#i will still draw bands and musicians

[beagle-amarelo]

Hey there! My name is Marisa but you may also know me as Beagle Amarelo, and I moved blogs. I used to be on @beagleamarelos-moved , but that was a sideblog and I wanted to make this art blog my main blog.

Right now I'm setting up this blog and working on following everyone, and I'm also doing this post to present myself to those who already know me and those who might find me while wandering through Tumblr.

I'm a 29 year old Brazilian artist who is also an IT office worker, but who never stopped drawing and dreaming. I love old music, old culture, animals, bugs, plants and nature and I absolutely love drawing.

I hope you guys enjoy the art I will share on this blog and hope it helps me in my art career! I'm still working on ways to get an income as an artist, still haven't figured it out, but I'm on my way :-)

So yeah, I'll see you guys around in my next posts!! :D

[fabdante]

1, 13, and 21 for the music ask!

Thank you so much for the ask!! (Ask meme here!)

1.) A Song you Like with a Color in the Title

Blue Lips by Regina Spektor

This was the first song I could remember with a color in the title dfghjkl

13.) One of your Favorite 80s Songs

Touch Me I'm Sick by Mudhoney

We gotta go with one of the early defining grunge songs that became such a thing to the local scene that it got parodied in Singles (also possibly one of the first grunge songs I heard)

21.) A Favorite Song with a Persons Name in the Title

AGNES BY GLASS ANIMALS

Pls excuse my excitement asdfghj Agnes is like one of my absolutely all time favorite songs and I am a Glass Animals girlie so I get excited when I get to mention Agnes asdfghj It's just so...everything about it. Just everything about it. It's so beautiful and haunting and the lyrics are so good and it's just so...literally i want to shake everyone who's mean about Glass Animals because they hate Heat Waves and be like have you HEARD Agnes??????? like literally I'm sorry I'm rambling I'm a spited Glass Animals girlie sdfghjkl but like Look. Look. How to be a Human Being is one of my all time favorite albums and Agnes is just such a beautiful song everyone listen to Agnes dfghjkl

None of that was coherent I just like I really love Agnes. It's such a touching, bittersweet, melancholy song

[its-not-rainingg]

[ambreiiigns]

i'm tired of drawing generic ghouls. we are moving on to designing the specific band ghouls. who's shitting their pants in excitement abt it (me)

[greatunironic]

eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.

so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.

he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.

because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.

eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.

(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)

when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”

then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?

he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.

“you’re alive,” she says.

eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”

“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”

he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.

“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.

“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—

“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.

“maybe not.”

“don’t lie.”

“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”

“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”

“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”

“speaking from experience?”

“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”

“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“

“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”

“at the frozen four.”

“yeah, sure, that too.”

“what?”

“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”

“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”

“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.

eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”

“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”

“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.

the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”

“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.��

steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“

“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“

“so,” says steve.

“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.

“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”

“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”

“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”

“coach! go time!”

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“COACH!”

he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta — but, uh, later?”

“pick me up in twenty?”

“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.

someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”

with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.

“damn,” he says quietly.

“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.

“how long have you been there?” he asks.

she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”

“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”

“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.

[chisatowo]

Uh oh *accidentally makes more splatoon ocs*

[ms-demeanor]

Also I have to say "but bands are using AI art for their album covers" is not a winning argument.

That band wasn't going to pay you. That band was going to beg somebody's artist brother for a freebie or they were going to have the people in the band who can kind of draw draw something or they were going to use a moody photo someone took with their cellphone. Best possible scenario is "they were going to trade for something from someone in the scene," and this is still the most likely scenario for bands that *give a shit* about that kind of thing.

And I've been the one doing freebie artwork for my musician friends; I've made album covers and done promo shoots, I've drawn logos and I've got a standing offer to make buttons for the cost of materials for every band I've ever played a show with. The people who give a shit in the scene are already doing this because everybody knows that everybody's broke.

I'm certain that there's not *zero* overlap between "bands that can afford to pay artists and photographers to create album artwork" and "bands that are using AI art for their album covers" but if you think "indie musician" is a demographic that has money to spare on commissioned artwork, I'm pretty sure you're mistaken.

Like. Okay, I mean my *big* argument is that AI image generation is fair use, full stop.

But the secondary argument that I've got is that I'm not sure there's a market to have the bottom fall out of.

The person making shitty covers for their amazon romance novel was not going to pay you. They were going to pay someone on fiverr eight dollars *at best* and that's only if they couldn't find a way to DIY.

That band that's trying desperately to sell ten tickets so they can play a show at the cool venue was not going to pay you to do their cover art. Their last fifty bucks just went to covering those tickets because their friends aren't even coming to their free shows. They were going to stage a photoshoot with a cellphone and a timer and someone's sister's selfie stick.

That person who made an AI avatar was not going to pay you for a custom avatar they were going to take a screenshot of your work and use that.

The people who are able to afford to pay artists and who are interested in paying artists are not the people who are replacing artists with AI. The t-shirt dropshippers, the shitty book cover designers, the bland corporate artists, and the art reposting instagram pages were the ones who undercut your market.

