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#Charismatic Frontman

giorgio52fan · 9 months

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Remembering Freddie Mercury: A Musical Icon's Enduring Legacy on His 77th Birthday

On September 5th, 1946, a legendary musical talent was born who would go on to captivate hearts and souls around the world. Freddie Mercury, the charismatic frontman of the iconic rock band Queen, would have turned 77 years old today. Though he left us far too soon, his remarkable legacy lives on through his groundbreaking music, electrifying performances, and lasting influence on the music…

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moodr1ng · 9 months

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well the show rocked im drenched in sweat on every inch of me and im gonna sleep good tonight!!

#97 #im such a groupie the frontman was charismatic so i def wouldve sucked him off in the bathroom if he wanted. anyway

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h3llorgl0ry · 1 year

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which one of us is pete which one is patrick

hmmm. the writer and mentally ill deranged mfer in me wants to say i’m pete. however i feel like patrick in the situation of us specifically bc i kind of ended up in your circle and ended up in a prominent role even though i didn’t really think i belonged there at first, it wasn’t necessarily what i had in mind when i started bc i prefer being behind the scenes and i initially tried to hide behind everyone else, especially behind your confidence. also patrick’s adhd. also patrick saying in interviews that he doesn’t have any hidden talents, he does the thing he’s really good at bc he sucks at everything else… that is so me LMAO. so i vote that you’re the pete to my patrick tbh

#we are mentally ill abt four men from chicago #it’s hilarious how much i relate to both of these mfers bc they said themselves they feel like they make up 1 collective member of the band #you are endlessly captivating in a way i am not #so effortlessly brilliant #you’re the charisma that everyone looks forward to experiencing #like #the charismatic frontman that always knows what to say #and my writing about you is always more on the nose and less metaphorical than i’m used to #sarbear + lena enrichment time (being mentally ill and vaguely codependent) in the enclosure (tumblr)#dykewives4ever

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khlur · 1 year

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i am like every single other person who keeps up w any sort of metal in that i am OBSESSED w will ramos and his energy. obsessed.

#charismatic frontman fully and truly

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akallabeth-joie · 2 years

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The main ensemble in Moulin Rouge map perfectly to a c.1999 boy band.

#apropos of nothing #you've got the charismatic frontman the guy who's meant to be hot the 'bad boy' the one who's just sort of there and the weird one

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sapphire-writes · 9 months

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Holiday In The Hamptons

Part 3 of The Campaign

pairing: modern!Aemond x Reader

summary: You join the Targaryen-Hightower family in the Hamptons, determined to get back what Aemond took from you.

word count: 7.2k

rating: 18+/explicit (see details below the cut)

warnings: p in v (explicit sex), oral (fem-recieving), edging, overstimulation, blindfold, restraints, fingering, rough s*x, degradation, begging, kissing, pussy slapping, choking, hand kink, finger sucking, alluding to some Daemon/Rhaenyra targcest, language

note: it's been a while! I have no words-- i was inspired and here is the monster I created, I hope you enjoy!

You’d secretly hoped Rhaenyra would throw out the idea of a family outing after the debate with Aegon went sideways. She’d been graceful, smooth, and calculated as always. And Aegon?

Well, Aegon was Aegon.

You suppose Otto Hightower had attempted to prep him. But it didn’t stop him from being a pompous asshole through the entirety of the debate. Interrupting, laughing, and dismissing all of Rhaenyra’s arguments with baseline claims of his own. It was hard to watch.

And yet the public was eating it up.

Funny, they called him. An arrogant, egotistical, narcissist. But funny. The media was far more forgiving of Aegon than Rhaenyra. You suppose that’s why Aegon made a better frontman than Aemond. He was awfully charismatic.

Though you just know it was killing Aemond inside to not be the one behind that podium going head to head with Rhaenyra. A battle of wits is Aemond Targaryen’s idea of a great time. He wouldn’t have needed Aegon’s cheap tricks to win the debate. He probably could have bested her (though that killed you to admit).

“Shrieks Through the Keep,” she read the headline on her phone as you sat in the back of the limousine on the way to the Hamptons, “Rhaenyra Targaryen snaps at Aegon Targaryen during last night’s debate, her reaction reminiscent of her predecessor Maegor Targaryen. Fucking ridiculous.”

Luke sits beside her, Joffrey beside him lost in his Nintendo Switch, furiously pressing buttons and cursing under his breath. Jace and you sit across from them, knees pressed together. You’ve been stiffer around him lately, ever since----

“You did wonderfully,” Daemon had insisted, squeezing Rhaenyra’s knee, “Bunch of stupid cunts.”

Rhaenyra clicks her phone and the screen dims before leaning her head back and closing her eyes. Luke reaches forward, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“It’s only the first debate,” Daemon insists, “The others will be better.”

Rhaenyra lets out a pitiful laugh dropping her head into her hands, pressing her thumbs right under her brow bones. You’ve seen Aemond do the same thing when he’s stressed. Seven save you, can you stop thinking about that asshole?

“Can we talk about something else?” Rhaenyra asks, “Anything else.”

Joffrey pays no attention, his dark curls falling into his eyes, the faint sounds of his game echoing in the small space. Luke’s leg bounces nervously, his eyes darting to you, begging for some help.

“What’s your favorite memory of Summerhall House?” you ask her, eager to change the subject to something else as well.

The side of Rhaenyra’s mouth ticks upwards in a small, sad smile. She straightens up, leaning back against the leather seat. Her eyes look past you, searching for a memory.

“My father brought me here when I was a child,” she tells you, “Every summer we’d come. Just the three of us.”

Daemon watches Rhaenyra carefully as she speaks; his violet eyes never leave her face. You wonder where Daemon had fit in on their family holidays.

“My father hated the beach, hated it,” Rhaenyra continues through a chuckle, “But my mother loved the ocean. We’d spend hours at a time going back and forth. Swimming, drying out on the sand, going back to the water. Father would watch from the deck, always holed up with his models.”

Daemon takes her hand. You watch a pink blush begin to form on the apples of her cheeks, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. Your throat tightens. Aegon had his fair share of gossip present in the tabloids, but so did Rhaenyra.

Not a rumor you hope has truth behind it.

But it’s hard to deny when it's happening right in front of you. Still, you remove your gaze from their intertwined hands and rest your head against Jace’s shoulder.

“You miss him terribly,” Daemon says, thumb stroking the back of Rhaenyra’s hand, “I do as well. He’d be happy that you’re doing this. He always wanted the family together.”

Rhaenyra nods at his words, violet eyes glancing up at her Uncle’s face. He smiles at her softly before turning his head toward you and Jace. You meet his eyes for a brief moment before averting your gaze, heat rushing to your cheeks.

When you look up, he’s still watching you. You force a tight smile which Daemon Targaryen does not return. He knows you know, your mind teases as a weight settles in your gut. You close your eyes, pressing your face against Jace’s neck inhaling the scent of his cologne. You feel his arm tighten around you.

“Not long now,” he murmurs, and you hum in response.

Though you pretend to be asleep for the remainder of the drive, you can feel the fiery gaze of Daemon Targaryen burning through you.

When you arrive at Summerhall House you’re greeted with laminated itineraries and Alicent Hightower-Targaryen waiting at the front door. She holds one out to you, her brown eyes warm and inviting, auburn curls hanging freely down her back, dressed in an emerald green silk dress that falls just below her knee.

Though it's been half a year since the death of her husband she doesn’t look the part of a grieving widow. In fact, she appears more radiant than ever. The death of Viserys Targaryen suits her. Her eyebrows crease together as Daemon brushes by her, ignoring the handout. Her eyes move behind you, eyes searching for someone else.

“Where’s Baela and Rhanea?”

Daemon stops at the decorative table, eyeing the bowl of fruit in the center. Ruby red apples lay piled atop a bed of pears, and fresh mandarins. He reaches for an apple, taking off his sunglasses while inspecting the shiny outer flesh.

“Baela is galavanting around Europe. Last I spoke to her she was in Greece,” he says, biting into the apple, “Rhaena is much too busy preparing for her LSAT to be bothered with this farce.”

Alicent prickles at that, her jaw clenching, and her shoulders straightening.

“I’m tired,” Daemon announces.

“We’re supposed to have dinner,” Alicent calls as he begins his ascent up the staircase. Her words fall on deaf ears as Daemon continues down the hall until he is out of sight. She sighs, trying to hide her frustration as she turns back to you, “Can I get you anything? Something to drink? The espresso martinis are fabulous.”

Rhaenyra smiles politely, reaching out and squeezing Alicent’s forearm.

“None for me, I’m afraid I’m rather tired as well,” she admits, smiling bashfully, “I think I’ll tuck in for the evening.”

“Luke and Joffrey will share the beach room,” Alicent tells her, “Jace and…” she looks at you, as though remembering you’re present, “Y/N….you’re in the room at the farthest end of the second floor.”

You smile tightly.

“Thank you, Alicent,” you tell her, heading upstairs. As much as you want a drink, you’d rather not be stuck with forced polite conversation with Alicent.

The following morning is lights, camera, and action. Playing the role of a happy family is non-negotiable today. You meet everyone at breakfast by the pool, under the shade of the veranda. Mimosas, fresh fruit, omelets, and croissants greet you. You sit across from Daemon and Rhaenyra, as Jace pulls your chair out for you, reaching for a chocolate croissant.

Otto Hightower sits at the head of the table, his gaze icy. You can tell he’s watching Daemon out of the corner of his eye, his tension palpable.

“Aemond arrived rather late last night,” Daemon says, taking a bite of his omelet, “Though I’ve yet to see Helaena. Where is my niece?”

You can’t help the rush of stupid warmth that rolls through you. He��s here. Absent at the family breakfast though. Dickhead.

“Helaena should be joining us this evening,” Alicent says, sipping her mimosa, “I must’ve dozed off, was Floris with Aemond when he arrived?”

Alicent’s eyes are bright, lit up with curiosity.

You wonder if they get along. It appears Alicent likes her, by the look in her eyes. Through the grapevine, you’d heard that mummy didn’t approve of Aemond’s previous fling. That ended rather quickly. Jealousy creeps through your veins; icy tendrils weaving up your spine. Jace meets your eyes smiling.

“D’you like your croissant?” he asks, his grin lopsided.

“Love it,” you tell him, returning his smile with a much colder one.

