond memories accompanied that long year, despite the lonely moments and the homesickness.

There have been other concerts as well: the ancient energy of Clannad twisted into something cool and modern under the roof of Warwick Arts Centre, Natalie Williams at Ronnie Scott’s (as much about the venue as the music, fabulous as that was), Tony Bennett at the Royal Albert Hall and Sir Willard White at The Forum in Bath, barely a word spoken between those classic songs perfect phrased, Gladys Knight at the Royal Albert Hall with love and celebration, several slightly overwhelming Big Gig performances with the Guides where we sat next to the aeroplanes and watched the dots on the stage who were presumably the artists we were there to see. But live performance had fallen by the wayside a bit, and not just because of the pandemic, when I made the decision that this time, on this tour, I was going to stop putting things off until the next opportunity and make an active effort to put myself in the same room as Imelda May.

*

My first encounter with Imelda May came when “Johnny’s Got a Boom Boom” was playing on the radio with somewhat unavoidable frequency, and I didn’t mind because every time I’d nod my head and tap my foot, thinking to myself as I heard that unmistakable, bouncing off your bones bass line, “I like that beat. It’s pretty cool” Then I went on my way, working on my A-Levels. At some point, I did see an interview in person, saw her with that hair and those lips and that look in her eye, and my vague thoughts added, “She looks pretty cool too.”

Then, a few years later, I saw this performance on the Graham Norton Show:

Not only did I again think “I like that beat”, this time I also had to smile at the lyrics:

"I love your nails, even your entrails I love your soul, even your little mole Yeah I love you inside out

I love your arms and your laugh out loud charms I love your wits, and all your wobbly bits I love your lungs, and your talking tongue Yeah I love you inside out"

I might not have a competent musical ear, but I know what good words look like. These were clever, and funny, and not long after, when I happened to be a in a music shop with money to burn, I bought Mayhem in its entirety as an album. It wasn’t planned. I spotted the CD in the ranks, I remembered that performance, and there was a spontaneous decision that I’m still glad about more than a decade later.

Those first two albums I bought, in fairly quick succession: Mayhem, then Love Tattoo, became the albums I played when I was tired and I needed a burst of energy, whether to my hands or to the thinking parts of my head. They were (and still are) what I turned up loud when housework needed doing, even if they made basic tasks take longer because of the constant need to dance, and even if I could only play them when I was on my own because yes, I still felt compelled to sing along very loudly. They made life a little bit easier and a lot more fun. They could blast me into a writing mood, but sometimes I’d have to wait until the CD finished because I couldn’t concentrate on my words when my ears were still hanging on hers.

Tribal was the first album I ever preordered before it had even been released, claiming the bonus EP despite the fact I didn’t at the time own equipment capable of playing vinyl. It was also the first time I watched an official Imelda May music video, and I still go back to It’s Good to be Alive” whenever I need an immediate pick me up that’ll make me grin so loud you can hear it. Or you could, if I wasn’t alone in the house with the speakers on full blast, crushing every other sound under the vibration of that beat.

Then came Life Love Flesh Blood. Before Outside Child, no album had ever come into my life with such a definite force. There were the interviews with Imelda May first, some that I heard and some that I read, promising that it would be something different. Was that a good thing or not? I was reasonably certain that the quality of the singing would make any shape of melody worth a listen, but would these new tracks have that same energy, that mix of humour and humanity, that made the previous records so precious? I was excited, yes, because the odds seemed good, but there was a little trepidation too.

I’m not sure what I was worried about, really. I love those rockabilly rhythms but my favourite songs on Love Tattoo and Mayhem are the slower ones: “Knock 123” and “Kentish Town Waltz” respectively. You can linger in the lyrics, and in all the power and control thrumming through that limitless voice, and you can feel every inch of meaning bleeding into you. The first time “Call Me” breathed through the radio, it stopped me like those two had, and all my doubts were scoured away in the echo of that first perfect note.

Caught in the pain and the pleading of Life Love Flesh Blood’s first song, feeling its ache in my ears and my chest, I knew there was something special coming. Then I saw the guest list for Jools’ Annual Hootenanny, saw her name, and I was very ready to hear what came next. It turned out it was the kind of sound that lands directly inside your spine. My music, written especially for me.

Yes, she had new hair and a new style, but she still had that look in her eye. That command to pay attention. It was coupled with something else. Without that beat, there was a new kind of vulnerability, one that would tremble throughout the album. Behind the evocative notes of that title, “Black Tears”, behind that striking, captivating image, was a darkness and a pain that spilled out until it swallowed the world.

Somehow, I ended up buying Life Love Flesh Blood twice. Two CD versions, both preorders with bonus tracks. They had a different image on the front, and one had a signed insert whilst the other had extra, extra bonus tracks (the ukulele versions), so they were technically different. No regrets.

No, it wasn’t like the previous albums, but sometimes music finds you at exactly the right time. It wasn’t a happy period, and I was wallowing, to put it mildly. A series of songs with “the world’s not perfect but we can still make it better, I’m not perfect but I’ll still try my best” as a central message? A battered hope depicted through all those admitted mistakes, through humanity in all its shallow, selfish, prideful moments? The declaration that love is something we can actively choose, and that we have to keep choosing? I can’t overstate how important it was for me to hear that.

It's a highly personal album, like you’re being allowed a glimpse into someone else’s soul, but somehow it also manages to distil humanity as a species:

"I've chased away my demons But I'm human at my best

So come adore me But know I'm going to fall Off of this pedestal That I hope you put me on"

I’m going to try and explain why this works for me, but I’m not sure there’s a better way to say it. How does someone write something that brilliant? Place so much depth in such simplicity? The tension there, that conflict between who you want to be and your actuality, the intense desire for someone else to see you and the fear of what will happen when they do, the hope that they’ll love the idea of you and that creeping voice reminding you that the idea is unsustainable? All you can do is your best, but is your best really worth that much? Romance and reality in the same hand; all the difficulty and beauty of being human.

If those few lines of “Human” gave me feelings, then the entirety of “When It’s My Time” ran through me like a blade. It’s not often I see depictions of religion that match the people of faith that I know, not borderline saints, not judgemental bigots, but everyday humans who are so aware of how impossible it is for them to have all the answers, and yet who are so willing to keep trying to understand better, to try and be better. It’s the faith that tests itself every day and comes through on the other side, that admits its own doubts and frailty and is all the stronger for it.

It’s also that conflict again, that precarious balance of hope and helplessness. How do you accept your own imperfections? Is it possible to do better when you’re so intimately aware of your own flaws? Can you find the value in trying, even when you know you won’t succeed? Where do you put your faith? How can you be so small and so human in such a big, complicated world?

I know some people complained about the new sound in Life Love Flesh Blood, but listen to “Proud and Humble” and “When It’s My Time” back-to-back. One leans more into the triumph, the other’s more pleading, but both are pretty explicit about their faith and failure. “I’ve done wrong but that’s not the sum total of me. Look at what I tried to do. Lord, love me like I love you.”

That same wry humour that I loved in “Inside Out” is still there as well, especially in “Bad Habit”, otherwise known as the catchiest song on the album, the one I’m most likely to keep humming for weeks every time I hear it.

"Spending money like I have it A bad habit, spending money like I have it

…

The doctor said 'Girl to my surmount There's nothing wrong with you But you bank account!'"

In other places, it flips the script the other way round. Songs like “Big Bad Handsome Man”, where he tempts you and it’s enticing and celebratory become songs like “Sixth Sense” and “How Bad Can a Good Girl Be”, where the temptation calls directly into your own darkness. Rather than looking out at him and his devilish charm, they take a more introspective route and dare to explore the other side of that desire.

The album is also about love. Like with Allison Russell, I love how Imelda May writes about love. This the woman who admired “all your wobbly bits” for “Inside Out” and then on the same album included “Kentish Town Waltz”, one of the best bits of storytelling in song I’ve heard, absolutely devoid of anything that resembles the ideal of romance whilst still being one of the most romantic things you can possibly imagine.

I love how this love is never flashy, never about grand gestures. It’s about everyday drudgery that you choose to share, about a whole range of choices that you need to make for a love to work. It’s the stews lasting three days into four, it’s knowing you’re going to fall off of the pedestal you hope they put you on, it’s not fear, it’s home, and all that’s good and bad about that. On 11 Past the Hour, it’s “Diamonds” that carries that theme best:

"Don't need to wish on stars We don't have to reach that far Everything's right where we are"

I thought no love song could stop “Kentish Town Waltz”, but “Diamonds” is pretty close. They’re different in tone, but they’re both about the grounded side of love, about a reality that isn’t full of sparkling glamour but is all the stronger because of it. Imelda May writes about love in a way I don’t think I’ve seen from anyone else. It’s never flamboyant, sometimes it’s annoying, but it’s also a way of living.

It doesn’t even have to be set to music. When 11 Past the Hour was announced, I did as I’d done for the last two albums: listened to every single as it was released, poured over every interview to try and eke out the details, and as soon as it was possible, put myself down for a preorder. This time, rather than a bonus EP that I couldn’t play, the extra was a disc of poetry, yes, set to melodies, but spoken, not sung.

Now, 11 Past the Hour is a pretty evocative title in its own right. That’s not a bit of casual speech, it’s an image with some depth to it, the kind that that’s at once instantly understood and enduringly enigmatic. This album was following on from Life Love Flesh, Blood, which had already been pushing the poetic pretty hard, that had managed some points when I thought the lyrics turned almost Leonard Cohen-esque:

"You got my mind In the gutter of love"

Now, however, for Slip of the Tongue, the melody drew back a little so you could see every syllable of each word, though when read in Imelda May’s voice there was music anyway.

Lay those lines out in isolation and they carry their own weight. Here’s love again, in “Home”, perhaps the best of them all. “It’s choosing kindness over being right”. It’s not all harmony though, there’s the punch and the dance of “GBH”, then the shock awakening of “Elephant’s” first line, there are moments of delicacy and violence colliding together, there’s questioning and uncertainty and humanity, the things I love so much in her music. Then every time you think you have a grasp on the images and the feelings of Slip of the Tongue, there’s moment of transformation.

Since then, I’ve bought the A Lick and a Promise poetry book. It now on the desk next to my laptop, where I can pick it up and dip in at leisure whenever I fancy seeing words painted like art.

Of course, you can’t ignore the songs of 11 Past the Hour. It’s a fairy tale from that opening “'Twas”, it’s a romance where sweetness and sorrow sit side by side, it’s intimacy danced under an open sky. We travel a long way over the course of this album, from Ireland to London to Mexico to the most war-torn corners of the world and all the roads in between. There are temptations and doubts and darkness, as we’d expect. “I’m no psychopath” says the woman who once celebrated how, “I go with a psycho” There’s triumph that bursts forth in “Made to Love” in a similar way to how it roared in “Should Have Been You”. There’s storytelling. It rewards every listen, and every relisten, as you try to unravel all its questions.

Seeing Imelda May in concert shouldn’t really have been that difficult, as she has several great advantages over most of my other favourite singers. For instance, she is still alive, in good health and actually touring in the UK on a regular basis. The only real reason it hadn’t happened was that I hadn’t got round to it. I was sure I would one day.

A new album meant a new tour, so in the aftermath of 11 Past the Hour I poked around her website to find dates and destinations. Bath. Bath was on the list. It was the perfect place for it to happen. Bath is one of my favourite cities and I’ll take any excuse to wander there. There’s so much history in every street, but not the heavy kind. It’s beautiful in the pale stone of the buildings and almost mystical in the shimmering waters.

Of course, I’m not actually anywhere near Bath at the moment. I’m stranded a long way from home and don’t know when I’ll be able to get back on a more permanent basis. That meant that when I took a casual look at those tour dates, as I’d done nearly every year since I became an Imelda May fan, Bath didn’t represent the city of closeness and convenience, but instead an excuse. I could combine it with a trip home, not the long-term settlement that I really wanted but still an improvement on my current status.

As always, my mum jumped on the opportunity to encourage me to socialise, this time by suggesting I go with one of the members of that three-person social network of mine. Asking him to come wasn’t actually that difficult. It’s hard to believe when you see me craning my neck to look at him, but we met when he was shorter than me. We’re friends in the way that’s only possible with someone you’ve known since before you had a memory. We’re close in the way that no matter how many paths you both travel, whether in philosophy or physical space, you know you’ll always come back, and that when you do you’ll be able to just pick it up again. We started a conversation nearly 30 years ago and whilst it’s curled many ways in between, it hasn’t stopped since.

That meant that something as simple as sending him a message didn’t have to be debated and worried over, that I knew before I started that I wasn’t overstepping. Of course, that wasn’t the same as knowing he’d say yes, or even if he’d like Imelda May’s music. Not that I was too worried about that second one. He’s a musician, a proper one who can hear the things I miss, and that means that his musical genres can basically be divided into “good” and “not for me.”

I didn’t send him links at first because I was still trying to decide which tracks would make the most representative sample, but I did offer to make recommendations if he wanted to listen. He was enthusiastic about coming even without hearing a single note. “I’m sure I’ll love her music. I’ve not heard of her but feel free to send anything over.”

After some debate one my part, I decided on “Johnny’s Got a Boom Boom”, as that was the one I was pretty sure he’d have heard on radio if he’d ever encountered her without realising, the Graham Norton performance of “Inside Out” that had pushed me over the line into a fan, and the “Black Tears” video from Jools Holland that had made me realise just how special Life Love Flesh Blood would be. There needed to be some old and some new if he was to fully appreciate her.

Then he started wondering if going to see her without having a clue what to expect would actually be more of an experience. It was a month later when he messaged me that he’d finally decided to listen to the links “I love the three that you sent and while I like the 50s Rock n Roll stuff, her latest album is blowing me away! Her voice is incredible no matter what genre she's singing but I like this latest stuff the best.”

I may have bounced up and down slightly with excitement.

(In case you’re wondering, yes, I did later turn him towards Allison Russell – “I love Hy-Brasil, the atmosphere and harmonies are amazing” – followed by a deep plunge into the Silk Road Ensemble as he fell into the many layered wonders of Rhiannon Giddens.)

When I went to buy the tickets, there were two options. Yes, I could have just gone with the regular ones, which would have got us to a decent position in the stalls, but the very front few rows were only available as part of a VIP package. A VIP package that also came with the right to watch the soundcheck, and attend a Q&A afterwards, plus a special gift. That was ridiculously enticing and if I’d been on my own, I wouldn’t have been able to resist.

Was it fair to ask someone else to buy a VIP ticket to see a singer that they hadn’t heard of a month ago just to indulge me?

Yes, I decided, it was worth it, and if he wanted I’d cover the difference between this and a regular ticket so he wasn’t too put out.

It was just after I’d bought the tickets that he messaged and told me he was having trouble rearranging his shift at work.

“Don’t do anything yet,” he said as I rechecked my confirmation e-mail.

There were a very nervous few days before that one was resolved, and all that was left was to wait for Tuesday 12th April.

*

When the day rolled round, I was already in a good mood. I was home, in Somerset, and that’s always been the best thing to help me breathe. I wasn’t worried about finding the venue, because I’d been to The Forum before. There was no stress about getting back to Bath Spa station before the last train, because as you’ll know if you’ve ever been to Bath, getting to The Forum basically involves leaving the station and turning left, and getting back is just as simple. Everything was in such a clear line.

His dad gave us a lift, him from his house and me from my B&B, and from the car to the station to the train we picked up that conversation we’ve been dipping in and out of for so long. We’d left at lunch to allow plenty of time to get something to eat and be at The Forum before the soundcheck began, which meant we also had time to wander around one of my favourite cities in the world.

