#his goddamn hairline bro

[sugismells]

he got mcdonalds on his forehead

[billthedrake]

DYNASTY

This story was inspired by A4F Tales' (@talesfromunderthemattress ) story Parental Unit. Consider this an unofficial sequel of sorts.

Kevin was driving. He almost always insisted on driving if it was the both of us. Now as I looked over at my older brother, I was glad he was behind the wheel since it gave me a chance to scope him out. Even now, after 8 years of being married, at least in our minds, I never got sick of looking at him. His hairline was receding but if anything that made his solid coach bod even better looking, kind of the best of both worlds, being a 31 year old dude starting to rock the daddy look a little.

"You think Dad hit the bars tonight?" I asked. Still feeling the glow of date night and the buzz of the extra glass of wine I had because I wasn't driving.

Kevin's normally serious expression turned into a slight laugh of a grin. "Probably bro. You know how he's alwasy going on about not getting enough pussy."

I chuckled and puffed out my chest like Dad as I imitated him. "What you boys have going on is great and all... but I'm 50/50, you know," I said in my best Craig Stansell baritone.

Kevin laughed. "Whatever it takes, babe," he said, looking away from the road quickly to flash me a grin. "Besides, the old man's almost 60. Let him have his pride."

"58 and a very fine 58," I chimed in. "You think we ever push him too much?"

My husband seemed to think that over a second. "Not really, no. If anything, maybe not enough." He patted my thigh. "If he found another woman, you know, settled down again... would you be upset, Kyle?"

I didn't have to think of my answer. "Selfishly, yes. But I want him to be happy bro, you know that."

"I do too, of course," Kevin continued, thinking out loud as he turned into our subdivision, where we'd been shacking up as brothers ever since I moved down to Florida to work under him in the college football program he coached. "I just think, you know, he's kind of what makes our relationship work so well."

I'd thought of that too. Kevin and I had both given up our asses to each other, many times, and would gladly continue to do so. But we both preferred topping and all around loved the rush of fucking a man. "We'd make it work regardless, Kevin," I objected. "But I know what you mean."

He nodded and held up his left hand after he turned toward our street. "It was fun wearing our bands when we go out."

"Fun's an understatement," I growled softly. It had been a nice romantic evening, but my big brother was gonna get me hard, fast. "Wish we could do it more."

"It's risky," Kevin said, lust in his voice. "But we'll have to find a way."

The Florida air was warm and muggy. That's the one thing I'd never get used to, but beyond that this was paradise. Maybe because it's a place Dad could take an early retirement to and not bat an eye, living in an in-law addition behind our place.

"Hey guys," our father said, peeling his eyes off a Ravens-Steelers game on TV. Ever since coaching college ball, Kev and I relished our Sunday days off, and had grown less interested in following the NFL religiously. But Dad was still sports obsessed and maybe missed his own coaching days, more than a little. "How was date night?"

Kevin casually patted Dad's meaty shoulder through the man's T-shirt. It still blew my mind how casually our father had sussed out me and Kevin's sexual relationship, early on and how he not only didn't seem to mind but actually covered for us. Only later did I discover he'd fooled around with our Uncle Rick growing up.

"Great," my older brother said, looking over at me with a wink. "Nice to have some one-on-one time with my special man."

Dad grumbled. "You boys should take your special time any goddamn time you want. Forget I'm here if you have to. You guys are married, and just because you asked me..."

"All right, Dad," Kevin laughed, holding up his hands like he was 17 and being delivered another lecture. "Me and me husband are gonna go to our bedroom and have hot date night sex, OK?"

Dad got a big grin on his gruffly handsome mug. Unlike Kevin he still had his full head of hair though it was almost entirely gray now and maybe not as thick as it once was. "That's more like it."

Kevin patted his shoulder and turned to walk back to our room. I knew he was horny from our conversation, and since yesterday was game day and as usual we didn't usually get around to sex, my brother was undoubtedly feeling as backed up as I was. "Good night, Dad," he said.

"Good night," I said to my father, only leaning in for a quick peck of a kiss. On the lips. "You OK on your own tonight, Dad?" I asked.

"Son... if you don't get back there quick, your brother's gonna have some major blue balls," he joked.

I about asked about his blue balls, but instead just took the hint. "All right, Dad. Have a good one."

Kevin was already naked when I got to the master bedroom. I liked stripping for him as he watched and stroked his fat brother bone. "Jack is doing a great job with you," he said, referring to the strength and conditioning coach for the team. Even if I wasn't a player, I took advantage of the man's expertise and encouragement. While Kevin had a naturally medium-build coach bod, I was getting more jacked, almost like a tight end. The more I did, the more my husband loved it.

"Remind me to thank him," I grinned, stepping forward naked to the bed.

We were both horny but we also loved the physicality of making out before swapping blow jobs.

I took my big brother's dick into my mouth, slowly working him up. "Damn, suck me KS," he urged, using my initials as a pet name ever since we first fooled around, back in the day. "Suck your big brother." Those words never failed to turn me on. I blew him with longer deeper mouth strokes, using my hands to feel his hairy balls and hold his prick. Kevin was in shape, but that coach-bod padding felt real nice and softly furred against my forehead as I managed a deep throat.

"FUCK!" my husband grunted, holding me down playfully on to his hairier crotch. "You're too good to me, man." He let up on his grip and I started bobbing again, trying to work him to a good, heavy cum.

Only as Kev was getting too close, he pulled me off, gently pushing my head back once his thick prick cleared my wet lips. "Let me return the favor, bro."

I nodded and I knelt on the bed, letting my older brother lean forward and start licking me. "God, I love date night," he hissed before he bagan taking me into his mouth."

It was hot, very hot, watching my successful head coach of a brother go down on me, his masculine face getting an intent look as he did his best to blow me. It had taken a few years actually to convince my cocky brother to actually go down on me. Now, he took oral service as a serious job, as much dedicated work as studying game tape. You'd think that approach would be a turn off, but instead it drove me wild to see Kevin treat my pleasure like his biggest mission in life.

I could have let him get me off, but something was on my mind.

"Think we should invite Dad back, bro?"

I thought Kevin might be pissed off or at least bark his usual reminder that it was date night. Instead he pulled off my hard dick and slurped back the excess spit before he nodded, "Go get him."

I leapt up like an excited puppy and strutted into the living room, naked and hard. Dad was still watching the game, and I startled him when I put both hands on his shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. "Feel like joining us?" I asked simply.

He looked up and his eyes went wide when he realized my nakedness. Kevin wasn't the only one into my new jacked-up body. "Don't want to spoil your date night, Kyle," he said softly.

"When did you ever spoil anything, Dad?" I asked. "But it's up to you. We'd love to have you with us tonight."

He nodded, and god I could tell he was horny for it. "If you're sure."

"Sure I'm sure," I said. I gave a reminder. "But it's the master bedroom."

We had a ritual about this. Turns out Dad was on board, as always. "I want that," he said quietly but confidently.

I appeared first, and Kevin was already lubing up his cock, confident Dad would come in too.

"Hey Dad."

It wasn't Kevin who said that but our father, who was stepping out from behind me and peeling off his T-shirt. His 58 year old frame had always been muscular, an ex-jock's build, but since moving to join us in Florida, he'd kept at the weights hard to stay solid. He was very much a silver muscle daddy, tanned and buff, though with the telltale roughness in his skin from a man that age.

"Pop says you guys want me to join you," our father added, getting into the psychodrama we'd honed over the years. One that played out not every night but at least once a week.

"Come on, son," Kevin said, patting the mattress and scooting to make a spare spot. "We love having you in our bed."

Dad never played favorites, but when we did role reversal like this, Kevin was Dad and I was Pop and that just intensified the bond he had with his eldest. I watched as Dad scooted next to my brother-husband, letting Kevin take the lead to claim a kiss as Dad's furry muscle daddy body almost arched like a cat in Kevin's greedy embrace.

I never got sick of watching those two men kiss. It was romantic and sexual at the same time, in equal parts.

It turned me on to see how much our father loved it. His old man had been a legendary football coach, and after a number of threesomes Kevin and I sussed out that Dad had some giant-sized Daddy Issues of his own. A little role play and pushing the envelope and we settled in on this.

Dad was our son only when joining us in the master bedroom, but we embraced it so heavily that for that time it felt real to us. Real to Kevin, real to me, and real to our dad.

For his part, Kevin outright loved playing Dad to our father. As hot as the sex was between me and my brother, this brought out his more assertive side.

Already he was making his way down Dad's silver-furred body, kissing down that mature muscle and nudging our father's legs up and back. Dad complied. "Oh yes, Dad," he hissed. "Eat out my son hole."

He got into it, into that intimate connection between my brother's tongue and his sphincter, gently loosened from Kev's and my regular fucks. "God, Pop, I love you guys," he hissed as I lay next to him. And like that, me and my father were kissing. Deep, tongues battling, sucking the air from one another.

We got lost in that incest kiss. Me being daddy for my father and both of us loving that head-fuck. Either we made out longer than I expected, or Kevin was real impatient that night. Before I knew it, Dad pulled back and turned to look at Kevin who was holding our father's legs and entering him with that heavy brother cock of his.

"God, yeah," Dad said. "Dick me, Dad. I need it so bad, sir."

The S word was like poppers to Kevin. He growled and plowed right in. The first time he'd taken Dad like that I was pissed off and a little worried. But turns out Dad loved it. Even if that ex-NFL-er cock softened at the rough intrusion, Dad was always back to full hardness quickly.

That's how it played out now. I watched excitedly as the dick that made me steadily got its lead hardness again. I slicked my father's prick up with lube and slowly stroked while Kevin pounded him with harder faster stokes.

"Fuck, son," my coach brother hissed, throwing that beefy body into an athletic performance. Even if I preferred to top more than bottom these days, just watching my husband in rut made my vers side rare up and crave Kevin inside me. We'd have to see how long I'd go before making that a reality.

"Fuck me Dad!" our father bellowed, getting real into it, his hips bucking a little to work his cock in my lubed fist and to meet the fantasy patriarch's thrusts. "Use my hole, sir."

Kevin's face scrunched up and I knew immediately he was coming. One of those sudden, no warning orgasm. His normally confident voice became a succession of whimpers as he ejaculated deep and heavy inside our father.

"Hell yes," our dad his, excited to be bred.

I was horny as hell now. Impatiently, I got up and practically pushed Kevin out of the way. "Fuck 'im babe," he growled, placing his meaty paw on my strong shoulder. I looked down and saw his amazing prick wet with fresh cum. The view of Dad's asshole was better. Legs spread wide, our father showed off the now fucked-open hole and the incestuous creampie oozing out.

I'd never done this before, though it had been on my mind. At that moment, horniness overcame any hesitation I had. I leaned down and started licking Dad's pucker.

"Oh SHIT, Bro!" Kevin exclaimed. I didn't have to see to know my brother's softening prick surged right back into a hard watching me felch on his load. It was evident in my brother's voice.

Dad actually chuckled at how nasty I was being. But didn't care. I licked deeper now, rooting for a stronger taste of Kev's cum. I figured if I was gonna have my first felch experience, I'd go all the way.

Dad helped me out, by pushing out a good bit of Kevin's load. That familiar brother-husband flavor filled my mouth, and it drove me wild to realize just how much he'd cum.

"Oh fuck!" I growled as I pulled back, my throat half clogged with that assload. I rushed as I got into the saddle. I hoped to god Kev's fuck was foreplay enough for Dad, because I was coming in. My entry was rougher and more sudden than Kevin's had been.

"Yeah, Pop," Dad hissed. No softening cock this time, my father's meat twitched in its hardness as I boned him.

The dad-son mating was fevered. Dad clenching at my body and me doing my best Kevin Stansell topping imitation. As I fucked Dad and as Dad called me Pop with every other stroke, I imagined doing this to my father over the years, as the man entered his 60s, and even his 70s...

The idea almost tripped my trigger but I held off so Dad could cum. I didn't want to leave the old man high and dry. So I slowed my strokes and tried to work his butt nut. "Yes," he hissed, getting into the new rhythm. It wasn't a Kevin imitation, but a Kyle Stansell fuck.

My brother had actually gone to piss, like he always does after a good fuck. I guess I'd forgotten about him, because I was surprised to feel his hands on my mind and his kiss along my neck. "You're beautiful to watch Babe," he whispered. Instinctively I leaned back into that kiss and embrace, even as I had to slow my fuck down to a slow hump.

It took me a second to register how greasy Kevin's lubed cock was and how adeptly it was rooting in between my tight-end-worthy ass cheeks. "Whaddya say, bro?" he grunted, licking and nibbling at my ear lobe.

I wanted it. God, I wanted. "Yeah," I replied, and all of a sudden I was the center of attention. Dad's eyes on me, hungry but amused at watching me take my brother's cock. Kevin feeling me up to coax me to relax.

My man knew he had to take his time. And it had been a solid four months since he'd fucked me. I was tight as fuck.

But something about that situation was opening me up. Slowly, then more steadily I felt Kevin's thick tool plowing in. Challenging me to accept all of him.

"He's big isn't he, Pop?" Dad asked.

I looked down in my father's brown eyes. "Feels even bigger going in," I answered.

"It's gonna make you feel amazing, Pop," Dad said with sincerity. "Always does."

Kevin loved being talked up like that, and he now thrust more excitedly into me. It was intense but in a good way. Particularly once Dad's ass started clenching down on my own cock, buried deep inside him. My father was stroking his meat once more and sending shock waves to my bone in the process.

I wouldn't saw we had a practiced rhythm doing a fuck sandwich, but we alternated between Kevin driving things and me being the one to move my hips between these two men.

Dad came first. The excitement of watching his two sons fuck combined with the stimulation in his ass.

"Fuck son!" Kevin exclaimed, watching over my shoulder as heavy spurts of semen spurted from our father's reddened cock. "Give it up, stud."

Just hearing those role play words in my ear got me off. I grunted in orgasm, wordlessly but my body tensing and revealing that I'd crossed the line in a major way.

Kevin's hips were now bucking faster, almost frantic in the guy's realization he had a brief window to get off in me before I lost the sex-fueled openness in my ass.

He made it, barely. My brother-husband's strong hands gripped my waist as he powered his second cum of the night inside me. Making up for no-sex Game Day. I accepted his seed, proud that I'd done this, put out for my man.