If you're concerned that someone is going to use AI to make art that is materially similar to yours and sell it, you're just concerned that someone is going to make art that is materially similar to yours to sell. The concerns about AI doing it are functionally exactly the same as what happens when someone says "wow, I want that on a t-shirt" under your drawing. If someone were to draw a character similar to but distinct from yours with words similar to but distinct from yours and put a link to that on a reblog of your post, that person is not actually infringing on you. They're a shithead, but that's not actually art theft. If they used your character and your words, or if they directly copy the image, that's art theft and you can try to get their post taken down. It's the exact same thing with AI.

The people who care about art and can afford to pay for it are always going to pay for it. Your problem isn't with AI, your problem is with the fact that people don't value art and that's as true now as it was a decade ago.

You are trying to sell a complicated, crocheted sundress made with 100% hand-dyed alpaca wool on Etsy and are complaining that the loose knit acrylic sundress from walmart is undercutting your market. Some people are always going to make the effort to save up and pay for your work because they value the craftsmanship, but those people didn't want to shop at WalMart in the first place. And the ones who value your craftsmanship but just plain can't afford it were going to dig through the bins at a thrift store until they found a crocheted swim cover from the seventies that they could pass off as a dress with a few alterations.

[bloominheresy]

After being inspired by Kj's Band AU months back, I have decided to also throw my hat into the rink! (👉ﾟヮﾟ)👉

I only have Narinder and Leshy's streetwear designed so far, but anyways!! Lore drop time YYYYEAAAAH

An Eternal Vessel for a Voice AU ( Bishops ):

Legally recognized foster family, all used to live in one house until a few years prior to the current timeline

Shamura the eldest sibling, estimated 35 yrs old, is the founder of their own rapidly growing tech company. They used to be a super popular anonymous producer online but retired to pursue the challenge of technological innovations + support their siblings as the main breadwinner of the family

Kallamar (30-ish) used to work at a private clinic as a doctor and also supported the household, but has since parted from the household to watch over Heket

Heket at her early twenties is currently touring the lands and is a well-renowned vocalist known for her deep and powerful growls and control (think Ado!); doesn't want to return home just yet in order to heal from the rift caused by a certain event

Leshy (18) is still a high schooler on his last year; one of those 'stupidly smart without studying' type of kids who has too much free time on his hands and uses it to indulge himself in art and anime weeb stuff HAHAHA he got gifted a drawing tablet by Kallamar for his birthday and has been obsessed in exploring the art medium

Narinder (24) finished college a few years back, but a certain event made him a social shut-in for a while, taking care of the house now instead and being the only sibling Leshy loves to constantly annoy since Shamura often comes home late and barely has time to stay for the weekends. He has a great passion for music producing thanks to Shamura's influence growing up and has been using his spare time at home to hone his craft and post his work online

They all have social media accs Twitter Narinder and Leshy's mascots / pfps uses their crowns; Leshy is actually the artist for many of Narinder's album covers and music videos and is often seen bantering online on the TL even if they're literally in the same house most of the time 💀

This one is just self-indulgent and projecting but Narinder loathes the idea of socializing in order to collab with other online musicians so he forced himself to learn how to play the piano so that he could just use VSTs (virtual instruments) instead to cover all other parts his songs would need BWAHAHAHA ( I wish I knew how to play piano for the same reason :') )

Adding onto here some more Nari and Leshy-specific hcs:

Magic doesn't exist in this Modern AU, so Narinder's eyes are an olive green, and his third eye has been replaced with an oddly symmetrical scar he got from an accident years back

Leshy's social media handle (@chervx888_) is based on the romanized spelling of worm in Russian, while all the 8's are meant to represent a lot of eyes

Leshy has once bursted into Narinder's room, phone in hand, to proclaim with his volume turned up to eleven: "BRO, BABY GRONK JUST CALLED OUT THE RIZZLER TO FIGHT HIM IN THE BOXING RING"

Leshy is really REALLY nearsighted but refuses to wear the prescription glasses he was given since it looks "uncool" to his classmate friend group consisting of the Darkwood mini bosses

—

Be warned that I need to add another set of woody horns on Leshy to match his sprite... but. BUT- what if... the third set starts growing out or something later down the line.... (no clie, just add the third set instead doubling down)

Anyways, this AU is meant to reference popular JP entertainment media online! NicoDouga, Vtubers, Vocaloid, Utaites, JPop, and much more!

[chaosheadspace]

A little birthday gift for @seiya-starsniper. May your new year of life be full of happiness and joy! Also tagging @ginoeh, because the start of this is technically me misinterpreting one of her prompts, lol.

Without further ado, have some Dream raiding Hob's dreams post-fishbowl.

Stars twinkle through the window as Hob stands in his kitchen and cooks. It is late, but he is hungry, having forgotten the time grading. He’s got a day off tomorrow though, and so he is making himself a rather elaborate feast, because he feels like it. Because he can.