You can’t walk through Bath without feeling its age, the echo of all those Victorian voices, the shape of all those Roman constructs, the song of that older time before stories had words, when the Pagans first touched the magic in its waters. We talked, and we talked, and the sun was bright but still cool enough, as you’d expect in early April, and the streets were lively, but not crowded, and there was really nothing that could be changed to improve that day.

We walked past a bookshop and I felt that irresistible pull, and unlike the vast majority of people who know me, who wouldn’t have trusted me to leave again, he said “We can go in if you want.” Yes, even though we were still on a schedule. Drifting between the shelves, running fingers over all the intrigue and excitement promised in every different colour papering the spines, until yes, if we wanted to have something to eat before the soundcheck started, we needed to move a little quicker.

A little vegan café full of garlic mushrooms and katsu curry. Conversation about music of course, but also comics and politics and personal lives and all the topics in between. His music degree had led him into a career as a postman, clearly such a natural choice, but now he was making a change. He had decided to become a music therapist, was just starting his early reading before the course started, and that meant he could talk through the deconstruction of a melody in a whole different way, to how it could bypass and jumpstart parts of the brain that were otherwise losing their connections.

We came to a halt in the sun and sounds outside of The Forum, that curve at the point of the roads, the art deco cinema turned dance school turned bingo hall turned church, a model of architectural beauty like all of its city. Forum is an ancient word, it takes you back to those Romans again, and it sounds like a conversation, like something for people to share. It’s a name that carries a lot of ideas. And of course, this was yet another concert venue on sanctified ground, a site dedicated to both God and music over the course of a life.

No one else was there when we first arrived, but others soon followed, coming up in their ones and twos, presumably for the same purpose as us. I watched them with curiosity, all those different looks and different voices but united intent. If we hadn’t all been stood outside of that same door, could we even have known the music we shared?

Eventually, those doors opened. It was finally time to step inside.

[the-alan-price-combo]

Wild Animals (1963-65)

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“The Animals were originally my band, of a sort. We were known as the Alan Price Combo. The name was like a really bad Fifties film, so we became the Animals when we came down to London. Basically we all disliked each other. It was a marriage made in hell.” - Alan Price, “How We Met: 46. Georgie Fame and Alan Price”, 1992.

Yeah, Alan, I can imagine being married to four other people would be hell. However, we’ll soon see that when it’s just one person, whom you share a “common soul” with… things are a little bit smoother.

Anyway, the Animal-history gets a lot more intense from here on out. Up until now, the Alan Price Combo had just been playing local gigs, that is, until Mike Jefferies entered the picture (“Mike”, Michael”... “Jeffery”, “Jeffrey”, “Jefferies”... I have no idea 😐). A businessman who owned clubs in the area, including the Club A-Go-Go (which he hired Eric to design the interior of), he offered to be the Combo’s manager. A double-edged sword, to be sure… as Jefferies had been and would continue to be a very shady individual. He was able to make a deal with the Yardbirds’ manager, Giorgio Gomelsky, to swap the band’s primary venues in December of 1963, so the Yardbirds could start to make a name for themselves in the northeast of England and the Combo farther south. This turned out to be quite an advantageous move for the group, though, this change in location came with a caveat: there needed to be a name-change. “The Alan Price Rhythm and Blues Combo” was too much of a mouthful, not to mention, very stuffy for a name. They needed something snappier, quicker… one word.

Now, all of the Animals seem to have different ideas of how the name of “the Animals” came about. Eric says it was a tribute to their buddy “Animal” Hogg, John says the name was given to them by Graham Bond, and the most popular story floating around is that the name was given to them originally as a nickname, because of their wild acts on stage. Whatever the case, Alan had a lot of grumblings about this, but eventually accepted it. And thus, the Animals were born, with their first single “Baby Let Me Take You Home” recorded in mid-February of 1964, by their recently-acquired record producer, Mickie Most. Most is an interesting character in the Animals' story, primarily in the way he treated them versus the later acts he produced for (Herman's Hermits, Donovan, Lulu, and the Jeff Beck Group, among others). The Animals honestly felt a bit like guinea pigs to him - a way for him to find his footing in the music production industry - for better and for worse. And, like everyone associated with Animal-history, I am eternally fascinated by him.

Anyway, get ready for some more scattered and silly moments between Alan and Eric!

Keyboard Smash -

Before I take my Alan/Eric magnifying glass to the Animals’ general history, I’d like to bring special attention to a little moment Eric shared in his first autobiography (he vaguely mentions it in his second, though, with much less detail). This takes place at the Scene Club in London (Eric accidentally confuses it with the Flamingo Club in his book), around the time they first arrived in December of ‘63 or perhaps very early on in ‘64.

“The dance floor area in the centre of the club was tiny and would hold maybe 200 people standing up, jam packed like sardines on a Saturday night. The comfortable night would be Tuesday when there would be about twenty to fifty people with room to dance to the great sounds. Needless to say the stage was even tinier. There really wasn’t enough room to move and I often found myself performing on the floor, at the same level as the dancers, sometimes joining in with the dance. By the time the drums and keyboards were set up there was just enough room for Hilton and Chas to find a niche on stage - no room for me.

“So I disappeared beneath the heads in the front row. The main reason for this was there was a huge white elephant of a grand piano on stage, a throwback to when the joint had been a nightclub. The jazz musicians had always arranged themselves around this monster.

“One night, I vented all my frustrations and anxieties on the great white piano. This was probably triggered by a purple heart, I must admit, but I was feeling good and I wanted to be seen as well as heard. I was wearing thick-soled cowboy boots, so why not? I clambered on to the top of the white monster. I should mention here that its one and only function was for people to put empty glasses on, so when I climbed up and started jumping around in time to the music I was crushing drinking glasses to powder beneath my feet into the top of the grand. The audience loved it, they went berserk. I jumped so long and so hard, egged on by the boys in the band, particularly Alan Price who hated this white monster with a vengeance. It didn’t ever actually play, you see, it was just a prop, but it was there and they weren't going to move it, so I had to move it for them.

I continued to jump up and down, egged on by the guys - the top of the piano gave way and splintered. My boots made it through to the other side and struck what remained of the strings beneath. It made a lovely noise, especially with the microphone stuffed down there. Alan Price, a huge grin on his face, held one of the Shure microphones next to the strings as they popped and twanged. Three huge bouncers made their way towards the stage through the crowd, pushing people aside, wondering just what the hell was going on. By the time they reached me the piano was demolished with the help of most of the audience. The bouncers got there and saw what was actually happening in front of the stage, and they took it all in good fun. They too joined in the melee against the hated piano.”  - Eric Burdon, I Used to Be an Animal, but I’m All Right Now, 1986 (p. 47).

Not sure what I love more… Eric somewhat doing this for and primarily egged on by Alan or Alan letting some of that composure slip in order to encourage him and join in the fun Eric was having, even leaving his instrument to do so. It’s just so great to see the spontaneity of both their relationship and the band’s dynamic in action… the five of them all finding common ground, but Alan and Eric, in particular, making it something special. Personally, it’s my favorite Animal-anecdote of all time and one of my favorite shared moments between Alan and Eric… but don’t worry, there’s a lot more where that came from!

The Animals at the Scene Club, presumably in late-‘63 or early-‘64. This is before Eric destroyed the piano - it’s that giant white table-like thing next to Eric! And the band obviously looks quite crowded. Also, interesting how both Alan and Eric are even with one another at the front of the stage, while the other three are in the back… this is probably due to the stage constraints, but it’s still an intriguing visual.

Here’s another Scene Club picture that I absolutely love. Alan, leaving his keyboard and playing a piano-esque harmonica instead, and sharing the microphone with Eric. I love the dynamic on display here; it’s a rarity to see Alan and Eric this close on stage. If you’re wondering what Alan’s harmonica sounds like, listen to the Animals’ recording of “Pretty Thing”; they recorded it when they were still the Alan Price Combo!

Rising Suns -

The stories surrounding the Animals’ cover of “House of the Rising Sun” have been talked about many, many times, so I won’t go too in-depth about them here. In short, it was selected off of Bob Dylan’s self-titled debut album by Eric to end the Animals’ segment of shows while they were on tour with Chuck Berry in May of ‘64. “You can’t out-rock Chuck Berry,” Eric says, and he’s absolutely right, so he wanted the Animals to have a very different-sounding rock finisher as to differentiate themselves from the rest of the set. Hilton created that iconic guitar riff himself, and all of the Animals seemed to work together on the arrangement. That is… except for Alan. While I personally don’t think he made zero contributions, it’s obvious that he wasn’t a big fan of the song early on (a detail that is corroborated by all four other Animals… very rare for them), even walking out of rehearsals from frustration. He did seem to come around to it eventually, literally covering it himself for a solo album he released later… and, if I’m being honest, I’m thinking Eric’s influence was a huge reason why.

Now, this part of the arrangement process is completely told from Eric’s perspective (the handful of times Alan actually talks about this song, he claims he created the organ solo all by himself), but I’m a lot more inclined to trust Eric here because of how much this echoes a familiar song-and-dance of theirs that Alan fondly looks back on: Eric introducing Alan to new music and Alan being highly inspired by it.

“I wanted to find something really ferocious for Alan Price to play. I had just seen a movie called Walk on the Wild Side, and Jimmy Smith did the title music for it. So, I got a copy of the album, for the soundtrack, and I said ‘Alan, this is the attitude you gotta play in the solo section of this.’ So that's the basis of the idea for the solo section.” - Eric Burdon, 2020 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8bKL4nO9xE)

Eric is still showing him music and gently shaping Alan, helping him discover new ways he can play… it’s so wonderful to see (hope you got yourself and Alan a pair of movie tickets, too 👀). This is just speculation, but I have to wonder if some of Alan’s initial apprehension with the song was not being able to leave his own mark on it, with Hilton and Eric charging ahead with their own dominant sounds. Having such an impactful solo like that allowed for Alan to feel connected to the song in a major way, so much so that he was vocally frustrated whenever radio cuts would omit the solo for broadcast.

Another tidbit:

“I said [to Alan], ‘Get that feeling, coming out of the break.’ That propelled me into the next line: ‘One foot on the platform, the other foot on the train.’” - Eric Budon, 2013, The Animals 180g LP released in 2022.

…So not only using the organ solo to bolster Alan’s confidence, but to spur himself on as well… Goes to show just how much of a profound impact Alan’s keyboard-playing has on him; musical feelings not at all one-sided.

Anyway, the rest is history. The Animals recorded the iconic song in one take, between their shows with Berry, in the early hours of the morning on May 18th, 1964, much to the chagrin of the pop-savvy Most and a puzzled Jefferies. And the song ended up topping charts around the globe, launching the Animals’ name and sound into the stratosphere. For better and for worse.

And, of course, with only Alan’s name on the label, due to there not being enough room for the others and his being the first alphabetically. A decision that would forever taint his relationship with each of them, including Eric… but at least, for a little while, they seemed to look past this. I definitely think Alan made a horrible decision here, and while I sympathize with him if any higher-ups were the ones to pull the strings (...Jefferies…) and the fact that he was 100% using those royalties to pay the members of his future bands fairly, he still didn’t share the money with his original band members, and it’s been almost 60 years. However, I look past this only because this treasure-trove of an intriguing relationship is so often looked over precisely because this one stupid decision of Alan’s gives the impression that there can’t ever be anything salvageable about his relationship with Eric, which I simply believe isn’t true. Spoilers for a good amount of the content ahead, but over the next decade, Eric never seemed to pry Alan about this, and there were some truly sweet moments shared between them, indicative of a close relationship despite it all. Not to mention, the whole royalty-situation is incredibly complex, especially with the knowledge of how much money Alan was investing into the musicians he hired for later creative endeavors, and how much paying them proper wages meant to him. In that regard, he was stuck in an extremely difficult trolley problem, which no doubt wore away at his mental health further. Yes, my sympathy towards Alan Price is all-consuming.

Our moody, pouty Alan…

Sounds Perfect -

The love-hate, delicate tension of their personal relationship already has quite a bit of nuance, but that’s to say nothing of their musical relationship. Eric’s vocals and Alan’s keyboards… together, they’re truly unstoppable.

“...If there was any sort of fellowship, it was between the fact that Eric was the singer and I was - I think the word is ‘amanuensis’, the translator. I used to follow his singing closely, and put fills in between. In other words, if you’ve heard Ray Charles singing and playing piano, I did the Ray Charles piano bits and he did the Ray Charles singing.” - Alan Price, Goldmine, 1995

“Price’s brooding personality and jazz-inspired keyboard wizardry in contrast to Burdon’s cockiness and R&B-laced vocals established an intoxicating and complementing mix. Valentine, Steel, and Chandler’s contributions were many, but most of an audience’s attention was directed at Burdon and Price. They were the heart and soul of the Animals. And despite the obvious tension that existed between these two musical giants, there was an unquestionably mutual admiration for the other’s talents. The Animals’ singular sound was constructed around these two members.” - Mark Hodermarsky, The Animals: True Rock Royalty, 2018 (p. 124-25).

Alan… did you seriously just imply that you and Eric together are a whole Ray Charles?! …Wow, between that and the “common souls” comment Alan made, it’s obvious that he really values the musical relationship and general connection they have. Also, the fact that Alan seems to take pride in the fact that he had the closest relationship with Eric out of all of the Animals…

It’s true, though; the pair have an incredible musical dynamic in all of their songs, especially detectable in a choice few.

“If one thinks about it too much, the entire concept of doing a version of Diddley’s eponymous, vainglorious anthem is ridiculous, but the Animals’ version of ‘Bo Diddley’ is no less delightful for that fact. Price starts out playing the chunka-chunka rhythm in tandem with Valentine, then during the instrumental break abandons the guitarist as he sets off into the stratosphere. Burdon rouses the crowd by getting them to participate in call-and-response routines, then engages Price in similar activity: making bizarre noises with lips and throat and daring Price to imitate them on his keyboard. Price turns out to be game.” - Sean Egan, Animal Tracks: The Story of the Animals, 2012 (p. 47-48).

I promise this isn’t going to just be a glorified Alan/Eric playlist, but there are several great examples of songs that exercise this dynamic perfectly. Basically the entirety of the In the Beginning/Live in December, 1963/The Animals and Sonny Boy Williamson album (they’re all the same, just different names, plus the extended collaboration they do with Williamson) is an excellent display of this, especially the aforementioned “Bo Diddley”. What I consider the “golden trifecta” of Animals songs, “Worried Life Blues”, “How You’ve Changed”, and “I Believe To My Soul”, are also excellent examples of this; the former happens to be my absolute favorite Animals song of all time. Eric’s voice and Alan’s keyboard seem to meld the best when Alan’s on a traditional piano, in my humble opinion, but their sound is still wonderful when he’s on an electric organ (again, “Worried Life Blues” is my favorite song of theirs). This is just a handful of songs, of course; basically every song they’re on together has Alan backing him up in some way. Even “House of the Rising Sun”!

Also, to validate my “Alan sounds best on a traditional piano” point, I’m not the only one with this sentiment…

“I hated the sound of the fucking Vox [Continental]. I hated it. That’s where Pricey and I parted, musically, when he bought that frigging Vox. It’s just the chintziest, wheeziest sound. It’s due to the records that our ears became tuned to it and it became an affectionate sound signal to a lot of people but I never liked it at all. I wanted Pricey to stay on piano. It was out of convenience that the Vox organ became part of the Animals’ musical line-up.” - Eric Burdon, Animal Tracks: The Story of the Animals, 2012 (p. 33).

Hmm, it sounds like someone preferred when they sounded like a whole Ray Charles, traditional piano and all…

Excellent mid-performance photo. Again, Alan and Eric even with one another.

Burdon-Price -

As I mentioned way at beginning, Alan and Eric were a homoerotic songwriting duo! Or, at least, they tried to be a songwriting duo (they did alright at the homoerotic stuff, though).

