#rock and roll band with horns

[adriheavymetal]

Dio

[jeffcbliss]

Chicago - Fivepoint Amphitheatre; Irvine, CA (6-10-22). @chicagotheband

Photo: Jeff Bliss

[ladykailitha]

The Fallen

I blame @vecnuthy for this entirely. Seeing all their Sleep Token posts has completely intersected with Steddie and you get this.

***

Modern AU: Corroded Coffin makes it big. Like Metallica levels huge. Like every up and coming metal band is clamoring to open for them levels of fame. When this metal band, The Fallen comes on the scene and are dismissed as glam rock wannabes.

They are very theatrical. They are dressed in long coats with hoods and face masks. The guitarist, bassist, and drummer all have full Venetian masks of different colors. The bassist has one that looks like a starry night (but not Starry Night if you know what I mean). The Guitarist has a red devil’s mask, horns and all. The drummer is in a black death mask. The eyes of the mask are closed and it looks eerie as fuck. The most dramatic of the masks belong to the lead singer. He wears an opaque white lace mask with the mouth and chin cut out so he can sing.

Their outfits match their masks.

The lead singer, Abbadon, the fallen angel is in all in white with a splash of color on the lining of his coat. Sometimes it’s pink or baby blue, sometimes it one of the colors of bandmates, black or red or starry midnight blue. He wears high heeled boats and not always of the combat variety. Once he wore stilettos with a baby blue stripe up the side. It’s the outfit that gets made into dolls and merch the most. Most of the time he’s shirtless, but has been known to switch it up with lace or sheer tops.

The guitarist plays up the devil persona to a tee and calls himself Asmodeus, the demon of lust. Red leather and fetish gear. Thick red combat boots. His guitar is even blood red.

The bassist is called Astraeus, the titan of the night. While in certain light his clothes look black, but they are in fact a dark blue with bright stars, swirling galaxies, and glowing nebulae. His bass is of the night sky as well.

And finally the drummer, Azrael. Angel of death. Always in black. His drum kit is black with black metal fittings. Even his drumsticks are black.

Like I said, at first dismissed as wannabes but they are killing it. It’s clear that not only are they talented, their flare for the dramatic adds to their mystique. Soon they are the new rising stars of metal.

Dustin is their biggest fan. He loves them. Eddie is offended at the highest level. How dare this little butthead like The Fallen. Dustin rolls his eyes.

“Dude, Corroded Coffin is still number one in my book,” he tells Eddie. “But you can’t deny that Abbadon is a beast on vocals.”

Eddie is forced to concede the point. Abbadon knows how to really get the through to the emotion of a song.

So when Dustin gets front row tickets to The Fallen’s concert in Indy, Eddie reluctantly joins the little twerp.

And the concert starts. First the drummer gets lowered into his seat on giant raven wings.

“Azrael!” the announcer calls out.

And the crowd goes wild.

The man slips out of the harness and wings ascend. Eddie cocks his head, yeah all right that’s kinda cool.

Azrael hits his drums and the bassist gets lowered on to the stage. All shimmering blues and purples, like actual stars, lands deftly on the stage and Azrael hits the high hat.

“Astraeus!”

The crowd is frantic now. Screaming and jumping up and down.

As soon as the wings are unstrapped and lifted away Astraeus riffs on his bass and the crowd eats it up.

Eddie likes this one. It’s unique.

Then Azrael starts up again as another man is lowered and it takes everything in Eddie’s power not to roll his eyes at this one. Red leather gear, horned mask, and fucking bat wings.

He stomps on the stage and really wails on his guitar. Eddie looks over to see that Dustin is absolutely eating it with the rest of them so he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

“Asmodeus!”

Dustin is vibrating so hard that Eddie’s fears he might literally crawl out of his skin with excitement.

And then the entire stadium goes silent. Like stock still. Eddie is looking around him confused.

He looks back at the stage and there descends the absolute most devastatingly handsome man Eddie has ever seen and he hasn’t seen his face.

His arms are out stretched and his head is bowed. Once he lands air cannons shoot out white feathers out at the crowd and the wings ascend without this man.

“Abbadon!” the announcer screams for the final time.

“Indy!” he shouts into his mouthpiece.

And the crowd screams could deafen the most resilient of metal goer.

Abbadon starts singing and the crowd is losing their god damn minds. And yeah, yeah. Eddie is one of them.

They’ve got a stage presence that can’t be manufactured.

And then about half way through the concert he sees it. Abbadon turns his head just right and holy fuck, Eddie is losing his mind for a different reason. He manages to take a picture with his phone before Abbadon turns.

After the concert Eddie grills Dustin about the band all the way home. But the only thing the kid knows is how awesome the band is.

He gets to the hotel and starts watching every interview with The Fallen ever. And he pulls up one from about a year or so back where Abbadon is talking about the masks.

Abbadon pulls out a black mask and holds it up to the light. “See? You can tell that the eyes have mesh covering over them. They work the way two way mirrors do. Azrael can see out of them just fine, but you can’t see in.”

There are a lot of impressed nods, Eddie is definitely one of them. That’s certainly a neat trick.

“So what’s the reason for the masks at all?” the interviewer asks.

Abbadon looks at the members of his band and they all nod. He licks his lips.

“Because if we had been ourselves when we started on the scene,” he said, “we would have be called posers and we wouldn’t have even gotten this far.”

Eddie paused the video and took a deep breath.

Fuck.

Just then Jeff wanders into the hotel room and looks at the TV.

“Is that The Fallen?”

Eddie hums. “Yup.”

Jeff grabs a drink from the mini-fridge and makes his way over. “Oh hey is that poser interview?”

Eddie hums again.

“He can’t really be serious about that,” Jeff says with a huff. “No one in the metal scene would call anyone posers, not if they truly loved the music.”

“We would have,” Eddie says with a finality that brings Jeff up short.

“The fuck we would have, man,” Jeff snaps. “There’s no way.”

“We would have it was Steve Harrington’s band.”

Jeff’s eyes go wide. “There is no way that’s Steve Harrington.”

Eddie pulls out his phone and zooms in on Abbadon’s neck. He hands his phone to Jeff.

“Okay so the dude has moles on his neck,” he says handing the phone back, “lots of people have them.”

Eddie goes through his phone and pulls up a picture of Steve. He’s not in the exact same pose but it’s close enough. He hands the phone to Jeff again.

Jeff squints and then zooms in.

“Holy fucking shit!”

Eddie drapes his hand over his mouth and purses his lips.

“Steve Harrington in a metal band,” Jeff says in awe. “All be damned.”

“When The Fallen came on the scene,” Eddie says dropping his hand so his talk, “we were outselling Metallica in records and ticket sales. If the rest of the band are preps like Steve we would have mocked them relentlessly.”

Jeff sits down hard on the sofa next to Eddie. “Shit.”

Eddie buries his head in his hands.

“We got to tell someone, man,” Jeff says. “This is huge!”

Eddie in his haste to look at Jeff accidentally hits the remote.

“Do you think you’ll ever do a reveal?” the interviewer asks.

Asmodeus leans over to speak in the microphone. “Ask us again in ten years if we’re still selling out crowds.”

Eddie fumbles it again, but manages to turn off the TV.

Jeff and he looks at each other.

“We can’t say shit, man,” Eddie hisses. “It would be like outing someone as gay or trans before they want to.”

Jeff slumps in his seat. “Fuck. Yeah. You’re right. Shit.”

They’re silent for a moment.

Eddie cocks his head to the side. “What I don’t get is how the kids don’t know.”

Jeff opens his mouth and then closes it. He shakes his head slowly. “Sorry but if I was Steve I wouldn’t tell them shit either.”

Eddie frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Look,” Jeff says turning to face him, “they’re great kids. Brilliant D&D players, nerds, geeks, and dorks the lot of them. But I would not trust them with a secret that big.”

Eddie thought about all the time that they accidentally blurted out something that didn’t make sense out of context, but once you knew, holy shit was it a miracle these kids didn’t get into more trouble.

“Yeah okay.”

After a moment of silence Eddie looks over and frowns at Jeff. “What are you doing my hotel room anyway?”

Jeff holds up his beer. “Your beer was cold, I forgot to put mine in the fridge when we got in.”

“Asshole,” Eddie grouses, bumping Jeff’s shoulder.

Jeff kisses his cheek. “You love me though.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

*

Steve is in his dressing room after their last concert of the tour for their second album scrubbing the hell out of his face because that mask is prone to giving him the worst breakouts, when he notices the blue roses.

He gets a lot of flowers but never blue roses. He rinses off his face and walks over to the them.

There’s a note and he thinks he recognizes the handwriting. It’s short and sweet and absolutely terrifying.

“I know your secret, sweetheart. But don’t worry, I’ll never tell.”

It’s not signed, but the ‘sweetheart’ gives it away.

He messages Robin.

“Get Eddie Munson in here right now!”

She protests that she doesn’t know where he is. But Steve knows he has to still be in the building and sure enough she finds Eddie waiting in the wings, looking smug as hell.

Her eyes go wide and cursing up a storm drags him into the dressing room.

She presses her back to the door.

“Who told?” she squeaks.

Eddie laughs. “No one, I swear.”

“Then how did you know?” Steve asks.

He hands Steve his phone with the picture he took at the concert. Robin wanders over to peak over Steve’s shoulder.

“So it’s a picture of his neck,” she murmurs.

But suddenly Steve gets it. “It’s my moles!”

Eddie nods, pressing his lips together so he doesn’t giggle.

“Shit!” Robin hisses. “Do you think anyone else figured it out?”

“I doubt it,” Eddie says with a shrug. “I’m just obsessive that way.”

“About moles?” Robin says with a frown.

“With Steve.”

Robin blinks. “Right I’m out of here.”

She closes the door behind her and they are left alone.

The night ends with Eddie in Steve’s bed asking him for The Fallen to join Corroded Coffin on their next tour next year and there is no way Steve could say no to that. His bandmates would kill him.

They go on tour and the hardest part is dodging rumors that Eddie is two timing Steve with Abbadon because when The Fallen and Corroded Coffin perform together they make out on stage.

Then for The Fallen’s ten anniversary they do a reveal and Dustin is livid.

Robin and Steve had been telling him for years that they were just low level PAs and not a famous rockstar and his equally mysterious manager.

They’re forgiven when Steve tells him that half the songs on the first album are about him and the rest of the kids.

***

This is just a rough draft. I might expand on it in full later.

ETA: Story here.

Tag List: @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @emly03 @bookworm0690 @itsall-taken @vecnuthy @bookbinderbitch @redfreckledwolf @littlewildflowerkitten @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @scheodingers-muppet @mira-jadeamethyst @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @genderless-spoon @anne-bennett-cosplayer @irregular-child

[kittenintheden]

I Slit the Throat of Your Confidence

oh hi there did you guys order the Astari'zel hatesex (except not really but kind of but not really)? here that is for you. mind the tags please.

AO3 link for bookmarking

Rating: E Pairing: Astarion/Lae'zel Word Count: 5.5k Content: 18+, rough sex, fighting kink, blood play, blood drinking, blood kink, these bitches fight as foreplay, oral sex, fingerfucking, edging, orgasm denial, biting, scratching, reads like hatesex but is kind of more like respectsex, they're matching energy, BDSM themes

Lae’zel misses Créche K’liir. Desperately.

The gray, porous rock with its endless twining mess of hollows and caves was a young githyanki’s dream, ripe for guerilla warfare and games of Capture the Crest that inevitably turned to bloodshed. Many of the chambers were stained rusty brown from the generations before, and she’d added layers of her own in time.

Being terrestrial leaves much to be desired. It is not her first time among the istik and groundwalkers – she’d been on reconnaissance missions to the vast caverns under the place they call Waterdeep many times before. She’d been preparing for her first true test, her first scout command, when the ghaik vessel passed their asteroid by and pulled her and a handful of clutchmates into its web.

And now she is here, her fate as much as sealed if she’s to continue working with this blundering band of… adventurers. All of her advisement to abandon the ridiculous teethling – tiefling – weaklings and reach the nearest créche had fallen on ignorant ears. It is by sheer tenacity and the will of Vlaakith alone that they have not become that which she is duty-sworn to kill.

Instead, they are having a… party.

Lae’zel’s lip curls as she watches the others making merry and growing more intoxicated by the hour alongside a gaggle of their horned charges. Sparks fly through the air from one wizard or another, younglings lurk about undisciplined, and the choices for stress relief are sorely lacking. They all smell of alcohol and hope. She’lak and shka’keth.

She rolls her eyes and folds her arms, casting her judging eyes over those remaining reasonably in control of their faculties. There’s the human-turned-devil, who smells of soft history but well-worn struggle, as well. He’s a possibility, she supposes.

A glance to the side reveals her first companion, the one called Tav, deep in conversation and their cups with that sniping half-elf cleric of some terrestrial god. Lae’zel cares not for the details.

Another scent passes by her keen nose and she looks the other way, regarding its source. The dainty elf smells of blood and death, of course. He’d revealed his vampiric nature not but a few nights prior, and while she deeply mistrusts every silky word that drips from his wretched tongue, she can’t deny that he seems well-learned in the art of carnal pleasure. At least, he claims as much, but she’s seen the way he moves. She’s seen the way he hunts. His words may be hollow, but the body doesn’t lie.

