#popped into my head when they said it also i love dylan

[theghostbeaters]

climbing class the sequel

[lopez-richter-fangirl]

So I haven’t really posted anything actually spoilery yet but this will be!

Musical daddy Clark truly unreal. I love the opening number so much. I love how much dancing Lauren got to do this show, the joy on her face alone makes me want to cry. She and James had a bit in the opening number we love that duo. She and Joey also have a part in that choreo where they’re looking at each other and that was the moment I was really like oh god this is their first married SK show. Also I know I already brought this up but Joey wearing his ring for Bob is one thing, him wearing it from the very top of the show is NOT okay. I also shouldn’t be allowed to sit close to Lauren because I always get distracted, before it’s been her scars and her ring this time it was her sparkly eyeshadow fun! Also istg Lauren seems smaller every time I see her and the height difference between her and Joey seems worse.

Gift of the magi made me CRY. I forget how good Curt’s voice is and Janaya’s we KNOW is phenomenal and they were just so sweet together. And guys I cannot stress enough how amazing and hilarious this Joey Lauren Brian trio is like it MAKES act 1 for me. The whole song of that part Meredith posted on her story is SO funny. Also I’m fucking in love with Lauren’s costume in act 1 but even more so after the show she accidentally threw it off her head in that part.

L/J/B open little match girl and that song will not get out of my head. I’m not sure between Brian and Joey if the choreo was ever 100% perfect but we all know it adds to the charm. Lauren had to nudge Brian into the right place one show which was v cute. Ali is incredible and I’m so so happy to have her in a full length SK show again (but Lauren understudied match girl and ngl I would kill for rehearsal footage to hear those songs in her voice). This story was such a good showcase of how well SK combines the humour and the emotion.

Scrooge makes a little cameo in both of the stories which sets it up so well, and then the act 1 closer sets up for christmas carol.

I absolutely loved watching Meredith in the band and it’s so special how happy and proud she looks of her friends.

AJ’s scrooge is great and he brings a lot of fun little things to the characters, I think I just have a soft spot for Dylan’s scrooge because I have a soft spot for him that I don’t have for AJ.

The night Curt forgot his very first line in Bah Humbug and just said “yeah!” after Janaya was too funny and Joey put a hand on his back like “it’s okay” they’re all very cute. Honestly though that was probably the biggest fuck up. Joey is just like so so good as Bob obviously it’s perfect casting but it’s perfect casting.

3 spirits was even cooler the way it was staged this time.

Jaime’s I’m the ghost choreo was even funnier. Also nothing can compare with the Brian/Lauren siblings (finally!!) but Lauren was little sister again and was even cuter than last time, she had a little leg pop that was adorable and funny and then a little giggle at the end. And I remember being excited for Joey’s Fezziwig and then being like but he literally has one little part in that song, but he really did have fun with it and he had a cute interaction with Clark and Mere.

I love that scrooge with Curt and even after the 2021 show I’m still in disbelief over Janaya’s voice.

Christmas electricity is just the best fucking thing to see live the energy is so good. I did miss Lauren and Brian starting the song off (Clark was back to singing more of the interludes and we love Clark but there were a few I missed). AJ really was funny in this song. James slays so fucking hard. Lauren was wearing the black boots which I’m obsessed with. But she left early to make her quick change and THAT was when it hit me that I was about to experience the first married priceless.

And truly what to say. There were some ways it wasn’t as bad as previous versions, “this soil is rich” certainly no longer had THOSE implications. But literally just the fact that they *are* married and Joey’s wearing his wedding ring just got me even harder than I thought it would. There was also an EXCESSIVE amount of hand holding. And you’d think I’d be okay after the spin in the 2021 show but they did it in their slow mo section this time which was worse. And if that wasn’t enough, in the last show he spun her TWICE more in the last chorus in a way that definitely was not choreographed which you could see in Lauren’s face and I just. We KNOW they’re both phenomenal actors but we know even more that every bit of that is *real* and I will never recover. I say it every time but I cannot thank Clark enough for writing such a beautiful song for them. And at the end of the song Joey leaned his head on hers and I just looked at him and was like, that is a man who could not be happier performing with his wife. Also I absolutely think he tried to kiss her head the first show but she walked away. He was also the last to leave the stage at the end of the song and he was very proud husband/dad about it all. Jamie and Brian both *consistently* made Lauren break though which is always funny. Also in the first show there was someone in the front row who I think was not participating in cratchit family sing along so Lauren went right up to them and was singing right at them and then Janaya also shout-sang “priceless” at them. Which reminds me I do love that they got their hand mics back for this song. Also the last night Joey fucked up the part where they’re leaning out and wasn’t looking at Lauren when she was looking at him so she was acting offended but then when he did look at her they giggled and I love them endlessly.

Jim and Della became the couple in final ghost which was perfect. The decision to have Joey come out for the cratchit part holding tiny tim’s care bear was fucked up. Lauren leaning on his arm, also fucked up.

There was a new section in christmas day for Jim and Della which was really sweet, and a match girl appearance with an extra couple lines. It did mean we had to lose turkey boy which is kind of a tragedy because it means we’ve never *properly* gotten it live, but I do love love that they tied all the stories together like that and the emotional payoff was so good. We had Lauren donation man and her and AJ were really funny in that bit. Lauren had an entrance while the Bob and Scrooge bit was happening so watching her wait there like a proud wife for him to come and take her arm was 🥺

All that to say this is such a special show and the new additions are perfect and you should absolutely get a digital ticket!!!

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #21:

Paul Simon's There Goes Rhymin' Simon

When I was little my mother loved to brag about how ugly I'd been as a baby.

"He looked just like a frog," she'd tell her friends while I stood about, often with my finger deep in a nostril. There was always love in her eyes when she said it, but looking back on the photos, I'd say she was putting a positive spin on things. Frogs are, after all, fairly cute.

And so, when my own children were about to be launched into existence I felt fairly excited. Would they look like aged dwarves/me or cosmic goddesses/my wife? Sadly, they all were angelic and beatific, and wound up smart and kind as well, which makes them fairly boring to write about.

So, forget about them. Let's talk instead about one of the ugliest record covers in my entire collection. There's plenty of grossness to report on...

If you want sheer trashiness, cast a terrified eye upon Neil Young's American Stars and Bars. It's ugly on a number of fronts: first, we've got a directly vertical, up from a glass floor, vantage point of Young's plastered and pressed face; work in the barmaid's ridiculous unmentionables and take note that my own 99 cent version is ripped to shreds, and you've got a contender for the ugliest record of all time.

But the vinyl inside is pristine and the album features two of the best songs of all time back to back (Like a Hurricane and Will to Love, of course), so who cares: ugly is awesome in the Dollar Bin.

And then there's Fairport Convention's Live at L.A. Troubadour which is famously horrifying to gaze upon. The art department at Island Records either hated the band, or themselves, or the whole planet. As dedicated Dollar Binners can tell you, my own coveted copy is also slightly melted so its ugliness knows no bounds.

And no ugly cover contest is complete without mentioning Dylan, the infamous Screw You Bob! record of outtakes Columbia put out when Bob jumped ship in 73 for Asylum Records. The only thing uglier than the portrait on the cover is Dylan's cover of Big Yellow Taxi.

(But don't buy the hype that Dylan is terrible; in spite of Columbia's best efforts to end the Bobster's career, the album contains a few great tracks; but that discussion will have to wait for Dollar Bin #642, or maybe #643. That's right: I've got the next 64 years of this nonsense already planned out...).

I could go on and on (we haven't even touched on the giant weird stylus phallus on the cover of The Bunch...). My personal Dollar Bin is chock full of unsightly greatness.

But, without further adieu, let me submit for your very personal consideration what is arguably the greatest ugly record of all time: Paul Simon's There Goes Rhymin' Simon.

Behold the horrifying cover art concept: every track on the album gets its own infantile piece of pop art horror somewhere on the gatefold. Mingled in are an archival photo of teenybopper Simon with a full head of hair and another photo of daddy Simon with a full head of combed over hair.

The Dollar Bin teems with copies of this record; everyone, and their weird uncle, bought a copy of Rhymin' Simon in 73 because the music within it is awesome, but they, or their grandkids who inherited the collection, just couldn't bear to look at the insidious cover and therefore eventually pawned it off on dollar bins the world over. If you don't own a copy, get a life and go get it. Put it on your turntable but don't look at the cover; like Medusa's visage, it may turn you to stone. And I like you just the way you are: unstoney.

Indeed, I'd argue that There Goes Rhymin Simon is proof positive that most people in these troubled times are more focused on how their record collection looks on the shelf than how it sounds. You know 'em: they've got Steely Dan albums enshrined in plastic and they can't wait to show you their minty copy of The Wall. Yuck. Lend me a ruler and I'll draw you some bricks, if you really want to see some, but I won't force you to listen to Roger Waters drone on and on about his own hideous meaning of life.

I was deep in a dollar bin recently, knees aching on the floor, when two college kids came in, asking for directions to the Yes records. They very clearly did not own a record player; rather they wanted Yes to grace their dorm room walls. Indeed, that's probably the sole reason anyone on earth has ever had for owning a Yes record. I've never owned one, and I never will. I declare Hell No to Yes.

Only a masochist would mount Rhymin' Simon on their wall. Who, you ask, do we have to blame for undercutting the fourth masterpiece of Simon's career (The first three are Bookends, Bridge Over Troubled Water and Paul Simon) with such shoddy pop art? The answer is none other than Milton Glaser, the guy who foisted the following on us all:

Imagine the greatest, most recognized thing in your entire life taking you six seconds to create and being something a fourth grader could come up with. I heart NY to, but I mean Neil Young when I say so; why isn't anyone offering me a solo show at the Pompidou Center?

Glaser could have designed a plain brown paper bag to hold Simon's record, then slipped a fresh cow pie in alongside it and thereby have done Simon an immeasurably better turn in the art department.

Before you accuse me of just being ignorant about modern art let me offer the defense that I actually took a course in modern art at Cambridge for a term which led to religious experiences in front of Rothkos and Chagalls. Furthermore, Glaser has made some wonderful art in his career. Consider Dylan's psychedelic hairdo:

I'm guessing that Simon finished Rhymin' and then ordered Glaser to give him the Dylan treatment on his cover. But Glaser took one look at Simon's hair and said, "Paul we're going with ugly rather than comb over with this one," then turned out Rhymin's abomination. Simon learned his lesson: every one of his album covers since then has either featured tasteful art or a photo of Paul with a hat or hairpiece carefully in place.

It's tempting to think of Rhymin' as Simon's own version of Chrome Dreams, Neil Young's abandoned (but recently released) 70's album of masterful individual songs. Almost every track on Chrome Dreams comes from a separate recording session and every song stands on its own, seemingly unrelated to its neighboring tracks. Like the eclectic stops on Odysseus's journey home, both Rhymin' and Chrome Dreams can be experienced as a series of only vaguely related adventures. There's plenty of terror from Polyphemus cave to be witnessed on each record, just like there's a lot of lust to be had in Circe's bed.

Glaser's juvenile and segregated artistic approach on Rhymin' only strengthens this sense. What does a cheap, jaundiced Mardi Gras mask possibly have in common with equally cheap, inverted dollhouse chairs? And what's with the terrifying heart-pupiled eye? Can't we ask Odysseus to ram a spike into it or something?

But on close listen, Rhymin' finds cohesion, its greatness unfolding around us as we sail narrow straights between the Scylla of 70's pop schmaltz the Charybdis of cultural appropriation.

Let's start on the Scylla side, shall we? Simon can sound saccharine on occasion. Songs like Why Don't You Write Me and The Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine sound like byproducts of a men's retreat with Stephen Stills and Paul Anka. Everyone ate whipped cream out of tubs, compared biceps and combed their chest hair with care.

The album opens in these Scylla infested waters with Kodachrome, an almost too perfect pop number which, if taken a step further, would sound like a Chicago song. But Simon adds kick to the mix, enunciates the word "crap" with aplomb, and chides his ego whilst among the ladies. And so the whole thing rolls nicely: when this number comes up on FM radio, you'll hum along.

Other moments when he dodges the six heads of schmaltz include Quincy Jones' feathered pillow arrangement on Something So Right and the overall daddyrific vibes of Saint Judy's Comet. But both of these songs are masterpieces lyrically and melodically; we lean into the schmaltz because everything about the songs is indeed so very right.

I'm pretty convinced Dylan listened to Something So Right with great care before wrestling, over and over again, with You're a Big Girl Now a year later. Simon famously told Dylan in the mid sixties that he liked the rough sketch of a song Dylan had just cut in the studio. Paul encouraged Bob to take his time and build the track up into something great. Dylan responded by saying that the single rough take would be the only take; he had bigger fish to fry. The story is cute, but not altogether accurate; after all there's about 4000 studio takes of Like a Rolling Stone. And by 74 Bob gave Simon's perfectionist approach an even more earnest try. Thank god he did.

Listen for the organ to come soaring in, landing on the fence of Dylan's soundscape like a precious bird of flight. Am I wrong to think that this glorious track is a fitting cousin to Something So Right?

Okay, that covers the schmaltz. But the awkward whirlpool of cultural appropriation has also been a hazard in Simon's career and he narrowly dodges a few Charybdis sized abysses on Rhymin'. Three years after going full karaoke on El Condor Pasa he swims his way through two slightly cringy, I Wanna Be Black, soul numbers on Rhymin': Tenderness and Loves Me Like a Rock. Both come with the full support of The Dixie Hummingbirds. I'm even whiter than Simon so I can't comment with any authority on the ethics of Simon taking the lead while these great Black artists support him.

But I can tell you that I love both songs, especially Tenderness, and that Simon did a lot more than any other white artists of his generation to promote and give credit to the artists of color he worshiped and leaned on. He took the Peruvian band responsible for El Condor Pasa, Urubamba, as well as the Jessy Dixon Singers, on tour with him after this record, and both groups are featured with prominent respect on his subsequent live album (Live Rhymin' is another Dollar Bin classic and another significant entry in the ugly cover contest).

And we all know how Simon earnestly introduced American audiences to Brazilian and African artists in the 80's. Simon's career may be built on a good deal of appropriation, but it seems to me that he always tries to do it with respect. After all, he treats Aretha Franklin's version of Bridge over Troubled Water as the song's authoritative take.

