Alternative Views On Live Music (1/1)
Title: Alternative Views On Live Music
Author: gkunit20
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13 for suggestive language
Word Count: 951
Disclaimer: Dan Harmon owns "Community," Duran Duran owns "Hungry Like The Wolf," and I might own the drivers hat and pink feather boa. This is the first non-comment fic I'm posting, so I apologize if I bungle the formatting.
Summary: Inspired by this video, specifically 4:40 and 8:00. Jeff is the lead singer in a band and Annie is in the audience. One-shot.
Annie’s first thought is that Pierce can never find out about this. They’ve only just gotten him to accept that Jeff isn’t actually gay, and if he saw what was happening on stage right now, all that work would be undone.
Her second thought is where in the hell did he learn to sing and dance like that? It’s like Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson had a child, and then that child was raised by David Bowie. It’s giving her goosebumps
This leads her to her third thought, which is that it is a very good thing the crowd and the stage are separated by a fence and security. Between his ability to hit the high notes and the midriff he’s showing as he twirls his way across the stage, she’s fairly certain that if there was nothing stopping her, she’d be up on that stage ripping that black vest with white decorative lace and those tight light blue jeans off of him. Looking around, she’s certain she’s not the only one thinking that. Really though, it’s his fault. He knows he should never be allowed to wear clothes that show off every bit of his muscular arms or accentuate his… better features the way that vest-jean combination does.
She briefly wonders where she can get a vest like that, which leads her back to yeah, no, Pierce can never find out about this.
When she decided to check out the new club around the block from her apartment, she had no idea there would be live music. And she had no idea “live music” meant a band that just so happened to include a certain lawyer as its lead singer. A very sexy lead singer, who, judging by the way he’s moving his hips, never skimps on the morning yoga routine. He’s playing the harmonica now, and dear god how does he make even a simple driving hat look that good? And now he’s strutting across the stage like a model on the catwalk, and it is so not fair and it just might be one of the hottest things she’s ever seen. Seriously, with every step, every sway of his hips, she can feel the color rising in her cheeks, and no matter what she might tell herself, she knows it’s not because it’s warm in the club. She takes her phone out, wanting to send a picture or a recording to the group as his punishment. Not only will they get a kick out of it, especially Pierce, but he deserves it for the torture he’s putting her through right now.
But then she sees him. Really sees him. And he’s happy. Really happy. In fact, she can’t recall ever seeing the combination of joy, calm, freedom, and lust that is on his face right now. Like the person standing up on the stage performing for who knows how many people is the true Jeff and the too-cool-to-care slacker is just the persona that he puts on for everyone else. Her lips begin to curve upwards when she starts to get uncomfortable. She feels like she’s intruding; like this isn’t actually a concert, it’s really some weird, new wave type of therapy that maybe Britta can poorly explain to her later. This is something private, something just for him, away from the judging eyes of the group, the judging eyes of his co-workers, from anyone who knows him as Jeff, the guy who faked his way into being a lawyer and not Simon, or Ziggy, or whatever his stage name is, the rock star who may just be from outer space or part cat, given the way he’s now crawling across the stage, seducing the audience into submission with every note.
He certainly has a way of controlling a crowd and making himself the center of attention, she thinks.
She’s about to put her phone away and leave when their eyes meet. She freezes, hoping he doesn’t realize it’s her, but knows it’s futile when she sees recognition in his eyes. That recognition is soon joined by something else, something that she can’t identify and isn’t sure if there’s even a word for or if she even wants to know what it is. His eyes remain locked onto hers as the corners of his lips turn up into a coy smile.
He winks and she’s gone, completely lost in the crowd, in the music, and Jeff’s singing, and Jeff’s dancing, and Jeff Jeff Jeff Jeff. Her legs feel like she’s run a marathon at full sprint, her stomach is doing weird things that aren’t a result of the leftover Chinese she had for dinner, her heart is pounding in her throat, and she has a severe case of tunnel vision as her eyes and ears have completely blocked out anything not involving what’s happening onstage. She decides that Monday morning when he waltzes into the study room and casually asks her how her weekend was, she’s going to drag him into the first storage closet she can find.
But during the next song there’s an extra flair in his twirls, there’s an extra sway in his hips, his singing is playful to the point of teasing, and he points and does this fluid little come-hither motion with his finger during the chorus while staring right at her, and she realizes he knows exactly what he’s doing to her, and that Monday is too far and she wants him tonight, wants him now, and seriously, why is there a fence and security separating them again?
She does end up recording him singing “Hungry Like The Wolf” while wrapped in a feathery pink boa. But she keeps it for herself.