“Chas, being a real Beatles fiend, knew the story. He knew everything about them and how they developed as songwriters and stuff like that. It was probably Chas who said, ‘We should be writing our own material, that’s what the Beatles do.’ Alan was the obvious choice because it wasn’t like he was the Animals’ arranger but he was the one who could play the piano and lift something off a record and say, ‘This is the guitar line, this is the bass line, and these are the guitar chords.’ We pinched stuff, basically. Very original stuff. And Eric would say, ‘How about this for a lyric?’, and they would thrash it out a bit. Unfortunately, it never really developed much beyond that.” - John Steel, Animal Tracks: The Story of the Animals, 2012 ((p. 65).

So, Alan and Eric wanted to branch out as a duo of songwriters And the first song they penned was “I’m Crying”, followed by its B-side, “Take It Easy”, both written in early-July of ‘64. As mentioned and implied before, this was a relatively haphazard attempt for the Animals to not only begin to write their own content, but also to establish Alan and Eric as their own songwriting duo, as the two were the most musically competent in the group. Ironically, I’d argue (and feel I’ve already proven lol) that Alan and Eric were already a musical power-duo, though, songwriting wasn’t part of the equation, nor did it necessarily need to be. They were already perfect musical complements… but were being crunched and stretched all at once, with little time to produce music. “I’m Crying” was slated to be their next single after “Rising Sun”, so it had to be good.

“I don’t think that Price and I could have developed like Mick and Keith as writers because I’m not Mick and he ain’t Keith.” - Eric Burdon, Animal Tracks: The Story of the Animals, 2012 (p. 71).

“We were being harassed into producing material, as everybody was in those days. At that time, we’d just toured Britain with Carl Perkins. We all became extremely friendly with him and on the tour bus, he showed me that chord sequence. During the sound check I played that riff for Eric and he made up all the words. And that was ‘I’m Crying’, really. It was just a throwaway attempt at a song, without any conviction whatsoever.” - Alan Price, Animal Tracks: The Story of the Animals, 2012 (p. 69).

“I don’t think that Eric and Alan ever got anywhere near being a classic songwriting team, you know? *visibly cringes* It was just a few things cobbled together. ‘I’m Crying’ was the most successful one, I suppose.” - John Steel, My Generation: The Animals, 1996. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ovgViQGj44)

So… yeah. The band didn’t seem to like it and found it lazy. Despite the fact that it did end up charting; #8 in the UK and #19 in the US. Alan mentions that it was their record producer, Mickie Most, who was trying to coax a pop-sound out of the band, through both their originally penned and covered material; something Alan and Eric simply did not like. Not only were Alan and Eric being forced to work together, they were forced to create content they were not happy with.

However, I’m going to play devil’s advocate and say that I love Alan and Eric’s original songs. All three of them. Yeah… only three - “I’m Crying”, “Take It Easy”, and “Club A-Go-Go” (written in late autumn of ‘64). And you could say, “Oh, how biased of you, Connie!”, but I’m being completely serious with my love of these three songs. I actually made a little unscripted video where I “ranked” this trio of songs, and despite how silly my commentary is, I stand by all the points that I made (and I’ve even warmed up further to “Take It Easy” since I made it). (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVjWoXNschI)

Also, “I’m Crying”, man… legitimately one of my favorite Animals songs; easily in my top five, and easily my favorite original song “they” wrote (believe me, I love “Inside-Looking Out” and “You’re On My Mind” with my entire heart, but “I’m Crying”... it’s incredible). It’s such a driving, energizing song, and I like to consider it the anti-”Worried Life Blues”. You see, while I think “Worried Life Blues” captures each of the Animals at their best in a slower, more bluesy number, “I’m Crying” captures each of them at their best in a much faster-paced song. Sure, the lyrics are simple… but I've always stood by the idea that it never was the lyrics of the songs from this particular era that make them great (re: the bug lads), but the instrumentation, melody, and what the vocalists do with their voices. Alan and Eric knocked it out of the park with this song, and the fact that they wrote it under pressure with presumably very little time and it turned out this good… it makes me wonder what the pair could’ve written with ample space and time to work with one another.

Also, don’t just take it from me… Eric seems to have some fond memories, of the recording session in particular.

“...It was 2 o’clock in the morning and we’d been working pretty hard. Mickie Most behind the desk, looking like a fresh-faced high school kid, wasn’t ready to give up. As long as the band wanted to record, he’d be there, pencil in the mouth, sitting in the producer’s chair, feet up on the console. Relaxed. Over the intercom, into the main room, he spoke. It was the voice of God, the producer. ‘OK, if you guys feel you’ve got something else to come up with, we need a B side for the new single. Have you got anything? In the middle of the room AP sat behind the red-topped Vox Continental, his feet nervously tapping out a fast gospel-type rhythm, his fingers skating up and down the keyboard surrounded by baffling and studio blankets.

He was playing fast, uptempo, hot and nasty gospel. I was in the isolation booth, headphones clamped on my head. Pricey opened, swirling through the changes.” - Eric Burdon, I Used to Be an Animal, but I’m All Right Now, 1986 (p. 132).

…Wow, Eric. Wow. For the record, Eric describes a lot of… sensual things in this particular autobiography, even compared to the second one, and this is hands down one of the more… heated moments, despite how short it is compared to the Intensely Detailed Recountings Of Sex™. 😐

Anyway, he also describes advocating for “I’m Crying” a handful of times, for example, wanting to promote it on the Ed Sullivan Show:

“Our first experience of how not to rub him up the wrong way was when we wanted to change the choice of material. We wanted to come out with our new single. We had a new song in the can and we wanted to promote it. Alan and I had written ‘I’m Crying’; it sounded great and we were ready to go. But he wanted to take up valuable air time with ‘House of the Rising Sun’ which we had already promoted. We couldn’t understand him, he failed to understand us. We had a real bad run in, and it was either put up or shut up. Cancel the show, in other words.” - Eric Burdon, I Used to Be an Animal, but I’m All Right Now, 1986 (p. 80).

Hmm, so Eric seemed to like it, at least at this point in time… perhaps, he found the way he and Alan seemed to work together, as a duo, appealing? Actually, yeah, he did… but we’ll explore that a little later.

Anyway, despite this little burst of success together, the other Animals’ outside perspective of their relationship still seemed to be a little warped.

“I don’t think Mickie Most ever tried to stop them. I think it was themselves. They should’ve kept writing stuff together but they didn’t. It was their own fault. What’s to stop two people getting together in a room and writing stuff?” - Hilton Valentine, Animal Tracks: The Story of the Animals, 2012 (p. 71).

(I could answer that, Hilton… but I won’t.)

“I think things would have been an awful lot different if we’d developed a songwriting team in the band. It’s not fair to say we didn’t get the time because nobody was busier than the Beatles but McCartney and Lennon always found time to knock out a song. The opportunity would have been the glue that held the band together.

The probable reason that it didn’t develop was the fact that Alan and Eric didn’t particularly get on together on a personal level. With Lennon and McCartney, they were great buddies. I don’t think Eric particularly liked Alan as a person.” - John Steel, Animal Tracks: The Story of the Animals, 2012 (p. 71).

I should mention, a lot of John and Hilton’s accounts of this era (in particular), seem to be as outsiders, opposed to their perception being influenced by, say, Eric confiding in them. While I can’t confirm this (and they’re, of course, looking back on this years later), I do believe what they were seeing was how the two operated when others were constantly hovering over them, opposed to when they were alone. Alan is distant, detached, and didn’t like being around people, so it makes sense that Eric wouldn’t enjoy being around Alan when they were around other people, which is all John and Hilton saw.

Now, this is my personal thesis regarding all of Alan and Eric’s relationship, which will be expanded upon further, but I think the pair work best when they aren’t forced together by external encouragement. By the band, by songwriting mandates, by any higher-ups. Rather, they work best when they find each other and meet halfway. They both have extremely stubborn personalities, however contrasting they are in other traits, and thus, they need a chance to meet one another when they’re ready. Think back to the affectionate way Alan seems to reminisce about time alone with Eric (meeting him, listening to music with him, learning from him), versus the burning jealousy and anger towards Eric the others seem to think he harbored, particularly when the pair were in the band setting and crowded on all sides. Just… an interesting pattern that contextualizes a lot of what others perceive as “not getting along” or “not having the same creative direction”. I think they did have the same vision, more often than not, they were just forced to be more diametrically opposed when management and their band members were throwing in their two cents as well.

With all of that being said, do I think Burdon-Price works as a songwriting duo? Eh… they could work, just not in the circumstances they were crammed into. While I absolutely love the three songs they wrote together, it’s obvious that being forced to songwrite was not the right route for them. Perhaps it would’ve worked later on in their careers, where they could be songwriters not as a mandate from band-management, but on their own. They’re already both incredible singer-songwriters in their own right, and what they wrote together was brilliant (I could go on and on about “I’m Crying”), however, they needed to find one another on their own time. Performing and spending time with each other was already exhilarating and enjoyable for them…

The Animals On Tour photo, my beloved.

Animal Crackers -

Time for some miscellaneous little tidbits that also happen to take place during the original Animals’ time together!

First, let’s start with some Eric Burdon and Alan Price Affectionately Describing Each Other in Magazine Articles:

“Alan, our organist, is the musical brain of the group. He does all our arrangements, and takes credit for our version of ‘House of the Rising Sun’.

“Alan really gets carried away with music. Even when we have finished a show, he’ll keep on playing. If he sets eyes on a piano, he can’t pass it without looking at the make and trying it out.

“He’s great on vibes, too. In fact, he is a natural musician. He doesn’t read a note - he learned everything by ear.

“His brother was a church organist, and Alan took up piano when he was very young. He always wanted to be a musician, so he is now doing what he wants to do most in life.

“But he has one little weakness. He is an absolute magpie for collecting things - particularly trinkets that glitter. He must owe half-a-million on hire purchase!

“He buys watches, bracelets, magazines - anything that catches his eye. He has three walking sticks with silver tops. He once dashed into a shop and bought a tough pair of American Army boots. They just happened to take his fancy.

“If there’s one thing he hates, it’s traveling by plane. Last week, we had to fly down from Manchester after a ‘Top of the Pops’ show to play a date the same evening at the Flamingo in London. Alan didn’t say a word all the way. He just sat in that plane scribbling on pieces of paper. He must have been making his will out.

“I understood how he felt. We had a pretty terrifying experience not so long ago when our plane hit an air pocket. We thought we were all goners.” - Eric Burdon, Music Echo/Disc Weekly, July 18th, 1964 (p. 5).

Eric did one of these for each of the Animals, but if I’m being honest, Alan’s seems to be laced with the most affection. Even compared to Hilton’s on the same page, it sounds more like Eric’s taking the piss out of him compared to the way he describes Alan’s little mannerisms. Love the shout-out towards Alan’s affinity for things that glitter… the only mention I’ve ever found of that interest of Alan’s outside of the facts on back covers of their first album…

Now, it’s Alan’s turn. Also, I apologize, but I’m going to trim it down a little bit because Alan talks about him a whole heck of a lot (longer than each of the others, for sure), with quite a bit of what he says being stories Eric told him. I’ll include a picture if you want to read the whole thing yourself, though. I actually own this article twice… whoops. The August 1964 issue of RAVE and the December 1964 issue of 16’s “Introducing My Animals” articles are the exact same and that’s okay because I get to look at that image of them two times and feel whole inside.

“Eric Burdon, our singer, is great at this. He has an amazing depth and sensitivity. He’s an artist, so I think maybe this has something to do with it. He can feel things the rest of us can’t. We can only see his back when he’s singing, he grabs the mike, leans down to it.

“When he breaks, he wanders off ‘round the stage, even walks right off someplace and we keep playing until he gets back.

“…He analyzes everything.

“He’s short, stocky, hard as nails. Nine months heaving bricks on building sites around Newcastle did that for him. Very arty. Wears calf-length suede boots specially made for him by a Soho firm. Usually sports Bohemian-type ties.

“Eric is the rebel, the non-conformist. I don’t think it’s deliberate. It was forced upon him, really. Maybe he’s had it a bit rougher than the rest of us have.

“He’s rather bitter, and gets cynical sometimes. He studied for five years at the Newcastle College of Art. Says the first four were one long rave. He didn’t do much at all.

“…But what really makes Eric bitter is what happened to him after he left college and looked for a job. Here he was, fully-trained with a diploma to prove it, but could he get a job? Not on your life!

“He came down to London expecting that with his qualifications it wouldn’t be too hard. But he finished up on the dole.

“…We call him Workyticket, because he’ll talk about anything. He reads anything about the blues he can lay his hands on. He says that his big ambition is to go to the States and sing with his idols - Jimmy Witherspoon, Joe Turner, Bob Dylan, John Lee Hooker, and the rest of them.

“He’s a wonderful artist. Doesn’t have much time to sketch or paint these days, but he’s full of ideas. First free time he gets, he swears he’s going to do some work. He designed the interior of the Club A-Go-Go in Newcastle when he was at college.” - Alan Price, RAVE, August 1964 (p. 52-53).

So much fascination and appreciation for Eric’s artistic abilities… Also, Alan pondering how Eric got his “stocky, hard-as-nails” body is not lost on me. 😐 Describing his personality, too… we love to see it.

Here are a few little tidbits from Eric’s first autobiography, hence me considering these “moments” between them. Because if Eric’s going to affectionately recall some of the things he saw Alan do and say during this time, then I am going to read those moments with an affectionate lens.

(Talking about Alan’s paranoia about cars after Hilton crashed the band’s shared Ford Galaxy:) “After the wreck of the Galaxy our driving habits changed radically. Alan Price never missed his place in the front seat alongside the driver. His paranoia and fear of crashing probably saved us. He did the map reading from now on.” (p. 59)

(During a press conference in New York when the band first arrived:) “In the conference room gum-chewing crew-cut Polyester men stood with cameras loaded and slung from their shoulders, ready to shoot the shit out of us. ‘Hey, hey, hey, which one’s the tiger? You the tiger?’ One of them pointed at Alan Price who turned with a sharp smile. He stared the guy down then snapped, ‘I’ll report you to the RSPCA.’ The man obviously didn’t think this was funny. He kept it up. ‘Hey, which one’s the lion? Now growl for the cameras boys, growl like one big animal together.’ Fuck, this was embarrassing, I thought.”  (p. 67)

(Alan’s reaction after they played at the Apollo in New York:) “We played for three successful days at the Apollo, three shows a day and every show was a laugh, a gas. In fact the afternoon shows were a little more crowded than I’d ever seen them before for other acts. I was dead chuffed and had a right to be. Even Alan Price was smiling…” (p. 83)

(Describing Alan’s behavior on a train, as they were traveling to the West Coast of the United States:) “Alan Price usually looked out of the window, in awe of the vast country below.” (p. 89)

(Alan being everyone’s giggly and gay best friend when fans would swarm them backstage:) “And backstage after every show, was the inevitable cake. ‘We brought you a cake,'’ the band would sing out in unison as the girls entered the dressing room. ‘If I knew you were comin’ I’d a baked a cake…’ we sang. Or Alan Price would chortle: ‘Hey, good lookin’, what you got cookin’, how’s about cookin’ something up for me?’” - Eric Burdon, I Used to Be an Animal, but I’m All Right Now, 1986 (p. 90).

Gosh, I love all of those little moments… Especially the little tidbit about Alan’s behavior on the train. The way Eric so gently describes Alan’s absolute awe, implicitly glad that he actually has a chance to enjoy traveling. Because, as mentioned earlier, Alan was very, very, afraid of airplanes, and that will come up many times later. At least here… he was at peace, and Eric observed that and took it to heart.