The light summer breeze coming through the window stirs the various smells about, sauteed onion and tomatoes and beef, spices and fat and broth, warm milk for hot chocolate and the dense, syrupy sweetness of baking apples. He’s never been good at moderation, least of all with food. Sue him. There’s a few candles burning on his kitchen table, decked out with earthenware, and through the speakers of his radio is playing a song he’s quite convinced he’s heard some time in the seventeenth century. It’s really crazy what musicians nowadays dig back up and incorporate into their music.

Just as he stirs the pumpkin soup bubbling on the back burner, there’s a low sound behind him. Hob turns, the dripping spoon still in his hand. “Oh,” he blurts out, “I am dreaming.”

Because there, in front of him, stands his stranger, who snubbed him at their last appointment, who he hasn’t seen in much longer than a hundred years. Who definitely, positively, has deep, black pits for eyes, who looks even more gaunt than usual, malnourished, even, and who is absolutely bang naked. He has to be dreaming. The music suddenly makes a lot more sense. The dishware, too, really.

“You are,” his stranger says, and even his voice is different, cavernous, deep and soft like his eyes.

“You’re welcome here, regardless,” Hob tells him. “You can have a shirt and sweats from me, if you want. Soup will be ready in just a tick.” He can see him swallow, hard, the movement of his Adam's apple on his slim neck stark.

“Very well,” he says, turning away. “See that it is.”

When he comes back, he’s wearing one of Hob’s old band shirts that’s somehow black now, and a pair of pajama pants with little yellow stars on them. Hob smiles, motions for him to sit down, and puts a bowl of the promised soup in front of him, steaming and fragrant, spiced with curry and nutmeg and roasted sesame seeds.

His friend wastes no time, forgoes the spoon entirely and lifts the bowl to his face to drink, his bony fingers clutching the glazed dish tight, uncaring about its heat. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t breathe until the heavy bowl is empty. Then he holds it out to Hob, the rim clutched between three fingers as if it weighs nothing. “More,” he demands, and Hob obliges.

This goes on four more times, and then the pot is empty. Next Hob serves up venison pasties, and he’s more than a little smug as his stranger devours the first one in just three bites, but Hob figures he’s allowed. “They’re good, right?” he says. His friend just glowers at him and reaches for the next one. When the pasties are gone, there’s dumplings and omelette and the apple pie.

It all vanishes, piece by piece, bit by bit, bite for bite, into his stranger. Afterwards, they look at each other in silence, Hob stunned at the speed it all vanished, his stranger apologetic for some reason. Then the silence is cut by the rather loudly growling stomach of his friend.

“I. uhm. I could make you some pasta?” Hob offers. “Maybe some pudding, too, let’s see…”

“No,” he’s interrupted just as he gets up. “I am afraid I have to hurry. There are things I have to tend to rather urgently. I thank you for being so hospitable.”

Suddenly they are standing in the doorway again, from one second to the next, Hob blinking up confusedly intovast, starlit eyes. They’re close, closer than they’ve ever been. There is no warmth emanating from his stranger, just a heavy, almost humming sense of presence that draws Hob in.

“Do you have to go?” He pleads. “Maybe I could—”

“I am afraid I cannot delay my task any further, Hob.” His stranger shakes his head. “I thank you for this.”

“Wait,” Hob says, desperately. “This is a dream, right?”

His stranger turns back around, the look on his face incredulous. “Yes,” he confirms for the second time, “it is.”

“So there’s no harm in doing this then,” Hob murmurs, stepping closer, gently placing one hand upon a lily-white neck. His friend shivers. Hob gets up on his toes and slowly, gently kisses his brow. “I hope you fare well,” he whispers, “and I will not give up hope to see you again when I am awake.”

From one moment to the next, Hob is alone. There is a relieving sense of loss in him, like a splinter being drawn from a wound.

Hob wakes.

[captain-hawks]

Spicy sleepover round V let's goooo!!

Levi Ackerman and a (crowded / empty / very dark / secluded corner of a) bar 🍸

I love reading these spicy sleepovers, can't wait to read all of them!

precision

levi ackerman x f!reader

In which a dark, quiet corner of the bar and a glass of bourbon finally earns you Levi Ackerman's undivided attention.

wc: 1.8k

c: 18+ only, modern au, brat!reader, musician!levi, semi-public sexual activities, spit kink, alcohol, oral fixation, finger sucking, fingering

SPICY SLEEPOVER WEEKEND - PART V

It’s tangible—this steady, relentless itch of heat that blisters incessantly between yourself and the man sitting beside you in the booth, black strands of hair falling across his forehead as he runs a slender finger along the rim of his glass.

There’s a new tattoo nestled in the ditch of his elbow, the colors vibrant amongst the healed ink that crawls up and down the rest of his right arm. 

It’s distracting.

Like everything else about him. 

Levi Ackerman is difficult to parse out, an enigma that you’ve yet to untangle in the years since he joined your brother’s band. 