My brother gave a soft kiss to the back of my neck and slowly pulled out.

This was always the hardest part of the role play. Not going back to our real-life family roles. But we'd learned to keep it going. Wordlessly, we showered off, first me and Dad in the shower, before I stepped out and let Kevin join him.

"You going to sleep with us tonight, Son?" I asked as I toweled off and watched them rinse under the spray.

Dad looked over at Kevin, maybe expectantly but mostly trying to read his reaction. Kev patted Dad's ass. "Up you, son, but your dads would love to have you join us."

It was wild to see the mature man, a pro-ball veteran and a coaching legend in his own right, act like a deferential college kid with us. He smiled and his dick chubbed out a little as he nodded.

I thought I was spent, but my own prick firmed up at the sight. All the way to full erection. Kevin laughed. He'd cum twice and his beautifully thick prick hung soft, water dripping off.

"Gotta warn ya, Son," my brother said. "Us coaches can be real horny bastards sometimes."

Dad chuckled and I watched as he slipped out of Kevin's embrace and dripping wet, stepped onto the bath mat before crouching in front of me in that classic blow job kneeling position.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Dad.... Pop..." Then looking up at me he took my son-prick into my mouth.

[warringwarrioridiot]

"They was asking for it"

YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT YOU'RE ASKING FOR?? A BIG FAT BASEBALL BAT TO THE BACK OF THE SKULL AT FULL SPEED MAX ISTG

Mfs like this need to take a long walk off of a short cliff cus if I EVER catch them I'm gonna commit some good old fashion homicide.

If you say things like "You should've enjoyed it" or "at least you got some" I'm tracking your IP and shoving ten cacti in your anal hole and/or vagina.

"game is game 🤪"

You need to shut your ketchup stain, Junkrat main, micro brain, aluminium chain, ankle sprain, CHOCOLATE RAIIIIN, with your runny nose dirty toes lick hobos cOwAbUnGa BrOs, Dude, I want you to look at your entire life. All your life choices. And tell me when you had an original idea in your brain. Your ass got kicked out and disowned and you started aggressively tapping the home button on your IPhone "Oh, help. Why is it not working?". YOUR ENTIRE EXISTENCE IS LIKE A NARUTO FILLER EPISODE, MY BOY! YOUR PRANKS ARE AS REPETITIVE AS THE AD "Whopper, Whopper, Whopper, Whopper" YOUR BRAIN IS JUST AS REAL AS THE LOVE YOUR PARENTS HAVE FOR YOU! YOUR GRANDMA GAVE BLING BLING BOY A LAP DANCE FOR PAY DAY. Wait hold on! *Punch punch punch* GIVE ME THE MONEY YOUR GRANDMA! I JUST ROBBED YOUR GRANDMA! I JUST HIT A LICK ON YOUR GRANDMA, HOW DOES THAT FEEL?! SHE POOR AS HELL NOW! YOU PUT A BALLOON ON YOUR HEAD AND THOUGHT IT WAS A DURAG! YOU LIKE RONALD MCDONALD FROM OHIO! "HEYA KID! YOU WANT A BIG MAC?!" WHEN YOU WALK DOWNSTAIRS YOUR WHOLE HOUSE STARTS RUMBLING! YOU BRING THE POWER OF EREN YEAGER AND 37 COLOSSAL TITANS DOWN YOUR STAIRCASE! AFTER YOU EAT DINNER YOU EAT THE PLATE AND THEN YOU EAT THE TABLE AS WELL! CHOMP CHOMP! YOU RENT OUT THE GAP BETWEEN YOU TEETH AS A PARKING SPACE FOR ANTS! YOU LOOK EMO ASF "CUT MY LIFE INTO PIECES! THIS IS MY LAST RESORT! SUFFOCATION! NO BREATHING!" LOOK AT YOUR NOSE YOU HAVE TWO MARIO PIPES COMING OUT OF YOUR HEAD! YAHOO! LET'S A GO! THEY MADE A SEQUEL TO FINDING NEMO BASED OFF YOUR ASS CALLED "LOCATING CHROMOSOMES! IN THEATRES THIS JULY!" YOUR BEST FRIEND IS A RAT LIVING UNDER YOUR BED IN A PRINGLES CAN! YOU POSTED AN INSTAGRAM STORY ABOUT A JAMAICAN CRICKET GIVING YOU A LAP DANCE IN THE BACK OF TOYS R US! YOU TORTURED AN ANT BY TYING HIM TO YOUR BUTTHOLE AND FARTING ON HIM! I HAVE MORE ROASTS YOU KNOW! YOUR GRANDMA IS A DARK SOULS BOSS CALLED "THE WRINKLE!

EW NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO THERE IS NO WAY! THAT THIS... OLD ASS FART WRINKLE IS TALKING TO ME IN SUCH A DISRESPECTFUL MANNER. YOU KNOW IT'S ACTUALLY KINDA SAD YOU'RE OLD ENOUGH TO BE A GRANDPA NOW BUT INSTEAD OF ADVANCING YOUR BIOLOGICAL CHAIN YOU'VE INSTEAD SPENT YOUR DAYS ALONE IN YOUR ROOM READING HITLER MANIFESTOS AND COSPLAYING AS A FUCKIN' NEO NAZI. SO MANY YEARS AND SUCH LITTLE ADVANCEMENT. No seriously! Seriously I find it amusing THAT YOUR PENCIL PENIS DONKEY KONG BARREL BUILT LOOKIN' ASS WOULD ASSUME THAT I EVEN REMOTELY CARE ABOUT A SINGLE ONE. NO NO NO FUCK THAT. A SINGLE SYLLABLE OF THE VERBAL DIARRHEA GARGLE THAT'S COMING OUT OF THE DUSTY SARLAC PIT YOU CONSIDER TO BE YOUR FUCKING MOUTH! YOU WANT ME TO SHOW YOU MY FACE?? YOU WANNA SEE MY FUCKIN' FACE??? BITCH SHOW ME YOUR FUCKIN' HAIRLINE CAUSE I KNOW THERE'S NO WAY YOU'RE SPEAKING TO ME RIGHT NOW DRESSED UP AS A GOD DAMN DIABOLICAL BOY SCOUT. NAH LOOK AT THEM TEETH. BOY YOUR TEETH IN CREATIVE MODE. HELL NAH BOY STOP PLAYING YOU TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT. BRO THEY GOT FOSSIL RECORDS FOR EACH ONE OF YOUR FAT ROLLS. NAH STOP PLAYING WITH ME BOY I CAN'T TAKE YO ASS SERIOUSLY WHEN YOU DRESS UP LIKE A GODDAMN MEDIEVAL TERRORIST. BRO IS ABOUT TO SHOOT UP HIS OLD FOLKS HOME WITH A CROSSBOW AND A FUCKING TREBUCHET. YA YEET DOM DOM DOM DOM DOM DOM! SHUT YO UGLY ASS UP. WHAT THE FUCK? A HE AHHH EEEEE SHUT UP BITCH. YOU WANT ME TO TURN ON MY CAMERA? YO DICK BUILT LIKE A INVERTED BANANA. YO FOREHEAD CRACKED UP LIKE THE AFRICAN SAVANNAH. I CAUGHT YOU AND YO SISTER BUTT NAKED LAST NIGHT. SWEET HOME ALABAMA. FUCK YOU THINK THIS IS? WHAT IS YOU WEARING WITH YO GODDAMN HONEY WHERE IS MY SUPER SUIT? NAH BOY LOOK AT YO ROOM, YO HOUSE DIRTY AS HELL. YOU GOT FOUR SEWER RATS IN YO BATH TUB RIGHT NOW FLOATING ON TOP OF A PIZZA BOX SINGING. "YO HO THIEVES AND BEGGARS". LIKE SHIT, BOY I CAUGHT YOU HAVING AN EMOTIONAL CONVERSATION WITH YO TOE NAIL LAST NIGHT. WE COULD'VE BEEN SUPER STARS REMEMBER WHEN WE AS JACKING CARS. YOU AND YO TOE NAIL WAS GOING TO BE THE DYNAMIC DUO. BITCH YOU WAS GONNA BE IN AMERICA'S GOT TALENT SWINGING THAT SHIT AROUND LIKE A FUCKING BOOMERANG. SHUT YO STUPID ASS UP. BRUH I CAUGHT YOU JACK SPARROW RUNNING AROUND YOUR HOUSE WHILE YOUR DAD WAS TRYING TO BEAT YOU WITH A TOILET PLUNGER LAST NIGHT. COME HERE BOY! SHUT YO ASS UP. BITCH EVERYTIME YOU TAKE A SHIT THE GAME OF THRONES THEME SONG STARTS PLAMMERING IN YO HOUSE.BUM BUA BUM BUDUM BUM. SHUT YO UGLY ASS UP BRUH.

Are you getting mad?

Are you getting mad?

DAMN You getting mad now! Cuz yo Legal name is Ledenhouser Strogenberg. Nah don't be Smiling now boy You ain't slick Boy! I caught you in the locker room after gym class Frantically wiping yo armpits down With a kleenex While tryna smell good For the girls In the hallway. OI ZOINKS! I GOTTA- I GOTTA HURRY UP. SHUT YO ASS UP YOU LIKE A DIABETIC TOASTER STRUDEL. YOU UGLY AHH AS HELL. YOU GOT THEM BIG ASS HUMPTY DUMPTY PANTS ON BRUH. YOU USE A FRUIT ROLL UP AS A BELT TO HOLD UP YO BUNG DU BUNGLA. Shut yo ugly Ass up You got Mineral deposits In your Belly button. You dumb As hell You thought Google drive Was a brand new Taxi service. Bitch yo Grandma Threw a Rage spell On the kitchen floor And started Smacking you with A weiner schnitzel. Shut yo ass up You a Diabolical Special needs Student. Boy you was In the back of a Short bus Maniacally Planning How you was gonna Take over Your school.HMMMMM YEAHHHHHHHHHH It will be MINE! Shut yo Ass up, Boy I caught you Butt Naked Playing gorilla tag With a mouse in your Kitchen. Yo ass Be sliding around The counters Like a paraplegic Frozone. Gotta Catch 'em ALL! Shut yo ass up With yo "I got a feeling Ooooooooo!" Everytime yo Grandpa Tickles yo Butthole. Shut yo Stupid ass up You thought the One chip challenge Was sticking a Hot cheeto Up your buttcrack. Ok! Here we go Everybody! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Shut yo Dirty ass up Get yo ass on bruh.

It's actually so fucking sad these people still exist in 2024.

Istg misogynists and forced birth extremists and rapists are the most atrociously ugliest love-lacking idiots.

Image ref:

I rest my fucking case, your honor. Kill every single one of these people before I do it myself.

[y0itsbri]

🍺, 🧑🏻‍🦰, 😠

benja! hello! thank you for the ask! 💘💘 (sorry these got kinda (very) long and some more fic-ish than hc-ish but i had fun with it)

🍺 - drunk headcanon

lately, debbie has been flooding the gallagher fam groupchat with pictures of cocktails and mixed drinks that she's been trying from the new lesbian bar she's been going to. carl tells her no one gives a shit, but she just tells him to fuck off. ian always sends a thumbs up emoji in response to the photos.

"wonder what's in that one," mickey pondered from their couch, zooming into the most recent picture like somehow the ingredients were written on an ice cube.

"looks like 1.5 oz empress gin, 4 oz ginger beer, juice of 1/2 a lime, 1/4 oz monin desert pear syrup, and mint, for garnish, of course," ian confidently rattled off.

mickey's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, "the fuck are you? the lesbian drink whisperer?"

ian chuckled at the accusation, "found the recipe on pinterest. 's something called the prickly pear gin buck."

"on penny trust what now?"

"pinterest -- a website where you pin your interests," ian smirked like he was the most clever motherfucker on the planet.

"alright, fuckin' martha stewart over here."

"wanna make it sometime?"

"make what?"

"the 'lesbian' drink."

"nah, man, too fuckin' fruity and won't even get me drunk."

"yeah, well we're fucking fruity, mick."

mickey sent ian a death glare.

ian threw his hands up in mock surrender and a teasing glint, "alright, alright, but you like it sweet, so i bet you'd like it."

"yeah, i like your sweet ass alright, c'mere, dork."

--

"hey, mick, look what i got!"

"more toothpaste?"

"shit! i knew i was forgetting something... but, uh, no, i splurged on some things to make that drink debs sent that week."

ian looked so damn excited about this, he couldn't even make fun of him.

"double the gin. if i'm drinking it, i better get buzzed."

"done."

"and you're not tellin' fuckin' anyone about this."

ian paused too long.

"gallagher," mickey said sternly. gallagher. he wasn't messing around.

"aaaanyways, let's get it cookin', good lookin'."

-

for all it was worth, it was fucking delicious and mickey got more than a little buzzed. he woke up the next morning... or afternoon rather, with several notifications from the gallagher groupchat.

shit. he was gonna fuckin' murder ian.

ian had sent an artistic photo of the purplish drink topped with a mint garnish and another of mickey, blissfully unaware of the photo being taken while sipping his second? third? drink, cradling it dear.

deb: looks great guys! so good, right! 🥂

lip: mickey sure seems to think so huh? ;)

liam: mickey's gonna kill you for this, ian

carl: rip fly high bro 💀🕊️

-

despite the teasing from his brother-in-laws, mickey really did enjoy the drink and the excitement ian had putting it all together. debbie, ian, and mickey all start a new groupchat called 'gallabitches getting tipsy🍹' where they share all their new recipes without judgement. they later added tami to the group, not being able to drink during her pregnancy, but living vicariously through them.

👨‍🦰 - ian is tall and likes to manhandle headcanon

the only cabinet in the kitchen that's tall enough for their boxes of cereal is above the refrigerator. this is, of course, no problem to ian who is practically eye level with it. mickey, however, has a little more difficulty.

he thought he was alone in the kitchen, he had left ian finishing getting ready in the bathroom, when he wanted the goddamn lucky charms.

mickey ungracefully climbed on top of the countertop and acquired the beloved box of sugary cereal. right then, he noticed he'd been caught -- ian leaning against the kitchen wall, amused as all hell.

ian stalked over, "can't reach, baby?"

