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keikikait · 18 days ago

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ʟᴏꜱᴛ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ (ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ x ꜰ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

check out my other rafe series here!

read the prequel series here!

pairing: rafe cameron x f!reader, (not au, both are early to mid 20's)

word count: 4.9k

summary: rafe is late for your date at the island club

warnings: no smut but is suggestive (read at your own risk), handsy rafe, mild violence/fighting, whipped reader & whipped rafe, they go to a restaurant but i don't specify any kind of food, rafe is angry for like 3 seconds but not at reader, mean jj, use of the word 'whore', i don't think they've shown rafe's new place yet so i made one up, i haven't watched all of s4 so if i get shit wrong i'm sorry, not proofread

a note: this was supposed to be short. oops

please reblog and like, it means a lot! let me know what you think!

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You and Rafe had date nights every Friday.

It was the only sense of regularity that he had, and he wouldn’t miss it for the world. He would plan it, tell you when and where to be, and you would eagerly oblige. He surprised you with something new every week; one Friday you’re driving across the thoroughfare towards the mainland for a shopping spree, the next Friday you’re on a private yacht watching the sunset. This week, he decided to go for the tried and true; dinner and a movie.

‘6 PM’, he told you, ‘and wear that silk emerald green dress.’ He had to run out for the day, still dealing with the aftereffects of Ward’s death and his departure from Tanneyhill. Trying to sell a giant, 6-bedroom mansion wasn’t as easy as you thought, as most of the residents of Kildare couldn’t afford to buy it from him. He was considering turning it into an Air B&B, a project he would rope you into to help with the interior design. You and Rafe had a new place, another mansion still located in Figure Eight, although this one is much smaller, a Spanish revival you had a lovely time decorating.

As the afternoon sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the landscape, you found yourself perched upon a solitary bench situated beside the parking lot of The Island Club, the salty tang of the ocean breeze carrying the distant sound of crashing waves. Couples filed into the club, paying you no mind. Even though The Island Club wasn’t far from your new place, Rafe still bought you an Uber, just to make sure you were safe. It was almost 6:15 PM at this point, and every call and text to Rafe went unanswered. You had already informed the staff of his late arrival, ensuring that your reservation would not get cancelled. You check your watch again before standing, walking around the parking lot to check the streets.

Where was he?

You tug your dress down your legs. It was Rafe’s favourite on you, hugging your ass and hips perfectly. It was finally starting to get cold on the island, and even though the black leather jacket you stole from him didn’t exactly go with your outfit, it was keeping you warm. The wind flows through your hair, and you push it out of your eyes, looking down the street, trying to spot him on his bike. You sigh, your shoulders dropping. You turn around to head back to the bench, pulling your phone out of your small purse, ready to call him again.

You’re about to sit down when you hear the revving and rumbling of his dirt bike, pulling into the left side of the parking lot. You sigh, putting your phone away as you walk over to him. You bite your lip when you see him wearing that grey blue waffle-weaved sweater that makes him look delicious. Rafe turns his bike off, pushing the kickstand down before getting off, reaching up to unbuckle the strap of his helmet.

“Hey, handsome.” You say, stepping off the curb and approaching him. You reach out, putting one of your hands on his bicep, fingers slightly digging into the muscle. Rafe pulls his helmet off, keeping it clutched in his hand. His eye and cheekbone were swollen, slightly yellow, and a cut underneath his brow bone marred his otherwise handsome face. The cut was deep, and blood was caked along its edges. It was clear that he had been in a fight, and he had not come out of it unscathed. He winced as you suddenly reach up to touch his cheekbone, a worried look on your face. “What the fuck? What happened?”

Rafe winces as you touch his cheek, pulling back from your touch. He wasn’t in the mood for your coddling. His jaw was clenched tight, his shoulders tense from the fight. He had no intention of telling you what happened, either. You never needed to know about the trouble he was in. He puts his helmet on the seat of his bike and grabs your waist, pulling you in front of him. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying his best to keep his voice level so that he didn’t snap at you. He pressed a kiss to your temple, not bothering to conceal the bruises and blood on his knuckles. Was it his or someone else’s, or both?

“Are you okay?” You ask, moving your hand off his bicep to rest on his waist. “Rafe, please tell me.”

His expression hardens as you continue to push. His fingers grip your waist almost painfully tight. “I said, don’t worry,” he repeats, his voice stern. He’d never talked to you like this, and you could hear the warning behind his words. His eyes stare down at you, intense and full of anger, although you’re not quite sure if it’s meant for you. “Let it go.”

You don’t push it, not wanting to anger him anymore. It was supposed to be a nice, relaxing night. You wrap your arms around his waist to pull him into a hug, laying your head on his chest. Rafe hesitates, surprised by the sudden display of affection, but then he wraps his strong arms around you, pulling you in close. He buries his nose into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and for the first time that night, his shoulders finally drop, his whole body relaxing. He squeezes you tight to his chest, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

He remains silent as he pulls away slightly, looking down at you. He keeps one arm wrapped around your waist, his hand gripping your side as his other hand flies to your neck. His grip is loose, but his thumb presses against your pulse — a small habit he picked up after he started dating you. In his own words, it’s a way to calm him down and to remind himself that you were safe.

Rafe sighs, pressing kisses to your forehead before leaning his against it, rubbing your pulse back and forth as it races under your skin. His voice is soft when he finally speaks, “I’m fine. Just ran into a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” You ask, rubbing your hand up and down his side.

“Nothing you need to be worrying about, sweetheart,” Rafe mumbles, still keeping his head pressed against yours. Rafe never used pet names with anyone else, but with you, it felt different. His eyes drift down to your lips, unable to resist. They were a faint shade of red, glossy and puffy from your bites, just as he liked them. “Just some shit with JJ and John B. I handled it.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips, the hand on your neck moving to cup your cheek. Even as he pulls away, he keeps your body pressed against him. “Let’s not let this ruin our night, alright?”

“Are you sure?” You ask, brushing your thumb across his abs. “We can go home and order in if you want. I don’t want you to feel compelled to go out tonight.”

“Baby, I’m fine,” he murmurs, his voice soft. He understood where you were coming from, but only you would ever try to get out of a very expensive date because you thought he was too tired. “I got reservations for a reason. I don’t plan on missing our date night just because of a little fight.” The hand on your waist moves to the small of your back, pressing your body closer to his. He’d planned out everything for tonight. A fancy meal, followed by a quiet movie night at your place, then ending the night with his face buried between your legs, your wrists bound to the headboard. He didn’t want to ruin a date night that both of you were looking forward to.

You sigh, but don’t push it. You didn’t want to ruin the date with an argument. You grab his hand, careful not to brush across his shredded knuckles, before leading him towards the entrance. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but smile a little bit at your persistence, thankful that you cared. He follows behind you, his strides matching yours. He winces a little bit when you grab his hand, his knuckles stinging from the fight, but he doesn’t dare let you know that.

He holds the door open for you when you reach the entrance, waiting for you to go through before he follows behind, placing on hand on your lower back as you walk. His eyes drifted down to your ass, and he had to stop himself from reaching out and smacking it. Now that his father was dead, he had to try to keep the Cameron image clean and pristine at The Island Club. They weren’t fans of him to begin with.

You head through the small entrance, moving to wait in line for the hostess stand. The country club was pretty packed, a common occurrence for a Friday night. The couple in front of you were older, and the woman's eyes soften as she looked over her shoulder and spotted Rafe.

He kept his hand on your lower back, not trying to hide the fact that you were both together. His eyes stayed locked with the older woman in front of you, not surprised to have already been discovered by one of the regulars. He could see the woman’s concern from a mile away, her expression shifting when she saw the scrapes and bruises on his face. Rafe sighed, his jaw clenching in annoyance. Even here, he couldn’t get away from his reputation. His hand started to rub small circles into your back, silently trying to soothe himself more than you.

The woman whispers to her husband before turning around again. “It’s Rafe, right?”

Rafe raises an eyebrow at the elderly woman, a hint of a scowl on his face as his eyes meet hers. He gives her a small nod, although he doesn’t feel like talking to a regular at The Island Club right now. He wanted nothing more than to spend the evening alone with you. “Yes, ma’am,” His response is short and brief. “That’s me.”

“I was a friend of your father,” The woman says. “We were business partners a few years ago. I’m sorry for your loss, Rafe. My condolences.”

Rafe’s expression changes as soon as the woman mentions his father. He knew that most people from The Island Club had been friends with his old man and business partners with him. Hearing condolences for his father had become a regular part of his routine, but that didn’t mean he liked hearing about his father’s death every single time. His hand on your lower back tightens, pulling you a bit closer to him. He gives her a forced smile, trying his best to look polite. “Thank you, ma’am,” he responds, his voice stiff.

The woman smiles softly before turning back around, stepping forward towards the hostess stand. Rafe’s hands traveled from your hips to your lower back, pulling you closer to him. He was lost in reality, almost as if he didn’t want to admit to himself that his life was fundamentally changing. His father was dead, and his relationships with his remaining family were ruined. But he had you, and that’s all that matters to him right now.

You lean your head against his chest as you wait, hands wrapped around his bicep, rubbing it lightly with your thumb.

Rafe sighs as you lean against him, his hand on your lower back drifting down to cup your ass. He could only hope that the other patrons wouldn’t notice, although he didn’t really care that much. But that woman was going to tell everyone about how rough he looked tonight, and he knew that some people would have comments about that, too. Rafe lowers his head to speak in your ear, although his voice is quiet enough that only you could hear. “Can’t wait to get you home,” he murmurs.

"Yeah? You excited for me to get on my knees for you?" You ask. Just as Rafe had been thinking about you all day, you had been thinking about him. You couldn’t wait to sink to the floor in front of him, your hands eagerly unbuckling his slacks before letting him fuck your face. Your favourite part, though, was the way he gripped your hair and moaned as he cummed down your throat.

Rafe sighs, groaning low in his throat as your words go straight to his cock. He’d always loved it when you talked like this, even if you were in private or texting. He didn’t want you to talk to anyone else like that. You were his. “Mmm, I’m more excited to see your face when you ride me,” he mumbles, moving closer so that his mouth is right next to your ear, still careful to keep his voice low. He wanted to take you home right now, but he had been looking forward to this dinner all week, and he knew you were too.

The older couple in front of you step away, being led by the hostess to their table. You approach the stand, and you smooth out the front of your dress as you wait. Although Rafe was used to the rich life full of country clubs, cotillion and croquet, you weren’t. You wanted to make a good impression on the staff of The Island Club.