An enigma that you like to poke and prod and annoy, if only to push him—

“Does your tendency to be a brat coincide with certain business hours that I can aim to avoid?” he idly asks as you begin to drum your nails against his glass.

It’s dark and secluded in this back corner of the bar, though a bustling crowd still remains pooled around the stage. You’ve long-since lost sight of your brother, Furlan, and Isabel, who abandoned the two of you to watch the next band.

And now, it’s become a bit of a game at this point—seeing how many times you can draw out the disapproving click of Levi’s tongue against the back of his teeth in one night. 

(Part of you would even swear he enjoys it, this constant back and forth that sways from your possession to his.)

“You get the overtime special,” you smile sweetly. 

Levi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, the silver ring on his middle finger glinting ever so slightly in the dim light. And that’s when you spot it, the unassuming black hair tie you’d quickly dug out of your purse weeks ago when he needed a rubber band right before going on stage. Now, the thin, braided material is pressed snugly against his wrist, almost lost in the swirl of ink that trails atop his hand. 

You probably would have noticed it earlier during their set, if you weren’t so wholly distracted by the sight of him playing the guitar—the complete and utter unraveling of his reserved demeanor beneath the heat of the stage lights, sweat dripping down the side of his neck as his fingers swept across the fretboard, steely gray eyes alight with the same fervor that always leaves you breathless in the audience.

It’s things like this that make you want to keep pushing, despite his aloof ways.

“What’s wrong with your drink?” he asks, brows furrowed in annoyance as he watches you slowly drag his glass toward you by the thin cardboard coaster it’s sitting atop.

He jerks his chin at the half-full bottle of beer sitting beside your forearm, and you shrug, fingers wrapping around his cup as you bring it up toward your lips, the scent of bourbon crawling up your nostrils.

A hand wraps around your wrist, halting the cup’s progress mere centimeters from your mouth, and you meet Levi’s gaze as he flexes his fingers and raises an eyebrow.

“Would it kill you to say please?”

You lean forward, lips just barely brushing against the rip of the glass before he snatches it away fully, holding it out of your reach. He considers you for a moment, a look passing over his face as he seems to come to a decision. The next band starts to play, the room filling with sound as live music pours from the speakers, and he leans in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“Open your mouth.”

You shudder at the contact, blinking a few times in confusion as he leans back, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips. When you don’t immediately respond, he mouths at you—

‘OPEN’

You’re not sure what you’re expecting when you let your lips fall open, eyes carefully tracking the way Levi takes a sip from the glass.

But he doesn’t swallow it.

Instead, he slides closer again, hovering over top of you this time as he presses his thumb to your bottom lip, fingertips skirting the curve of your jaw as he pushes your mouth open wider.

And then he spits the bourbon directly into your mouth.

The liquor burns as you swallow, finding good company amongst the blazing inferno currently unfurling in your gut at a pace so rapid, it leaves you dizzy in your seat.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, so quietly you’d barely hear it, if not for the brief dip in sound during a break between songs.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think this whole situation’s barely drawn a reaction out of him, even as he’s using his thumb to wipe away the trail of bourbon that spilled down the side of your chin.

But the thing is, you do know better. You can see it in the tick of his jaw, the subtle dilation of his pupils. His grip against the glass. 

The ever so slight tilt of his head as he assesses you.

And you know that if you played it off, Levi would drop this all like it never happened. He’d down the rest of the glass and slide out of the booth like he didn’t just spit his drink between your lips.

But the air that hangs between you is too thick with intent to not go stumbling directly into the heady fog of it.

“I’m still thirsty.”

Levi blinks once, the only indication that you’ve surprised him before he shrugs, taking another sip. Although this time, when he leans in, it’s the back of your head where his hand comes to rest before his lips press against yours.

It’s not quite a kiss as he uses his lips to ease your mouth open, letting the bourbon spill onto your tongue.

It’s not quite a kiss—the shape of his mouth on yours as you swallow another shot of liquor.

But then you swipe your tongue across the remaining hint of bourbon that lingers on his bottom lip—and Levi surges forward, kissing you hard. 

It’s precise, the way his mouth slots against yours, the pressure of his tongue, the caress of his fingertips along the side of your neck, the sharp bite of his teeth into the plush swell of your bottom lip. 

Levi kisses you like he knows how fucking dizzy with arousal you already are, like he’s well aware you’re on the verge of begging him to spit the rest of the bourbon in your mouth, too. Your left hand grasps the edge of the seat beneath you for purchase.

You have half a mind to crawl into his lap, if only to see if he’d deny you relief of the hot, aching tension simmering between your legs.

“We’re not doing that here,” he murmurs as he pulls back from the kiss slightly, not missing the way you clench your thighs together.

You expect him to leave it at that—you wouldn’t put anything past him, at this rate. But instead, he dips two fingers into the glass before bringing them up to your lips. Staring at him curiously, you open your mouth just enough for him to push them inside, bourbon trickling over your tongue.