The decision is made, then.

She approaches Astarion just as he takes a drink from his misbegotten bottle of wine. He pulls a face and glances her way.

“Oh, hello,” he says in that lilting, maddening way of his. “Decided to partake after all, rather than simply glowering from the shadows, have you?”

Lae’zel plants her feet shoulder-width apart and folds her arms, eyes tracking from his overwrought hair all the way down to his nimble feet and back again.

Astarion points at her from around the bottle and leans in. “This is the part where you respond with your words, darling.”

The scent overlaying the death note that lingers on him is pleasant enough, after all.

She jerks her chin his way. “I tire of this pathetic attempt at revelry. I suspect you do, as well.”

“There we go,” he says, the tip of a fang flashing past his lips as he gives a half smile. He takes another drink and pulls another face. “Ugh, you’re not wrong. Even the wine is terrible.”

He tosses it aside and seems entirely unbothered by the sound of shattering glass. When he turns back her way, he rubs his fingers together as he regards her before gesturing in her direction. “Was there something I could help you with in that regard or did you just come over here to stare unnervingly?”

Lae’zel takes a step closer, into his personal space, and he stiffens defensively, narrowing his eyes at her. “Your scent reminds me of home. Of wounds sustained in battle, of slain enemies scattered across the stone.”

Astarion gives her a long, slow blink. “Is this your idea of endearing small talk? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Ch’k.” She leans her weight onto her back foot. “I am informing you that I find you a reasonable choice for an evening of carnality.”

“Ah,” he says with a mirthless laugh, looking past her off into the distance. “Of course you do.” His usual bravado is curiously subdued, which she finds of interest.

“Are you not amicable?” she says. “I will take my interest elsewhere.”

She turns to do just that and pauses as he says, “Wait.”

He’s looking at her with hooded eyes, head tilted to one side. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested,” he says, voice lower in timbre. “You caught me off-guard, is all. I didn’t think you cared for me much.”

“I don’t,” she responds. “I find your theatrics tedious and your fighting style chaotic. But you are nonetheless an appealing candidate for coitus, and that is my present interest.”

“How did I ever manage to lure in such a sweet-talker?” he drawls, sighing in exasperation. Then he cocks a brow. “But fine. I could do with a bit of fun, and the sort you’re proposing is of far more interest to me than anything I’ll find here.”

She nods, unsurprised, and says, “Good. Then meet me after the revelry has run its course. I shall be waiting at the ruins nearby.”

Lae’zel walks away without waiting for his response. Behind her, she hears him say, “See you later, then. Lover.”

“Do not call me that,” she says without turning.

***

She paces the length of the ruins, hands clasped behind her back. There’s no nerviness to her gait, no tension in her shoulders. The vampire will come to her, or he will not. Those are the only possibilities, and whichever outcome occurs, she will deal with the fallout. Fretting over what could be makes a warrior weak. There is only the now.

Astarion makes himself known with a gentle clearing of the throat and she whirls to regard him. His approach was nigh-silent, but that’s hardly a surprise.

He leans with an arm on a pillar, one foot crossed casually over the other, but his relaxed posture does not fool her. Lae’zel know how quickly he can move.

“You came,” she says, allowing the slightest smile. “Good.”

He flicks his hand at her as she approaches. “How could I possibly turn down an invitation as intriguing as ‘meet the deadly extraplanar girl in the abandoned ruins so she can either come on me or kill me.’” He leans in and gives her a smirk. “Maybe she’ll do both.”

Lae’zel scoffs, circling him with her hands still behind her back. “Remove your clothes, istik. I will allow you the honor of pleasing me at my direction. If I deem you worthy, I may offer pleasure in return.”

Astarion gives a sharp laugh and pushes off the pillar, facing her. “No, no, no. I don’t think so. You came to me, darling. And why is that?”

She pauses, narrowing her eyes. “Have I been unclear as to the nature of this meeting?” she says. She honestly hadn’t thought the man a complete idiot, but even she can make a mistake.

“Oh, no, you were very clear.” Astarion steps closer, his head moving from one side to the other as he regards her like a predator would. It raises her hackles. “What I’d like to know is why you seem so certain I’ll be the one taking orders. You’re the one with a…” He trails his gaze from her face down the length of her toned torso and back up. “... need.”

Lae’zel does not cower. She does not suffer weaklings. And she does not back down from a challenge.

Her hand spreads wide on his chest and she effortlessly forces him back until he’s pressed up against the pillar he started from. To his credit, he doesn’t gasp, nor do his eyes go wide with fear. Instead, his expression remains amused. Interested.

“I do not submit to inferiors,” she growls.

“So why…” He raises one eyebrow. “... did you come…” His grin widens, exposing his fangs. “... to my tent?”

Despite herself, Lae’zel feels her gaze fall to his mouth, all pale lips and sharp teeth. Her eyes flick back up to meet his.

“I thought you a worthy adversary,” she admits at last.

“Ah,” he whispers. “There it is.”

Then he shoves off the pillar with strength that surprises her and crushes his mouth to hers, putting her just enough off balance to stagger back a step. He takes the second of advantage to fist his long fingers in the back of her hair and hook his leg behind hers.

Lae’zel’s heart thrums at the promise of a fight.

He’s fast. But she is gith.

With practiced skill, she counterbalances herself to thwart his attempt to sweep her leg. He meets resistance and overcorrects, and that’s her opening. She twists her arm up under his and uses the momentum to spin him around so she can get him in a modified headlock. From behind, she leans in close to his ear.

“As I said,” she hisses softly. “I do not submit to inferiors. So show me you are not one.”

Without so much as a sardonic quip, he stomps on her insole with his full weight and bites her arm at the same time. Lae’zel is not often surprised, but the absolute audacity of the move throws her long enough for him to twist free. When he turns to look at her from several feet away, he smirks and goes to wipe the small smear of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Chaotic enough for you?” he teases.

In response, she surges forward, moving like liquid mercury, and fakes him out with a right hook to block while she brings her left hand up to cuff him squarely under the chin.

“Bleeding hells,” he swears as he stumbles back, fingers going to his jaw. There’s a flash of fury on his face, of spite and vengeance. Then it’s gone, replaced by a calculating look. His lip curls back, showing teeth, and his pupils dilate. He moves to circle her and she responds by moving in the opposite direction, keeping their same distance. Astarion’s fingers clench and flex, clench and flex.

“Gloves off, then,” he says, voice low and breathy.

She raises her hands in a ready stance, welcoming an attack. “I never said they were on.”

A thin trail of blood drips down her arm from the bite. Astarion’s eyes snap to it and his mouth twitches as if he’s preparing to bite again, teeth peeking. He tenses to pounce and looks her in the face again.

“If you want blood,” she says warningly. “You must take it from me. If you can.”

That’s all he needs in the way of permission, if that’s in fact what he sought. Astarion springs forward like a tightened coil, using what little he has on her by way of body weight to catch her around the middle and send her staggering back. Again, he goes to hook her ankle and send her off balance, and again she adjusts to match him. Just as she raises her elbows to bring them down squarely in the center of his back, he releases her unexpectedly and steps around behind, turning with the grace and speed of a trained dancer.

He brings up his foot and kicks, connecting with the small of her back using all the leverage he has to shove her forward. This time, he actually manages it. For one solitary second, she loses her footing, and then he is on her from behind, looping an arm through both of her elbows and pulling them back so her sternum arches out sharply. She hisses from the strain in her shoulders.

And before she can regain the upper hand, he sinks his teeth into the side of her neck. It is an icy sting, foreign and sharp, and her warrior’s instinct immediately looses a battle cry that echoes throughout her ribcage. She cannot fall. She will not fall.

Astarion manages to get a few healthy pulls from her before she wrenches herself away, hand going to the wound he left there. It comes away bloodied and she raises her gaze to his face.

He looks like a creature possessed. The carefully crafted hair he maintains much to her disdain is falling from its coif and his mouth and chin are smeared with her gore. His tongue licks at his scarlet-stained teeth and he grins, feral, shoulders hunched forward and pupils blown out so wide she can scarcely see the irises of his eyes. When he moves, he jitters, jerky and unnatural. Nothing like the smooth flow of his usual airs.

A lesser woman would be terrified.

Lae’zel is not a lesser woman.

When he comes at her again, she drops, rolling onto her rear and back and using his own momentum against him. She takes him by the shoulders and continues to yank him up over her head, following after until she can push herself over top of him, pressing her thigh firmly between his legs. He makes a noise up at her from the stone floor, a trilling, growling sort of purr.

She silences him with her mouth over his, tongue running over his mouth before dipping inside and tasting the cosmic metal of her own blood on him. When she pulls back, her face matches his.

“Nasty thing,” Astarion says. “This is what gets you going, hm?”

He flexes his thigh, trapped between her own, and she feels the first teasing tingle of pleasure pull at her core.

Lae’zel laughs, heady with violence. “You think me affected, istik?” Quick as a heartbeat, she snakes her hand down between his legs and he chokes off a gasp as she firmly grips his cock through his clothes, the length of him gone fully hard against his leg. Her hold is strong, just barely on the right side of painful, and she feels a pulse go through him. “I have never seen a groundwalker so aroused by the promise of blood. Are you as excited at the prospect of pain?”

With that, she grabs the split of his shirt with her free hand and tears it open, the fabric splitting with a satisfying rip. He cries out in indignation, then again when she sinks her own teeth into the flesh of his chest. When she’s satisfied, she sits up, then stands and backs away from him, leaving him staring at the fresh bite on his skin with an expression of shock and interest.

He glares at her and pushes himself up to standing, his erection now very clearly visible through his fitted trousers. A flap of his torn shirt flutters in the slight breeze moving through the space and he flicks at it.

“I just found this shirt,” he growls. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find something out here that doesn’t look like it’s been through six generations of peasantry?”

She grins back at him, swaying from foot to foot. “And what are you going to do about it?”

He pulls the shirt loose from where it’s tucked and shucks it off, using it to wipe the worst of the mess from his face before tossing it aside. His skin is like marble in the moonlight, pale and solid stretched over the muscle beneath.

“I’d run, were I you,” he says.

“I do not run,” she answers.

Astarion springs and they lock arms again. It is a battle of speed versus strength, cunning versus training. Every time she gets the upper hand, he finds a way to free himself and get her back in turn. Round and round they go, bruises and bites, tongue and touch.

When he next gets her on her back, his forearm presses her to the ground just below her windpipe. He does not throttle her, but he’s making it clear that he could. Instead, his lips soften slightly, pulling over his bared teeth, and he appraises her face. She writhes and wraps both legs around his waist, intending to flip him, but he has his full weight across her torso and one of her arms pinned to the stones.

“Will you relent?” he says, tilting his head to one side and sounding for all the world as if he’s asking to kiss her.

“I will not,” she pants, writhing again. “You do not have me yet.”

“Hm,” he hums, eyes roving over her face once more. “Then I’ll consider this an opportunity.”

“An opportunity to wh-” she starts.

Astarion grinds himself into the cradle of her hips, hard. She feels the rigid length of him roll along the crux of her legs and her eyes shutter closed.

“She likes that, I think,” Astarion purrs.

He does it again.

“A break, perhaps?” His own voice is starting to go reedy. “Exchange pain for a bit of pleasure?”

“I will…” She pulls in a shaking breath, warmth blooming in her center, pulsing with a fierce edge of adrenaline. “... allow it.”

He rolls off her instantly, going to his back beside her, and begins wrestling with his own fastenings, nearly clumsy in his desperation to remove his remaining clothing. Lae’zel follows suit, albeit more efficiently. Her clothing and underthings are unfussy, made for utility far more than form. Astarion’s only just kicking off his bottoms when she climbs atop him, straddling his torso with her powerful thighs on either side and holding herself up out of his immediate reach.

She jerks her head down at him. “You wish to show me you are worthy of my gifts?” she says. “Then give me your hand.”

Astarion narrows his eyes at her, mistrustful, but he does as she asks, holding up a hand. Lae’zel accepts it.

“Good,” she says. “Now pay attention.”

Then she moves both of their hands between her legs, manipulating his fingers as she’d like them.

“I assume I am your first githyanki,” she breathes as his fingers brush her sensitive places. “I will only teach this once.”

She takes his middle finger and touches it to a tender place to one side of her slit. “Here.” She moves it across to mirror a spot on the other side. “Here.” Then she takes his thumb and places the pad over the spot at the front, a harder ridge that would normally be a hood on a softer species. “And here.”

He continues to watch her, his tongue peeking out to lick his lip.

“This is called kalach’ra k’rel vah, the points of the star,” she says. “Skilled lovers can hit all three at once and ah-”

“Like this?” Astarion lilts as he instantly relocates all three points and presses them hard with the tips of his fingers. “Or perhaps this?” He twists his wrist and brushes over the hot spots in a sweeping motion.

“Ah,” Lae’zel says again, radiant pleasure expanding deep in her belly. She tips forward and grips his biceps for support.

“Am I doing it right?”

Now he’s teasing her and she does not approve but oh Vlaakith'ka sivim hrath krash'ht if his detestable lockpicking habit isn’t working out in her favor at exactly this moment.

“Stay your fool tongue,” Lae’zel gasps, arching into his touch and canting her hips in time with him. A tingle twines up her spine like a serpent.