Rafe stands tall and proud as you both step up to the hostess stand, his arm still wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back. He glances down at your dress, taking in every detail of your appearance. You looked absolutely stunning in that dress, and it was taking all of his self-control to not get hard right now. The way you anxiously chewed on your lip, the way your hair was shining in the ambient lighting of the country club, the way you wore the ‘Rafe’ name necklace he bought you…he loved everything about you. He tugged you closer, loving the way you put a hand on his stomach as you leaned against him. You both had matching gold rings, engraved with your anniversary, yours on your forefinger while his sat on his thumb.

The hostess looks up to greet both of you. She glances down at the reservation book for just a moment before nodding, a polite smile on her face. “Mr. Cameron,” she says. “Your table is ready.” She gathers two menus before leading you through the dining room towards the more private, member’s only area of the country club.

Even though you had been dating Rafe for a while, almost a year, you were always surprised by his influence. He had everything he ever wanted at the tips of his fingers, and because you were dating him, you got those luxuries too; endless shopping trips, a house full of anything you could dream of. And a handsome boyfriend, of course.

As you walk behind the hostess, Rafe’s fingers intertwine with yours, holding your hand tight. He was aware of all the eyes on him, as you could hear the whispers and murmurs from their fellow patrons, knowing they were all aware of the fight with John B and JJ, and the rumors were probably already spreading like wildfire. The hostess leads you to a secluded corner with a single table set for two, two candlesticks illuminating the table with a warm glow.

“Thank you,” Rafe mumbles to the hostess as his eyes drift towards the far corner of the room. He lets go of your hand with some reluctance, before holding the chair for you at the small booth. He was thankful for the secluded booth, knowing it was going to be easier to touch you under the table. Rafe slides in next to you, reaching over to grab your knee, stroking his thumb softly back and forth. He wanted to put his hand on your throat to feel your pulse again, but he didn’t think that the patrons and staff would like that.

You thank the hostess, setting your purse down in the empty space next to you. As the hostess walks away, Rafe’s hand slips under the skirt of your dress, grabbing onto your inner thigh and rubbing back and forth. His touch is featherlight, just the lightest graze of skin against skin, although he can feel all the heat from your skin.

He picks up the menu from the table, pretending to scan the food while his hand caresses you. He leans in toward you, although his eyes are still scanning the menu. “Do you know what you want to eat, sweetheart?”

“You.” You say immediately, flipping the menu over to look at the other side.

Rafe can’t help but let out a slight chuckle at your immediate response, his hand on your thigh stopping for a moment. His eyes finally look up at you from the menu, an amused look on his face. “Mmm, not yet, baby, but you’ll get it later. Promise,” he grins, his eyes drifting back down to the menu as his hand starts to rub against you again. “And for the main course?”

You sigh, glancing over the options. You didn’t really love any of the dishes on the menu, but you weren’t opposed to eating any of them. Rafe wraps his large, warm hand around your inner thigh and squeezes, yanking you a bit closer. It’s a simple gesture, but it makes your head spin, your brain shutting down for a split second. You purse your lips as you read before looking away, shifting in your seat. “You pick.”

He can see the way your body reacts to his touch, and it satisfies him to know that he can still affect you like that. It just makes him more eager to get you back home tonight. His fingers press into your thigh when you move closer to him, but he quickly loosens his grip when the waiter comes up to your table.

He finally decides what he wants for the main course, and he orders for the both of you. His hand slides down your thigh, finally withdrawing, although he places his palm flat against your skin, resting his hand just below the edge of your dress. You sip on your drink as you wait for your food, feeling Rafe’s hand travel up your thigh again, as if he couldn’t resist. After the waiter walks away, Rafe’s focus turns back towards you, and he glances around the room to make sure nobody was watching. Seeing as everyone around him seemed to be doing their best to ignore him, he felt comfortable enough to continue his touch. His hand moves from your thigh to your hip, pulling you closer to him. “I like this dress on you,” he murmurs, his eyes raking over your body.

“Thank you,” You say as his hands travel up higher. “You look really good, baby.” You reach out and place your hand on his bicep, squeezing it. You couldn’t resist. He always looked good, but something about the way he looked in that fucking blue sweater and grey slacks made you go crazy, wanting to put your hands all over him and your mouth on his cock.

He gives you a smirk as your hand wraps around his upper arm, and he leans back into his chair. Your praise always brought out the cocky, arrogant side of him, and he absolutely loved when you told him how good he looked. His ego always needed a boost. He flexes the muscle underneath your hand, and it ripples underneath his sweater. “Yeah? You like this, don’t you?” He grins.

You nod, your mouth going dry. It was so hard to concentrate, all you wanted to do was shut your brain off and let him take control for the night. He knows exactly what effect he was having on you, and he loved seeing the effect that he could have on your body just from a little flex. “You feeling needy, baby?” He mumbles, his fingers pressing against your panties, right over your clit. You suck in a breath, gripping his sleeve to try to ground yourself. You nod.

The smirk stays plastered on his face as his palm squeezes tightly on the soft flesh of your inner thigh. He can see the way your shoulders tensing, knowing that you were trying your best to keep yourself from writhing in your seat. “Soon, sweetheart. We just gotta get through dinner,” he mumbles, although he wanted nothing more than to take you home right now and ruin you, make you cum over and over until you cry.

The waiter approaches with your food, setting everything on the table. It snaps you back to reality, and you move your glass so he can put your plate in front of you. As the waiter sets the plates down, Rafe reluctantly pulls his hand away from you. His hand goes to pick up his fork, although the movement is absent-minded. His eyes stayed focused on you, and the only thing he could think about was getting you home and alone. Eventually, he forces his eyes away from you and to his food. His other hand moves behind your lower back, resting his palm flat against the exposed skin, his pinky finger playing with the waistband of your panties.

You struggle through dinner, your thighs pressed together. The food was delicious, and you and Rafe spent a good amount of time talking about your plans for Tanneyhill, all the while he was brushing his fingers along your inner thighs and your panties. He was doing it on purpose, trying to rile you up, and it was working. You eat as quickly as you can, snatching your purse and dragging him out of the restaurant after paying and leaving a tip.

You rush towards his bike, and he can’t help but chuckle at how desperate you are. He spins you around, pulling you against his chest. “Relax, baby. We’ll be home soon.”

You whine. “I need it, Rafe.”

Your whine was like music to his ears. His hand goes to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. His eyes are dark with lust as he looks down at you. “You’ll get it.” He says, grabbing his helmet and pushing it over your head. He secures the strap under your chin, kissing your nose. He climbs onto the bike, pushing the kickstand up.

“Do you have a helmet?” You ask, fiddling with it. It was definitely too big for your head.

“Nah,” He says, looking at you over your shoulder as you climb on, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I don’t need one, baby. I’m a professional. It’ll be fine, just hold on tight.”

“Rafe,” You say, your eyebrows furrowing with worry. “Are you sure?”

Rafe sighs as he places his hands on the handlebars, hearing the tone of worry in your voice. “Sweetheart, I swear, it’ll be fine. The house isn’t far,” he sighs, shaking his head and starting the engine. “I’ll go slow, okay? Just hold on tight and don’t let go. You’ll be fine, baby, I promise.”

You have no choice but to listen to him, tightening your grip around him, your purse squished between his back and your chest. “Okay.”

He nods slightly before reaching down to grab your thighs, pulling your body to fully press against his. He wants to be able to feel your skin against his. He doesn’t say anything else as he starts to drive, slowly making his way out of the parking lot. He had been through worse. He could handle a simple drive home without a helmet.

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You pull up into the driveway of your house, safe and sound. You wait for Rafe to pop the kickstand down and turn the bike off before standing, putting your purse back on your shoulder. You reach up, unclipping the helmet before pulling it off, shaking your hair out.

Rafe climbs off of the bike, gently letting go of the handles just in case it came tumbling. He bites his lip before reaching out, grabbing your waist and pulling you to him, his other hand immediately coming up to cup your neck. “You were worried for nothing, baby,” he murmurs, gently pressing his lips to yours. You kiss him back, your hands flying to his waist, lost in the feeling of his tongue on yours.

“‘Bout time y’all showed up.”

You and Rafe pull away, glancing down your driveway.

JJ and John B hop out of JJ’s van, parked right against the curb.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You ask, your hands dropping from their spot on Rafe’s stomach. Rafe’s grip on you tightens, feeling you pull away. His eyes are narrowed as he looks at JJ and John B as they approach the two of you.

“What, you two on a date? Couldn’t even invite us?!” JJ laughs, his hands shoved into his pockets. You thought that Rafe looked awful, but it’s clear that he had the upper hand during his fight with JJ and John B. JJ looks terrible, his eye bruised and almost swollen shut, the side of his face scratched up like he fell onto gravel. John B has a split lip and a deep purple bruise on his eyebrow, his knuckles caked with dried blood.

“Wow, JJ. You look like shit,” You say, unable to hold back. “You already got your ass beat, are you back for more?”

JJ glares at you, his hands tightening into fists in his pockets. “Careful where you run your mouth, slut,” he growls, taking a step towards you.

That’s all it takes to piss Rafe off. “Watch your mouth,” he growls. He steps in front of you, blocking JJ’s path.

You just laugh, unable to take him seriously. You push past Rafe, shoving your purse into his chest. “Excuse me?”

JJ stares directly at you, his expression turning into a scowl. “Careful, you don’t want to fall back into old habits. You’re just a little whore for all of the Pogues,” JJ growls, and John B puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to shut up, but it isn’t enough for JJ to back down. He takes another step forward, his eyes locked on you and your face.

Everything happens quickly after that.

Before you could say another word, Rafe is launching himself at JJ, grabbing the collar of his shirt and throwing him against the side of his van. JJ tries to land a punch, but Rafe’s faster. He just keeps landing punches, one after the other, not letting up for a second. John B. jumps on Rafe, trying to hold him back, but it isn’t enough.

You quickly rush over, grabbing the back of Rafe’s sweater, tugging him backwards. “Stop. They aren’t worth it, Rafe.” His fist is raised, and he turns to look at you, hearing the panic in your voice. He freezes when you call out to him, and John B. jumps off of his back.

The air is tense, everything is still and dead silent. All you can hear are their heavy breaths, and John B is holding onto JJ, preventing him from attempting to start another fight.

“If either of you ever come back here,” You walk towards them, getting up in JJ's face. “I'll bury you.”

JJ doesn't back off, and he glares down at you, a cruel smirk on his face. “You gonna do it yourself?” JJ stands up, still being held back by John B. “Sweet, helpless little thing like you? Or are you just gonna try and hide behind your boyfriend?” His eyes trail down your body as his smirk grows, his teeth stained with blood.

You consider hitting him. You really do. But you know that JJ wouldn’t be scared to hit you back, and you really didn’t want to ruin this dress.

You step back before spitting on him.

A mixture of fury and shock shoots through JJ’s whole body, his face grimacing. “You bitch, I’ll fucking—“ JJ snaps, and he starts to come at you. John B grabs onto him, holding him back, but he’s barely able to restrain JJ, trying to calm him down.

