#the pilot's love song

[floq]

Do me a favor and try to ignore // As you watch him fall through a blatant trapdoor

Twenty One Pilots - Trapdoor

[ID in alt text]

[mayomkun]

Our hometown's in the dark

[ninesposting]

So is this part of the lore or…?

[anonymouscheeses]

Gimme them gimme them dope and diamonds

Diet Mountain Dew, baby, New York city

Never was there ever a girl so pretty

Do you think we'll be in love forever?

Do you think we'll be in love...?

[shesacarver]

my page is NOT a safe space for tear in my heart haters . “ i want it off the setlist “ I want You off My Blog . Good Bye .

[add1ictwithapen]

tyler acknowledged time to say goodbye it’s fine i’m okay 🥹

[aullidoazul]

got a bad feeling that I’m about to break

[click for better quality]

[pardonmydelays]

there's something incredibly beautiful about tyler saying that navigating is his least favourite track from the album and then playing it live and smiling like crazy when the crowd was screaming the lyrics at him

[coveredinbites]

❗️BACKSLIDE❗️

[rttnbttrfly]

: - If I'm gonna snap necks, Then I'm gonna snap back - :

-

Snap Back

Twenty One Pilots

[goingtochurch]

i am completely and utterly in awe with him

[justachoker]

welcome to the new way of livin'

[luck-of-the-drawings]

!!! FLASHING LIGHTS WARNING!!! [IM NOT FUCKIN AROUND!!]

REACHED THE CUSP OF 'THIS MAY NEVER BE ABSOLUTELY FINISHED N IF I DONT SHOW IT NOW, IT WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY.' SO HERE, A PROJECT IVE BEEN ORBITING AROUND UHH SINCE 2021 OR SO.

[add1ictwithapen]

possessive Tyler edit inspired by @i-seeaspaceshipinthe-sky ‘s post:

[intheorangebedroom]

More than a feeling

Summary: you like to sing. Frankie likes it too. Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader. Rating: Explicit fluff 🔞  Word count: 570ish A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡

One thing for certain, an absolute, indisputable fact, is that Frankie loves to hear you sing. 

Sometimes, a classic rock tune you like comes out on the crackling grocery store speakers, and you start singing along out loud, completely unabashed, as you browse the aisles with him. He downright puffs up his chest with pride. Bites down a dimpled smile, he doesn't always know why. You make him so fucking soft… Nobody else needs to know that. 

On Sunday mornings, when he’s cooking breakfast while you’re showering, he tunes in to that radio station you like, and if he’s lucky enough, a song will come out that’ll propel you out of the bedroom halfway through dressing. You’ll dance into the living-room, wearing only his t-shirt, your panties and a sock, hollering over the music and playing air drums, a show that’s not even for his benefit but for your sole enjoyment. But he’ll be damned if that’s not the kind of moment he lives for.

Most often, you quietly hum, absentmindedly, going about the house, doing your stuff. He’ll immediately perk up his ears, pausing whatever it is he’s doing, and just listen. Gaze drifting, a smile tugging the corner of his plush lips. Shoulders dropping from the perpetual tension that pulls them taut. You’re the only one who can do that to him. 

You’re not always on tune, far from it. You don’t always remember the lyrics, not precisely, but your singing voice triggers something in him. Something warm and heavy, something that lives and thrives. A feeling that blooms inside his chest, the sensation fringing on pain, with the way his heart swells, tight against his ribcage. 

It’s the cheerful testimony to what he provides you with -a sense of safety. 

It’s the expression of what you give him in return -your trust. 

But the real treat is when you’re driving together, sitting side by side on the bench seat of his old truck. In the cozy warmth of the cab. Moving through the world, but remote from it, tucked away together, time suspended, irrelevant. That’s when he likes it best.

The music wrapping around the two of you, slightly distorted by the antique cassette player, it sounds like a bike ride after homework, like the last summer sunset, like endless afternoons and his whole life before him. Like a time when he didn’t know you yet but was already looking for you. Like a hopeful sensation after waking from a bittersweet dream. 

He’ll steal sideways glances in your direction as you sing your lungs out, practically dancing in your seat, or tapping your thumbs on the wheel, if you’re driving. 

He’ll relish the moment. Before it turns into something else, something that’s even more, when the whole of your life together becomes greater than the sum of all of its parts.

When he’s finally inside you. When you’re writhing in his hold, melting under his touch. When your taste’s on his tongue and the scent of you heady, when your tight, dripping cunt flutters along his cock. When your throat thrums under his lips and your voice fills his ears, replacing all his thoughts, resonating through his entire fucking chest as you moan and keen and plead. 

Frankie, Frankie, Frankie. 

His name tumbling from your lips, cried out or whispered, as he coaxes release after release from your trembling body. That’s his favourite song of yours. That’s the one he’ll never tire of hearing you sing.

[kornocreep]

The making of Nobody Like You (Feat. Scott Weiland and Jonathan Davis) ; 1999