“Is that really what you want?” he says as he tilts his head back and curls his tongue out past his teeth in an obscene show.

“Ch’k,” she breathes. Loathe as she is to give so much as an inch, she cannot deny that she’d dearly love to shut him up. She pulls his face to hers, taking that wretched tongue against her own. The kiss is fierce and deep, leaving both of their lips cut from it.

Lae’zel wraps a hand around the back of his head and yanks it to one side, her face going to his neck. She inhales deeply, sweat and blood and death and life and fight. Then she runs her tongue along the vein climbing the column of his throat and keeps going along the edge of his ear.

Beneath her, Astarion bucks hard enough that she feels the head of his cock strike her thigh. A long groan sounds from deep in his chest and he twists, mouth pressed to her neck, and the wet heat of his tongue is stroking up to the place near her jaw.

She pulls back to place another bruising kiss on his mouth. When she pulls him back by the hair, she says, “As you were.”

He curls his lip at her in a snarl, but dutifully returns his hand to its work between her legs. Lae’zel lolls back and rolls against him as he plays her like gith are all he knows.

After a moment or two of blissful, bone-deep, aching pleasure in near silence, Astarion breaks it again.

“Anything else?” He tries to sound bored, but the winded words don’t fool her. His arousal must be growing unbearable.

Lae’zel rises and falls against him, trying to get the friction she needs. “Inside,” she breathes. “Partway up, softer than the rest.”

Without another word, Astarion slides two fingers across her and inside, exploring but a moment before he finds the place she indicated.

Lae’zel howls to the sky through the broken ceiling, praising the stars in Vlaakith’s name for the boiling knot of tension that will feel better than githyanki silver at release, better than the eternity of the Astral Plane, better even than riding a dragon-

Astarion pulls his hand away and lays back.

Her howl turns to one of rage as her head whips down to meet his knowing smirk. Even as his own breaths become shallow with need, he teases.

“Can’t let you have all the fun,” he says, examining the hand that had just been giving her such ecstasy. He glances back up. “I just wanted you to know that I’m capable, should you like to, oh, I don’t know…” He waves his hand through the air. “Admit that I’m not an inferior.”

The tempest behind Lae’zel’s eyes flickers in warning. Then she does the most terrifying thing she ever does – she smiles.

She’s off him in an instant and Astarion sits up on his elbows to watch, trying to figure out her next move. By the time he does, her face is already dangerously close to his cock and he’s having a sudden avalanche of regrets about certain previous choices.

“Ah, ah, I like that where it is very much,” he chides nervously.

Lae’zel holds his eye and continues lowering herself.

Astarion tenses. “Seriously, watch the teeth, watch the teeth the teeth the-”

Then she takes him down deep, mouth and tongue sliding over his length, and Astarion fully understands that githyanki tongues are uniquely textured.

“-the tee- oh.” One of his eyes twitches a bit as his expression goes slack in pleasant surprise. “Oh, that’s very… mmmn.” He collapses onto his back. “Okay.”

Lae’zel is honestly tempted to bring teeth into the mix anyway simply to teach him his place, but even she must begrudgingly admit that the elegant arch of an elf losing himself to the pleasure of her mouth is an alluring sight. His chest twitches as it rises and falls with his breath, his head thrown back and brows furrowed as if in concentration, lips pulled back to reveal the tips of his teeth.

Alluring, indeed.

“That shouldn’t be allowed,” he grits out, cracking his eyes open once more to peer down at her.

She nearly pulls off him for his ignorance, but instead she moves her tongue back, firms the tip, and runs it around the entirety of his glans. That’s always the most sensitive part for gith, and if the anatomy translates…

Astarion arches his back clean off the ground and snarls out a curse.

Lae’zel truly thinks she has him right where she wants him. Up until he sits back up on his elbow, tents his knee, and tangles his fingers into the back of her hair, an inferno in his eyes as he smolders down at her. Slowly, he thrusts into her mouth deeper, testing the water to determine whether she can take it.

She meets the intensity in his gaze and pushes herself still farther.

She never backs down from a challenge.

His fingers twist tighter in her hair and his hips begin to snap harder, fucking her mouth until he’s hitting the root of her tongue, then the back of her throat. Githyanki do have a gag reflex, but Lae’zel has trained to suppress hers for any number of applicable reasons. Perhaps she did not originally intend this one, but it applies nonetheless.

“Shit,” the elf spits, eyes falling shut as he continues to thrust, hand holding her in place as he does. “Gods, that’s not fair.”

Fair. As if anything about this union has ever been about what’s fair.

She’ll remind him.

His toned thigh flexes as he continues to leverage himself in a steady pumping rhythm that would not under any circumstances be considered gentle. He pants out his breath as the force of it leaves trails of her saliva trailing down. There’s not enough time or relief between thrusts for her to swallow. His loss, that.

When she’s decided she’s had enough of his antics, she puts her palms on his hipbones and pins him to the ground. He bucks against her in vain. Not as weak as she initially anticipated, especially not in his legs, but her muscles are corded steel. He groans out his frustration.

She pulls up and off of him unhurriedly, raising her head until she can look down upon him. His breath huffs angrily as he glares from beneath his furrowed brow, the tips of his elven ears flushed with borrowed blood and his cock shiny and slick from her mouth.

“Surely you did not expect to finish so easily,” she says, her words slightly raspier than they were. “Not while I’m left wanting. That is not why we came here, k’chaki.”

“No,” he says lowly as he pushes himself up to sitting so he’s at level with her. “We came here for a godsdamned fuck.”

He shoves her back and she goes, caught off guard for once. He crawls over her as she flips herself onto her belly, set to push back. Astarion slams one hand down over one of her wrists, and the other hand down over the other, and grips them both tight, laying his full weight over her.

She hears the shiver in his voice as he leans close and says, “Tell me to stop if you don’t want this.”

Lae’zel rolls her hips and draws up her legs to spread herself for him.

“As you were,” she whispers.

A low sound rumbles through Astarion’s chest as he grips her hips tight and presses himself into her. They combine in a way that is at once familiar and alien. It leaves them both crying out.

Lae’zel feels the prick of Astarion’s nails deep in the skin of her thighs. She wraps both hands around his forearms and digs her sharpened nails into him in kind.

His hips snap, thrusting into her hard and fast. Lae’zel drowns in sensation, of his cock stroking in and out, of his heated breath against her neck, of the scent of all that grounds her all around. With a surprising amount of awkwardness given his typical precision, Astarion fumbles a hand around to the front of her and attempts to find the places on her body she’d shown him before. It takes him a moment, but he manages, leaning heavily over her as they move.

Lae’zel’s mind blanks in bliss, the warming wave of first pleasure sweeping over her as he continues to move. She moans through it, a string of githyanki praises and blessings spilling past her lips.

Above her, Astarion’s breathing is labored. “Hells below, did you?” he gasps. “Tell me you did.”

With one more slight moan, Lae’zel pushes herself up, her back against his chest and forces him back as he bites back a curse. He pulls out of her and she turns, the movement lazy, and leans in to grip his jaw with one hand and pay him another kiss.

When they break, she says, “I have reached the cliff. The edge is near.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Astarion huffs in exasperation. His curls are flat now, falling around his face damp with sweat.

Lae’zel grins and pulls him to standing, putting both hands on his chest and backing him up to the nearest wall. She lays her body across him fully, letting the skin-to-skin contact send echoes of pleasure over her. This is the euphoric state, the one just before clarity. It is the only time she would dare let a soul call her “cuddly” and not immediately suffer an ignoble death.

She runs her tongue over his chest and peers up into his face. “It means that this…” she reaches a hand between them to take his cock in hand and hears his sharp intake of breath. “... feels almost as good for me as it does you, until the heat comes.”

“Again,” Astarion says with a slight wheeze. “What the fuck does that mean?”

In response, Lae’zel begins pumping him with long, firm strokes that make his eyes go half-lidded.

“I mean,” he slurs. “I’d had other plans, but I can live… with this…”

She leans in close. “It is temporary.”

“Don’t care what that means anymore,” he murmurs as she works him.

He arches against the wall and breathes oh-oh. Lae’zel can feel the heat, her heat, rising off his skin. The muscles underneath. The way everything twitches as he gets nearer and nearer. Her eyes watch his face, marveling. These terrestrial races, they are so strange, and somehow so beautiful.

Deep in her core, the cinders flicker back to life and Lae’zel’s initial pre-orgasm high falls to flame as her arousal comes back like a roaring bonfire. It’s so overpowering that she nearly misses the telltale signs that Astarion’s almost done for. His brow is pinched and fluttering moans keep escaping past his lips. She feels a swelling beneath her touch.

And she stops and steps back.

“No!” Astarion groans out his disappointment. “Gods damn it, no, I was right there.”

She grips him by the jaw and makes him look at her. His glare could melt metal.

“Has your edge returned to you?” Lae’zel says.

“You might bloody well say that,” he snarls.

She puts her hands on his shoulders. “Then use it.”

With an animalistic growl, Astarion puts his hands on the backs of her thighs and she jumps to wrap her legs around his waist. He whirls them both and slams her against the wall, its cold stone cooling her overheated skin and its rough surface keeping her present. There’s a few seconds more of adjustment before he pushes back inside her, effectively pinning her to the wall with his hips as he grabs her wrists and presses them into the stone above her head.

As soon as he gets the balance right, he begins fucking into her without additional thought, hips grinding together tightly. Lae’zel shuts her eyes and grins as the force of it appeases the desire inside her, feeding the fire until it grows, and grows, and–

She doesn’t even hear the cry that escapes her lips as the light inside her bursts, its luminance igniting every cell. The world around her rings, all other noise coming to her as if underwater.

When she finally comes down enough to hear again, Astarion is saying something to her.

“What?” she manages.

He presses his mouth right up against her ear, continuing to pump into her. “I said…” Thrust. “... is it all right…” Thrust. “... to finish…” Thrust. “... inside?”

Lae’zel’s laugh is high-pitched. Delirious. “Yes, fool, you may come inside.”

“Fucking finally,” Astarion groans.

His thrusts go slow as his body tenses against her. Then he leans his full weight against her and the wall with a stuttering cry as, she assumes, he comes his entire soul out.

Afterward, they’re reclining nude on the nearby blanket catching their breath. Lae’zel glances his way.

“Are you actually required to ask permission to, ah. Complete inside someone?” she asks.

Astarion gives her an incredibly put-upon look. “I asked because it’s polite, you weird arsehole.” He winces as he rolls his shoulder, poking at a new bruise. “One of us could try to bring a little decorum.”

She smirks and looks out the ruined archway. “You were most enthusiastic tonight,” she says.

“Well.” He lays back on one of the folded up blankets. “Not every day you encounter someone open to certain, you know. Proclivities.”

Lae’zel nods. “I may have use for you again in the future.”

Astarion gives a sharp laugh to the night sky.

[strawberrysodaslut]

On the Road Again - Rockstar!Eddie Munson x GN!reader

tags/warnings: ~700 words // SFW, fluff, no use of Y/N, established relationship no descriptors for reader, sleep troubles, slight mentions of nausea and vomit as well as mentions of the standard toilet system in tour buses, in my writing world the bunks are big enough to fit you and eddie no matter what!

i wrote this for @corrodedcoffinfest’s writing event day 5 prompt as it has officially been the 5th of July for about 2 hours for me so.. yeah. I had fun writing this so i hope you enjoy!

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You’d grown used to the quirks of the tour bus. It wasn’t easy at first. Eddie warned you about the difficulties when you first agreed to come with him on his band’s tour. Living on the road has its challenges, and the bus is as cheap as they could get it. But you’d survived 14 hour road trips, and this time you’d have the love of your life and, most importantly, a bed. How hard could it be?

It was fine, mostly. Although not ideal in the long run, relying on gas station snacks worked for now. The toilet had an odd design where you couldn’t flush toilet paper or any solid waste. Gareth proved this when he forgot and caused a lingering stench on the bus for 3 hours, but you could manage. What you weren’t prepared for was the disastrous effect it would have on your sleep.

At first Eddie; ever the man-child, called dibs on a top bunk. He assured you it would work fine, and while the bed had enough space, the swaying was so bad you almost vomited 3 times in two hours. Jeff only offered to trade after Eddie had convinced the group that the smell of vomit would be even worse than the Gareth incident.

Despite the warm welcome of your stomach settling once you were in the bottom bunk, you still struggled to get to sleep. It seemed every time you would drift off, the bus would make a sharp swerve, drive over what seemed to be the largest rock possible and crash back down, or enter complete road rage over another vehicle and blare the horn.

The next morning when you stopped at a gas station, the first thing you went for was earplugs.

It’s hard to say if the road conditions have gotten better the further on the tour you got, or if your body has gotten immune to disruptions. But, over time, it got easier to get a proper night’s rest.

Still, you dealt with the occasional jolt.

In all honesty, you hadn’t even realised you had fallen asleep. One minute you’re resting your head on Eddie’s lap, his fingers lazily stroking across your head, and the next you have the adrenaline of a caveman being hunted, shooting up into a sitting position and looking around for the source of your distress.

Your panic settles when you feel his warm hands on you. “Hey, hey.” He whispers, gently running his hands up and down your arms. “That was a big one, eh? It’s okay, come back to me, sweetheart.”