"got it just fine, thanks." but mickey didn't make any effort to get down.

"hey, you're finally taller than me, never thought i'd see the day."

"fuck off."

"hmmm, dunno if i like this," ian said, looking up at mickey, "might have to do something about it."

"yeah? whatcha gonna do about it, big guy?"

in a swift motion, ian nudged mickey's legs apart a bit and held them on either side of him. mickey threw the box of cereal god knows where, fuck the cereal, and complied, wrapping his legs around ian's torso and his arms around ian's neck.

"oh, you'll see."

😠 - jealous headcanon (also hi @gardenerian , here's a little bit of gardener ian content for you🍅)

ian starts bonding with one of his neighbors about their plants in the community garden at their apartment. mickey was totally on board with ian's rants about his tomatoes and peppers, but all mickey can hear lately is julie this and julie that.

-

"julie bought this new fertilizer for me to use on my plot! she said it'll double the amount of tomatoes we get this year!"

"fuckin' great."

ian frowned, "i thought you were excited about the garden."

"i am."

"then why doesn't it sound like that?"

"julie just sounds like she likes you a bit too much is all."

"julie?"

"yeah, man, buyin' you shit, now. why doesn't fucking julie just suck your dick while she's at it?"

"what the fuck are you going on about now, mick?"

"you don't even wear your ring down there! i bet the bitch is just trynna get in your pants."

"mickey."

"no, it's cool, i get it, whatever."

"mickey. i don't wanna lose the ring in all the fuckin' dirt, but i promise julie knows all about you -- about us."

"yeah?"

"of course," ian crowded mickey's space a bit, judging how much his husband was really mad at him. he tilted his head down, "come down there with me next sunday, yeah? there's nothing to worry about."

mickey considered for a moment. he would love to size the bitch up, even if he had to wake up a bit earlier.

"fine."

"mmmm, good."

--

the following sunday, true to plan, mickey followed ian down to his garden plot. he'd been down here before, of course, but never early enough to chat with julie. he couldn't see her now, though, just some white-haired old lady in a big hat with an orange cat perched on her lap.

"ian, darling, good morning!"

"hey julie, good to see you!" ian said smiling as he crouched down to pet the cat's head, "you too, george." the cat purred against his hand.

oh.

"this is my husband, mickey. he was finally up early this morning, so i made him tag along."

"oh, what a pleasure, dear," julie smiled warmly, "i've heard so much about you."

"uh, yeah, ditto." mickey definitely didn't expect this -- she was genuinely sweet. she kind of reminded him of his great aunt back in ukraine.

"remind me to give you boys my new recipe for lemon tarts..." she trailed off.

mickey sat himself on a red modern-style chair as the two chatted the latest drama of some pests on antonio's plants and how sarah hadn't been out in weeks to water.

julie nudged the cat off her lap as she gestured for ian to follow her to one of the flower beds. george made his way over to where mickey was sitting.

"they're some of the good ones, huh?" mickey addressed the cat.

george slow blinked in return as he flopped over on the pavement.

they basked in the early morning sun, watching ian water both his plot and julie's as they laughed about something he couldn't hear.

he smiled. he could get used to sunday mornings like this.

[cellard0ors]

Prestans “stop interrupting me”

...my response to this was just an excuse to be horny on main...

warnings: threesome (kinda?), oral, sibling incest

“STOP interrupting me!” Ford snarls and Preston takes a step back, startled by Ford’s tone. He holds up both hands, voice going soft, “Okay, okay…I’m-I’m sorry.”

He backs out of Ford’s lab and goes upstairs, finding Stan sitting in their kitchen. Stan takes one look at him and sighs, “Let me guess. Sixer?”

Preston just goes to the fridge and shrugs, pulling out a Pitt and popping the tab, “He’s just…irritable today.”

Stan snorts, “He’s been irritable every day for the past two months.”

Scowling he gets to his feet, rolling his head about his shoulders, “It’s that damned portal he’s working on. It’s a garbage idea, ya ask me. We’ve been living here a couple of months now, yeah? Gravity Falls has weirdness. Why go lookin’ for more?”

“It’s his passion,” Preston argues as he takes a few sips of his Pitt before setting the can aside, “It’s not as if we can take it from him.”

“I think we should.”

“Now Stanley…”

“C’,mon, Pres, you tellin’ me you’re fine with this?” Stan waves in the general direction of Ford’s lab and Preston lets out a hefty sigh because, well, he’s not exactly fine with it. Oh sure, it was fine in the beginning. He had no problem financing Ford’s work and his husband had been so happy. He’d seen no reason to interfere. But as time has gone on, Ford’s become…sullen. Withdrawn. So very, very unlike himself.

This recent heated remark sending Preston off hasn’t been the first and, sometimes, he suspect it won’t be the last. But how can he tell Ford ‘no’? After all that Ford has given him. But looking at Stanley now, the worry beneath the stern bravado, he wonders how he can tell Stanley the same. Neither of them deserves a ‘no’ from Preston.

But then Stan’s suddenly looks…sly and Preston swallows thickly because he knows that look. Knows it even as he asks, “What are you thinking?”

“Come on,” Stan gives him a quick, come-hither curl of one finger before turning in the direction of said lab and Preston follows, even as his heart thumps. Why is his heart thumping? They enter the lab and Ford is still laboring over different computers, different printouts. Dancing from one to the other to another and Stan clears his throat loudly.

“PRESTON! I TOLD you! STOP-!”

“Can it, Poindexter,” Stan growls back and Ford turns to him, blinking and confused. Preston stands there, hands toying with one another because he’s not really up for this level of confrontation. Stan, however, veers closer to Ford, obviously more than ready for it, “Me and your other hubby been talkin’ and we agree – you been working too hard.”

Ford and Preston speak at the same time. One saying ‘you have?’ whilst the other says ‘we have?’ and Stan just nods to both, “Yup. You need ta relax. Or, well, not relax – so much as take a break. So, that in mind…”

Stan charges up to Ford like it’s no contest, stepping behind him and easily locking his arms behind his back. Ford lets out a gasp, startled by Stan’s actions and while his hold isn’t painful, it’s tight enough to keep him in place as he cries, “What are you doing? Why-?”

Stan locks eyes with Preston, “Little help, my prince.”

Preston’s eyebrows draw together in confusion but he steps closer. Ford wriggles some in Stan’s grip, but Stan’s always been the stronger twin and Ford is unable to break the hold. To be fair, Ford isn’t struggling very hard, not wanting to hurt his brother even as he continues to voice his disapproval, asking why this is happening and Preston is wondering the same until Stan purrs, “First off, the tie’s gotta go. Right?”

Suddenly Preston gets the idea. He also gets why his thumping heart has moved on to racing. He gulps and then, with a determined nod, he reaches for the knot of Ford’s tie, loosing it, unraveling it from around his neck. Ford, suddenly also sensing the shift in the room’s tone, immediately drops any pretense of a fight, a hefty breath escaping him, “What are you-? Are you two-?”

“Shirt’s looking pretty restrictive. Don’t’cha think, Preston?”

“Indeed,” Preston murmurs, his voice growing deeper as he starts unbuttoning Ford’s dress shirt and Ford lets out another huff of air, this one shaky, “Preston…”

“Shh, Sixer,” Stan chides in a gruff rumble, “Can’t you see the guy’s working? What was it you said to him earlier?”

“Stop interrupting me,” Preston says, his blue eyes locking with Ford’s brown ones and Ford’s eyes widen, as if he’s just realized how he was a few moments ago, “Oh…Preston, I’m-I’m sor-!”

“Save it, dear,” Preston returns and he takes Ford’s face in his hands, gives him a deep, hot kiss, tongue curling in and out of his mouth perfectly before he hums against his lips, “It’s too late.”

“He’s right,” Stan returns and he edges closer to Ford’s right ear, licks at the back of it and Ford’s head tips back on a wanton noise because, yes, his husbands are very, very right. He needs a break. He needs this. His shirt hangs open, a wide sail pushing back against his white lab coat as Preston tugs it free from the confines of his trousers.

Stan still holds his arms, but it’s clear now that he’s playing something of a sensual bonding agent as he locks eyes with Preston, “What else you think? Gotta get away all the distractions, the hinderances…”

“Hmm, I wonder,” Preston’s tone is warm with sultry mocking, “This belt, perhaps?”

“Oh the belt! It’s awful!”

“I agree,” Preston unhooks Ford’s belt and as he begins easing it through the loops, Ford’s Adam’s apple bobs, eyes rolling into the back of his head because yes, he agrees with them on this as well. He wants to provide his own input, but he just keeps his mouth shut, teeth feasting on his lower lip when Preston’s hands go to the top of his fly, “What about these, Stanley, darling?”

“Those pants? They’re a worse interruption than you are! How can he concentrate with those things on? Not that he should be thinking too hard.”

Preston grins and god, it’s such a gorgeous evil grin, “Oh no, yes – that wouldn’t do at all.”

Ford can barely make out Stan’s face behind him, but he knows for damned sure Stan is mirroring the same, ridiculously attractive expression, “The goal is relaxing him.”

“It is,” Preston undoes the top button, the zipper insanely audible as it goes down, “It really is.”

Ford is a panting, trembling mess. He’s practically eating his own lips to hold back the tide of sounds wanting to escape him. More so as his trousers fall down to his knees. His underwear – a ridiculously bright red color, seem to hold Stan up a moment – arousal giving way to true amusement as he laughs, hot breath ruffling the curls at the base of Ford’s neck, “Where’d you get those panties, Ford?”

“I’ll have you know I purchased them,” Preston returns with some cool.

“Why ain’t I surprised? You got my bro wearin’ some Victor’s Secret kinda shit, huh?”

“Your pair is en route,” is returned to Stan with a wink from Preston and now Stan swallows. A thick gulp. And Ford giggles a little hysterically. Even as his cock twitches beneath the fabric of said red underwear as if to remind him that ‘hey, I’m still here and I’d like attention, please’. Perhaps knowing it, Preston zeroes in, “I should think it best to see you completely unencumbered, dear.”

His long fingers curl beneath the waistband and, as he tugs them down, he slowly lowers himself along with them. They end up puddled alongside his trousers but Preston…Preston rises, mouth enticingly near his erect member. He looks up at Ford, then to Stanley, “What now, darling? Should I? Or would you rather-?”

“Nah,” Stan husks, “I’m in the mood to watch this time, if you don’t mind.”

“I never do,” Preston returns smoothly and, with perfected ease, he takes Ford’s length deep into his mouth. Ford lets out a wail of pure pleasure. Jesus, he was there the first time Preston ever did this. He’d been so shaky then. So unsure of himself. 

Now? Now he’s a goddamn pro. He swallows Ford’s whole length with no trouble, one hand rising to cradle his aching balls, to gently roll them along the backs of his knuckles and Ford is not going to last long.

He arches back against Stanley, can feel his brother’s erection digging into his ass, even as Stan whispers into his ear, “You like that, Sixer? Huh? Like how he’s helping you unwind?”

Ford can only answer with a high pitched whine and he’d be embarrassed by how high if he weren’t completely distracted by the tip of Preston’s tongue teasing the weeping slit of his cock, curling around the pearls of precome that escape and tucking them away. 

Preston looks up at him through his long, dark eyelashes, a coy, heady air about him even as his free hand has risen to tease along Ford’s inner thighs, the back of his knees and fuck, he knows all the spots that can take Ford apart.

Knows them just as Stan does and Stan’s hold has loosened some as he’s begun kissing the back of Ford’s neck, licking at his hairline, teeth nipping the top knob of his spine and Ford sobs their names, one after the other because he feels his whole body pulsate, his orgasm a hairsbreadth away from crashing down on him.

“Nothing interrupting you now, Stanford. You wanna cum, you just…”

Stan doesn’t get to say anymore. The words, the heat in them, along with the feel of Preston’s pulling mouth, finish Ford off completely. With a full body shudder, Ford comes apart. He spills his seed and Preston drinks it all down, not even noticing that Ford’s arms have broken completely free from Stan’s hold to allow his hands to come forward, all twelve fingers tangling in his hair and tugging hard, nails digging at his skull as he erupts.

Coming down, breathing heavily, Ford groans, “Christ…I-I needed that.”

Stan just lets out a sound in agreement and Preston eases back, rubbing at his aching jaw even as he smiles, voice croaky, “Glad to oblige.”

“I…I am sorry, Preston,” Ford manages, still panting, still swimming in afterglow, “Sorry I yelled at you…”

“Hrm, yes, well – I suppose it worked out some. Although you do still owe me,” he gestures to his own unsatisfied erection and then tips his head towards Stan, “Not to mention, Stanley…”

“Yeah, Sixer. Hate ta break it to you, but we ain’t done,” Stan returns cheekily, nudging Ford’s behind with his own desire, “Not by a long shot. So, uh, how’s about you stop interrupting us, huh?”

Ford looks between the two of them and lets out a shaky laugh because yes – the last thing he wants is to interrupt any of this.

[immoralfag]

Bokuroo 2020, day 3.

lazy days. @bokurooweek

I’m trying okay, thanku ao3

Tetsurou would like to say he hadn’t been sitting on the couch all day waiting for his boyfriend to come back like a desperate fool, it’s his first day off out of two and he can spend it however he wants, and he’s definitely not waiting for Koutarou to come home.

He’s not. He swears, he isn’t jumping every time someone walks by their apartment, nope, he’s a man, a very manly man, who missed his boyfriend like a limb.

Okay so maybe he's waiting a little, but he was reading, sorta.

When three in the afternoon drags by followed by four he doesn’t worry because he’s not waiting. he doesn't wait at the edge of his seat ready to jump up at any point to hug Koutarou, no, that's not him.

In fact he almost misses the sound of the key turning in the lock, almost.

When he hears it he drops his phone to his stomach and starts reading again, well he tries. Koutarou is right there, he hasn’t seen him in two weeks and he wants to run over to him, and hug him.

Have some goddamn self-restraint Tetsurou.

He doesn’t have long, before the book he was trying to read is tossed out of his hands, his phone being picked up and put on the coffee table, and soon replaced by Koutarou before he can say anything about reading.

His mouth snapping shut when he sees how exhausted he looks on Koutarou’s face, all he can do to keep himself from freaking out is opening his arms, letting him fall into place, his arms wrapping around broad shoulders, as arms wrap around his waist.