You turn around, walking away from him, back towards your house. “Take your little bitch ass back to The Cut.”

“You little whore, did you forget where you came from? Did you forget who you used to whore yourself out to?” JJ says, still fighting against John B’s grip on him. “You’re gonna regret that someday, you hear me? Someday you’ll have no one to protect your pathetic little ass, and I’m gonna be there, laughing at you. Just watch.”

Rafe starts to walk towards JJ and John B again, but you wrap a hand around his forearm, pulling him back. “Baby, stop. He’s not worth it.” You look up at him, trying your best to get him to calm down.

JJ finally stops trying to shake John B off, realizing that he isn’t going to be able to land a hit on you, no matter how badly he wants to. “You’re lucky you’re not with the Pogues anymore. I’d teach you some manners,” he calls after you.

You drag Rafe back inside as JJ and John B get back into JJ’s van, the tires screeching as they drive away.

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★taglist: @ietss, @momoewn, @blairsblg (italics means i couldn’t tag you!)

if you would like to be tagged for any future parts (if i make them), please reply to this post!

part two is here!

#keikiwrites #f!reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe obx #obx #obx fic #outer banks #outer banks fic

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mariacallous · 27 days ago

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This is a gift article

“In normal times, Americans don’t think much about democracy. Our Constitution, with its guarantees of free press, speech, and assembly, was written more than two centuries ago. Our electoral system has never failed, not during two world wars, not even during the Civil War. Citizenship requires very little of us, only that we show up to vote occasionally. Many of us are so complacent that we don’t bother. We treat democracy like clean water, something that just comes out of the tap, something we exert no effort to procure.

“But these are not normal times.”

I wrote those words in October 2020, at a time when some people feared voting, because they feared contagion. The feeling that “these are not normal times” also came from rumors about what Donald Trump’s campaign might do if he lost that year’s presidential election. Already, stories that Trump would challenge the validity of the results were in circulation. And so it came to pass.

This time, we are living in a much different world. The predictions of what might happen on November 5 and in the days that follow are not based on rumors. On the contrary, we can be absolutely certain that an attempt will be made to steal the 2024 election if Kamala Harris wins. Trump himself has repeatedly refused to acknowledge the results of the 2020 election. He has waffled on and evaded questions about whether he will accept the outcome in 2024. He has hired lawyers to prepare to challenge the results.

Trump also has a lot more help this time around from his own party. Strange things are happening in state legislatures: a West Virginia proposal to “not recognize an illegitimate presidential election” (which could be read as meaning not recognize the results if a Democrat wins); a last-minute push, ultimately unsuccessful, to change the way Nebraska allocates its electoral votes. Equally weird things are happening in state election boards. Georgia’s has passed a rule requiring that all ballots be hand-counted, as well as machine-counted, which, if not overturned, will introduce errors—machines are more accurate—and make the process take much longer. A number of county election boards have in recent elections tried refusing to certify votes, not least because many are now populated with actual election deniers, who believe that frustrating the will of the people is their proper role. Multiple people and groups are also seeking mass purges of the electoral rolls.

Anyone who is closely following these shenanigans—or the proliferation of MAGA lawsuits deliberately designed to make people question the legitimacy of the vote even before it is held—already knows that the challenges will multiply if the presidential vote is as close as polls suggest it could be. The counting process will be drawn out, and we may not know the winner for many days. If the results come down to one or two states, they could experience protests or even riots, threats to election officials, and other attempts to change the results.

This prospect can feel overwhelming: Many people are not just upset about the possibility of a lost or stolen election, but oppressed by a sensation of helplessness. This feeling—I can’t do anything; my actions don’t matter—is precisely the feeling that autocratic movements seek to instill in citizens, as Peter Pomerantsev and I explain in our recent podcast, Autocracy in America. But you can always do something. If you need advice about what that might be, here is an updated citizen’s guide to defending democracy.

Help Out on Voting Day—In Person

First and foremost: Register to vote, and make sure everyone you know has done so too, especially students who have recently changed residence. The website Vote.gov has a list of the rules in all 50 states, in multiple languages, if you or anyone you know has doubts. Deadlines have passed in some states, but not all of them.

After that, vote—in person if you can. Because the MAGA lawyers are preparing to question mail-in and absentee ballots in particular, go to a polling station if at all possible. Vote early if you can, too: Here is a list of early-voting rules for each state.

Secondly, be prepared for intimidation or complications. As my colleague Stephanie McCrummen has written, radicalized evangelical groups are organizing around the election. One group is planning a series of “Kingdom to the Capitol” rallies in swing-state capitals, as well as in Washington, D.C.; participants may well show up near voting booths on Election Day. If you or anyone you know has trouble voting, for any reason, call 866-OUR-VOTE, a hotline set up by Election Protection, a nonpartisan national coalition led by the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law.

If you have time to do more, then join the effort. The coalition is looking for lawyers, law students, and paralegals to help out if multiple, simultaneous challenges to the election occur at the county level. Even people without legal training are needed to serve as poll monitors, and of course to staff the hotline. In the group’s words, it needs people to help voters with “confusing voting rules, outdated infrastructure, rampant misinformation, and needless obstacles to the ballot box.”

If you live in Arizona, Florida, Georgia, Michigan, Nevada, Ohio, Pennsylvania, or Wisconsin, you can also volunteer to help All Voting Is Local, an organization that has been on the ground in those states since before 2020 and knows the rules, the officials, the potential threats. It, too, is recruiting legal professionals, as well as poll monitors. If you don’t live in one of those states, you can still make a financial contribution.

Wherever you live, consider working at a polling station. All Voting Is Local can advise you if you live in one of its eight states, but you can also call your local board of elections. More information is available at PowerThePolls.org, which will send you to the right place. The site explains that “our democracy depends on ordinary people who make sure every election runs smoothly and everyone's vote is counted—people like you.”

Wherever you live, it’s also possible to work for one of the many get-out-the-vote campaigns. Consider driving people to the voting booth. Find your local group by calling the offices of local politicians, members of Congress, state legislators, and city councillors. The League of Women Voters and the NAACP are just two of many organizations that will be active in the days before the election, and on the day itself. Call them to ask which local groups they recommend. Or, if you are specifically interested in transporting Democrats, you can volunteer for Rideshare2Vote.

If you know someone who needs a ride, then let them know that the ride-hailing company Lyft is once again working with a number of organizations, including the NAACP, the National Council of Negro Women, Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America, the National Council on Aging, Asian and Pacific Islander American Vote, and the Hispanic Federation. Contact any of them for advice about your location. Also try local religious congregations, many of whom organize rides to the polls.

Smaller gestures are needed too. If you see a long voting line, or if you find yourself standing in one, report it to Pizza to the Polls and the group will send over some free pizza to cheer everyone up.

Join Something Now

Many people have long been preparing for a challenge to the election and a battle in both the courts and the media. You can help them by subscribing to the newsletters of some of the organizations sponsoring this work, donating money, and sharing their information with others. Don’t wait until the day after the vote to find groups you trust: If a crisis happens, you will not want to be scouring the internet for information.

Among the organizations to watch is the nonpartisan Protect Democracy, which has already launched successful lawsuits to secure voting rights in several states. Another is the States United Democracy Center, which collaborates with police as well as election workers to make sure that elections are safe. Three out of four election officials say that threats to them have increased; in some states, the danger will be just as bad the day after the election as it was the day before, or maybe even worse.

The Brennan Center for Justice, based at NYU, researches and promotes concrete policy proposals to improve democracy, and puts on public events to discuss them. Its lawyers and experts are preparing not only for attempts to steal the election, but also, in the case of a Trump victory, for subsequent assaults on the Constitution or the rule of law.

For voters who lean Democratic, Democracy Docket also offers a wealth of advice, suggestions, and information. The group’s lawyers have been defending elections for many years. For Republicans, Republicans for the Rule of Law is a much smaller group, but one that can help keep people informed.

Talk With People

In case of a real disaster—an inconclusive election or an outbreak of violence—you will need to find a way to talk about it, including a way to speak with friends or relatives who are angry and have different views. In 2020, I published some suggestions from More in Common, a research group that specializes in the analysis of political polarization, for how to talk with people who disagree with you about politics, as well as those who are cynical and apathetic. I am repeating here the group’s three dos and three don’ts:

•Do talk about local issues: Americans are bitterly polarized over national issues, but have much higher levels of trust in their state and local officials. •Do talk about what your state and local leaders are doing to ensure a safe election. •Do emphasize our shared values—the large majority of Americans still feel that democracy is preferable to all other forms of government—and our historical ability to deliver safe and fair elections, even in times of warfare and social strife. •Don’t, by contrast, dismiss people’s concerns about election irregularities out of hand. Trump and his allies have repeatedly raised the specter of widespread voter fraud in favor of Democrats. Despite a lack of evidence for this notion, many people may sincerely believe that this kind of electoral cheating is real. •Don’t rely on statistics to make your case, because people aren’t convinced by them; talk, instead, about what actions are being taken to protect the integrity of the vote. •Finally, don’t inadvertently undermine democracy further: Emphasize the strength of the American people, our ability to stand up to those who assault democracy. Offer people a course of action, not despair.

As a Last Resort, Protest

As in 2020, protest remains a final option. A lot of institutions, including some of those listed above, are preparing to step in if the political system fails. But if they all fail as well, remember that it’s better to protest in a group, and in a coordinated, nonviolent manner. Many of the organizations I have listed will be issuing regular statements right after the election; follow their advice to find out what they are doing. Remember that the point of a protest is to gain supporters—to win others over to your cause—and not to make a bad situation worse. Large, peaceful gatherings will move and convince people more than small, angry ones. Violence makes you enemies, not friends.

Finally, don’t give up: There is always another day. Many of your fellow citizens also want to protect not just the electoral system but the Constitution itself. Start looking for them now, volunteer to help them, and make sure that they, and we, remain a democracy where power changes hands peacefully.

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hitomisuzuya · 9 months ago

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Would you be able to write about sugar daddy Scaramouche that just buying us anything we want, no smut just fluff. Thanks :)

Scaramouche x fem!reader. Fluffy fluff fluff❤️

I really enjoyed writing this. *I once bought a cute, stuffed purple Hippo from the Hallmark store.

The way Scaramouche saw it, he could spend his money on whatever he wanted. And what he wanted to spend it on was you. He enjoyed spending it on you.

You clung to him in a way that validated him. You were patient, kind, and loving. All things he not only wasn't used to, but didn't know they existed all that much until he met you.

There was something entirely adorable about the way you waffled about wanting to ask him for something. You would fidget with your fingers, look at him and look away shyly back at whatever it was you wanted.

In this case, it was a cute stuffed animal you saw in a shop that primarily made greeting cards*.