Here is a gif from when the Animals first landed in the United States on September 4th, 1964 (footage from the documentary History of Rock ‘n’ Roll, Episode 3). Look how close their faces are and how Eric is practically spooning him. I just think it’s neat. 😐

ALAN WAS GOING TO WRITE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY WITH HELP FROM ERIC AND JOHN!??!!?

“Alan Price of the Animals may soon be branching out on his own - as a writer. He plans to start work on a book of his experiences with Eric Burdon and John Steel around the Newcastle jazz and blues scene, ending with the trio’s expansion and success with Hilton Valentine and Chas Chandler.

“Should make interesting reading as Alan has been playing for six years in various groups ranging from modern jazz in fashionable restaurants to skiffle in folk clubs. The book should also give an accurate insight into the struggle and tensions of achieving stardom, as Alan is extremely perceptive and has a biting sense of humor.

“‘Even if no one reads it,’ he told me ‘I’ll be glad I wrote it because so much happened to us all we’ll get a good laugh out of remembering various incidents and people.’” - RAVE, November 1964. (p. 22)

Where is this?? Even if it’s just a rough draft… ALAN. GIVE IT TO ME, PLEASE. The fact that he was just writing this for fun and so he and Eric and John could have a good time reminiscing and being cynical… that’s so wholesome. And further proof that Alan did get along with them during this period. Sorry… the image of them all drinking and laughing together as they’re brainstorming ideas for this book of Alan’s is just too sweet. Yeah, John’s also included in this, but the sentiment is still the same and shows some real friendliness on Alan and Eric’s behalf.

Here’s a random story about Eric jumping on a guy to protect Alan after Alan accidentally angered the dude (I am not kidding):

“… then someone grabbed hold of Alan and tried to break his arm. He’d just been to the States and bought a pair of novelty ‘gun’ cufflinks which fired a small, ineffective charge - it went off and this thug went down clutching his scorched shirt and swearing he had been shot.

… then little fatty Burdon jumped up in the air to try and hit this huge Polish guy and Henry Henroid moved in and floored five of ‘em - and got Eric out.” - Terry McVay, NME, January 4th, 1969. (p. 2)

This was just a no-context story this particular roadie told about these two… thank you, Terry. Even if I’m a little off-put by you calling Eric “fatty”... I’m sorry, but we respect Eric Burdon’s body in this house.

And finally, we have Mickie Most and the article that changed my life…

“Eric and Alan hardly seemed to notice the darts whizzing past their heads. They just sat in the Soho pub with remote looks on their faces. I just sat there with them and looked on. I was sure about one reason for their apparent unfriendliness. They hate darts. They were there this lunchtime just to keep me company after leaving my Oxford Street office. I hoped I was right about another reason for them being remote. Earlier, I had played a demo disc which I wanted them to record. The number on it was fine by me. I hoped it would be fine by the Animals. Eric and Alan hadn’t said much after hearing it and I knew they would now be kicking the number around in their minds as the darts sped by. I was counting on them giving the number a rave to Hilton, John, and Chas later in the day.” - Mickie Most, RAVE, June 1965. (p. 63)

Okay. Okay. So much to unpack here.

First of all, canon lunch-dates. /hj

In all seriousness, this one little insight alone says so much about not only the Animals’ song-selection process, but about how the “higher-ups” regard Alan and Eric’s relationship, too. The song being discussed here is “Bring It On Home To Me”, by the way.

Mickie is actively looking for their approval first and foremost, before the other three. Not just Alan, not just Eric, but both of them; he doesn’t see one clear leader because of the presence they create together. That implies that, at least during this point in time (though, probably earlier as well), he views them as a unit that must be reasoned with together. Not only this, but both prove to be a tough sell with the songs Mickie chooses and presents to them. I didn’t include the full quote, but Alan mentions in Animal Tracks: The Story of the Animals that Mickie was always trying to present them with very pop-based songs, ones that the band, and especially Alan and Eric themselves, did not like one bit. They shared this sentiment quite staunchly, and what Mickie describes here perfectly represents this commonality they have. Also, apparently they both hate darts.

As a personal aside, this little article by Mickie had a huge impact on me when I was “first learning” about the Animals, and I put “first learning” in quotes because I wasn’t entirely sure if I was going to go down that rabbit hole at this point in time (September of 2020). I really liked Alan after watching Dont Look Back, but I was relatively gradual as I approached the band’s history. However, I ended up buying myself this issue of RAVE after seeing it in a Donovan documentary (the image of Bob Dylan and Donovan on the front cover was tempting), and I found that article in there… and it really made me go, “Wow, there’s so much going on in that band, and especially between Alan and Eric.” Reading that article is what inspired me to take the plunge, and I’m so glad that I did. I won’t get sappy about them yet… but this issue of RAVE and this article in particular have a very special place in my heart.

So thank you, Mickie Most, for changing my life. (In more ways than one,, because he was, you know, the Animals’ record producer and is the reason they were a thing in the first place.)

One last thing, do yourself a favor and watch the New Musical Experience (NME) concert from April 11th, 1965 (the Animals take the stage around the 1:25:00 mark).

(https://archive.org/details/NewMusicalExpressPollWinnersConcert1965)

Not only do all of the groups and solo folks who perform there do a stellar job, but the Animals in particular… man, it’s incredible. Especially since there is so little live footage of them performing; it’s my humble opinion that the Animals sound the best live, and this is excellent proof of that (as well as that Burdon-Price vocals-keyboard dynamic). Even if Hilton’s not plugged in at first… poor Hilton. Also, Alan and Eric unintentionally duet during “Boom Boom” because Chas’ microphone cuts out for some reason.

Also-also, Alan tries to affectionately hit Eric over the head with a trophy when they receive their rewards (they’re on the right, behind John).

Like… this is composed and moody and quiet and reserved Alan we’re talking about. Letting his guard down to have a bit of fun, teasing Eric, in front of thousands of people.

…Aww… Hope the band doesn’t break up anytime soon.

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[asgardian--angels]

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Rammstein 9-9-2022 @ Gillette Stadium, Foxboro MA

DU HAST Fireworks & Pyro, video by me

While our seats weren’t close, we had a great view of the stage and all of the fire towers! I know the whole concert’s already on Youtube but I figured I’d post a few clips just to show a different view of the stage. What a phenomenal performance, and I can’t wait for their next tour!

[palbabor-writes]

Practicum

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, student/teacher sex, tw.dubcon, tw.sub/dom dynamics, brat taming, fingering, masturbation, a table is pretty roughed up in this, so pls hold a brief moment of silence for it    

Words: 12,857

“So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And...answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Notes: the title was selected because it’s got the word cum in it. ahhh, the things that crack me up. anyhow. 

this is part of the BNHA Degeneracy server’s 9 to 5 collaboration! i had a ton of fun participating in this and thank you guys for making this so freaking awesome! special shoutout & thanks to @albinoburrito​ & @kugutsuu​ for their beta edits! this was a departure from what i usually write about and i appreciate all of your notes and help!  

Practicum prac·ti·cum /ˈpraktəkəm/ noun a practical section of a course of study

It’s your senior year, they said. Live a little, they advised. Stop and take a breather, you’re practically home free! Take some easier classes. Focus on what’s in front of you, it’ll be over before you know it! On and on and on. 

Spring semester is almost here. You’ve applied for graduation, the cap and gown ordered, and you have a shiny class ring sitting on your pinky. It’s in the bag. Just breeze through four more classes and you’re out. Well, it would be an easy shot, if you hadn’t put off this one class. 

It always popped up, so it’s not like you could plead ignorance. Your advisor warned you, each quarterly meeting, that you needed to get it out of the way. Take it seriously, he cautioned, clacking out his notes, typing down that you’d failed to heed his sage advice, again. If you wait too long, you’re not going to get the professor that you want.

That was the other problem. You’re a procrastination superstar. If there was some kinda award for putting off assignments, you’d have won it ten times over. You liked the heart pounding race to the deadline, the sleepy boasts that you’d tackled the project within hours of its due date. 

It’s a stupid habit. Every semester you promise yourself that you’ll do better. You won’t wait, you’ll tackle things one assignment at a time and turn them before the hard cut off at 11:59 pm. Who the fuck did you think you were kidding? Certainly not your friends, or your advisor. He could read you like a book. Hell, he’d even sent warnings. 

‘Don’t forget about the deadline for senior registration!’

‘You don’t want to be on a waitlist. You especially don’t want to take one of the harder professors. These are freshman level classes, they’re designed to flunk undergrads. Don’t forget (Y/N), chew them up and spit them out tactics are employed.’ 

But you had. You’d set an alarm on your phone, then neglected to give it a title, so you’d only chuckled and smacked the chirping into silence that morning, snoozing the all important deadline away. 

Fuck. 

Most of the classes for biology are wait-listed. No, scratch that, all the classes for Intro to Genetic Biology are wait-listed. You opt into the waitlist for all of them, just in case, and a week later your phone alerts you that one has an open seat. Actually, it has several open seats, too many open seats to be natural. However, you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so for now, you’re enrolled in BIO 1208: Principles of Cell and Organismal Physiology - For Non-Science majors. 

Perfect.

Yeah, no. You’d looked up the professor, since the whole open seat thing was still giving you the heebie-jeebies, and your heart dropped. You’ve heard of him, most of the student body has. His classes are notoriously small. Not because the university limited them, or planned for smaller class sizes. No, his classes are tiny because he is infamous for failing students. 

Most, when they realize they’re scheduled for his bio classes, frantically drop, taking the withdrawal and praying for better luck next semester. Others, brave souls who think they can come out unscathed, attempt to grit their teeth and push through. But, by midterms, they’re war torn and haggard, shaking their heads and praying for a ‘C’, at best. Fewer still, pass.

This pedagogy isn’t a sign of good teaching; quite the opposite, in fact. You don’t want your student body failing. Yet, year after year, Professor Tomura Shigaraki keeps teaching the same Intro to Bio class. It boggles the mind, but you’ve never had to worry about it. Well, until now. 

When you’d received the notification that you’re enrolled in the B section and spied the name Shigaraki under the professor listing, you’d scarfed down your suddenly flavorless lunch and dashed up the steps to the student advising hall, praying there was some way you could wiggle your way out of this growing disaster.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to take it earlier and to take it in the fall when there are more freshman level classes available. I swear I said that to you. And, AND, I even sent you emails, several times if my sent inbox is to be believed, to NOT forget when senior registration ends.” 

Your advisor is peeved. You don’t blame him. He’s right, this is your fault, but there’s gotta be some kinda loophole. Something, fuck, anything, that can pull you from this mess. 

“I know, I know! I’m so sorry. You’re right. But, I mean, can’t I just hold off for another week? See if the waitlist clears?”

The man that you’ve known for four years, that’s seen you progress from freshman to senior, steeples his long fingers and purses his lips, likely debating on a tactful scolding, or a firm rebuttal. He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but sink into the soft cushioning of the chair, your nose wrinkled and brow furrowed, mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

“Do you know how many students we require to take BIO 1208?”

“No,” you gulp, nibbling on your lower lip nervously. 

“Over 7,000. Do you want to hear the statistics that would need to shake out in your favor for you to miraculously avoid taking this specific class? Nothing is going to open for you, it is this class, or no class.”

You sigh, and your advisor nods, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well then, I suggest you brush up on your study skills. Find a classmate that you can compare notes with, join a study group, go to the student union and ask for a tutor. I would hate to see you back here for the summer semester. You’re scheduled to walk the stage this spring and you’ve worked hard for this, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”

You’ve attended this university for four years, but the first day of term always gives you the jitters. It doesn’t matter that you know your way around, or that you know ten professors by name, and bump into several friends on the way to your next building, you’re always buried in your phone, checking and double checking the next class’ room number. 

Despite all that caution, you’re lost.

In your defense, it’s your first time stepping foot in the Graduate & Research building and the whole concrete block is a fucking maze. There must be a basement because the numbers don’t match up with the floors and they seem to jumble further every time you round a corner. Like what the hell? How can this next room be GR 3.03.05 when this is clearly only the second floor and GR 2.03.11 was right down that other hallway?

Exasperated, you lean against the nearest wall and tug your phone out again. Shit. Class started ten minutes ago. 

Part of you wants to call it a day, end the search here and try again on Wednesday. Maybe take a few extra minutes to scout out the building next time and have some idea of where you’re going before the start of class. 

Ugh, why is this so stressful? 

It’s the first day of classes. Surely Professor Shigaraki won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late; besides, if you’re lost, others must be too. 

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and resume the hunt. Two hallway turns later, you find your mark.

Your hand pauses beside the heavy wood, and you take a steadying breath. Again, why are you so nervous? Just go in and take a seat, it’s easy, stop freaking out over nothing. 

The door groans open, hinges protesting the sharp push, and you stumble into a darkened room. The low glow of the projector doesn’t help your blurry vision. Ah, shit, it’s one of those older rooms, so it’s built like a bad movie theater. Oh well, better get to a seat before he spots you. 

Swiftly, you make your way toward the raised steps of the aisle and the second row of chairs, plopping into the first one you reach that’s empty. You’re too busy fiddling with the zipper of your backpack to notice that the speaker has stopped his rasping preamble, but as you pull your laptop out the ominous weight of that heavy silence hits you and you toss a hooded stare toward the front of the lecture hall. 

Immediately, your eyes land on the professor’s and you feel a low shiver shake up your spine. 

He’s watching you. 

The gleam of the overhead projector makes his red eyes flash, and he openly scowls at your gaping expression, his lips curling into a dark sneer.

“Well, thank you for joining us, Miss…?”

He’s waiting for your response and you squeak out your last name, mindlessly rubbing your moistening palms against your thin skirt. 

“Ah, Ms. (L/N). Now that you’ve graced the class with your belated presence, may I continue?”

“Uh,” you gasp out, your mouth dry, tongue sticking to your teeth, “I’m sorry. I got–”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation, or in your case, an excuse. Or are you now attempting to disrupt this class purposefully?”

“Wha– I-I’m–” your words stumble to a halt, voice failing under the intense glare that he’s giving you. “No,” you finish lamely, ducking your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms. 

“Thank you. Do me a favor, stay after class.” His voice is gravel, threatening and low. You don’t like the edge in his tone. It makes your skin prickle and your knees knock. He sounds like the kind of guy that you don’t want to run into in a dark alleyway, or a classroom, for that matter. Even so, it’s not your fault, and despite your feelings of unease, you can’t tamp down your need to protest his unreasonableness. 

“But, professor, I didn’t mean to–”

“If I need to repeat my insistence for silence, I’ll make things easier on both of us and fail you now.”

Stunned and fuming, you bite your tongue and lean back into your chair, crossing your arms and blinking back mounting tears of frustration. Great, just great. It’s the first fucking day of class and it looks like you’re already on his shit list. And for what? For being late on fucking syllabus day! What an ass. 

You look over at him as you defiantly finish setting up your computer, hoping each pull of a zipper or screen reboot will grate under his stuck up skin. He’s not inordinately tall, or old. In fact, he looks like he might only be in early 30s. He has long white hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and, from what you can make out in the dim lighting, some kinda skin condition on his forehead. That, or he’s prematurely wrinkled, and let’s be honest, if he’s gone through life with that big of a stick up his ass, he deserves each and every pull on that mottled skin of his. 

You linger in your seat when class is over, lips pulled into a thin line and legs crossed. Finally, when the last student has left the room, professor Shigaraki flips a switch beside his elevated podium, filling the lecture hall with a sharp, fluorescent light. He pauses by his raised computer system and clicks off the overhead projector, blanketing the massive room in an uncomfortable silence. 

“Since you missed the part of class where I go over the syllabus, I’ll give you a brief rundown. Under no circumstances will I tolerate tardiness. If you do it once more I’ll mark you absent and three absences knock you down a full letter grade.”