He knew that the last few games for Koutarou had been long with little playoff, he presses a kiss on his forehead feeling all the tense muscles in his back relax, his hand travelling into ungelled black and white hair.

Koutarou lets out a big sigh, warm breath meeting his neck he can’t help but shiver, he waits another few moments for Koutarou to say something, about anything, like he normally does.

“Read to me?” Koutarou’s voice is rough from disuse and fatigue, he wants to ask if he got any sleep on the plane, only he’d feel stupid asking such a question when he already knows the answer to it, so he picks up his book, opening it to the first page, he starts to read.

He can’t tell what the story is about as he’s more focused on the man in his arms, keeping his hand busy playing with his hair only stopping to turn the page, halfway through the second chapter he feels Koutarou relax further into him, his breath deep and slow, he doesn't dare look down to see if he’s fallen asleep.

The more he reads, the more he feels himself falling into the story, so much so he nearly misses the sound of Koutarou’s voice.

“Thank you.”

He hums, stopping to run his hand more thoroughly his hair, “No problem, it’s my pleasure.”

Koutarou sighs, “What did you do all day?”

Tetsurou picks the book up again, holding it up to try to hide the redness in his cheeks, god he feels like a teenager again, “uhh… wait for you to get back?” he could’ve said anything else, but he’d do anything to make Koutarou feel better, even if he throws himself under the bus in the process.

Okay, that might be a little dramatic.

But he loves Koutarou and he’d do nearly anything to see him smile.

Koutarou kisses his neck, holding him tighter, “You’re my favourite.”

He shakes his head, “You’re a sap.”

“Umm..maybe.”

“No, one hundred percent.”

He can’t help himself though, pressing another kiss to his hairline.

“Say it back,” Koutarou says sounding serious.

“You’re my favourite too,”

“Was that so hard?”

“Yes, I have a reputation to uphold, I can’t that fall to shambles just because you ask, bro.”

“Awe bro, what reputation?”

“Haha,” he said dryly, feeling the smile pressed to his skin, making one fight its what out on his own face, not that it was much of a fight.

He picks off where he left off, letting their breaths lull him, the words flowing smoothly, Koutarou commenting once in a while in between, his heart feels full.

When his own eyes get tired, and his voice is too quiet to hear anymore, he lets it fall to the floor with a soft thump, Koutarou long asleep, he holds him tighter, letting his eyes fall shut, he drifts, not asleep but not with the wake either, Koutarou mumbling in his sleep.

He’s been lying there all day, yet it doesn’t feel like a waste of time, his time well spent with Koutarou always even when they’re playing video games, or eating toast for dinner because they ran out of food, curled up together on the bed with nothing but each other and their own thoughts.

He can’t imagine a world where that’s time spent unwell, the loneliness of sometimes being alone is all worth it if he’ll always get to come home to this or have Koutarou come home to him.

Sleep drags him down, and he wakes up to soft looks, and kisses, and take out, and at the end of the day, he falls into bed with the man he loves wasting more time together watching movies because they slept away the day.

[clintbartonruinedmylife]

Might I request/I would really love a deaf!Clint/blind!Matt story? There are just not enough! (Entirely up to you, but I'm thinking, since Clint became deaf later in life, he knows how to speak well, and Matt can learn ASL to sign back to him. And OF COURSE the dumpsters!) ;-)

Clint hated Russians. Well, not all of them, of course. Just the goddamn Russian tracksuit draculas who hung around his building repeatedly. They harassed and threatened the tenants and one time they even dared to destroy Clint’s car. Yes, he hated them.

A few days ago a friend - the guy who owned the bar down the block - told him the tracksuits planned to get rid of him, Clint. He had overheard a few of them talking about their plan. They had apparently no idea that he spoke Russian, too. And Myles just listened and then called Clint.

And now Clint spent all his time to keep watch. He hadn’t slept in days and only loads of very strong coffee kept him awake. Sort of.

Clint sat on the upper floor on the fire stairs, his bow on his knees and the quiver with arrows beside him. He leaned against the wall to not fall down because he was tired as fuck. He yawned, cursed himself, reached for the cup with coffee and drank. It was cold already and Clint winced. He hated cold coffee but he couldn’t leave his perch at the moment. Kate would come later to take over for a while.

He yawned again and leaned his head against the wall for a moment. But just when he wanted to close his eyes for a moment he saw something move. And then they came. Twenty guys in tracksuits, with baseball bats and clubs in their hands, some of them had guns in their jackets. Clint could see the bulges.

“Fuck,” he cursed and rose to his knee, grabbed bow and quiver and slid to the balustrade.

“Bro!” they called. They called everyone ‘bro’ and Clint sighed inwardly. “Bro! Come out!”

“Yeah, bro! This is our house, bro!”

“Bro, come out, bro!”

Clint nocked an arrow, aimed and shot. The arrow landed in front of one of the tracksuits, only and inch in front of his foot.

“Piss off,” he snarled down at them and nocked the next arrow.

“This is our house, bro!” the guy repeated and looked up, saw Clint and grinned. “Get out!”

“Do we really have to have this discussion again?” Clint mocked and released the string. The arrow stuck in the guy’s baseball bat and the tracksuit dropped it as if it was poisoned.

“Bro!”

Clint rose and slid down to the next landing, shot an arrow and the tracksuits scattered. A few of them tried to get to the fire escape but Clint shot arrows at them, not to hurt them, just to keep them away. For now.

“Last chance!” he yelled down at them but now a few of them reached for their guns and Clint cursed again. He shot an arrow in one of the guys arms, shot one in the knee and stopped one with an arrow in his foot from getting to the stairs. But he was still outnumbered.

Clint jumped down to the next landing, shot, jumped, shot and shot.

And when he wanted to jump to the next landing his bad luck - and probably the lack of sleep - hit him. He slipped on something on the landing, fell and slid through the balustrade. He tried to hold himself but he still had his bow and his quiver in his hands and so he just fell.

“Fuuuuck!” he yelped and flailed his arms.

With a loud thudding noise he landed in the dumpster beside the fire escape. It hurt like a motherfucker and Clint groaned. He reached for his bow and the quiver and wanted to climb out of the dumpster when he realized he couldn’t hear. He had lost his hearing aids. Frantically he looked around, but couldn’t see them but he remembered the tracksuits outside. He climbed onto his feet, looked over the edge of the metal box and stared disbelievingly when he saw someone with a red suit fight against them. The guy wore a mask over his head with no holes for the eyes and he threw a stick at the tracksuits. No one looked at him right now and so Clint used the distraction, nocked an arrow and started to shoot again.

Three minutes later the tracksuits fled, more or less damaged. The guy in red - the devil of Hell’s Kitchen - came over to him and held his hand out to help Clint out of the dumpster.

“Nice friends you have here,” he said with a smirk and Clint raised a brow.

“Sorry,” Clint said and pointed at his ears. “I… uh… lost my hearing aids.”

Daredevil looked at him for a long moment, nodded and put away the stick he held and repeated his sentence in sign language. Clint’s brows hit his hairline.

“You know ASL?” he blurted and Daredevil shrugged.

“I know many things,” he signed and smiled and Clint had to admit his smile was cute.

“Why are you here? I mean, Bed Stuy is not exactly your neighborhood if I read the papers correctly. The Devil of Hell’s kitchen? That’s what they call you, right?”

“I overheard a few Russians talking about roughing up an Avengers and I thought I should maybe follow them,” Daredevil signed. “And it seems it was the right decision.”

“Thanks, man,” Clint tried to get the dirt off of his clothes but it was futile.

“Guess I owe you at least a cup of coffee,” Clint said.

Daredevil mused for a second before he nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Well then,” Clint grinned. “I know a place not far away.”

Daredevil signed, “Go ahead.” And smiled again.

[lesbianfreyja]

request: dennis sucking mac’s dick. that’s it. that’s the entire request

Dennis could joke all he wanted about Mac looking fat when he was fully clothed and they were surrounded by the rest of the gang at the bar, but it was a little harder to maintain that stance when sequestered in their own apartment.

The first time he saw Mac shirtless when they were alone was two days later. He was fresh back from the gym, dripping sweat, hair sticking limply to his forehead, and he pulled his shirt off as soon as he walked in the door - and it took everything Dennis had not to blurt out, “Can I lick your abs, bro?” and drop to his knees.

Instead he retreated to his room for the rest of the day and did not come out until well into the next morning.

The first time he got his wish (half-formed and most fully explored in dreams) was a week later. He only had to wait so long because he absolutely refused to be the one to break first, and it was a week before Mac seemed to catch on to what he wanted without being told.

He laughed against Mac’s mouth when he got pressed up against his bedroom door. (Technically their bedroom door, since Mac had never furnished his own room and they had been trading off on who slept on the couch since he’d gotten back.) His fingers curled and dug into Mac’s neck, scratching right below his hairline. Mac dug his knee in between Dennis’s legs and pressed up, and Dennis gasped against their connected mouths.

His hands slipped over the vast, firm planes of Mac’s back under his t-shirt. His shoulder muscles flexed, shifting pleasantly under his skin. In another second Dennis had the shirt ripped off completely, and Mac’s mouth was attached to the underside of his jaw.

“Fuck, Christ, dude,” he mumbled. His head tipped forward again so Mac’s lips slipped away from his skin, and Dennis looked down as his hands ran up and over his chest. His thumbs rubbed in little circles across Mac’s stomach, over his taut fucking abs, and he bent on impulse to lave his tongue across a high spot on one of his pecs. Mac just watched him look and touch and taste, breathing hard. “You’ve been working out.”

It wasn’t a question, but Mac still chuckled and breathed, “Yeah.”

Dennis watched his hands as they smoothed upward, his thumbs rubbing circles around his ribs, then the underside of his chest, and finally across both of his nipples. Mac arched forward with a little moan and pressed their mouths back together, fingers slipping on the buttons of his shirt before he got them undone and pulled it off his shoulders. Once they were free Dennis wound his arms around Mac’s neck and let Mac haul him backwards by the hips.

They stumbled to the bed. Dennis scratched sharp red lines across Mac’s tanned, smooth back with a sick little feeling of pleasure. That would last him days. That would chafe up against his rougher t-shirts and make him think about Dennis underneath him and around him, when he was just walking around the bar and the apartment and the street…

Dennis shoved Mac down by the shoulders - realistically, he knew that at some point in their lives he probably could have called it forcing, but definitely not anymore - and then slipped off his lap and climbed down onto the floor between his legs. Mac shivered and pushed himself up, staring down at him. From on his knees, Dennis stared back.

Then his hands were slipping over the buttons on Mac’s pants, pulled down the zip, and shoving all of it down his thighs. Mac kicked lightly in an apparent albeit fruitless attempt to be helpful; Dennis stripped them all the way off. He knew it wasn’t true, that nothing had actually changed, but his cock certainly looked bigger; maybe it had just been awhile, or maybe he had been falsely picturing it all those times he thought about it in the space since he had last seen Mac naked. There was all that time when he was fat that his dick looked – as Dee had laughed and accurately recounted to him once – like a button in a fur coat, and maybe that’s what he had been thinking about. But it wasn’t true.

Mac was – fuck it, Dennis thought, it’s not like it would unnecessarily fuel Mac’s ego as long as he only said it in his head. Mac was hung. Dennis let himself stare for several long seconds before he hefted himself back up as high as he could go on his knees and pulled Mac’s mouth back down to his.

He kissed him once, twice, and then his hands started to move where they had landed on Mac’s thighs. Mac shivered, legs spreading instinctively, and Dennis leaned down without thinking and pressed his lips to his inner thigh, high up near where his leg hit waist. Mac’s fingers smoothed through Dennis’s curls.

Mac asked, “Are you gonna –” And Dennis said, “Can I?”

When Mac didn’t immediately answer, Dennis’s breath caught in his throat and he hurried on. “I just mean, I want to – if you want me to because I’ve just been thinking about it the past couple days and I want you –”

Mac tugged – affectionately – on his hair and Dennis swallowed, then did it again, feeling his heart rate slow.

“Yeah,” he breathed, and his hands were moving again.

He rubbed the pad of his first two fingers over the stupid tattoo on his thigh, newly touched-up and darker than usual because of that. It looked small, smaller than Dennis remembered; or maybe that was just Mac’s thighs, bulked the fuck up until they were nearly the size of Dennis’s face. The shamrock was still stupid-looking and ugly, but that didn’t seem to matter to Dennis’s searching and petting fingers, running over and over it like they didn’t care at all about Dennis’s brain telling them to stop.

He realized his mouth was hanging slightly open and it was now dry. Clearing his throat, Dennis leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the tattoo, then leaned up when Mac laughed and bit down hard the soft part of his stomach – or tried to, except now that bit of him was completely gone.

It was a confusing moment, his teeth slipping off his abs and closing on clean air. There were certain parts of Mac that never changed, no matter how much his weight and muscle mass fluctuated: the three tattoos on his arms and one on his thigh, the soft bit at the bottom of his torso where the hard muscle gave way to fleshy stomach, the way he smiled right before Dennis kissed him.

But now the bicep tattoos were fading, and his abs were hard and flat. But he still grinned when Dennis leaned up to kiss him, and his complaints still sounded the same when Dennis finally found something to bite down on in retribution. The dip below Mac’s v-line was the depth of fucking Marianas Trench, and when Dennis closed his teeth around it he felt like he could rip it clean out of his skin like a goddamn chicken bone.

“Fuck,” Mac said, hissing. The fingers in Dennis’s hair closed into a fist and pulled him roughly away. Dennis laughed, smirking up at him. Mac’s hips jerked up towards his face like he couldn’t help himself, and he growled out, “Dennis.”

Dennis rolled his eyes, pinching his leg.

“Can you be patient for half a second?” Dennis said, easy, sitting back on his heels. “I’m just admiring the artwork, bro.”

A low groan worked its way from the back of Mac’s throat. Before he stumbled his way to a coherent sentence, Dennis ducked his head down, wrapped one hand around the base of his dick, and darted his tongue out to lick over the head of his cock.

Mac choked, groaned, jerked his dick a little further into his mouth. Dennis sucked what he gave him down eagerly too, opening his mouth a little wider to let him in.