"What? What does my sweet girl want?" Scaramouche couldn't help but ask, stroking a hand down your hair. The shy blush that dusted your cheeks made you look twice as cute. He raised an eyebrow as you looked up at him.

"Well I.." You begin, looking at the stuffed animal the window again for a moment.

Scaramouche sighed, but not in an annoyed way. It felt like you were afraid he was gonna say no if you asked him for it. Didn't you know by now that whatever you wanted, you got? No matter what it is was.

You already had about four other bags with various things in them (which he insisted on carrying even though you told him you could carry them).

"Hm? What is it?" He ran his fingers through your hair. Scaramouche already knew what it was, he just wanted to say it.

"That stuffed dinosaur is just so cute. Especially the purple one," You smiled at the stuffed dinosaur with the long neck. It had quite possibly the derpest, googly-eyed expression he'd ever seen on a stuffed animal.

But it made you smile and you wanted it. So it was yours.

"They have them in two different colors. Do you want both?" Scaramouche asked, putting an arm around your waist as you walked with him in the store.

You shook your head, nuzzling your cheek against his chest. "No, just the purple one. But the blue is also really cute," You reached out a tapped your finger on the nose of the winged, blue stuffed dinosaur.

Needless to say, you walked out of the store with both of them.

"We have one more stop to make before we head home," Scaramouche said, watching you hug the blue stuffed dinosaur to your chest as he reached for your hand. He didn't want to make you let go of the dinosaur, so he opted for his arm around you, his hand tucked into your back pocket of your pants while you walked.

"I had a ring custom made for you. That ring you said you like the last time were there but you thought the diamonds were too big," He said to which you nodded and waited for him to continue, "I had them take the design of the ring and make one with smaller diamonds in it."

"Scara, oh my god, wasn't that expensive?" It was adorable the way you were fretting about the cost. The eyes of the jeweler had nearly popped out of his head when Scaramouche had paid in full instead of installments like most people would.

For you, it was always, without fail worth it.

#genshin impact #fem!reader #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #scaramouche #soft scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you

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bia-wayne-west · 10 months ago

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Mornings and waffles – Clark Kent x Reader

Characters: Clark Kent [Superman], Jon Kent [Superboy], Conner Kent [Superboy] and fem! Reader [You]

Synopsis: You have been married to Clark Kent for 12 years, and you live in the farmhouse in Smallville. You have two children, Jon Kent and Conner Kent. On a sunny morning, her two children jump on the bed to order pancakes and good morning kisses. You couldn't have a more perfect family.

Warnings: Superboys being super cute. N/A: I thought about doing something similar to Batmom but Superman. I always imagined what it would be like to be the mother of two super boys. Hope you like it. I hope you like it and that you feel how cute Superboys are. I'm a Latina girl who doesn't speak fluent English, so I want to apologize for any writing errors you find. Feel free to correct me.

Requests are open waiting for you

MASTERLIST

The sun was shining on the farm. The light came in through the window, but you didn't bother because you were hugging your husband's huge body. Clark used to sleep completely clinging to you, so the sun didn't hurt him.

You were about to wake up, but you could have a few more good minutes for you and Superman in bed together. Well, you planned to stay in bed until you decided to leave, but your children didn't want to contribute to your wish.

You felt two heavy bodies jumping on the bed, on top of you. Your eyes snapped open, and you sighed wearily when you saw Jon's bright blue eyes staring back at you. He and Conner were in bed, trying to wake their parents.

“Waffles!” Jon yelled, jumping on you.

Jonathan was ten and Conner was eighteen, but they still liked to jump into their parents' bed on a Sunday morning to order coffee. They could just ask Martha or wait for you to wake up, but it was more fun to jump on you.

“Jon it's still five in the morning, go to bed.” You grumbled, running your hand through your youngest son's hair.

“It's time for coffee, Mom. And the father has to fix the barn again.” This time it was Conner who spoke. He was hunched over Clark's body, who kept his eyes closed, was awake, but still didn't open his eyes.

It was hard to get Clark to accept Conner. At first, he treated the boy with utter contempt and it broke your heart. There were hours of conversation, and he only accepted his eldest son after having a conversation with Bruce, which made your husband open his mind.

Conner suddenly came into your life, but you can't imagine a complete family without their pretty boy. It took Clark a few years to accept the clone as a son and call him that, but when he called the boy son for the first time, your heart was full of love.

“And we want waffles.” Jon said again, sitting up in bed. He was in his pajamas with a dinosaur design on it and his hair was totally disheveled, and his face was crumpled up from sleep.

“Then let's make waffles.” You said, giving up. Their children uttered an exclamation of joy, making a high-five between them. “There will be waffles for you too, Mr. Kent.” You whispered in the ear of your husband, who now had his eyes open and smiling at Jon.

“Come on, Jon. Whoever gets to the table first will get the most coffee.” Superboy suggested, getting out of bed in the field. Jon also got up, and the two ran to the kitchen, betting on a race.

You let out a weak moan, hugging your husband again. He hugged you back, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

“Let's get up, we have to feed the two beasts.” Clark joked, taking off the blanket so he could put his feet on the ground.

You smiled, repeating your husband's act and going to the bathroom. Within minutes, you had washed your face, brushed your teeth, and changed your clothes.

You were already in the kitchen, putting the batter in the machine to turn it into a chocolate waffle. Jon and Conner already had their mouths covered with so much chocolate, but they still wanted to repeat four more servings.

Martha, your mother-in-law, was helping you make coffee. She was by his side, frying eggs and bacon. She smiled at you, with that sweet face that only she had.

“They're very gluttonous.”

You both laughed, and smiled even more when you saw that Jonathan was frowning, probably because you heard his grandmother's comment.

“I only ate seven waffles and three pieces of bacon. I didn't even eat that much.” He confessed, making a cute pout.

“Okay, so, since you're not eating much, that portion of bacon and eggs goes to your dad.” You joked, putting the fresh food Martha had just prepared on your husband's plate, who thanked you with a kiss on the cheek.

Conner groaned. After you and your mother-in-law finished cooking, the two of you joined them for a nice family breakfast.

You laughed at each other, talked about silly topics, and showed how much you loved each other.

“We have a perfect family.” Clark confessed, running his hand gently over his arm. “A completely loving and amazing family.” He concluded with a smile when he saw Martha lightly pat Conner's hand gently as he tried to grab one of his grandmother's bacon.

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sepublic · 2 years ago

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I wonder if part of the reason for Flapjack’s death was to contrast how Hunter handled his own grief over a lost loved one, vs Philip’s response?

There’s the immediate reactions of pushing people away; Philip refuses the kindness of the locals in his search for Caleb and especially afterwards, tries to kill Evelyn, and rebukes his own brother in favor of holding onto bitterness.

Hunter becomes snappy, aggressive, and closed off after losing Flapjack; Like Philip, he devotes himself to a mission of finding a fellow Wittebane, and gets frustrated over any perceived frivolities and distractions.

But eventually, Hunter recognizes that while his trauma is valid, he’s also been pushing Willow away and placing a lot of burden on her as well. It’s okay that he was triggered by the Emerald Entrails photo instead of reassured, but part of Hunter and Willow’s resolution is the former clarifying that yes, her efforts to reach out do mean a lot to him. And Willow means a lot to Hunter too, that’s why he wants to reciprocate and accept, instead of causing her to feel just as ineffectual by refusing help; Willow deserves help too!

Not only that, but Philip and Hunter both created living beings as a coping mechanism, only for one to be unhealthy, while the other actually recovered. Philip is obsessed with creating perfect replicas of Caleb, casting out Grimwalkers for being too different from the mold, not good enough, and keeping them all to himself; The Grimwalkers aren’t allowed their own lives nor any other relationships.

Hunter makes palismen for others, he’s giving people the companionship he himself lost, and he isn’t designing anything after Flapjack, not necessarily; Just whatever a witch needs. Even his personal palisman, Waffles, is visually different while still hearkening to Flapjack, because Hunter is a Clawthorne after all; He can move on and be himself while also honoring his connections with others, and not become unhealthily dependent or averse to them.

Hunter made Waffles and thus must’ve chosen these differences, or carved an egg like Luz did, so his palisman could choose a form. I find that wonderfully ironic, for while Hunter has more control over how his creations turn out, he doesn’t abuse this to create a replica of Flapjack; He enables and encourages variation instead, while Philip gambles to make each Grimwalker closer to the original, eliminating any deviations as if that will alter the odds.

One uses control to give to others, the other has no control and desperately wants it over others. Philip grows and Hunter whittles away, but it’s Hunter who proves more nurturing and free. Both used palistrom wood, but Hunter’s coping mechanism encourages its growth, while Philip hoards and even devours it.

Hunter surpasses his uncle by suffering in similar ways, only to show that you can still recover without hurting others; Philip really does have no excuse, for Hunter is an example of the person he easily could and should’ve been in response to loss. Philip tried to spread his pain by repeating it in others, he killed Flapjack (and projected onto Luz, as if to absolve himself by claiming she should do the same, since anyone else would’ve); But Hunter looked his uncle in the eye and said No, I will not be a vector for your bitterness.

#the owl house #the owl house hunter #emperor belos #philip wittebane #the owl house flapjack #caleb wittebane #willow park #huntlow #palismen #parallels

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randomheadcanons1234 · 9 months ago

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Even more random hermitcraft headcanons that I won’t elaborate

Bdubs He was once sick of getting told that he was short and wore high heels for the day at the end he had a concussion, a broken ankle and a promise to never where high heels again

Cub has replaced some of his teeth with metal

Docm has dressed up as a princess on multiple occasions for Doccy

Etho used to run up to people scare them and run away again. That stopped when he got shot by a gun, when he tried to pull this with Zedaph

False is the designated driver because she somehow knows every shortcut

Gem has killed gods before

Grian is that type of person who says that they can’t handle horror but fall asleep to true crime stories

Hypno used to sell Ballons, he can make animals out of them

Impulse has venomous claws, he has accidentally poisoned some of his friends because of this, he feels really guilty

Iskall builds really weird things for fun like a robot who has legs for hands, which has pink hair and talks about waffles. The hermits are concerned

Jevin can’t swim, he can float but if he tries to move he sinks

One time when joe was drunk he showed up in a god meeting and started to make yo mama jokes at them, many cried

Keralis has all the gossip even from servers where he isn’t even on

Mumbo has gotten drunk only once and that was the they he found himself in his base surrounded by Armourstands that had their legs cut off. And had the heads of his friends

Pearl eats cods in front of Grian

Ren has a collection of baby photos of his fellow hermits, no one knows how he got them

Scar has made flower crowns for all the hermits

Skizz used to be choir kid

Joel and Lizzie once came to a party where Joel wore a sparkly pink dress and Lizzie a green suit