You angle your head to look at him. Judging by the deep croakiness of his voice and the light redness of his eyes, he must’ve fallen asleep as well. The constant shows taking a toll on him. He wears a bashful smile as he looks at you through his eyelashes.

Stretching your back, you let out a groan and look out the window, seeing the busy streets of the town where Eddie’s next gig was.

“Are we here already?You ask, looking back to see the other band members staring out the windows like you.

Jeff stifles a laugh. “Already? You slept for four hours.” He says, gingerly pointing to the clock above his head.

He was right. It was almost 4 o’clock, four hours was being charitable.

“Huh,” you say, turning to your boyfriend, who was rubbing his eyes in earnest. He scrunches his nose as rolls his shoulders back slightly. He has less freckles now that he’s not in the sun as often, his under eyes darkened to the point of needing to buy concealer for shows. Yet you still think he’s the most beautiful man in the world.

When he notices you staring at him, Eddie flashes you a smile before wrapping his arms around your waist to turn your back to him and pull you closer. “Guess you’re getting better at this sleeping thing than you thought, huh?” He says, tucking your head under his chin.

You look around at your friends, the energy and excitement of the upcoming show beaming from them and filling the bus, feeling the warmth of Eddie and even the rumble of the old, cheap bus, and you feel at home.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

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eddie munson masterlist

comments + reblogs are always appreciated <3

[thumpypuppy]

hey can you talk about I WON’T LET YOU GO HOME from ISAT and how you went about making it? It is so good. me and friends really like it. thank you in advance if so! the game is so good and your soundtrack has played a key role in making it literally life changing.

Lindar here!

Thank you SO MUCH for the kind words.

Firstly, I have to give credit to InsertDisc5 who gave incredible direction and has been to date one of the best people I've worked with.

So let's start from the beginning: We establish a specific instrumental tone with the pseudo-chiptune synth we've heard a lot, especially in the title theme. This was created using NI Massive, which was one of the most heavily used synths in the OST. We're doing kind of a basic heavy metal riff here, but making it chiptune-y.

Next we fade in for the first and only time in the soundtrack a SNES strings pad to fill out the chord structure and provide additional melodic content.

Then of course for our more intense moments we roll out Toontrack Superior Drummer 2 + Metal Foundry, featuring the amazing drumming styles of the one and only Sandra Baker. I think she went absolutely ham to contrast with how simple the first section is.

So next we hit our stride and establish what the piece is really saying. The drums simplify a bit to leave room for the melody, and then we hit a "drop" of sorts into the next section.

Now we're rocking to a reprise of the title theme in a more major tone, but it's feeling less hopeful and more like a longing attachment to memories of the past.

In the second half of the title theme we run a reprise of the death/loss theme as a counter-melody while also introducing a new little motif stab underneath. We hear it in the strings as sort of the response to a call that hasn't actually been made, and then it's repeated in the bass, and finally the whole band states it all at once as we move into the next section.

Again we're stating the title theme, but this time in a different mode with a gliding, reverby, monophonic lead that feels like it's floating. Each phrase keeps rising in intensity, desperately reaching for that memory.

Finally after all of that wildly changing energy and anxiety ramping up we hit a breakdown featuring probably some of the best orchestral composition I've managed thus far (not to toot my own horn). I was really shooting for "pained" as the sound of this section. Half-time feel drums where we're so incredibly out of energy, but no! The drums pick up into double-time as we desperately reach out for comfort!

I gotta say Sandra went absolutely wild with the blastbeat snare while still doing a half-time feel. Like it feels like there's so much tension even while we're winding down to the end of the piece, floating in a place where we keep moving towards hope but always resolving on the minor. We have a lot of movement here through different keys and modes that continually give us a feeling of moving forward while always returning to the feeling of loss.

Finally, for the album version, we cap the ending with a slow restatement of the beginning of the piece for piano and violin (I don't remember the specific piano I used here but it wasn't the Spitfire Labs muted piano for once, and the violin is from Spitfire's Sacconi Quartet).

As far as an in-depth musical analysis goes, I'd have to open the session again to get really specific with what I did on a theory level because it's been like a year or more since I wrote it, and my computer's primary hard drive died (luckily I have all my sessions on a different drive), so I'm spending the weekend reinstalling everything.

I think the crux of this piece in particular is that, while there is new melodic content that explains the emotional context of the scene, we still rely on the recontextualization of leitmotifs for added effect. I'm not sure if it makes me lazy or a genius, but it's something I leaned into heavily.

It's like…

Step 1: Someone is crying. Their friend tries to cheer them up. Play something kinda sad and a little bittersweet.

Step 2: Play that same melody in a different situation but slightly different to be totally appropriate while also calling back to the original event.

Step 3: Make it into a major-key power metal song because you're winning with the power of your friends caring about your feelings.

Humans are pattern-recognition machines. It works with motifs, it works with specific instrumentation, it works with pretty much anything. Make an aesthetic choice about your instrumentation, utilize it, and punch people in the feels.

As soon as the studio is back up and running I'll see if I can't add on to this with an actual theory analysis, and meanwhile I'm gearing up to start doing classes on mixing and sound design, so look out for that as well!

Thank you again for your ask!

[lightningidle]

Fig's line "I don't think I'm an artist, I think I'm just a good friend" has not left my head at all. Just...

You're Fig Faeth and your horns came in over the summer and you pick up the bard class as a form of adolescent rock 'n' roll rebellion, and it works! It's exactly the outlet you need! You give a guy you just met drumsticks and you start a band and it's good enough that within a year and a half you're touring. You are, in every sense, good at being a bard.

And then, finally, your junior year, you start to take it seriously. Your art goes from an outlet and a form of rebellion to a practice. A discipline. (Can rebellion exist within a discipline?) Your classmates know what they want to do with their work. They all have a thesis statement. And yeah, there's cohesion in the music you make, but you've never had to think about why you make it. You've never sat down and dissected what it is about bass that speaks to you. You've never poured over your lyrics to pick at any deeper meaning. Why should you? You don't play music for a grand design, you do it to... huh, why do you do it?

(Your art is the one form of self-expression that feels as safe as Disguise Self does, because even if you're pouring your heart onto the page and then screaming it in front of thousands of people, it's not like you're really making yourself known. You can sing I'm lonely, I'm scared, I'm furious, and your fans will sing it right back, and there will still be the distance between performer and audience to keep your heart safe.)

Now you're being asked to look inward to explain the artistic choices you're making, and you can't help but recoil at that, because you'd rather do anything than look inward. Meanwhile, your classmates have no problem with it, so you start to wonder if you're a real artist at all. Can your art be authentic if it only exists to bolster a thesis statement? Has your art been unauthentic this whole time because you've never really thought about a thesis statement before? Is that what makes it art, and not just the next track on somebody's teen angst playlist?

You can't think about yourself— acknowledging your own existence makes you want to puke. So if your music is an extension of yourself, (and it is, even if it's just because the spotlight reveals only what you want it to,) you can't think about your music. You can't. You have to. Your grade depends on it.

You're Fig Faeth, and you keep multiclassing because you'd rather be a good friend than a great artist. If introspection is what great art demands, then fuck it. You must not be a bard at all.

[graves4girls]

Jealous johnny cage one shot?Preferably rock star fem reader

☆ chemical kids and mechanical brides | johnny cage

✮ wc. 1.01k ⚠︎ warning(s): fem!reader the hardest part of this was finding a good enough title i stg. i'm still iffy about it but wtvs ⟡ be sure to check out my work on ao3 → gravesforgirls !!

The adrenaline from the show is still running through your veins as you pack up your kit, humming to the song blasting from the stage as you brush away the hair sticking to your face. There were significantly more people in the stands than your last show, probably due to the leaked photos of you and Johnny cuddling up to each other at one of his movie premieres. It wasn't long after that people found out who you were, and your band's popularity sky-rocketed in the following weeks. 

You shove the duffel bags and drums into the back of the van, a smile cracking your tired expression when your eyes fall on him.

"That was fuckin' amazing."

His hands encase your face, littering your face in kisses as you laugh quietly, weakly pushing at his chest.

"Don't, I'm all sweaty."

He sticks one more kiss to your lips, big grin plastered to his face as he looks at you. "Arguably hotter."

You roll your eyes, shoving his hands away and pushing the doors closed with a sigh. "I almost don't even want to go to the club. The excitement is wearing off and now I'm just exhausted." 

He steps closer to pull you into his chest, hands grabbing at your hips to keep you in place as he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

"You and I both know damn well they'll chew you out if you ditch 'em. Y'know, for a rockstar, you sure are a goody two-shoes."

You punch his chest lightly before slinking your arms around his neck, pouting a bit. "Am not. I just like to sleep."

You huff quietly when the van's horn blares, reluctantly pulling your arms away.

"Beat it, Cage! You're holding up our drummer!"

"Fine. She's all yours." He waves at the girl hanging out the passenger window, dropping one more soft kiss to your lips as he lets you go. "I'll meet you there. Don't have too much fun without me."

You're ushered toward the bar as soon as you step into the lounge, opting to sit on one of the stools and wait for Johnny while your friends disappear into the crowd. You busy yourself with your phone, and you fail to notice someone staring at you from across the room, slowly approaching you through the sea of people drunkenly dancing. 

"Hey."

You jump a bit at the voice, eyes finding a man suddenly taking up the space in the previously empty seat beside you, but you shoot him a tight-lipped smile despite the spook. 

"Hi."

"You're from that new punk-rock band right? The tough…tough something?"

You perk up a bit, eager at the opportunity to meet a fan. "Ruff puppies, yeah. Spelled r-u-f-f."

He nods with a small laugh. "Right. Not the best with band names. But yeah, I've heard a ton of your songs. Shit's sick."

"Thanks. We actually just came from a show a couple blocks down."

He hums, waving down the bartender. "What's your preference?"

You shake your head with a small smile, waving a hand in the air. "Oh, I'm not drinking tonight. I'm just here for moral support."

"Let me buy you something else then. How about a coke?"

You shrug. "Really, it's not necessary–"

He orders a beer and a coke, shooting you a warmer smile. "This is probably the only time I'll ever get to buy the pretty drummer from Ruff Puppies a drink. I'm gonna take it."

You flush the slightest at the compliment.

"Your latest album by the way? Best shit I've heard in the scene in a hot minute. And, from one drummer to another, you're insane."

You spend the next few minutes shooting band recommendations and techniques back and forth before his eyes wander behind you, mouth falling open a bit, and you follow his gaze to find Johnny ambling over to you, the traces of a scowl on his face.

"Holy shit. You're Johnny Cage, right? Man, I love your movies. Ninja Priest was so good."

"Yeah. I appreciate it." He turns to you, snaking a hand around your waist. "Can I talk to you real quick?"

You knit your brows together, but you nod all the same, excusing yourself and following him into a secluded corner of the club, tilting your head as you look at him.

"What's up?"

"Who was that?"

The wrinkle between your eyebrows deepens. "You're talking about the kid? He's a fan of the band. He was just asking about my drumming."

He huffs a bit. "If he's a fan, he should know you have a boyfriend."

"Johnny."

His eyes aren't on you, instead drifting over your shoulder to glare at the person in question. "He bought you a drink."

You roll your eyes, slipping your fingers into his belt loops and pulling him closer. "It's just a coke, Johnny. Don't be like that." You press a kiss to his chin, leaning against him.

"Be like what? I'm not being like anything. 'M just not crazy about random dudes flirting with my girlfriend."

You bite back a laugh, hooking a finger in the collar of his shirt to pull him closer, kissing him softly. "You're cute when you're jealous."

He grumbles as you draw back, hands resting on your waist as he continues to avoid your eyes. "I'm not jealous. And I definitely wouldn't be jealous of that little rat."

"Mhm…whatever you say, babe." He finally looks at you fully, softening a bit at your smile. "I think you need to loosen up a bit. On me?"

You drag him back to the bar, and you're about to sit back down when he lifts you from the stool, taking your spot and pulling you down into his lap instead, and you fight against his strong hold in a weak attempt to get away. 

"You're so embarrassing. Let go."

His arms tighten around you, and any attempt to pry them from your waist is futile, hiding your flushed face in your hands as he chuckles. 

"I just wanna make sure everyone here knows you're already spoken for."

[thislovintime]

Onstage in 1967 and 1987; photo 1 © Joe Russo/The Monkees Pad Show, photo 2 by John Atashian/Getty Images.

“[I]f I could have a keyboard but no banjo or the other way around, I would of course keep the keyboard, just because you can play rock and roll and folk and melodies and improvise. It’s the instrument I’m most familiar with, it’s the one I trained on, and harmonically, it’s the one that falls most readily under my hands. And I think that would be, that would be it. The banjo is of course wonderful in its own way and you can do things on the banjo that no other instrument is capable of. I’d like to, I’d like to go on having what I’ve got, which is essentially both and then some, of course, guitar and French horn and harmonica and bass and all the others that I play on or play at. […] Micky’s always been a good campfire guitar player, pop-rock lead singer, he’s always been doing, he’s always done that. It’s really kind of interesting, you know, you think two actors and two musicians. But of course, Davy sang on Broadway. You don’t do that unless you’re a musician. What everybody’s really saying, of course, is two instrumentalists, I mean, two guys who could handle instruments. In fact, I expect that it may fairly be said that Micky was probably about as good a guitar player as Mike was, except Mike was a monster time keeper. In fact, Mike was our time keeper onstage. Micky played melodic drums, he played them like you would a melodic instrument. Mike kept time.” - Peter Tork, Headquarters Radio, 1989 “We weren’t a garage band; it started off as a business relationship with the four of us. On this [1987] tour, there have been a number of pleasant surprises. We’ve all grown in our craft. Micky hadn’t performed since the last Monkees tour years ago, but he’s a better performer now than he was then. David is funnier than he was, and I’m feeling easier on stage. […] We haven’t gotten closer; we’re moderately close anyway. We spend a lot of time together joking and talking about the show. We’re sociable, friendly guys, I don’t want people to think we’re not, but we’re all too different to draw closer on a regular basis.” - Peter Tork, Asbury Park Press, August 7, 1987

[popp1nstaxr]

❝My Doll❜❜ BG

Content: Smut, nsfw, sexual content, profanity, enemies to lovers, fem! reader, about stimulation.