But I'm not sure that even all those qualifiers can rectify the soft reggae vibes of the Rhymin' track Was A Sunny Day. If it's okay with you, let's give Simon a pass there, as the song does feature the vinyl debut of The Roches.

Alongside these skillful schmaltz and appropriation dodges Rhymin' also features a few straight up Paul Simon classics. Take Me to the Mardi Gras, One Man's Ceiling, Learn How to Fall and America Tune: these are beautiful songs from start to finish, each of them simple and incredibly complex all at once. Simon has the uncanny ability to turn easy listening into high art and there's a dark turn to be found in each song if you lean in. Listen to the Reverend Claude Jeter sing the glowing, devout bridge on Mardi Gras; worry about who's doing what behind Simon's building in Ceiling; count the impossible number of balanced harmonizing parts in Fall; and, most of all, take a moment to appreciate the towering greatness of American Tune.

As a teenager I saw Simon twice on the Rhythm of the Saints tour. Everything was dense, earnest and slick. But when Simon came out alone, in midst of the First Gulf War, and sang American Tune I got my first real taste of true patriotism: Simon loves his country enough to criticize it through earnest, complex and open-ended metaphor. I'd say he did the same thing on the tenth anniversary of 9/11 as well:

I don't care how little hair he has, and I don't care what his albums look like. Paul Simon is a Dollar Bin genius, an old friend who's still standing with us as we watch the Statue of Liberty sail away to sea. I sure hope we can come together and reel it back in.

Happy November everyone.

[freuleinanna]

movie night

Characters: Dylan Lenivy, Kaitlyn Ka, Ryan Erzahler (starring as a domestic polyamorous trio) Chosen ending: Any one where those three are alive and not infected Short summary: The chaotic bubbly trio has a movie night but pick the wrong film :D Words count: 836

Tags: @ryo-kaen, @althea-tavalas, @ech0lenivy1, @b33barlowsstuff (tagging those who wanted to check the works and/or specifically the characters in this trio, I think they all have an amazeballs chemistry!)

(yes I didn't find a single gif of all 3 together so I had to choose my personal fav oops)

((also I had to colour-code it bc it's all dialogue, but let me know if it's easier in b/w!))

‘Dooon’t you worry, guys, I’m the protector here, everything’s gonna be-- argh! Shit, false alarm.’

‘Real brave, dude, real brave.’

‘What are you doing, these are buttered! Get it off, Ryan!’

‘Shh-shh! Shhh! Here it comes, guys--’

‘I said get it OFF! Seriously!’

‘What’s the matter, Miss Butterpants?’

‘You NUMBNUT, that’s my designer’s--’

‘Shut it! I’m here for the corny dialogues in the film, not yours.’

‘Boo-hoo, Captain Hook, the crying sofa is in another room.’

‘Corny enough, Kat? How ‘bout more corn?’

‘I’M SERIOUS, God! You’re a hog, Ryan!’

‘…oh no.’

‘She didn’t.’

‘God, no…’

‘Oh, yes, she did.’

‘NO! I didn’t! I did not!’

‘She SO did!’

‘I’m gonna kill you two little…’

‘THE HOG!’

‘OF HACKETT’S QUARRY! Bwaaaaaa!’

‘Why, God? Why?’

‘…dude.’

‘What?’

‘…dude.’

‘Shut it, Jimi Hendrix, go play your imaginary guitar with your imaginary hand. RYAN, STOP WITH THE POPCORN!’

‘…dude, was that your hog sound? So lame.’

‘Turn your head and watch a movie, numbnut.’

‘What-nut?’

‘Dude, not cool.’

‘They are kinda numb…’

‘Oh my god.’

‘…cause you’re sitting on me, Thumbelina.’

‘Nope, not reacting to that.’

‘One more popped corn and your weight is gonna crush me down.’

‘One more word and I’ll pop your eye with my thumb, how about that?’

‘Guys, we missed like half the plot already.’

‘Oh right, so who’s the monster?’

‘I will be, if Ryan doesn’t stop pouring buttered popcorn all over my designer blouse! QUIT IT!’

‘Shush! Also, Ryan, buddy, my leg went numb thanks to Thumbelina over here.’

‘So?’

‘So move your ass! I need space!’

‘Use the space previously taken by your hand. Easy enough.’

‘That’s… low. Even for you, dude.’

‘Life’s not fair. Hey-- Hey. What are you doing?’

‘Avenging my Alexander Wang, you hog.’

‘…OF HACKETT’S QUARRY!’

‘…OF HACKETT’S QUARRY!’

‘Oh, god…’

‘Wait, is he a friend of yours?’

‘Dylan, honey, was your brain also in your hand what it got chopped off? My blouse. My blouse is by Alexander Wang.’

‘Ooh, someone’s touchy.’

‘Oh yeah? How much did it cost?’

‘Are we watching the film or not?’

‘Seriously, how much, Kaitlyn?’

‘Literally free, go eat your popcorn.’

‘If he can get it from under the shirt.’

‘First of all, is that where my safe-net fund go after you said you were too broke to chip in for pizza? And second of all… du-ude! Are you trying to make me lose the shirt?’

‘Yeah, Dyl, are you?’

‘Oh no, oh no-no-no, you can’t throw me under the bus, Kat.’

‘I can and I will the first chance I have.’

‘I’m always trying to make Ryan lose his shirt. But you, sweetums?’

‘Ew, it shouldn’t even be a word!’

‘You, sweetums, robbed our precious Ryan to buy a des shirt?’

‘I did n--’

‘UP TOP!’

‘Oh, god.’

‘I’m so proud of you. Not you, Ryan, you’re a gullible patsy. But we love you the way you are.’

‘Aww, gee, thanks.’

‘Yes, because you give us money. UP TOP!’

‘UP TOP!’

‘I hate you both.’

‘No, you don’t. Now seriously, get Thumbelina off my lap, I’ve at least one case of a numb nut.’

‘You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone, prick.’

‘Oof!’

‘Ouch! What are you--’

‘Sweet freedom!’

‘God, do you even have meat on your bones?’

‘Yeah, if you wiggle your ass more, you’ll definitely find it.’

‘Ew, gross.’

‘GUYS GUYS GUYS, the music! It’s on!’

‘Oh, right! Is that the monster?’

‘What are we watching again?’

‘Ah, who cares.’

‘What’s that one’s name?’

‘Stop wiggling, seriously!’

‘I’m sitting on a pile of popcorn, dude. That’s so ruined.’

‘SHUT IT! They’re gonna show the monster soon! Hear that? Dun-dun-dun, DUN-DUUUUN!’

‘Isn’t she, like, the main damsel in distress?’

‘Yes, that’s THE WHOLE POINT!’

‘She’s a damsel, she’s in distress, she’s gonna get eaten.’

‘Wow. Insightful. Thanks, Ryan the cinema expert.’

‘Oh my god, somebody hold my hand!’

‘Which one?’

‘You’re lucky I’m too emotionally invested to hit you, so just… okay??’

‘Ryan, hold his hand, I’m busy.’

‘Doing what exactly?’

‘Watching, duh.’

‘Oh, my-- Come one, dude. Aren’t you supposed to protect us from the atrocities of the classic horror movie night?’

‘Again, I’m too emotionally invested to—AAH OH MY GOOD!’

‘WHAT THE FUCK?!’

‘Shit, shit, SHIT! RYAN!’

‘I can’t hold both of you!’

‘YOU GOTTA!’

‘What the FUCK?!’

‘Fucking werewolves! GOD!’

‘Who DOES that?!’

‘It’s literally called THE WOLF MAN, DUDE!!! Didn’t you at least check what was on?!’

‘Unbelievable!’

‘Who’s got the remote, quick!’

‘Fucking werewolves! Grrr-ah!’

‘Okay-okay-okay, it’s under me! It’s under me! Or Kaitlyn!’

‘I’m under Kaitlyn, man!’

‘Oh shit, I got it, I got it! Oof, fuckity-bye, creepy 1940s wolf… people.’

‘…’

‘…’

‘…’

‘So… call it a night?’

‘Yeah, neat idea.’

‘I’m not letting go of you two.’

‘Come on.’

‘We’re leaving the lights on, right?’

‘Er…’

‘Ryan, not now. Dylan, yes we are.’

‘…’

‘I am SERIOUSLY never letting go of you two.’

‘Neither am I!’

‘Neither am I.’

‘Good, agreed. Nighty-night, then.’

‘…’

‘…’

‘…’

‘Fucking werewolves.’

[letloverule1111]

Another one 🧚🧚🤭

What is the music that is most meaningful to you. Whether it’s your happy music, your sad music, what is the music that really moves you?

Okay omg I DID NOT KNOW I WAS GETTING ASKED QUESTIONS!!! And then you and @historicallysam went ahead and made me CRY!

(BTW-I am unable to answer your other question currently because it requires brain power I do not currently possess.)

Also—I did not ask anyone a single question not because I didn’t want to but because I felt like I couldn’t come up with anything interesting. Just letting you know why there’s no q’s from me. I’ll work on it.

Ok—MUSIC! Music is VERY VERY VERY important to me. I think music sets us free. It heals. It uplifts. It helps me cry when that’s what I need. It provides endless hours of car karaoke for me (and probably entertainment for onlookers!) I love music and I love live music. I’m about to head to SoCal for the Ohana Fest then a couple days later a client is taking me to see Pink and I’m super fucking excited and grateful.

K

So I cannot pick just one kind of music. It all depends on my mood and/or mood I’m trying to achieve.

I love old school folk rock line Linda Ronstadt, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan. As well as straight up old school rock like The Rolling Stones.

Car Karaoke to Aerosmith or AC/DC can be super fun.

It goes without saying: Queen

I love 80s new wave like ABC, Haircut 100, Duran Duran, Talking Heads, Tears for Fears, New Order, Depeche Mode, Psychedelic Furs, INXS, The Cure, Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark and so on, etc…

Old school country like Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline

I love Maria McKee and Lone Justice but gonna bet no one’s heard of them. Okay, obviously people have heard of them because they’ve been around. But they’re niche I think.

And I real adore a good pop song so much. So obviously, Taylor Swift. She’s a genius in terms of crafting a good pop song. I think it’s much harder than people give credit for.

Lizzo,

Robin

Dua Lipa

Olivia Rodrigo

Camila Cabello

OMG WHY HAVEN’T I SAID BEYONCÉ YET??? Definitely Beyoncé.

Elton John

Rihanna

Janelle Monae (going to see her live in October!)

Oh oh oh! Madonna!

Fleetwood Mac!

U2!

Okay I’m going to shut up now. This answer is waaaaaaaaay longer than expected, I’m sure. Also, I’m 100% certain I’ve left out bands and musicians I love and I apologize to all of them even though they will never see this post!

Kk. Have an awesome day! Sing out loud!!

[my-chaos-radio]

Release: August 4, 2023

Lyrics:

Liar, liar

You're a liar, liar

Liar, liar

Liar, liar, liar, liar

You can set my heart on fire

Always play your cards so cool

I'm out here just walking the wire

You act like I'm nothing to lose

It's like drunk calls in the afternoon

It's like rainfalls in the heat of June

Always bad news when it comes to you

You're a liar, liar, liar, liar

Ooh, look at what you've done to me

You're a liar, liar

Ooh, killing off my fantasy

You're a liar, liar

Can't keep my heart from caving in

You played your hand again and again

Ooh, look at what you've done

You're a liar, liar, liar, liar

I've been blinded by desire

Every move I follow you, ooh

Built you up like you're some messiah

This love ain't a game for two

It's like drunk calls in the afternoon

It's like rainfalls in the heat of June

Always bad news when it comes to you

You're a liar, liar, liar, liar

Ooh, look at what you've done to me

You're a liar, liar

Ooh, killing off my fantasy

You're a liar, liar

Can't keep my heart from caving in

You played your hand again and again

Ooh, look at what you've done

You're a liar, liar, liar, liar

Liar, liar

You're a liar, liar

Liar liar

You're a liar, liar

Ooh, look at what you've done to me

Ooh, killing off my fantasy

Oh oh

Songwriter:

Ooh, look at what you've done to me (you've done to me)

You're a liar, liar

Ooh, killing off my fantasy (my fantasy, my fantasy)

You're a liar, liar

Can't keep my heart from caving in

You played your hand again and again

Ooh, look at what you've done

You're a liar, liar, liar, liar

Dan Smith / Matt Shwartz / Natasha Woods / Vera Carlbom

SongFacts:

Up-and-coming alternative-pop artist Dylan has surprised her fans with an unexpected and intriguing collaboration with her new single “Liar Liar”. She combines her extraordinary talents with the unmistakable voice of Bastille's Dan Smith on the haunting track.

"Liar Liar" shows a remarkable evolution of Dylan as an artist and affirms her artistic versatility. The collaboration with Dan gives the song an extra depth and poignancy that captivates the audience from the very beginning. The two voices harmonize perfectly with each other and create an extraordinary sound atmosphere that gets under your skin.

The song starts with a catchy rhythm, which becomes a real feast for the ears thanks to clever instrumentation and electronic elements. Dylan's soulful vocal performance is accompanied by Dan's distinctive timbre, resulting in a hypnotic interplay.

The two artists know how to continuously increase the tension during the song and take the listener on an emotional journey.

Lyrically, “Liar Liar” addresses the challenge of distinguishing between truth and lies and dealing with deception. The honest and profound lyrics give the song a strong message and make you think.

The combination of touching words and the impressive voices of Dylan and Dan make "Liar Liar" a song that will long linger in the minds of the listener.

Last year, Dylan released her debut mixtape, The Greatest Thing I'll Never Learn, via Iceland. Dylan said of the title at the time:

"That's something my mother used to say whenever I was struggling with love. It didn't really change over time and since I'm still struggling, I thought it would fit perfectly. All the songs on the mixtape are very honest reflections of what went through my head in the last couple of years. Songwriting is the best therapy for me”.

Before the release of the single, the Briton had already released further tour dates for Europe. From October she can be seen on various stages and also comes to Germany. Whether Dan from Bastille will be on stage for one or the other feature remains to be seen.

There is also a video for “Liar Liar”. Directed by Charlie Sarsfield, it features Dylan and Dan Smith playing pool and fighting over their relationships.