When stress doesn’t know a word she just makes one up

For some reason tango loves bats

The reason why Beef goes by Beef is because middle school he only brought beef to school. After a while the other students and even the teachers started to call him Beef and that stuck. Now he just goes by Beef

Wels knows galactic

When Xb used to be a kid he ate dirt

Xisuma never takes his helmet off, so the hermits try to take it off themself all their plans fail though and they still don’t know how he looks

Zedaph used to be a part of the creepy pasta fandom

Cleo is the best dancer on hermitcraft

#hermitcraft #zedaph #impulsesv #tangotek #skizzleman #joel smallishbeans #geminitay #grian #goodtimeswithscar #mumbo jumbo #welsknight #xbcrafted #xisuma #all hermits but i’m to lazy tag them #sorry for the typos #english is not my first language #headcanon

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hargr0vefield · 10 months ago

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my boyfriend eddie munson headcanons ☼

a terrible cook. but for some odd reason, a very solid pancake and waffle maker

has a phobia of rusted rings, therefore all his jewelry is stainless steel

has a backstory and name for each of his leather coats. there’s not many, he’s very picky about which belong in his collection

uses very established products on his hair. he begged you not to mention it again after you found them in his shower

makes it a habit to light incense

is an avid back to the future fan

michael j fox IS his man crush

cereal lover, particularly picks out the boxes with the designs and games for kids on them

“baby, you can’t have any more cereal,” “y/n, it’s the healthiest thing i eat”

very touchy, in the most heartfelt and loving way

longs to make up for the lack of it he never received throughout his life

strange fascination with race cars

you bought him nascar tickets for christmas

he took a polaroid picture of the ticket and stuck it to his wall

owns multiple picks and combs

has a lighter collection

his favorite lighter he purchased in panama

likes interlocking fingers when holding hands

talks you through it

consent is the most important thing to him

likes his hair being pulled, only by you

plans extra, extra hard on d&d campaigns - any free time goes to you or hellfire

once was involved in a fist fight with gareth because he assumed eddie put no work into the campaign

“have you even worked at this at all? we’re all here busting our asses day and ni-“ *boom*

sits like an inch away from the tv

“eddie, that’ll ruin your eyes” “your face will ruin my eyes”

likes to open doors for people, especially you

meets with a tutor every wednesday, makes sure to let you know when he’s heading there and when he’s heading home

he really, really thinks ‘86 is his year

has an affinity for you in tight clothing

really is a slut, but the gentle kind

has an exceptionally tight grip

loves colder weather- leather jacket season

let’s you borrow anything from his closet

he’ll get really excited if you ask to wear his hellfire shirt

“i’m sorry if it smells like booze, dustin knocked my can all over me”

loves whispering to you

usually it’s sweet nothings

most of the time it’s as you drift asleep in his bed, metal posters staring down at you from above

usually smells like eucalyptus and cigarettes- mixed with essential hair oils

actually has a really, really sharp memory

“i don’t even remember what i said to her to make her this mad at me-“ “you said she was lazy and that it was seeping into her day to day life and through to your guys’ friendship.” “eddie-“

picks you over anyone, sometimes even over hellfire

“get your ass to gareth’s. incase you forgot, we have rehearsal today” “i’m with y/n, you pack of dumbasses can wait”

keeps a box of polaroids of you under his bed

most are appropriate, some aren’t

dustin almost accidentally opened the box once

eddie slapped him hard across the hand, leaving a red mark

he instantly apologized profusely

“god, henderson i’m so sorry bout that- just don’t- just don’t open that box, alright?”

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson headcanons #stranger things headcanons #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x y/n

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wafflepatterns · 1 month ago

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New sewing pattern <Kikyo> 3-in-1 Jacket

A new item is just released from Waffle Patterns. Meet the 3-in-1 Jacket <Kikyo> sewing pattern. This is a set of 3 items; an outdoor style jacket + zip-in/zip-out removable hood + zip-in/zip-out removable liner. Convenient and fun utility item for your trip, outdoor activity or daily use for all seasons!

You can make only an unlined utility jacket or a full set of items.

-Jacket The jacket is unlined with a zipper+button opening. There are a lot of functional pockets. Please mix and combine the pocket designs as your usage.

The waist pockets have 2 kinds of hand-warmer layer designs. One is easy to sew patch type, and one is a welt type. The chest pocket designs are 2 types, too; flap+patch or zipper type.

My personal favourite is the zipper pocket on the chest and the sleeve pocket. I find they are very handy. I always put important things here like keyholders.

There are other functional details like a back belt, sleeve pleats, or shoulder tabs. You can skip some details.

The fit is loose-regular for room of the removable liner.

-Removable Liner The liner is zip-in / zip-out type. You can attach it to the shell at the front facing with zippers supported by small buttons and elastic loops.

It has a pocket and you can use as an inside pocket.

Of course, you can skip the liner. But it is very fun to add! And pretty easy to sew compared to the shell.

Btw, it is not really impossible to wear this liner as a jacket, especially if you make both inside and out clean. But the front area of the fitting goes off, so I do not recommend it officially.

-Removable Hood The zip-in / zip-out removable hood is lined and has a front button opening. You can attach it to the shell at the neckline on the collar by a zipper. The zipper is attached to the inside of the hood, so the hood layer comes outside of the garment. I found it is functional because when it rains, the rainwater should not sit between the layer of the Collar and hood. It has a string, but you can skip this.

Please make your creative style by mixing your favourite details!

<Shell> The pattern is drafted for woven fabrics. Light to medium weight durable but not too stiff woven jacket fabrics are recommended. like denim, gabardine, twill, canvas, etc.

Please consider the fabric with some body because it has to support the removable liner.

If your fabric is very thick/stiff, please consider using other lighter fabrics partly to avoid the thick layers, like pocket flaps or layered pocket parts.

Please choose a suitable one for your design intention and how you want to wear it. I strongly recommend checking with actual samples.

<Lining for shell> The hood and the pocket bags use lining fabric. Normal lining fabrics like plain cotton or acetate will work, but functional ones like quilted or faux fur will be fun, too.

<Removable liner> The liner constructed from; -Lining fabric(outside) -Thermal lining fabric (inside when you wear)

-Lining fabric(outside) Light weight lining fabric with a smooth texture will work like plain cotton or acetate etc.

-Thermal lining fabric (inside when you wear) Consider fabric like thin quilt, light weight fleece, flannel, or light faux fur, etc.

I recommend avoiding too heavy fabrics which cannot be supported by the shell. I made one with boiled wool. It is very warm but a bit heavy. A thick quilt may be too much volume. If you want to go with a volumy liner, maybe going 1-2 size up is a better idea.

For flannel and fleece versions, I used slippery fabric for the sleeve parts of the inside liner for comfort, but maybe no need to do that depending on your intention. If you use thick or fluffy fabric and worry about comfort about this part, please remember slippery fabrics are a safer choice.

<Sample fabrics in the photos> Here is a fabric list I used for the samples. I could not get all the shops which I bought from because some are too old or from wholesalers.

- Brick orange x plaid Shell ; cotton mixed twill Liner (thermal inside) ; wool mixed flannel Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

- Yellow sample Shell ; light weight water repellent outdoor fabric (from kniphal.nl) I think it is not for garments originally, but not very thick so it still worked. Liner (thermal inside) ; thin pre-quilted (thin insulation like under 80g backed with satin) Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

- khaki sample Shell ; cotton mixed twill (from nnstoffen.nl) Liner (thermal inside) ; light fleece (from nnstoffen.nl) Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

The fabric choice all depends on your design intention and how you want to wear it. I strongly recommend checking with actual samples as much as possible. Also researching store bought jackets will help your ideas.

<Size>

The fitting is loose-regular. I made just size for the yellow and khaki, but the orange one is one size smaller because the liner is thinner. I strongly recommend making a muslin for perfect fit. Some of my testers made 1 size larger with a mid-weight liner. If you use very fluffy volumy liner or want to wear thick sweater underneath, maybe considering 1-2 size larger is a good idea.

-Zipper for attaching the liner I used general width (about 28mm) plastic teeth zippers. Because 2 zipper tapes come on the R-side facing(see the 1st photo), wide type zippers are not suitable.

-Zipper for attaching the hood This part is curved, so should be flexible. I used plastic teeth type and have no problem. Maybe some coil types are more flexible. But, I avoided coil type because I broke them often for some reason (maybe only me?)

Also, this jacket comes with many zipper tapes, I prefer plastic type because of the light weight.

-Other I attached the tabs on the pocket flaps. Those are pieces of folded twill tape(keperband).

<Other>

-Because the jacket is unlined, I finished the most seams with flat fell seam. If you do this, maybe it is better to add extra 2-3mm to the seam allowance. Some parts are not suitable for flat fell finish like bulky parts or armholes. I used bias tapes for armholes, and serger for bulky parts(like front yoke with flap).

-If you do not like visible zipper tapes, you can add twill tape or folded strips of shell fabric over the zipper tape.

-Some store bought jackets with a zip-on hood use a placket over the zipper. I think it is suitable if your fabric is thin. (I tried one and find too bulky)

********************* The sewing pattern includes 18 pages of instructions and all the sewing processes are described with detailed illustrations. The pattern files are available for both home printers (A4 or US letter) and copyshop(A0 format).

You can check other photos of this model on my Flickr page.

The 3-in-1 Jacket -Kikyo- (size 32 - 54) PDF sewing pattern is available here. Also in the Etsy shop.

Special discount price until 14th Oct. 2024 (CEST) with other popular patterns. No discount code is needed! The sale page is here.

***** Special offer for Paper pattern and free shipping Paper pattern + PDF option is available limited time. *The paper includes only the pattern, please print out the instruction by yourself or read it with your tablet or PC. The PDF + Paper listing page is here.

Enjoy your sewing!

(Japanese post here 日本語ポストはこちら).

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emo-batboy · 1 year ago

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Battinson and Food

He’s vegetarian and I will hear none of your crap

Depression meals, so many depression meals

I already made a post of his greatest hits here but here's three more:

A whole tub of apple sauce

Instant grits mixed with a hot chocolate packet

And a bowl of croutons

Some meals have actually graduated from the “Depression Meal” category to “Whenever I Can Sneak It Out of the Kitchen” status (because Alfred is appalled every time)

Dick, with the invincible, titanium-lined stomach of a 9yo, doesn’t know why Bruce makes them, but he loves taking bites of Bruce’s weird concoctions.

His favorites so far are:

Cream cheese and jelly sandwich

Spoonfuls of peanut butter (with chocolate chips, that was his idea)

And frozen garlic bread

Diner Food is King. (This is New Jersey. What did you expect?) His go-to order is two eggs over easy, well-done rye toast, grits with syrup and butter, and a fruit cup with no melons from the 24-hour place two blocks east. Hasn’t changed since he was five. Never will.

