will byers stan first human second
NASA
Cosmic Funnies
Fai_Ryy
official daine visual archive
Game of Thrones Daily
KIROKAZE
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$LAYYYTER
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roma★
if i look back, i am lost
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
EXPECTATIONS
untitled
oozey mess
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
wallacepolsom
Show & Tell
seen from Saudi Arabia
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@starrrzer
About me: Lea | (she/her) | I <3 my dog | I write sometimes | Gleek | Musicals | Lin-Manuel Miranda is my spirit animal | UK YouTubers |
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Masterlists Who I write for Blog Rules Request Rules
I'm patiently waiting for The Odyssey fics to start rolling in
Having Helen and Clytemnestra be identical twins is genius because how poetic and fitting is it that Agamemnon, who used Helen as an excuse to start The Trojan War, who instigated the deaths of thousands and sacrificed his own daughter for his ambitions, only to fall by someone who bears the same face of the woman he politicized?
We got Harry's most authentic smile this weekヾ(≧▽≦*)o I'm healed now
How it feels to request a fic and the writer actually writes your request
Is George Mackay really that underrated? I barely see any fanfics for the characters he plays and that lowkey makes me sad.
Munich: The Edge of War Director Christian Schwochow
headcanon grown-up Bob Andrews looks like Paul von Hartmann from Munich: The Edge of War (2021). actor: Jannis Niewöhner
JANNIS NIEWÖHNER as Paul von Hartmann in Munich – The Edge of War (2021) | dir. Christian Schwochow
I just know when Fuze comes out, all the fanfic authors are gonna COOK and work Overtime for Aaron Taylor-Johnson character cause he looks too good in that movie. Very excited to see the fanfics
Wait... bring back the Edward Guinness fics
I think tumblr needs more steve murphy fics :(
WHAT A MAN WHAT A MAN WHAT A MIGHTY GOOD MANNNN
whaaaat?!?!? i totally watch narcos for the plot
the plot:
WHY IS EVERYBODY FROM NARCOS SO FUCKING FINE???🗣️🗣️🗣️
frontman of the band - chris dixonꨄ︎
summary: he's the star of the stage, and your heart.
author's notes: anyone who guesses the inspiration for this gets a kiss from me 💋 very mild tbh! nothing too detailed but mentions of sex and suggestive scenes, they smoke weed
frontman!chris the first time you met, who introduces himself after a tiny gig in an equally tiny pub, hair sticking up in wild tufts, voice low and teasing. Before the fame, before the stage. “You’ve been staring at me the whole set,” he says, grinning. You stammer, cheeks burning, and he laughs, the kind of laugh that makes you immediately want to crawl closer, even though you barely know him.
frontman!chris writing songs about you. pencil in hand, messy scribbles, trying to capture the thought of you on a page — fruitlessly attempting to capture the complexity of whatever this is. The songs he writes about you end up being the band’s biggest hits: messy, elusive nights, heavy touches, someone who never quite stays till the morning. Fans dissect the lyrics online and speculate endlessly about the mysterious girl the band is singing about.
frontman!chris who doesn't talk to you at all during his tour, leaving you in the dark. You send voicemails, your slurring voice heavy with the ache you can’t help— selfish, maybe, because you know he’s busy, or worse — intertwined with another woman, because you said no labels. After all, nothing should, in theory, obligate him to care, or even to you. And yet, you can’t help hoping he’ll listen, that he’ll hear the tremor in your words and think of you the way you’re thinking of him. Your only updates come from paparazzi pictures of him with an assortment of girls on the streets and in cars.
frontman!chris using your previously mentioned voicemail in his songs. It renders you mortified. The desperate, exasperated tone of your voice, the half-laughing, half-crying words—it’s intimate and raw, and suddenly you’re both exposed and immortalised in the rhythm he’s built around it. It’s twisted with embarrassment — the knowledge that everyone in the crowd is listening to your vulnerability, and it makes your heart ache in a way only he can provoke. There’s pride too, though you’d never admit it aloud. Pride in the way he’s perpetuated this messy, unguarded side of you, the side you normally keep hidden. Pride that he even thinks of you— anywhere, anytime, long after the night you recorded that voicemail.
frontman!chris showing up to your door the same day he lands after his tour. He slips inside with a kiss on your cheek, a rant about whatever’s bothering him, and somehow you let him in. You watch him move around your space, tossing his bag onto the couch, making himself a coffee too bitter, and it’s ridiculous how normal it feels to have him here—like the distance of the tour never existed. You watch him settle onto your couch, kicking off his shoes, and for a moment, it’s just quiet. Then he nudges your shoulder with his elbow, grinning, and you laugh despite yourself. That laughter, the way it makes him smirk, the way he lets his thumb trace idle circles along your arm — it’s effortless and infuriating at the same time.