[theog1nala]

backseat of your car A Colby brock x Sam Golbach x fem reader

warning:

Dom!Colby and Dom!Sam, Sub!Reader, unprotected sex, daddy kink, Car sex, public sex, orgasm denial,

what did i do to deserve getting railed in the backseat of my car by two youtubers that I just met 

“WHATS UP GUYS IT SAM AND COLBY” Colby says for the intro “today we are here at the Fairfield infirmary with Steve and Dylan from Haunted nights and Nate is also here and our new friend from XPLR club!!” Sam finishes it off. Sam turns to me and says” so Y/N are you nervous” i turn to look at him” Nope” i say really popping the “P” i continue talking“ i know a lot about this place” i say with a smile Colby turns to me “like what” he said with a straight face “ well this place was a hospital but it turned into a Orphanage then to a jail then into a poor farm .The building has held a multitude of death within it’s’ walls, most of the perished unnamed, even in the cemetery. However, one of the more predominant and interesting stories tells of a 73-year-old inmate, Jane Householder. She was unfortunately burned alive after she caught her clothes on fire after opening her stove to cook a simple meal. and there are about 1500 bodies buried in the backyard” i stop talking and smile. Colby looks at Sam and whispers “this girl’s good” 

Skip to a few minutes later where we are doing the investigation

“ok” Steve says. he suggested that we put the Rempod in a room where they stored children’s bodies when they died in which we all agree so we do “if there’s anybody here with us make that device go off in Three,two,one” after i got done counting the device went off but right as it goes off i feel something touch me on my shoulder so i flinch. “Woah Woah you ok” Colby asks i nod my head “Im going to get some fresh air I’ll be back in a sec” i say heading to go outside “ im coming with you” i hear Colby say and we both walk and I head to my car and i get inside in which i cant see Colby because of the tinted windows and i have a cover on my car because of the snow. 

MINORS CLICK OFF THANK YOU 

Colby gets in the car and we both look at each other and lock eyes real quick and we get super close “ so Um you ok” he asks i nod my head as another minute goes by i couldnt take it anymore and i just kiss him. He put on a shocked look but then gave into it and it was soft at first but then it became rougher and rougher” get in the fucking back” his voice was low but it was also really hot so i decided to tease him a bit “why should i” i said with a smirk but he did not like that very much his face looked like he was going to ruin my insides in which i got in the back so fucking fast “take off your clothes slut” the word hit me like a fucking train of horniness as i felt a pool of wetness fill my panties. i feel a finger slid into my Pussy, i let out a sly moan as he pumps it in and out of me. “you like that” he said looking at me smirking god it was so fucking hot “ C-Colby I-I” i stutter words because of how good the feeling of him fingering me, he slip’s another finger in and starts pumping them in and out faster “you like this you fucking slut i bet you wanted to come out here so that i an fuck you solid well now im going to ugh fuck your so fucking hot i love it” he praises as he takes the fingers out right as i was about to fucking cum. “Colbyyyy” i whine looking up at him biting my lip he looks down and smirks as he sits on the seat moving me to the floor “suck my dick” he grabs my face as i start to pump him through his boxers. i slid them off and his dick springs out my face lights up as i stare at the sight of his fat cock throbbing. a few seconds later Colby grabs my head and pulls me up and lays me on my back. he lines his dick up with my entrence. “you want me to fuck you right here oh no look whos coming over” colby says as sams walking over and he knocks on the window. Sams eyes go wide “wanna join bro” colby says smirking thats when i look over and see sam smirking “everyone left so we are all alone now” Sam voice goes low as he gets in on the other side of me. colby turns me over to where im facing him “Brother you wanna do the honors” colby said looking at him sam nods as he removes his clothes. i could feel his dick up against my ass. sam looks up at colby and they both nods as sam rams into me with out warning. i let out a loud moan as he keeps pounding into me “you like that,you like the fact that you getting fucked by two of your favorite youtubers huh say it” Sam said in a teasing way as he slaps my ass hard “y-yes” i managed to get out “yes what” sam shot back i look up at colby as hes looking down at me smirking “yes d-daddy” sam smirks “good girl” he slaps my ass again minutes go by and i feel a knot in my stomach “ im close fuck” i moan out “dont you fucking come yet slut” i hear colby say as he pulls me onto his lap but he faces me to where im looking at sam “brother do whatever you want to her while i fuck her” he growls thats when colby starts to ram inside of me while sam kisses my face hard and makes his way down my neck and colby on the other side of my neck “ i have a idea” sam blurts out and thats when he puts his dick inside of my pussy “ colby smirks “great idea. Im a moaning mess i could feel that knot again and i let them know “ cum slut” they both say as i let go. i almost pass out from the feeling as i lay my head in sam’s neck and they both lay their head in mine. 

“god that was fucking amazing” colby blurts out “ya Y/n you need to come on here more ofton like damn i know like we just met but that was fucking amazing” sam also says 

we all drift off to sleep

[freetowns0unds]

Freetown, Sierra Leone is the sound of people speaking Krio on the streetside, the sound of “Aw di bodi,” “Tel God tenki,” and “Ameen,” flowing into the hot, humid air. Freetown is the sound of kids running around in their uniforms, or the ones selling the fresh fruits on the top of their heads. The sound of mothers rocking their babies, wrapped in cloth across their breasts, to sleep. The sound of cars honking because there is only one stoplight in the entire city. The sound of the large pot outside boiling Aunty’s okra soup. Freetown is also the sound of my grandma telling me “Osh ya,” when I fell off my bike outside our townhouse in Southern California at the age of six. The sound of Arabic as my parents do Isha'a prayer in the other room. It’s also the sound of my dad playing “Desolation Road” by Bob Dylan on his laptop for me to hear. The sound of my mother on the phone with her sister as the Real Housewives of Atlanta plays on our living room TV. For my parents, Freetown is the sound of love and loss, memories and war, family and freedom.

In Devonte Hynes’s, more frequently known as Blood Orange, album Freetown Sound (2016), critics attempted to figure out what made his album encapsulate the sound of a city on the Atlantic coast of West Africa. For it’s not just any city. My dad used to tell me stories when I was younger about the significance of Freetown. It’s the capital of Sierra Leone, yes, but it is also a major port city that played a crucial role during the transatlantic slave trade. He would recount that the “free” represented the formally enslaved and liberated Black people who settled there during the 18th century. When Blood Orange’s album dropped, Western music publications did not care for the sounds of the city as they were drawn more to the idea of West African grooves. Publications, like Pitchfork, focused on his incorporation of Sierra Leonean Krio (Pitchfork only refers to it as “a particular African dialect”), gravitated to the moments of funk, and were troubled by the ones that lacked drums and bass.

I was personally troubled by how Pitchfork refers to his album as a “deconstruction” of West African style. Specifically, it was said by interviewer Marcus J. Moore who is, without doubt, cultivated and acclaimed in his work on Black contemporary music in the US. Still, I wasn’t quite sure what Moore meant until he asked immediately after why Blood Orange chose to deconstruct the alleged West African element, wondering if the removal of drums and bass was deliberate. According to Mark Abel’s  Groove: An Aesthetic of Measured Time, it is a common argument that “‘groove,’ has its origins in West African music, in particular, in the drumming which is a central element of the music of that part of the world” (Abel 61). The assumption that “groove” is a defining element of West African sound is one that music critic and academic Marcus J. Moore carries, but one that Mark Abel rejects in his chapter “Is Groove African?”. 

We must ask ourselves if Blood Orange’s lack of groove is a deconstruction of West African sound, a displacement from the Freetown sound, or rather, pointing us to another way of understanding West African musical elements. With 80s-inspired pop-synth songs such as “Better Than Me” featuring Carly Rae Jepsen (you know, the Canadian pop star who sang “Call Me Maybe”) and “Best to You” featuring Empress Of, we get a feminine layered voice that underlines ballads of jealousy and heartbreak. Where can we locate the “Africaness” to the album from pop songs like these without identifying groove? 

To answer those questions, let’s turn to the music video for “Better Than Me.” It was hard for me to grasp (truthfully, it’s still hard for me to point or lock down) the tempo and rhythm of the song. Listening to the song from a traditional, Western understanding of time, the timing feels off–clapping your hands or moving your head in a consistent, equal repeating manner proves impossible. The melody and rhythm flees, but then pause and come back to us. The music video visualizes the unevenness of the song through choreography and motion. Mark Abel writes “Temporal regularity can be explained by the needs of the dancers or by the evenness of physical activities such as walking” (88). Abel further explains how African music exists outside a Western time measurement system, and we can see this arise in Blood Orange’s song as well as the album as a whole.

Blood Orange and the ensemble dancers perform a modern dance routine as the song “Better Than Me” plays through the music video. Modern dance is characterized as a style of dance that rebels against formality, engages with improvisational techniques, and disconnects movement from time to free up space and possibility (Cunningham). There are even points in the video where the natural movements of the dancers slowed down through editing, negotiating a different temporal relation to the music. 

The song is an example of how Blood Orange is not necessarily deconstructing West African elements through a play with time and space or a lack of percussion in favor of pop synths. Rather, he places his music outside of Western standards and measures of music. For critics, it is a deconstruction because the album embodies a dismissal of structure. The sounds of Freetown, the sounds of West Africa, lie in the album's ability to reimagine a new kind of temporality. Freetown Sound is a rupture and collage. Freetown is the sound of breaking and imagining. Freetown is the sound of a hazy dream you can’t quite recall or see. The sound of hope buried within the darkness.

[ecsundance]

The Greatest Night In Pop

After walking around Park City and getting to know the somewhat complicated bus system, I was able to head back to our hotel to relax a bit after a chaotic day. However, the moment my head made contact with the pillow, I received a message that the whole class would be attending a film called, The Greatest Night In Pop by Bao Nguyen. My first thought was “Dammit!” because I was hoping to take a quick nap after walking around Park City’s Main Street for a few hours checking out the different types of shops and restaurants. However, as someone who enjoys music, I felt that it was a screening that I may enjoy. After several attempts to get out of bed, I was finally able to break free of my binds. 

Upon arriving at the Eccles Theatre, I saw the massive line that stretched the entire length of the building that housed the theater. I had my doubts, but somehow I was able to find a seat next to my classmates. After a few minutes had passed, it was time to introduce the film, and of all people, the director and Lionel Richie himself was present during the introduction of the film.

Said to be “an engaging blitz of nostalgia guaranteed to leave core viewers misty-eyed” (Rotten Tomatoes), The Greatest Night In Pop is a documentary about the creation of “We Are The World,” one of the most iconic songs of all time. The film goes into detail about how Lionel Richie, Michael Jackson, and Quincy Jones began the process of making the song and the different ways other artists, such as Bruce Springstein, Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, Kenny Rogers, Bob Dylan, Tina Turner, and several other big name artists were able to be involved in the creation of the song. With archival footage that is now in the Smithsonian, the film brings a lot of humor and tension among the artists. One of the moments that really cracked me up was when Ray Charles, a blind singer, told Stevie Wonder, another blind singer, that he had to go to the bathroom, and Stevie jokingly said that he would show Stevie Wonder where the bathroom was.

After the film finished, I was holding back tears because of the beautiful and powerful voices that were made distinctive by showing the individual artists recording in the film. It also broke my heart to see all of the artists that have passed away since the film was made, which included the recent deaths of Tina Turner and Kenny Rogers. 

Lionel and Bao returned to the stage for the Q&A and I noticed that Lionel loves to tell stories and is rather good at it. I was tempted to ask a question regarding if Lionel should start his own podcast that would talk about his memories and his experience in the music industry, however, my classmate immediately shut my idea down, however, probably for the best. It wasn’t really about the film.

Thank you for reading.

-Jackson

[jolienjoyswriting]

Attune Your Ears (The Rewrite), Epilogue

The epilogue for "Attune Your Ears (The Rewrite)," an Essence of Ragnarok story. Previous version available here.

Carlos and Dylan come home from bowling… and make a very interesting discovery.

Word count: 1,356 – Character count: 8,118 Drafted: March 18th, 2023 Revised: March 19th, 2023 –

Confession time.  As I was going through the history of events in my head, I remembered this story and how it ended.  When I remembered, I also remembered that Carlos is a wolf and Dylan is a cat.  Canines and felines have pretty good senses of smell.  So, yeah.  When I wrote this part, though, I didn't expect it to turn out the way it did…  This absolutely changed the dynamics of two characters forever.

Dylan Dumouchel, Carlos Magnus, Hope, Elizabeth Armstrong, "Essence of Ragnarok" series, and related characters and concepts created by and © Jo Li KMC

[ ↶ Prev. Story | ← Prev. Chapter | Next Chapter → | Next Story ↷ ]

    "Maaan, you suck at bowlin', Los!"     "It was my first time…"

    On a sunny afternoon during the early summer, two young men were returning home from a fun day out.  One was a wolf, the other was a cat.  The former was all smiles and laughter!  The latter, though…

    "Yeah, but even for a first-timer, that was bad!"     "Shut up, Dylan," the wolf growled, the two entering an elevator.     "Gutterball after gutterball…"  Dylan grinned.  "Man, I'd be embarrassed!"     "I will kick your ass, cat."     "Sure, sure," he chuckled.  "Sooo… same time next week?"     Carlos nodded.  "We should invite the girls…"     "Maybe!  They sure can't be worse than you are!"     A hard punch to the arm made Dylan laugh out loud.     "Love you, too, Wolfie!"     Another punch drew a yelp and a chuckle from the cat.     "O-okay, okay, I'm done.  Honest.  Aaaahh… owie."     That seemed to satisfy Carlos.  The two walked in silence from there, arriving at their 7th-floor apartment door not long after.