The heat in your abdomen flares as you swipe your tongue along the digits, holding Levi’s gaze all the while. Saliva pools in your mouth, and you suck on his fingers with more fervor, your chest heaving with need as slick arousal begins to soak into your panties.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when Levi finally pulls his spit-soaked fingers out of your mouth, spreading them apart to show the messy strings of saliva stuck between them before placing them into his own mouth.

He takes the same hand and places it on your kneecap, his fingertips just barely touching your bare skin. And there’s a brief flicker of hesitancy in his eyes, an unspoken question in his expression.

Exhaling softly to release the pent up tension simmering inside of you, you offer him permission by way of the slow, deliberate spread of your thighs, your fingers toying with the hem of your skirt.

Levi leans in, nose brushing against yours as he carefully slides his hand up your skirt, and you fight to suppress the full-body shiver that nearly wracks through you in response. He kisses you again as he hooks a digit in your panties, tugging them aside to slide two fingers through your soaked folds.

You’re not sure if he means to groan as he feels how fucking wet you are, your panties now entirely soaked through with the sticky, gushing arousal that’s been steadily leaking out of your cunt. But you revel in the way the sound vibrates against your lips over the music, hips rocking into his touch as he kisses you harder and slips a finger into your needy hole.

“Levi,” you gasp into the kiss, bucking upward, your spine arching with pleasure as he drags the digit through the slick arousal coating your tight inner walls.

Between the dismal lighting in the back of the room and the way Levi’s body is mostly blocking you from view from anyone outside of the booth, not to mention the commotion of music on stage, it’s unlikely that anyone would be able to immediately clock the fact that you’re getting finger fucked by the lead guitarist of the previous band right here in your seat.

Your brother, Furlan, or Isabel could return at any goddamn moment.

But the risk has a fresh wave of arousal gushing from your cunt anyway, and you’re certain Levi feels how you clench down on the two digits now plunging in and out of you, because he chuckles in amusement as he rasps against your ear after you choke out an audible moan, “Are you trying to get caught?”

He doesn’t stop though, and your kisses turn into messy, labored pants as your orgasm grows nearer, the pleasure searing inside of you racing toward a white-hot edge. And then his thumb finds purchase on your throbbing, aching, clit, and your pussy spasms as you come hard on his fingers, your limbs trembling with the force of your climax.

Levi kisses you languidly through it, fingers massaging your soaked cunt until you’re gasping from the overstimulation. When he finally pulls away, he adjusts himself in his pants before downing the rest of the bourbon in one sip.

“You’re still a brat,” he mutters, leaning in to swipe at the corner of your mouth with his thumb before sliding out of the booth entirely, eyes fixed on the bar. When he turns back to look at you, there’s a challenge in his eyes as he asks, “How do you feel about rum?”

[the-kr8tor]

Thank you for voting for the name Octobie! Now for the themes! I've combed through every single suggestion you gave me and categorised all of them into 12 themes.

So what I'm gonna do is post the 12 (right here) and from that 12 the 5 most top voted will move up for another poll until the top 3 wins! (Reasons/ and where I got the themes from your suggestions are listed below the poll/cut. W/ brief descriptions also)

Note: Theme names aren't finalized but the meanings will still be the same. (They'll have a cooler name once they get picked!)

Wondering why there will only be three themes? Well the third week theme is called wild card where anything goes! So if your chosen theme doesn't win you can always wait for the third week of octobie to come around and you can do whatever you want in that week as long as Hobie's in it!

Fantasy— fairy! Hobie, Dragon tamer! Hobie/Dragon rider! Hobie, Mythical creature, Sailor/Pirate! Hobie x deity! R, Time-looped historian! Hobie, fae, Mermaid. (Literally anything to do with the fantasy genre)

Halloween- Cloak Hobie, Witch R & familiar! Hobie, Witch! R and demon! Hobie, accidental summoning, pumpkin, Demon! Hobie and angel! R, death reaper! Hobie and target! R, vampire! R and human Hobie, serial killer! Hobie and detective! R, zombie! Hobie, pirates, thriller! Hobie, (anything spooky or scary!)

Eras swap/ through the decades- Modern! Hobie x 1970s! r, modern au, 1800s, different au Hobies meet and different au readers meet, aged up meet cute (they meet in their 60s), decades, (time is the main gist of it, whether it's hobie through the years or some decade specific scenario)

Music- guitar, record play, music lessons, backstage, concerts, rival bands/musicians, band practice, battle of the bands, (anything that has to do with music!)

Comfort- stray cats, nicknames, arts and crafts, london tings, hate the am (mornings), flowers, cats, snow, cozy/chilling at home, library, favourite au/trope, cottage core, (anything that wakes the butterflies in your stomach or makes you feel the ooeygoeey feeling fluff!)

Anarchy- ACAB, battle vests, protest, punk. (Anything that Hobie would be proud of doing)

Slice of life/ family life- swing date, the twins, first dance, just cozy things, cozy/chilling at home, morning/nighy routine, handsy, date day/night, meet cute, sick day, childhood friends. (Cozy or family related!)

