#drummer crush

[totallytwitterpated]

Stewart Copeland, drummer for The Police

[totallytwitterpated]

Keith Moon of The Who

[gregorovitch-adler]

Translation: Junior, I have told you several times that Lily prefers to be single, remember?

Lily is the new aroace icon. That's all.

[princessbrunette]

drummer!pope

— the moodboard ♡

[dms-a-jem]

Happy Birthday Stewart Armstrong Copeland!

July 16, 1952

[totallytwitterpated]

😍😍😍😍

[cladestruction]

the way his face chaged,,, my poor boy 🫂🫂🫂

[sirbogarde]

Fumbled the bag last time (my autistic ass went for a handshake when the middle aged drummer in a local band I have a crush on went for a hug) but learned from my mistakes and went in for the hug this time 🙏👍

[totallytwitterpated]

Keith Moon of The Who

???? WHY DID HE DO THIS???

[anidiotwithfanfiction]

An excerpt from a Nickles fic I'm scraping.

I'm still writing one, this just isn't what I want for it.

Warning for very brief gore

A scream rips through the room, the sound sending a shiver up the singers spine.

He's used to blood and guts.

Gore and viscera.

It's a casual, horrific delight he's grown numb to.

It's like chaos seems to follow him.

Ever in his shadows, just a step behind.

It's strange, how seldom shock comes to him.

But as the pretty little redhead on screen gets ripped to shreds, something in him stirs.

The fear in those vivid green eyes. Her flushed freckled cheeks splattered with crimson.

And it isn't real. It's just some shitty movie banned in just about every country for 'graphic material'. The plot's not even that engaging.

But Nathan, he's really connected with this character.

She's sloppy, abrasive, sexy and witty. She hot, man.

The ideal girl really, even if she makes for a shit protagonist. Not meant to appeal, not meant to connect with the audience. You're supposed to feel some kind of catharsis as she's slain, that's what the critics say at least. But as white knuckles grip a little tighter at the cushioned arm rest, all Nathan can process is this sort of profound grief.

He didn't want her to die.

The credits roll, the rest of the band shuffles to their feet. Murderface snoring obnoxiously. At least that was better than the first half of the movie, in which he had spent it interrupting every five second to say how lame it was. Skwisgaar stretched, and it wasn't hard to see the way Tokis eyes immediately glanced down to the patch of flesh revealed as his shirt rode up. The Norwegian's face flushing red.

And Nathan was a bit slow. He could be dense at times.

But everyone excluding the pair noticed how head over heels the two were for each other.

It made him want to cringe. He hoped if he ever fell to the same fate someone would give him the courtesy to at least smack him out of it.

But despite how much the band has hinted to the two their obvious feelings for one another, they never seemed to get it. Like to love or be loved was so out of the realm of possibility for either, that the concept simply didn't exist to them.

Cold digits glide atop his hand. Realizing he's still clawing at the poor seat, he relinquishes his grasp.

Looking over, those friendly green eyes look through him. He doesn't have to say anything, Nathan knows what that look means.

"It's nothing" he mumbles, standing up with the rest. Pickles follows him, his hand sliding down to the small of the singers back. He hides it, not that he needs to. With Murderface asleep and Skwisgaar and Toki in the same room as one another, they might as well be halfway across the country.

Red dreads brush against his shoulder, a shudder running through him. Barely above a whisper the drummer asks

"Drinks?"

He pulls back, and Nathan turns a bit too quick. Their faces close. He brushes off the jump in his stomach, it can be nerve wracking. He's lived so much of his life isolated. Being around others like this would always be new to him. It was an even greater leap to get accustomed to Pickles. The guy was just so touchy. He's like that with everyone. As though he's starved for the slightest bit of physical contact.

Nathan shakes his head, shelving those thoughts. It's small enough to go unnoticed, even under that perplexing glare.

"Hell yes" he smiles.

"What'd ya think of tha movie?" The red head asks before taking a puff of the blunt. They've shuffled off to his room, leaving the others to themselves.

"Was pretty shitty. I mean, the plot made no sense"

Pickles chuckles as he passes the bud.

"Dood I know, like, why'd they have that five minute shot of tha fucking church that literally never came up again?"

"Who the fuck picked the movie this week?"

"I think it was Skwisgaar, somethin bout tha gore being really good"

Nathan's stomach churns. It was a little too good.