Jacaerys Velaryon is nice. That’s about all there is to him. An easy man to have on your arm. Easily influenced. Easily manipulated. He has potential, for sure. You’d gotten the same look of approval from Rhaenyra that Floris undoubtedly got from Alicent when Jace had brought you home.

“Believe he said something about her taking the next flight out?” Daemon says, eyebrows cinching together as he tries to remember, “Weather wasn’t cooperating. Something like that. We didn’t engage in further conversation.”

You bite your tongue so you don’t ask where he is. Luke is the one to broach the subject.

“He coming out today?” he asks, referring to the yacht party planned later that afternoon.

“He’s resting now,” Otto informs Luke, “But everyone is expected to be there. On their best behavior.” He says the words pointedly, through gritted teeth.

You reach for your drink taking a long sip of the tart beverage. Rhaenyra cocks an eyebrow at Otto’s pointed tone, reaching for the water glass beside her plate and taking a sip.

“Can I have one?” Joffrey asks, eyeing your mimosa.

“In your dreams,” Luke scoffs, causing the younger boy to pout.

The majority of the morning is spent lying by the pool. You’d put on your swimsuit as soon as breakfast ended, heading back down to get some sun. No sign of Aemond. He must be holed up in his room doing gods knows what. You can’t help the feeling of anticipation that curls in your belly.

The yacht party is meant to happen that afternoon, and as time creeps closer you decide to take action. The intimate family gathering is not one you need to participate in any way, not like the upcoming party later in the week. There’s unfortunately no way out of that event.

“I don’t know,” you tell Jace, “You know I get seasick, baby.” You don’t.

“I don’t want you to get lonely,” he insists, “I’ll stay behind-”

“You go ahead,” you insist, “I’ll be alright. I have a couple of calls to make anyway and I can lounge by the pool.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” you tell him, placing a kiss on his cheek, “Seriously, have fun! Bond with everyone.”

Jace is reluctant but doesn’t argue. You wonder if he cares at all, deep down.

Helaena greets you when she arrives, clad in dark green slacks and a white tank top, a cigarette hanging from her red mouth. You’d only been introduced once before, though you remember her vaguely, a year ahead of you back in school. She’d changed her hair recently, it was cut in a retro shag style, bangs in front of her eyes.

“Jace brought a friend,” she comments, walking towards you, hands in her pockets.

You turn your head, still spread out in your chaise lounge one foot propped on the seat, an arm thrown under your head.

“Surprised I’m still around?” you ask, noting the unashamed way Helaena’s eyes drag across your body.

“Nah,” she says, pulling her cigarette from her lips, “More surprised you’re still putting up with him.”

“Hmm,” you hum in response, “You bring anyone?”

“Why, you interested?” she teases, with a grin, “I’m not getting anyone involved with this shit show. You’ve the right idea, staying behind.”

“I don’t like boats,” you tell her.

Helaena drops her cigarette, stamping it out under her foot.

“Mhmm,” she says, eyes unconvinced, “Enjoy your alone time.”

You don’t answer as she retreats back into the house. You hear the muffled voices as everyone begins to leave for the party. Aemond doesn’t come outside, and doesn’t ask why you’re staying behind. You try not to let that vex you, but can’t help it. Sighing, you close your eyes as the sounds of distant voices fade, along with the car engines in the driveway.

Suddenly, an idea strikes as the sun begins to dip below the horizon no longer offering the heat from earlier in the day. Getting up from your spot, you throw on your cover-up and tread into the house. It’s silent, beside the gentle sound of the central air system.

You need to find your necklace. The one Jace had given you. The one you’d so carelessly left behind during your last rendezvous with Aemond. Jace hadn’t stopped asking about it, and you just knew it gave Aemond some sick sense of power, holding that over you.

You hurry up the stairs, padding down the hallway until you reach Aemond’s room. You’d heard Alicent mention last night which room he and Floris would be staying in. Taking a deep breath, you open the door.

Aemond’s room is neat; just as you’d expected. His two suitcases were closed standing side by side at the foot of his bed. White pillows are fluffed to perfection; you doubt Aemond was the one to tend to it. His bedside table is bare save a lamp and a dog-eared book without a dust cover. The title remains a mystery. There’s a matching table on the opposite side with an empty silver dish and a small lap.

Moving further into his room you stop in front of a large floor-length mirror, trimmed with gold, and spare a moment to shamelessly admire yourself. The Hamptons look good on you. From the afternoon spent in the warm summer sun, your skin already has a luminescent sun-kissed glow. You tilt your head, parting your lips slightly.

Should’ve brought your phone with you; a selfie in this mirror would be worth a thousand words. You don’t suppose anyone will be back for hours. You can come back later for a little photo shoot. Your mouth quirks into a small smile at the thought of Aemond scrolling through Instagram and seeing you in his room.

You know exactly how you’ll do it. On your knees, a hand toying with the strings of your bikini bottoms, plush thighs on full display. Your sheer cover-up dangling off of one of your shoulders revealing a delicious amount of skin your bikini top barely covers. Lips curved into a perfect pout.

You just need to find that necklace.

That would be the icing on the cake.

Peering into the attached bathroom you note all his hair and skincare products lined up in a neat row across the marble sink. You raise a brow at his perfectionism.

Anal prick.

You rummage through the drawers under the sink, most of them practically empty. A hair straightener, a hairbrush, a thin-toothed comb.

No necklace.

You growl in frustration slamming the drawer shut. Sitting back on your haunches you place a hand against your forehead. Maybe he didn’t even bring it, I mean, why would he?

You remember the look on his face, the stolen glances. That stupid fucking smirk. Your cheeks flush, warmth creeping down your neck.

He brought it. It’s here somewhere.

You tap your fingers against your knee, hand bouncing nervously. You need to keep looking. Rising from your spot on the floor you make your way back into the room, glancing around. Flinging open the closet doors you paw through suit jackets and trousers letting your hands dip into the pockets of each one. C’mon, it has to be here somewhere---

“What are you doing?” a cool, calm voice asks, sending a shiver down your spine like you’d been dosed in ice water.

Slowly, you turn, meeting the blue and purple eyes of Aemond Targaryen as he leans casually against the doorframe.

He’s not supposed to be here.

Yet, here he is. Dressed in gray slacks, and a black button-down pressed to perfection with not a wrinkle in sight. Green tie around his neck as though he’d just come from a meeting. He’s holding a legal pad in his left hand, a pen pinched between his thumb and forefinger. His silver hair pushed back out of his face, rounded glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. You roll your shoulders back and keep your chin up.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” he asks, entering the room. He tosses the legal pad carelessly on the side table before reaching into his back pocket and removing his phone as well. Your eyes narrow as he rolls his sleeves up.

“You know what,” you tell him, tapping your foot against the floor.

Aemond releases a hum, still not answering. He lifts his glasses off of the bridge of his nose, letting them rest on top of his head.

“Where is it?” you repeat, becoming more impatient with each passing second.

Aemond doesn’t meet your gaze, instead, he takes a step forward. The bed is the only thing that separates you. He looks up at you then, violet and blue eyes staring into yours intently.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells you, nonchalantly, “If you’ve misplaced something how is that my problem?”

“It is your problem,” you say through your teeth. Aemond brings his hands in front of his chest, the veins on the back of them prominent. You watch as he slowly removes a ring on his left hand, taking time to twist the silver band from his middle finger.

Your mouth goes dry as he repeats the movement, twisting the metal that rests on his ring finger. That ring he wears nearly every day, stamped with the Targaryen family crest. He resumes his movements, focusing on the ring that remains on his right hand. A small silver band around his thumb. When it's free, he holds his hand out across the bed.

An offering.

You’re not sure what compels you to reach forward, holding your palm open-faced under his. He uncurls his fingers, rings falling into your awaiting palm. He hasn’t touched you and yet your whole body feels flushed.

You close your fingers around the cold rings, pulling your hand away. Aemond jerks his chin, motioning toward the nightstand beside you. You turn, placing the rings haphazardly in the small empty silver dish. They clang loudly against it and Aemond stares at you disapprovingly.

“Are you going to give it back, or not?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest once more.

“Why are you here?” he asks, ignoring your question and walking to the edge of the bed.

“I get seasick,” you lie to him as you did to Jace.

Aemond merely chuckles, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. He reaches to the top of his head, removing his glasses, and placing them on his dresser. A lock of silver hair falls in front of his eyes as he turns back to you, mirroring your pose.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want,” you snap, “What are you doing here?”

“I had work to finish,” he says with a shrug. Aemond’s hands drop to his belt, and he begins to undo it. “So I decided to stay behind.”

The hairs on your arms stand up and heat rushes to your face, and the top of your chest. You suddenly become very aware of how trapped you are on this side of the room. You’d have to climb over the bed if you wanted to leave.

You glance at the door as Aemond pulls his belt free of the loops of his slacks. A sharp whine echoes in the room as the leather rubs against the fabric.

Your attention turns back on Aemond, you watch as he tosses the belt onto the bed. You swallow the lump beginning to form in your throat.

Aemond takes a slow step, rounding the corner of the bed. You don’t say anything as he walks closer, nor when he brings a large hand to rest against your outer thigh. He’s barely applying any pressure, you can just feel the heat of his large palm against you. Your lips part slightly at the sensation.

“What are you doing here?” he asks again, letting his fingers trail up your thigh, “Hmm?” His fingers curl under the strap of your bathing suit bottom, snapping it against your hip. You flinch slightly at the light sting.

You inhale a deep breath, looking up at the chiseled features of his face.

“I want my necklace back.”

The perfect pout of his lips curl at the edges, a satisfied smirk appearing.

“Well then you’re going to have to work for it,” he tells you, his voice rough and commanding.

To your despair, heat rushes to your core at the authoritative tone of his voice and the feeling of his hand still on your upper thigh. You hate admitting it, but you’d been thinking about that afternoon in the hotel ever since it had happened. Getting off to the memory of it, nearly every night.

“We’re not doing this again,” you tell him as his opposite hand finds your waist. He swipes his thumbs against your hip bones, squeezing into the soft flesh. He’s so close, your crossed forearms graze against the fabric of his button-down. You shake your head, “I hate you.”

Aemond tilts his head back, not releasing his grip on you. Your arms uncross on their own accord, and you bring your hands to his tie. Your fingers work the knot, loosening it and removing it from his neck. You toss the green fabric onto the bed, moving to the buttons of his shirt.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, fingers digging into you hard enough to leave bruises. He pulls you closer, his nose bumping against your cheek.