    "So, any plans for next semester, Los?"     The dark wolf crossed his arms and hummed.  "Metalworking…  Alchemy, too."     "More alchemy?"  Dylan chuckled as he unlocked their door.  "Didn'tcha get enough after what happened last year?"     Carlos growled low, looking away.  He was trying to hide his discolored eyes.     "Ya know, I hear Joe dropped out 'cause'a you…"     "He's lucky I didn't slit his throat."     The cat turned the doorknob.  "Why do you hate him so much, anyway?"     The dirty look he got made Dylan reconsider his question.     "I just meant–"     "Wait."     Carlos put a hand on his friend's shoulder, keeping him from entering.     "What's that smell…?" the wolf quietly asked.     "Smell what?" the cat answered seriously.  He knew something was up…     Carlos took a long, quiet smell of the air coming out of their apartment…     "Blood.  And… other stuff?"  He paused.  "Smell."     Dylan stepped up to the door, sniffing through the crack.     "Hm…  I don't think it's anyone we know," he said after a few seconds.     "Whose is it?" the wolf growled.  "And… what's that other smell?"     "There's a lot of smells coming from–"     "Mr. Dumouchel!  Carlos!  Hiii!"     The investigative discussion was suddenly interrupted by a chipper voice… and a short, blue-haired girl in a gold cap popping out to throw herself at Carlos.  Carlos didn't hug the girl back.  He was still distracted by the medley of scents coming from their apartment…

    "Heya, Blue!" Dylan greeted.  "It's just 'Dylan', by the way!  So hey, where's our dinner?"     "Oh, shoot…"  Hope leaned back, looking over.  "Was I supposed to make dinner tonight…?  I completely forgot!"     "Naw, naw…"  The cat grinned, holding up a bag.  "We got sweet noodles and rice buns!"     "Isn't that Miss Armstrong's– ah… isn't that Eliza's favorite kind of take-out food?"     The cat grinned from ear to ear.  "Maaaybe…"     "Oh, gosh…"  Hope smiled.  "You're always so nice to her, Mr– er, Dylan!"     "Well, someone's gotta be!"     Dylan nudged Carlos.  Carlos didn't react.  He was still focused on those smells…

    "Hey, Blue…"     Hope attentively perked.  "Yes, Dylan?"     "What's with the smörgåsbord of smells?"  He smirked as he asked, "You light some candles or somethin'?"     "Oh!  No, no…"  The girl laughed.  "Miss Armstr– Eliza is taking a bath, though!  She really likes that lavender bubble bath!"     "A bath?  Ah, geez…"  Dylan scratched his head.  "I gotta whiz, too…"     "Blood."     Both Hope and Dylan looked at Carlos.  He hadn't moved… but he did speak.     "I smelled blood," he told the pair.  "I also smell something else…"     "Blood sounds unlikely.  I had the day off!  But, I can't help you, anyway…"  Hope weakly smiled up at her boyfriend.  "I have no olfactory senses or sensors, sadly."     "I swear I've smelled it before…"     Carlos paused to take another whiff… only to grunt and lose interest.     "Fuck it.  I can't smell anything over that bubble bath…"     "Guess that closes that case, eh?"     The wolf grunted at his cat friend.  He then entered the apartment.  Just as Hope turned to follow, Dylan got her attention.

    "Hey, Hope…"     "Yes?" she asked, looking at him.     "Joseph was here again, wasn't he?"     The look on Hope's face was absolutely priceless.  She looked so shocked!     "You can smell him…?!" she worriedly asked.  "He left about an hour ago!  How–"     "That's not all this cat nose can smell!"     The cat tilted his head and sniffed the air a few times.  His nose twitched and his whiskers flicked.  His ears turned this way and that…  He was taking his time, assessing all the various smells wafting into his nasal cavities…  After a good half-minute, he finally looked back at Hope with a calm smile.     "It smells like he and Liz got bi-zaaay…"     Hope tilted her head, offering a confused look.  "What… does 'bi-zay' mean…?"     "Oh, you innocent little muffin…"     Dylan laughed, making her frown.  Shortly after, he leaned in and whispered an explanation, which caused the girl to rear back and look even more shocked than before!

    "Th-that's supposed to be a secret…!" Hope squeaked.  "E-er, I-I mean…"     "Oh, I'm not gonna tell anyone…"  The cat grinned, his tail slinking around behind him.  "I might ask a certain dirty birdy a few questions, though!  Heh heh heh…"     "Mr. Dumouchel, please…"  The girl looked extremely worried.  "I don't think Ms. Armstrong wants people to know!  So… so, don't tell anyone!  Don't even talk about it!  Okay?"     Dylan's smile faded and his gaze turned icy…     "Didn't plan on it…" he coldly said.  "And don't you ever tell me what to do."     Hope flinched at his tone shift.  Then, suddenly… she scowled and grew angry!     "Why are you like this?" she asked, throwing her hands down and stomping her foot.  "One minute, we're friends!  The next, you act like you hate me!"     Her expression softened into a worried frown.     "Did I do something to upset you…?  What can I do to fix it…?"     Dylan snorted.  "You can get out of my way…"     The girl grunted as she was shoved aside.  She spun on the spot, then, as the cat came in.     "You stopped me!" she half-shouted, losing patience.  "I was trying to–"     "Confused little machine…"  Dylan limply waved his hand.  "Even when you're not in the way… you're always in the way.  That's why we put you in the closet with the vacuum."     "I volunteered to sleep in the closet," she corrected in a high-pitch, frustrated voice, "so everyone else would have more space!!  Why are you being so mean to me?!"     Hope was completely flustered.  Dylan, though, just laughed.     "Because…"     He stopped, turned, then looked right into her teary eyes.     "You're just a machine."     He smiled… but it was a somewhat nasty one.     "Now, go hide in your closet.  The real people in this apartment have real lives to live."

    All Hope could do was stand there in the entryway and try not to cry as Dylan headed into the back.  She was angrier than she could ever remember being.  And… she was worried.     "I… I shouldn't have said anything," she whimpered.  "I should've just kept my mouth shut… denied what he said…  If he didn't know it was supposed to be a secret…"     The girl shook her head and wiped her eyes.     "If he didn't know… he probably would've blurted it out at some point…  And now that he does know… he could blackmail Ms. Armstrong…"     She looked at the floor.  No matter what she did… something bad was bound to happen.  After a short while, Hope closed the door to the apartment and, not long after, she walked over to and entered the living room closet, shutting her eyes and hugging herself.     "Maybe Mr. Dumouchel is right…" The android girl sniffled…  "  I'm… just a stupid machine…"

    She went into Sleep Mode that evening, deciding it would be best to just "stay out of the way".  When the question of where she was came up, Dylan just said she was sleeping in the closet.  The trio always laughed about it and no one ever questioned it.  And why would they?  Hope had volunteered to sleep in there.  Plus, it's not like it mattered where she "slept".

    She was "just a machine", after all…

[flotsam-gazette]

CANCEL

https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/music/story/2021-07-26/jackson-browne-phoebe-bridgers-downhill-from-everywhere

Jackson Browne on cancel culture, his ‘shelf life’ and how to survive rush hour in L.A.

BY AMY KAUFMAN, JULY 26, 2021 

Jackson Browne knows people think he’s past his prime. Or “way out over my due date,” as he puts it on his new album.

“I’m talking about shelf life,” he says. “But I think a lot of stuff is still good after the date that’s printed on the package.”

At 72, the musician is grappling with what his life will amount to — that’s really what the lyric is about, he says: “An admission that you’re supposed to have settled stuff by this time.”

It’s not that he had a vision for what life in his 70s would be like; he’s never looked that far into the future. But he has always been a self-reflective sort, unafraid to question whether he’s squeezing all of the juice out of the fruit. 

Even one of his first hits, “Doctor, My Eyes” — released in the midst of the Vietnam War — told the story of a man puzzling over how to digest the hardships of the world.

Browne’s eyes are still wide open on “Downhill From Everywhere,” the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductee’s first collection of new music in six years. On the album, the singer-songwriter takes typically forthright stands on ocean pollution, immigration rights and gay marriage. Though he grows somber when he discusses current events, Browne also seems to have softened with age — exuding less an obstinate attitude than an equable one.

In the late ’60s and ’70s, Browne established himself as one of Laurel Canyon’s preeminent songwriters with now-standards like “These Days” (written when he was 16), “Take It Easy,” co-written with the Eagles’ Glenn Frey and “Running on Empty.” 

Back-to-back smash albums “The Pretender” and “Running on Empty” made him a full-fledged rock star, but gradually he would pivot his music and career away from pop philosophy and toward the political. He organized “No Nukes” benefit concerts against nuclear weapons and nuclear energy alongside Graham Nash and Bonnie Raitt in 1979 and condemned U.S. policy in Central America on his 1986 album “Lives in the Balance.”

Browne still champions numerous causes; he was performing at a fundraiser for the charity God’s Love We Deliver in March 2020 when he became one of the first stars to contract COVID-19. 

He likes experimental theater — he’s wearing a shirt from Tim Robbins’ Culver City-based the Actors’ Gang nonprofit — and seeing live music with some of the young artists he’s befriended, like: 

Dawes, Jenny Lewis, Inara George and Phoebe Bridgers. (Earlier this year, Bridgers enlisted Browne to duet with her on a new version of her song “Kyoto,” and she in turn then appeared in a music video for his song “My Cleveland Heart.”)

Browne, who lives in Los Angeles’ Mid-City with his longtime partner, Dianna Cohen, has two adult children from previous marriages.

This week, he heads out on a three-month tour with James Taylor that will stop in Anaheim in October. The Times spoke with Browne at his Santa Monica recording studio, Groove Masters, where Bob Dylan, Frank Ocean and David Crosby have made music.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

What made you decide to record an album after six years?

The way you pose the question presupposes that there’s getting ready. I’ve had a studio for 30 years (since 1991). I’m always doing something. It’s more like there’s a residue you gather or a condensation that gathers.

You once said that your standards plague you. Do you still feel that way?

I think I was talking about the fact that it’s not a good idea to try to write a song as good as some other song you’ve already written. Because when you wrote that song that you thought so highly of, you weren’t holding it up to some other standard; you were just trying to write something new. Look, I’ve got a high opinion of some of my songs, but to write something new you have to forget everything you’ve ever done.

You sing on this album about being concerned for the future your children will inherit. What scares you?

I am in a state of grief for the world that my kids are inheriting — my grandson (son of Ryan). Elephants and tigers are in danger. The ocean’s got dead spots in it. The reefs are dying. The natural world’s ability to bounce back from what we’ve done is an existential threat. ... We’ve got these electric cars, so why don’t more people have electric cars? Why don’t we phase out fossil fuels? They won’t until they’ve sold us every last thing they have. I don’t get to talk about this stuff very much in conversation. So for me, the challenge is to write a song that people don’t mind hearing and that helps galvanize some sort of feelings or helps them find some resolve.

When you started more politically themed music in the 1980s, were you worried about losing your audience?

I know it was considered problematic by some people in the music industry to talk about politics. But they were never my people. You hear people like, ‘Oh, he’s losing an enormous part of his audience by talking about this.’ They’re talking about sales and s— like that. That never mattered to me anyway. Please.

It didn’t matter to you at all?

When you sing about stuff that nobody knows anything about, the recognition for what you’re doing is gonna drop off. At the same time, a bunch of other things were happening that are probably more responsible for the popularity declining, like punk music. 

You’re just not 25 (in 1973), now you’re 33 (in 1981), and there’s a completely different aesthetic going on and an attitude about everything that’s come before, rightfully or wrongfully dismissing you.

Many of your reviews cite you as being a really serious person. Do you think that’s fair?

I’ve had people remark on that to me, like, “Oh, I expect you to come in with sheaths of newspapers and notes and stuff.” There was this great remark that Don Was made. He was asked about a song that was political, and he said, “Oh yeah, we’re kind of political. Well, we’re not like Jackson Browne, where we’re with a pointer and talking about troop movements.” It was a funny thing to say.

I was playing at a Christmas show in Asheville a few years ago, and I sang this song about war called “The Drums of War.” Later, I was talking to one of the guys on the show and said, “Maybe I kind of sandbagged these folks. You think I shouldn’t have sang them a song about the war [at] Christmas?” He said, “People know you, Jackson. They’re not gonna be shocked that you sing a song about the war.”

How do you get your news?

I’m just kind of old school: I read. I can’t stand television. Even calling it television shows I come from another century. There are newsletters I get and books, and I really like radio. KPFK Pacifica. In L.A., I try to drive when my programs are on. I don’t mind rush hour because the Tim Ferriss program is probably on, and it’s a good way to spend an hour.

You’ve developed relationships with a lot of younger artists. How did those friendships start?

That’s the music that really moves me. I feel really lucky to know all these people, and I guess I know them because I go to their shows. I met Phoebe at a party, but I hadn’t heard her play. It was a birthday party for [Australian singer-songwriter] Tal Wilkenfeld at an escape room. I was sure we were gonna escape, but we didn’t make it. Funnily enough, the room was about a pandemic. But it was hard to figure out. But later, when I heard her music, I went, “That’s Phoebe. That’s that girl I met. Holy s—.”

What did you like about it?

If I want to use the word “gratitude” in a sentence, it would be about artists like Taylor [Goldsmith, from Dawes] and Phoebe, who are bringing an emotional literacy and prowess with words to rock lyrics again. It hasn’t been absent; Lucinda Williams and Randy Newman have been there all along. But when you see somebody young applying themselves to those kinds of skills, it’s encouraging because it makes you think that is on the rise and that a more youthful segment of the population will be exposed to that.

Did any musicians serve as mentors to you when you were young?

David Crosby agreed to sing on my first record. He absolutely showed me how to record — how to multitrack vocals. He praised me to others and to myself, and that was really important. I feel a great debt of gratitude to David.

But you no longer speak to him?

That’s true. He said nobody he’s ever made music with will talk to him anymore. I would point out that his son makes music with him, and that’s really what’s at the heart of his productivity right now, is his great relationship with his son. I don’t really want to go into the details of why we’re not talking.

There was a good documentary made about him recently. Do you ever think about being a part of a film like that or writing a memoir?

I’ve thought about it because it’s been proposed. I may eventually not be good for much else, so I’ll leave myself enough time to sound off about stuff. I kind of feel like I don’t know anything.

I’m sure people would love to hear your stories — and about dating the likes of Nico, Joni Mitchell and Daryl Hannah. Carly Simon wrote a really good memoir about her marriage to James Taylor.

Who’s interested in that though? Who’s interested in Carly talking about James?

Uh, me? A lot of people!

I’m not very interested in that stuff. Have you read Linda’s [Ronstadt] book? Now that’s a good book. It’s about music. Yes! People don’t want to know about Jerry Brown and Mick Jagger and all of the people Linda had relationships with. Besides, you have to be a really good writer. And I can’t even write a postcard.

What are your thoughts on cancel culture?

I’m not very aware of cancel culture, because I’m basically helpless about social media and the kind of quick, fast-breaking news about s—. That washes over me. I’m concerned that “canceled” has become a reflexive thing. My version of cancel culture is just turn it off or change the channel.

To use an example involving people you know, Phoebe Bridgers and Mandy Moore — they were part of an investigation alleging that Ryan Adams was emotionally and verbally abusive. As a result, some say he should be canceled.