He quickly found the rhythm that Mac liked, a slow jerking of his hand around his base and a faster slide of his mouth around most of his length and the head. This wasn’t the first time that this had happened but it had been a very long while – it only took a couple of minutes of trying different combinations of speed and suction until he settled into their old rhythm. It was a well-worn pattern, sliding over him like a warm sweater.

Mac was good – mostly – keeping his hips still while Dennis worked him over. When it got a little harder to breathe, Dennis would pull off completely and focus on the head, using his hand on most of his cock until he was ready to go back down.

His free hand was sliding everywhere it would reach – mostly running up and down his thigh, swiping his thumb over the crease where it met his hip when he felt like hearing him gasp, felt like making his breathing stutter. Sometimes it crept up his bare chest, smoothing over his abs – still hard and flat, even when he was sitting down, which felt criminally unfair – and up his collar. When he reached up and cupped his cheek (his head was tipped back, mouth ajar, cheeks bright red), his thumb rubbed over Mac’s bottom lip. Mac tipped his head forward and looked down at him, stare hot and hungry, and sucked on the digit. Dennis kept their gazes locked for a long series of seconds before he went back down.

He relaxed his throat. Both of his hands were back on Mac’s thighs, fingers digging in deep as he took Mac in deeper by degrees. Mac was panting hard now, the tendons on his throat standing out in his concentration not to move or thrust up hard into Dennis’s mouth like he knew he wanted to. His stomach was trembling lightly, tautening and relaxing in his concentration in staying still.

His cock hit the back of Dennis’s throat. Dennis paused, focused on staying relaxed, and then he began to move again. He swallowed a few times around Mac and then pulled back, sliding his mouth up and down his shaft again, lips tight, fingers loose where they worked over what he wasn’t holding in his mouth.

He pulled off, pressing his lips to Mac’s inner thigh. He was half-kissing him, half-just breathing against his skin with his ajar mouth. He flicked his tongue out almost reflexively, leaning afterwards to nibble a bit on the flushed, sensitive skin. Above him, Mac squirmed and let out a breathy little, strained sound. Dennis’s hips inched forward and forward in his jeans, twitched and rocked back, struggled to stay still. Mac thrust his hips up, desperate and jerky, into the loose circle of Dennis’s fist.

With his free hand, Dennis pulled down the zip on his jeans and freed his own cock, reaching to grab hold of himself and start to stroke as he fit his mouth back over Mac’s.

“God, Christ,” Mac gritted out through his clenched teeth. His hands tightened in Dennis’s hair, and Dennis gave him a little license to grind forward into Dennis’s mouth. That much he could remember – Mac could, and would, be good if he was bid, but he always liked taking a little bit of control.

He was sighing out Dennis’s name. Dennis’s hand worked faster over himself, and Mac was rocking forward into his mouth with unrestrained little moans falling from his tongue. Dennis dug the nails of his free hand harder into Mac’s thigh, little crescents appearing on him right below where the line of his boxers would fall – it would be visible, Dennis thought wildly, jerking his own cock faster. He’d be able to see it himself any time he wanted. At least for the next day or so.

Soon Mac was moaning louder. His hips were stuttering, already losing some rhythm. Dennis redoubled his focus, hand falling away from between his own legs as he concentrated on Mac. His mouth was a warm, wet suction and his tongue flicked out to trace over the slit at the head of his cock, the sensitive area right underneath his head – and Mac twisted his hands hard in Dennis’s hair. Dennis had a split second to decide that he was going to swallow before Mac forced him down and came hard, rocking against his face and whining lowly as he rode out his release.

Dennis swallowed what he could and then pulled back, panting, when Mac’s hips were still and he relaxed the death-grip on his hair. He wiped stray drops of cum off his chin and then sat back on his heels. Mac was still breathing hard, slumped on the edge of their bed.

“C’mere,” he mumbled after a minute, his fingers scrabbling on Dennis’s arm, trying and failing to finger a solid grip on him.

Dennis rocked up to his feet and Mac reeled him in by the waist, bringing him down to straddle his lap for a second before he twisted Dennis around, flattening him out on the bed. They pulled his jeans the rest of the way off and then Mac was over him again, hand already pressing between Dennis’s legs before he even got his own back on Mac’s shoulders.

Mac was much faster to regain his muscle memory of this. In under a minute he had Dennis moaning and pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against his throat, mind blank and white despite it just being a fucking handjob. But Mac’s hands were still big – sometimes it was fucking obscene, Dennis thought when he looked at them – and they were as swift and skilled as ever.

His own hands couldn’t stop roaming, pressing down on Mac’s hard stomach and waiting for it to give. It never did. It was like a completely foreign body under his touch, but then – he spread his palms out over Mac’s back, feeling the hard muscles there tense and shift and relax – and he found that he really couldn’t care any less. When he reached down to grab Mac’s ass hard, he found it just as tight and firm as the rest of his body.

Yeah, regardless of familiarity, this Mac was fucking nice to dig his nails into.

Dennis came with his teeth fitted around a visible tendon in Mac’s neck and his fingers digging into the considerable meat of his broad, freckle-dotted shoulders.

Some of it had to be sun damage, he thought dazedly as he came down, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. Mac wiped his hand off on the sheets and disappeared to find something to clean them up, covered as they both were in Dennis’s cum. There was just no way that he had that many freckles spotting him, and he was so tan. It wasn’t natural to be that pretty. Mac returned a moment later, and Dennis took the towel after he was done with it and wiped down too.

Mac sat back down on the bed. His hand appeared on Dennis’s thigh, undemanding and with absolutely no underlying motive. He rubbed his thumb against a pressure point, and Dennis shivered.

The first thing Mac said was, “Does that mean you don’t hate the new body?”

He paused for a moment, his train of thought derailed. Then he started laughing, still caught off guard. Mac was so ridiculous. Fucking unbelievable that he’d still need reassurance that Dennis thought he was hot, after all that.

Dennis was still laughing when he pressed his smile against the confused set of Mac’s mouth. He tugged Mac back into a proper kiss and pulled him back down to the bed.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, wrapping one leg around Mac’s waist, feeling Mac’s hands slip over his ribs like he couldn’t help but touch. “Yeah, buddy, I like the new body.”

[ithacamafia]

SYAA2L: For Your Consideration.

      Many moons have passed since the last mixtape was posted on these here parts. I’m looking to remedy that ailment right quick, not just with the most recent "Songs You Are About To Love” mix dreamt up by Matthew and myself -- but two additional mixes as well from the past two years. With any luck, enjoyment for all of us should soon follow.

- “SYAA2L: Impact.” (2015)  A gem of a mix, possibly one of our best, where we muse on our Dads, our own roles as Dad, and the influences surrounding those orbits (wandering off into car accidents, pro wrestling, and baseball).  CLICK TO ENJOY.

- “CSYAA2L: New Plan For Stan.” (2016)  A cover song mixtape which gets pretty weird, pretty fast -- and could have, understandably, forged on forever (leaving all sorts of music genres crushed in the wake). CLICK TO ENJOY.

- “SYAA2L: For Your Consideration.” (2017)  A mix in which Matty proposes sharing songs which we are not *only* about to love -- but tunes in which, under the right circumstances, could be considered the best. songs. ever. 

We also work though a bunch of.... stuff. 

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN, continue reading the liner notes for a deep dive into our latest and greatest (ever?):

Kevin,

I don't blame you, dude. And I definitely don't blame myself. I mean, our lives are busy. There are dogs and t-ball. There's grocery shopping... and birthday parties. Hell, we've got wives, lives and and the bunker in Argonne Forest. We are busy. It's no wonder we haven't made a mixtape in forever plus one day.

Truth be told, I was close to writing this email a long time ago. I had a good list of prospective songs and an idea for a theme... something about what gets a song consideration as potentially the Best Song Ever. It was a good list and there were a few songs on there that I was really excited about. Then a thing happened that threw everything off track. The album that one of those songs was off of was suddenly and unceremoniously removed from Spotify. (Truth be told, there may have been a ceremony, but if there was I sure as hell wasn't invited.) I was pissed. Upset. Sad. I had so many questions. What would become of my mixtape future? How could I live without one of my expected cornerstones?

I figured it would be okay. I thought that the feeling would pass eventually. I assumed that if I gave it some time, I would forget about that song and remember what was important about our mixtapes. The sharing. The camaraderie. You know, being pals... I figured it was just a matter of time.

It wasn't. It wasn't a mater of time, dude. That feeling never waned and I decided to give up any hope I might have had about living the mixtape-filled future I'd always assumed I'd live. Screw sharing. Screw being pals.

But then this week something good happened! I was driving along, listening to the same old songs and I saw it - there, in my playlist - back just as quickly as it had disappeared: my old pal - this song! It was back! I figured that it must be a sign. We have to do a mixtape now, right? Right. If for no other reason than because it's a race against time before the song disappears again. This song is like mixtape Brigadoon. It only appears once every hundred years. We have to seize the opportunity!

So here it is. A new mixtape. That original idea was a variation on a theme that we've touched on before... the thing your wife said once about how you listen to a song differently when you know that it's someone's favorite song. "Well, if he thinks it's the best song ever, then... I don't know - maybe it is?!" I think the new idea was about how lots of songs could be the best song ever if the circumstances are right. You know - the song you're listening to in 7th grade when that girl you've hoping for months would hold your hand is suddenly holding your hand, that song is going to feel like the best song ever. At the very least, it's going to feel better than it is. So, with that in mind, the potential for a song to be great widens considerably. When you consider environmental factors and mood and just where you are in your head - the sky is limitless.

So, friend, I thought we could do another list of songs that we are about to love, songs that also just might be the best song ever:

SYAA2L: For Your Consideration

Naturally, my first pick has to be the song that came and went (and then came back again). I feel like it earned this slot. On top of that, these guys closed a mix for us a long time ago... it seems only fitting that I stick them in here to kick this one off. Now, this isn't a song that I would have thought stood a chance to be the best song ever (BSE) upon first listen. No part of it soars. There's no divine guitar solo. There's no pristine vocal performance. Still though, every time I listen to it, my heart grows fonder. And I know what you're thinking - you're thinking, "Matty, it's the song's absence that has you thusly ensorcelled." Well, you're wrong. This song has been in heavy rotation for me for years now... its absence is just the thing that has since moved me to try and share it with you (and the three people that listen to our mixes). There's a lot going on here and the whole thing is steeped in classic rock influences. I love it.

Give it a listen. You may agree, you may not - but I for one think it might be the best song ever.

Here's The End of That, by Plants and Animals.  

- M

==========

We're forty, Matthew.  Forty years old.  Who has time for music?  (Let alone MIXING that music with another person.  Or for another person.  For anyone.  Forreals.)

I certainly don't.  

I've accepted the fact that you and I -- we -- have reached the point in our lives where music is predetermined to become rote.  A thing.  A noice machine that plays in the background of car rides or making dinner or clicking on the compute.r  Something that just drowns out the ever-present sound of our slowly dying hearts.

This is the point we've arrived at, Matt.  You can't fight it.  Inevitable.

We're the old me whose teenage songs are the best songs ever.  And those songs are now classic rock.  No longer in fashion, beyond fashion, around the bend until they ironically become appreciated again (when our kids are about juniors in college).  Until then?  Laughable.

But cling to your last whisp of youth if you must, much like we did the same to our eroding hairlines.  Tell yourself that these songs -- your song, with the nimble jaunty gee-tar and the "fucked-up bumblebee" lyric that might have captured a younger Kevin -- might be the best songs ever.  Under the right circumstances.  Inimitable.

Thing is, I'm in the circumstance where I'm swimming in the sea, wandering, desperately tryin' to get a grip on my emotions...

I'm falling apart

You wanna get me on board?  Better be new but feel classic.  Sound joyous but exude despair.  And don't even bother knocking unless you're got a name worthy of my goddamn time.  

Dig?

Chicano Batman. Friendship (Is A Small Boat In A Storm).

... Dig.

==========

You fool. In your vain attempt to disprove my point, all you've done is embrace it. Do I want to get you on board? Look around you, Kevin. You are on board. Sure, your opening diatribe is all about being too old for this shit, but then you drop Chicano Batman on us and it's immediately evident that the old man rant you're selling is not a product that you are willing to buy. Of course, no one wants to be on a small boat in a storm - that would suck. But think of the alternatives. Would you rather no boat in a storm? Can I interest you in a small brick? If friendship is all you got, kid, then friendship just might be the thing that saves you.

So, friendship is a boat in a storm. True. And obviously Mixtapes are friendship... And everybody knows that if A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C. So, mixtapes are also a boat in a storm. There will be no argument. You're going to make this mixtape and in this mixtape, maybe, find your salvation. We've known each other a long time, and as one of your first mates, I demand that you walk away from the light. We've got work to do.

You see, we are forty, bro. And there is a good portion of life that must be set aside now for fighting the notion that your best years are behind you. But you have to recognize that what you (and Chicano Batman) have done here is underscore a central point to my thesis. That song, for all of its despairing, still might (MIGHT!) be the best song ever. And Mixtapes.... Friendship...These are the things that keep us young. These are the things that keep us alive. What if - WHAT IF! - that song is the best song in the world?! Or what if it's this next one!? That's worth living for, right? Our hearts can't be slowly dying if the next song we hear might be the best one ever!

You're not falling apart. You're not. And I will always be proud to be Irish Robin to your Chicano Batman.

I hadn't planned to use this song here, but you seem like you need a pick me up - and I serve at the pleasure of this mix's wants and needs, so here it is. Here's: Die Alone.

Like most happy songs, this one draws some lyrics straight from a 2000 year old Roman poem that Catullus wrote upon the occasion of his brother's death. The whole poem is quite lovely. It speaks about traveling across seas to provide funeral rites to his brother's silent ashes. The part they excerpt for this song means something like, "I come to a conclusion, handed down from generations… Now and forever, my brother, hail and farewell."

Oh shit. I see now that I've made an error in judgement. Um... when they're speaking Latin, just picture the scene from the end of the Grinch. It sort of sounds like that, and that's totally uplifting. His heart grew.

Here's Die Alone by We Are Star Children.

==========

Fine, Star Child.  

Fine, fine, fine.