“I hate you,” you breathe, working through all the buttons. Aemond chuckles darkly as you tear open his shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest.

You drag your fingers down between his pectorals, tracing in between the muscles of his abdomen. They flex under your soft touch. Aemond releases your hips to shrug off his shirt, abandoning the material on the floor.

You watch it pool at his feet, before his hand finds the back of your neck, pulling you flush against him, capturing your lips in a punishing kiss. It’s brutal; all clashing teeth and tongues as he keeps one hand securely on the back of your neck, the other tearing at the thin material of your coverup until it falls to the floor.

His free hand drags down your side before settling on your ass; it’s so large he encompasses the cheek nearly entirely, squeezing the soft flesh harshly and dragging a gasp from your throat. He backs you up toward the bed, kissing you all the while. You can’t think when he kisses you, all you can focus on is the feeling of him. It’s nothing but hot, burning need pulsating through your veins.

Aemond pushes you, none too gently, onto the bed before climbing on top of you. His hands roam down your body, your back arching at his touch.

He leans back on his haunches, reaching for the belt. You can see evidence of his arousal straining against his slacks, his eyes hungrily raking over your scantily clad form as you gaze up at him through your lashes.

“Wrist up.”

You breathe heavily, before doing what he asks, placing both your arms above your head. Aemond loops the belt around your wrists, binding them to the metal rod of his headboard. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, and the ache between your thighs grows. Aemond’s eyes flicker to your face as he tugs the bindings. The smirk that appears on his face says one thing.

You’re not going anywhere.

“You need me to stop,” he says, as he moves away from you, “You need to be untied. You want this to be over; you say keligon.”

“What’s that mean?” you ask, your voice sounding breathier and more desperate than you’d have liked it to.

“It’s High Valyrian,” he tells you, “You say that, I’ll untie you. I’ll stop.” Aemond returns to you, grasping your chin in his hand, “What do you say if you want me to stop?”

You stare into his eyes, surprised by his seriousness. “Keligon.”

“Good girl,” he says, lightly tapping your cheek with his fingers as he releases his hold.

Aemond reaches for his discarded necktie. He smoothes the material in his hands before bringing it to your face. Your eyes widen as you realize his intentions, but you make no move to stop him. You allow it.

You want it.

The tie sits perfectly against your eyes, blocking any semblance of light. All your other senses feel heightened, your skin feels electric. You can’t see him, can only feel the bed shifting from his weight as he moves above you, making sure it’s tied snuggly around your head. Suddenly, you feel his slender fingers, dragging down the strap of your bikini top, taking his sweet time before he reaches the knot that sits in the valley between your breasts.

“Cute suit,” he murmurs, fingers fiddling with the knot, “You bring this one just for me?”

You can feel the material give, your breasts releasing back to their natural state as the knot comes completely undone. Aemond drags his fingers over the material lazily exposing your tits to him. He hums appreciatively as the cool air makes your nipples pebble.

“I have a boyfriend,” you tell him, earning a chuckle.

“You do?” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your sternum, over the sensitive skin of your stomach. You take your lower lip between your teeth, skin erupting in goosebumps. You already want to pull against the restraints, wriggle, and thrash away from his teasing hands.

“My poor nephew,” he muses, tugging at the straps of your bottoms, “He fuck you like I do?”

You haven’t slept with Jace. It’s not really part of your arrangement. Not that Aemond needs to know.

“You fuck Floris like you fuck me?” you challenge. Aemond’s hands pause their movements.

Just like earlier, a wave of jealousy rolls through you. Envy churns in your stomach, and you clench your jaw.

“Floris and I are colleagues,” Aemond says slowly. He sounds as though he’s choosing his words very carefully.

“You don’t have to baby me,” you lie, “I’m a big girl, I understand this world.”

Aemond is silent for a moment, and you wonder if he’ll push the subject more. He’s still for so long you nearly tap out, keligon on the tip of your tongue when suddenly he finishes removing your bathing suit bottoms. Completely naked before him, tied up like a summer holiday present, your body trembles with anticipation.

Stop being jealous, you tell yourself, feeling him move on top of you once more. It’s just sex. Fucking good sex. That’s all it has to be.

Aemond trails wet, hot kisses down your neck, his greedy hands digging into your thighs keeping you spread open so he can rest between them. He’s still wearing pants, you can feel the fabric against your thighs, and pressing against your bare pussy, the sensation driving you insane.

His mouth trails lower, settling on your right breast, his tongue circling your pebbled nipple. Your back arches off of the bed, hands pulling against your restraints. The leather tightens against your wrists, digging into them painfully.

Your lips part and a breathy moan escapes your lips as he sucks on your breast. Your legs wrap around his slender waist, desperately trying to get some friction to relieve the ache between your thighs. Your clit drags against the front of his slacks, grinding against his bulge sending sparks of pleasure dancing through your body. You’re nearly pulsating with need as he releases your tit with a wet pop, humming in satisfaction.

Aemond drags his lips through the valley of your breasts, before repeating his attentions. He moans-fucking moans---as he bites at your tender nipple, ripping a cry from deep in your chest.

“Look at you grinding against me,” he comments, as your hips buck upwards attempting to meet him, “That wet little pussy is making such a mess on me right now.”

Your face burns at his comment, but you can’t see what he means. You can only feel how desperately wet you are, the slickness coating your inner thighs. You thrash against your restraints and hear him click his tongue.

“Poor baby,” he says, with mock sympathy, sucking harshly against the side of your breast. He brings his free hand to play with your unattended nipple, tweaking it harshly.

You’re not sure if it’s the extra attention he’s giving your tits or the blindfold, but you can feel the tension in your gut growing tighter, heat building in your core. You bite your lip, whining desperately, back arching. Aemond lets out a breathless laugh, never stopping his ministrations with your nipple, capturing the other with his lips once more.

“Are you gonna cum?” he murmurs against your breast and you curse at the vibration it causes, “You better not….you hear me?” Aemond drags his lips over your breast, trailing them up your neck and just below your ear.

His hand leaves your opposite breast, finding its way under your head and tangling in your hair. He tugs the roots harshly, pinpricks of pain and pleasure trickling down your neck as you whimper. Aemond’s breath is hot against your ear as he speaks.

“You better not fucking cum, you hear me?” he growls, “Not until I tell you to. You can do that, can’t you?” His hand tightens in your hair.

“Yes,” you gasp, “Yes-fuck!”

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, rewarding you with a kiss, “Fuck, you have no idea how beautiful you look right now.”

Your cheeks flush, heat rushing to your face at his words. You twist against your restraints as he kisses down your torso once more.

“I should’ve been more specific,” he muses, kissing right below your belly button, “You’re not cumming unless I’m feeling generous enough to let you.” He kisses the top of your hip bone, squeezing the other side.

“Is that clear?”

Nothing feels clear, your whole body is on fire. The embers of your previous denied orgasm burn brightly in your throbbing center. Aemond moves lower, pressing your thighs back against the bed. You can feel his breath fanning on your soaked center.

A sharp slap stings against your dripping pussy and you cry out.

“You’re not nonverbal yet, are you?” he asks with mock concern, “I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“No,” you tell him, “I mean, yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss on top of your mound before dipping his tongue lower, spreading through your silky, wet folds.

Aemond moans at the taste, dipping lower and letting his tongue tease at the opening of your clenching pussy. His tongue just breaches the tight muscle of your entrance, nose brushing against your aching clit.

“Fuck,” you mewl as he presses his tongue further inside of you groaning as you clench around the warm, wet muscle.

He murmurs something, even though his face is buried in your pussy and you can’t even attempt to understand him. All you can do is tug against the restraints and moan pitifully as he has his way with you. Your legs tremble, thighs aching as he presses them back further into the mattress. He decides to release them, bringing his hands under your ass and lifting you slightly off the bed to press even further against your core.

Aemond removes his tongue to your displeasure, placing an open-mouthed, wet kiss on your pussy, dragging his lips and tongue to circle your clit with slow, calculated strokes.

“Seven--fuck!” you cry, legs shaking around him as he gently caresses your sensitive button, another chuckle leaving him at your desperation.

“Oh baby,” he says softly, pressing two long fingers inside of you, “You look so pathetic when you try not to cum.”

“Fu-uck,” you cry as he curls his fingers, beginning to fuck you with them. The wetness between your thighs, paired with the words he’s speaking to you make you flush with humiliation.

You’ve never been this wet before, not for anyone. You can hear it, hear him fucking you with his fingers. The gentle squishing sounds of your soaked pussy fill the room.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he comments, rubbing against your g-spot. Your spine arches, mouth dropping open, a wanton cry leaving your lips. “Oh, that’s such a good girl.”

“I think you can take one more, what do you think?” he asks, “C’mon, beg me. Use that big brain of yours, find the words.”

“Yes, yes please,” you beg, “Please give me another, I need another--” you’re cut off as Aemond slips a third digit into your pussy, fucking you with his fingers relentlessly.

“Please let me cum,” you beg, feeling him sit up as he continues to finger you.

“No,” he says sternly, placing a kiss on your stomach.

“Please, plea-”

“I said no.”

A frustrated, guttural moan leaves you and Aemond keeps going. You’re terrified for a moment, legs shaking uncontrollably, knowing you won’t be able to stop the wave of pleasure cresting inside of you. Luckily, by some saving grace, Aemond slows his movements, before carefully removing his soaked fingers from your fluttering cunt.

Disappointment courses through you at another ruined orgasm, followed by the relief of not going against Aemond’s wishes. You can feel tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, dampening the fabric of the makeshift blindfold.

You feel his soaked fingers press at your lips, parting them as they dip inside your hot mouth. You moan at the taste of your arousal, sucking the lengthy digits much like you did that first night inside the coat closet.

“Gods you’re so perfect like this,” Aemond croons, his opposite hand moving some sweat-coated hair from your damp forehead, “So eager to please.”

Defiance prickles under your skin and you fight the urge to bite down on his fingers; not hard, but enough. You feel Aemond stiffen as though he can read your thoughts, and feel his hand yank the blindfold from your eyes. You blink, adjusting to the light as he pulls his fingers from your mouth.

He reaches up, fiddling with the belt, releasing your wrists. Arms sore, you bring them to your chest, hugging them against your breasts. You can’t help but pout, and Aemond watches you carefully, eyes narrowing.