"That chick was hot though" it slips. It's not like it's something they avoid talking about, hot bitches come up pretty often in this lifestyle. But as of late, he's done his best to avoid the topic around his drummer.

He can't put his finger on it, but the conversation always steers... somewhere else.

"Which one? The brunette chick? She was okay" he hits a bong at his bedside. The singer jolts a bit, quickly taking a puff of the blunt before passing it back.

He watches as clouds of white pour elegantly from those plump pink lips.

"No, I mean yeah I'd do her-"

There's a glint in those green eyes as Pickels cuts him off

"The redhead" the tip of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, prominent canines pressing against it.

"Seems about right" he teases.

"She was hot dude"

"I think yew've just got a thing for redheads"

"I've got a thing for women, okay" the singer refutes. "Hot, sexy women."

The drummer rolls his eyes "Hey nobody's objecting ta that" he raises his shot glass, with a heavy handed pour of scotch. Nathan looks down, not surprised to see the same awaiting him in the drummers other hand.

He takes it, rough hands lingering a moment too long.

They clink their glasses and throw the shots back.

Bottles are scattered across the room by now, a deadly mix for your average Joe. But Nathan's still got his wits about him.

For the most part, anyways.

Pickles has been doing double time, it's impossible to keep up with the guy, and the singer gave up a while ago. No one can out drink him, and back when he used to try... well things didn't end up so well.

But that was many years and many E.R visits ago. Now the singer knows his limit. Not that he adheres to it, but he knows.

And on the fourth bottle of bourbon, he's quickly approaching it.

Between the liquor and the weed, he's struggling to stay upright. Resigning himself to sprawling out on the drummers bed. It's comfortable, even if the decor in here screams '80s rockstar'.

Pickles passes him the joint, how weed always magically appears in the guys hand, still evades the singer.

He pulls slow, feeling the smoke clamber down his throat. His lungs expanding, filling with the intoxicant. The hum of the t.v quiets, the shitty sitcom they've got playing fades into the background. The drumming of the singers heart comes into focus.

It's soothing, a steady beat comforting him as he tunes the world out.

He's fucked up.

He was shitfaced five drinks ago, green out of his mind three joints back.

It wasn't something he was unaccustomed to.

But shit, this was intense.

Probably the strain, or maybe even the Vodka, but right now, he was out of it.

A cold hand taps on his shoulder, and his eyes dart to the redhead. Those pretty lips are moving, but he's not taking in a whisper of it.

The freckled hand is back, snapping in front of his eyes. He blinks, hard and slow. Tries a little harder to listen.

"Are ya deaf?"

"Huh?" Glazed over greens match the drummers, as Nathan grounds himself a bit.

"I said are ya fuckin deaf, jeez dood" he seems so exacerbated.

"No... no." He shakes his head, scooting closer to where the drummer lies beside him.

"Just fucked up is all" he manages, slurring only half of his words.

He can't help as his head falls to the redheads shoulder. Too far gone to notice the way the man jolts. Chilly bare arms wrap around his frame, pulling him closer.

"Cahm here, let mama Pickles take care a' ya"

He nuzzles his face against the worn black fabric of the drummers shirt. His cheeks brushing against flushed skin.

"Soft..." He mumbles, more to himself than the room.

And that icy hand is gripping his waist just a bit tighter, pulling him in. They're pressed together now, Nathan cradling the drummer, his cool flesh like the cold side of a pillow. Refreshing, calming, intoxicating.

"Mm just gonna take a nap"

"Yew do that buddy" he can hear the smile in his voice.

"So fucking comfortable" he mutters, burying his face into the drummers chest. Breathing in that sweaty smoke stained musk. His ear propped to his chest, he listens to the drummers heartbeat. The quick pace soothing, as he drifts off.

[totallytwitterpated]

I have a thing for drummers (I am also a drummer, so naturally I gravitate to them)…& this hot drummer died way too soon. Keith Moon, you are sorely missed!

[totallytwitterpated]

Keith Moon of The Who

Keith and animals

[jepaullover]

Everyone’s so done with my shit lmfao

[dgaftilwedie]

hai gang im back like 5 hours later here is the roster in question

[mistakenlyfoundnico]

You're learning guitar so you can impress potential spouses? That's cool, I'm learning guitar because i saw one headcanon of saiki knowing how to play guitar and i couldnt shake the idea of being a guitarist in an all queer and trans band called the dark reunion as i base my entire personality off of saiki.