Glumly, you cross your arms and peer up at him, finally able to get a good look at his face. Your first observation was correct. His skin is sharper around his forehead, but his wavy white hair does a pretty decent job of covering up the imperfections. He has two scars: one nicks across his right eye and the other splits down his rough lips, parting the skin and granting him an even more foreboding appearance than his already gruff demeanor does. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and he’s wearing a low slung v neck shirt. It’s a brilliant red and it brings out that otherworldly glint of his red eyes. Shit, you think bitterly, while he’s not conventionally handsome, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either. 

You shake your head against these unproductive musings and curtly snap out a clipped, ok.

“What was that?” Shigaraki scoffs, tilting his head at your sullen figure. “Speak up.”

“I said,” you bristle, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, “Okay, I apologize for interrupting your lecture, it won’t happen again. But, in my defense, if I’m allowed to do that in this class, I’ve never been in this building before, and it’s not like–”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then you’ve had four years to figure out the layout of this university. The excuse of ‘being lost,’ isn’t an option for you. You know the buildings and you’re fully capable of turning up early to sort out the rooms.”

You let out a long sigh and look away, mumbling vague protests. This guy is ridiculous. You’re not a science major and it’s not your job to know the ins and outs of each building. How fucking stupid. Who does he think he–

“Speak up. I won’t ask you again.”

You bite your lip and look back at him but he’s moved in that distracted moment, silently stepping down from his raised platform and is now leaning over the first row of chairs, looming over you. You can’t help your sudden flinch as you sink further into your chair, away from him.

“If you’re gonna complain, Ms. (L/N), I’d much rather hear it. Don’t you think It’s rude for you to mutter under your breath about me? You don’t see me doing that to you.”

“Fine,” you blurt out, turning away from his insistent, and all too close, gaze. “I was saying that I’m not a science major. I get that I’m a senior, but you can’t seriously expect me to know every nook and cranny of this campus.”

“No, but I can ask for you to be a little more thoughtful. I put time and effort into my lessons and I won’t have you undermining them by bouncing in here with those legs and that flouncy little skirt.”

You’re about to counter his little haughty speech on politeness when you finally process that final comment he’d breathed out. Flabbergasted, you raise your head back to his, but he’s already moving away, snatching up his shoulder bag and waving you a curt goodbye as he presses open the squeaky door. “Next class is at 10 am sharp, so be on time Ms. (L/N).”

You’re still slumped in your seat when the door glides shut again, your eyes wide and jaw no doubt comically unhinged. 

Wait. Did…did he really just say that?

Obviously, for the next class, you’re early. You’re so early that you’re the first one in the lecture hall. You select a seat toward the back and fiddle with your computer, checking your messages, adjusting your brightness, replying to old emails, anything to keep your head down and attention occupied. 

The door opens and, despite your best efforts, your head flies up, expectant and tense, ready to meet those red eyes of his head on, to show him you’re here and he better… oh. It’s not him. It’s two chattering freshmen. One of them gives you a quick smile, but they both quickly take their seats, a few rows over, and continue their soft conversation, leaving you to fall back onto your earlier distraction tactics. You twiddle with your phone and shoot off a few texts, change your wallpaper, accidentally close an app you meant to leave open, and then the lecture hall door reopens.

He steps in slowly, completely ignoring you and the other scattered students, opting to sort out a few papers and set up his login on the school computer. The minutes tick by and you can’t seem to jerk your eyes away from him, suddenly fascinated by his languid movements. He looks more relaxed than he did on Monday, looser and fluid, completely in his element. True to his word, at ten am on the dot he begins class. 

Professor Shigaraki has an interesting voice. It’s low, calculated, bordering on a rasp. It’s one of those tones that makes you want to lean forward and listen up, even though he’s only discussing cellular biology. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest topic for that shockingly dulcet timbre of his. 

Wait. Sexy? 

Your pen falters against your notebook, and your eyes drift up to his frame. He’s switched the lights off again and the shine of the overhead projector is the only illumination in the hall. His white hair gleams in the dim lighting and his long hands animatedly illustrate his points, elegant fingers opening and closing, gesticulating about the intricate nature of the human genome. You’re so focused on watching his movements that your elbow partner has to push the slip of paper onto your collapsible desktop. You blink at the sheet, your pen nearly clattering from your hand, and you twist to peer at the unfamiliar student beside you. 

“It’s the attendance sheet and, um, I think you’re the last one,” they whisper, careful to lean away after they finish their explanation, not wanting to draw professor Shigaraki’s ire. You maneuver the paper under your pen and scribble down your name, biting your lip and silently berating yourself for your poor selection in seating. Great, now you’ll have to take the paper down to him after class. What if he talks with you again? Shit. 

At 11:25, class ends. You collect your things and plod down the steps, the attendance sheet clutched between your fingers. He’s just snapping the projector light off when you reach his podium. 

“I, uhh, have the attendance. You want me to just leave it here, or…”

“I’ll take it,” his hand is extended toward you and those red eyes are fixed on you now. It’s not the same disgruntled stare he’d given you on Monday. No, this look is a little more curious. Again, you’re taken aback by your reaction to him. He’s not even saying anything, just patiently waiting for you to deposit the sheet into his open palm, but there’s something about him that’s making your heart race. 

Maybe it’s those eyes of his. 

They are an unusual color and they have a strange intensity to them. Right as they narrow, the vermillion shining under the sharp lights; you press the paper to him and he pulls it from you, studying the names that are listed. 

You want to say something. Maybe toss him a quick, friendly, goodbye. Or apologize for the other day? Ugh. What can you even say? ‘Gosh, so glad I was on time today! All that fascinating information about the genetic code! So glad to be here!’ No, that sounds stupid and a little patronizing. Besides, why do you want to talk with him at all? He’s an ass, remember?

“Did you need something?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor and you numbly shake your head at him, already lowering your gaze, but his exhaled chuckle makes you pause, your fingers curling around your backpack straps.  

“I know I upset you the other day, but I appreciate you taking the effort to correct your mistake.” 

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes finding their way back to his. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m a senior. Gotta take responsibility for myself someday.”

“Ah,” he smirks, that long scar on his lip quirking upward. “Seems like you’ve got some determination after all. You might be more interesting than I gave you credit for.”

“God,” you scoff, popping out a hip and crossing your arms at the bemused leer on his face. “Just come right out and say you think I’m a bad student, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he amends, tucking the attendance sheet into his shoulder bag and snapping the clasps closed. “There’s plenty of time for you to end up right back at square one with me.”

He’s already halfway out the door by the time you right yourself from the shock of his last comment and you follow him, a string of low curses falling from your lips. 

The spring semester always flies by, and before you realize it, a full month has bled away. You’ve kept that same seat in Shigaraki’s class and at the end of each session you head down to his little platform, attendance sheet outstretched. Each day of class has a different ebb and flow. Sometimes he chats with you and it’s gotten easier to talk with him, both of your eyes holding and lingering, lips raised into calculating smiles. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting with you. Other days he only spares you a curt nod, his white hair curtaining his expression from your curious gaze. You’re not bothered by these silences, not when you’ve got your secret weapon. 

The days that you like best, the ones that you plan, sorting through your closet until you’ve found the perfect choice, are the days when you wear one of your skirts. You’d even gone on some skirt shopping sprees as of late. On those days he doesn’t just make some sort of fleeting eye contact with you, no, on those days he stares. 

At first, you’d tested out your theory, staggering your outfits, careful to not screw up your suspicions with a hasty miscalculation, but as they say, the third time’s the charm. How did he expect you not to notice? He never bothers to hide those sharp ogles and recently you’ve made a point of dramatically gathering your things when you wear these cute little ensembles, bopping down the steps so his eyes have to work to follow the line of your hips and the long paths of your bare legs. One rainy afternoon you’d worn over the knee stockings, that came to an abrupt halt over the plush skin of your upper thigh, under your mini skirt and he’d practically leapt over the podium to grab the sheet from you, his eyes hooded and dark, almost wild.

“Test, on Friday,” he warns, eyes finally rising to meet your bemused expression. “Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, brushing at a rogue fold in your skirt, luring him back to your legs. 

He scoffs at you, that jagged scar arching into a smirk. “Humph. You’re dressed up. Most of the students just wear the sweats, or pjs, and call it a day.” 

“I like to put a little effort in all that I do,” you retort, grinning up at his vermillion stare. 

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. You certainly look the part…and you’re keeping up with the workload of this course.”

“Ahhh,” you crow, clapping your hands excitedly. “Are you saying I might get an ‘A’ in this class? Be the first time someone’s done that in a while, from what I’ve heard around campus.”

Shigaraki sneers and tuts out an inaudible reply, leaning a little closer to you, making you inadvertently fall back a step. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Awe,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m doing ok on all the quizzes and the classwork.”

“So far,” he taunts, his pearlescent hair falling over his broad shoulder.

“Tch. Don’t be like that. I’ve been studying.”

“Sometimes it takes more than that.”

“Oh?” you smile, raising your chin. “What else should I be doing, professor?”

“We’ll know that after Friday, won’t we?”

God. 

You’d felt so confident when you’d turned in your test and that stupid, horrible, sexy little quirk of his lip scar that he sends you, when you’d handed him your papers, carries you on some strange, half aroused cloud all weekend. Maybe, just maybe, this class won’t be so bad after all.

The tests are handed back the following Friday, passed from row to row so everyone can fish out their papers and marked Scantrons. Yours, since you still occupy that final seat on the back row, is the last. Biting back a grin, you flip it over, so ready to see that A, that grade that you worked so fucking hard for, that… wait.

The gross flash of red across the top of your paper leaves you reeling, your breath catching against the back of your throat. It’s not a terrible grade, well, it wouldn’t be, but there are only three tests in this class, so it’s going to plummet you down to a B. One more fuck up will leave you with a C, or worse, an automatic failing grade. 

No. No, no, no, no. 

You can’t afford a bad grade, you honestly can’t even let yourself slip to a B. Your fucking cap and gown have just come in and with them that cord that you can wear around your neck at graduation. The one that marks you as honors cum laude. Fuck. You’re already pulling one B, in one of your other classes, because you’ve been focusing so much time and effort on this one. Another B will strip that cord from you, leaving you barren, with a less than ideal GPA. 

God fucking damn it.

You glare up at Shigaraki, who’s busy taking the rest of the class through a review of genetic mutations, but you can’t hear him anymore, too incensed, too overwhelmed to even care about what he’s saying. The test crumples under your fingertips, the paper shaking in your hands, and you seethe, your teeth biting your lower lip to pieces. 

It’s not fair. You’d paid attention. You’ve taken all the notes. Read all the chapters. Drilled and studied till your eyes had drooped, heavy with exhaustion. You’ve done it all right. Plus, he’d been so fucking flirty, so open with you. You’ve never chatted with a professor this way, never gone out of your way to wear clothes they like, that make them watch you, their eyes hungry pinpricks as you walk to them, mindful of the luscious sway of your hips. 

No. Fuck him. Fuck this class.

Before your elbow classmate can leave, you ask for them to hand in the attendance sheet. You barely hear their response, too busy slamming your laptop into your backpack. As you storm past the podium, you can feel his eyes on you. The distant sensation of his gaze makes your flesh prickle, but you ignore your involuntary reaction and shove your way out the door. 

“(Y/N), you can’t switch classes this late. It’s almost midterms. Besides, I don’t think anything has opened up and if you’re going to drop it, you’ve gotta get the signature of the professor,” your advisor tells you, blinking at your stony expression over his thick glasses. “I don’t get it. Why do you want to drop it? Your grades are alright and it’s just one test. You can always try–”

“Gimme the paperwork.”

Shigaraki’s office is on the top floor of the research building, tucked away down another winding and weaving hallway that once again requires your careful inspection to navigate. When you finally hit the right set of doors, you slowly make your way forward, counting the numbers up as you pass. His door is wide open, a yawning cavern that’s filled with the distant light of a lamp. You brush a hand down your skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles and steadying your nerves. 

You’d tossed on the skirt this morning, before you’d gotten the grade, and you hadn’t thought to go home and change, too consumed by that simmering rage bubbling within you. And now, like this fucking class, this skirt felt like a mistake, something stupid and vapid that you wished you had time to change out of. He’d told you he liked your attire, liked that you put effort into your outfits. At the time, you’d been so thrilled and excited that he’d complimented you, but now you wish you were confronting him in baggy jeans or lazy sweats, anything that would turn that avid gaze of his away from you. 

Lost in thought, you waver beside his open door, nibbling on your lips and tugging at your clothes. It’s now or never. No point in putting it off. What’s the worst that can happen? What can he do now? Or, a darker side of you whispers, what do you want him to do to you? What? That’s a stupid thought, you scold yourself, lifting a hand to the wall and rapping against the beige paint, announcing your presence. 

When the sound fades away, swallowed up by the empty and darkened hallway, you poke your head around the corner, searching for him. His head is tilted quizzically, and he blinks twice when he spots you, that all too familiar smirk lifting his lips. 

“Ah, Ms. (L/N), what can I do for you?”

His voice is softer than usual and your name sounds like honey, his tone resting on the syllables and consonants for a beat, almost as if he’s savoring their lift, their sound. You can’t help but swallow heavily at his appraisal. Suddenly this may be a terrible idea. 

Ugh. Get a grip (Y/N). 

“I-I need you to sign this withdrawal paperwork,” you finally reply, digging in your bag and tugging out the thin leaflet, holding it out to him. He’s silent after your demand, meditatively threading his fingers and peering up at you, his red eyes bright. 

“Step inside and shut the door behind you,” he instructs, his gaze never falling from yours. Despite the simplicity of his request, you can’t help but bristle at his imperious tone. Why does he always have to sound like that? Like he’s seconds away from taking control of the situation, or of you? He’s always one stupid step ahead, and no doubt he’s going to try and talk you down. Or, he’ll sign it and say that he always knew you were a screw up, someone who only did things halfway, who could never match up to his lofty expectations. Humph, the sooner you’re outta here and out of his class, the better. So, you obey, closing the door and petulantly flopping into the unsteady chair that sits in front of his low desk. 

He maintains that uneasy quiet, his red eyes whisking over your disgruntled face, waiting, watching. Unable to take this strange standoff, you push the university paperwork toward him, sliding it as close as you dare to his bent elbows. “I would like to withdraw from your class,” you repeat, lips setting into a thin line. 

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head so his loose white hair falls a little further down his rough brow. 

“Something came up.”

“Hmm, I can try to work with a new schedule, if it’s your job, or home life,” he counters, eyes narrowing as he sharpens his observations of your brittle expression. 

“It’s not that,” you smart, crossing your arms. Great, he’s going to make this difficult. 

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s on your mind,” Shigaraki replies, mirroring your movements and leaning back in his chair. 

“I don’t think this class is working out for me.”

He exhales a soft laugh at your lie, and you watch that tiny mole at the edge of his chin lift in his quiet mirth. “This is a freshman level course and you’re a senior. You’re in my class because it’s likely the last pre-rec that you need to take before you graduate.”

“Um, yeah. But–”

“And now, you’re wanting to drop it because of one poor grade.”

You grind your teeth and fix him with a stark glower. “I–”

“There will be two other tests. If you read your syllabus, you’d know this.”

“I read the syllabus. Your tests are worth a stupid amount of points and it only takes one of them to tank my grade.”

“Frankly, you did better than most of the class. You only need to work on practical application. I said that the written portion would be a major component of the exam. I also provided you with a review and a rubric. So I’m not sure–”

“Your grade drops me to a ‘B’, and that ‘B’ pulls me from the honors list. And… well… I thought that…”

“Oh? What did you think?” he presses, his voice suddenly dropping to that lower octave it had drifted into when he said your last name. 