“Tell you what,” he muses, taking your wrists in his hands and massaging them gently, “I’m feeling rather generous today. Even though you broke into my room, and went snooping through my belongings.”

You watch him carefully, chest heaving. Aemond continues to massage your wrists, eyes glued to your breasts, watching them rise and fall with each breath you take. You swallow, eyes dropping to his erection that strains against his slacks. Your cheeks burn as you notice the wet patch on the front, no doubt caused by you grinding against him.

“I’ll give you the necklace,” he says, letting go of your wrists and curling his hands around the meat of your upper thighs, “Or I’ll let you cum. Your choice.”

You clench at his words, clit throbbing desperately between your legs. You want to cum so badly that it's nearly painful. You whine pitifully as he squeezes your thighs.

“I’ll let you think about it,” he assures you, that stupid smirk reappearing on his face, “On your hands and knees, get that pretty pussy in the air.”

Aemond releases you sliding off the bed and undoing his trousers. Shaking, you turn over, propping yourself on your hands and knees. You feel Aemond’s hands once more as he maneuvers you on the bed, fisting your hair and yanking your head up.

Your eyes meet your reflection in the grand mirror, Aemond naked behind you, his well-endowed cock fully hard and weeping. He brings his lips to your ear.

“I want you to watch,” he whispers, releasing his grip on your hair.

He moves instead to spread your ass cheek, opening you wide for him. You feel his cock press against you, the fat head sliding through your soaked folds, dragging it teasingly from your center to your clit.

“Aemond,” you whimper, “Please--”

Slowly he sinks into your wet heat; the girth of him stretching you out deliciously. Your whole body trembles, your head falling forward as he bottoms out; your walls pulsating around him. Aemond runs his hands over the swell of your ass, down your sides before taking both wrists in his large hands and pulling you backward. The force drags your head up, meeting his eyes in the mirror once more.

“I told….you….to….watch,” he says, punctuating each word with a hard slap of his hips against your ass; cock sliding easily in and out of your soaked pussy.

Small mewls leave your lips as he continues to hold you, never losing the rhythm of the brutal pace he’s set.

“Why’d you want that horrid thing back anyway?” Aemond asks, sounding displeased, “I gave you a necklace the last time we saw each other.”

Your eyes are wide, tears threatening to spill over from the pleasurable current roaring in your belly. Aemond smirks at your lack of response, releasing your arms. They fall limply to the bed, and you force your shaky forearms to keep yourself propped up.

“Don’t you remember?” he asks, fingers digging into your thighs, “You ungrateful little slut.”

You do remember, how could you possibly forget? You’d had to take another shower to remove his warm, sticky spend from your neck and chest.

“Perhaps you’d like a new one,” Aemond muses, leaning on top of you, and wrapping his hands around your neck.

Not one, but both of them rest comfortably around your throat, flexing along the sides. His cock continues to slide effortlessly in and out of your tight, wet heat; cockhead rubbing incessantly against your sensitive walls and bullying your sweet spot.

You try to say his name, try to find any words, but they come out a garbled, breathless moan.

“Do you like it?” Aemond asks, flexing his hands against your throat, “Don’t you look so pretty?”

His hands---gods his hands---look fucking perfect around your neck, as tears spill freely down your cheeks. His veins are prominent on the back of his hands, even more so when he flexes them, slightly cutting off your air supply. You’re too light-headed and cock drunk to answer him with anything other than a wanton, breathy moan.

“Thank me,” he murmurs, rutting against you. The coil in your gut winds tighter and tighter.

“Wha--” you manage, mind clouded by lust.

“Thank me for your gift,” he says, flexing his fingers for emphasis. He tightens his grip momentarily, before releasing some pressure, allowing you the opportunity to answer him.

Aemond lifts a brow expectantly, slowly rolling his hips against you.

“Thank you,” you gasp, “Thank you, Aemond.”

Aemond hums appreciatively, fucking you with renewed enthusiasm. You close your eyes, squeezing them shut, trying to stop the roaring of blood rushing in your ears, your orgasm speeding toward you at full force.

“You’re close aren’t you?” he grunts, “What’ll it be, baby?”

“Please, please I wanna cum,” you whine, “Please let me cum, fu-uck!”

Aemond pulls you up flush against his chest as soon as you say the words, fucking up into you. He keeps one hand on your throat, the other dipping between your legs to rub circles around your clit.

“That’s it, fucking cum all over my cock,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “That’s a good little slut, there you go.”

Your body tense, legs shuddering as you’re thrown into your release, the coil in your gut snapping as you clench around his thick cock. You’re crying from the intensity, a desperate sob escaping you at the prolonged release. As your high subsides, Aemond releases you, turning you on your back.

Your whole body tingles as he climbs on top of you, sliding back into your fluttering pussy in one smooth motion. You gasp as his cock rubs against your g-spot, as he lazily begins thrusting into you once more.

“Aem-mond,” you moan, as he slings one leg over his shoulder, spreading you wider.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he scolds, smirking as he slings your other leg over his shoulder, making himself a necklace of his own, “You wanted to cum so bad, you can do it again, can’t you?”

Your mouth is open in a silent scream, watery eyes looking up at him, drinking in the satisfied smirk he wears. Your whole body tenses, the beginning of another orgasm building in your abdomen.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he taunts, “C’mon don’t stop now. You’ve been such a good little slut for me, you deserve it.”

“Please, please-”

“Yes you do,” he croons, “There you go. I feel this little pussy tightening around me. Squeezing me so good.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, a strangled cry leaving your lips as his thumb brushes against your swollen clit, sending you over the edge once more. Aemond doesn’t slow his hips, he keeps fucking you into the mattress as you’re pretzled over him.

“That’s a good girl,” he sing-songs, balls slapping against your ass as he increases the pace of his thrusts, “Don’t stop now, it feels so good doesn’t it?”

A sharp cry leaves your lips and you force yourself to nod, unable to formulate words in your blissed-out state. Euphoria pulses through your veins and floods your body with warmth. It’s like you’re burning with pleasure, your entire being aflame.

“I can’t,” you moan, though your body betrays you. You can feel the tightening sensation in your gut, the tingling feeling of another orgasm building.

“Yes you can,” Aemond insists, “C’mon you wanted it so bad, you greedy little thing. Take it, c’mon fucking take it.”

Your thighs shake around his neck, and Aemond’s jaw slacks as you clench around him.

“Yes, oh fu-uck, yes!,” you whimper, and Aemond’s cock twitches inside you as you’re thrown over the edge once more making your vision go white.

Aemond thrusts a few more times before you feel his cock pulsate, and warmth blooms deep in your abdomen. He lets out a grunt as he finishes, followed by an elongated moan that sends a shiver down your spine right down to your core. His head falls against your shoulder, peppering the damp flesh with soft kisses.

He stays like that for a moment, before moving off of you.

“Don’t move,” he says, walking toward the bathroom.

You couldn’t if you wanted to. You hear the water run and watch as Aemond returns with a damp washcloth. His cock sways as he walks toward you, glistening with your release. Gently, he cleans you up, taking care to avoid your abused clit.

After several moments, you find your bearings. Reality hits you, and you grab your swimsuit, throwing it back on hastily.

“This can’t happen again,” you insist, though your trembling legs betray you, “Not with everyone here-”

“You’re not really in a position to make demands,” Aemond says, matter-of-factly.

“Excuse me?”

“I like this arrangement,” he tells you, “Both you and I are in relationships that benefit the family. That’s fine, dutiful even.” Aemond brushes a lock of hair from your face, letting his hand rest on your cheek, “That doesn’t mean we need to deny ourselves.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You can barely think with his hands on you. You bring your hand up quickly, slapping him away. Aemond gives nothing away; no flash of hurt or rejection is evident on his chiseled face.

“I’m not denying anything,” you tell him, the lie bitter-tasting.

Aemond only stares those blue and violet eyes of his boring into yours. His gaze reignites the fire in your belly, the primal want aching deep in your bones.

Motherfucker.

You hate him.

Yet you want him all the same.

“I don’t believe you,” he says softly.

“Believe what you want,” you tell him, “Jace is good for me. He’s a good person.”

“Ah yes, Jacaerys Velaryon. Your conversations must be thrilling,” he says, stepping closer to you, “I know you. Whether you like it or not, whether you admit it or not. I know what makes your brain tick inside that pretty little head of yours. You may fool the press, hells you may fool the rest of the family; but you can’t fool me.”

You don’t answer him. Ignoring the tight feeling in your chest you simply grab your cover-up and throw it around your shoulders leaving his room.

note: as always, likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated, but never expected! if you'd like to be notified when I post please follow and turn on notifications for @sapphire-writes-updates in lieu of a taglist!

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idiotcurls · 10 months

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IMAGINE THIS! Eddie is a musician, Steve is studying to become a teacher. Right before Steve's exams, he goes to a cafe to study. The Band arrives to play a gig and Eddie knocks over a glass of water with his guitar case.

Eddie has a up and coming band, they are playing small gigs all around the country. Even though they gathered up quite a following, they still haven't signed to any major label yet. Because they are not posers or whatever. The fans love Corroded Coffin, for the hard sounds with the clever thoughtful lyrics and also due to the fact that Eddie is a very charismatic frontman, who has the allure of an old timey rock star. Steve is sitting in the café, studying for his exams, writing frantically on his laptop, his glasses on the tip of his nose. Since he had a hard time in high school, he still thinks he is less than in the intellectual departmen, which is of course not true. And he has an amazing hand with the kids he is currently teaching, as student teacher. When Eddie and his band arrive at the venue, loud, all dressed in black leather, some instruments carried on their backs, he doesn't even look up. Steve was used to bands playing in the back of the venue. The café and bar area was only separated by a small glass door, so he was usually gone by the time, they got on the stage. But today the weather wasn't exactly on his side, he wasn't going to walk home in the pouring rain, risking a cold. It was too close to exam season. Eddie's hair was dripping wet, some of the droplets are running into his eyes. While Gareth is asking for someone to show them where to set up their stuff, Eddie ventures into the café area, to steal some napkins off a table. When he turns around to leave again, tapping over his eyes, the swing of his guitarcase knocks over a glass of water on a table behind him. Whos table you ask? Why, of course Steve Harrington's. What a terrible coincidence. Steve jumps up, shouting "FUCK" as he gathers up napkins trying to dry up the spilled water on his keypad. Startled by the cussing behind him, Eddie turns around and immediately recognises the damage he had caused. "Oh my god, I'm so fucking sorry, here, I'll get you more napkins, or a towel. Gareth!! Ask the waiter if he has a towel?!" Gareth looks up from his conversation with one of the staff member and just shakes his head in an annoyed fashion. Like Munson was up to some bullshit again and he wasn't going to be part of it.

