#on some rockstar shit

[lifemod17]

I can't stop thinking about his groove after watching the lovely @nadja-antipaxos 's video of It Will Come Back at OKC show, I just had to gif it so I can engrave it to memory

🎥: nadja-antipaxos | tumblr

Oklahoma city || 09/26/2024

[highbythebeach666]

when a man who listens to the smashing pumpkins and nirvana but doesn’t listen to hole tries to tell you that billy corgan/kurt cobain wrote all of hole’s music, even though all three of those bands had different styles and they don’t know the history and courtney’s writing could have NEVER been done by a man.

[vaguely-concerned]

we need a poll. what do we call dorian. a mortaboo/mooaboo (mortalitasi weeabo). a wooaboo/watchaboo (watcher weeaboo). a neeaboo/necroboo (you may start to see my design here). he knows what he is and he's not ashamed of it. he went 'while you were busy being lame I studied the skull. and got laid a bunch ¯_(ツ)_/¯. we are not the same'. after one family vacation to nevarra at like seventeen or whatever he made it his whole personality and himself insufferable enough around the house that his dad finally caved and sent him to the watchers for them to deal with for a term. where he then went on to make himself insufferable around the necropolis in general and to emmrich in particular. I love him beyond words.

[anthony-crowleys-left-nut]

this may not be how everyone else feels (which i respect), but i personally feel like since louis "killed" lestat, lestat saved his life, then lestat spent over 70 years sulking pathetically in his self-imposed timeout, if louis wants to call it even atp who am i to judge? how would i handle that? i don't know. but if that's where louis is at then i say let him be there. but maybe that's the loustat shipper in me lol. i'll admit i have a preexisting bias from the books and the movie.

[listedbuilding]

there are few things i care less about than a redditor's opinion of courtney love.

[evilfloralfoolery]

Love Bites: A Tale of Indulgent Preternatural Fuckery

I was going to wait until morning to post this, but fuck it. I make my own rules. Please enjoy some poncy ass fetish fuckery between 324 year old French vampire Lucian d'Alarie and his far more modern 82 year old, tattooed werewolf lover, Marrok Rafe.

Guess which one has "the thing."

*This story already has multiple parts that I may or not post. It depends on a few factors.

_____________________________

“Lucian?? Lucian!! Where are you hiding??”

Somewhere from the other side of the ridiculous estate, his beloved is bellowing in a manner that would wake the dead.  Or, in Lucian’s case, the undead. 

- I am not hiding.  You are simply blinded by whatever rage has a hold upon you. -

He bursts through the door.  The balcony door.  From outside of it.  Marrok never did appreciate the simplicity and ease a door offered.

“Get out of my head.”  Marrok’s voice is a flat growl, a rumble far too low to be human.  

Because he is not.  

“And how else would you hear me, hmm?  With all of your grandiose nonsense.  Mon dieu, Marrok.  I realize that we have no neighbors, but–” 

“What. Happened.”  Again, not a question.  A demand of sorts.  

Lucian does not grant him an answer at his impatient behest.  Instead, he takes a moment to appreciate the feral being before him.  Lean and well-muscled with shoulders even broader than his own, skin bronzed from the sun, and adorned with a myriad of tattoos, Marrok looks every bit the part of the apex predator that he truly is. The topmost portion of his rather absurd length of jagged jet black hair is pulled tight by some manner of elastic, revealing the tips of his pointed ears and the shaved sides of his head beneath.

There was a time when Lucian found such a thing appalling.  But it suited Marrok on many levels.

“I am not certain.”  Lucian sinks down into one of the wingback chairs near the now flung-open balcony doors, just beyond the reach of the sun’s rays.  “I feel . . . strange.  Like a mortal does when nursing the beginnings of an illness.”

Marrok folds his arms with a disgruntled frown, the permanent artwork that resides there flexing with the movement.  “That doesn’t happen to your kind or mine.”

“Not necessarily.  We do not know everything, you and I.  Perhaps–”

“No.” Marrok cuts him off.  “It’s not fucking possible.” 

Lucian pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers with a wince.  Not only is his head pounding like a drum, but an incessant prickle also resides there.  The nuisance saw fit to surge to a burn at times, causing a far greater inconvenience, one that he rarely dealt with, unless too much sunlight were involved.

Which was not currently the issue at the moment.  However, that knowledge did little to placate the persistent tingling itch.  After several attempts at fending it off, Lucian resigns himself to his fate, tugging a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and making good use of it.

“HhhehISSSSHHIIU!” 

“ExcusehhhISSCH! ISSCHHuh!---hhhuuh . . . !  Hhhh . . .!”

Ungodly, wretched misery of a—

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and exhales a slow, steadying breath.  “Très désolée.  I . . . have not the control to manage this.” 

“This is bullshit!”  Marrok looks as if he would rather cast himself in the confines of the fountain from the third story balcony than exist in this current shared space. “You can't be–” he gestures with an exasperated flurry of fingers “--that!”

Lucian arches an eyebrow. “Unwell?”

“Don’t.” Marrok tears away the band holding the layers of his thick hair with a snap of elastic.