Bruce can cook food that is edible. Edible.

Like if he tries to make Italian, he can successfully cook the pasta. He can make a basic sauce. He can even plate it.

The tomato sauce is crunchy in some places, yes, but it’s fine :) and it is edible

but Bruce has NEVER succeeded in a baking endeavor, and it positively devastates him every single time

“Baking is science! I love science! I’m great at science. So why didn’t the cake rise when I did everything on the recipe?!” “You need to make it with love-“ “That wasn’t on the ingredients list, Alfred!”

He can handle spice surprisingly well. It’s not like he could avoid it while training all over the world, so he ended up building a tolerance, but his eyes still go unbelievably red every time.

He really fucks with bagels (I mean, what self-respecting Gothamite doesn’t) and he has a very specific bagel order for every possible mood from the great place downtown

The workers at Bagel Kingdom know which moods correspond with which order, and they have a designated spreadsheet taped to the back of the counter so they can work accordingly.

They know he’s barely hanging in there when he gets a toasted blueberry bagel with no butter.

He’s having a good day when he gets a plain bagel sandwich with tomato, provolone, two fried eggs, and hot sauce. In that order. That’s the shit

When he’s stressed, he gets a pumpernickel bagel with strawberry cream cheese to cheer himself up.

The workers of Bagel Kingdom will NOT let you disrespect his bagel.

Bruce almost burnt the tower down when he tried to cook a toaster waffle in the microwave while running on 40 hours without sleep, and he just kept cooking it because it wasn’t crisping for some reason

Alfred needs to force him to eat all the time

(It is definitely because Bruce suffers from disordered eating.)

There was one period of time in which Bruce went days without food, and Alfred (lovingly) threatened to send him to in-patient if he didn’t eat

Bruce said that those gross, mushy, lukewarm blueberries were the only thing he’d tolerate when he was struggling, so blueberries became their indicator: if Bruce can’t stomach blueberries, he goes to in-patient.

He’s gone twice, and Bruce was very mad each time, but he still uses healing methods that he was taught in there so it couldn’t have been that bad.

(He’s also friends with some of the nurses now. He, Denise, and Kayleigh have a group chat.)

Dick once convinced him to test taste different kinds of olive oil to learn the difference between regular and extra virgin. It was absolutely disgusting, and he ended up puking an hour later. Alfred now puts child locks on the kitchen cabinets.

The first time Bruce ever makes a meal that doesn’t look horrid is when he spends two weeks practicing Romani dishes for Dick the month after he adopts him.

He has since perfected three different recipes:

Stuffed peppers

Goulash

Cabbage rolls

(Keep in mind Dick is not vegetarian like Bruce.)

He tried making almond cake like 80 times (which is more like a biscuit but still a baked good) but could never do it right so Alfred makes them instead.

At dinner time, Dick always eats off Bruce’s plate more than his own. Alfred has chastised him several times, but Bruce only encourages him more. He thinks it’s cute. And so does the general public when they attend dinner parties.

One of Bruce's favorite memories of his parents is when he had a bad dream in the middle of the night so Thomas and Martha drove him out to the nearest diner to have a chocolate milkshake at 3 am.

Now, after patrol, if Bruce saw something traumatic or something that reminded him of his parents’ death, he’ll go to that same 24-hour diner and sit for a bit with a chocolate milkshake.

He continues this tradition after Dick becomes Robin. (Even if it took months for Bruce to even consider the idea of letting Dick near harm’s way.)

No matter how hard he tries to keep Dick away from the gruesome stuff, he can’t stop everything. They get milkshakes a lot more than Bruce would like.

But eventually, it turns into a treat whenever Dick does well in school or needs a pick-me-up.

And when they add Jason to the mix, they introduce him to the tradition as well.

They know everything will be okay when they have chocolate milkshakes together.

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shieldofiron · 7 months ago

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Pretty Boy Live in Santa Fe, 1977

Part 1/3 Also on Ao3 here

For @harringrove-relay-race. Very happy with how part 1 turned out, and there will be more to come. Thanks to @foxxtastic for the intro and next up will be something stunning from our fearless Relay Race leader @half-oz-eddie

Rated M / 5k words / Part 1/3

Part 1: Into Hades

Rolling Stone Magazine - May 2002

Billy Hargrove arrived after I did, in his lovingly maintained blue Camaro, the subject of his song, “Lady Blue.” “Lady Blue” was recently named #93 on Rolling Stone’s Top Love Songs of the Century.

“I wrote, ‘She’s the wind in my hair, the rumble in my soul.’ I thought it was so obvious,” He laughed, his blue eyes still boyish. “My niece made it her wedding song, I said ‘Really? It’s about a fuckin’ car!’”

He showed me several pictures of his niece, the supermodel Tyler Sinclair. It seems good looks run in the family. He suggested the diner and he ordered waffles, winking when I mentioned that we’ll be here a long time.

The decades have been kind to him, maybe a few more lines. It’s not hard to imagine him stepping right back onto the stage, as if no time has passed at all.

“A little extra glitter on the eyes,” He said with a smile, “to hide my crows feet. That’s all I need.”

I ask what he’s going to wear to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony for Kaleidoscope's induction and his smile dims only for a moment.

“I think I should pull out some old costumes. You know, the butterfly still fits.”

He was referring, of course, to the sheer butterfly cape costume that nearly had him thrown off the stage in Houston Texas in December 1976. He caved to putting on a pair of silvery shorts rather than the nude underwear it was designed with. He later wore it with the nude underwear on the inside cover of Kaleidoscope, the album that will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in just a few short weeks. Kaleidoscope was his last album with the iconic Glam Rock band Pretty Boy, which famously broke up at the height of their career while touring for the album, onstage.

It’s not often that a band is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and there’s a question if all of them will even show up.

“I’ll be there,” Hargrove said, fiddling with the silver band on his middle finger. “I have no problem with seeing him.”

The him is, of course, the lead guitarist and other lead singer of Pretty Boy, Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington invites me to his oceanfront house in Malibu later that afternoon.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to go,” He said thoughtfully, his brown eyes darting around the room.

When I mention that Billy is going to go, he seems surprised.

“He didn’t say he was going to punch me, did he?” Harrington smiled, but it doesn’t seem like much of a joke.

For one of the most famous rock stars of the 70s, Harrington is shockingly low key. He wears a t-shirt and slouchy linen pants, and he jokes that he ought to have shaved when I take out my camera. The house is stunning but empty, with miles of blank white walls and overstuffed white furniture.

“I’m looking for a little peace,” He shrugs, “I used to have all these pictures up, all this furniture… It was too much.”

It was hard not to see him as an artist without a muse. He drifted listlessly, picking things up and putting them down as we talked. So it was a surprise to me to hear that he’s been recording.

“I may never release it but… Yeah,” He laughed, “Music. After all this time. Bet you didn’t know.”

He picks up a rare photo from the piano. It’s from the early days of Pretty Boy, before Billy Hargrove. Harrington has his arm around his bandmate, Eddie Munson. Their drummer Chrissy Cunningham is balanced precariously across their shoulders, laughing and cringing at the same time. Bassist Robin Buckley smirks from the corner of the frame, messy bangs in her eyes.

“Who knew, right?” He asked no one, shaking the frame a little.

There are no pictures of Billy Hargrove.

“That’s a… a long story,” He said, when I asked.

But I have time. I tell him Rolling Stone will pay for it. At least that makes him laugh.

It was just by chance that Pretty Boy’s last concert was filmed.

“We were meant to just film in Vegas,” The director, Argyle Molina-Zapata, sat down with me after a private screening of Pretty Boy Live in Santa Fe, 1977, “But there was a freak rainstorm, and I couldn’t get my camera’s out of the back. The crowd was digging it, refused to leave. I remember when Billy hit the high note for ‘Mother Make Me,’ there was this lightning crack… brilliant.”

Molina-Zapata shook his head, “But the footage, what I got of it, was awful. Awful! So I begged Murray to let me come with them to Santa Fe.”

Murray was Murray Bauman, famed tour manager, who handled the Boys, later Pretty Boy from their first album Starfire, all the way to Kaleidoscope.

“And I was lucky,” Argyle nodded, “They had that extra tour bus.”

The tour busses are featured in the first few minutes of the film. They roll around the corner, one reading Billy Blue (Billy’s original stage name was Billy Blue before he dropped the Blue), and the other, Steve’s Six (Named after Steve’s best friends from his hometown.)

“They were nightmares,” Murray Bauman’s voice crackled over the phone, “Nightmares on tour. Separate buses. Separate hotels. Fuck me, I swear to god at one point they wanted separate stages. And the label caved on almost all of it. Fucking nightmare.”

It’s almost impossible to imagine it when you see them on stage together. There’s something electric that passed between Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington, something that drove crowds wild. They gravitate towards each other on the stage, orbiting like planets until they can share the same mic. They can’t seem to stay apart.

It’s hard to see exactly what happened that night.

“I’ve watched it a million times,” Argyle laughed, “But the only two people who can really say what happened are Billy and Steve.”

What you can see is this: Steve tearing into “Pride & Prejudice”, the lead off Kaleidoscope and the last song of the night.

Billy was trembling, visibly shaking as he sang and Steve harmonized along.

What can I say, if you ask me to walk away?

Baby, there’s no words for you.

Baby. I don’t know what to do.

Billy danced closer, joining Steve, his handheld mic loose at his side.

Can you ever put away your pride?

Is it worth it to not have me at your side?

I guess it must be, because I’m yours,

Regretfully,

Baby.

Billy leans in, sharing Steve’s mic for the bridge.

Is it really a mystery?

What I mean to you, and you mean to me?

Is it really, baby?

Billy shook his head, curls bouncing. He looked into Steve's eyes. He smiled. Steve looks at Billy, and Billy looks at him. It almost looks like Billy mouths something, but bootleg footage also has appeared where it looks like Billy just nodded. Steve goes a little shell shocked, hand freezing on his guitar, falling out of sync.

And then Steve turned away and left the stage, handing his guitar to a stagehand. Billy turned to the crowd, his expression strangely triumphant. He was always magnetic on stage, but this moment transcends that. It somehow feels like he’s getting everything he wants.

So I guess I’m losing you,

You promised me you would and it’s true.

Baby, there’s no words for you.

Baby. I don’t know what to do.

Steve Harrington hasn’t performed in public since 1977.

“None of us knew what was going to happen that night,” Chrissy Cunningham curled up next to her husband, Eddie Munson, on the large white couch of their Seattle home.

They’re a handsome couple still, draped in rock and roll finery. He toyed with the edge of her scarf, and she curled his long hair around her long fingers.

“We had some of our own shit going on at the time so…” Munson shrugged, “Maybe we were distracted.”