I think powerful men have been taking advantage of their status with women and that should stop. ... I think it made a big impression on everybody that [Bridgers and Moore] came forth and talked about it. That’s their right and their responsibility to tell the truth and why we like their work.

I worry about [cancel culture] though because there are examples of actors, supposedly, who I think are tremendously gifted and I don’t know what all they did. ... In some cases, it sounds really bad. In some cases, it sounds like, really? They patted somebody on the butt and so we should not see this person’s movies now? I don’t know. I’m not just trying to wriggle out of your question. I’m just trying to say that I’m actually not a good person to [talk about this] because I’m so uninterested in that stuff. I wouldn’t watch the O.J. trial.

What are you hoping your fans will take away from your new album?

You mean, you want me to boil it down? It’s not for me to say. There are no CliffsNotes for these songs. I’m not that self-conscious. I’m not worried about what people are gonna think about me. This is not an ad for myself. This is a collection of songs with me really trying to express myself.

So you don’t think about how you’ve evolved musically?

Honestly? The things that I think about are trying to sing in tune and making the song sound good.

Why keep making new music?

[Laughs] I just thought that this morning. There’s so many other things going on. What could possibly be a more glacial f—ing process than writing a song about climate change, for instance? What it gives me is a song to sing that can be sung on an occasion, and sometimes that occasion is where people have gathered together to do something about something. I like the way I just said that, because it’s very all-inclusive. It may sound like I’m being vague, but I mean it gives me a song I can sing that reaffirms what I think.

Amy Kaufman is a columnist at the Los Angeles Times, where she writes a monthly A-1 column, “For Real With Amy Kaufman.” The series examines the lives of icons, underdogs and rising stars to find out who the people are shaping our culture — for real. Since joining The Times in 2009, she has profiled hundreds of influential figures, including Stevie Nicks, Kevin Hart, Joan Rivers, Michael B. Jordan and Lady Gaga. She also works on investigations and was part of the 2022 Pulitzer Prize finalist team that covered the tragic shooting on the “Rust” film set. Her work often shines a light on the darker side of the entertainment business, and she has uncovered misconduct allegations against Randall Emmett, Russell Simmons and Chris D’Elia. In 2018, her book “Bachelor Nation: Inside the World of America’s Favorite Guilty Pleasure” became a New York Times bestseller.

[justsayun]

Really a Violin Camp?

Boy, they don't make plastic like they used to. Have you ever heard someone say that?  Like NEVER! But I did hear it muttered recently and thought, wow I'll never hear that probably ever again. I also learned this week that some people sent their kids this summer to "Violin Camp". I'd never heard of a Violin Camp before. I can picture it being super fancy. The kids might wear dressy clothes, no tank tops, and flip-flops. And imagine the fun swanky snacks they're served? An endless supply of Snapple in glass bottles. No cheap O freeze pops, but expensive Popsicles. For desserts, each kid with their ice cream gets a bottle of Magic Shell. One table probably has just gourmet chocolates and Sushi. If I find out that they serve things wrapped in bacon, I'm going to apply for a counselor position next summer.  At the camps, I attended we had pretzel sticks and orange slices for snacks and perhaps a pitcher of orange kool-aid.  The instructors moved us around with cattle prods. Don't get me wrong I love the violin, I just didn't realize they had a special camp.  Can you name one well know violin player?  Not me either.  Can you name any famous harmonica players?  Most could.  Off the top of my head, I'd say Stevie Wonder and Bob Dylan. I would love to attend a Harmonica camp. I'll admit I hang out with a more harmonica crowd than a violin crowd. If I showed up at my buddies get together and pulled out a violin they'd give me a load of crap. But if I hauled out a harmonica they'd say "Go at it, Boxcar Willie". Where I grew up I'd be afraid to let kids know if I attended a Violin Camp. My Uncle Bob when I was growing up had six boys who would have beat the heck out of me if I bragged about attending Violin Camp. Heck, I spent part of my youth up a tree to stay safe from them after they heard I played dodgeball in school. (They claimed dodgeball was a sissy game.  I was told at their school they played dodge rocks.  Yep, you think movies like Halloween and Friday the 13th are scary.  That's nothing compared to an afternoon with those cousins.) I think if you have a kid that plays violin you need to give it a badass vibe. Perhaps a few questionable tattoos. How about a hand tattoo? A couple of funky earrings? Getting a Mohawk haircut is not off the table.  What games would violin camp attendees play during breaks?  Perhaps "Ring Around the Tesla" or "Pin the Tail on the Au Pair"?  I am a music lover, I just was curious when I head about Violin Camp.  Oh those ruff-neck cousins grew up and I ran into them at a wedding.  I was surprised how good of dancers they all were.  I asked my Uncle about it and he laughed and said:  "I think those six boys always waiting to get in the bathroom helped them develop some good moves."

[cupcake-jme]

So this happened yesterday. Headed to lunch w/ Mom & Dylan when I saw what I thought was a field rat dodging cars off Hobson in Sapulpa & I swerved to miss it when I realized it was a tiny #possum who was noticably burning its lil tootsies in its terrified scurry. I pulled over not thinking I'd be able to really capture or assist it as Mom & Dylan simultaneously said "you'll never be able to help it, it's a possum." Well to EVERYONE'S surprise when I got out instead of "playing possum" it popped it's lil ears up, we made strong eye contact I put my hands down, it hopped in my hands, we BOTH squeaked, I got a tiny nibble (it's barely has teefs), flinched & it hopped right up under the driver's seat. 😍 They asked "what are you gonna do"? "Close the door, go get a box & go to lunch." There was some slight excitement & commotion as anyone who knows me around any bebe especially animals I become very animated & also I didn't know beforehand my quasi son Dylan has a genuine fear of possums & it remained under the driver's seat "staring at him with it's beady lil 👀's" as he said & it had hissed - until we got to Dollar Tree do get a box and some towels. We offered appropriate food and water, put it in a safe dark, warm space & a few hours later lil baby was stuffed & rejuvenated. 🙌🏼 @thevanillagorila offered to tend the box over night seeing as their both nocturnal 🤣 LOL I woke up to a barrage of the cutest Snapchat videos of them hanging out most of the night (🤣"tending to the box to ensure its safety" is what he he said) on his chest while he was gaming and "Mom, what the hell did you do I'm now in love with a possum." "Ironically" 🔮 I have been melting over TikTok videos of possums recently & talking with Stephen who even just mentioned his desire to have a sugar glider, another family of marsupial. Then this teenie baby jumps right into our lives, literally. #junkrat #trashcat #possumbaby #opossumbaby #rescue #marsupial #adorable #possumrescue #opossumrescue #animalrescue #opposum #babyanimals #opossumsofinstagram #possumsofinstagram #opossumlove #possumlove #oklahomaopossum #marsupialsofinstagram #opossumlover #possumkingdom (at Tulsa, Oklahoma) https://www.instagram.com/p/ChpahiLMRCT/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[tropes-and-tales]

Fearless

Day 21:  Orgasm denial (Max Phillips x F!Reader)

(For the 2021 Kinktober event offered by @beeschaos and @withlove-sid.  The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)  

CW:  Smut (PiV; unprotected; monster-f*cking); 18+ only.

Word Count:  3909

AN:  This is very late - apologies!  My real life has been completely inconsiderate with my kinktober schedule.

The nice thing about being a vampire was how heightened the senses are.  

Max Phillips found that he no longer needed to rely on puny human sensory experiences.  He could hear, for example, someone’s heartbeat quickening.  He could see the almost-microscopic changes in a person’s pupils reacting to light or fear.  He could smell all sorts of hormones or pheromones or whatever – could tell when someone was afraid or horny or similar.

You, for example.  When the big reveal came (vampires are running this company), Max practically gagged against the sudden burst of fear-sweat produced by the humans in the room.  Not from you, though.

You had been shockingly…not shocked.  Not surprised or aghast.  You had only tucked yourself away into a corner in the ensuing panic, then sighed heavily afterwards as you looked at Max.

“Can you just kill me instead of turning me into a vampire?” you asked, and you sounded like some world-weary, cursed creature instead of the cute IT support analyst.  It made Max smile.

“Why?” he asked.

You sighed again and gestured helplessly at the cubicle farm in front of you.  “An eternity in this beige hellscape of a job?  Sounds like damnation to me.  Best just to kill me.”

Cool under pressure – a point in your favor.  Not exactly a team player – half a point deducted.  Something to consider in your annual review, perhaps.  

Still, Max was charmed by your cynicism and your boldness at making demands of a vampire, so he let you live…as a human.

For now.

-----

Max let you live then, and he found out other things about you.  

He broke something on his computer about once a week, just to get you into his office.  Sometimes he uninstalled drivers, because that took forever for you to troubleshoot and fix.  Once, he unplugged a cord and enjoyed watching you on your hands and knees, untangling the wires and plugging it back in.

Just as often that he wandered over to your corner of the cubicle farm, sometimes when you weren’t even there.  A person could tell a lot from another person’s desk.  No framed photos for you.  There was your coffee mug – from “Pulp Fiction” with the legend “This is some serious gourmet shit.”  There was a little plastic figurine of some superhero.  A neat stack of papers, a stapler.  Not much intel there, Max guessed, other than a slight love of pop culture.

You weren’t easily hypnotized.  He could hypnotize you, but it took a lot of effort.  He managed it once, but he was so fucking exhausted afterwards that he didn’t do anything with your pliable mind.  

Easier just to wheedle you down with his charm.

That’s how he got you to agree to a date.  Didn’t hypnotize you.  Just asked a billion times before you heaved that world-weary sigh of yours and said, “fine.”

-----

The first date at a trendy bar.  You make the effort and dress up, and you look fucking stunning.  You are cute in your jeans and IT-sanctioned polo shirt at work, but out on a date, in a dress?  Gorgeous.

Gorgeous, and just as cynical.  And not an ounce of fear to be on a date with a monster.  Max takes an unsubtle sniff near you and he doesn’t smell any fear whatsoever.  And since you also aren’t simpering at his overt charisma, he decides to drop the charm offensive and just talk to you.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asks.

You shrug, take a sip of your drink – some fruity concoction in a glass as big as your head.  “I figure if you’re going to kill me, I can’t really stop you, so why worry about it?”

“You aren’t afraid of death?”

“Sure, but there’s no sense in worrying about it.  I know I’m gonna die.  Why rage against the dying of the light and all that?”

“Dylan Thomas,” Max says.  “Nice.”

That makes you arch a curious eyebrow at him.  “You know poetry?”

“There was a class in college,” he tells you.  “Poetry of the British Isles.  Total pussy-fest.”

And that makes you roll your eyes, but you laugh too.  It startles him – he’s never heard you laugh in earnest before.  You mostly have a dry, sarcastic, fully-enunciated ha-ha that you do.

In one respect, the date is a fucking waste – he doesn’t score that night, and it’s just like everything else.  A ton of fucking effort.  But on the other hand, he makes you laugh.  Max would bet that no one has made you genuinely laugh in quite a while.

-----

Second date, out to a fancy restaurant.  As a vampire, Max can eat human food – it just isn’t very tasty.  He orders a thick steak, ultra-rare, and it’s good enough.

You fuss over the menu, your eyes widening at the prices.  You try to order the cheapest thing on the menu – a house salad – and it charms Max for some reason.  He doesn’t worry about money, but it’s cute, how you try to be a considerate date.

He orders for you.  Orders you the filet mignon and crab cakes, and wine for the table, and sides and dessert too.  He loves how it makes you squirm a little in your seat.  You’re so rarely discomforted at work, so it is interesting, watching you simmer in your uneasiness.

That night, at least he gets a kiss.  

-----

It’s hard to tell how you feel.  You always accept his offers to go out with him, but you never seem enthused.  You have such a poker face, and no obvious tells.  Nothing to give you away.

Except one thing:  Max has a superhuman nose now, and he can detect the subtlest shifts in hormones or pheromones or the like.  

You can hide behind your neutral face or your sarcastic little ha-ha laugh or your blasé attitude about death, but you can’t hide the arousal that blooms in you when Max is around.  It’s so fucking subtle, but it’s there.  Max can smell it, can sniff it out like a bloodhound.  Which he is, kind of.  

Sometime between your third and fifth date, you start to be attracted to Max, and he can tell.

It’s faint, though, so he tests his theory.  He waits for you to go into the server room for maintenance, and he follows you.  Doesn’t stand too close.  Doesn’t say anything overtly sexy.  Only talks boring shop-talk.  

Sure enough, there it is.  You gaze back at him, completely unperturbed on the surface – but he can tell, thanks to his vampiric abilities.  

You’re turned on by him.

Nothing to do but make a date with you.  And it’s cute, how you shrug and act as if you could take it or leave it, another date with him.

-----

This date…this date is at Max’s place.  It’s a swanky condo in the heart of the city, but it’s really just a place to store his shit.  He doesn’t cook in the kitchen.  He doesn’t really sleep in the bedroom.

Still, he has all the trendy shit that marks him as a successful businessman.  Mid-century modern furniture.  State of the art sound system and a huge shelf of vinyl’s, many still in their original shrink wrap.  It’s what you gravitate to when you shrug out of your coat, while you’re waiting for the takeout to arrive.

“You have a varied collection, Max,” you tell him.  “Do you actually like all of these, or is it just for show?”

“I like most of it,” he replies, a little defensively.

“Is the Barry White part of your college pussy-fest?” you tease, and that’s new too – you teasing.

Dinner arrives, and the two of you eat – you eat, and Max mostly watches you.  Afterwards, you return to his music collection, rifling through the records.  He uses his stealthy-sneaky speed to stand behind you, and you give a little gasp of surprise when you turn around and find him right there.  Inches away from you.

He lays his arms on your shoulders.  Gentle.  That close, he can sense all the ways he’s affecting you:  the subtle dilation of your pupils, the soft thundering of your heart picking up tempo.  And yes – he can smell your arousal, growing by the moment.

Not a single bit of fear though.  Not now, not when he bends his head to kiss you, and not when he takes you to his bedroom and spends long, long hours there with you.

-----

Over time, you become Max’s favorite plaything.

He calls you his plaything because he cannot – will not – admit that he has feelings for you.  That the woman with the cynical armor somehow wriggled her way into his cold, dead heart.  Max was a bastard when he was a human, and being a vampire hasn’t improved that aspect of him – but you spark some feeling in him that he hasn’t felt before.