Sprigs of haphazard darkness jut from his scalp in an almost comical defiance and Lucian morphs a laugh into a cough on purpose. 

“This isn't funny, Lucian.” The words are more of a growl, rumbling and full of an intent to intimidate. 

If anything actually served to intimidate Lucian. 

“And yet, here we are.” 

“No, there you are. We are not doing this.”

“You speak as if I had some choice in the matter.” 

Marrok is two centimeters from his person in half as many seconds. “You did this to yourself. I don't know how you did it, but you did.” 

Lucian rises to his feet with an almost bored aire. “Accusational hysteria does not suit you, mon cher.” 

Clawed fingers snatch at the lapels of his shirt. “Don't patronize me, you French fuck.” 

“Is that what you desire, then?” Lucian slides his hands to cup the snarling visage between his palms. “Some French fuck?”

He casts the other “man” a smirk that  promises seduction, but not without a staggering dosage of smug upper handedness.  And clearly, Marrok isn't entertaining anything of the sort. 

“Get off me.” He gives Lucian a rough, but far lighter shove than anticipated. 

The werewolf stalks over to the ornate bookcase, scans several titles, and swears when he realizes whatever he desires is near the topmost part of it.  Not that this hinders him in any way.  Marrok simply jumps, snatches his preferred literature from its resting place, and rebounds off of the wall to land effortlessly back onto his feet.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“Research,” Marrok grunts.  

He flops down into the chair formerly occupied by Lucian and begins leafing through the text while Lucian has a seat upon the bed.

“Marrok.” Lucian gestures with one hand. “Come to me.” 

The werewolf doesn't look up from his reading. “No.” 

“S’il vous plaît, mon cher.  I am so very cold.”

Marrok turns a page. “You're dead. Comes with the territory.” 

“Do you not think that I am incapable of feeling a draft simply because I am no longer mortal?” 

“That’s right,” Marrok says.  “And you know that shit.” 

Well. One had ways of changing that type of attitude, especially with the omnipresent twinge dwelling deep within his sinuses. The simple act of breathing would be enough. Not that one such as Lucian needed the trappings of this rather human inconvenience, but even the undead still functioned in a similar fashion, needed or not. 

He allows his breathing to slow, for his breath to hitch, and makes a show of fumbling for his handkerchief as his expression dissolves into abject helplessness.

“Hhh-hiiih. . .! HiihhISSSSHU–ISSSCH! . . . HhIKGSSCH-UUH!”

He buries his nose in the crumpled fabric, shoulders shuddering, unbound hair curtaining his face.

The book snaps closed. Footsteps that are more of a marching stomp approach. 

“You did that on purpose.” 

Judging by how much of that sentence is coated in the most inhuman of growls, Marrok is more than merely ruffled. He is infuriated beyond measure. 

“I assure you that I did n–”

Marrok is atop him, pinning him to the mattress. 

“You did.”  The werewolf snarls against his mouth and fangs graze his lips. “But I'm fresh out of fucks.” 

“Mmm, are you?” Lucian reaches between his legs with a most uncouth clenching of fingers around Marrok’s most sensitive attributes. “What a shame that would be.” He snatches handfuls of the thin, black cotton shirt Marrok is so fond of and jerks him against his chest hard enough to elicit a grunt from his lover. “Je veux te baiser.” 

“Hope you don't like these pants.” Marrok's nails slash the well-stitched fabric to indecent ribbons before Lucian can answer.

“Such violence in you.” Lucian flashes him a hint of his own fangs, different from that of a werewolf, but equally as lethal. “It is a quality I find most captivating.” 

The dark yellow of Marrok’s eyes is near amber. “Stop talking.”

__________________________________________________________

(TBC or no?)

[boxwinebaddie]

this selena cover is the cd song ever of all time jysk :*

[paxaun]

Roy Earle: I'd say that's pretty good value for 12 cents.

Cole Phelps: Factory sealed. Someone at the cannery has a lot of explaining to do.

[laugtherhyena]

3:23AM, time to post Hatamori fankid and retreat back into my hiding hole

[omg-hellgirl]

"There's really no reason to have women on tour," [Mick] continued, "unless they've got a job to do. The only other reason is to fuck. Otherwise they get bored...they just sit around and moan."

Lisa Robinson, Creem Magazine, 1975.

[good-to-drive]

People always want to know the best Beatle to be stranded with on a desert island (it's Paul) but I want to know the WORST Beatle to be stranded with on a desert island (it's also Paul)

[lifemod17]

WHEN I SAY I BELIEVE IN 'MOVEMENT' SUPREMACY I'M TALKING ABOUT THIS

🎥: hannah.walshie | instagram story

Lytham Festival || 07/03/2024

[depressedraisin]

like yeah we clown al sometimes for being a grandpa or whatever but what a blessing it is that he, and the other three in general, don't fuck with social media in capacity of public figures at all

[sacrialege]

INTRODUCING ... MAKENNA "MICKIE" MARLOWE.

[jimothy-hopkins]

Edward HAS to be a wyll warrior

[p2iimon]

drawing more furry fnaf art. yknow just to keep you posted. i love posting in the tags sorry these ones got away from me