Their living room was crowded and verdant, every spare flat surface covered in plants. Their partner, former record executive Jason Carver, puttered in the kitchen in an apron that read Plant Papa.

“Yeah,” Chrissy smiled, “We had some stuff going on at the same time. But still… It seemed like they were getting better. Didn’t it seem like they were getting better?”

Munson shrugged, “The thing about Billy and Steve… they were soulmates. You don’t write music like that and not… it was like they had a second language, just for them. They were soulmates, I really believe that. Everything they did, everything that happened… they could only hurt each other that badly if… yeah.”

When I ask what they did to each other, Eddie and Chrissy just scooted closer together, like teenagers in a slasher, hiding from the killer. She laid a hand over his leg, her two stone diamond ring catching the sunlight.

“Steve never wanted Billy to be in the band,” Eddie shook his head, “but Jim had a soft spot for Billy. And Steve had… I mean Jim was…”

“Jim was like a father. To all of us.” Chrissy’s knee jiggled.

“We were this little tiny band from Nowhere, Indiana,” Eddie nodded, “And Jim believed in us.”

“I was just a junior exec at the time. I was put on the Kaleidoscope tour in case of catastrophic failure, which by the way it was,” Jason Carver is making risotto while we speak, the steam curling the lock of hair that falls over his face. “But it wasn’t my fault although I was high as hell on coke half the time. I guess I deserved to get fired. But Jim was the real deal. Gold records out the ass, best wife in the world, and his daughter, I mean… she was something else.”

They’re referring, of course, to Jim Hopper, producer on Kaleidoscope as well as Billy Blue and The Boys’ records, and the father of pop superstar Eleven aka Jane Hopper.

“Jim was…” Steve Harrington’s eyes always got a little misty talking about Jim, staring out over the ocean. “Yeah, I guess he was a little like my dad. My own parents were always gone. Which is like… I grew up so privileged so like I’m not saying… I just mean I grew up mostly by myself. And we were just so lucky he even agreed to listen to us when we got to LA.”

“I remember that night,” Joyce Hopper’s voice was raspy, cigarette-y in the way only old movie stars are. She’s a gorgeous woman in jeans and a gardening hat, speaking to me while she tends to her garden at her home in Castellammare. “He came home and said, ‘I have the next ones, the next big ones. Fuck, Joyce, they’re brilliant. Unpolished, but brilliant.’”

When I ask about when Jim discovered Billy Hargrove she just laughed.

“If Steve and the rest of The Boys were unpolished, Billy Hargrove was a fucking ten carat diamond,” She said. “But Steve’s band was Jim’s, and he could polish them up how he wanted. And then when he thought they were just right for it… he set the diamond.”

Jim Hopper was a big man, larger than life both in appearance and in personality. His fingerprints are all over some of the best hits of the decade.

Watching him on old interviews, there’s an immediacy to his presence that leaps off the screen.

“My daughter is the one who really found him. She snuck out with her sister and wandered God knows where. And she just… found him. Called me the next morning, saying ‘Dad, you have to hear this guy.’ He was playing in this… terrible club,” Jim said, tapping his cigar on the table of Merv Griffin’s set. “Absolute shithole, pardon my french. And he’s got a great voice, you’ve heard his voice, right?”

“I have,” Merv said.

“I had to get him out of there. He was a star.”

Billy Hargrove was a teenage runaway from San Diego when he came to LA in 1971.

“I had a girl’s backpack from my stepsister, eight dollars, and an extra pair of underwear. By the end of the next week? I had two more dollars,” Billy laughed. “But I got lucky. I met Heather.”

Heather Holloway was a showgirl at Wildwoods, a nightly revue. She found Billy at the backdoor, and took him to her apartment.

“She saved me,” He frowned. “Whenever I needed her most.”

Heather Holloway, Billy Hargrove’s first and only wife, died in 1979.

“I got a job singing at Sugar, this great gay club downtown. It was in the late afternoons, so I had a crowd of about… two. But those two brought two more,” Billy smiled, “Heather would talk me up to all the promoters. He’s a singer, he’s great, you’ll love him, he’s so cute.”

“He was an instant hit,” Sugar’s manager, Bob Newby, tells me by phone as well. “I did have to keep a couple of creeps off him, when he just started he was only nineteen. But even if you closed your eyes… he was a hit.”

“Guys used to think that because I was a part of the entertainment, I was fair game. And let me tell you, the novelty of that wears off mighty quick,” Billy shakes his head.

He shares a diary entry from his late wife of a night in April 1972. He came to her home with blood all over his face.

“Some guy thought because I was a fag…” Billy’s mouth twisted, but he went on, cradling the little marble notebook in his hand. “He could do whatever he wanted to me. When I fought back… he cracked a bottle over my head.”

He’s not just a piece of meat. He’s a person. I don’t understand these people. I just don’t understand, Heather Holloway wrote. I cleaned him up and he’s sleeping now.

The next diary entry is from a day later. April 12. Billy and I drove to Vegas and got married. When we spoke in the morning he said he was afraid for me too, even though I’m careful with the girls. He’s afraid of the cops trying to bust up the Wildwoods and picking me up. At least this way, he says. He and I can come home to each other. Look out for each other. Always. The groom wore band aids and his great velvet pants. The bride wore lavender. It was perfect.

“And lucky too. Because within a month… I met Jim,” Billy smiled. “And my whole life changed.”

Upside Down Records signed Billy Blue, unagented, in1972 and he spent the next year working on his debut album with Jim Hopper.

“I didn’t even realize, when it happened,” Billy shook his head. “A couple of girls came by after a show, wanting to talk to me, wanting to meet me. That wasn’t that unusual. But they were young, far too young to get into the club. And the little one, she was asking all these weird questions. Did I have an agent? Did I know if I had enough songs for an album? Weird fuckin’ questions. And then she said I have to meet someone. To be honest, I thought she was coked out of her mind when she said, ‘You have to meet my dad.’”

“I was not,” Eleven promised me, “coked out of my mind. But that’s just Billy.”

Eleven aka Jane Hopper, meets me backstage at one of her shows. She’s dressed in slouchy leather pants, to match her sister and drummer Kali Hopper.

“I knew he was something special. My dad was always talking about the IT factor. That thing that made a person something special. But I didn’t get it until I saw Billy Blue singing on that tiny stage,” She smiled. “He didn’t just have the IT factor. He was IT.”

It’s odd then, that Billy Blue’s first album had a surprisingly tepid response. His first single, in 1973, “Let Alone,” came in at only 26th for the month of April on the pop charts.

“People liked it,” Billy shrugs, “But I don’t think they knew what to do with it. You have my songs, these like… little pop love songs and ballads. I wasn’t that strong of a writer at the time. It was like half my songs, half covers. And so they’d book me, expecting fucking… Peter Frampton. And here comes this big queer with glitter on his nipples.”

But the lyrics of “Let Alone” would hint at his later songs, a hallmark simplicity that shone off his raw voice and poetry that hinted at a troubled past.

And if you were meant to care for me

You would, and that’s how it has to be

You said I couldn’t go on without you

Ha, look at me, looking brand new

At the same time, The Boys’ song “Paper Girl,” penned by Harrington, was number one.

She’s my paper girl

Wakes me up every morning, right on time

She got me smiling, got my head in a whirl

Picture perfect, paper girl

“Billy didn’t have much commercial appeal. Sex appeal, yes,” Jason laughed, toying with Chrissy’s hair. “But for sales? That’s where The Boys came in.”

“I hated that name,” Eddie said, “To start with we were half girls.”

The Boys had already had a somewhat successful tour under their belt by the time Jim suggested a collaboration with Billy Hargrove.

“It was a nice, short tour,” Steve Harrington glances away when I ask about the first tour.

“It was a nightmare. Balls to the wall nightmare,” Robin Buckley’s voice is a warm crackle over the phone. “Steve went on like thirty overlapping benders at once.”

Her partner, soap actress Vickie Carmichael cackles behind her, at their home in Salt Lake City.

“The thing about Steve is… well… he’s never found a good way of coping with himself,” Robin huffs. “Music was about as close as he ever got. But in those early days, he just kept looking for more and more.”

“You don’t think it was about-” Vickie asked, just barely into the phone.

“No.”

“It was about Nancy,” Eddie said confidently when I mentioned their first tour. “Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.”

The Boys got their start in the late sixties, beginning with Eddie and Steve. Eddie gave Steve guitar lessons, which turned into some talent show performances. They used to practice at Eddie’s Uncle’s trailer.

“That’s where we got the name,” Eddie nodded, “My uncle used to just call us that, and it stuck.”

“I don’t even remember,” Chrissy said.

“That’s not how we got the name,” Steve shook his head, when I mention Eddie. “It was our first gig, after we got Chrissy and Robin. Robin put it down after the headliner kept asking when ‘you boys’ would go on, and kept addressing it to Chrissy’s chest. She blew him out of the fucking water.”

Nancy Wheeler was there that night, writing about local bands for a tiny column in the school paper.

“She was beautiful. Smart. So smart. Could hear her talk forever,” Steve said, eyes falling.

Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler were married in 1972 after they graduated high school.

“Steve made his own choices,” Chrissy shook her head.

That summer, the Boys plus one drove to LA and Nancy Wheeler took a job at Women’s Day Magazine and later, Rolling Stone. Steve Harrington and The Boys got a “steady gig” at La Bonita Rosa on the strip, playing for drunks every night from seven to eight.

“I really liked playing at La Bonita,” Steve said. “The audience, right there. You could smell the sweat. You could see on their faces if you were bombing. And we used to bomb. A lot. But it was a great place to try things. Experiment. We played there for about a year but… it felt too short.”

Within the year they had met Jim Hopper, who got them into the recording studio and sold their demo nearly on the spot to Upside Down Records.

“They had a great sound. They had got this way of playing. Smooth like a polished stone. Everything sounds good sitting in a frame like that,” Jim said in an interview with Rolling Stone in 1981. “Their songs were… catchy, but basic. But they had the sound.”

Upside Down records set the Boys on a US tour after “Paper Girl,” and “Joy to Love You,” both charted.

“It was like… overnight. One day we’re in a studio, messing around. Kid stuff. I was nineteen,” Steve Harrington shookhis head. “But…”

“That tour,” Chrissy trails off, playing with her ring again.

“I…” Steve Harrington scratched his nose. “I was losing it. Majorly losing it. It felt like we had just moved to LA and we were already neck deep. I mean, I had a number one fucking song. And for some reason I got it in my head to call my mom. She told the maid she wasn’t home. And I could hear her over the phone. My mom. So yeah. I lost it. Lost about half my damn mind on that tour. And people will say it was because of Nancy, because we got married just out of high school, and she wasn’t supportive… but that wasn’t true. Nancy saved me.”