He enjoys embarrassing you at work.  Calling you into his office under the guise of needing some IT support, then seducing you loud enough behind the closed door for everyone to hear.  Seducing you – or trying to.  You have a remarkable iron will and never give in during work hours, leaving his office flustered and bathed in an arousal so sharp that Max stays hard for the rest of the day.

No matter – he takes you home and fucks you there, and the anticipation makes it that much sweeter.

But he enjoys you best like you are right now:  naked on his bed, panting and weeping in frustration.  If he were human, he’d have you tied down, but he’s not.  He’s preternaturally strong and fast, so it’s easy to pin your wrists above your head as he stills his pistoning hips.

“Please, Max,” you beg.  He loves when you beg – it’s so unlike you.  The neutral mask you wear falls away, and he’s left with the real you.  A wanton, unrestrained creature who chases pleasure with reckless abandon.  A woman who doesn’t really fear death and who wants to wring every bit of pleasure out of life before death comes for her.

“Please,” you repeat.  “Please let me come.”

This is where he leans into his cruelty, just a little.  Torturing you.  It’s his favorite game because of how riled you get.  How it sparks against all of his supernatural senses.  Your arousal, stronger because of how frustrated you get, fills his head and settles in like a drug.  Your heartbeat, a staccato that speeds up when you get close and then calms as your orgasm retreats.  Your pupils blown so wide that your eyes glitter black in your face.  Your cunt – swollen and sensitive and positively drenched from his ministrations – first his hands, then his tongue, now his cock.  As a vampire, he doesn’t need to breathe – rarely tires, so he can spend hours at this.  Pushing you to your limit.  Pulling you back.  Pushing you to the edge.  Pulling you back.

Turning you into a whining, pleading little mess beneath him.  His mess.

“Why would I let you come?” he growls against the side of your neck.  His words make you shiver, and he smiles against your warm skin.  

You don’t have an answer for him.  You tried, early on, to guess at the right answer, but you never came close to it.  Why would he let you come?  Why does he finally let you come, after so much teasing?

Well, because he loves you.  He may be an irredeemable bastard, but it turns out he still has the capacity to love.  He never used it when he was alive, so maybe it’s a benefit of being a vampire.  Super-speed.  Super-strength.  The ability to love.

Max can’t guess at how you feel, but even if you don’t love him, you trust him.  And more than that – you trust him with your life.  Because tonight…

Max lets his fangs out, just a little.  Just enough for him to press them lightly to the side of your neck, making you shiver again.  

Making you arch underneath his body, and it grants him another inch into your unbearably hot, unbearably wet depths. He groans against you, bites down a little, but doesn’t break the skin.  He can taste the salt on your skin, but that close to your jugular, Max can smell your blood.  Hot, rich – laced through with whatever chemicals he’s coaxed from you in the past hour.  Oxytocin or whatever.

“Please, Max,” you whisper, and it’s a harsh, punched-out sound.

“Please what.”  It’s a taunt, his words a cruel lilt against your ear.  “Please fuck you?  Please let you come?  Or please bite you?”

You struggle against his hold on your wrists, and it makes him groan again, you wriggling like that.  

Max has never bitten you before.  He’s had a taste of your blood just once, when you cut your finger at work.  The smell had pulled him out of his office, slavering at the unique scent of you, and before you could even say a word, he had your finger in his mouth.  Just a tiny taste, but it was like something in your blood altered him that day.  Thawed out his cold heart just a little.

It’s something he’s played at before.  Scraping his teeth along the side of your neck, noticing the subtle way you bend your head to give him better access.  Sometimes he sucks a mark onto your neck, relishing the way blood floods to the bruise, close enough that he can almost taste it.

“Please what?” he repeats, and you shake your head in frustration.

“Anything,” you cry out.  “Anything you want.  Just…please, Max.  Do something.”

He pulls nearly the entire way out of you until just the tip of him is at your entrance – and then he presses forward in one strong move, hilting himself in your depths.  

“Like that?” he asks, and you squirm underneath him again.  You try to gain some friction against him, but he’s too strong.  

“Look at you,” he continues.  “So needy.  Such a whining little mess.”

“Max, please.”  Your eyes are unfocused, but you struggle to catch his eye.  You shake your head a little.

“Maybe I’d rather bite you.”  He pushes a fraction deeper into you, can feel the crown of his cock hitting the end of you, and it makes you whimper.  

“You can.  I couldn’t stop you if you did.”  It comes out breathless.  Hardly even a whisper.

“Might not be able to stop,” he warns you.  “Might go too far.”

He can smell it, the thin tendril of fear that spikes in you underneath the arousal.  Underneath the frustration.  It’s barely there, but it’s the first time he smells fear on you.

“I trust you.”

Max shakes his head.  “You shouldn’t.  I’m a monster.”

There’s a little fear on Max’s side too.  He’s never bitten a human that he hasn’t killed.  To be fair, he’s never bitten a human with any other intent than to feed and kill.  A handful of human dates, one-time things, that he fucked them and then drank from them – but never a woman like you.  Never one he’d want to let live.

But you do seem to trust him.  Or, despite your fear, you recognize the inevitability of your own death if he wills it.  You can’t move much – pinned underneath his body, your wrists stretched out and held over your head.  

But you can tilt your head.  You do tilt your head.  Stretch out the long, lovely line of your neck, and Max can see and hear and smell – your pounding heart, your jugular right near the surface.  Just aching for his teeth to tear it open and drink –

He fucks you harder.  He snarls like a beast as he sets a punishing pace.  No more teasing.  No more pushing you to the edge and pulling back.  Your cunt is so swollen and hot from his teasing, it’s nearly unbearable to fuck you.  Pushes him right to the edge too.

He almost misses your words.  Over the sound of your panting, over the sound of your thundering heart and his own growls, he almost misses your quiet whisper.

“You can bite me, Max.  You c-can feed from me.”

He too fucking close to argue.  Your words hit him like a punch, and it sets off the feral, monstrous side of him.  He can feel his face transform into his craggy, gargoyle face – and his teeth descend.

And he buries his face into the side of your neck and bites you with a roar.

It makes you both come.  Max releases your wrists and thrusts hard into you, stilling deep in your molten cunt as he feeds.  The blood floods every sense he has – it’s rich and hot and he can hear your heart struggling against his assault.  It’s the very essence of you, and it fills him.

He can hear you cry out at the pain, but when he releases your wrists, you don’t try to push him away.  No, you wrap one arm around his broad shoulders, and the other hand threads through his hair.  Holds him to your neck as you wail out his name, wail out a cry so primal it makes him shiver.  The pain of his mouth tearing you open, the pleasure of his cock buried inside you.  You come hard, and Max can taste the flood of whatever chemical is triggered by your orgasm.  You arch against him, hold him tight to you, and it’s too much for him.  Your blood flooding his mouth, your slick wash of come coating his cock as he spills inside of you.

Max doesn’t realize what he’s done until it’s almost too late.  He feels the rush of your blood abating – there’s not enough for your heart to pump anymore.  And your hands loosen their grip on him.  It’s enough to shake him out of his blood-induced frenzy, and your heartbeat is so faint that even with his supernatural hearing, he has to strain to hear it.

*****

When you wake up, you aren’t quite sure where you are.  There’s a moment of panic, waking up in a strange room.  It’s dark, with only a bit of light creeping in around the edges of the blackout curtains.

That gives it away – the curtains.  You’re in Max’s bedroom.  And it’s daytime.

You don’t remember falling asleep.  You don’t know how long you’ve slept.  However long it was, it wasn’t enough – you still feel exhausted.  Tired down to the very core of your being.  You haven’t felt like this in…well, in forever.  Not since you were putting yourself through college with two jobs, running on fumes and caffeine.

“You’re awake.”  You turn your head on the pillow and glance over to see Max.  Not lying beside you as he normally did, drawn to your human warmth like a lizard to a sun-drenched rock.  No, he’s sitting in a chair beside the bed, and the expression on his face is indescribable.  He looks rough.  Exhausted.  Strange, for a creature that is indefatigable.

Looking at him, you can see the rest of the scene.  The IV stand beside the bed, the plastic tubing running into your arm.  One clear, one red.  Saline…and blood.

“What happened?” you ask, and your voice is a dry croak in your throat.  

Max doesn’t answer you right away.  He leaves the room, comes back a moment later with a glass of water.  He lays one cool hand under the back of your head and helps you drink, and the expression on his face never changes from his somber frown.  You’ve never seen him look so serious.  You figured vampirism caused eternal smirking.

He doesn’t answer until he sets the half-empty glass down.  He sits back down in the chair and fixes you with an inscrutable look before he finally speaks.

“We went too far.  I went too far.  I nearly killed you.”

You remember, faintly.  You remember the pain and the pleasure of that moment, woven together.  You remember the feel of his fangs in your neck, the feel of his mouth latched onto you.  The feeling of being drained, of growing sleepy and heavy in his arms.  

As far as death went, it would have been a pretty easy way to go.  Falling asleep in Max’s arms, never waking up…

“Why didn’t you?  Kill me, I mean.  You told me once that you’ve never fed without killing…”

“It was different,” he mutters, and he can’t quite meet your gaze.  “We never talked about what would happen if…if I went too far.”  His eyes shift to look at you, and for the first time since you’ve met him, you can see some emotion there.  

“I could have let you die,” he continues.  “Or I could have…turned you.  But we never talked about it, and both options are permanent.  So I called…let’s call it a specialty service.  Emergency line for vampires.”

You laugh weakly and shift on the bed.  “Patch up service for human pets.  Like an on-call vet who makes house calls.”

“Yeah, they gave you your rabies shot while you were under too,” he tries to joke, but there’s no humor in his voice.  No smarm, no drollness.  

If you didn’t know better, you’d guess that Max is having a crisis of conscience.  That he can even feel guilty is a revelation – you know he enjoys fucking you, playing around with you like a cat may play with a mouse.  But you also know that he’ll eventually grow bored of you, and like a cat with a mouse, he’ll eventually eat you.

“I wouldn’t haunt you if you killed me,” you try to joke back, but Max winces at that.  Fixes his eyes on some spot on the wall across from you.

“Just wasn’t ready for this to end.”  His words are quiet, and you have to strain to pick them up.  You are still tired, and you can feel your eyelids growing heavy.  

“Not bored with me yet?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t reply.  He stands up and walks around to the other side of the bed, opposite of the IV lines and stand.  He hesitates for a moment – that’s new too, Max hesitating – but then he climbs into bed with you.  Another beat, then he’s pulling you gently into his arms.  

He probably just wants your human warmth.  Or maybe he’s just unwilling to find a new plaything.  Or maybe he wants to see if he can control his hunger better, feed off of you regularly.  Who knows what goes through his mind, this cold-blooded killer?

Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but as you fall asleep against his broad chest, you don’t feel a single bit of fear.  You had, in that moment before he bit you – just a little fear.  Maybe just fear of the unknown, but not of him.  Not then, and not now.  You’re a cynic, but there’s a hopefulness in your beating heart now.  Max could have killed you, but he stopped before it was too late.  He got help.  He saved you.

It has to mean something.  Maybe you don’t fear death, not really – but maybe you have a reason to live.  If Max didn’t care, he wouldn’t have bothered to keep you in the realm of the living.  

You wonder, as you fall deeper into sleep, as you feel the cool press of his lips against your forehead – maybe you could see yourself living like this.  By Max’s side, maybe for an eternity.

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas  @rachelxwayne​   @stardust-fray   @massivecolorspygiant​   @imspillingcoffee​   @amneris21​  @paintballkid711​   @mad-girl-without-a-box​   @bestattempt​   @rosiefridayrogersunday​   @strawberrydragon​   @hoeforthefictional​   @greeneyedblondie44​  @leannawithacapitala​   @stardust-galaxies​  @isvvc-pvscvl​   @mrschiltoncat​   @danniburgh​   @stillshelbs​   @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics    @tobealostwanderer​   @nuvoleincielo​  @knivesareout​  @frankie-catfish-morales​    @prostitute-robot-from-the-future​

[asafeplacetostay]

Lovely Neighbour (Wilbur Soot x Reader)

genre: fluff

tw: cursing, the words 'porn start', sickness, over-working

enjoy :)

"Ok, you just go there and...give him the-" you look down at your hands, fingers fiddling with the paper wrapper nervously. "Give him the present- which is weird, because we're not dating- oh my god what am I doing"

You swallow a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves as you lift your fist up, but the door opens abruptly and almost hits you in the head.

"(Y/n)! Hey! Sorry for that darling, you ok?" The man asks, and as you're trying to find your words, he begins to walk away. "I'm in a bit of a hurry! We'll talk later, yeah?" He's screaming the last part as he starts quickening his pace, disappearing in the hallway.

Sighing once again, you frown, eyes glancing at the present for a second before looking back up at the direction he ran away to. "Sure, Wilbur, talk to you later..."

----

You've moved to this apartment for some months now, and everytime you tried to begin a conversation with your floor neighbour, something happened.

From him having a meeting, to him spending all of his day locked up in his office working, to him not being home for a couple of days. Yeah, luck wasn't on your side.

You developed a crush on Wilbur the third time you spoke, his charming and kind words while he helped you get into your apartment when the door handle decided to pop off of the door from the outside made you swoon. He was a respectful and attractive British man, and dropped everything the second he saw you struggle to get home, even helping you with the groceries when you both got the door fixed, throwing some jokes here and there that genuinely made you cackle.

You decided to give him a present for helping you out. Maybe you were overdoing it, buying something just because he helped you get a door open, but you couldn't help it, you owed him in a way. And maybe you also wanted to see his expression when he received the pine scented candle. 

And you also had an excuse to chat, so why not? 

The answer seemed pretty simple the third time you attempted to give him the candle. He's a busy man, he doesn't need a little hopeless romantic following him around while he tries to do his job. Talking about jobs, you didn't even know what his job was, but you didn't want to seem nosy, so you let the matter go.

You did give him the present though, by leaving it in the post office of the apartment, his only reply being a smiley face on a piece of paper that you found lying on the floor near your door, a capital W on the bottom of the page.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be? It sure was depressing at first, but you were an independent person, and you needed to catch up on your own work, so you did.

Business calls, replying emails, zooms; it all became like a routine. You indulged yourself up your nose with stuff, and if you finished for the day, you still asked your boss for more.

Dylan, your boss, was a lovely man. He told you about his husband a lot in business calls, and even though you were firstly trying to get more assignments, you listened to him whole-heartedly, but he also began voicing his concerns about your physique.