G’head and sally forth with your new mixes and new musics.  Sing me sweet songs of friendship and dead brothers.  Convince yourself that these trifling tunes could somehow rise to the level and legacies of our fathers’ — and our fathers’ fathers (favorite songs).  On some level, in some reality, I get it.  They’re the Schrödinger's Cat of Best Songs Ever: inside the box of this mixtape, yet to be revealed to the world — all possibilities exist at once.  Each song, both the greatest pieces of music ever and also being toss-aways not worthy of bargain bin cassingles.


In a way, it doesn’t matter what I pick.  When it exists in the possibility of these moments before my selection, they are perfect.  Only once revealed, do they become a power-chord “fuck you” song.  A well-worn singalong anthem.  The middle finger to an ex-lover.   Simple formulas showing little heart past the surface.  Or a thread, a moment, tapping directly into a youthful vein as it pumps unbridled angst and fury through our collective subconsciousness. 
 I dunno, man.  I ain't that smart.  Fuck your Ivy League sweater.


Harvard.  Diet Cig.

==========

Oh, Kevin. Your armor is wearing thin. What's that you said? "In a way it doesn't matter what I pick..." Sure, and that was followed immediately by your picking a protest-too-much song about how the singer is 'completely over' the dude enduring the Boston weather. Yeah, she's so over it that she's locked in a room somewhere writing emails tosongs about him.

I always imagine the ex sitting and listening to a song like this (...a song that was, I guess, intended to prove to them that the other had moved on). I find it far more likely that the ex lover sits there and says, "Yep, all I have to do is pick up the phone."

That's you, dude. You know that the cat is very much alive inside the box. You know it. He's in here with headphones on. He just needs you to drop this pretense and accept the fact that having angst and fury pumped through our collective unconscious is pretty great. He needs you to accept that Harvard by Diet Cig might be the best song ever.

I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life, friendo. I'm brave enough not to tame you. I'm happy to sit here and let you burst into flames. In fact, I'll stoke the coals and watch you blow. This mixtape is going to be here. I'm going to stay too... and not just because I want to prove your wrong. I am going to stay because there might be soaring vocals and hand claps. I'm going to stay because we might stumble into the best song ever.

I'll stay because I want to hear what comes next (...and I know that you do too).

This is Strange by LP.

==========

There was a time, not so long ago, where soaring vocals, hand claps, and a solo piano would be enough for a song to worm its way inside my heart.  Throw in thematic messages about how we're all strange, we're all weirdos, you're not alone, blah blah blah -- and you've got yourself the bedrock of my personal musical roadmap.  But not this time.  No, sir.  I'm simply a jaded old man who only connects with such songs when they're played over ads for HBO original programming.

Speak of sweet promises like "When you're lost and you're left and it's getting worse / They're the only ones who you know will get you by" as images of Julia Louis-Dreyfus and the Khaleesi flit by underneath it.  Then, and only then, will the path be clear.  It's not TV.  It's what's left of my soul.

Go ahead, adjust the script to electronic hand claps, anthemic pre-choruses, vocals that soar so high above our mountains majesty.  Won't matter.  Lay down an overarching sense of anti-love, of brutal honesty and indifference towards those who’ve wronged you — of knowing that no one is going to feel better about any of this shit that's happened between us anytime soon and that’s just the way things are because that’s that's what it means to be an adult.

There’s grey between the lines.

Tack all that on top and I'll barely flinch.  You're giving me a very effective Audi commercial at best.  And you had best believe you cannot build what I don’t need.  

And I know. I need. To feel. Relief.

Take care.

Leave A Trace, by CHVRCHES.

==========

Hey, asshole - I don't know who you think you're talking to - but lest you forget, please allow me to remind you... I’m not just some schmo off the street that is going to be impressed by your calculated musical depression. There is no part of me that is turned on by your measured disinterest. I’m not going to sit here, starry-eyed, saying, “Oh, disillusioned TV writer… I'm totally impressed by your ability to turn a phrase and craft a snarky argument. Please, tell me more about how you’re dead inside and soulless.”

A very effective Audi commercial? Are you kidding me? Son, I’ve seen you rise from a newborn sleep to become a reckless ballerina at the moment that Brendog overcomes his stage fright and Saba kicks into gear. I’ve seen you turn the lamest of weddings up to 11 when the right song gets a hold of your earholes. These are not the actions of a man who could ever be dead inside.

I get it, I get it. You're William Hurt from The Big Chill, trying to prove it to your college pals that you have evolved past them, that your life experience has illuminated their youthful exuberance as folly. Well that would all be well and good if it wasn't such utter bullshit. This, “…aww-shucks, I’m just an old dad trying to pay bills and keep my lawn in shape…” isn’t you, and it sure as shit isn’t me. That’s common people shit. We are soul men. You talk about ‘what's left of your soul’ like the piece that's hurting is gone and lost forever. That's not how souls work.

Believe me, I understand – living the life of the common schmo is appealing. The blissful ignorance our neighbors enjoy seems totally attractive on the surface. It must be nice to be a regular guy. It is, without question, the easy way out. Your wife buys you a bunch of pocket tees from Old Navy and you are content to work 9 to 5, five days a week, forever – as long as you get to watch football on Sundays. If you want to embrace every aspect of that life, then do it. If you want to throw in the towel and abandon your search for a song that moves you, so be it. If you want to close up shop, pack it in and quietly await death, go for it. You want to live like common people? You want to see whatever common people see? Fine. I for one am going to rage against that machine with every fiber of my being, even as the circumstances of my life lead me further and further towards that abyss.

I’m reminded of a time not long ago when I was sitting with my grandfather-in-law on his back porch. We were having a cocktail and he was telling stories. In a lull in the conversation he sighed and said, regarding the rest of the family in the living room, “Ah well, I guess we’d better head back inside… listen to the bullshit.” It was, I think, one of the funniest and saddest things I’ve ever heard.

I don’t want to be 85 and resigned to listening to the bullshit. You can if you want. Go ahead. Laugh along with the Common People. (Pulp.) I'm going to keep trying to find a long that means something. 
 PS - That's not even how you spell Churches. PPS - And you know. You need. Unique. New York.

==========

No one *wants* to be sitting there at the ripe ol’ age of eighty-five, resigned to the bullshit.  But with life, comes constraints.  Families can't just be ditched because they're idiots.  Much as you might like.  We can't magically wish the world into the sort of place where Pulp's timeless rallying cry universally touches our fellow man... not when odds are the bullshit like William Shatner's version is probably preferred by most of 'em.

That being said: I want.  I want plenty.

And sure, some of my wants might be common -- standards like health, happiness, a roof over my kids head.  But not all of them.  I also wanna feel flames licking at my back as I barrel through a brushfire (but I fear being burnt).  I want to craft something so staggering with my own two hands (but I'm far too clumsy).  I wanna taste stardust, sea air, soft earth.  To flit along the threads of a dew-covered spiderweb.  To behold true beauty, eyes like mirrors, until my breath is ripped from my chest.  

I Wanta Holler (But The Town's Too Small).

Constraints, Matthew.  We can't all be Gary U.S. Bonds.

==========

*jams fingers into ears* *shakes head wildly*

DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT CONSTRAINTS, DAMMIT! JUST DON'T!

I'm a soul man! Can't you get that?! I will listen to the bullshit, sure - but I REFUSE to resign myself to listening to the bullshit! I will not accept that the bullshit is all there is! I will continue to dream of a world that has moments - just moments, here and there, that are free of bullshit! You have to let me have that! All I have are those dreams! It's just me and my dreams and (despite what it seems) it ain't much, but yet it's JUST enough.

*plays Soulman, by Ben L'Oncle Soul* *removes fingers from ears* *stops shaking head* *breathes*

==========

You want a Soul Man?  I'll get ya a Soul Man.  But he ain't got a lot of time.  He could maybe stay for three minutes or so.  Tops.  And Chuck -- that's my Soul Man's name -- Chuck ain't here to spit sweet nothings in our ears.  He won't be spinning an effervescent number about this fun new dance he's discovered.  He's no mashed potato.  No C. Thomas Howell Soul Man.  

Nope.  Chuck's gonna stand center stage, tear open his goddamn heart, and thrust both arms elbow-deep into the bullshit.

He's gonna howl and holler and implore those of us who can hear his cries to not just *see* the bullshit before him, but to help him rid the world of it.  Chuck wails "What are ya gonna DOOOOOOOO?"  And I'm left realizing that perhaps my Old Man wallowing and resignations were misguided.  I need to be standing up with my man Chuck.  I need to purposefully step into the bullshit, and try to change it.  Change.  Change the false preachers -- Change the hate in us -- Change for the better of our soul.

We've gotta change our love. Change For The World. I've got to give you my love. Shout them lines.  Take this love. Charles (I call him Chuck) Bradley.

==========

Well, alright! This guy's somebody that I can work with! This last message - and this last song - these both seem to have my old pal, Kevin in there somewhere.  

Now we're starting to really get at this thing.... huh? So what are we really talking about then? It's circumstances, right? It's not about whether a person has made choices in life that have ultimately complicated their ability to be happy or carefree - that's everyone. That's how time works. The longer you linger, the harder it is to be happy and the more careful you have to be. No, this here is about what we do with those circumstances. Are we going to see the bullshit of our lives and be resigned to it, or are we - like my man Chuck - going to see that bullshit and vow to plow through it? Are we going to commit to a persistent evolution and say to all comers, "Just keep shoveling - I shall rise above..."?

It's because we keep evolving that our appreciation of a thing can change. I will hear a song differently depending on what I am bringing to the table. That next song could always be the best one because I am changing. My soul is evolving.

"Change for the better of our souls?" Fucking-a right. You just need to adjust your perspective. The whole world should know that if you talk to us about your circumstances, we're going to talk to you about perspective.

"It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog." Mark Twain "It's not the years, it's the mileage." Indiana Jones "It Ain't What You Got, (*Goldust noise*) it's how you use it." Jimmy Hughes

Things are looking up.

-M

==========

Yeah!  Yeah.  I’m here.  I’m back, baby!  I’m in like Flynn -- and not the wretched piece of shit who sold us out, serving as a blazing reminder of how utterly debased and cataclysmic our current government has become -- because *that* would be focusing on the low-fi.

We're all about the hi-fi now.

Can't afford to dwell on cards dealt or bum situations or sleights -- because dude, I could easily sit here for hours and grouse about stuff like the time a group of older teens stole my basketball on the playground near my home; and how powerless, how impotent that felt (further compounding the abundance of inadequacies I already struggled with) -- no, no no no no.  No time for that.

Gotta focus on the here.  The now.  No dwelling among the past regrets -- like this time in elementary school when I wrote on another kid's backpack, insisting to myself that it was simply because he wasn't that nice of a kid (when, in reality, he was simply an easy target because he was a big bigger for our age).  Dr. Martin Rand would call that shit transference, if I recall our psych classes correctly.  Kicking down the rungs on that ladder of misplaced childhood anger.  I bullied that kid and feel shitty about it now, and sure I could try to wrack my addled memory, trying to remember his name, even search the internet in a faint hope of finding him to make amends -- but that's the past.  Can't change it now.  

We face the future.  We take stock of the endless possibilities spread out before our kids and bask in them -- not fretting over the ever-present, ever-compounding number of fears and anxieties over this changing world and our inability to shelter or protect them from the Flynns or the basketball thieves or the shitty little bullies like we once were --

-- to say nothing of the inevitable heartbreaks -- -- or the state of humanity in general -- -- the death and decline of our ecosystems --

Naw, man.  Hi-fi.  Things are looking up.  

Totally.  

Yeah.

I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts. X.

==========

That’s what I’m talking about! We're all about the hi-fi! Keep our eyes on the prize, right? 
 
 I couldn’t agree more, buddy – we absolutely cannot afford to dwell on those bum situations or slights of the past. I mean, Jesus, if I did that I might end up losing whole days down terrifying rabbit holes in the dark recesses of my psyche. Yikes. I would never want to get caught in a rut where I was obsessing about the missteps of my life. You know, where you're just spinning and spinning contemplating all those notions that normally lay dormant... Dormant, that is, until the moment you are least expecting them, when something reminds you about them and they reemerge and consume you… Actually, now that you mention it, I’ve got a lot of stuff like that – things that pop up in my head out of nowhere just when I think I’ve successfully ignored them out of existence. Things I should have done differently… other choices I should have made… people I could have been better to… Come to think of it, “I must not think bad thoughts…” is a mantra I rely on quite a bit. Honestly, between that kind of abject denial and booze, I’ve got a pretty good system down. There’s a trick to a system like that though, isn’t there… Because the minute you tell yourself not think bad thoughts – you know… here they come. It's really about maintaining - keeping yourself busy with whatever is next. All that goes out the window though when you forget that you must not think bad thoughts. Just now, for example, as I was listening to your song (...about not thinking bad thoughts), it occurred to me how silly it is that we've been having this email exchange about navigating the bullshit of life and overcoming adversity.  I mean, the utter absurdity of two 40 year old white male Americans gabbing about their struggle - I could definitely obsess about that… about how I was given a golden ticket, squandered it, and yet still have the audacity to spout this Poor Me nonsense… 
 
 As we speak, I actually can’t stop thinking about that. Or – if I wanted to – I could spend time thinking about all those times in my life when I was other people’s circumstances. It’s so easy to get tunnel vision about your own troubles and lose sight of the way you’re impacting others. I mean, ask anyone – I’m kind of a hard ass (…and there have been very few people in my life that have been patient enough to find any charm in that). There were so many times where I was not careful with other people's feelings. It sucks actually… you know – when you think about it. Don't get me wrong, I hear what you're saying - you're saying the past is the past and we need to look forward. How though can I be expected to look towards the future with any confidence, if all I've done throughout the history of my life is bungle each opportunity and always hurt the ones I love? I mean, do I have any right at all to keep it hi-fi? Christ, when you think about it that way, you were probably right all along - it just doesn't fucking matter what song I pick. It really could not matter any less. Best song ever? Who gives a shit. Circumstances? The only circumstance that counts is that we were all given this beautiful gift of life and every person that I've ever met has royally shit the bed with that opportunity. Pick a song? Sure, I'll pick a song. Here's a catchy little number called Nothing, Not Nearly by Laura Marling. It appropriately starts off with a noise that sounds like me slowly screwing myself ever further down into hell with everything I do. Might this be the best song ever? Maybe. I think it could be. But really, who gives I damn what I think? Not me, that’s for sure. Not anybody else either. Why would they? I'm a screw up nobody that can't stop thinking bad thoughts. Thanks for reminding me.