Preview:

«You and BeomGyu have been something like enemies, you can't stand each other and every interaction ends in a fight, strangely, many believe that you really have something in common, more often than not as simple nonsense, your surprise will be great when you realize how real all those rumors that run about both are»

My first language is not English, I'm sorry if there is any mistake in the writing <3

Reblog and Like for more!! >.<

This is definitely not what I had planned for today.

I had decided to go out with my friends to the cinema. It was a sunny day according to the forecasts, and I hoped to have a good time and forget a bit about the tough times and stress of University. But to my surprise, around noon, it started to rain, and the intensity kept increasing. Can the forecast be wrong...?

And everything just got worse from there. My parents called saying they couldn't pick me up, and that's fine, but I hate taking the bus when it's raining. Waiting at the stop wasn't exactly pleasant; if you weren't careful, you could end up completely soaked in dirty water because of reckless drivers speeding through the wet streets, causing the huge puddles by the side of the road to splash onto you, and it's not, precisely, pretty.

I sighed as I waited for the bus, cursing myself for believing in the "nice weather" and not wearing weather-appropriate clothes. If I had known, I would have even brought a coat for the cold.

I watched as an elderly lady stumbled on the wet pavement, and almost immediately, I ran to prevent the accident. While helping the old lady, I saw the bus pass right by me.

I said goodbye to her and nodded as she thanked me, immediately running after the bus, "Wait! Please!" I shouted, hoping to make it stop in the pouring rain. But my shouts were in vain, and I soon stopped, completely drenched.

My blouse clung almost instantly to my body, and I cursed myself for wearing a black bra underneath it. It was clearly visible, in addition to the raindrops trickling down my bare legs and how much my skirt clung to them.

I wanted to cry.

That's when an expensive blue car stopped beside me—or rather, it was moving slowly along the road, as if strolling with me. The window rolled down, revealing a smirk that was both mocking and charming, oh, of course, I should have expected that it would be Choi BeomGyu, the only jerk who loves to show off his father's money from that company.

I completely ignored him, rolled my eyes, and kept walking.

"Hey, gorgeous. Are you sure you don't want to get in? I don't think rain is your strong suit," he said, laughing a bit as I heard him unlock the car.

I had two choices: to get in and dry off or to die of hypothermia from the cold.

Certainly, I'd prefer to die of hypothermia, but BeomGyu's annoying insistence, constantly chanting "get in, get in, get in, get in" while honking the horn from time to time, was getting on my nerves. So, I decided to get in the car.

Once inside, I observed him in more detail: his long hair and those few blonde strands made him look quite attractive, not to mention his penchant for wearing oversized hoodies from some rock band—My Chemical Romance, to be specific— and blue jeans, sometimes ripped or normal but equally baggy, adorned with chains and some rings on his hands.

Shit, if he weren't such a jerk, I'd let him mistreat me in five different ways.

"I see that today definitely wasn't your lucky day. Thank the universe that such a kind guy like me decided to save a damsel in distress like you," he spoke and smiled, glancing briefly at my legs, something I obviously noticed.

I raised an eyebrow, curious about that, and chuckled softly, but I didn't say anything about it.

His perfectly defined, pale, and large hands adorned with some silver rings and others with chain rings were expertly handling the steering wheel with incredible agility; you could tell he was a guy with skilled hands.

"Ugh, I only agreed because you're annoying, otherwise, I would have preferred to stay on the street," I replied, looking out the window. I heard him laugh ironically, but he didn't say anything.

"Yeah, whatever. Take my phone and look up your home address. I decided to be kind just for today, so don't provoke me, sweetheart," he said, his voice becoming more serious. I just rolled my eyes; he always tried to act superior to everyone, which was quite irritating.

But I didn't say anything and decided to obey, taking his phone and unlocking it for him. "Password," I said, and when he stopped at a red light, I saw him smile and chuckle a bit. It was almost as if he enjoyed the fact that I had obeyed him without complaints.

He snatched the phone from my hand and used his fingerprint to unlock it, opening the GPS app, then handed it back to me.

I searched for my home address and handed it to him.

He nodded. "Hold it for a bit, doll, so I can see," he said. I nodded and complied again.

Maybe it was fatigue, but all of this was quite strange. I feel like something was missing between us, something that never fails whenever we talk.

Oh, right, the fights.

Half of the journey was in silence. I don't know why, but I truly believed it would be annoying, as it usually is back at the University. However, I don't complain about the tranquility.

Suddenly, I glanced at the GPS and realized that BeomGyu had taken the wrong turn. "Oh, BeomGyu, you're going the wrong way. My house is that way..." I spoke to him, and he just nodded.

"I know, it's just that there's a store nearby, and believe me, I can't stand seeing you in that state anymore. I need... to cover it up," he said. His voice sounded a bit husky, and then he cleared his throat.

I looked at him, confused. "That state?" I repeated, puzzled, and then I observed myself. Of course, I'm still drenched... this, certainly, amused me. Who would have thought that Choi would succumb so quickly to temptation? I really wouldn't want to sleep with him, but it would be fun to tease and provoke him a bit.

When he parked the car and I saw him taking out his keys, I decided to act. We were in an underground establishment, and there weren't many cars around. I suppose it would be fun to play a little with his desires.

I let out a sigh and walked as quickly as I could to sit on his lap, BeomGyu seemed surprised and confused "What the fuck are you doing...? Get off" he spoke with a frown, I just nodded, but I ignored him, even climbing higher on his legs, riding his member almost as if it belonged to me.

"What will you do if I don't want...?" I murmured while I began to leave playful little kisses on his neck, that's when I felt one of his hands brush one of my thighs, a very light touch that spoke volumes.

"Trust me, for your sake, come down now." He ordered, his voice hoarser and more demanding than before, I ignored him again, continuing with my lips on his neck, beginning to slowly move my hips on his member, creating an exquisite sway, I allowed myself to let out a sigh against his skin when I could feel almost immediately his member under my butt and smiled, I had achieved my goal.

I stopped my movements and tried to get off his lap, but I felt his big hands hold my hip tightly, preventing him from trying to move if I wanted to. my hips on his member, making the movement from before even more exquisite "Now you have to take care of what you woke up princess, and I don't want to see complaints because then it will only make you worse, hmm?" I heard him speak against my neck, his voice was completely demanding and I shuddered when he let a slow lick from my shoulder to my jaw, his hands released my hips to almost immediately take my thighs and squeeze them with some force, spreading my thighs even more. legs as if he wanted to make way for his cock to be between my pussy still with clothes on. I could see how his fingers left small purple marks on my thighs as he moved his hands up to my rear and squeezed lightly.

I couldn't help it, in less than seconds I was already a mess of sighs under him and he hadn't even touched my most sensitive points.

I heard him laugh hoarsely "You totally fell for my game, Y/N. I really could have left you at home to avoid my temptation, but I didn't resist and I needed to test you, making up the cheapest excuse. This store is closed on Fridays and the store they leave it open to the public, so, darling, you didn't play with me, I played with you and believe me, I'll take all of you right now" he spoke as he massaged my buttocks and then gave a slap that made me cry slightly "but, Shh, it's okay. Silent beautiful, I wouldn't want them to take us out of here in the middle of the act because you can't contain your dirty slutty sounds" he added later to start leaving hickeys on my neck, while his hands went up my entire uniform skirt and cheekily touched my behind, while another of his hands went straight to the buttons of my blouse.

He was already letting go, he sighed with each touch and bite he gave, I tried to hold back the little cry that threatened to come out of my throat when I felt his hand squeeze with tortured exquisite delicacy as he unhooked my bra.

"Move your hips" he ordered seriously and with his hoarse voice, with one hand taking my hips and guiding my movements while the other played with my breasts, he brought his mouth to one of them and began to suck and play with his tongue on the tip of my nipple. "G-Gyunnie..." I whimpered his name at the pleasant sensation, but I couldn't be satisfied, I wanted more, I needed more from him.

He separated his mouth from my chest and made a few hickeys under each of them, before licking his lips and looking at me with a leering smile "Yes, Baby Doll? Remember to be silent my love, I see you completely a mess and still I haven't been able to try my fingers on you..."

I nodded, and released a content sigh "I need... I need more" I barely murmured, and stopped the movements that guided my hips. "Further..?" He asked smiling and I nodded.

"Fine, but for this I need you to be obedient, yes my love?" I nodded. "Let's go to the back" he ordered him and I without saying anything went to the back seats, BeomGyu followed me and sat on the seat. "Get on your knees in front of the glass, don't worry, they're tinted windows" I nodded and obeyed, I appreciated that the back seats were quite wide "place both hands on the glass my love" He ordered again, his voice strangely sweet.

And in that position, I heard how BeomGyu removed all his rings from his hands and left them on the front seats of the car, to then feel how his hands slowly went up behind my thighs towards my butt, then lowering my panties and raising all my skirt, exposing my entire ass to him, he hit him and I let out a small moan between pain and satisfaction "Shut up, little dolls don't talk" and automatically bit my lips to make silence.

My breath quickened when I felt him play with the entrance of my butt, brushing his fingers there "Be quiet" he asked sweetly again and I nodded, when I felt two of his fingers penetrate my butt without warning, stimulating there by removing a Little his fingers inside me, I bit my lip so hard to avoid moans of so much satisfaction that I drew a little blood, soon he began to penetrate me with his fingers and my already wet pussy felt it throb, while my behind it tightened around his fingers, damn it, he needed his cock.

He chuckled "look, how needy you are of me, isn't this beautiful doll?" I heard him say when he took his fingers out of my butt. "But... we'll leave this here for today, you still don't deserve my dick"

I widened my eyes in surprise, was he really going to leave me like this? No, no, no, you can't, he refused me.

I immediately settled back and watched him, noticing that he was cleaning the liquid that I left on his hands to put the rings back on "W-will you leave me... like this?" I asked with some disappointment, he just laughed and winked at me.

"I have to go buy things, you fix yourself up. But it was fun to see you so... miserable in front of me, my marks are now all over your body..." he spoke and smirked.

"You said it was closed on Fridays" he accused, annoyed, he really couldn't be more of a son of a bitch.

"Oops, double deception cutie" he said with amusement and got out of the car, leaving me there in my mess.

This was a fucking robbery.

[stellarspecter]

Vampires and Werewolves and Demons, Oh My!

@stevieweek Day 3: Girls Night + Dice Roll: 9. Monsterfucking

Rating: T | Words: 803 | platonic stobin, pre-steddie and pre-rovickie

just some silly girls night banter! wrote this in like an hour, bon appetit (and thank you stevieweek for making dividers for us!)

read on AO3

“Listen, I’m not saying I wanna fuck a werewolf,” Stevie says, “I’m just saying I maybe wouldn’t necessarily be against it.”

“Sounds like a werewolf fucker to me,” Robin dryly comments.

“No!” Stevie exclaims, yanking her hands away from Argyle’s surprisingly talented manicure so she can gesture suitably. “I just said I wouldn’t be against it! Like, if I met one and they were hot and they asked me to, I would, but I wouldn’t, like, seek it out.”

Nancy hums, considering, then nods. “Yeah, I can see it.” She rises from where she was hunched over Robin’s hands and caps her bottle of nail polish. “Besides, with how much you liked getting hickeys, you’d be more into vampires anyway.”

Stevie gapes at her, betrayed. Robin’s cackling joins Argyle’s stoned chuckles. “You —! I trusted you! What happened to ‘being exes doesn’t matter, we can just be friends?!’”

Nancy just laughs. “That doesn’t mean I don’t remember what you were like when we dated.”

Argyle nods sagely. “Using insider info for an accurate monsterfucking profile. I dig it.” He offers her a fist bump, which she carefully accepts. 

Stevie snorts. “Fuckin’ ‘monsterfucking profile.’ What are you even talking about.”

“Like, a video game character with different attributes,” Robin adds, hands spreading wide in front of her so as to not smudge her wet nail polish. “High score in werewolves, but you’ve maxed out your vampire stat.”

Stevie gives her an unimpressed look. “You sound like one of the nerds.”

“Oh, you mean I sound like Eddie, your best friend Eddie?” Her demeanor changes on a dime to a new simpering character, looking up at Stevie with wide eyes.

Stevie scoffs. “You’re my best friend, dingus, you know that.”

Nancy doesn’t hesitate to jump on the bait. “Oh, he’s not your best friend, he’s something else? Like, say, a crush?”