Your eyebags were more noticeable than ever, your eyes were droopy, and your skin turned paler over the course of three weeks. You explained that it was just a side effect from some pills you were taking, which was a lie, but he bought it for some time.

Until you had someone knocking at your door on a Saturday night.

Your fingers froze over your keyboard, eyebrows furrowing as you checked the clock of your laptop. Who was knocking at 11 PM?

Standing up from your chair was strangely difficult, your vision fogging for some seconds until you found balance on your wooden desk, your hand gripping the edge.

"Coming!" you said, shaking your head softly to clear your mind, eyes blinking to adjust to the lack of light in the room, the only source being your screen.

When you opened the door, you had to retain yourself from gasping when you faced a 6'6 figure hovering over you behind your doorframe, his face and smile dashing as ever.

"Wil-" you got cut off by his hand placing on your forehead, your cheeks turning pink. 

"You're burning up, (Y/n)". 

As you were about to ask him what the hell was he doing at that time on your door, it was like he read your mind. 

"Your boss called me, Dylan, he said he was worried about your health and suspected that you were lying about taking pills. When was the last time you slept?" He asked, selectively ignoring the way you shot your eyebrows up in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, that is none of your business" you said, crossing your arms around your chest to later puff it out slightly, trying to seem more 'intimidating'.

Wilbur scoffed at your cuteness, leaning against the doorframe like a porn star. "I mean, your boss called me, after all. He also mentioned the fact that you 'seemed to have a crush on me''' He even moved his two fingers up and down while he said the last part. "And I didn't thank you for the present, so why not? Lovely candle by the way"

If you were in your right mind, you would have been completely embarrassed, but you were not.

"I HAD a crush on you, but every time I tried to talk to you you were busy, so I gave up", a throbbing headache hit you on the left side of your brain, so you stopped to run your hand over the curve of your skull, trying to ease the pain. "Look, I know it's not your fault that you're busy, you are successful in-...whatever you do, and I didn't want to bother you".

The wide smirk Wilbur had on his face while he leaned forward just a bit made you freeze, your eyes staring directly at his, like that would give you the answer as to what was going on in that hot head of his.

"How about this!" His 'seductive' persona shattered in seconds as he beamed, leaning back so you could release the breath that you didn't even know you were holding. "You rest for the next few days and- what day is today? Fri-Saturday, okay so the next Thursday I'll take you out to dinner, if that's ok with you" 

Your mind went blank for a moment, looking up at the smiling man as if he just revealed that he killed thousands of people and blew up a country.

Seeing that you weren't responding, Wilbur grew nervous, maybe Dylan was not really serious, or maybe he made the sleep-deprived woman in front of him uncomfortable, which was the last thing he wanted to do. "Sorry- that was really sudden. It's totally ok if you don't want to, but at least get some sleep and eat, yeah?" 

You snapped out of your trance and smiled back weakily, nodding your head. "I would- yeah, I'll go on a date with you, Thursday seems great". 

He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.

"And I'll take care of myself".

Wilbur shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, his cheeks a soft hue of red. "Cool, I'll be here, to pick you up".

"Yeah, thanks"

He glanced at you for the last time, putting his palms together so he could lean his head against the back of his hand, reminding you to get some sleep as he walked away.

"Got it, bye!" 

You closed the door when he was out of sight, when a wave of exhaustion hit you, making you groan out loud and clutch your head in pain. You stood still for some seconds before walking down your apartment and into your bedroom, not before snapping your laptop shut with one hand.

You woke up the next day at 9 PM because of some distant screaming and clapping, but paid no mind to it, going back to sleep.

[outerbankies]

new light part 4: underneath the moonlight — rafe cameron

new light series masterlist

summary: you and rafe meet the parents (properly) and go to midsummers together, but not everyone is as smitten with your relationship as you two are.

pairing: rafe x kook reader

warnings: drinking, swearing

a/n: say hello to a few characters (tw: ward) i have had yet to feature thus far 🤗 more of y/n being besties with kelce (and topper this time—our fave obx himbo) there’s a lil drama in this part y’all... into the thick of it. thanks for all the feedback 💖not canon rafe

my writing

yeah if you give me just one night, to meet you underneath the moonlight

You’re startled awake by a loud knock on your bedroom door. You’re squished between 6 feet and 3 inches worth of boy and the pink wall your bed is pushed up against. Rafe always insisted on laying on your outer side, closest to the door of your bedroom. Which means you often woke up pressed into the wall, your neck sometimes aching from the awkward angle. Not to mention Wilbur always taking up the space at your feet, Rafe usually nudging him into your space so he could stretch out.

Rafe stirs also, making sleepy noises and stretching his legs where they hang off the end of your bed. He grumbles and smacks his lips together a few times, your hand instinctively coming to rub along his jaw. His eyes flutter open as the sun streams in through your window, illuminating the hint of golden stubble on his chin. You’d only slept over together a few times, since you were both staying with your parents for the summer, so it’s always nice to wake up with your boy in your bed.

Oh fuck. Your boy is in your bed.

Rafe's eyes widen at the same time as yours.

“Oh shit, we fell asleep?” he whispers, head whipping around your room.

“Fuck, you have to hide right now,” you whisper, stumbling through your thoughts sleepily.

Another knock sounds from the door.

You extract yourself from your spot between Rafe and the wall, his hands guiding you by your hips as you tumble over him.

“Just, fuck, just like—get under the covers or something. God, I hope it’s not my dad,” you whisper.

“Me too,” he says, slinking into the gap between your bed and the wall as best he can, covering his face with a pillow.

You check that he’s concealed enough, turning to open the door just the slightest bit. Dylan stands in the crack.

“We have brunch at the Club in an hour, mom wanted me to ask if you invited Rafe,” he peers around you, gaze moving to behind your shoulder. “Or I could just ask him myself. Sup, Rafe?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dyl,” you whisper-shout. “Where are mom and dad? Can he sneak out the back? And don’t lie to me, or I’ll tell them about Hilton Head.”

“God, calm down. Dad’s in the garage and mom’s getting ready. Just have him go now.”

“Thanks,” you say, all but slamming the door in his face. You turn around and press your back against the door, letting out a shaky breath.

The covers rustle, and Rafe springs out of your bed to gather his things while Wilbur watches him. He always starts pouting when he notices that Rafe is putting on his hat or shoes, signs that he’s about to leave.

“We are so dead.”

“You don’t think he’ll say anything, do you? I don’t think I can sit at brunch with your dad in an hour if he knows I slept in your bed last night.”

“Not if he’s smart,” you sigh. “Want me to walk you out?”

“No, I got it. Just keep Willy in here. I’ll text you when I make it out alive. If you don’t hear from me, just assume your father murdered me,” he jokes, leaning down to give you a kiss after he slips his shoes on. “See you back here in an hour?”

“Yes, please be early. And clean shaven.”

“Yes ma’am. And don’t insult me,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Nervous?”

“Not nearly as nervous as I will be if I get caught, sweetheart. Gotta go so I have time to shower—and shave. See you in a bit.”

He gives you one last kiss before he departs, and you move to the window with Wilbur to watch him slink across the backyard, arms crossed and a fond grin on your face. He turns and blows you one last kiss before he disappears around the side of your house.

—

“Y/n, can I speak to you for a second?”

Your dad’s voice comes from his study as you pass by, checking yourself over in the entryway mirror one more time. Rafe should be here any minute.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Come sit,” he says, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk. You feel the hair stand up on the back of your neck. Your dad only invited you to talk in his study if it was something serious. The last time he did was when he told you he was going to take away your Range Rover if you didn’t pull your Bs up to As your freshman year of college. You’ve had a 4.0 ever since.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. Just wanted to talk about the new boyfriend.”

“What about him?”

“I always knew of him while the two of you were growing up. But I talked to him a bit back during Dylan’s grad week.”

As an unruly teenager and the rightful heir to his father's business, everyone in the Outer Banks knew about Rafe and his antics. Good or bad. You could even recall your mom gossiping to your dad, words passed on from Rose, about some of his more... notable incidences.

“Y-yeah, he's...” you trail off, searching for the right words to describe Rafe these days.

“Seems like a good kid,” your dad supplies.

“What did you guys talk about?”

“Business, mostly. His future and whatnot.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No, I just wonder... are you sure about this one? When you were kids, that boy was always causing trouble. And you know your mother and I were always so proud of how you stayed in line.”

“I know,” you sigh. “But Rafe’s not a boy anymore. Just give him a chance.”

“I will,” your dad says, slapping his knees to stand up. “But I'm also gonna give him a hard time.”

“Dad, please.”

“It’s my job. Your mom gets to freak out about Dylan moving out, and I get to handle scaring every man who gets to look at you.”

The doorbell rings.

“Please. I am literally begging.”

Your dad draws a fake halo around his head, and you just roll your eyes.

The morning gets off to an even more embarrassing start as soon as Rafe crosses the threshold into your house. Wilbur jumps into his arms immediately, all ninety pounds of him, and your mom’s eyes widen.

“My goodness, he’s usually so hesitant around strangers!”

Dylan chokes on a laugh, and if you weren’t across the room you’d have elbowed him in the ribs.

“Oh, I’ve walked Wilbur by Tanneyhill before.”

“Yeah, I-I love Willy. Mrs. Y/l/n, it’s so nice to see you again,” Rafe says, effortlessly following your lead after Wilbur scampers out of his hold. He shakes your mom’s hand politely. Your dad sidles up to her then, fixing Rafe with a stare harder than you’d prefer. “Mr. Y/l/n, you as well. Thanks again, to both of you, for inviting me.”

“Good to see you, Rafe,” your dad says, a strong hand clamping onto his shoulder. “Dylan, come say hi.”

Dylan’s grin is devilish, and you're just watching on in pure horror at this point. “How have you been, Rafe? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

—

Rafe’s grinning ear to ear, hand firm on your thigh, all of the windows in his truck rolled down. He even popped the sun roof, letting you blast your playlist all the way down the road.

“Okay—I just... did that go well?”

“You did great, Rafe.”

Despite Dylan's best efforts to embarrass you two, brunch had gone really well. Your dad took a second to let his guard down, unlike your mother who was immediately gushing over him. You could practically see the wheels in her head turning, the wedding colors she'd picked for you. And your dad came around quick enough once Rafe brought up Formula 1.

Your boyfriend looks so relieved, hand even coming to feel the air pass through his fingers as he hangs his arm out the window, hand on your thigh coming back up to steady the wheel. He taps on it excitedly.

“Lowkey, feel like I nailed it, baby.”

“Okay,” you giggle, leaning over to peck his check. You pull him in with a soft hand to the other side of his face. “Let’s not get too big for our britches.”

“Oh, I’m a parent-meeting expert now. Might go into consulting.”

“You’ve perfected the sport?” you joke.

“No, no. That’s—I’ve never actually met parents before,” he admits.

“No way?”

“Way? Have you?” he asks, slight edge seeping into his tone as he pulls up to the stoplight outside of your favorite coffee spot.

“Uh... once. We weren’t even really dating yet, but they came to visit and he like, ambushed me with them at dinner. They were kinda hippies, though.”

“Yeah?” His tone is clipped as he parks his truck.

“Yeah, some guy from my comparative literature class sophomore year,” you sigh. “But, you’re the first to meet my parents.”

“Mm,” he hums, fingers tapping on your knee. That satisfies him. He gathers one of your hands in his. “You coming in?”

“Will you just get me a latte? Kinda wanna call my mom and debrief.”

He laughs, kissing your knuckles. “I’ll give you a minute, sweetheart. Oat milk?”

—

Your original plans to meet the Camerons fell through, a last minute staging emergency arising when you were all supposed to go for dinner. You’d tried not to look down while Rafe attempted in earnest to cheer you up, telling you how pretty you looked while you took out your earrings and let your hair down. He'd kissed the crown of your hair and apologized profusely, promising they would love you when they finally got to meet you.

“M’not upset.”

“Okay.” His hand stroked your back through the thick cotton of one of his old water polo sweatshirts he’d let you borrow for the night.

“I’m just really nervous about meeting them. You might’ve set the bar a little too high with my parents.”

“You just have a great family.”

“I don’t know,” you said when you finally cracked a smile. “Made it pretty far on your first try.”

“Don’t worry. They’re going to love you, sweetheart.”

You let him kiss your cheek, your forehead, your nose and chin.

“Hope so.”

“Know so.”

And Rafe had somehow convinced your father to let you go to Midsummers with his family, promising to join up for pictures and greetings later. Your dad had willingly let him, to your surprise.

The event was a big deal to Figure 8 patriarchs and matriarchs alike, always trying to outdo the other in every way, all while feigning some sense of island camaraderie. But when Rafe had set aside time at brunch to specifically ask your family for their permission to accompany you to the event, they’d been hard pressed to say no. Your family immediately accepted Rafe as your boyfriend, any lingering hesitations about his character drowned out by the equal chances of your personal happiness and the heightening of their social and business profiles.

But he’d still come to your house to pick you up, ready to greet your parents in the foyer once again.

He takes one look at you in that blush pink dress, hair, makeup and jewelry all done up this time around, daisy flower crown in place, and flicks his eyes around his surroundings. Your father and Dylan were nowhere in sight, and your mother was busy fixing her earrings in the hall. He takes to your side immediately, a kiss to the side of your head followed by his lips pressing against your ear. “I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

With the high from those words, you ride in his truck to Midsummers, nerves never dissipating no matter how many reassurances he speaks across the summer air streaming in through the vehicle. “Remember, they’re gonna love you.”

He helps you down from his truck so you can focus on keeping your dress off the ground, assuring you for the fiftieth time that Rose is going to like your headpiece.

“Miss Y/l/n, how lovely to see you again you at last,” Ward sighs, sounding somewhat fond. “Rafe’s been talking my ear off about this, meeting you again even though we’ve already met. Sorry we couldn’t make it work earlier.”

“No worries, Mr. Cameron. Thank you so much for inviting me to tag along with your family at Midsummers. You as well, Mrs. Cameron. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you! And of course,” Rose says, bringing you in for a hug, one you definitely were not expecting.“You’re out in California, aren’t you?”

“Yes, home for the summer.”

“That’s a long way from here,” Ward says. His eyes flicker to Rafe. “Long way from Georgia. Shorter, but still a long way.”

“Dad, c’mon,” Rafe cuts in, and you can feel his hand gripping the back of your dress:

“He’s just stating the obvious, Rafe,” Rose intervenes.