Hope you enjoyed it! Any constructive feedback is welcome.
Author: gkunit20
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13 for suggestive language
Word Count: 951
Disclaimer: Dan Harmon owns "Community," Duran Duran owns "Hungry Like The Wolf," and I might own the drivers hat and pink feather boa. This is the first non-comment fic I'm posting, so I apologize if I bungle the formatting.
Summary: Inspired by this video, specifically 4:40 and 8:00. Jeff is the lead singer in a band and Annie is in the audience. One-shot.
Annie’s first thought is that Pierce can never find out about this. They’ve only just gotten him to accept that Jeff isn’t actually gay, and if he saw what was happening on stage right now, all that work would be undone.
Her second thought is where in the hell did he learn to sing and dance like that? It’s like Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson had a child, and then that child was raised by David Bowie. It’s giving her goosebumps
This leads her to her third thought, which is that it is a very good thing the crowd and the stage are separated by a fence and security. Between his ability to hit the high notes and the midriff he’s showing as he twirls his way across the stage, she’s fairly certain that if there was nothing stopping her, she’d be up on that stage ripping that black vest with white decorative lace and those tight light blue jeans off of him. Looking around, she’s certain she’s not the only one thinking that. Really though, it’s his fault. He knows he should never be allowed to wear clothes that show off every bit of his muscular arms or accentuate his… better features the way that vest-jean combination does.
She briefly wonders where she can get a vest like that, which leads her back to yeah, no, Pierce can never find out about this.
When she decided to check out the new club around the block from her apartment, she had no idea there would be live music. And she had no idea “live music” meant a band that just so happened to include a certain lawyer as its lead singer. A very sexy lead singer, who, judging by the way he’s moving his hips, never skimps on the morning yoga routine. He’s playing the harmonica now, and dear god how does he make even a simple driving hat look that good? And now he’s strutting across the stage like a model on the catwalk, and it is so not fair and it just might be one of the hottest things she’s ever seen. Seriously, with every step, every sway of his hips, she can feel the color rising in her cheeks, and no matter what she might tell herself, she knows it’s not because it’s warm in the club. She takes her phone out, wanting to send a picture or a recording to the group as his punishment. Not only will they get a kick out of it, especially Pierce, but he deserves it for the torture he’s putting her through right now.
But then she sees him. Really sees him. And he’s happy. Really happy. In fact, she can’t recall ever seeing the combination of joy, calm, freedom, and lust that is on his face right now. Like the person standing up on the stage performing for who knows how many people is the true Jeff and the too-cool-to-care slacker is just the persona that he puts on for everyone else. Her lips begin to curve upwards when she starts to get uncomfortable. She feels like she’s intruding; like this isn’t actually a concert, it’s really some weird, new wave type of therapy that maybe Britta can poorly explain to her later. This is something private, something just for him, away from the judging eyes of the group, the judging eyes of his co-workers, from anyone who knows him as Jeff, the guy who faked his way into being a lawyer and not Simon, or Ziggy, or whatever his stage name is, the rock star who may just be from outer space or part cat, given the way he’s now crawling across the stage, seducing the audience into submission with every note.
He certainly has a way of controlling a crowd and making himself the center of attention, she thinks.
She’s about to put her phone away and leave when their eyes meet. She freezes, hoping he doesn’t realize it’s her, but knows it’s futile when she sees recognition in his eyes. That recognition is soon joined by something else, something that she can’t identify and isn’t sure if there’s even a word for or if she even wants to know what it is. His eyes remain locked onto hers as the corners of his lips turn up into a coy smile.
He winks and she’s gone, completely lost in the crowd, in the music, and Jeff’s singing, and Jeff’s dancing, and Jeff Jeff Jeff Jeff. Her legs feel like she’s run a marathon at full sprint, her stomach is doing weird things that aren’t a result of the leftover Chinese she had for dinner, her heart is pounding in her throat, and she has a severe case of tunnel vision as her eyes and ears have completely blocked out anything not involving what’s happening onstage. She decides that Monday morning when he waltzes into the study room and casually asks her how her weekend was, she’s going to drag him into the first storage closet she can find.
But during the next song there’s an extra flair in his twirls, there’s an extra sway in his hips, his singing is playful to the point of teasing, and he points and does this fluid little come-hither motion with his finger during the chorus while staring right at her, and she realizes he knows exactly what he’s doing to her, and that Monday is too far and she wants him tonight, wants him now, and seriously, why is there a fence and security separating them again?
She does end up recording him singing “Hungry Like The Wolf” while wrapped in a feathery pink boa. But she keeps it for herself.
Hope you enjoyed it! Any constructive feedback is welcome.