Stevie groans and falls back onto the pillow-covered floor from their earlier movie marathon. “For the last time, I do not have a crush on Eddie.”

“Are you into devils and shit too?” Argyle asks nonsensically. Stevie stares at him. “You know, like —” He mimics Eddie’s horns pose, tongue out. It looks a lot more silly when he does it. “Cause he does have vampire vibes but I think he sees himself as more of a devil/demon type creature.”

“Argyle,” Stevie starts calmly, although she doesn’t feel anything close to it. “Are you asking me. In real life. If seeing our mutual friend Eddie Munson do his stupid little devil horns. Gets me hot and bothered?”

Argyle shrugs in that unbothered way of his. Stevie doesn’t know how he does it. “Whatever greases your wheels, amigo.”

“Oh my god no it doesn’t fucking —” Stevie takes a deep breath. “I do not have a crush on Eddie. And if I did,” she sends a warning glance around the room. “It wouldn’t be because I want to fuck him as a vampire or a demon or whatever the fuck. Okay?”

Her statement seems to pacify Nancy and Argyle, but Robin will not be swayed. Typical. “Sure, Stevie,” she says with an exaggerated wink.

Stevie sighs frustratedly and crosses her arms. “Alright, do you want us to talk about monsterfucking your crush? You seem to like Vickie playing in band, I bet you want her to be a siren and lure you into dangerous waters or some shit.”

Robin splutters, and Stevie grins. Finally some satisfying payback. “I never said tha—”

“I bet you’d sail your ship into the rocks just to get a taste of fish pussy.”

“How do you know these words!” Robin’s arms flail, trying to disperse the laughter now filling the room at her bright red face.

Nancy parrots, “Monsterfucking her crush? So you do agree Eddie’s your crush?”

Stevie puts her hands over her face in a fit of despair. “Why am I being literally cross-examined about Eddie fucking Munson right now,” she moans.

“It’s Girls Night, Stevie,” Robin tells her. “This is what we do. I thought you wanted to be included?”

“I did,” Stevie says, guarded. “But that was when I thought it was just watching chick flicks and painting our nails. Also, why’s Argyle here if it’s Girls Night?”

They all turn to him.

“It’s my luscious locks, brochacho,” he explains. “And I give good relationship advice.”

“Really?” Stevie says, intrigued despite herself. “What’s your advice right now?”

“About you and Eddie?” He looks up at the ceiling, contemplative. “You should probably tell him how you really feel,” he says. “You’re doing a really bad job keeping it a secret.”

All Stevie can do in the face of such great betrayal is throw a pillow at his head. Good thing it turns out no Girls Night is complete with a pointless-argument induced pillow fight by the end of it.

[adriheavymetal]

Doro Pesch 🤟😎💀📸✨👏

[ohtobealady]

For the one-word prompt: America (Cobert related)

Oh, Anonny! What a fun prompt! Thank you. I'm afraid this is more cobert adjacent, but I still hope you like it.

(play some 1920's jazz in the background for this one)

----------',----------

America

“Eh, I’d say you earned some fun.” 

Robert forced a huff of a laugh at Martha before he replaced his empty tumbler on the table. For the thousandth time, his eyes went to the portrait hanging to the left of the mantelpiece. The painted image of his wife, thirty years younger, stared back at him. 

“But you’ll keep him away from Frank’s, won’t you?” she spoke to Harold now who had begun to stand. “We all know how he’s managed to steer clear of charges.” Robert watched her rub her fingertips together, quirking one of her brows. "I've had enough of you in the papers, but I don't believe in bribes. At least not anymore."

“No, Mother. We aren’t going to Frank’s. Oscar Dupuis is hosting.” 

“Oh, well then.” Martha chuckled, and the ice in her glass tinkled when she brought it to her lips. “I’m sorry I have to miss out.”

He didn’t understand why Harold laughed, rolling his eyes, and Robert didn’t care to inquire. Instead he stood and followed his brother-in-law. 

Harold didn’t speak again until they were in the dark backseat of the car. 

“They’ll have drinks, though I can’t promise they’re as good as ours,” he adjusted his coat and tossed a glance in Robert’s direction. “But it’s best not to ask too many questions.” 

“Seems to be a slogan of yours,” Robert muttered under his breath. He was tired. He was homesick. He didn’t want to go to this party, but Harold had insisted, as a thank you. “Will there be many guests?”

Harold shrugged. “Hard to say. Not really one of those sorts of parties.” 

“I see. I did think it rather late for a dinner,” he found himself admitting. Harold, to his surprise, laughed aloud. 

“Oh. It’s not a dinner.”

The car stopped, and even before the chauffeur opened the door, the sounds of laughter and light jaunty music filtered through the night. 

Somewhere beyond Robert’s attention, as he climbed from the car, he could hear Harold’s voice saying, “Come at two, Morris.” But he was much too distracted to worry about having to make small talk into the wee hours. The facade was grand: marble pillars, pink roses climbing high, electric chandeliers sparkling through the eight-foot tall windows. Behind him, beyond the crunch of the gravel beneath car tires, he could hear the sea crashing against the rocks below. The ocean breeze was sticky and sweet.

“C’mon.” 

He snapped his head to Harold. 

“We’ll say hello to Oscar.”

Inside felt even more foreign. Everyone spoke too loudly. The little jazz band the hosts had hired bounced as they plucked their strings and blew their horns. People all turned and smiled and greeted Harold, parting before him and fawning over him, perplexing Robert to no end. A too-blonde woman with diamonds on every finger waved in their direction, calling out, “Harry! You’ve made it!” 

Robert shrank back. Beside him, Harold was shaking hands with four men who, to Robert’s surprise, guffawed when Harold gestured back toward him. He felt uncomfortable.

The woman’s smile was broad and white as she came between him and Harold, kissing the air beside Harold’s cheeks. 

“Where’ve you been Harry? I haven’t seen you in ages!” 

“New York,” he took a short glass from a serving tray a waiter passed by with. “We’ve been wiggling our way out of a few tight places. But I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.” 

Robert lifted his chin at Harold’s eye contact, even if he didn’t understand the wink he gave him, but the blonde woman squealed. “Oh! You’re terrible, Harold Levinson!” 

“And who’s this?”

He hadn’t noticed the other woman who spoke, her long pearl necklace looped once, tightly, around her long neck. Her dark hair was cropped and curled close to her ears. 

“Oh, right. Everyone”—the group of men and women now formed a semicircle around him, and Robert nodded politely—-“this is my brother-in-law, Robert Crawley. It’s his first time in Newport. So behave, won’t you?” 

Robert shook his head. He hadn’t been introduced to anyone by his Christian name in all his life.

“Welcome,” the woman in pearls said quietly. Robert had to strain to hear. “I’m Mrs Dupuis. The man just over there, the one speaking with the waiter, is my husband, Oscar. You’ll let us know if you need anything, alright?” 

“Yes, thank you,” he felt he had to shout over the din. 

“Brother-in-law?” Robert turned at the words. A man his own height was smiling at Harold, and then to him. “You’re Cora’s husband?”

Robert blinked at his wife’s name in the stranger’s mouth. “Pardon me—-“

The man’s brow was pinched in concentration, “Lord Donn—Oh, sorry. I can’t remember…”

“Grantham.” The man turned to Harold who had answered. 

“Grantham?” 

“Yeah. He was Downton when they married, Stu.” 

“Oh. That’s right,” the man smiled again when he looked back at Robert at last. “You aren’t what I imagined.”

Robert, in the middle of this over-crowded, exceedingly loud, and oddly bright room, blinked in confusion. “I—“

“You’re a lord?” The blonde woman’s high voice was too near his left ear, and Robert, surprised, stepped backward. 

“He’s an earl, Claudia,” the smiling man, the man who had said Cora with a familiarity that Robert couldn’t quite place, lifted a dark brow. “Is this really your first time here, Lord Grantham?”

Robert swallowed, uneasy. “Yes. That is, it’s my first visit to Newport,” he felt the need to clarify. “But, of course, not to America. My wife and I came over to New York in 1891, and again in 1895.”

“‘96,” Harold carelessly corrected. He’d somehow obtained cigars in the interim, and offered one to Robert. “But they didn’t bring my nieces,” he frowned melodramatically to the group around them. The women chorused a plaintive “aw.” 

“They were still quite young,” Robert needlessly explained, as the others now either spoke or laughed.

The blonde woman looked at Mrs Dupuis, and Robert could just make out the word “princesses” above the noise before he looked elsewhere. 

“Three daughters, yes?” 

Robert blinked. Again perplexed. “Forgive me,” he began as he narrowed his gaze at the smiling man. “And you are?”

“Stuart Hearst.” He stuck out his hand, shoving Harold aside who’d gotten closer for some reason, and Robert took it. “Surprised Cora’s never mentioned me.” 

Robert, still shaking his hand, frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. Perhaps she has.” 

"And she hasn't come because...?"

How could Robert say he was only here to bail his wife's silly brother out of legal trouble? He couldn't. "And how do you know her?"

“The old Newport crowd. I remember the summer she went off to make her match.” Stuart lifted a corner of his mouth in a sort of smirk. “It didn’t take long. But then again, none of us thought it would. She was always a little more refined than the rest of us. But good at getting a laugh—”

“Stu had a crush on her.” 

Robert looked at Harold, who puffed away on his cigar. Robert hadn’t even lit his. 

“Now wait a minute, Harold—”

“Oh! Who has the crush? Is it you, Harry?”

Robert’s head was beginning to hurt, and though it was rude, he was grateful the other two men ignored the young blonde who had obviously had too much illicit liquor. 

“We all did."

“Well, not me, but I’m guessing you’ll say that doesn’t count,” Harold grimaced at his drink. “What is this?”

But Stuart had elbowed the man next to him, a portly fellow who hadn’t said two words, to garner support. “You remember Cora, don’t you, Louis?”

He blinked lazily. “Mm.” He hummed slowly. “I remember she was prettier than you, Harold.”

Harold tipped his head in mock contemplation. “Eh.”

Stuart, however, brought his eyes to Robert. “None of us were permitted to consider her, of course. So it wasn’t a surprise when she went over.”

“No.” Harold blew a ring of smoke. “She did well.” And then, he turned. “Say, where’s Oscar? I did need to speak with him.” 

And at last, Robert raised his voice over the clamor. “You say, you weren’t permitted?”

Harold, Stuart, and even Louis now, looked at him. Stared.

Robert swallowed down his irritation, and tried again. “How do you mean?” 

“Well, our mothers wouldn’t…it wasn’t,” Stuart began, glancing awkwardly at Harold, but then laughed. “But then it has been thirty or so years, hasn’t it? Can’t recall. And, uh, turned out alright for you, eh, Lord Grantham?”

He smiled again at Robert, again at Harold. And then, haltingly, Stuart took in a breath and turned away, calling, “Claudia? Come and tell me about that dress of yours.”

Robert stood quietly, staring after him, looking at the crowd of people who were laughing and chatting, and his chest began to ache. He looked over at Harold. 

Harold grinned up at him, wryly. “England’s not the only place with social classes, you know.” He nodded in the direction toward the man he wanted to see, Oscar, standing in a small crowd on the opposite side of the room. He stuck his cigar in his mouth and grumbled, “America’s got plenty of ‘em.”  

[robthegoodfellow]

whenever I see a post about corvid intelligence or crows befriending people I wanna write this scenario where Eddie accidentally earns the loyalty of Hawkins' crows. Like it starts with him tossing his leftover sandwich crusts at a few hanging around the trailer park, and then...

A squawking fracas woke him one morning, so obnoxious that he dragged himself outside to investigate or chase away the mob of birds fighting over dibs at the dumpster. Instead, he followed the noise to the rusted fence behind his uncle's place that'd been holding on by a corroded thread for years—until approximately ten minutes ago, when the racket started up. Beneath the fallen section of flaking chain links was a tangled lump of black feathers, beaked head poking through to bay at the air. Its comrades ducked and bobbed around it, pecking at the metal bars, but every tug only ensnared the trapped bird worse.

On reflection, rushing in with an oh, shit wasn't the best move—the crowd of hecklers launched to hover in the air, feinting at him in screeching chorus.

"I come in peace!" he cried, hunched under pleading hands. Kept one arm raised like he sported an invisible shield, one eye on the dive-bombers, and crouching low, groped at the snarl of metal on the ground.

One bomber dove for his face, veering to avoid a defensive swipe.

"I'm trying to help. Quit murdering me!"

The hecklers heckled. Tough crowd. Eddie grimaced, trying to get a grip that wouldn't also give him tetanus, and managed to lift the shorn links. Soon as it cleared off the dirt, the squished feathers wriggled and twisted, yanking free with a rattle.

"See?" Eddie shouted, as the bolt of black shook itself and took to the air. "You're welcome. Now shut the fuck up!"

They didn't, but allowed him to escape back his trailer unmolested.

He hadn't thought anything of it, until a few days later, when he found a small pile of shiny trash on his doorstep. Broken teeny-bopper charm bracelet, a nickle, a bottle cap... and a guitar pick.

A squawk drew his attention to the pair of crows perched on the roof. Bending, Eddie grabbed the pick.

"This?" he said, waving it. "This is legal tender! Not the rest of this junk. Although..." He crouched to get a better look at the bracelet. "This does have its charms," he admitted.