Crossover- villains and/Vs heroes, magical girl! Hobie, tokyo ghoul au, DC Crossover, Hobie meeting batman, android! Hobie and human r, baldur's gate 3 au, hobie and mutant x-men! R, hobie and deadpool!, deadpool! Hobie, gambit! Hobie, ghost rider! hobie, spy family au, nightcrawler! Hobie (whether it's a video game, anime or a different genre of comic, that goes here!)

Medieval- royalty, royal! R and rebel! Hobie, (anything that makes you sing the game of thrones opening lol)

Villain au- black cat! Hobie, deadpool! Hobie, mystique! Hobie, prowler! Hobie x villain! r (evil! Hobie? Evil! Hobie! Or any au pertaining to villainy!)

Movie mashup- scream killer! Hobie and caller! R, freaky friday/body swap, rom-com, will they/won't they?, swan lake au, mad hatter! Hobie, phantom of the opera au, the greatest showman au, avatar au, (general movie au or theatre au)

Runway ready- patches, runway, hair, piercings, braids, dress up/ fashion show, draw in your style. (Fashun!)

[sadesluvr]

Hobie Brown x Artist! Reader (GN!)

Disclaimer: I am not glamourising the 70’s, however punk + politics were at its most popular back then, and those are relevant to Hobie’s character! You can imagine any reality you’d like, this is mainly for aesthetics :)

Hobie and Artist! Reader who’ve been so close, but so far. The art, music, and punk communities are bonded, but you’ve somehow never met each other. 

Artist! Reader who meets Hobie at a protest. You’re there to support and capture the scenes of those fighting, and you immediately recognise him from his modelling days – his face previously in a niche fashion magazine. 

Hobie and Artist! Reader who barely realise they’re spending time together, all because Hobie is so chill — “Me and the mandem [gang] are going to the pub after, you coming?” Turns into  “There’s a nice spot by the canal, you know? You get lots of people there. Might be nice for your drawings, init?” 

Hobie who’s in love with his partners self expression. The first time he sees your studio he spends all night asking you about each and every piece; your inspiration, your process - all of it. 

Hobie and Artist! Reader who take Polaroids together – cute, funny, scandalous, candid — they’re hung and plastered all around your studio, and one day they’ll be published as an album. 

Hobie and Artist! Reader who depict each-other – paint, charcoal, clay, all of it. He cares in the power of art, and even if he isn’t good at it, it’s a way of bonding with you. 

Hobie! Who gets you to doodle on him. If it’s on his skin, he’s getting it as a tattoo. If it’s on his jacket, he’s wearing it everywhere, no matter how small or ‘out of place’ it looks. “Yeah, my ting did that. They’re talented, init?” 

Hobie! Who uses your studio as a second home, always leaving his guitars or jackets somewhere on your easels. 

Hobie and Artist!Reader who travel together, for his band or to support political causes.  

Hobie who has a bad habit of using your tools as makeshift drumming sticks. 

Hobie and Artist!Reader who spends most of their moments alone in their studio, or Hobie’s canal boat. He always prefers your studio because it’s bigger, but the right size to still feel cozy. You stay up and talk about everything, from his modelling days to the time he killed a cop. It’s usually light, small things though, like the story of when he got his piercing or why he likes a particular musician — either way, it’s peaceful. 

Hobie and Artist!Reader who cuddle on the couch, his long limbs wrapped around your own as you make out – or fall asleep – to whatever vinyl is in the record player. 

Hobie who uses your studio as the place to get high, evenings usually ending with red, hazy eyes and the munchies. He’s more than happy if you don’t like this, though. 

Hobie and Artist!Reader who have definitely had sex in the studio, half-dried bits of paint on their clothes and skin from rolling about… 

I plan to write more Hobie stuff so stay tuned! 🫶🏽

dividers by @chachachannah ! 🍄‍🟫

[jellyfishloveletterghosts]

Some more thoughts Based on this post where you have your soulmates signature and Steve is a bat by @strangersatellites

I'm putting them in a new post so I don't derail it. I hope to I see several take on the initial concept. It's so fun.

Nancy and Jonathan he knows from back home they moved out here before him and have jobs at the paper. Are they are romantically involved or just friends now 🤷‍♀️ either way they work well together.

And they help Steve in his search. Jonathan knows where most of the murals in the city are and Nancy gives him some tips on getting people to give him information and a list of questions to help him along.

Benny has a deli across from one of them. He won't give up much, things good for business draws a crowd and if Eddie just happens to a regular who always tips good well why would he sell him out. Still he does offer Steve a sandwich and a list of a few murals that are lesser known in the city.

Heather works in the shop across from on and is annoyed in the uptick of customers. They're cutting into her down time. She didn't see anything anyway and she tells Steve he's wasting his time. The Bat is a ghost no one ever seen him. Or so she says.

Steve still has to work so there are days when he makes no progress, gets nowhere on finding his soul mate. Spends sleepless night tracing the bat on his hip and looking at the picture Jonathan gave him hoping somewhere in the is a clue.

So on and so forth skipping ahead.