Eddie is frantically bringing more napkins to the table, furthering Steve's annoyance at him. "Please.. just fucking stop, man." He is wiping his wet hands on his blue jeans looking at the laptop mournfully. "It's already fucking ruined. Shit." Steve sighs and walks around the table, a hand over his mouth, looking at the crime scene, wondering how he could afford another laptop that fast. But that long haired idiot, who knocked over his glass kept on babbling, ignoring the fact that Steve was in the middle of a crisis. "Listen, oh my god, I'm so sorry man. I read, that you shouldn't turn in on for bit after, uh, a spillage. Maybe it will dry? Or maybe we should put some rice on it? Maybe they have rice in the kitchen. Gareth?- My friend Nancy says that is bullshit, but-" "STOP! Please just go away." Steve sounded desprate. Eddie raised his hands in defeat, still holding some Napkins. "Okay. I'm sorry. I'm with the band, who plays tonight. You can message us for a refund, or repair.", he says more calmly and walks away. Steve watches the young man walk back to his band members, he assumed, at least. They all wearing the same sort of clothes. "What are you doing with all those Napkins?", Jeff asks bemused. "Just shut up, man." Steve is close to tears. All of his notes and work he already did ahead of time were on the laptop. He did not safe them anywhere else. He grabs his coat and cigarette and leaves the café to have a smoke. If anyone wants to take any of his other stuff, they were free to do so, everything was ruined anyway. He watches the band carry all their amps and instruments in, from a little distance. There was a quick glance exchanged between him and that long haired idiot. He looks like a beaten puppy with those big sad eyes. Shit, now Steve felt like an asshole. Back inside, Steve waited for a while, to turn on his laptop, like the idiot had said. Meanwhile he was texting his best friend Robin the details of the worst evening in his life. She is sympathetic and hopeful, that the gods were in favour of his laptop. And while she didn't think Steve was the villain of the play, he might have been a bit harsh. They guy with the curls didn't do it on purpose, to ruin his life. After a while Steve breaths in deeply and exhales. He presses the on button. The laptops starts. He types in his password. Loading. All of his open tabs and word documents appear. The laptop was alive. He tries to write some words and all the keys work. A sigh of relieve. The gods had mercy on his computer in the end. After thanking the universe, Steve's eyes wander to the other side of the café. Behind the glass door, the band is setting up and starting to do some sound checking with the technician.

The idiot is holding his guitar, strumming a few chords and signing the thumbs up to the tech girl, who nods, looking bored. Now he is singing along to his chords, his eyes closed, like he is feeling the music or something. Steve finds, the idiot has a very beautiful voice. And a handsome face. He sighs. With that new information the apology is going to become even harder. When the band is done soundchecking and Eddie climbs off the stage, bickering and laughing with his band mates, Steve decides to go for it. "You can do this, dingus." pops up on his phone, before he puts it back into his pocket.

When Steve walks up to Eddie, the others are still rumaging around. Before Steve can open his mouth to say a single word, Eddie raises his hand. "Let me stop you there. I talked to the guys. We have a door-deal with the venue. Depending on how much money we make, you can have some of the money to pay for the repair." Eddie chuckles. "Now we just have to pray some people show up." Steve raises his left eyebrow, listening to him. "It's not like theres no people coming to our gigs, it's just that it's raining, and it's a weekday, people are at work..." Eddie is rambling again.

"Hey, can I say something too?" Steve chimes in, stern but not unkind. "Uh, sure." Eddie answers. "My laptop is fine. Everything works. I wanted to apologize for being a dick." Steve takes down his glasses and puts them on the top of his head. "I was just very stressed. You didn't do it on purpose." Eddie looks down and smiles. He seems shy.

"I'm a bit clumsy.... yeah." Steve finds it almost funny, that a guy like him, who just confidently sang on a stage, becomes shy like that. "Well, don't worry about it. I just thought... It's fine." Eddie looks up at him. "Why dont you stay for the set? Be our guest?" Steve does not answer. "I'll put you on my bar-tab. Stay and listen. Here- have a tape." Steve looks at the tape he got handed. "I don't have anything to play this on..." "Don't worry. I'll make it worth your while. Get a drink. We start in 20 minutes." Everything in Steve says, it's better to go home. Sleep and study. But he does stay for the set, to see the charaismatic idiot in action.

and then they fall in love or something.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #fanfiction #stranger things #rockstar eddie #student steve #meet cute in a bar #eddie is clumsy #steve is annoyed

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thefreakandthehair · 8 months

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@eddiemonth prompt, oct 4th: Rejection | Arsonist’s Lullaby - Hozier | Lost a/n: pre-steddie post-s4, angst with soft, happy ending because I'm a marshmallow. un-betaed because I'm challenging myself to write these in under an hour. read on ao3 | link to series on ao3

All Eddie Munson has ever wanted to do is play music.

That’s it. There are other hobbies, of course, other things that bring him joy– D&D, fantasy novels, art– but ever since he was a kid, whenever a teacher would ask what he wants to be when he grows up, it’s always the same answer.

I wanna play music.

As a kid, it seems less daunting. He just has to practice, he just has to play, he just has to have the passion to make it big. To be the next Kirk Hammett, or Eddie Van Halen, or Ozzy Osbourne if he can teach himself to carry a tune.

Making friends is hard, but he manages to find a few in middle school who can play the instruments he can’t– drums, bass. Eddie takes the role of frontman, not exactly a singer still but he’s charismatic enough to get away with it at their school talent show.

High school comes, and Corroded Coffin is revamped. New vibe, new members. He’s older now, a little more jaded with each rejection.

No one wants their EP, recorded by hand in Gareth’s garage onto cheap cassette tapes.

No venue will let them play, and Eddie knows that it’s probably because they’re in high school but hadn’t The Cure started in high school?

No one believes in them, trying to push them– especially Eddie– to consider more successful careers, safer paths.

But eventually, they book a regular gig at The Hideout and Eddie’s certain this is it. This is their big break. Until they play week after week, staring at the same five plastered faces every Tuesday. If they can prove themselves though, the owner will have to let them play on a Friday or Saturday.

He never does.

The final nail in the proverbial coffin comes after Eddie’s final senior year. Being accused of murder should have beefed up his credibility if nothing else– he’s already been traumatized, terrorized, and hunted like a goddamn dog, nevermind almost killed via hoard of angry mutant bats. Surely, he’ll catch at least one break.

And then the owner at The Hideout tells him he can’t play there anymore.

The hoards of people who still blame him for Chrissy Cunningham’s death are too much for him to manage himself and, in his words, Eddie’s driving away good business. His heart shatters, his breath catches, and Eddie leaves without a word because if he were to try to speak, all that would come out is either an enraged scream or a choked sob and Eddie doesn’t want to risk either.

He drives around aimlessly for an unknown amount of time, just circles around the outskirts of Hawkins. Maybe I’ll just leave, he thinks. Indianapolis might be far enough. Maybe Chicago. Fuck it, maybe Argyle and Jonathan can put me up for awhile in California. Eddie wants to go somewhere that makes him forget just how lost he is, how unwanted and forgotten he’s become. Being the social pariah is only fun when he’s making speeches on cafeteria tables, not when it boots him out of his one and only career path.

Somehow, he ends up in Loch Nora. He can’t face Wayne right now, he doesn’t want to bother Robin or Nancy, he’s already let Jeff, Gareth, and Freak down in the worst way imaginable, and if he goes to his mom’s or Chrissy’s tombstones with one more sob story, he’s afraid they’ll start haunting him. Steve’s become a friend over the last year or so it makes sense. Process of elimination and all of that.

He doesn’t have the mental bandwidth to realize that he’d started driving that way before he ruled everyone else out.

Steve welcomes him like he always does and offers him a beer, sitting with him in companionable silence on the couch as they watch Monty Python and The Holy Grail and laugh at the same parts. Eddie knows Steve can see that he’s upset but instead of asking questions Eddie isn’t ready to answer, he just sits a little closer with their thighs touching and one arm strewn over the back of the couch, just barely grazing Eddie’s shoulder.

The movie ends and Steve moves to switch the tape when Eddie finally speaks up.

“The Hideout kicked us out. Can’t play there anymore.”

Eddie sees Steve freeze from behind before turning, his eyebrows knitted together above his nose. “Are you fucking serious?”

He nods and sighs, lifting one hand to chew on this thumbnail as he looks at the wall beyond Steve.

“That’s bullshit, dude. Why? Because of the protestors or whatever?”

He nods again.

“Want me to go down there? I’ve still got my bat around here somewhere. It might be nice to swing at something that’s not trying to like, eat me.”

Eddie huffs a small laugh through his nose and meets Steve’s eyes, their righteous anger blending with his own as he sees Steve cross his arms over his chest. It’s hard not to stare.

“Well, then at least I wouldn’t be the only guy in this town wanted for murder.”

Steve shakes his head and just chooses another movie, Howard the Duck this time, before returning to his spot on the couch. It’s one of Eddie’s favorite movies but he can’t focus to save his life because Steve is even closer now, his arm draped fully across Eddie’s shoulders and creating a space for Eddie to easily just… rest. So he does.

The title sequence starts and Eddie’s head drops to the side, resting on Steve’s shoulder. It’s one of his favorites but he can’t follow the plot to save his life. All he can focus on is the way Steve’s fingers trace symptoms and shapes against the cotton of his tee shirt, and the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the feeling of Steve’s head leaning against the top of his.

“I had a new song and everything,” Eddie whispers, surprising both himself and Steve.

Steve hums and tightens his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, a ghost of a hug. “Play it for me sometime?”

All Eddie Munson has ever wanted to do is play music. And maybe he still can.

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nhothicket · 4 months

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Ever create a band au even though you cant draw instruments?

more info below the cut :>

Meet Bdubs, 38, stage name BdoubleO - Boomer is often mistaken for his first name, but is just another nickname for the pile. Infamous online, if it weren't for the fact that he makes disgustingly good music he would probably have more hate followers than genuine fans. The line between charming asshole and just asshole is one he fails to tread lightly most days, but he's mostly harmless. Let's just say the Bdoubleo could also stand for boorish. A bit of a sellout, but he enjoys what he does and many appreciate his extremely.. candid attitude. Best likened to a cartoon villain dressed as a rockstar, with the ego to match. (It's usually his unrelenting pretentiousness that gets him into Twitter spats.)