The crows heckled. Eddie ignored them, fiddling to detach the dolphin, repurpose the clip to latch the plastic chain round his wrist. Liked the contrast—garish neons against his leather cuff, dark bands of brown and black.

"Fuck it, right?" He raised his fist, newly bedazzled, to salute the supplicants with some devil horns. "Rock and roll."

And from then on, he and the crows had an understanding. If they were making a racket within earshot, he'd go check if they needed help, and if they found something he might like, they'd leave an offering on the stoop. Highlights included a BIC lighter and a tattered twenty dollar bill. Once, he'd accidentally left his keys at the picnic table where he did business and barely had time to notice, patting his pockets with sinking realization, when they clattered to the pavement—just dropped from the sky.

"Ah, killer!" Relieved, he scooped them up, then put fist to palm and bowed his thanks to the crow alighting atop the van.

As a sign of respect, he'd started incorporating crows as part of his aesthetic: got some sick tattoos on his chest and forearm, had a growing collection of feathers he kept in a jar like a goth bouquet, added a couple silhouettes to perch inside the Os of the Corroded Coffin banner. Even designed a druid character with a crow familiar, which he kindly gifted to Gareth when his player got roasted beyond revival by a wyvern.

"You're like Snow White," Jeff joked, as Eddie pocketed a quarter, binning the rest of the stoop offerings. Jeff was crashing there for the weekend to escape divorce drama at home.

"Quid pro crow, man," said Eddie, shrugging. "Do them a solid and they'll get you back."

A pair of hecklers cawed from the roof. Ed flipped them the bird. They were his regulars, the ones he’d dubbed Statler and Waldorf.

Jeff paused, squinting at them, speculative. Then dug out a packet of half-eaten peanut butter crackers and tossed them up, one at a time. Cue the jubilant, cackling duet.

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Eddie predicted, motioning him inside.

Didn’t know at the time how right he was—or how closely his crownies were following his movements around town, monitoring from on high. And not just his movements, but the people considered part of his “flock,” so to speak.

One day, Gareth and Jeff showed up for practice a little worse for wear, victims of the knuckle-draggers that populated the football team. Ripped shirt, bloody lip. The usual.

Unusual was the crowd gathered in the parking lot the next day, a baffled circle around the quarterback’s hot rod, which that morning gleamed red but at some point during school had been treated to a fresh coat of bird shit. White gooey splatters from hood to trunk.

It was a convertible. He’d left the top down.

And stuck to the windshield, like a calling card: a black feather.

Eddie was quick to corral the guys away, hushing all vengeful laughter until they were safely in the van, then they let loose. Jeff was wiping tears of mirth, wheezing: “You weren’t kidding, man.”

“Look,” Frankie cried, pointing out the windshield, and lo—Statler and Waldorf were perched on the wipers, joined by Damsel, so named because Ed was pretty sure it’d been the one he found in such distress, way back when.

As one, the band saluted their benefactors, and Eddie swore the birds puffed their chests, bobbing their heads in satisfaction.

From then on, it was swooping season for anyone who bothered him or the boys under the keen surveillance of those eyes in the skies.

But Eddie knew he’d gone beyond Disney princess status that summer. He was fooling around on the Warlock outside the trailer, unplugged, lounging in a lawn chair, humming under his breath—just some Ozzy, flying high again—when a sudden flapping weight dipped the neck of the guitar.

“You scratch this thing, I will murder you,” he warned, eying the pinchy talons gripping between the pegs. Damsel cocked its head, like oh, really? Eddie gently jerked the Warlock, a shooing motion, and Damsel hopped with a huffy flutter onto his knee.

They stared each other down for a sec—a measuring stare. Almost daring. Some of the feathers around its neck stuck out all scruffy where the fence had bit into it, left a scar. Halting, hesitant, Eddie extended a finger, then his hand, nice and slow, intending to… give a scritch or something?

An inch away, the beak snapped at him, barely missed, and he jumped so hard the damn bird launched skyward, flapping to hover.

Behind them, he could hear the hecklers in hysterics.

“Bitch!” he shouted, clutching the Warlock close to calm his racing heart. “See if I ever save your scrawny necks again.”

Heedless, Damsel swooped to land on his knee—again. Like it knew full well he would. Save them. Again. If it came down to it.

“Calling my bluff,” he muttered, aggrieved. “Gonna make me eat crow?”

Statler and Waldorf voiced their displeasure.

“Fuck off! You love it.”

They did, was the thing. Eddie knew it. They’d thrown their lots in with him, and he with them. So in the end, he wasn’t so much a princess.

More an accessory to murder.

Also on AO3

[meikyuunolovers]

Moments in Kinks-related books that I can't stop thinking about, no matter if it's happy, horrible, or sad :

-Michael Aldred. It was really interesting to see Ray's perspective. It was funny to see how he mentioned the word "friendship" right after writing about how Michael listened to the walls at the Connaught Gardens house. And also, Dave's recollection of their breakup. (X-Ray and Kink).

-Staying on the Michael Aldred topic, the fact that he was already trying to hit on Dave the first time they met during Ready, Steady, Go!. And Dave jokingly(?) punching Pete because... I don't remember what Pete did (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Mitch Mitchell almost joining The Kinks after the Cardiff incident (X-Ray, Kink and Americana I think?).

-["Where the fuck did the Greenlaw come from ?"] (X-Ray, I need to find the page again)

-Ray comparing Pete leaving the band to a divorce. (X-Ray)

-The whole David Watts bit aka. Ray attempts to sell his brother's hand to a man in exchange for a mansion after finding out the guy was gay with Mick's help. Also Mick was dancing around while in birth day clothing (X-Ray and Kink. I'm pretty sure Ray Davies: A Complicated Life also mentioned it).

-The mention of Nobby's picture with the guitar and shovel after he went back to his day job due to Pete coming back in 1966 (X-Ray).

-Mick Avory and his connections with the drag queen community (X-Ray).

-Mitch Mitchell hiding pigeons under his bed (Kink).

-Dave explaining Ray's behaviour with astrology (Kink).

-Everyone (the bros, Mick and Nobby) getting scolded by Grenville, and then Baptist entering the room drunk, in full Viking gear, and blowing a horn. Then Grenville resigned (Kink and Americana).

-Ken Jones' death (Americana and Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Mick falling and hurting his back while in a clown costume (Kink and Americana).

-Mick, a model, and a DJ (X-Ray).

-Mick attracting all the drag queens even though he's "straight" (Ray's words, not mine) (X-Ray).

-The house Dave and Mick (and Michael Aldred !) lived in had to get exorcised after they all left (don't remember which one, X-Ray maybe ?— Actually I think it was Ray Davies: A Complicated Life. Not sure though).

-The "pineapple juice" bit (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Baptist eating a restaurant bill, and then Pamela (one of the backing singers during Preservation era) trying to do the same but not being allowed to (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-The Kinks almost having a punch-up after a concert because Bob asked for a pizza and the brothers "went apeshit" (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Jim getting to go to the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame ceremony, even though he wasn't inducted (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Chrissie Hynde being scared that her and Ray's house might be haunted, so Ray called Peggy who called Dave for assistance (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Nobby thinking him leaving the Kinks was fated (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-1984 being a bad year for basically everyone (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Gordon having to calm down Mick's murderous intents for half an hour after the latter had to be sent to the dressing room following a fight with Dave (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Baptist dropping college right before his finals just so he could join The Kinks (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Nobby sprinting, diving and swimming Baptist back to the shore after the keyboardist accidentally fell (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-The Early 70s lineup members having nicknames (Nobby for John D, Baptist for John G, Hyde for Dave and One Step for Mick) (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-The "Kinks Hijack Plane" headline. Aka the Kinks got drunk before a flight, Dave went feral and Nobby screaming out of frustration from missing a soccer match (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-"[Ray] Davies was a horrible geezer – a cunt" - Phil May (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Mick and Baptist going Cassandra truth-mode on Andy (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Ray knocking out Baptist during a fight before the encore (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Jim and Gordon contrasting each other (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-The "Psychatrist. Hours open: 10-12" door (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

-Pete jokingly telling John Entwistle to give his bass to "a real bass player" (Ray Davies: A Complicated Life).

Other post I said I would post months ago, but didn't until today. It's a bit dusty because the only modification I did was remove 1 moment because I genuinely didn't know how to feel about that one.

[tutyayilmazz]

The sheer number of older and more experienced professionals involved in Måneskin introduces a tension between the rock conventions that characterize their songwriting and the fundamentally pop circumstances under which those songs are produced. They are four friends in a band, but that band is inside an enormous machine. From their perspective, though, the machine is good.

The American visitor to Rome arrives with certain preconceptions that feel like stereotypes but turn out to be basically accurate. There really are mopeds flying around everywhere, and traffic seems governed by the principle that anyone can be replaced. Breakfast is coffee and cigarettes. Despite these orthopedic and nutritional hazards, everyone is better looking — not literally everyone, of course, but statistically, as if whatever selective forces that emerge from urban density have had an extra hundred generations or so to work. And they really do talk like that, an emphatic mix of vowels, gestures and car horns known as “Italian.” To be scolded in this language by a driver who wants to park in the crosswalk is to realize that some popular ideas are actually true. Also, it is hot.

The triumphant return to Rome of Måneskin — arguably the only rock stars of their generation, and almost certainly the biggest Italian rock band of all time — coincided with a heat wave across Southern Europe. On that Tuesday in July the temperature hit 107 degrees. The Tiber looked thick, rippled in places and still in others, as if it were reducing. By Thursday morning the band’s vast management team was officially concerned that the night’s sold-out performance at the Stadio Olimpico would be delayed. When Måneskin finally took the stage around 9:30 p.m., it was still well into the 90s — which was too bad, because there would be pyro.

There was no opening act, possibly because no rock band operating at this level is within 10 years of Måneskin’s age. The guitarist Thomas Raggi played the riff to “Don’t Wanna Sleep,” the lights came up and 60,000 Italians screamed. Damiano David — the band’s singer and, at age 24, its oldest member — charged out in black flared trousers and a mesh top that bisected his torso diagonally, his heavy brow and hypersymmetrical features making him look like some futuristic nomad who hunted the fishnet mammoth. Victoria De Angelis, the bassist, wore a minidress made from strips of leather or possibly bungee cords. Raggi wore nonporous pants and a black button-down he quickly discarded, while Ethan Torchio drummed in a vest with no shirt underneath, his hair flying. For the next several minutes of alternately disciplined and frenzied noise, they sounded as if Motley Crüe had been cryogenically frozen, then revived in 2010 with Rob Thomas on vocals.

That hypothetical will appeal to some while repelling others, and which category you fall into is, with all due respect, not my business here. Rolling Stone, for its part, said that Måneskin “only manage to confirm how hard rock & roll has to work these days to be noticed,” and a viral Pitchfork review called their most recent album “absolutely terrible at every conceivable level.” But this kind of thumbs up/thumbs down criticism is pretty much vestigial now that music is free. If you want to know whether you like Måneskin — the name is Danish and pronounced MOAN-eh-skin — you can fire up the internet and add to the more than nine billion streams Sony Music claims the band has accumulated across Spotify, YouTube, et cetera. As for whether Måneskin is good, de gustibus non est disputandum, as previous Italians once said: In matters of taste, there can be no arguments.

You should know, though, that even though their music has been heard most often through phone and laptop speakers, Måneskin sounds better on a soccer field. That is what tens of thousands of fans came to the Stadio Olimpico on an eyelid-scorching Thursday to experience: the culturally-if-not-personally-familiar commodity of a stadium rock show, delivered by the unprecedented phenomenon of a stadium-level Italian rock band. The pyro — 20-foot jets of swivel-articulated flame that you could feel all the way up in the mezzanine — kicked in on “Gasoline,” a song Måneskin wrote to protest Vladimir Putin’s invasion of Ukraine. From a thrust platform in the center of the field, David poured his full emotive powers into the pre-chorus: “Standing alone on that hill/using your fuel to kill/we won’t take it standing still/watch us dance.”

The effect these words will have on President Putin is unknown. They capture something, though, about rock ’n’ roll, which has established certain conventions over the last seven decades. One of those conventions is an atmosphere of rebellion. It doesn’t have to be real — you probably don’t even want it to be — but neither can it seem too contrived, because the defining constraint of rock as a genre is that you have to feel it. The successful rock song creates in listeners the sensation of defying consensus, even if they are right in step with it.

The need to feel the rock may explain the documented problem of fans’ taste becoming frozen in whatever era was happening when they were between the ages of 15 and 25. Anyone who adolesced after Spotify, however, did not grow up with rock as an organically developing form and is likely to have experienced the whole catalog simultaneously, listening to Led Zeppelin at the same time they listened to Pixies and Franz Ferdinand — i.e. as a genre rather than as particular artists, the way my generation (I’m 46) experienced jazz. The members of Måneskin belong to this post-Spotify cohort. As the youngest and most prominent custodians of the rock tradition, their job is to sell new, guitar-driven songs of 100 to 150 beats per minute to a larger and larger audience, many of whom are young people who primarily think of such music as a historical artifact. Starting this month, Måneskin will take this business on a multivenue tour of the United States — a market where they are considerably less known — whose first stop is Madison Square Garden.