frontman!chris arguing with you in the middle of the street at 1 a.m. It’s cold and rainy, doom and gloom, and usually you would spend in your flat — a movie and disastrous dinner, but the hopes of a quiet night in are stolen away. It’s the kind of argument that starts about something stupid and spirals into everything else you’ve both been avoiding. The rain starts coming down harder, cold drops clinging to your eyelashes, soaking through your clothes. Neither of you seems willing to back down. His hands move constantly when he talks — frustrated gestures cutting through the air while he insists you’re impossible. You fire back just as sharply. At some point, you try to walk away, and his hand catches your wrist before you get two steps. He kisses you then, his tongue stealing your voice and along with it your anger. Your hand slips under wet layers of fabric against hot skin.
frontman!chris who scrunches his face up when you tell him you can’t make it to the show tonight. He looks genuinely disappointed, as if your absence in the crowd will shift the rhythm of the entire night. “Really?” he asks, voice tight, almost pleading, and you hate that even from across the city, he still manages to make your chest ache. Later that night on your timeline, clips are posted, endlessly, of him dedicating a particularly yearning song to you, saying “this is about you, you know who you are.”
frontman!chris using a picture of you as an album cover. You don’t even realise at first — not until the teaser drops online and your phone starts lighting up with confused messages. The picture itself is grainy, taken on a disposable camera. It’s not recent either; you can vaguely recognise the old hotel balcony it was taken on. Your face is half visible, half veiled by your hair. You remember leaning forward on your elbows, joint in hand, looking out over the street while Chris messed around with the disposable camera he’d bought from the convenience store downstairs. You rolled your eyes when the flash went off. The image sits stark and deliberate against the album’s dark background, your silhouette soft but unmistakably human. Fans zoom in on it, posting screenshots, speculating endlessly about the girl on the balcony. Some insist she must be a model; others think she’s a symbolic character from the album’s storyline. Later, when you finally see him again, the first thing you say isn’t hello. “Seriously?” you ask, holding up your phone with the album cover glowing on the screen. Chris barely glances at it before looking back at you, completely unbothered. A slow grin spreads across his face, the same one he’s always worn when he knows he’s gotten under your skin.
frontman!chris who texts you at 2 a.m., “You awake?” and somehow you are, scrolling through the screen, heart thudding. He knows exactly how to catch you off guard without even trying. You stare at the screen, torn between irritation and excitement, because he knows exactly how to catch you off guard without even trying. You know if he’s texting you, he’s already halfway here. You sigh, dragging a hand over your face as you swing your legs out of bed. You’re already reaching for the door.
frontman!chris communicating through songs. When he found out you were dating someone else, the notes twisted sharper, the lyrics cutting a little deeper. Each verse, each drumbeat, became a message only you could understand, even if you tried not to. Each verse feels pointed somehow, like a message wrapped carefully inside melody. Lines about late nights and unanswered calls, about watching someone walk away and pretending it doesn’t matter, about a girl who always slips through his fingers right when he thinks he’s figured her out.
frontman!chris who plays a new song live and watches the crowd carefully, eyes scanning for you, the words dripping with the sting of jealousy and longing. You’re somewhere else, maybe laughing with somebody else, and it makes the music feel both empty and furious at the same time.
frontman!chris who texts you a photo of his messy hotel room, captioned “wish you were here.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway. The bed is unmade, there are empty coffee cups on the nightstand, and a pack of cigarettes, some on the floor. There’s a pull in your chest that makes you ache, a mixture of annoyance and something you can’t quite name. You want to tell him to clean up, to stop tempting you with his presence from miles away, but you know if you do, he’ll just laugh and say, “Then come here, don’t just talk about it.”
frontman!chris who mocks you mercilessly for being dramatic, but then cups your face in his hands when he sees you tearing up. When push comes to shove, or he’s just being fucking mean, the tears sting. He smirks first, rolls his eyes, teases your flustered reaction — “Seriously, are you crying over that?” — but the second he notices the tremble in your lips, the way your eyes glisten, his hands stay. They linger against your cheeks, thumbs brushing softly over your skin like he’s trying to smooth out the ache you didn’t ask him to see. One moment you’re furious, the next you’re leaning into the warmth of his hands, heart hammering because he’s both the cause of your pain and the only person who can soothe it.