Thank you @foxden-frontier for always helping out with my stupid aus ^v^

Annoying at worst, unfortunately very charismatic at best. You could say he's a softie at heart, but that implies its at all difficult to spot. Once he's done "clapping back at all the haters", in person he's still got a temper (he thinks he has a bad boy reputation to uphold) but is enthusiastically friendly.

Etho, 32, resident keytarist of creatively named band Canadian Bacon. Joined by his two best friends, Pause the frontman and bassist, and Beef their drummer. A deceptively popular band if judging by their permanent rough draft name and their nerdy-college-student dress code. Etho himself is just a guy who likes playing music with his buddies, their hobby having blown up under their noses. Now, as an unfortunately successful touring artist, Etho's anonymity is scarce, but he continues to wear his mask to discourage widespread photos of his face. In spirit. He's concerned about having his face plastered all over fan accounts, which still occurs, but a perk of having a completely rabid fanbase is that many will defend your boundaries to their last dying breath. Like his face, his legal name is out and about online, but its similarly discouraged. Best likened to just a guy.

If asked on the subject of his scar, the entire band has various different whimsical stories, brand new everytime. His lack of internet presence means Pause and Beef are free to make up whatever misinformation about him as they please completely unchecked (in jest of course), and they do take advantage of that. Many of these alternative facts are passed around on wikis and in fan circles.

To say Bdubs is jealous of Canadian Bacon's popularity is an understatement. They weren't even trying at all and yet they're the hot shit? But instead of putting that jealousy to hatred (which he had considered of course) he's instead set himself on proving himself. And if that means impressing Etho then so be it. Why does it mean impressing Etho? Good question, never ask it again. They say keep your enemies close, and Bdubs' enemies don't deserve personal space.

As it turns out, Etho wasn't too difficult to impress or maybe Bdubs was just that amazing. Either way, they end up hitting it off. Their friendship is an interesting one, mostly because Etho's fans basically hunt Bdubs for sport online. We're talking scribbled out of pictures, get behind me, #FreeEtho. Etho thinks he seems pretty cool though, if not a bit much sometimes, so no harm no foul.

Okay, rapid fire, some other notes for this au.

> Etho's legal name is Ethel. Because it is. My heart is so set on it. But if you're boring, Ethan or Ezekiel or something work too I guess.

> Etho's keytar mimics a more traditional guitar in most cases, though he's known to experiment a lot with how far he can push that.

> Etho's scar is from a mugging in this au, not a very fun story to tell. Beef practicing his brand new razor blade throwing hobby or fighting a bear to beat Pause in a bet is much more entertaining.

> Canadian Bacon is meant to have a manager, but I couldn't think of anyone I felt fit. Just a note.

> Bdubs has a habit of grabbing Etho by his tie and pulling him down to his level or otherwise using it as a leash. Etho doesn't usually wear the tie outside of show stuff or interviews, but he wears it around Bdubs because thinks its funny. When there's no tie that doesn't stop Bdubs, collars and hoodie strings are subject to the same usage.

> Etho isn't aware of how infamous Bdubs is when they meet as they meet at a festival with a big group of other musicians. Most of which already know Bdubs as his more excitable friendly self. He only finds out later when Bdubs complains about Etho's fans flaming him anytime he mentions him.

> Bdubs still has a self-imposed curfew, 10pm every night unless it conflicts with a show. He needs his beauty sleep.

> The trigger reason for the animosity toward Bdubs is due to being blamed by fans for the split of his last band that had a pretty hardcore cult following (OOG, I've not named their band yet), and that has since snowballed into what it is today, despite his actions being relatively harmless. To note, this was not an assumption at all promoted by either party, it was entirely a fanmade judgement.

> For those who can, picture s5 jungle Bdubs mixed with drunken OOG(E) ctm maps for his approximate personality. Still goofy but with a sharper tongue and a lot worse of a temper.

> Originally I considered Cleo as Bdubs' manager so he's not all alone in narrative sense, I still think it's not a bad idea I'd love to see her chew him out for acting like a moron. Ren or Scar would be also be options for manager.

> Bdubs needs a touring band, but I'm not well versed enough in the hermits to actually pick one out. Just a note.

Okay, that's most of it! There's some more pg-13 headcanons for this au, along the lines of fuck yeah rock'n roll lifestyle, but it's not really important I'm sure just that is enough to get the gist of it. Thank you for reading this overly long note. ^v~

#Definitely expect more stupid aus - ive been having a lot of fun throwing them into random scenarios #ive been watching a lot of older bdubs content lately and ive been loving his attitude #band au #bdubs #etho #birdie art #birdie writing #bdoubleo #bdoubleo100 #hope i did the alt text right - let me know if it needs fixing #bdouble100 fanart #bdoubleo fanart #ethoslab fanart #etho fanart #ethoslab #hermitcraft fanart #divorce duo

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no-other-mashter · 10 days

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"Occupy My Mind So I Can't Speak"

Josh Kiszka x Male Reader

Warnings: M/M, degradation kink, spanking, oral (m rec), edging, denial, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, grinding, bondage, begging, sub Josh, bratty Josh, use of "slut" and "whore", choking (if you squint), cum eating

The stage lights shimmered as Josh strutted across the stage to the music, his energy infectious as he locked eyes with the crowd. His passion for the stage was undeniable; he belonged up there.

It all began innocently enough, with Josh's charismatic charm shining through as he interacted with the adoring fans. Blowing kisses and sharing hugs had always been a part of his act, a way to connect with the audience on a deeper level. But lately it had been different, a subtle shift in the air that hinted at something more.

The kisses were physical and seemed to linger, almost brushing the lips of the fans who reached out to him. Their cheers and screams fueled his daring behavior, emboldening him to push the boundaries further.

As he recognized a fan dressed in an outfit reminiscent of one of his own, a mischievous grin tugged at the corners of Josh's lips. "You're too cute," he playfully remarked. The fan's eyes widened in surprise, a blush dusting his cheeks at the unexpected attention.

"Are you single?" Josh then asked after a double take. He giggled to himself when the fans went wild and the next song began.

Despite the cheers and the pulsing music, Josh knew he was treading into dangerous territory with his playful antics. The thrill of the moment was intoxicating, though, and he paid no mind to any consequences he'd have later.

That was, until later came.

-------------------

Being the partner of a rockstar (and a particularly attractive one at that), you were used to Josh "flirting" with other people. It was part of the job, and something that didn't bother you much anymore.

However, sometimes Josh had a bit too much fun with his antics, and toed the line between "charming frontman" and "desperate whore". It was like a game to him, to see just how far he could go before you inevitably decided enough was enough and put him in his place.

And with how he'd been acting lately, you figured there was no better time to do so then now...

------------

"Aw, what's the matter Josh? Can't handle a little bit of suspense? Or... is it foreplay?" You teased, running your fingers down his exposed chest. He bit back a moan, his hips twitching with need.

You had tied his wrists to the headboard, keeping them above his head where he couldn't touch you, or himself. One of his silk scarves was being used as a blindfold, preventing him from knowing what you'd do next.

"C'mon, Y/N, just touch me already," Josh groaned, clearly annoyed with the teasing.

You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his exposed skin and sending a shiver down his spine. Your fingers trailed lightly along his jawline, down his neck, eliciting a low growl from deep within his chest.

"Patience, Josh," you purred.

With deliberate slowness, your touch roamed lower, tracing the contours of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

His body arched instinctively towards your touch, a silent plea for more, for the release of the tension that coiled tightly within him. But you were in control now, and Josh could one get what you gave him.

'Y'know, you've sure been running your mouth a lot lately, Joshua..." You began, dragging your fingertips closer to where he was already leaking onto his tummy, "Flirting with all those people, kissing them, showing yourself off to them... as if I'm not enough for you."

Josh opened his mouth, probably to object, but you shut him up by wrapping a hand around his cock, pulling a moan from him instead.

"Are you a slut, Joshua? I bet you think about what it'd be like to have all of their hands on you, don't you?" Each question was punctuated with a stroke of your hand, just enough to build tension, but not enough to help him reach that tipping point.

"Ah!- No, I just- Mm! I just like the attention!" He gasped out, writhing and clearly aching for more.

"So you're just an attention whore? So desperate for their eyes on you that you'll do anything... You know what that kind of attitude gets you, don't you?" You ask, letting go of his throbbing cock. The warmth of your touch replaced by the chill of the room as you reached up to free him from the headboard, leaving his wrists still bound together.

Just when you thought Josh would give in and listen, that cocky attitude returned, "No, I don't think I know..."

You sighed; it was clear that Josh still wanted to play this game.

"Turn over."

"Make me," Josh's response was petulant, stubborn, a clear indication that he was still willing to test the boundaries you had set.

Oh. So he REALLY wanted to push you.

"Fine then, if that's how you wanna be..."

You wrestled him onto his front, leaving his ass up in the air and his face buried in the pillow.

"You're getting seven swats. I better hear you count each one, or else I'll re-start. Got it?" You say, watching closely as he shuffles into a better position and nods.

The first smack always builds up anticipation. It's unexpected, and he has no idea how hard you were gonna make it. To his credit, he stayed quiet during the first three, only letting shaky numbers cross his lips.

On four, you brought your hand down on his other cheek, surprising him. He whined, arching into the touch.

"F-fuck! Four!"

"Good boy..."

Five and six were fast, one right after the other. You stroked the reddening skin for a moment, soothing it just a bit before bringing your hand down on his ass harder than before.

It was no secret that Josh was loud in bed. Hell, he's posted about it publicly before, no shame to be found. So when he moaned loud enough that you were sure the neighbors probably heard, you weren't surprised.

"Aaah! F-fuck!"

What did surprise you, was his apparent death wish.

"Are you d-done?"

Before Josh could say anything else, he was being manhandled and brought to his knees in front of you beside the bed. He squinted at the sudden change in light as you removed the blindfold, honey brown eyes meeting your own after a moment.

"I think I know a much better use for your mouth instead of talking back to me like a brat," you murmured, your voice low and commanding as you unbuttoned your jeans and pushed them off your hips, along with your boxers.