“I think the genre thing is like ... ” Torchio said to me backstage in Rome, making a gesture that conveyed translingual complexity. “We can do a metaphor: If you eat fish, meat and peanuts every day, like for years, and then you discover potatoes one day, you’ll be like: ‘Wow, potatoes! I like potatoes; potatoes are great.’ But potatoes have been there the whole time.” Rock was the potato in this metaphor, and he seemed to be saying that even though many people were just now discovering that they liked it, it had actually been around for a long time. It was a revealing analogy: The implication was that rock, like the potato, is here to stay; but what if rock is, like the potato in our age of abundance, comparatively bland and no longer anyone’s favorite?

Which rock song came first is a topic of disagreement, but one strong candidate is “Rocket 88,” recorded by Ike Turner and his Kings of Rhythym band in 1951. It’s about a car and, in its final verse, about drinking in the car. These themes capture the context in which rock ’n’ roll emerged: a period when household incomes, availability of consumer goods and the share of Americans experiencing adolescence all increased simultaneously.

Although and possibly because rock started as Black music, it found a gigantic audience of white teenagers during the so-called British Invasion of the mid-1960s (the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who), which made it the dominant form of pop music for the next two decades. The stadium/progressive era (Journey, Fleetwood Mac, Foreigner) that now constitutes the bulk of classic-rock radio gave way, eventually, to punk (the Ramones, Patti Smith, Minor Threat) and then glam metal: Twisted Sister, Guns N’ Roses and various other hair-intensive bands that were obliterated by the success of Nirvana and Pearl Jam in 1991. This shift can be understood as the ultimate triumph of punk, both in its return to emotive content expressed through simpler arrangements and in its professed hostility toward the music industry itself. After 1991, suspicion of anything resembling pop became a mark of seriousness among both rock critics and fans.

It is probably not a coincidence that this period is also when rock’s cultural hegemony began to wane. As the ’90s progressed, larger and again whiter audiences embraced hip-hop, and the last song classified as “rock” to reach No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 was Nickelback’s “How You Remind Me” in 2001. The run of bands that became popular during the ’00s — the Strokes, the Killers, Kings of Leon — constituted rock’s last great commercial gasp, but none of their singles charted higher than No. 4. Let us say, then, that the era of rock as pop music lasted from 1951 to 2011. That’s a three-generation run, if you take seriously rock’s advice to get drunk and have sex in the car and therefore produce children at around age 20. Baby boomers were the generation that made rock a zillion-dollar industry; Gen X saved it from that industry with punk and indie, and millennials closed it all out playing Guitar Hero.

The members of Måneskin are between the ages of 22 and 24, situating them firmly within the cadre of people who understand rock in the past tense. De Angelis, the bassist, and Raggi, the guitarist, formed the band when they were both attending a music-oriented middle school; David was a friend of friends, while Torchio was the only person who responded to their Facebook ad seeking a drummer. There are few entry-level rock venues in Rome, so they started by busking on the streets. In 2017, they entered the cattle-call audition for the Italian version of “The X Factor.” They eventually finished as runners-up to the balladeer Lorenzo Licitra, and an EP of songs they performed on the show was released by Sony Music and went triple platinum.

In 2021, Måneskin won the Sanremo Music Festival, earning the right to represent Italy with their song “Zitti e Buoni” (whose title roughly translates to “shut up and behave”) in that year’s Eurovision Song Contest. This program is not widely viewed in the United States, but it is a gigantic deal in Europe, and Måneskin won. Not long after, they began to appear on international singles charts, and “I Wanna Be Your Slave” broke the British Top 10. A European tour followed, as well as U.S. appearances at festivals and historic venues.

This ascent to stardom was not unmarred by controversy. The Eurovison live broadcast caught David bending over a table offstage, and members of the media accused him of snorting cocaine. David insisted he was innocent and took a drug test, which he passed, but Måneskin and their management still seem indignant about the whole affair. It’s exactly this kind of incongruous detail — this damaging rumor that a rock star did cocaine — that highlights how the Italian music-consuming public differs from the American one. Many elements of Måneskin’s presentation, like the cross-dressing and the occasional male-on-male kiss, are genuinely upsetting to older Italians, even as they seem familiar or even hackneyed to audiences in the United States.

“They see a band of young, good-looking guys that are dressing up too much, and then it’s not pure rock ’n’ roll, because you’re not in a garage, looking ugly,” De Angelis says. “The more conservative side, they’re shocked because of how we dress or move onstage, or the boys wear makeup.”

She and her bandmates are caught between two demographics: the relatively conservative European audience that made them famous and the more tolerant if not downright desensitized American audience that they must impress to keep the ride moving. And they do have to keep it moving, because — like many rock stars before them — most of the band dropped out of high school to do this. At one point, Raggi told me that he had sat in on some classes at a university, “Just to try to understand, ‘What is that?’”

One question that emerged early in my discussions with Måneskin’s friendly and professional management team was whether I was going to say that their music was bad. This concern seemed related to the aforementioned viral Pitchfork review, in which the editor Jeremy Larson wrote that their new album, “RUSH!” sounds “like it’s made for introducing the all-new Ford F-150” and “seems to be optimized for getting busy in a Buffalo Wild Wings bathroom” en route to a score of 2.0 (out of 10). While the members of Måneskin seemed to take this review philosophically, their press liaisons were concerned that I was coming to Italy to have a similar type of fun.

Here I should disclose that Larson edited an essay I wrote for Pitchfork about the Talking Heads album “Remain in Light” (score: 10.0) and that I think of myself as his friend. Possibly because of these biases, I read his review as reflecting his deeply held and, among rock fans, widely shared need to feel the music, something that the many pop/commercial elements of “RUSH!” (e.g. familiar song structures, lyrics that seem to have emerged from a collaboration between Google Translate and Nikki Sixx, compulsive use of multiband compression) left him unable to do.

This perspective reflects the post-’90s rock consensus (PNRC) that anything that sounds too much like a mass-market product is no good. The PNRC is premised on the idea that rock is not just a structure of song but also a structure of relationship between the band and society. From rock’s earliest days as Black music, the real or perceived opposition between rocker and society has been central to its appeal; this adversarial relationship animated the youth and counterculture eras of the ’60s and then, when the economic dominance of mass-market rock made it impossible to believe in, provoked the revitalizing backlash of punk. Even major labels felt obliged to play into this paradoxical worldview, e.g. that period after Nirvana when the most popular genre of music was called “alternative.” Måneskin, however, are defined by their isolation from the PNRC. They play rock music, but operate according to the logic of pop.

In Milan, where Måneskin would finish their Italian minitour, I had lunch with the band, as well as two of their managers, Marica Casalinuovo and Fabrizio Ferraguzzo. Casalinuovo had been an executive producer working on “The X Factor,” and Ferraguzzo was its musical director; around the time that Måneskin broke through, Casalinuovo and Ferraguzzo left the show and began working with the stars it had made. We were at the in-house restaurant of Moysa, the combination recording studio, soundstage, rehearsal space, offices, party venue and “creative playground” that Ferraguzzo opened two months earlier. After clarifying that he was in no way criticizing major record labels and the many vendors they engaged to record, promote and distribute albums, he laid out his vision for Moysa, a place where all those functions were performed by a single corporate entity — basically describing the concept of vertical integration.

Ferraguzzo oversaw the recording of “RUSH!” along with a group of producers that included Max Martin, the Swedish hitmaker best known for his work with Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears. At Moysa, Ferraguzzo played for me Måneskin’s then-unreleased new single, “Honey (Are U Coming?)” which features many of the band’s signature moves — guitar and bass playing the same melodic phrases at the same time, unswung boogie-type rhythm of the post-Strokes style — but also has David singing in a higher register than usual. I listened to it first on studio monitors and then through the speaker of Ferraguzzo’s phone, and it sounded clean and well produced both times, as if a team of industry veterans with unlimited access to espresso had come together to perfect it.

The sheer number of older and more experienced professionals involved in Måneskin introduces a tension between the rock conventions that characterize their songwriting and the fundamentally pop circumstances under which those songs are produced. They are four friends in a band, but that band is inside an enormous machine. From their perspective, though, the machine is good.

“There’s hundreds of people working and talking about you and giving opinions,” De Angelis said at lunch. “So if you start to get in this loop of wanting to know and control and being anxious about it, it really ruins everything.” Here lies the conflict between what the PNRC wants from a band — resistance to outside influences, contempt for commerce, authenticity as measured in doing everything themselves — and what any sane 23-year-old would want, which is to have someone with an M.B.A. make all the decisions so she can concentrate on playing bass.

The other way Måneskin is isolated from the PNRC is geographic. Over the course of lunch, it became clear that they had encyclopedic knowledge of certain eras in American rock history but were only dimly aware of others. Raggi, for instance, loves Motley Crüe and has an album-by-album command of the Los Angeles hair-metal band Skid Row, which he and his bandmates seemed to understand were supposed to be guilty pleasures. But none of them had ever heard of Fugazi, the post-hardcore band whose hatred of major labels, refusal to sell merchandise and commitment to keeping ticket prices as low as possible set the standard for a generation of American rock snobs. In general, Måneskin’s timeline of influences seems to break off around 1990, when the rock most respected by Anglophone critics was produced by independent labels that did not have strong overseas distribution. It picks up again with Franz Ferdinand and the “emo” era of mainstream pop rock. This retrospect leaves them unaware of the indie/punk/D.I.Y. period that was probably most important in forming the PNRC.

The question is whether that consensus still matters. While snobs like Larson and me are overrepresented in journalism, we never constituted a majority of rock fans. That’s the whole point of being a snob. And snobbery is obsolete anyway; digital distribution ended the correlation between how obscure your favorite band was and how much effort you put into listening to them. The longevity of rock ’n’ roll as a genre, meanwhile, has solidified a core audience that is now between the ages of 40 and 80, rendering the fan-versus-society dimension of the PNRC impossible to believe. And the economics of the industry — in which streaming has reduced the profit margin on recorded music, and the closure of small venues has made stadiums and big auditoriums the only reliable way to make money on tour — have decimated the indie model. All these forces have converged to make rock, for the first time in its history, merely a way of writing songs instead of a way of life.

Yet rock as a cluster of signifiers retains its power around the world. In the same way everyone knows what a castle is and what it signifies, even though actual castles are no longer a meaningful force in our lives, rock remains a shared language of cultural expression even though it is no longer determining our friendships, turning children against their parents, yelling truth at power, et cetera. Also like a castle, a lot of people will pay good money to see a preserved historical example of rock or even a convincing replica of it, especially in Europe.

In Milan, the temperature had dropped 20 degrees, and Måneskin’s show at Stadio Giuseppe Meazza — commonly known as San Siro, the largest stadium in Italy, sold out that night at 60,000 — was threatened by thunderstorms instead of record-breaking heat. Fans remained undaunted: Many camped in the parking lot the night before in order to be among the first to enter the stadium. One of them was Tamara, an American who reported her age as 60½ and said she had skipped a reservation to see da Vinci’s “Last Supper” in order to stay in line. “When you get to knocking on the door, you kind of want to do what you want,” she said.

The threat of rain was made good at pretty much the exact moment the show began. The sea of black T-shirts on the pitch became a field of multicolored ponchos, and raindrops were bouncing visibly off the surface of the stage. David lost his footing near the end of “I Wanna Be Your Slave,” briefly rolling to his back, while De Angelis — who is very good at making lips-parted-in-ecstasy-type rock faces — played with her eyes turned upward to the flashing sky, like a martyr.

The rain stopped in time for “Kool Kids,” a punk-inspired song in which David affects a Cockney accent to sing about the vexed cultural position of rock ’n’ roll: “Cool kids, they do not like rock/they only listen to trap and pop.” These are probably the Måneskin lyrics most quoted by music journalists, although they should probably be taken with a grain of salt, considering that the song also contains lyrics like “I like doin’ things I love, yeah” and “Cool kids, they do not vomit.”

“Kool Kids” was the last song before the encore, and each night a few dozen good-looking 20-somethings were released onto the stage to dance and then, as the band walked off, to make we’re-not-worthy bows around Raggi’s abandoned guitar. The whole thing looked at least semichoreographed, but management assured me that the Kool Kids were not professional dancers — just enthusiastic fans who had been asked if they wanted to be part of the show. I kept trying to meet the person in charge of wrangling these Kool Kids, and there kept being new reasons that was not possible.

The regular kids, on the other hand, were available and friendly throughout. In Rome, Dorca and Sara, two young members of a Måneskin fan club, saw my notebook and shot right over to tell me they loved the band because, as Sara put it, “they allow you to be yourself.” When asked whether they felt their culture was conservative in ways that prevented them from being themselves, Dorca — who was 21 and wearing eyeglasses that looked like part of her daily wardrobe and a mesh top that didn’t — said: “Maybe it turns out that you can be yourself. But you don’t know that at first. You feel like you can���t.”

Here lies the element of rock that functions independently from the economics of the industry or the shifting preferences of critics, the part that is maybe independent from time itself: the continually renewed experience of adolescence, of hearing and therefore feeling it all for the first time. But how disorienting must those feelings be when they have been fully monetized, fully sanctioned — when the response to your demand to rock ’n’ roll all night and party every day is, “Great, exactly, thank you.” In a culture where defying consensus is the dominant value, anything is possible except rebellion. It must be strange, in this post-everything century, to finally become yourself and discover that no one has any problem with that.