Then the Robin thing I initially brought up

I can see a Steve running around the city type of thing happening because of this. He’s turning into a real detective, asking about all the murals, folks who live in the area. Steve meeting other characters from Stranger Things as he moves closer to his goal of finding his soulmate. He’s checked every single one he knows of is commiserating at the bar by the latest one. Robin is a bartender, mostly waving off his search until he waxes on about his soulmate and how talented they are. Steve isn’t the usual sort looking for Eddie so she slips him the address for another bar, one that play live music, has art all over, tells him to check it out. CC is of course play in front of the biggest mural Steve’s seen from his soul mate yet.

Steve wants to memorize every aspect of the mural, wants to take in every detail but it's hard with a band playing right in front of it. Harder still when his eyes catch on the lead singer and can look away. Mesmerized for an entire set.

He doesn't even realize he's just been sitting there watching until the band leaves for a break. Then he's turning to the bartender, an older man in flannel, asking about the mural. Wayne chuckles, "you'll have to ask the owner about that but he doesn't usually talk about it."

Steve's a little tipsy form earlier as he accepts the beer Wayne slides to him like a condolence. Sulky over one more obstacle standing between him and his person. "Could you ask him anyhow, please?" Wayne looks him over takes in his downtrodden face and the begging tone of his voice before giving a nod.

Steve’s not very hopeful by the time Wayne slides another beer to him either a shrug. He stays for the band and hopes that maybe if he's persistent he'll get the information. Nancy always insists sleuthing takes persistence.

He's mesmerized all over again and feels like dark eyes are boring into him, like this one's just for him. Which is silly, he's drunk and he's never heard this band, much less met the man singing. No way would he be singling him out, just a trick of the lights and the third beer he ordered.

When the singer climbs down from the stage he trips over a light playing it off as a bow. But what stands out to Steve is dark eyes still hooked on him as Eddie dances through the crowd signing autographs and giving hugs.

Steve turns away, it's a lot, too much and he's still ninety percent sure he's imagining it. All up until there's a sweaty musician's chest brushing against his arm as Eddie leans on the bar next to him, "so I hear you've been asking about our favorite artist."

I dunno I'm sorely tempted to write it write it but I've got so many wips already so I jsut wanted to get out some thought because I found the concept so inspired.

[retropopcult]

"Thirteen" is a song by American rock band Big Star.  Rolling Stone describes it "one of rock's most beautiful celebrations of adolescence", and rated it #396 on their list of the 500 greatest songs of all time. It was written by Alex Chilton and Chris Bell.

The name of the album was #1 Record, which was bitterly ironic, as it ended up selling under 10,000 copies upon its initial release in 1972 (the name of the band also proved to be an unfortunate misnomer, because outside of critics and other musicians, they remained virtually anonymous during their brief time together).

Bell and Chilton wanted to emulate the Lennon/McCartney formula as much as they could, so they shared credit on many of their songs even though there was in fact little writing collaboration between the two. “Thirteen" was in fact entirely Chilton’s creation, and he also delivers the aching vocal that vacillates between hope and heartache and that many cover versions have tried to emulate but never quite matched.

The yearning acoustic ballad focuses on an age that is somewhat underrepresented in pop and rock music. Chilton found that bittersweet spot when innocence still lingers but more complicated emotions start to work their way into the picture.

Over tender guitars, he begins with a question that thirteen-year-old boys have been asking thirteen-year-old girls for generations: “Won’t you let me walk you home from school?” “Won’t you let me meet you at the pool?” he follows, again treading lightly so as not to scare her away. He eventually suggests a date at the dance on Friday; “And I’ll take you,” Chilton delicately sings, as if anything more forceful than a gentle plea will destroy his chances.

In the second verse, the narrator for the first time reveals an obstacle blocking the path to this girl for whom he is clearly falling hard: “Won’t you tell your Dad get off my back?” he asks her. His response to the doubting father is brilliant: “Tell him what we said about ‘Paint It Black.’” By drawing a parallel between his own musical tastes and that of the father, he’s hoping to show that he’ s not just some punk kid with bad intentions.

The final verse finds him struggling as she remains seemingly unknowable (“Won’t you tell me what you’re thinking of?”) resulting in his sweet but awkward follow up (“Would you be an outlaw for my love?”) His final lines redeem him in terms of his integrity and honor, even as they suggest that he’ s losing his opportunity with her in the process: “If it’ s no then I can go/ I won’ t make you.” The final “Ooo-hoo” that Chilton utters is a real killer, tinged as it is with the sting of implied refusal.

Over the decades there have been some fine cover versions of this classic, with brilliant and diverse artists like Garbage, Wilco, and Elliott Smith taking their turns, among many others. But they’d likely all agree they were playing for second behind Chilton’s one-of-a-kind, haunting performance. “Thirteen” is as good as it gets for those looking to relive that moment when life is still rife with possibilities but love seems stubbornly impossible.