“I thought I’d get a better grade,” you spit out, turning your head and biting at your lip again. 

“Why?” he counters simply. His obtuseness is making your blood boil.

“What do you mean, why?” It takes all of your will to not slip a ‘jackass’ into that question. 

“It’s not a hard thing to answer. I graded you fairly and according to my rubric. Why exactly do you feel you merit a different grade than the one you earned?”

You fall into a frustrated silence. You can hear your heart pounding against your ribs and you want to scream at him, to leap over his desk and shake him until his teeth fucking rattle. Your shoulders are rising and lowering disjointedly and his vermillion eyes are honed in on your face, shifting over your pinched expression with a distant interest. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes and you hastily rub a fist over them, brushing away any rogue drops of moisture.

“How can you ask me that? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs? Or that you always had something to say to me when I was wearing a skirt? What was I supposed to think, huh? I fucking thought shit like that was gonna help, ok? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t… fuck.” 

Shigaraki arches forward when you finish, a deep sigh leaching through his parted lips. His teeth snap together when you look up at him, your eyes gaining back some of that earlier defiance, and he gives you a quick grin, clearly pleased by your shift in attitude and pushes your paper aside, fixing you with a dark look. “Here’s a thought, since you feel you’re so different, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a chance to make up the score.”

“I don’t care about the score anymore. I wanna drop your class,” you snap, but it’s a halfhearted barb. Something has changed in his demeanor. He’s dropped the concerned professor act and is leaning so close you can hear his steady intakes of air. He’s only a few inches away; if you want, you could touch him.

“I doubt you want to attend a class in the summer. Besides, they won’t let you walk if you haven’t finished your freshman level courses. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to graduate, to earn that cord that lets you into the honor cum laude. So stop pouting and hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like anything about you,” your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but the challenge makes Shigaraki smile. As it crosses his cracked lips, it pulls that scar up and it makes those eyes of his glow. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream and you’re not sure how to respond, so you cross your legs and wait for him to make the next move. 

“You sure about that? Well, I’ll have to change your tune then, won’t I? But that can wait, lemme tell you what my requirements are. I’ve got a copy of the textbook in here. I’ll have you review some of the major concepts, you’ll read the passages aloud so I’m sure you’re on the right track, you’ll hand the book back to me, and then I’ll verbally quiz you over the material. If you answer them correctly, I’ll bump you to an ‘A’ on your test.”

You have to actively work to keep your mouth closed. “So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And… answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands. 

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin. 

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Your eyes boggle and you have to clench your thighs tighter, your stomach churning, you feel light-headed and you can feel your core fluttering with your sudden arousal. “Wh-what did you just say?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, you’ll make me blush. Now come on.”

Your jaw snaps closed and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind from your whirling emotions. He takes this reaction as a surrender and stands, stepping toward a marred table that rests a little ways away from his desk. He licks his thumb pad and flips through a few pages before finally settling on an appealing section. Once he places it on the table, he twists back to you and crooks a finger your way. “Come here,” he orders, his voice deep and languid. Obediently, you rise on unsteady feet, hands tugging at the length of your skirt, careful to keep it pressed down as you walk toward him. 

He makes space for you to stand in front of the book and shifts back, one hand resting on the table, propping him close to your bent figure. You look up at him, but he only nods his head toward the table, a wicked smile curling the corners of his lips. Blink a few times but finally, the words clear and you can see the block of text that’s in front of you. It’s passages on DNA encodes and RNA proteins, hefty stuff, things that you had to make flash cards for. This isn’t going to be easy. If anything, he’s picked some of the harder concepts, the ones that take steady knowledge in the foundations. Flustered, you look back to him, but he’s moved. He’s leaning against the wide window beside the table, a dark mark against the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a laugh bubbling in his tone.

“There’s no way…” you stammer, shaking your head at him. 

“Want me to throw a curve in?”

“I should ask what kinda curve, but knowing you, it’s likely gonna be something terrible.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rumbles, stepping away from the window and leaning close to your stiff form. “It just takes an open mind and some enthusiasm on your part.”

“Enthusiasm?” you question, trying your best to withstand his closeness. You can feel the heat radiating off of his broad shoulder and if you tilt a little nearer, you could graze against him, or feel his breath on your skin. 

“You’re right,” he amends, his forearm contacting your side. You startle at the touch, a gasp falling from your lips, but you don’t pull away and you can’t stop staring up at him, your eyes wide. “Obedience is a better word. From here on out, whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey it, although it’s not exactly, ah, school approved.”

“You want me to suck you off or something?” you sneer, hoping to stumble him off his guard, even if it’s only for an instant. Too bad he’s always one step ahead. 

“Don’t be vulgar. Think outside of the box, (Y/N). Do you think I’m going to go for something so short sighted when I could have you bending to my will? Obeying every little demand that I make? I’d much rather see if that skin of yours tastes as good as it looks, then simply have you on your knees. No, I want you to fucking scream for me while I stuff you full of my cock. But first, you need to put in some work. You should know that by now.”

Oxygen is suddenly very hard to come by and you can feel your mind hazing over as you stammer up at him, your mind flitting from word to word disjointedly. Shigaraki grants you a wolfish grin, and he dips his lips beside your ear, whispering over those tiny hairs that rest against your tender skin. “I’ll make this part easy. Nod and I’ll give you the first set of instructions.” 

What did he say? Nod? What happens when you nod? Fuck, why are you letting him do this? Is your grade really worth it? Are you that desperate that… that… 

Shigaraki is whispering other promises over you as you war with yourself, speaking his words gently, slowly, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. It’s like you’ve fallen under some kinda spell and before you realize it, your traitorous head is bobbing up and down, letting him know you want him to keep going.

“Perfect,” he sighs, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear, jerking a shiver from you. “Now, lean forward and put your hands against the table.” 

You do as he says, but he’s not satisfied with your positioning, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and yanking you forward, jutting your ass out and pressing your chest down, maneuvering you until your nose is right above the pages of the textbook. “There we go,” he rasps, pulling away so he can admire your splayed form. “Hmm, your legs are too close together. Spread them.” Knees trembling, you obey, gasping when he runs a palm against the curve of your thighs.

“You’ve got such nice legs (Y/N), so let’s put them on display, shall we?” His fingers search against the top of your skirt and they still when he reaches his prize: the zipper. When he pulls it down, you let out a sharp squeak of protestation but he silences you with a swift pinch to your side. 

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You nodded, remember? Besides, you could have left when I told you I’d give you a curve but you couldn’t help yourself could you? You want me to keep going and to do that, I need you to take this skirt off. No, don’t move. I’ll get rid of it for you. Why don’t you focus on the task at hand, hmm? Aren’t you supposed to be reading for me?”

You arch away from his fingers and he chuckles at your impudence, one large hand hooking under your chin and pulling you toward his face. His red eyes blaze as they find yours, the dark pupils threatening to swallow up that deep vermillion. “Let’s start with the second paragraph. If you do well, I might grant you a reprieve.” 

Jerking your face from his grip, you twist back to the text, trying, and failing, to ignore his inquisitive fingers, unable to resist sighing as he works one up your inner thigh. He pauses when no words fall from your lips and you grumble out a few low curses before acquiescing to his silent demand. 

“The flow of genetic information in cells from DNA to mRNA to protein is described by the Central Dogma, which states that genes specify the sequence of mRNAs, which specify the sequence of proteins. The decoding of one molecule… the… the… molecule… by spec-specific…”

He’s slipped your skirt down over the swell of your ass, but he’s taking his time, flexing out the front of the material and dipping his fingers over the bump of your lower stomach, kneading into the delicate flesh that’s stretched out for him. You can’t help the twitch of your spine and you involuntarily wiggle, palms slipping forward, dragging you further along the tabletop. Shigaraki chuckles above you, running his rough lips over the back of your neck.

“You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you.” 

He circles his hands back to your skirt and edges it along, lowering it sharply on one side and then giving the same treatment to the other. You’re doing your best to keep up with your stammering readings, but it’s difficult when he keeps sighing and running his long nails across your newly bared skin. Finally, he works the skirt down and it thumps against your bare ankles; the fabric tickling your skin. 

Meanwhile, his other fingers skitter against the elastic band of your rapidly dampening panties. Once he hooks the lace under his hand, he yanks them along your legs, trailing them sinfully slowly, ensuring that they glide down the billow of your thighs. His teeth nip at your ear when you stumble to a halt in your recitation and your hands tense over the grains of wood beneath them, your nails pinching into your palms. “If you stop, I stop,” he warns, his head bumping against yours, his sharp nose pressing against your pulse.

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” you grumble, doing your best to ignore his renewed pets and strokes. 

“Stop complaining,” he smirks, leaning away from your head to peer at your newly exposed flesh. “You better pay attention to what you’re reading or you’re not going to pass the questions I’ll be asking you.”

“Yeah, yeah, ow!” you squawk, whipping your head around to glare up at him. He fucking pinched you again! This time, he’d slipped his hand between your spread legs and tweaked your inner thigh, painfully. 

“Read,” he repeats, running those guilty fingers upward, lingering beside the heat of your cunt, careful to not get too close. When you start on the next sentence, one of his hands tugs up the fabric of your shirt, snaking upward until he’s thumbing against the wire of your bra. Once again, you falter to a halt and exhale a wavering breath. 

Goddamn it. This review is no review. You’ll be lucky if you can even recall what a cell is if he keeps this up. You hear his ominous intake of air and quickly resume your recitation, mumbling something about RNA and mRNA differences. 

Wait. Didn’t you just…  

“Looks like you’re having trouble listening to me. I told you to read aloud, not to repeat the same passages over and over.”

“Hey, at least I’ll have a firm grasp on those. You should ask me something about that s-section… ah–”

The hand that was resting under the cup of your bra has made its way underneath the lightly padded material, and his thumb and index fingers have trapped your peaked nipple between them. As soon as your snarky comment left your mouth, he’d twisted the bud, squeezing it until it throbbed. 

“Pay attention,” he commands, shoving your bra upward, freeing the globes of your breasts and cupping both of his broad hands under them. Your abused nipple stings and the mixture of sharp pain and jarring arousal goes right through you, stoking that coil that pulsed within your core, and sending a tacky flush of your essence down your spread thighs.

The next few words are a struggle. The text keeps blurring and your breaths are coming in fast and heavy. Shigaraki is still feeling you up, keeping his lips close to your ears, rasping sharp commands to you and dealing out lightning fast rounds of pinches and squeezes each time you falter. 

“I–I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore,” you bemoan, your hips pressing against the edge of the table, legs trembling as you attempt to keep them apart. He’s deliberately ignoring your throbbing clit and a desperate edge is creeping into your voice. 

“Are you always this whiny? Fine. I’ll give you a moment to read without any distractions.”

Thank God.

True to his word, he slips away from your back and you’re left shivering against his sudden absence. Despite your quaking, you’re determined to make the most of this chance and you quickly read out the paragraphs that are on the second page. As you ramble down to the last bit of text, you realize you can’t hear him anymore and when you finish the last sentence; you start to really wonder where he’s drifted off to. A tense silence follows your completion of the material and you arch up on the tips of your toes, jutting your ass out and stretching the stiffened muscles of your lower back. 

“Didn’t say you could stop reading, and judging from all of your complaints, I don’t think you got some of those earlier concepts, so I’d suggest doing a quick review,” he taunts, the sudden rasp of his voice startling a low gasp from your lips. 

He’s close; somewhere behind you and to the left from the sound of it. You try to twist around, your chest lifting from the table, and when he notices, his hands return, creating a rough pressure against your neck as he forces your body back down. His weight plasters you to the surface, scraping your partially exposed stomach and tender breasts over the nicked wood. Shigaraki is merciless in his swift correction, his breath puffing out angrily behind you. “Didn’t say you could move, either.”

Stunned, you freeze. Your arms are arched awkwardly, but he keeps his weight against you, flattening your breasts and forcing your back to arch into an awkward bend. Fuck, you think, how are you supposed to stay like this? Your legs are already aching and if he shifts away again, he’s likely going to expect you to maintain this absurd pose.  

“Yes,” he groans, his voice catching against the word, “Good girl. Now, stay just like that.”

Damn it.

“Go on, read the first part again,” he instructs. 

“The entire genetic content of a cell is known as its genome and the study of genomes is gen-genomics. In eukaryotic cells, but… but not in p-prokaryotes, DNA forms a complex with histone proteins… with histone proteins… sub-substance… of…”

His teeth have latched onto your neck, and he’s sucking bruises into your tender skin. He’s still pinning you to the table, but his hands are widening their explorations. He’s started dragging a fingernail across the puffy folds of your cunt, teasing against the dripping and swollen flesh, chuckling when you buck against his hold. 

“You always seem to lose it when you get to cellular modulations.”  

“I–I–It’s not… I can’t help that you keep…” you whimper, your fingers curling under your palms, head shaking back and forth. You can’t think. He’s not being fucking fair, and you can’t even string your goddamn words together. Shit. “Y-you’re not being fair,” you accuse, falling on the only thing that keeps running through your mind, your splayed feet shifting uncomfortably under you.

“Not fair? Not once did I say fairness would come into this arrangement,” he lifts himself off of your back and leans beside you, one arm planted beside your crooked elbow. His fingers trace over the curve of your ass, cupping at the thickest part of you and squeezing. 

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a little satisfaction out of this arrangement. I bet you look good when you cum. And you’ve been working so hard to get my attention these last few months. So careful to do what I tell you. Looking at me with those big eyes of yours, all wide eyed every time I catch you looking at me. And don’t even get me started on your lips. You’re lucky I didn’t fucking bend you over after class, especially when you started wearing all of those cute little skirts for me. Ahhh, don’t moan like that, I won’t be able to help myself if you do. Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?” 

Without warning, he slips his longest digit into your cunt, groaning loudly when he’s sucked into your welcoming heat. Your pussy, hungry for any kind of scrap, ripples around his intrusion, clamping and pulling, desperate for more. 

“Fuck,” he groans, his weight falling against your shoulder. “You’re soaking.” His elegant digit pushes deeper and you roll your hips under him, urging him closer, sighing when he sinks to the last knuckle. As he pulls his finger back, he adds another, swiftly v-ing the two before curving them together as they slip back out, dragging a steady line of pleasure from your quivering cunt. Shigaraki whispers another round of awed praise against your ear, his voice dark and breathless. 

A third digit is added on another trip out, and it creates a ragged sensation within you. It’s close to what you like, but he’s stretching you too far and it’s starting to hurt. He either needs to speed up, or give you a little more pressure. If you can hump your clit against the edge of the table, maybe it’ll give you the friction that you need. When you mindlessly buck your hips, your thighs threatening to lose that spread, he stops, holding his fingers inside you, laughing as you agitatedly try to shift him back into his earlier rhythm.

“So eager. I’d say you’re ready for my questions.”

“W-what?” you gasp, wholly focused on making him restart the push and pull of his fingers inside you. 

“I’ll start you off with something easy. What’s the cell membrane?”

“W-what? The cell… ah–” 

“Answer me. Now,” he grunts, leaning forward, re-steadying you as his fingers pull outward, dragging against your sensitive folds and schlicking through your arousal lewdly, loudly. You moan and your eyes roll back, completely ignoring his demand as you fall into the haze of pleasure that comes after his movements. 

His free hand travels up your neck and he tangles his fingers into the tendrils of your hair, yanking and jerking at the strands, demanding your attention.  

“I said, answer me.”

“Shigaraki–I–fuck. I can’t even… ugh… think right now!”

“Do you want the grade, or not?” he questions, his voice tense. “Answer correctly and I’ll give you what you want.” 

“I–I don’t think I can,” you whine, pressing your hips back as he thrusts his fingers forward again, curving them upward, searching for the spongy pad of nerves that rest against the front of your pelvis. 