“Nancy never wanted him to be in the band. But… she also didn’t seem to care that much either,” Eddie shook his head, “It’s… complicated. Love is supposed to be. Simple. Like the chords of a song. 1-3-5.”

Jason Carver rolled his eyes at that, “Then what are we?”

Eddie grinned, “We’re a band.”

Nancy Wheeler met me on a Thursday in New York City, slim sunglasses dominating her small porcelain face. We get lunch at her favorite deli shop, and she perches at the counter, loafers dangling. She’s an editor at The New Yorker now, but she still has a soft spot for rock and roll, as evidenced by the Grateful Dead t-shirt under her blazer.

“That tour. I didn’t even know anything was wrong. He just came home with a funny look on his face, saying, ‘We’re headlining.’ So I said, ‘That’s great, Steve.’ He just kept… saying it. It was starting to piss me off, if I’m being honest,” She shook her head. “I should have known something was wrong.”

“I wish she had stopped me. But how could you know right? Hindsight is always 2020,” Steve Harrington said. “I mean, she was my wife. How could she not want me home? But that’s just… sorry. That’s not fair to put on her. I chose to go.”

“I flew out to meet them when they were in Indianapolis, visited my family, and I came a day early to see him,” She smiled warmly, and then it fell. “He was… Well, first, Eddie Munson tried to intercept me at the hotel, so I wouldn’t see him. I told him, ‘I’m here to see my fucking husband.’”

Steve Harrington didn’t add any more details about the tour, just shrugged when I asked.

“He was coked up like you wouldn’t believe,” Robin scoffed. “She walked in on him with two girls and coke all over his… well.”

“I just asked him. Do you want to come home? Do you want to get help? Or not?” She purses her lips. “And so he came home and we found a rehab place near Hawkins.”

“The tour kind of… fell apart. Obviously. We had lost our lead singer and guitarist to fucking… Hawkins, Indiana,”

Everything stopped for the Boys. Upside Down offered to let them out of their two album contract, but Steve couldn’t afford to pay it down.

“Rehab,” He shrugged. “Is expensive.”

Right as it seemed that everything would be over for the Boys, things were looking up for Billy Blue.

“Jim was always saying, ‘the record is selling alright, the songs are getting there but he needs a… push,’” Joyce said. “‘He’s so close. So close. He’s a star.’”

“He always believed in me,” Billy smiled, toying with his ring again. “Always. Even when I threw a jug of milk at his head.”

Joyce laughed when I asked about that moment, “He came home saying, ‘He milked me, Joyce. But he’ll fix the song tonight.’”

“And I did,” Billy said. “And the album was going alright. I did a little tour, socal and the southwest. And then one night, Jim brings me this song. He said, ‘I want you to tell me what’s missing from this.’”

The song was, of course, the Boys’ biggest hit, “Hades.” Steve Harrington’s first version was called, “To Orpheus” and the chorus goes:

Don’t turn back don’t look behind you baby

I’m close, I’m right behind

The future's so bright, and I want you to take me

Wanna be holding your hand when I make it across the line.

“It was fine, but just kind of… nothing. It was supposed to be about Eurydice, but it was so… nothing. She just loved Orpheus and that was it. There were no insides to her. She was going to follow him to her doom,” Billy shook his head. “That’s not right.”

This was not the version that made it to the recording booth, of course. The Boys’ single, “Hades featuring Billy Blue,” came out in 1975. The actual chorus goes:

Turn back on me and I won’t forgive you baby

Don’t want you to see me like this

Up ahead is bright, and I want you to take me

If you’re strong enough to cross that finish line

“‘Hades,’ was a real step forward for the Boys. Gone were the teenybopper tunes,” Steve Harrington’s biographer and personal friend Dustin Henderson wrote in his book The Pretty Boy. “Their first album got the kids dancing. But the second proved that they actually had something to say.”

“Still hate it,” Steve Harrington said. “I wrote that song in rehab. It was deeply, deeply personal to me.”

“He came out, all ready. He wanted to start recording right away,” Robin sighed. “Like I mean the next day. All these songs, just pouring out of him. But the label had lost faith in us. And they certainly weren’t going to let us start recording with a guy who had only just earned his thirty day sober chip.”

“The song wasn’t ready,” Billy shook his head. “But I guess he was. Jim said he needed this. So Jim asked if I would come and like… pitch some stuff as a personal favor. Songwriting credit, that’s all it was supposed to be. Get the songs moving, get them going.”

Steve Harrington takes a long time to continue speaking about it.

“I felt it, writing for that album. I felt proud of those songs. They didn’t belong to anyone else but me,” He toyed with some piano keys while we talked, and then finally sat down and began to play something tuneless and half formed.

“That album was all about Nancy,” Chrissy said. “I mean. I know it. You know it. Nancy knew it. And she kind of hated it. But-”

“You can’t leave your husband right as he gets out of rehab,” Nancy said to me, toying with her wedding ring. “When he writes all these songs about how you’re the only thing… Steve was always like that. Heart wide open. That’s why when he met Billy. I almost thought… it would all be okay. That sounds fucked up but. I thought they could save each other. That the music could save him.”

“It was just a songwriting credit,” Billy raised his hands. “Jim swore up and down. I was just gonna come in there and sit down with this guy Steve. But when I walk into the studio, there’s two mics set up.”

“I was the Boys’ only singer,” Steve Harrington shook his head. “And to be absolutely honest, I was kind of a jackass about it. So to have some guy come in and say he’s gonna sing me my song… well…”

“Steve was the only one who would ever argue with Jim, And he let him have it that day,” Eddie laughed. “He called him the most low down, dirty, rat bitten bastard in California, and that he would die rather than give up his band to someone else.”

“I did not want his band. I did not know his band. And I did not care. And his song sucked. And I told him so. And then I sang it. Better.” Billy smiled.

“Billy was…” Chrissy shook her head. “Incredible.”

I ask Steve what Billy was like that first day in the studio.

“He was,” Something passed over his face. “Alright. He has a great voice, alright.”

“I was good. Better. Best.” Billy smiled.

“But he didn’t understand the song. He wanted Eurydice to… doubt. To think she wasn’t going to get out,” Steve slammed his hands on the keys. “It’s been… almost twenty years. I still don’t understand it.”

I asked why he let Billy stay. But Steve doesn’t have an answer.

“They were like oil and water, right away,” Chrissy said.

“Yeah, but oil on the water can catch fire,” Eddie shrugged.

“Jim asked me to stay,” Billy looked away from me, down at his waffles. “It was a favor to the label.”

“If Billy said louder, Steve said mute,” Robin snickered. “It was kind of great, actually. Finally someone called King Steve on his shit. One day I came in and they were arguing over how close the microphone should be to your throat. Almost got in a physical fight over a fucking microphone. I mean, I love Steve. But he always thinks he’s like… the babysitter. It’s his job to do everything for everybody.”

“Like who was this guy? Really? He came into my studio with no shirt on, most of the time still half smashed from the night before, and he thinks he can make all these changes. But Jim keeps telling me it’s just business, the label thinks it’s good business.” Steve frowned, and then smiled, and then frowned again.

“Yeah, I never wore shirts back then. Or underwear,” Billy said with a grin. “I was a rockstar!”

“Steve fought for every song on that album,” Nancy Wheeler patted her lips primly with a napkin. “He only lost on one.”

“Billy Hargove has songwriting credit and lead vocals on “Hades.” Dustin Henderson wrote.

“Billy was all over that album. He’d make some minor suggestion, maybe this chord instead of that, this word is better. And Steve would flip out, yell at him, yell at Jim, threaten to storm out… and then two days later quietly tell me to change the chord, he’d start singing the new words. Billy was there with us about every single day,” Eddie said.

“Of course, it was our biggest hit,” Chrissy laughed. “Everything but that song, Steve did what he wanted. Oh we had Billy in the studio, making suggestions. But Steve did what he wanted except for ‘Hades.’ Jim said that song is the album, and he wouldn’t cut it.”

“Jim was always right,” Steve closed the piano. “The bastard.”

Hades exploded onto the radio in late 1975. They didn’t have the same distribution as their first record, but the Boys had another hit.

“Billy had this way of singing it. Still does. He broke four mics when we recorded it. Singing so loud I had to keep an eye on the cymbals to stop them from shaking. You can feel him, right in your chest.” Chrissy giggled. “Like he was trying to wake all the dead from Hades. If anyone could, he could.”

“It’s a really, really great song,” Robin said.

This song belongs to Billy Blue, Rolling Stone wrote in 1976. The only question now is, what will The Boys do next?

“I remember that article. Fucking… Harrington said that he basically wrote the whole song. But he said, ‘the label thought bringing Billy in was a good idea,’” Billy gets tense for the first time. “I’m not saying I was like… I just mean. It would have been nice. To treat me like an equal. I’m more than just a singer. I’m not just… a piece of meat.”

“Billy was really pissed about that article. I remember, the day after the article came out, we were getting breakfast at this tiny place off La Cienega. Steve had this car back then, a big maroon BMW, and Eddie had got him a vanity plate when he bought it. Stupid thing it said, ‘BIGBOY.’ Anyway, We’re having breakfast, and we hear this screech outside, like an accident,” Robin Buckley gets uncharacteristically quiet as she goes on through this story. “Billy’s car is parked halfway out of the parking lot, and he comes in like a bull in a charge. Billy… he wasn’t some wimpy guy. He was small, but he was strong as hell… He came right over and grabbed Steve by his collar and lifted him right off the counter. And he said, I’ll never forget it because Steve used to recite it from memory, yell it at me, ‘Tell me I’m not dreaming. Is that Steve fucking Harrington? The lead singer of the Boys. Hey man, I love your song ‘Hades.’ How’d you get your voice to sound halfway decent for once?’”

“I don’t remember that,” Steve Harrington said flatly when I asked.

“And Steve used to be a fucking dick in high school. So he starts getting real bitchy, shoving Billy off him, asking what his problem is, why he’s such a dick all the fucking time, when it’s not even his band. And Billy said something like, ‘No one wants your shit band. Not with you in it,’” Robin paused for a moment. “And they just. Stare at each other. Like… daring each other to do something.”

Billy just shrugs when I ask, “I was pissed. I gave this guy a number one hit, and he still wanted to treat me like some… airhead singer the label brought in as a stunt. I’m not just a singer. I’m not a piece of meat. I’m a person.”

When I ask Steve about that day he’s pretty quiet, deflated at his piano. He only wants to talk about the song. The music. Can’t seem to talk about Billy any other way.

“He sang it like he not only knows Orpheus can’t save him, but that he won’t. It was supposed to be hopeful. A happy ending.” Steve said.

“So you still hate the song?” I asked.

“No, I don’t. It’s brilliant. And that’s the whole problem.”

To be continued...

Next up is Half-Oz-Eddie's piece at 7:00 pm. GET HYPE!

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