Frontman!chris writing a song about the time when you first touched, clandestine and hushed. It's not awfully romantic — the backseat of a car, ungodly hours into the night. The worn leather of your seats creaked every time either of you shifted, cramped in the back, the only sound of high-pitched whines and low groans. When he tries to capture it in a song later — a late night in a beat-up car with a girl with wide eyes— the lyrics make your lips twist upwards. There’s no denying it: the song is sly, tongue-in-cheek, teasingly aware of the mischief you both got away with that night. You still remember the handprints left on the car, sobering you the next morning.
frontman!chris who praises you in a way that always makes your stomach flip. It slips out of him so easily, like second nature. A quiet, approving “good girl” when you finally stop arguing with him, when you lean into him instead of away, when his hands are intertwined with your hair, lips wrapped around his cock, when you nod yes for another round. It’s a strange feeling, being so pliant, so willing. To see his eyes shine with approval, dark and smouldering, makes your chest tighten, and your knees go weak, like his quiet words have the weight of a command—and you can’t help but want to live up to them, again and again.
frontman!chris watching you squirm as you take him, for the millionth time. You’ve never gotten used to him, still after all these years. His eyes darken with something equal parts pride and hunger, tracing every small movement you make, memorising the way your body bends and shifts. You’ve never gotten used to the way he watches you—like he’s seeing you all at once, every nerve ending, every hesitation, every shiver—and it makes your skin flush in ways you can’t quite control. He fills you up, the burn feeling both pleasurable and painful, and there’s a rush of satisfaction when he whispers “you feel so good” in your ear. When his fingers dip down where you’re most sensitive, and your head falls back with a soft exhale, his smirk only makes you want it more.
frontman!chris and shotgunning. His eyes flick down to your lips for a second, and he holds your jaw. When he presses his mouth to yours, it’s deliberate, slow—the smoke from his lungs threading through the kiss, warm and slightly bitter, filling the space between you. You taste it on his lips, and the heat of him presses closer, chest against chest, the world narrowing down to this single, intoxicating contact. He holds the kiss just a second longer than necessary, enough to make your knees go weak, before finally pulling back, though his hands don’t move. His gaze catches yours, intense and unrelenting, the corner of his mouth curling into that familiar crooked smirk, as if daring you to tell him off or pull away—but you know you won’t. He’s already won this little battle, and he knows it.
frontman!chris and slow sex. Sometimes the weed makes both of you soft — it makes the sharp arguments a little hazy, a little soft-edged—and replaces quickies in the bar bathroom with unhurried, deliberate kisses, and the quiet press of his hands along your back. The usual teasing fades into something slower, more thoughtful, like he’s taking his time for once instead of rushing headfirst into you the way he usually does. There’s no frantic urgency, no loud declarations, just a real, simmering buildup — a quiet heat that coils in your stomach before finally spilling over. The quiet is heavy but comforting, broken only by the occasional soft murmur of his voice when he says your name, or the faint laugh that escapes when your fingers catch his hair. Even his usual smirk is gentler now, replaced by a look that’s all softness and curiosity, like he’s letting himself feel what he usually masks with bravado.
frontman!chris and his hands. Strong, agile and a little calloused. But mostly, large. They’re the first thing you notice when you’re close to him — the way they move constantly, never still. Drumming on tabletops, twirling a pen between long fingers when he’s trying to write. Even when he’s talking, his hands are part of it, slicing lazily through the air to emphasise a point before falling back to rest somewhere near you. But when they’re on you, it’s different. A hand on the back of your neck while he leans down to say something in your ear over loud music. His palm slides along your spine when he moves past you in a crowded room. His fingers hook briefly into the belt loop of your jeans to tug you closer. His long fingers inside you, curling in just the right spot.
frontman!chris with you 5 minutes before he’s meant to be on stage. He whines when you tell him he should go, tugging at your hands as if he could hold time in place. His lips brush yours in slow, teasing kisses, soft at first, then a little harder when he senses you pulling away. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw, slide into your hair, gripping just enough to anchor you. The smell of his cologne—sharp, familiar, and intoxicating—mixes with the faint sweat from the venue, wrapping around you like a tether. “I’ll be fine,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and urgent, but it’s hollow compared to the way he lingers, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and unrelenting. His lips graze your cheek, your jaw, trying to tattoo himself into your brain before the lights hit. The stage waits, but for these last few heartbeats, you are his only audience.
It’s not an x reader fic if the reader is given a name?? Why is this so rampant more than before😵💫
malcolm wilkerson headcanons
im hyperfixated on mitm !!!! (i'll still post things for the office dw)