“Oh? What happened to wanting that A? What about your graduation? You gonna let me fuck up your entire college career? I can do it, you know. I’ve done it to so many simpering freshmen. I fail kids left and right and you’re no different, (Y/N). 

The university lets me ahh–there it is! God, you’re so fucking wet. 

Where was I? The university can’t say no to me; they let me do what I want. I bring in too much money, too many tempting grants, and that’s all they really care about. So what’s it gonna be? Let me see that you can answer this basic crap and I’ll pass you. Or would you like for me to tie you down and force it outta you another way?”

He’s picked up the pace of his fingers as he rambles over you and a swift press against that newly discovered spot inside you has you falling to pieces in his hands, popping up onto your tiptoes and rutting yourself against the surface of the table. “O-ok, God, ok! Just–fucking repeat the goddamn question,” you pant, head slumping forward, forcing his fingers to tighten against your hair to hold you upright. 

“What is the cell membrane?” 

You wince your eyes closed, trying to rack your brain to focus on something other than the heavy pressure of the three fingers that are teasing their way across your dribbling pussy. He’s moving his presses with a lackadaisical, inconsistent rhythm now and it’s hard to fucking think. You can’t tell if his next thrust will be hard, or soft, or so rough that it’s bordering on that bittersweet line of pain. 

You shake your head, doing your best to ignore the mounting pressure that he’s building inside you and the ache of your neck and legs. Finally, after another sharp tap against that secret bunch of nerves at the front of your cunt, you latch onto a vague remembrance. 

“It… it’s a double layer of–of phospholipids that make a boundary between the cell and t-the surrounding… ugh… it controls the passage of materials.”

“Very good. Elaborate on the cellular wall.”

He’s unrelenting in his domineering treatment, twisting and frigging his fingers each time your breath hitches, and your arousal is leaking down your legs, making your skin stick and pull. It’s too much, you can’t! How can he even ask this? Words are falling from your lips incoherently, and all too soon you’re gasping out his name rather than reciting the answer. 

“Cellular–oh, fuck, Shi–Shigaraki–Please, keep–don’t stop! S-Shigaraki, God that… feels… ah–keep going!”

He ignores your request and pulls his fingers away, robbing you of that sweet pressure that he’s so carefully mounted within you. 

“I’ll count that one as incorrect. Your ‘A’ is swiftly becoming an ‘A’ minus, (Y/N)” he snarls, his teeth gritted, hands falling to the swell of your hips, wet fingers digging into your soft skin. 

“What? No! You didn’t give me enough… e-enough time! How can–can you expect me to answer that qui-quickly!”

“Let’s try another.” 

It hurts. That ache that he’s drawn out of you is starting to sting and throb and he’s being such a dick about it! You twist and grind under him, and he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“I don’t–” you protest weakly, your legs trembling and chest heaving under his weight.  

“Do you want this? Wouldn’t you like to pass this class? To graduate with honors?” he growls, leaning closer, his hands braced against you, his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the supple crest of your hips. 

“You’re such an ass! Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then answer another question. What’s diffusion?”

“D-diffu-diffusion is the process by which molecules move from an a-area of… of… fuck- of high concentration, to low concentration. Shigaraki!”

“I should count that as another miss, but you got the major concept correct.” He removes his fingers from your waist and yanks your ass toward him, keeping your overeager hips away from the fleeting relief of the sturdy table. “Pop your legs together,” he commands, one hand wrapping around your arched throat, squeezing until you obey. His other hand drops to that thatch of curls that rest between your quivering thighs and he gathers up your gossamer strands, rubbing against your clit for one hazy instant, sending a flash of spots across your vision.

“Mmm, now that’s a pretty sight. Good girl, don’t move,” he reminds you and you want to scream at him. Right before you can spit some frustrated vitriol out, he’s releasing your neck, his hands dropping from your skin and letting you fall back to the uneven surface below. Just before your chin contacts the wood, his hand is back in your hair, tugging you upward, holding you a few inches above the table. The sharp pain makes your scalp tingle and you unconsciously rut against the tempting heat that’s now plastered to your ass. He’s hard. You can feel the stiff bulge of his cock straining against the front of his dark jeans, pressing into the cleft of your posterior. 

“T-that’ can’t be comfortable,” you pant, twisting your head so you can look up at him from the curve of your shoulder.

“Oh? You worried about my cock?” he asks, his red eyes flashing down at you challengingly. You don’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting instead to grind your ass up, catching against the jut of his length, earning yourself a low groan. His lips curl when you repeat the motion and you realize you love watching that smug face of his drift into a look of tense pleasure. It makes his scar on his lip flush and those red eyes of his fall to a lazy half mast. He spies your arched brow and pleased grin and pushes himself off of you, leaving you alone and open on the table.   

“Keep pushing your luck. I’m more than happy to drop you back to a B.”

“What?” you scoff, teeth clinking together as you clench your jaw. “I didn’t move!”

“No, but you’re trying to take control of this and we can’t have that can we?” Shigaraki sneers. “Now, how shall I punish you?”

“P-punish me?” you stammer, a chill racing down your spine. 

“Ah, I know. This’ll really piss you off,” he twists from your strained gaze and walks back toward his desk. What? What the fuck does he mean? You can’t see him from this angle, not with the way your legs are stretched and back is lowered, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, your chin lifting upwards as you do your best to keep him in focus. 

Ugh. It’s no use. He’s slipped past your field of vision. 

Hearing is likely your best bet, so you shift your forehead back to the table and listen, straining your ears to pick up any morsel. Something opens and closes and you catch the sound of the wheels of his chair as they shift, squeaking across the floor, and the groaning of the springs when his weight is applied to the cheap leather. 

Okay, so he’s in his chair. Is he just gonna look at you? That’s not… wait… 

There’s a faint clicking sound. 

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to your ears, but once the teeth slide over the last pull, you realize. It’s a zipper. 

Oh fuck. Is he going to jerk himself off? With a gasp, your head whips back around. He’s still positioned himself away from you, and you can only just make out the sounds that are accompanying the undoubted rise and fall of his fist. All you can see is a tiny sliver of his body, but you catch sight of the coiling muscles on his neck and you notice that his head is dipped forward, pearl white hair settling across the cut of his collarbone. The one red eye that meets yours is blazing and hungry, it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up.  

God, he’s staring at you, watching you, getting himself off as you’re half naked and bent over a desk in his office, fully subjugating yourself to his whims and fancies for the sake of your grade. 

Damn it, (Y/N). This should not be a fucking turn on. You should be disgusted, but the flush of slick that drips down your thigh says otherwise. 

He lets out a choked moan, picking up the pace of his hand, letting you hear the click and slip of his palm as it strokes up and down his cock. A shiver echoes up your spine and your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding your clenched thighs over the dip of the table, easing the clenching pulsations that your cunt is shuddering through you.

“Look at you, so desperate for my touch that you’re humping the fucking table. Such a dirty girl, and so disobedient. You’ve only answered a few of my questions correctly and yet your slutty little mouth and body keep pushing at me. Making me put you in your place. Let me ask you something, why should I go out of my way to fix your grade when you can’t even prove to me you understand the simplest concepts? 

Ah, here’s a thought. What if I told you I’ll wave the other requirements; no more readings, no more quizzes, but I won’t let you cum? What if I just get myself off? You’re putting on a such a good show for me! Why should I bother with seeing that you’re satisfied when that table seems to do the job for you? Sound good? Or would you like for me to come back over there and make you cum?”

“I–I don’t… I don’t want…” You can’t get the words out, your tongue feels leaden between your lips and you can’t think of anything but the steady itch that’s spreading from your clit. 

“Speak up,” Shigaraki demands, slowing his jerking fingers. The chair he’s sitting in groans as he leans forward, and his eyes wide as they take in the delicious sight that’s propped before him. “You don’t want to cum? Is that it? You’d like for me to get myself off and leave you there?”

“No!” you cry out, your fingers digging into the scuffed wood of the table. “I-I want you to make me cum.”

There’s a sharp clatter and you jump at the abrupt noise. It must be the chair you think, your heart pounding against your chest, waiting for Shigaraki’s next move. He only lets a few seconds drift by before he presses himself back to you. He leans his broad chest over your back, the front of his legs pushing against the back of yours. His exposed length is wedged firmly against the cleft of your ass and its tempting hardness makes you squirm under him, but he’s propelling you forward, pinning you against the rough wood, and you can only flail uselessly under his control. His lips skim over your neck and he bites into your skin, sucking and licking bruises as he inches closer to your pulse.  

You say his name pitifully, wantonly, and he lets out a shaky gasp. Something about your tone has shifted something within him and you can feel his cock swelling, dripping a rope of wet pre-cum down your shaking leg. 

He leans away, removing his sticky hardness from your ass. “Seems your priorities have shifted. You’re a little preoccupied right now, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice gravel scraping against your overwhelmed senses. You let out a weak moan and he snaps into action, his fingers pushing under your flattened stomach and tugging against the fabric that he finds. He yanks you upward, pulling your shirt up as he goes. His palms dip under your half lifted bra, and he cups at your breasts, massaging the rounded bulbs and plucking at your peaked nipples. Your head lolls back, and he sucks at your earlobe again, his breath warm and rasping as it passes by. 

“Hold still,” he commands. 

It’s not an easy position, this stretched upward arch that he’s forced you into, but it’s worth it when you feel his cock pushing between your tensed legs. He doesn’t thrust into you, opting to run his weeping tip against your slippery folds, pressing until his bulbous head is twitching against your pulsing clit. 

Goddamn it, you think as he stills, his lips smacking open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, it’s not enough. You wiggle your hips back and forth and he abruptly exerts a firm pressure against your windpipe, leaving you sputtering and gasping. “What’s wrong? Not happy with this? Do you think you deserve something more? Do you think you’ve earned that?” He shoves you back against the surface of the table, his broad chest following the plane of your back, trapping you under his heavy form. 

You’d replied, you know you must have, but you can’t hear yourself anymore, your attention attuned to the warm length that’s pressed against your shuddering folds. You’d likely thrown in a please for good measure because Shigaraki rewards you with a quick peck to your shivering neck and his thumb, swirling it around your clit, creating a cresting ache that leaves you mumbling incoherently, a thin line of drool slipping from your parted lips. As he keeps that faint osculation up, your fingernails scrape over the wood of the table, your feet lifting you onto your toes, curving your back, and shoving your leaking pussy into his open palm. 

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Shigaraki says, a breathy desperation lingering around the edges of his rasping voice. “But it’s just not enough, right?” 

You nod, licking up some of the excess saliva that’s built under your heavy tongue and crane your head back at him. His eyes are the first thing you see. They’re wild, ravenous and glinting with a roughness that makes you whisper out a soft whine. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to want him this badly. Goddamn it. Now that he’s caught your gaze, he won’t let you look away, and he presses himself closer, his cock twitching and warm, the tip rubbing back and forth, keeping time with his circling thumb.

“You gonna fuck me, or not?” you finally ask, unsticking your lips and smirking up at his hardened face. 

“Tch. Don’t rush me,” he grumbles, removing his hand and teasing cock from your cunt, watching as your body convulses under him, your pussy quivering against the excess stimulation that he’s wrought over you. Your thighs burn, aching to break free from his control, to rub against that throb, that tingling that keeps shuddering outward.

“One more question,” he tells you, lifting his dripping thumb to his lips and sucking off the traces of your arousal. The sight of him licking his pink tongue over his gleaming knuckles almost makes you lose your balance, your arms shaking precariously under you. 

“A-another? Come on,” you pout, your eyes following the curve of his wicked lips, watching as his scar quirks upward, amused by your useless defiance. 

“Make you a deal, answer it correctly and I’ll give you my cock. Sound fair?”

“Ugh, whatever, just hurry up,” you snap, so impatient and turned on that you can hardly think. 

The tip of his cock presses against your sopping entrance, pushing forward just enough to part your dripping folds but stopping before he clears that first, tight ring of flesh. The promise of his dribbling tip makes you lose any semblance of self-control. You thrash under him, but he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“No! Don’t stop! Come on Sh-Shigaraki–Don’t be such a fucking–ah–” 

“Do you want this? Do you want my cock?” he growls, leaning over you, his fingers squeezing down, no doubt leaving bruises in the supple crest of your hips. 

“Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then you better answer. What are cytosines?”

“They… they’re n-nitrogenous base… fuck… base that pair… that pair with guanine during D-DNA replication… I–please, please, Shigaraki! Fuck me! I want your cock! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Thankfully, he either takes pity on you, or can’t control himself anymore, his hips surging forward, gliding his thick length into your cunt and snarling at the mind numbing heat that waits for him. He keeps driving upward until he bottoms out, sharp hipbones grinding against the plushness of your ass. 

He’s not gentle with you, no he’s animalistic and raw, his thrusts papping into you with a terrifying strength. You would have liked something slower, something that lets you enjoy each imperfection and dip that raced along his cock, but this, oh, this is an exception because this is perfect. It’s not what you want, but it is what you need. 

The heavy fullness that he’s stuffing you with leaves you breathless, but you somehow manage to gasp out a string of nonsensical praises each time he drives back into you, overwrought by his roughness. 

This coupling isn’t kind, isn’t right, and is not healthy, for either of you. No, not with the way he’s using your shivering body, distracted with slacking that euphoric thrum that’s making his cock pulse and swell inside you.

But fuck it feels good and you can’t help but tremble with delight. These intoxicating thrusts of his ram him up against something that’s buried deep inside you, and each time he hits it another star of bright pleasure races through you. The familiar coiling of release is steadily mounting with each rapid fire rut he gives you and if he could just, ah, there’s something that’s… no, fuck, it’s, it’s not going to work. It feels good, but it’s missing one vital ingredient, one thing that he’s neglected to pay attention to, to notice. 

Your clit needs to be tweaked and rolled, and right now it’s pulsing away against the table, beating a sad tattoo into the grainy wood. Oh well, you think, head fuzzy, lost in the euphoria of his powerful cants, grinding your ass into his hips as he digs into another teeth chattering thrust. He’ll likely finish soon, and you’ll probably need to get yourself off later. It’s not something new, and it’s not like he’s going to care enough to focus on that, on you. This whole thing has been about control, so there’s likely no room for your own pleasure.

“What’s wrong,” he gasps out, his fingers lifting from your hips to curl beside your turned head. 

“What? N-nothing–I–” you pant, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy patch of nerves again. 

“Tch. Hold on,” he interrupts, his voice rasping and breathy. He pulls himself out of you with a grunt and yanks you upward, hauling you onto the tabletop and flipping you on your back, bending your stiffened legs and bracing your knees against his lean forearms. 

He holds you apart, spreading you open with his powerful hands. You can see him properly now, and the sight makes your breath catch against the back of your throat. Fuck, he looks good. 

His long white hair is draped across his bare shoulders and his eyes are blazing pits of hunger, devouring the sight of you with those red irises. His jaw is clenched, and he glares down at you from his imperious height, his nostrils flaring as he drags in a quick intake of air. To your shock, he gives you a little time to acclimate to this new position, opting to languidly step forward, letting his slippery cock head press and tease at the dip of your opening. But right when you think he’ll move again, he stops, his eyes roving over the lines of your face. 

His sudden stillness makes you peer quizzically up at him and you scoot closer, your feet lifting from the table. The movement snaps him out of his stupor and he grabs your ankles, roughly pinning you back down.

“Keep still,” he snarls through clenched teeth, that scar of his lifting. 