“Yeah, it is far,” you agree. Rafe’s head whips around back to you.

“We’re figuring it out,” he says. To anyone else in the vicinity, he probably sounds confident and self assured. But you know Rafe, and you can look into his eyes and see that he’s not. That if he weren’t in front of his entire family, trying earnestly to impress his father, he’d have said: ‘we’re gonna figure it out, right?’

“I’m sure things will work out the way they’re meant to,” Ward says after a lapse in conversation. “One way or another.”

“Let’s get some photos so we can all enter and the two of you can run off,” Rose says immediately after, giving neither of you the time to say anything else.

You do your best to shake off Ward’s comment as the four of you join up with the Cameron daughters, plus Sarah’s boyfriend, John B. After posing for what felt like hours, the photographer asks you and John B to hop out so they can take some family pictures, the two of you swiping up a couple of Old Fashioneds from the bar. You have to assure Rafe twice that you’ll be okay for ten minutes on your own.

“First time meeting Ward?” Sarah’s boyfriend asks, leaned up against the bar like he owns the place.

“Er—of course not,” you say, like it’s obvious. But of course John B knew nothing about Figure 8 social circles. “Just the first time as Rafe’s girlfriend.”

“Yeah, you look nervous,” he admits, chuckling when your mouth drops open. “It’s not too obvious, I just know because—been in your shoes.”

You should be insulted that the teenager compares his and Sarah’s relationship with yours and Rafe’s, but you know he isn’t being malicious. You see nothing but kindness in his eyes. And it’s nice to have somewhat of a teammate in this situation, the two of you standing by while one of the most powerful families in Kildare poses together in their finest outfits.

Rafe looks hot in his grey suit, especially with the pocket square he’d agonized over for weeks before you gifted him one that was hand sewn from the extra material where your dress had been hemmed. Monogrammed, of course.

You’d decided to go with his initials, since it was going to him after all. But your stomach gets fluttery if you think about the expression on his face when he’d received it, telling you that you should’ve put yours on it instead. “That way everyone will know I’m yours.”

Turning back to John B, you can’t imagine how he must have felt the first time he was invited into all of this. It intimidated even you, and you’re pretty sure John B was friends with the boy who delivered your family’s groceries every week.

“Any tips?”

“You’re way better off than I was, first of all,” he laughs. “But he’s really only scary when it’s one-on-one. He cares too much about this appearance of a perfect family to make digs in front of an audience.”

You nod. “That’s actually really good advice, John B.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, kook.” He clinks his glass against yours, promptly throwing the entire drink back as you watch and laugh. “That’s another tip. Drink whenever you can.”

“I’m familiar with that one.”

It's intimidating entering the event, a little after everyone else has arrived. Rafe told you that was by design—the Camerons could never be earlier than fashionably late. You always assumed you and Rafe were raised with similar pedigrees, but you're barely through the doors of the event before you realize that's not entirely true. Up until the last millisecond, Rose is fussing with Sarah and Wheezie's gowns, the older daughter making eye contact with you and rolling her eyes at her step-mother's antics. And Ward brushes Rafe's shoulders off more times than you can count, straightening his bow tie for him repeatedly. Rafe just places his hand on your back, leaning down to whisper into your ear. “You ready?”

You smile up at him, but your nerves are firmly settled in at this point. What you reply isn’t completely true. “Of course.”

—

You take John B’s advice, of course, and choose Kelce as your designated drinking buddy for the night. He was hard to keep up with, but you threw your inhibitions to the wind after you got meeting the Camerons out of the way. Plus, Rafe had more business to attend to than he’d let on, and you were getting pretty bored. Not too long ago he would’ve been right beside the rest of you, causing trouble and borderline embarrassing all of your parents. It was weird to see him walking around, shaking hands and rubbing elbows. He’d invited you into a few conversations, you trying your hardest not to simply watch him in awe.

You’re engaged in some strange dance battle with Kelce when he stacks his drink into yours, both empties at this point. “Your turn to get a round.”

“Boo,” you sigh, throwing your head back. “What d’you want?”

“Surprise me.”

“Aye aye.”

You’re turning on a shaky high heel, and you have to give yourself a little mental pep talk to straighten up. Of course you can, though.

“What can I get you, miss?” the barkeep asks.

“Vodka press, Tito’s, and a Jack and coke. Double Jack. Actually—single. Thanks,” you murmur, trying to fish a ten out of your clutch.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got the tip for this one,” a voice says next to you. Ward Cameron is sidling up next to you, sliding a fifty across the counter. Your eyes widen at the tip, trying not to be embarrassed as the bartender sets the drinks down in front of you.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Cameron.”

“Ah, call me Ward.” He flicks his eyes back to the bartender, who quickly pockets the tip and makes himself scarce to give the two of you some privacy. You can’t help but think of John B’s warning: ‘he’s really only scary when it’s one-on-one.’ There’s no point in even trying seek out Rafe, you knowing full well you’re expected to stay rooted to the spot until Ward dismisses you. “Having a good time?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “It’s always fun to come back out here for this.”

“So, California to Georgia,” he whistles. “That’s probably a five hour flight, at least.”

“Yeah, um,” you take a minute to make sure your flower crown is perfectly in place. “It’s actually two.”

“Excuse me?”

“Two flights. From his school to mine. Rafe checked, he said there’s nothing direct,” you clarify.

Ward let’s out an indifferent chuckle. “Of course he did.”

Your eyebrow furrows because you don’t know what to say, turning to look at where your drinks are starting to melt. Kelce would be wondering where you are by now if he wasn’t three sheets to the wind. And where the hell was Rafe?

“Y/n, as far as I can tell, you are a nice girl. I just need to make sure we’re on the same page about one thing.”

Your heartbeat that hadn’t really settled since Ward approached you is picking up again, and you really wish Rafe had been the least bit more concerned about where you were at this moment.

“Um, I-I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I'm don’t know how serious you two are, Y/n, but I know my son. He's clearly very invested in pursuing you.”

Your resolve crumbles a little at that, your heart warming, thinking about Ward noticing something like that.

“But Rafe needs to be committed to finishing this degree so he can come home and start learning the ropes next year. And in four years, Sarah will do the same. Then Louisa after her.”

“Wow, that’s so lucky for you—that they all want to go into the family business,” you praise, not really knowing what else to say. It must be the wrong thing, because Ward just quirks an eyebrow.

“In this family, our business will always come first. Before anything and anyone else. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

You swallow, catching on to where this is going for the first time. You still go for playing dumb.

“Ward, I really don't think I understand.”

“But you do, don't you? You know Rafe. He’s a bit emotional, he’s a ‘feeler,’” Ward says sarcastically, putting it in air quotes. All of the niceties you experienced earlier when you first greeted Rafe’s family were long gone. You can only gather that it was all an act for Rafe’s benefit. But you know the only option is to sit there and take it. “He thinks with his heart, never enough with his head. Sarah, for example—when it’s time for her to cut that pogue lose, which it will be soon enough, I know she will. Whether it’s my decision or her’s. I can count on that, because she’s just like me in that respect; she knows we have to make sacrifices. But Rafe—I don’t think I can make that same assumption about him.”

“Ward, with all due respect, Rafe is really focused on the business.”

“You're correct, and I’ve worked hard to get him there. Which is why I can't have him spending his senior year of college, when he should be buckled down, traveling back and forth from California and getting distracted from his future by some girl.”

“Mr. Cameron, I would never—”

“You know that it’s true. I can tell you’re bright. You come from a great family.” It’s a compliment and an insult all at once. He likes you because of your father’s business and your mother’s social status, not because of what you do for Rafe, or what you have to show for yourself. He continues like it was nothing but the highest praise. “But right now, you are across the country from him, and I can bet he’s determined to make that work, no matter what it takes. Which I obviously can’t have,” Ward sighs. “It’s just not the right time. You can understand that, can't you?”

You nod numbly and pick up your drinks, hoping he’ll get the signal to wrap this up soon. You’re at the point where you can’t listen to this anymore, liquid courage re-flooding your veins.

“I’m not asking you to stay away from him, because you’re both adults,” Ward says, stopping you with a hand on your shoulder. “But I’m asking you to think long and hard about what’s best for the both of you. Rafe already knows what’s expected of him. He’s always known.”

You look back towards the crowd under the gazebo, able to make out John B of all people. He sees you talking to Ward, shooting you the most subtle thumbs up he can muster. He has no idea. You don’t take the chance to nod at him, turning back to the bar.

“Say the two of you let it go for the school year,” Ward bulldozes, taking a step closer to you. “And you end up back here too, great. But even then Rafe’s going to be working all the time, the longest hours he ever will in his life. For the next few years, Y/n. You’re so young—are you really going to tie yourself down to a commitment like that? What about your future?”

In a tone you hope comes across as confident, you say, “I really appreciate your concern, Ward.”

Ward's perfectly white teeth are pulling into an even more perfect grin, and the sight makes you sick.

“Great. I'm glad we had this talk.” He pats you on the back, leaving first before you get the chance to.

You just shuffle through the crowd numbly, not even reacting when someone steps on your toe, taking it all in stride as you seek the comfort of your friends once again.

You were foolish to think Ward would warm up to you immediately, or at all. You had been way too confident in yourself, especially after witnessing the wear working for his father had on Rafe. ‘He’s not an easy man to please.’ How could you be so naive, thinking you could coast by on your charm?

You’re a few feet away when you notice that Topper had joined up with Kelce again, as had your boyfriend. He’s joking with them, amused at the way Topper is clearly almost done tolerating Kelce’s drunken antics, but you stand and watch for a bit as he scans the crowd, gaze flickering toward the bar you’d just been at. You realize he’s looking for you when he finally spots you, his face relaxing as the two of you make eye contact.

“There you are.” He pulls you in close, kissing your forehead. You want to cry. “Where’d you run off to? One of those for me?”

He’s gesturing to the drinks you’re holding, reaching for the darker of the two. But Kelce is swooping in, snatching it out of your hold quickly. “Nope,” he pops the ‘p.’ “This one’s all mine. Sorry Cameron. Thanks Y/n/n.”

Rafe just rolls his eyes at the two of you, eyes lingering on your face when he notices your fallen expression. He sets your other drink down on the high top table you’re all standing next to, pulling you in by your hips. “You okay?”

If you had a choice right now, about how to proceed with telling or not telling Rafe about what had just happened, your instincts compel you to bypass the decision process altogether; you paint a careful smile on your face, shaking your head slightly. “Yeah, all good. Just zoned out for a sec.”

He isn’t convinced. “Tired?”

“Maybe a little. Kinda drunk. Are we leaving soon?” you ask, melting into him. It’s a lot easier to handle his tone of voice when you don’t have to look him directly in the eye.

“I vote yes,” Topper says, gesturing towards Kelce, who is somehow sucking down his new drink at an alarming pace while continuing to dance to the oldies tunes they play at these things. “Like, right now. Rafe, you’re hanging back right?”

You look back up at your boyfriend in confusion. “You’re not coming with us?”

He bite his lip in contemplation, looking around the party. The twinkly lights reflect off of his pupils, making him look starry-eyed as he surveys the crowd. A sea of opportunities to prove himself to his father. Rafe looks resolved when he turns back to you.

“Well... I was gonna stay, wrap up some stuff,” he explains. His eyes flicker across your face, still not pleased with your expression. “But that’s okay, I’m good to go now.”

“No, Rafe,” you say immediately. You take a deep breath, rolling back your shoulders and painting on a smile that comes easily with years of experience at parties like this. “Stay, I’ll go ahead. How long will you be?”

“An hour, tops. Will you take her?” Rafe looks hesitant, still taking your green light anyway, already slowly extracting himself from your hold, Topper rolling his eyes but nodding and beginning to corral Kelce toward the exit.

“I can’t believe you’re making me babysit two of them.”

“Don’t let her drink too much.”

“Hey,” you protest, pushing him in his chest half heartedly. The push barely does anything, only proving your impaired motor skills further. Or that you're dating a tree. “What are you, a cop?”

“I’m your boyfriend, actually.”

“Really? When did that happen?” you decide to play along, picking up your drink again.

“‘Bout a month ago, Y/l/n,” he says softly. He can see right through you, can tell you're putting on a show for all of your friends but you're still not okay. You have to break eye contact.

“Hmm, for some reason I thought you were just this guy from middle school.”

“At least this time nobody spilled on your dress,” he teases half-heartedly, and the memory only hurts you more. “Not sure I’d wanna sacrifice this one.”

“Can you—you guys are the worst. Focus. We need to go now, before Kelce gets his entire family blacklisted from the club. You coming or not, Y/n/n?” Topper begs.

You’re nodding, leaning up to give Rafe one last kiss before you leave. He holds you close to him with a firm hand on your back, voice dropping to a whisper right next to your ear. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

The lump in your throat is growing, but you push through, lowering yourself back down to your feet as soon as you can. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Focus on the rest of your night.”

Rafe still looks unsure, his hand resting on the nape of your neck as he kisses your forehead. “Y/n—”

“We’ll talk about it later, okay?” you finally admit. Rafe nods curtly, can tell you’re not going to let him leave with you right now. But he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know that if you pull him away from his responsibilities right after that talk you had with Ward, it’s going to spell disaster for the two of you.

“Just some business stuff, alright?” he assures you. “I’ll see you soon. Forty-five minutes.”

“Promise?” you murmur, fiddling with his pocket square. He smiles down at you, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Promise. You look so pretty. Half an hour. Now go.”

Topper’s guiding you towards the parking lot with a polite hand on your back, but you have to watch Rafe as you leave. You watch him approach his dad, who gives him a smile and a pat on the back. Rafe preens under his gaze.

But Ward must have been watching you two from afar because his gaze is flickering back to you, and he fixes you with a hard stare. He raises his eyebrows, bringing his drink to his lips. Taking a leisurely sip, hint of a smirk on his face. You can practically hear his thoughts: ‘Rafe chose to stay here with me, with the business, and sent you off with his friends.’ It’s everything in you to not let the tears that have been building on your waterline spill over. But your friend isn’t easily fooled.

“Y’alright, Y/n?” Topper says from beside you, trusting Kelce enough to walk on his own as you all near the parking lot. He moves to follow your gaze but you stop him, quickening your pace towards his gray Jeep. “Did something happen?”

“Ward Cameron happened.”

———

tags: @moniamaybank @downbytheouterbanks @littlementalpolaroids