==========

So, um, it's, uh... it's entirely possible that my last song sort of, um -- well, it seems to have *only* made us think bad thoughts.

That one's on me.  My bad.

But look, we still got that sweet bluesy-talky Laura Marling number out of it.  And if I've learned anything from "Inside Out," it's that allowing (or embracing, even) your sadness is a pretty goddamn important component to having a healthy emotional life. Don't try to deny it. Multitudes, y'know? Even if yer troubles tend to hedge toward the mundane -- they're no less legitimate. Underneath these innocuous trappings we all be fretting the same thing.  Trust me.

Take this couple out on the sidewalk, for example.  They're young and heading into this house that's for sale.  Checking it out.  Scoping the neighborhood, wondering how they'll afford everything.  Is this the right place to start their family, to build their home together?  On the surface, they talk about the wallpaper and the previous owner and how they'll cut back on lattes to save some money -- but the underlying worry is all about that same thing I was talking about: our own fucking mortality.  

Perhaps it ain't the time to be happy.  We all end up in Depreston from time to time. Least we can do is ease into things gracefully, just like Courtney Barnett does.

==========

Well, now I feel terrific. I thought we were just doing mid-life crisis... you're mixing in mortality. Yeesh.

I appreciate your effort, I guess. I spent most of Inside Out looking at my phone, though - so I probably missed most of the finer points. Actually, I spend most of the time that I'm not working or actively parenting looking at my phone. When I see that same thing in other people, I usually assume that they are dead inside. With me it's more that it's all I can muster, having given so much to those times when I am working/actively parenting.

I get it. suppose it is better to try and frame the whole sadness/depression thing as transitory. If I were sad or depressed then I probably would have found your words of encouragement, you know - encouraging. But that's sort of the thing. I'm not sad or depressed. I've made not being sad or depressed into an art form. Outwardly I'm pretty happy and inwardly I'm just sort of numb. There's this running gag at work where when people pass me in the hall and say, "How's it going..." or whatever people say, I always respond the same. I say, "Best day ever." And they laugh because they know the nature of my job precludes me from having a lot of great days. Still though, it's not like it's a cry for help or anything - I just like that people think it's funny and I go along with it.

The next song on our mixtape is Running from My Savior by Wolfie's Just Fine.  I've listened to it about 2000 times and I never really had a handle on what it's about. I sort of think about it like Jules in Pulp Fiction and Ezekiel 25:17. You know, where he can't decide who is evil, who is righteous and who is the tyranny of evil men. Like Jules, originally, I never thought about what this song meant. I just thought it was catchy. The more I listen to it though, the more I try to figure out who is the Savior and who is the Narrator. Sure, I'd like to think that I'm the Savior, trying as he might to shepherd the unwilling out of danger and save them from themselves. Sometimes I even think that the Narrator could be America, running in the opposite direction from progress with it's thumbs in its ears, ranting about how everything will be fine because America is the best. Of course though, I need only get to the line, "I am not unique, but only I can pretend..." to discover the truth. The truth is, I'm the Narrator. Breathlessly running away from anything that might be the right direction and anyone trying to help. Pretending. Always pretending.

It's a good song, I think. I know it doesn't matter though. Sorry to be a downer. I'm trying, Ringo. I'm trying real hard to be the Savior. Maybe next time.

==========

Yeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaah.

...

*cough*

...

*looks at watch*

Huh.  Fifteen songs already.  Guess we're Halfway Home.

...

*nods*

Yup.

...

(Broken Social Scene)

==========

...because when you really think about it we're all in charge of our own shit, right? We all have the power to decide how we respond to our circumstances... We can choose to be joyful. Of course, the sad truth of it is that sometimes the context of our lives requires that we lie to ourselves if we want to make a choice that is contrary to our reality. In short, sometimes you have to bullshit yourself quite a bit just to keep it together. That's life. So what if you get stuck in a rut where the lying to yourself seems to happen seamlessly and without forethought in everything that you do? If that's what you need to get through... well, shit, I guess that's what I need to do. I've gotten pretty good at it - if not for these emails I'd probably be happily going about my nice little Saturday today... trip to Toys R Us to get another birthday present + wrapping for some kid I've never met, and then (if the weather holds) I'll get to mow the lawn while the kid is at the party. Should be sweet. We're hoping to get to Price Chopper later - we're out of spinach and toilet paper. Keep it up, Matty - you're doing great.

Fifteen songs. Forty years. Halfway home.

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation? I don't think so. In my experience, the desperation only comes in spurts, in waves, like this one. Really, most of my life is spent in that complete and seamless denial. That's what I see all around me. Everyone is just trying to maintain - putting up a front so they can, I don't know what... get to the weekend? To that week vacation? You're goddamn right I must not think bad thoughts. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine. If I keep doing things the same boring-ass way I've always done them, I will somehow, miraculously get to enjoy the good life sometime before I die. Christ, I'm too busy lying to myself to be desperate.

So, here we go... Things are good. I enjoy a good salad, my neighbors didn't build a giant fucking tree-house in their front yard, and I am very pleased with the way everyone drives when it's raining. Also, I quite enjoy living in the suburbs, no one in my office gets on my nerves and David Bowie is very much alive.

I'm doing it, bud. I'm keeping it hifi. I am very excited about this next pick. Definitely one of my favorite artists ever, it's off of his newest album - this might be the best song ever! - here it is, it's Sign of the Times by David Bowie.

==========

I've been sitting here all weekend sifting through the jumbled pieces of my psyche, trying to rationalize a world in which some candy kid from One Direction channels Bowie via Oasis and calls into question the laws of musical fame vis a vis bubblegum pop stardom blooming into True Artistry.  I thunk on the Beatles (mainly because Sirius finally added a goddamn Beatles channel which is pretty great but plays waaaaaaaaaaaay too many solo Ringo songs for anyone's taste save for maybe Ringo himself, but deep down even he knows it's over the top) and how those fab kids made the leap from Tiger Beat to True Artistry -- which, of course, led me to mull over how many other artists have been able to make such a transition (not that I'm saying this One Direction kid is a True Artist -- yet certainly one can appreciate his attempts toward or yearning for such credibility) except ultimately, I never really found a followup song able to ride the vein toward Best Song Everdom since we're also trying to make a mix here.

So I sit here mucking about themes of men and their quiet, spurting desperations, trying to find a follow-up that carefully encapsulates the emotional weight I feel inside my chest in most of my quiet waking moments (which, granted, could also be undiagnosed angina) -- when I end up sidetracked into researching whether The Kid can keep playing baseball next year or whether she's going to get shuttled off to youth softball because, you know, she's a girl.  

She ain't gonna be interested in softball, Matty.  Her friends (who are boys) play baseball and she knows the Sox play baseball and all of her carefully curated trading cards are of baseball players.  Not softball players.  At which point I slide into this sinkhole of eventual injustices and inequities she's definitely going to face as she gets older and all the while I'm spiraling there's this soft repetitive thumping in the back of my head -- pounding like an incessant Jehova's Witness on my front stoop, trying desperately to give me the good word.  

But I'm flailing, coming to terms with the fact that I'm ill-prepared to equip her with any sort of armor against the very basic totalshittyness of being a girl in our society and then the door opens and it's not a Jehova's Witness at all -- but some guy who knows a thing or two about catchy pop songs.  And then *he* starts slagging off Rick Astley out of the blue ("that dick's a clown"!!!) while spouting a simple tenet which will serve my girl well in life -- AND it ties in nicely with the other theme of guys and their spurting waves of desperation.  Like a neat little package.  Perfect.  Trust me.

Or don't.  Because I'm full of shit. All Men Are Liars. Thanks, Nick Lowe.

==========

Kevin! This is what I'm talking about! All Men Are Liars (...to themselves and everybody else, but mostly to themselves)! And you're right (wrong) by pointing out that you yourself are full of shit - that song sticks us smack dab into a paradoxical loop. How can we believe Nick Lowe while he's quite literally telling us that he's full of baloney. Even if I did tell you that I believe him, you couldn't trust that I legitimately did, because I might just be 'believing' him for show. I'm totally full of crap. Just like you. Just like Nick Lowe.

Believe me when I tell you that I tried hard to find a good Rick Astley song to slot in here... well actually, that's not true at all. The truth is that it occurred to me that I could slot a Rick Astley song in here (and how funny that might be...) But then I remembered how all Rick Astley songs sound sort of the same and how his face creeps me out a little because he always seems strangely out of focus. So whatevs, I moved on.

Now where were we then? Oh yeah, softball.

Bud, I don't know what to tell you. I hope that it's some comfort to hear that raising a young man in Trump's America is no picnic either. Of course, I wouldn't pretend to equate the two - I'm just saying, when faced with similar (albeit fewer) questions, I often just throw my hands up and say, "All we can do is prepare him for the world as best we can and hope that when the time comes to fly, he flies." Sure, I can understand the urge to, "...slide into the sinkhole of eventual injustices..." but what good can you be to her if you're in a puddle on the floor? None. So what do you do? You lie to yourself. Why? Because the best you can do is try to maintain. That's what all of this is about, right? I'm not just lying to myself for me... I've got a family to think of.  

I feel like maintaining is the least we can do when it comes to the little guys. Childhood is a bridge. We need to just get them to a place where they can think on their own and then hope against hope that they have the audacity to be true to themselves. Please, oh please, let them be okay just being who they are and telling the rest of whoever to go screw.

...and so what if she wants to play baseball? Eve ate the apple because the apple was sweet. Doesn't make her a bad person. There's nothing to be afraid of there. She was hungry. Right? What kind of God forbids fruit? What kind of God would ever keep a girl from getting what she needs? Eat an apple. Go play baseball. Give no fucks.

...and so what if that means that they get damned in the popular opinion! I say, let that be just another damn in the damns they're not giving.

This next song is about something like that, I think. It's Josh Ritter if Josh Ritter was asked, "Hey, can you write a song like Only the Good Die Young for a movie like Footloose in the style of Tom Petty?" This one took me a long time to warm to - I tend to like the quiet one man and a guitar Josh Ritter. The more I listen to it though, the more I see how the band really lifts it up. Call me a liar, but it might be the best song ever.

If that's not enough to sell you, this song also has the only lyric I'd ever consider getting tattooed on my body.** And that's the truth.

Here's Getting Ready to Get Down by Josh Ritter.

-M

==========

Man, that's a *much* better idea for a tattoo than my ill-conceived (and thankfully avoided) intention in college to have a Celtic band tattooed around my arm.  Now you know me, Mack.  Has there EVER been a point in which my biceps -- hell, even one bicep -- have been tattoo-worthy?  To say nothing of the fact that I don't have a drop of Irish blood in my bones (all praise to your own Celtic ancestors, of course).  Folly of youth, holmes.

That sweet Ritter track is gonna aid me mightily on our massive road trip to Kentucky this weekend -- plenty of time to soak up the strong "Life Is A Highway" vibe, with the windows down and the hair blowing past my sunglassed eyes.  So so so good.  As for any potential Baseball v. Softball clash -- the jury is still out.  And truth be told, I give zero fucks about popular opinion -- I was just hoping to avoid marching on the town Rec Center chanting "Free Mister Clark!"  I'd rather work on her batting stance.

Thus, I've chosen my follow-up track very carefully: a power-trio of kick-ass women who take your bustling beat from the previous track and kick the pep up juuuuust a tad.  The bassline alone is tight as a goddamn tripwire.  Their message, concise.  To the point.  There's no mistaking what they want, and they're not going to let it go until you listen to them.  Polite, but firm.  Don't close the Door, they ask you, Nice As Fuck.

==========

Okay, okay, I think I'm starting to get it. I think that we may be approaching something that might slightly resemble actual self-awareness. "All the shit that we talk is a smokescreen?" Yup. That seems appropriate. Because really, there's not much to 'talk', right? Talk (when I talk anyway) is almost always some form of excuse or another. Some half-assed justification for taking the easy way... for ignoring the voice inside me that knows how I alone am responsible for my state of mind. A closed door is the easy way. It's definitive. Safe. All this non-sense about how I don't want to think bad thoughts because it depresses me is really all pretense, isn't it? The truth is that what depresses me is my seeming inability to get out of my own way and put in the work it takes to feel better.

Baby steps, untie my knots.

It doesn't take much, does it? I guess for some people it does. I don't think that's me though. Leaving the door open. Or sometimes just a single word. That could be all you need to get the ball rolling downhill. Gain some momentum. Sometimes you just need to let go of your bullshit and let bygones be bygones.

So I'm drawing a line in the sand right here - I'm going to quit my bellyaching and get back to some honest to God mix-making. No snarky set up that pays off with a song about dying alone. And no over the top self delusion about being a soul man who is impervious to the things that could potentially lay him low. Nope - this one's an olive branch to my real self. I've decided to call off my dogs and resume my search for the Best Song Ever.

This might be it. It's Call Off Your Dogs by Lake Street Dive.

==========

I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.   I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.   Baby steps.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is to wish you were better about it all -- a better person, a better bellyacher, a better mixmaker -- in the hopes of making it so.  

Baby steps to the end of the mix.  

First time I heard this guy, I was driving around in the car as a song of his came on Sirius.  I thought the band name was a joke.  Car Seat Headrest.  Immediately I wanted to text you, tweet, complain about the fact that we've (apparently) reached the point in time where we've run out of proper band names.  We've resigned ourselves to selecting random objects and hoping they'll make do.  "Refrigerator Door Handle."  "Lawnmower Gas Cap."  The stuff of legends, right?

Of course, there's always the possibility that I'm just old now -- that this is the point in time where I'm forever frozen, like when my parents stopped buying new music.  You reach Lionel Ritchie's Greatest Hits and go no further.  Then I hear the song.  Y'know, *hear* it.

"I have become such a negative person.  It was all just an act."  And be sure, there's a thread of melancholy throughout, but the song builds, layer upon layer, chord upon chord.  Baby steps.  "It doesn't have to be like this.  It doesn't have to be like this."  I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.