Music critic Simon Robinson rates it as Big Star's best song and one of the most important of 1972, praising the "catchy melody and jangly guitars that perfectly capture the carefree and optimistic spirit of youth" and the "simple yet poignant" lyrics that evoke the "experience of teenage romance and heartbreak."

[forgiveness-in-the-misery]

Rockzo is honestly interesting. Controversial to say on here I know.

But he’s this middle aged balding mooching possibly demonically haunted dude who was famous for a hot minute when he was in his 20s back in the early 80s/late 70s since the Dory shit took place in ‘82 and the band seemed relatively famous already.

And what’s interesting is he is such a piss take on old rockers. He’s obsessed with trying to remain relevant and young. Just like a lot of real life musicians we see in their 50s to 80s he primarily befriends and pursues romantic/sexual relationships with people drastically younger than himself because mentally he’s forever a teenager and never seems to want to actually face reality that he’s old.

And his reunion with Dory goes to prove that blatantly. He is rude as shit and tells her she’s old and fat now, despite him being at least 10 years older than her and also not exactly hot. He doesn’t see it that way though; mentally he’s still 20 and by that logic she should still be 14 which is why he goes for her teen daughter. The same reason Toki is literally his only friend. People his age or closer to his age regard him with annoyance, disgust, pity.

And we honestly see it with Snakes N Barrels as well. Pickles was 16, he replaced somebody and then Rikki replaces him years later. The rest of the band were already clearly older than Pickles when he met them and then clearly older than Rikki and Pickles still years later. They try and add fresh young faces to draw in a crowd, to seem young and relevant.

Like the old rocker characters in the series all are part or a parody of the 70s and 80s rock scene. The fucked up shit these guys did and continue to do. The structure of music solely being a business and nothing else. Throwing in lineup changes to try and keep young and relevant even if people start to loathe your music….side eyeing Motley Crue.

And it’s a shame I never really see people talk about this aspect of the story and characters, instead people just have moral panics badgering Brendon to ask if he knows Rockzo grooming a child is wrong.

[king-of-the-birds]

PAUL'S BALL

a launch party for wings

He produced a handwritten invitation, leaving space to write in the invitee's name, as well as a number, which would be used for a raffle drawing toward the end of the evening. (The prize was a magnum of champagne; the disc jockey Jeff Dexter was the winner.) (..) The recommended dress was "glam."(..)

Some 800 musicians, reporters, friends of the band and music business honchos were invited.(..)

As always at such events, there was ample carping, which a reporter for Rolling Stone duly cataloged. After describing the Empire Ballroom as decidedly unhip, a leftover from the days when the Joe Loss Orchestra would play foxtrots, and young ladies shopped for husbands among the dancers, the writer noted that while the wine and cheese were free, everything at the bar was for sale.

(…)

Eyebrows were raised when, instead of a Wings performance, partygoers were treated to fox-trots, waltzes, quicksteps, and congas, played by McVay's band-along with what McVay remembered as arrangements of sixties and seventies hits, including a Beatles medley and some Beach Boys tunes. They were raised higher still when the heavily sequined and coiffed Frank and Peggy Spence Latin and Ballroom Formation Dancing Teams filed onto the floor to demonstrate their artistry.

"I'm beginning to think that Paul actually digs all this" one guest quipped to the Rolling Stone reporter, "that he actually likes dance bands, ballrooms, and buffet food. That's incredibly camp, you know, incredibly camp. Have you seen his suit? It's like a clown's costume, the jacket is about five sizes too big, and it's not even been finished."

(from the McCartney Legacy Vol. 1)

Paul: A press launch is always a good excuse to have a night out, so we invited friends and journalists, played the album, danced and had a few funny people come on to entertain. I wore an outrageous big check suit that I thought would be good. When I went to collect it from the tailor that morning he told me that it wasn’t finished. I said, ‘Maybe not, but it’s a look!’ So I went to the party with the cotton and the stitching showing, and everyone said, ‘Your suit’s not finished.’ I said, ‘Yeah, I know. Great, huh?’

(from Wingspan, 2002)

Some of the guests that attended were Jimmy Page, Elton John, Sandy Denny, Mary Hopkin, members of the Who, the Faces, Deep Purple, Ginger Baker, Henry McCullough, Gilbert O'Sullivan, Graham Bond, Sandie Shaw, the Greek synthesizer wizard Vangelis, the actors Malcolm McDowell, and Terence Stamp, some of the Monty Python troupe, Sir Joseph Lockwood, the head of EMI, Allan Clarke, of the Hollies, and (Benny) Gallagher and (Graham) Lyle.

After the party a fan encountered Paul:

He went skipping (yes it is true) down the road with Linda and just as he turned the corner to a side street, I took courage and called him back. He stopped and said “yeah” so I ran to catch him up and breathlessly asked him for his autograph. The funny part is my pen was at the bottom of this large bag of mine! He stood patiently watching me with arms folded as I rummaged elbow deep. I asked him if he had a pen as I just couldn’t find mine; he said no (which isn’t surprising as he had this crazy suit on that had no pockets).

(Kathy Turner – From Meet the Beatles for Real: Wings Party)