Without breaking eye contact, you threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly as a warning when he pulled back with a smirk. You guided his head forward, pausing only for a moment.

"If you need to pull away, tap three times, okay?" Your voice was softer now, breaking from the scene to check on him.

"Yeah, I know."

Having confirmed he was still all for this, you gave it to him just how he wanted it, making him gag as you fucked his throat.

Normally, you were careful when Josh sucked you off, not wanting to injure his throat or mess up his singing voice. This time, though, he had a month before the next show, plenty of time to get his voice back. So you went all out. Spit ran down his chin, and when he wasn't gasping and gagging, he was moaning, eyes rolling back when you'd go particularly deep.

Josh Kiszka was beautiful up on stage, there was no denying that. He was in his element in front of a crowd of cheering fans, dressed to the nines in glitz and glamor. But he was also beautiful like this, on his knees, hair a mess and teary eyed as he swallowed you down.

You felt three taps on your ankle, and you let go, watching as he pulled back and gasped in air. His voice was wrecked when he spoke, low and raspy where it usually wasn't.

"Please..." He mumbled, clearly aching to cum.

"Aw, you feeling needy, baby?" You ask, pulling him back up to the bed. You kiss his knees, red from kneeling, before trailing your kisses up his thigh to where he needed you most, "No touching, okay?"

He kept his bound hands above his head as you finally wrapped your lips around his aching length, grinning when he gasped and did his best to not thrust his hips up. As you hummed around him, savoring the taste of his skin, you could feel his impending release hovering on the edge. You traced a path down his throbbing length, teasing a vein along the side of his cock. The sensation was like a jolt of electricity, and, in a moment of weakness, Josh's fingers tangled in your hair.

But you were in control, not him. As soon as he sought to anchor you in place, you pulled away, a smirk playing on your lips as you watched his reaction. Josh's body jerked in response, frustration clear on his face as he was edged once again.

"Tsk-tsk, I said no touching, Josh. You haven't been a good enough boy to earn that yet."

"Just let me fucking cum, Y/N!" He groaned, still whining like a brat.

"You really want that? You think you deserve it?" You ask, an idea popping into your head, "Fine then. Cum whenever you want."

Josh was clearly not expecting the sudden shift, but it didn't matter when you spat into your palm and began jerking him off once more. Having been denied so many times already, the sensation was almost too much to bear.

"C-close! I'm so close!" His voice was strained, a plea laced with desperation. He half-expected you to pull away again, but this time, there was no teasing retreat, no denial of his release. Instead, you maintained the steady rhythm of your hand, driving him relentlessly towards that long-awaited peak.

Josh's head fell back, and his chest heaved with each hitched breath, the flush of arousal spreading across his skin like a wildfire. His hands clenched into fists above his head, fingers flexing with the need to touch, to grasp onto something—anything—to ground himself.

"Fuck! Y/N!"

Josh spilled all over your hand and his tummy, his whole body trembling after being denied so many times. When you kept going after he was spent, Josh realized what you had meant.

"I- I can't go again..." He whined, the pleasure turning into overstimulation.

"Color?"

"Green."

"I think you've got one more in you, Josh..." You reply, pressing a kiss to his lips before climbing into his lap. He had just a moment of respite before you were rutting your cock against his, the sensation pushing you slowly closer to your own peak.

Every nerve in his body was alight, every sense heightened to the point of exquisite torture.Tears ran down his cheeks but his expression was one of pleasure, a silent plea for more, for everything you could give him.

"Y/N, don't stop! I'm so close again! I- I'm gonna cum again!" He babbled, his words melding into a mix of your name and please.

"Cum for me, Josh," you order, watching as he arches his back and lets go, his eyes rolling back into his head. The sight pushes you over the edge as well, your release mixing with his.

You both sat back to catch your breath, drenched in sweat and various other fluids. Josh was limp under you, completely worn out. You took two fingers, dragging them through the mess on his tummy before bringing them up to his lips.

"Open."

He obeyed, opening his mouth. You pressed your fingers into his mouth, grinning when he obediently sucked them clean.

"Good boy, Josh..."

He whines against your fingers, his cock giving one last valiant twitch where it lay soft against him. Once your fingers were clean, you untied his hands, kissing the red marks left on his wrists. You trailed the kisses up to his lips, pulling the covers over you both.

You'd finish cleaning up later. For now, you just wanted to take a nap with your favorite person...

#greta van fleet #greta van fic #greta van fleet fic #josh kiszka #josh kiszka smut #josh kiszka fic #josh kiszka x reader

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theangrycomet-art · 4 months

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Sonic Underground Reprise: Jackal Squad

Sonic Underground🤝 Sonic Forces; cool premise with potential, bad execution

Order from Left to Right: Quatre, Trois, Duex, Uno, and Vee/Zero/Infinite

Notes:

nomadic, with several bases across the region

their numbers are code names, though they all prefer these to their real names

the five grew up in Madame Fairweather's Sanctuary for Troubled Boys until they ran away together (roughly 10 years ago)

they would throw eachother off a cliff but if anyone else messses with them they are roadkill

100% success rate for their missions

Not Pro-Robotnik, not Anti-Robonik, but a secret 3rd thing (Pro-Getting-Paid)

Occasionally hired by the Azcan tribe for assistance

Uno

22, he/him

medic

weapon of choice: shuriken

Frontman, new clients believe Uno is the leader

Vee/Zero's right hand man, the one he goes to for advice

the most levelheaded of the group

mediator

charismatic, could talk you out of your shoes

the mom friend (to his sqaud only)

Duex

21, they/he

the explosives specialist

weapon of choice: explosive, hatchet

lost their right ear as a child as "punishment" for accidentally breaking a stain glass window

blew themself on their last mission, hence the bandages (their fine)

pyromaniac

he's like Vinny from Atlantis

Trois

18, she/her (trans)

tech expert, locksmith

weapon of choice: custom blaster

low tolerance for active stupidity/liars

tends to fiddle with what ever her latest project is when idle

gets very excited to show her skills/projects

easily frustrated when her devices/plan don't work, but unbearably smug when they do

break her stuff and she will break you

Quatre

14, he/him

the wild card

weapon of choice: twin energy(?) daggers

no filter/calls it like he sees it

a bit of a klepto, the others don't care as long as he's not stealing from them and doesn't screw up the mission

excitable and reckless, often has to be pulled out scrapes, usually Vee

Do NOT call him the baby, he will steal your kneecaps

daggers were a gift from Vee after his first successful solo mission

Vee/Zero

19, he/him

"the Boss", tank

weapon of choice: scarlet scimitar

Vee was Zero's original codename, but he changes it to Zero when his squad's killed

best cook of the group

selfish bastard, always has to be the one to finish off the fight

possessive, very protective of what's his (or what he views to be his)

this includes his squad

heterochromia, though his right eye was damaged as a child during an attempted kidnapping

red onyx necklace was a gift from his boyfriend (part of a matching set)

#Sonic #STH #Sonic the Hedgehog #Sonic Underground Reprise #Sonic Underground #Sonic Forces #Jackal Squad #Infinite the Jackal #Zero the Jackal #Quatre the Jackal #Trois the Jackal #Duex the Jackal #Uno the Jackal #Character Redesign #TheAngryComet ART #Headcannons #AU Lore

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2af-afterdark · 4 months

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William Rex

The FACTS:

He's our charismatic frontman, Will. Quite persuasive with words, he'll tempt you to indulge in everything bad.

An Interview with William Rex

Check out this special exclusive with Crown's Top Member.

"Ah, how tragic. I might be so heartbroken that I’d commit a murder…"

Meet the Voice of William: Shinnosuke Tachibana

Known for roles in series such Black Butler & Honkai: Star Rail!

"The way he enjoys playing these kinds of games with people makes him a very interesting and appealing character."

#ikemen villains

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ghoulez-vous · 1 year

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𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐎

Terzo has returned from a world tour with thousands of adoring fans. However, his insecurities have caught up with him. Fortunately, his beloved Sibling of Sin has taken notice.

I received a request from a friend asking for hurt and comfort with Terzo x GN!Reader so of course I had to deliver! I’ve never written any Ghost fanfiction before so it was a lot of fun.

The AO3 link is here.

Full text is below the cut.

Word Count: 1.2k

It was the day after the grand after party of the most recent ritual tour, and you had finally been granted permission to be relieved from your duties for an evening. Terzo was an exceptionally busy man, and despite his hangover and exertion from servicing you all night after his return, had been expected to return to his duties immediately. This had, of course, taken an unfortunate toll. Although he was viewed as the most flamboyant Papa to date, he was also the most anxious. Any form of criticism affected him greatly, in particular when the source was from within The Clergy itself.

They were utterly ruthless.

You had used your spare key to inspect his private quarters in an attempt to find the man but it was to no avail. His room was utterly pristine, as clean as it had been when he had left for the tour. There was no sign of his presence.

If he was not in his private room, you knew precisely where he would be: the small ritual room where you had first met him as a new sibling.

“Terzo?”

Your voice resonated throughout the frigid room, windows carelessly left open despite the forming chill outside. Gentle taps resounded as you took careful steps towards the dark bundle in the corner that quivered rhythmically in the distance. As you drew closer, the vague twitches slowed until they had dissipated entirely.

“Amore.” A voice croaked out in the darkness, pale features only illuminated by the moonlight that fell from beyond the withdrawn curtains. “Please, leave me be. I am fine.” His words were shaky and meek, the opposite of that which were the trademark of the charismatic frontman. Terzo’s reassurance was formed with the aim of two purposes: to comfort you, and to convince himself that he was indeed alright. However, his quivering lip and anguished gaze did little to support his attempt at comfort.

“Oh, Terzo…” Closing the distance between you both, you crouched down and sat beside him, caring little for the dust that gathered upon your garments. “Let me hold you, yes?”

Strands of raven hair were drawn through your fingers, massaging his scalp rhythmically. His stiff demeanour immediately lifted as he collapsed in your arms, melting at even the simplest of touch. A soft hum left his lips as his cheek laid upon your chest, listening silently to your paced breathing and the sound of your heartbeat. His hand raised to touch your own, his face shifting silently so that he could kiss your palm softly. The faint dampness of his drying tears could not be ignored. You bundled up your sleeve in your hand to dry his eyes.

How long had he been here for?

“Is it your duties?” You queried, brow furrowed as you continued your motions.