You nod mutely and he rewards your unquestioning obedience with another powerful thrust, sinking his swollen cock back into your waiting cunt. He lets out a sharp groan and grabs at your hips, jerking you forward, already drifting back into that all-consuming rhythm he’d started earlier. His ruts are a little slower from this angle but, in no time at all, that familiar ache pools in your core, stoking and building at an alarming rate. The driving force of his hips soon has you blinking back spots and distant stars, and this time he adds the all important pressure of his thumb, circling the finger pad over your clit and dragging a broken moan from your quivering lips. 

“So that’s what you needed. You close?” he grits out, his lips set in a curled scowl. He’s lost some of that early control, his hips stuttering as they connect with yours, his power lessening, cooling, as he looks for your release. 

“I–I think–oh fuck, do that again. Yes! Just–ah!”

He angles your hips upward and gives your clit another quick oscillation, pressing down until you’re gasping. “There you go. That felt good. You’re getting tighter,” he laughs, looming over you, shoving your heaving chest downward as he jerks your hips into him, forcing your body to do most of the motion, making your shoulder blades scrape across the uneven wood. “Cum for me. Fucking cum on my cock, (Y/N). Cum and I’ll give you your A, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your spine arches as you break around him, your cunt greedily pulling him deeper, slipping him past the barrier of your tender cervix and earning you a weak shout of praise from Shigaraki. Seconds later, he’s pulsing and twitching against your walls, the warm pooling of his cum filling you up and spilling down your spread thighs. 

His head drops to your shoulder and the rough skin of his forehead sticks to your sweat dampened flesh. For a long moment you’re both still, each of you struggling to catch your breath, luxuriating in the tingling sensation of release. 

“I fucking hate you, you know,” you gasp out, your arms circling his back, fingertips etching vague patterns over his neck and shoulders. 

“Ha,” he snorts, “I’ll have to remember that. Don’t worry (Y/N), I’ll pay you back for that little remark next time.”

“Oh? Next time?” you chuckle, moaning as he twists out of your hold and pulls his softening length out of you. 

“I’ll fail you on every assignment if you try to keep away,” he threatens, his eyes falling to the gaping mess that he’s left behind. You cross your legs, denying him the satisfaction of leering at your dripping pussy. 

“Fine. But next time, fuck me on something softer than a damn table.”

tags: @spicy-skull​, @xwildskullx​, @yixxes​, @ghstmthr​, @rekoii​, @diaouranask​, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love​, @libiraki​ <--- i’m coming for you. you’re gonna have to read for this, lady. so, uh, i’m officially noneconing you here. 

notes: you made it! this thing is a monster & i’m so sorry i can never stfu

[quixotic-writer]

Truth or Truth?

Request: Anon

Summary: Q and Sal are in a double punishment. Q is hooked up to a lie detector and is forced to answer questions about his relationship with his girlfriend who just so happens to be Sal’s sister. Whether he likes it or not, the truth will be revealed.

Warning: Smut ahead!

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

“Well, seems both Sal and Q have lost the episode.” Murr announces to the cameras with absolute joy that for once he wasn’t the one being miserably punished. Sal and Q nod their heads in defeat and chuckle out of fear of what awaits them on the stage beyond the curtain of the theatre they were stationed at for the day.

“Which means a double punishment is out there waiting for you guys.” Joe says with an equal level of glee as Murr.

“Can we just get to it now, I'm sweating buckets and I just wanna get this over with.” Sal says as he wipes his hands on the sides of his pants to rid his palms of the sweat that was building up.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get you guys out on that stage!” The two men are laughing as the other two did as they were instructed. There on the stage were two chairs. One of those chairs was next to a table filled with wires and equipment, the other had rope surrounding it. Sal and Q both look at each other with eyebrows raised in question of the curious set up. “Sal you will be taking the chair on the left, Q you get the chair on the right next to that machine we’ll get you hooked up to.” The minute he heard the phrase ‘get you hooked up,’ Q knew exactly what the boys had in store.

He complied without saying anything, it was a punishment after all and it’s not like he could evacuate or run away anywhere. He watched as Sal was sat in his chair and tied up good and well to it.

“Guys I thought this was a double punishment. Why am I just being tied to a chair and Q getting hooked up to a lie detector test? What are you gonna do? Ask him how many times he’s fantasized about fictional women while jacking off?” Sal laughs. Little did he know what the guys had in store for this special use of the lie detector test.

“So our buddy Q here has been dating Sal’s sister – (Y/N) – for quite a while now.” Joe said with a toothy grin on his face. They watched as Sal’s face dropped immediately to shock and disgust.

“So we’ve hooked Q up to a lie detector test and we’ll be asking him a few questions about their relationship.” Both Murr and Joe were laughing. “But wait! It gets better!”

“There’s only one audience member besides us here.” When the lights brightened slightly, rows of chairs could be made out now in their line of vision, and so could the one solitary audience member sitting front and center: (Y/N).

“That’s Sal’s sister!” Murr says with jubilation. You could watch the color completely drain from Sal and Q’s face.

“That’s right Sal, you have to look at your sister and your best friend as we ask all these questions and you have to hear the honest truth about it all no matter how dirty.” Sal was freaking out wanting to break free of the constraints that bound him to the chair. He was begging and pleading for anything else as the two winners of the episode were laughing at his fruitless pleas. Q had his face in his hands and his face was regaining its color in only a single shade. He was red as a fire engine knowing exactly where this was about to go. He lifted his head slightly to be met with the eyes of his lover. She sheepishly waved with a smile and he did the same.

“There’s no escaping or compromising a punishment Sal, you lost and this is what you get!” Sal had stopped thrashing and now had his eyes set on the ceiling staring off into nothing. “Let’s start with the first question!”

“Let’s start easy: Have you ever kissed her,” Q huffed as his eyebrows furrowed together. What a silly question, “With tongue?” And there was the searing bit and his expression was wiped clean off of his face.

~

It was early on in their dating days, they decided on a movie night at Q’s place. It was warm and cozy, intimate and serene. She had her head resting on his shoulder and his arm was wrapped around her, holding her in close so that he could be closer to each and every piece of her. Because they were together for only a short time at that moment, Q feared making moves as to not upset her and cause a rift between him and Sal. It was already hard enough getting Sal warmed up to them, it would make things worse if he accidentally made a move she wasn’t comfortable with and Sal would have even more reason to disapprove of what they had going on. So while he seemed relaxed, he was actually freaking out on the inside.

That’s when their eyes locked on each other, her hand was placed gently on his cheek as she smiled and started inching in closer. Her hand was moving in closer and he went with it, seeing as all the signals were there and he was given the green light. Their lips met and he could taste the popcorn on her lips, he went in for another, and another. She felt addicting, he loved it and wanted more. That’s when her tongue traced along his lips, he hesitated.

“Don’t be so stiff B. I know you want more.” She whispered against his lips. She was right, that’s when things started getting heated. He brought her onto his lap, she was then straddling him and their lips met with each other once again, parted and allowed their tongues to intertwine. He could taste her so much better and he knew he was in deep.

The rest of that evening was truly memorable.

~

“Y-yes.” He answered honestly.

“He’s telling the truth.” The polygraph reader spoke as he watched the readings carefully. Sal’s face contorted in disgust as laughter echoed through the theatre.

“Next question: Have you done it on Sal’s bed or in his house?” Q squeezes his eyes shut.

“Brian I swear, you better think long and hard about how you answer this. You have house sat for me many times. If you say yes.”

~

Sal was away on a comedy tour and to go visit his mom. Q was handed the responsibility to watch over his house and make sure that everything was kept clean. Sal stated that he didn’t mind if he stayed the night at his place if he ever drank or if he just felt like it, so long as everything was kept in proper order when he came back. That much Q could do. He never said anything about his girlfriend being over as well.

It started as it always did: chilling out in the living room. They were playing Mario Kart together and the competition was getting heated. Nothing made Q happier than having a girlfriend he could play video games with, especially competitively. Both of them already started playing a little dirty, bumping each other playfully, blocking their view of the screen during important jumps, and so on. They were having the time of their life until she took things a step further.

As they were on their second lap, she sat on Q’s lap and started circling her hips. Q had a hard time focusing on the screen now that something else began to catch his interest. She kept going and she could feel him starting to grow hard under her. He bit his lip to not moan and show weakness and focused as much of his attention on the screen as best as he could.

“(Y/N). T-that’s cheating. You play… Dirty.” She had her eyes on the screen and now added noises as she gyrated her hips.

In the end, Q crossed the finish line first and ended up winning.

“Well, B. Looks like you won.” She said with a devilish smirk on her face, “I guess you’ve earned yourself a prize.” She slithers down to her knees and settles between Q’s legs as he sits on the couch. She pulls down his pants along with his boxers as his member throbs in front of her eyes. Q’s lips are already parted as his breath hitches at the sight before him. She licks her lips and immediately takes him as far into her mouth as she could. He lets out a low groan as his eyes close to take in the sensation.

“Fucking hell baby.” He says as his hand goes to the back of her head as his hips start to work and fuck her mouth. He was already aching for release as she was grinding against him, so his inevitable end was already building up like a skyscraper. “(Y/N). Sweetheart. God. You’re gonna make me cum.” He was at the edge of absolute euphoria, he had control of her as he tangled his hand in her hair and guided her faster up and down his cock until he shoved her down and released in her mouth. “Swallow.” He commanded, and she did exactly that. All evidence of his climax gone. He pulls her up for a kiss before lifting her and allowing his feet to carry them to where he would now be staying for the night: Sal’s room.

~

“Do I really have to answer this one?” Q asked as he began sweating profusely as he remembered each sensation pertaining to his answer.

“Hurry up and answer! You’ve never had problems talking about your sex life before tough guy.” Joe criticizes.

“No.” A blatant lie and they all probably knew. This answer was proven false after the polygraph interpreter stated so. Sal was glaring at Q and Q dared not make eye contact at that moment.

“You guys have ravaged my house for a punishment before, but SEX in MY HOUSE?!?! Not only that but WITH MY SISTER?!” Q wanted nothing more than just to disappear.

“Next question. Oh this one's good!” Q closed his eyes again, bracing himself for the next question, “Had she ever called you daddy?” His cheeks felt like they were on fire now. “Not like how you refer to yourself when talking about your cats either. You know exactly how we mean it.”

~

The room was filled with the sounds of the bed frame squeaking and moans eliciting from open mouths along with steamy breath that stuck to their skin. Q was thrusting his hips roughly into her as she raked her nails down his back, leaving her own mark on him.

“You like that baby? Like when I fuck you hard?”

“Yes! Yes!” Her words felt like they were being forced out of her with each snap of his hips as he hit just the right spots to drive her crazy.

“Yes, what?” He asked her as he slowed to an agonizing pace. She wrapped her legs around him to try and speed things up, bringing him in closer despite knowing it wouldn’t do anything until that one word was uttered. “C’mon (Y/N). Let me hear it. Yes, what?” His hot breath fell in her ear and sent chills through her and she could feel her clit throb as she bit her lip and moaned at the authoritative tone.

“Yes daddy.” His hips picked right back up as the familiar sound of skin on skin began to echo once again in the room. “Fuck I love it when you fuck me like this. Harder. Please, daddy.” Each time she said it, it brought him closer and closer to climax.

“God I love when you call me that sweetheart.” He licked his thumb and began rubbing circles around her clit as he continued working his hips against hers. Whining as she felt her climax begin to wash over her, Q wasn’t that far behind as he began to grunt and moan with each thrust as he felt her tremble beneath him. “Gonna cum baby, you’re so perfect.”

~

Q wondered if the air conditioning in the place was even on. If it was, they needed to crank it if not his shirt was sure to be drenched in sweat by the time this punishment was over.

“Uuuh.”

“Not an answer buddy.” Q really didn’t want to answer this. He could feel Sal’s gaze boring holes into him. He knew how his best friend felt about his relationship which is why he never said a thing about their sex life like he had with previous relationships. He respected Sal that way and always made sure to treat his sister well. But the pickle he was in now was making this dynamic extremely difficult.

“I uuh.” He was choking on words. There was no sense in lying, but maybe, just maybe if he believed hard enough he could trick the lie detector into believing he was telling the truth. He took a breath, said over and over in his head that he was telling the truth, steadied himself, and “no.” He tried saying it with honest conviction.

“A lie.” Yup. He definitely wanted to crawl in a hole now. All three of the other men were hollering at the answer. Q looked at (Y/N) and she was just as red as he was but she was laughing. He wasn’t sure how she could be laughing at this moment, but for some reason it put him slightly at ease knowing that this wasn’t torture for her like it was for him.

“Okay last question Q.” Sal had been mostly silent for the last few minutes and Q just knew that Sal wanted him dead or something else. He was lucky there were restraints holding him back because god knows what would have happened if he wasn’t. Q was mentally bracing himself for something absolutely revolting that he would have to answer for, something that would really make Sal lose his mind. Dildos, sneaking off on tour together to have sex, road head, he was ready to answer for it and face the consequences. “Do you love her?”

~

It was early in the morning and sun peered through the windows of his house. As he opened his eyes, there she was. Her eyes closed and her breathing steady, all the cats were curled up around her and all were surprisingly still asleep as well. She was dreaming and he knew it. Seeing her so peacefully asleep made him happy. It wasn’t only that. It was knowing she was happily asleep in his bed, next to him that made his heart flutter and burst with joy. Waking up and seeing her was unlike anything he’s ever felt.

He crawled out of bed carefully. In the kitchen he began to cook up some breakfast for them and also to feed the needy little kittens. As he was at the stove, he heard her shuffle in. He looked over his shoulder and saw her, eyes hooded and still half asleep, a little smile tugging at her lips, hair covering most of her face. She was just the most beautiful person ever and he couldn’t think otherwise.

“Morning sunshine.” He says with a smile on his face, voice still groggy from waking up.

“Mornin’ B.” She made her way over and hugged him from behind, leaning on him as she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply smelling his morning musk and the food that was cooking. “Smells so good.” She mumbled. His heart was just exploding and he couldn’t stop smiling.

As they ate breakfast, she spoke most of the time and that was just how he liked it. He never tired of her voice, never tired of hearing her talk, never tired of being around her. She noticed the dopey look on his face as she spoke and she stopped and gave him a bit of a side glance and a smile.

“What’s with you this morning Bri? You’ve been acting all mushy. Not that I'm complaining or this is out of the ordinary.”

“I just like hearing you talk.” He said truthfully. “And it’s just–”

~

“–I love her.” He spoke with a smile on his face. “I really do. No doubt about that. There’s no one else I've been more in love with than her. Every part of her. Good and bad. I love her.” He looked her in her eyes, recalling each countless moment they’ve had with each other. Every time he was around her, he felt like a high schooler again. So bashful, so in love, hopelessly so. There was no one else for him.

“It’s all true.” The polygraph reader spoke with a smile. Sal looked at Q, then looked at his sister and saw them just entranced with each other. Hearing everything Q had to say was true made his anger quickly slide away. He wanted his friend to be happy, he couldn’t keep them apart. Despite thinking this was an absolutely terrible idea at the start, perhaps this changed things.

“That’s it Q. Interrogations over.” Both men were released from their punishment prisons and were left to face each other.

“So. You really love her, huh?” Q smirked as he felt the butterflies thinking about her again.

“More than you could imagine.” He said with confidence. He felt her arms wrap around him and he turned around to see her eyes sparkling like constellations at midnight. He wrapped his arms around her tight and gave her a kiss.

“Listen, I know i’ve been hard on you Q. Just protective of my sister y’know?”

“I get it, Sal. But I can promise you wholeheartedly that I’d never do anything to hurt her ever.”

“Might wanna hook him up to the lie detector again.” Joe said as he walked by. Q rolled his eyes.

“I know. I just want you to promise one other thing.”

“Anything.” Q leaned in attentively.

“I never wanna hear anything about your sex life ever again.” (Y/N) snickered as Q felt his face heating up in shame again.

“Deal.”