It's not too late, Matty.   Turn off the engine.   Get out of the car.   And start to walk.   Toward the best song ever:  Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales --

(Wait, is that really the fucking song title?  Seriously?  I -- uh... hm.  Maybe I am old...)

by Car Seat Headrest.

==========

Well sir, honestly, I didn't really get that song on my first few listens - and it wasn't just the band name that had me stumbling. I don't know what it was, I guess... but I wasn't hearing it. Something happened though as I kept listening, trying to settle on my pick... and it wasn't just the normal warming to something that familiarity brings. My appreciation of it evolved. I began to get it. Now I'm enamored.

I don't mind telling you that this small change in me felt significant. The fact that an unenthusiastic reaction to a song could become a very positive one seemed important in light of all the bellyaching I've been doing about being stuck. And I was feeling stuck. You know, really stuck. Like whatever it was that had me writing 'feelings' emails these past few weeks might have been enough for me to be wondering if having that mindset was forever my fate.  That kind of stuck. Here we are though, from my line in the sand (Call Off Your Dogs) to your plea to get out of the car and start to walk (Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales), it feels like I may be turning a bit of a corner. It doesn't have to be about resigning to bullshit or pretending that the bullshit is great - it can be about recognizing your own evolution and the freedom one can only enjoy when he realizes that all of it - the happiness, the bullshit - it's all fleeting.

Oh and by the way isn't that the whole point of this exercise?! How your appreciation of a thing can evolve? How a moment can shape a thing almost as much as the thing itself? It is, right? What fun.

My next pick may lack the gravity of DD/KW, but its Lady Mack the Knife vibe is too potent for me to resist any longer. I believe now that I can't know what song might be the best one for me on a given night... tonight though, if you give me a slick bass line, a filthy little sax thing and a vocalist channeling young Van Morrison - well I think that about does the trick.

Honestly, that might actually do the trick on most nights.

Here's Silver Dagger by Charley Crockett.

==========

Y'know, Mack -- if I were an evil musical scientist charged with creating something that'd appeal directly to your natural song-trait predilections, this would pretty much be the song I'd come up with.  Hit all your sweet spots, make it irresistible, world domination follows.  Simple shit.

And this next jam was irresistible for me, too.  Not that I didn't try.  Literally.  Whenever it came on the radio, I'd quickly have to change the station.  Not because I didn't enjoy what I was hearing (on the contrary, the opening guitar lick is a massive goddamn earworm), but because six seconds in they start spitting some seriously saucy language:

"PICTURE THIS, I'M A BAG OF DICKS, PUT ME TO YOUR LIPS, I AM SICK -- I WILL PUNCH A BABY BEAR IN HIS SHIT."  

You know me, I loves me some good use of profanity, but I've usually got a kid in the car.  And while I'm certain the day is coming where we delve into the contextual use of profanity -- that day ain't here yet.  Maybe 3rd or 4th grade.  But the fucking song kept following me.  Every other ride for like a year, it'd just pop on.  And I'd have a six-second countdown to change the channel.  Occasionally I'd pick it up halfway through.  But it was always in fits and starts.  Snippets.  I was drawn to it, but I still didn't really know what I was dealing with.  Then it fell out of rotation on my stations and I forgot about it.

Until football season.  When Bud Light made a Buffalo Bills ad which used the same opening guitar riff.

So months in, after seeing the commercial dozens of times and during one of my inevitable Rex Ryan meltdowns, I searched for the song.  Couldn't remember the name.  Knew the guys performing it (Run The Jewels), but it wasn't on any of their albums.  Then, one day, I stumbled upon it randomly on Spotify.  And ever since, I no longer have to resist the spitting lyrics and head-bobbing swagger of Nobody Speak (feat. Run The Jewels) by DJ Shadow.  And, now, neither do you.**

**Unless your kid or Aunt Chris is listening, in which case I'd skip right past this track.

===========

You should write a book called The Contextual Use of Profanity. I would buy it. I would buy the shit out of it.

As for Nobody Speak? I'm all for including it here. This is a mixtape for adults, bud. Sure, I listen to music in the car with my kid too. Like you, I too find myself filtering out any language or subject matter that might need more of an explanation that I'm willing to give. As he gets older though, the more I'm finding that I absolutely trust his instincts. I mean, the kid kind of has impeccable taste. For example: he loves Son of a Preacher Man. I support it. Now he doesn't have a clue what the lyric, "Learning from each other's knowing, looking to see how much we've grown..." means. If he asks me, I just tell him that I don't know either. End of discussion. We get to listen to the song with all of our delicate sensibilities intact.

I mean, what? I'm supposed to protect him from, "Meanwhile Britain keeps shittin' on us relentlessly..."? I'm supposed to say, "Well my six year old has taken an interest in the biggest musical in a generation, it's about the dawn of our nation and it won the Pulitzer, but there's some salty language in there so I'm going to discourage it and tell him to go watch Caillou piss his pants again..." I'm sorry, that's just not happening. I'd rather listen to it and let him ask me... And if he does?  I'll tell him, "Well son... Britain was SHITTING ON US RELENTLESSLY!" That is profanity used in context, and I don't think that we need to apologize.

I'm not afraid of Nobody Speak. I welcome it. I know some very good people that use bad words all the time and not once have I been hurt by them. And let's not forget the flip side to that coin! Bill Cosby, for example, raged against the use of profanity for decades and he is a straight up goddamn monster.

Under the proper circumstances, Nobody Speak absolutely might be the best song ever (and it therefore belongs on our mix).

I guess what I'm saying is that there are degrees here with profanity. There's a spectrum. I don't think the little guy is ready for Nobody Speak (...and I'm not ready to evade all those questions). The thing is, Kev - we're not kids. We're adults. There are gradations. We can use adult words with each other. We can appreciate a well placed curse in a song. We have already evolved from precocious youngsters to hard-hearted grey beards. Our tastes have changed. Our favorite song tonight was likely not our favorite song when we were six. (This is what we've been talking about!) We're adults - and I for one see nothing wrong with adults getting a bit filthy. We're grownups, right? We can totally handle it. And not just with words either. We can handle some filth in our bass lines too. If you're of age and you want to dip your toe into a nasty little horn part, well that is totally your prerogative. If we work hard all night and day and then drive an hour to a club, what, do you think we're just going to stand against a wall? No. We went there to have ourselves a ball, right? Why wouldn't we let our hair down a bit?

Truthfully, I let Deck listen to this next one whenever he wants. I mean - I can't keep him young forever. I know that. And if he's got to grow up, I want it to be Teddy Pendergrass teaching him how to Get Up, Get Down, Get Funky, Get Loose. He can handle it  - and it's better than him learning it on the streets.

==========

Songs that teach.  I like that idea.  

Tunes that take the adult burden of imparting the next generation with proper lessons on how to navigate the world -- and fobbing it off onto a pop song.  At first glance, I thought perhaps only lighter lessons could be included.  Small things to be taught (which is not to say knowing how to Get Up, Get Down, Get Funky, and Get Loose is small...), to be given catchy refrains which could be drawn upon in a moment of crisis.  Fight the Power.  Stand Up Rise Above Racism.  Put the Lime In The Coconut.  You know.  

The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced you could put ANY possible lesson in song form and have it be more effective than an uncomfortable, rambling parent.  Schoolhouse Rock for Real Life (which, I guess, was the point of Schoolhouse Rock, actually) -- but with the Best Songs Ever.  And so, I'm going to give you this song lesson many moons past the due date, when we were but wanderlust teens unable to read the signals being sent from the fairer sex... just waiting to be handed a slip of paper that explicitly gave us the go-ahead.  

This song is that slip of paper. Shut Up Kiss Me by Angel Olsen

==========

Well that is just about a perfect response. (Sorry it's not completely perfect, but I have to deduct points for the implication that we are somehow more equipped now to read the signals being sent from the fairer sex.) It is near perfect though because it hits on something that is again central to my point: Best Song Ever has to be variable because at different points in your life, you need to be taught different things by the music that you listen to. Because you need to hear different messages at different points in your life AND because you need to be receptive to a message in order to appreciate it, you can find yourself discovering perfection in a song that had previously seemed imperfect to you.

So, yes! The Best Songs Ever are variable and they most definitely are songs that teach us something. I would put that second one on the list if ever I sat down to write the best song ever. That will probably never happen though (...due to my complete lack of musical ability). But, if I were say... Beethoven, or Lou Reed... you know - if I were Paul McCartney... If I were one of those guys then I would definitely be trying to teach.

I'll never be one of those guys though, Kevin. Nope, it wasn't in the cards for me. I've had to resign myself to the fact that my role in musical discovery takes place before a pen strikes paper or fingers alight on keys. I am, of course, referencing my life as a muse. You know too well that I've long been the thing that inspires artists to create art. Sure, I may not get the recognition I so desire, but my contribution is no less significant. I'm the person that inspires the art which inspires another person to create art which inspires another person... That's a cycle that I want to jump into and out of forever.

Think about that, bud, the next time you're listening to Elton John or Ray Davies. Think about what caused the spark to light that song's way. Or you should try it yourself - the next time you're at the wall of writer's block - think about the people in your life that get you out of your head and into your heart.

This next one pick might be almost meaningless to you right now. It might just be a catchy pop song that you may or may not sort of enjoy. You might not be susceptible to this infectious hook right at this precise point in your life. But maybe (just maybe), there will be some day in the future where you are in search of inspirado - and you'll stumble upon this song again... and there within it's catchiness, you'll discover the lesson. It's at that moment that it will hit you. "Man, For Elise by Saint Motel might be one of the best songs ever." I don't know where I'll be then, Kev. But I'll know about it and I'll be happy.

==========

Inspirado, man.  Such a fickle mistress.  It's helpful when there's a specific element to a song that provides the inspiration -- like that infectious hook, or the clever lyric, or the person (like you) behind the person behind the person.  

But what about a piece that refuses to really show itself to me?  One that slips through my fingers like whispy tendrils of smoke as I try to grab hold of meaning?  Is it the general tone of the song -- how at points I can almost feel the soft summer sun on skin?  Or is it in those booming transitions, when there's a rumble in my chest akin to unexpected thunder?  Or or or, is it in the half-second pauses they pepper throughout -- the negative space

where all

possibilities

present themselves

in a single

moment?  

I don't know, Matty.  I just don't know.  But I do listen to this song, over and over, hoping against hope that this'll be the time when it finally reveals itself.  When it opens up to me. Eventually. Tame Impala.

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Christ buddy, I don't know either. Sometimes I feel like everything worth holding onto is a whispy tendril of smoke... And as I look at life through these forty year old eyes "Eventually" is becoming the dirtiest of words to me.

You've set me up well for my final selection. Thematically, these songs seem linked. I had been zeroing in on this band for my final pick since we started this thing... not sure why. As we've progressed through our emails, it became more and more clear to me that this song would be the selection. Now it actually seems silly that I ever considered any others. There's a few reasons for that really... the most obvious is that my appreciation of the song has definitely evolved considerably over time. When I first heard it, I thought it was about Elizabeth Taylor. Then I started to really hear it - you know, you catch one more lyric every time and slowly you realize that it's actually about a taxi driver and her life... and her regrets. It's not depressing though - it's a cautionary tale. It's a call to arms - like Scrooge's glimpse into the future. It's about gathering your fucking rosebuds. And now I'm in the future, you know. And I'm really hearing this song - hearing it in a way I'm sure that the other suburban dads are not. Hearing it with my soul. That's the other reason this has to be the pick. I've been on a bit of a roller coaster through this mix. This song feels to me a fitting place for me to land. It is straightforward about regret, but it still feels hopeful to me. It acknowledges the bullshit without ever resigning to it. Also, on top of all of that, I believe that it could possibly be - if the conditions are right - the best song in the world. It's my final pick. It's Cleopatra by The Lumineers.

I'm going to see these guys Thursday night. You should come. Music is the best.

Honestly, bud, I don't have a clue what the best song ever is... Chances are that on a given night it's none of these... It's probably Marquee Moon, or Lover You Should Have Come Over or something... Or Something. For a long while I thought it was Crimson and Clover, but that isn't really the case for me anymore. Sometimes it's I Hope That I Don't Fall in Love With You. Other times it's Sinnerman... or the Prelude to Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suite in G Major. Still, I think we've done some good work here pointing our fingers at some songs that should be in the running. As our circumstances change, only time will tell.

We've got one more to go. Last pick is yours. Bring us home.

==========

Gather ye rosebuds, indeed.

If Cleopatra is the call to arms -- to beware regret and believe in hope -- then my final selection is the inverse of that.  Yin, meet Yang.  There's no hope found in this finale, just the inevitable squaring of accounts.  Edges refusing to be softened by angelic melodies.  The tape rolls out and we're left alone with the desperate wailings of a broken man echoing in our ears.  Death and depression.  Resentment and rage.

Which isn't to say I'm anywhere close to that mindset at the moment.  I have my spells (and we've damn well established there are few among us who don't), but tonight I feel good.  I feel great.  A brisk breeze is nudging through our window.  The drink at my side is slowly sweating onto the desk.  And my best chums will be under my roof tomorrow.  We're happy, we're healthy, we're alive.  And that's why music is the best.

Because I can press play on this song and be taken from this contentment -- even if only for five minutes -- and be tossed aside.  Be made to feel utterly alone through a warbling voice and a few distorted guitars.  My own stuff begins to bubble up and I taste bitterness on the back of my tongue.  I'm seventeen again.  I'm forty.  I'm lying on the floor, wailing.  I'm careening down the road, dead-eyed.  I'm tearing photos from the walls.  I'm burning bridges.  I'm leaving it all behind.  I'm sinking below the surface, hand extended to the heavens.  I'm safe at my computer, typing this message.

I'm in a small boat in a storm.   And they're coming fin by fin until the whole boat sinks.

I've no idea if this is the best song ever.  The Australians seem to say it's *their* best song ever, which must count for something, I suppose.  All I can vouch for is that this song unlocks something deep inside me.  Sets fire to feelings I'm wary of.  And that's why music is the best.

Fin by fin.

Thanks for sharing it with me, pal.

Shark Fin Blues, by The Drones.

[antipsychoticzzz]

Aight no offense but why is miles' hairline so goddamn bad bro if y'all don't fix his shit