“Si, tesoro…” He paused, his tone muffled against your palm. Although he wished to blurt out his concerns, his fear of retaining his position as Papa Emeritus III, he drove them further within himself. “I missed you, amore.”

“And I missed you too, Papa.” You leaned down to kiss his forehead gently. Although it felt impossible, he somehow melted even more in your arms, his weight falling further into you. “You don’t need to speak. Just let me hold you, yes?”

He shifted upwards, drawing you closer until his neck fell upon your shoulder, his ragged breath hit against your exposed skin. Soft lips fell upon your neck, a tender gesture despite his delicate state. You were his solace. No other individual had noticed his internal conflict nor considered visiting him once he had served his responsibilities as Papa Emeritus III.

For now, he was simply Terzo, disarmed in your loving embrace.

As he pulled away, you cupped his cheek in your hand. His skull paint was smudged, no longer laid with pristine care. Every feature on his skin was utterly familiar to you, each crevice of aging skin memorised by your deft hands. He was not the young Cardinal you had met years prior, but Papa Emeritus III, following in the footsteps of his older siblings. His idols had been brandished as failures; Primo was too lackadaisical, Secondo had been far too indulgent and lost his way.

He was on his own, with no one to truly guide him. His brothers offered support and their own advice, but what good were they when they had been disgraced in being removed from the title of head Papa?

Without speaking, you leaned down to give him a tender kiss, your free hand running through his loose hair. His faint hum was stifled against your lips, lifting his head to draw you closer to him. It was rare for him to be so meek. Typically, he would drag you closer and hungrily nip at your lips until they parted, slipping his tongue inside to taste you as swiftly as he could. For now, your body was nestled upon his own, sharing each other’s warmth in a chaste manner. The rise and fall of your chests was shared, a sign that you were both present in this tender moment.

A sign of reassurance.

Tonight, however, he was vulnerable. He had abandoned any concern of displaying weakness before a Sibling of Sin, a fellow member of the clergy. You were his, and he was yours. It was only natural that you would support each other in your times of need.

“Amore mio,” Your lips parted briefly as Terzo began to speak. “Do you think I am… enough, si? That is, I serve The Ministry well?” His glassy mismatched eyes sought your own, desperately seeking your answer. Although he gave his all during the rituals, he was aware that he did not meet his quota at the abbey itself. He was far too easily distracted from The Message, the trademark of a hedonist. You had inadvertently returned him to the path expected of him, but the scornful eyes of those in power behind the curtains were inescapable.

Was it too late for him?

The more youthful Cardinal was essentially his prodigy, hot-blooded and primed to step upon the stage.

His copy.

A cold chill descended his spine.

“Terzo.”

Your sweet, familiar voice rose above his panicked thoughts. His heart, pounding with anxiety, soon slowed as you stroked the back of his neck, peppering kisses all over his jawline, cheeks, and finally his nose.

Terzo could not help but chuckle at the black paint that now stained your lips and lower face, leaning forward to nuzzle you once more. White makeup was now blotched above the black paint, staining it a slate grey.

“Oh, tesoro, what would I ever do without you?” He hummed, voice little more than a hushed whisper.

“Do not even think about that, Terzo.” You smiled sweetly, pressing a lazy kiss against his lips. “I will never leave your side.”

He could not help but laugh at your endearing words, his throat longer raspy from the tears he had shed prior.

“I trust you, amore.” Terzo smiled, his trepidation no more. “Per sempre.”

#the band ghost #ghost band #papa emeritus iii x reader #terzo x reader #papa emeritus iii #character x reader #ghost fanfiction #my writing

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totallyfuckd · 2 years

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Hedi Slimane: London Birth of a Cult, 2005.

"So, over the past year Pete Doherty's life has epitomised the trajectory of a true rock 'n' roll legend. Following a fraught departure from The Libertines, he has been vilified and cast as a scapegoat for conservative political posturing. A feeding frenzy of press coverage was precipitated by his dating Kate Moss, charges of robbery, blackmail, and carrying a knife, jail time, rehab, and also admissions that he had been a prostitute and drug dealer. All of this overwhelms the most interesting aspect of the 26 year old musician's life. In a business dominated by manufactured mediocre talents, he is a true original, a charismatic frontman, songwriter, and performer. So the past two years of Doherty's life are captured here in photographs taken by Dior Homme fashion designer Hedi Slimane."

#hedi slimane #photography #pete doherty #the libertines #babyshambles #london birth of a cult

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freddieraimbow74 · 1 month

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From Bohemian Rhapsody to Live Aid: Delve into the enigmatic world of Freddie Mercury’s stage persona and its profound impact on millions of fans.

Freddie Mercury was one of the greatest showmen in rock history. As the frontman of Queen, he commanded the stage with captivating energy and presence. But Mercury’s stage persona was more than just flashy costumes and theatrics – it was a powerful combination of factors that allowed him to form deep, universal connections with audiences worldwide. Through his flamboyant style, commanding stage presence, ability to convey emotions through music, challenge of stereotypes, and authentic vulnerability, Mercury transcended barriers of language and culture to resonate profoundly with millions of diverse fans. His timeless performances and music ensured his legacy would live on with new generations.

Flamboyant and Theatrical

Mercury embraced theatricality in a way that broke conventions of typical rockstar personas. He was never afraid to push boundaries with bold, flamboyant costumes and makeup. Whether wearing a simple tank top and jeans at Live Aid or an extravagant outfit like his famous white unitard and crown, Mercury brought a striking visual spectacle to every performance. This theatrical flair added an element of surprise, excitement, and fun that kept audiences engaged.

His costumes allowed him to inhabit different characters and personas on stage. For songs like “Bohemian Rhapsody”, he could become the tragic opera singer. Ballads like “Love of My Life” saw him transform into a romantic crooner. High-energy anthems like “We Will Rock You” brought out his rockstar alter-ego. Through these visual transformations, Mercury brought each song vividly to life.

His flamboyant style broke away from the more masculine norms typically associated with rock music at the time. By embracing his individuality unapologetically, Mercury challenged conventions and inspired others to do the same. His bold self-expression resonated deeply with those who felt like outsiders in society.

Commanding Stage Presence

Beyond costumes, Mercury owned the stage through his dynamic physicality and vocal prowess. He prowled the stage with feline grace and power, gyrating his hips, dropping to his knees, and throwing his entire body into each performance. Through intricate dance moves, flashy leaps between bandmates, and climactic poses, he commanded total attention.

Mercury also connected intimately with audiences through eye contact, facial expressions, and animated gestures that brought songs vividly to life. He wasn’t afraid to get silly, playful, or even outrageous at times to keep the energy high. Whether singing to one fan or conducting a whole stadium of arms, his charismatic presence drew people in.

Vocally, Mercury possessed a four-octave range that allowed him to tackle any style, from opera to rock to ballads. He poured his whole being into emotive, nuanced performances that left audiences in awe. Through his powerful vocals and physicality, Mercury transformed the music into a true spectacle. Audiences were captivated by his commanding stage energy and showmanship.

Universal Connection through Music

While language barriers exist, the universal language of music allows emotional connections to transcend them. Queen’s songs resonated with audiences globally through their anthemic melodies, lyrics exploring universal human themes, and Mercury’s passionate delivery. Songs like “Bohemian Rhapsody”, “We Are the Champions”, “Don’t Stop Me Now” and “We Will Rock You” have become modern classics beloved across cultures.

Mercury amplified the emotional impact of Queen’s music through his animated performances. He poured all of himself – joy, sorrow, rebellion, passion – into every note. Audiences felt what he was feeling. This authentic emotional expression is what allowed Mercury to form deep, personal bonds with fans despite any linguistic divides. People everywhere could relate to the feelings conveyed through Queen’s music and Mercury’s delivery of it.

Breaking Stereotypes

In his flamboyant style and rejection of masculine rockstar norms, Mercury challenged societal expectations of gender and sexuality. By unabashedly being himself on stage, he inspired countless fans who felt like outsiders to embrace their true selves. His message of individuality resonated strongly, especially with the LGBTQ community who saw in him a pioneering figure of self-acceptance.

Mercury never confirmed nor denied his sexuality publicly. But through his flamboyant persona and lyrics addressing relationships in ambiguous terms, he allowed space for open interpretation. This likely contributed to his broad appeal – he gave permission for people of all walks of life to see themselves in him and find community through Queen’s music. By breaking stereotypes, Mercury transcended barriers and brought more kinds of fans together.

Vulnerability and Authenticity

Despite the theatricality of his performances, Mercury also conveyed genuine vulnerability. He sang emotional ballads like “Love of My Life” and “Bohemian Rhapsody” with a raw passion that laid his soul bare. Audiences could feel his authentic emotive connection to the music. This deep vulnerability is what allowed such profound bonds to form between performer and fans.

Mercury never spoke at great length about his personal life, but his performances spoke volumes. Fans felt they truly knew him through how openly and authentically he expressed himself in music. This intimacy he formed with audiences, combined with his talent and charisma, elevated him beyond just an entertainer – he became a friend and idol to millions worldwide. His authenticity is what cemented his legacy.

Timeless Music and Legacy

Queen’s music, and Mercury’s performances of it, have transcended eras to remain beloved worldwide. Their anthemic rock operas like “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “A Night at the Opera” broke conventions but still sound fresh today. Mercury’s emotive vocals and Queen’s catchy melodies ensure their music will continue finding new fans.

Through the 2018 biopic “Bohemian Rhapsody” that grossed over $900 million globally, Mercury’s story and talent have inspired a new generation. His messages of individuality, passion for music, and embrace of outsiders are just as relevant today. By authentically being himself and pouring his soul into performances, Mercury formed deep, universal connections that have kept his legacy alive for decades after his tragic death. His timeless artistry and influence will undoubtedly continue to inspire for generations to come.

In conclusion, Freddie Mercury’s stage persona was so much more than just flashy costumes or theatrics. It was a powerful combination of factors – theatrical flair, commanding presence, ability to convey emotions through music, challenge of stereotypes, and authentic vulnerability – that allowed him to transcend barriers and resonate profoundly with millions worldwide. Through passionate performances that poured his full being into every note, Mercury formed intimate bonds with diverse fans and cemented his status as one of rock’s greatest icons. His messages of passion, individuality, and inclusion continue inspiring people globally through Queen’s enduring music and legacy. ♥️

#freddie mercury #queen band #brian may #jhon deacon #roger taylor #musique #queen #music #original character #j’adore

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