#re-recorded

[grumpycurbur]

CJBP...MTCB! (NEW Preview)

i decided to re-record this song too, and even i can say, this is better than the original recording i did thanks to a better quality copy of the Original Song and vocal improvements.

I'm aiming to have the redux/re-issue done and hopefully released by the 3rd weekend of April 2025.

[evermoredeluxe]

Taylor congratulating Anita Baker on owning her work -> Anita Baker congratulating Taylor on owning her work ❤️

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

How it feels being a longtime Taylor fan that remembers when there used to be two years between new music releases.

[bearforcecaptions]

Dylan Harper had never been a man of presence.

He was the kind of guy people’s eyes skimmed over in a crowd — slight frame, short haircut, the kind of posture that folded in on itself like a question mark. He spent most of his days behind a desk in a mid-tier consulting firm, organizing data, avoiding conversations, eating his turkey sandwich in the break room while pretending to read.

But today… something was wrong.

He was in the back of a rideshare, heading home just like any other evening, when it began. At first, it was subtle: a tingling in his arms, like his skin had been lightly sunburned. He rolled up the sleeves of his cardigan and frowned. The hairs on his forearms were standing on end — but there were more of them than usual. Thicker. Darker. Spreading.

"What the hell...?" he muttered, rubbing his arm.

Then came the heat.

It surged through his chest and neck like a fever, swelling his muscles, tightening his skin. He gasped and unbuttoned his shirt collar, only to find a growing patch of coarse, black hair erupting over his pecs. His narrow chest — once soft and unimposing — was pushing outward, thickening with firm muscle, draped in a forest of fur.

His hands were trembling.

Dylan pulled out his phone, panic bubbling in his throat. He hit the front camera. What he saw didn’t match who he was. His jaw was squarer. His cheekbones more pronounced. His eyebrows looked thicker, more defined. Worst of all — or maybe best, depending on your perspective — a thick beard was creeping over his cheeks like ivy in fast-forward.

“No, no, no, no…”

He hit Record. His voice shook.

“Okay—uh—my name is Dylan Harper,” he said, almost pleading. “I work in accounting. I don’t know what’s happening right now. I was just riding home from work and—something’s happening to me. My body’s—it’s changing. I feel like I’m burning up, and I’ve got hair growing all over my chest and face, and my voice is—”

He coughed, and it came out as a growl.

“Jesus—my voice is changing too. Please—someone has to help. This isn’t right. This isn’t me.”

He moved the phone to show his chest. His once-flat torso had swelled into something broad, masculine, dusted with an ever-thickening pelt. His collarbone was hidden beneath it. His nipples were larger, darker, firm with muscle behind them. He gasped as a burst of heat filled his arms — his biceps were swelling, tearing the sleeves of his cardigan.

Dylan looked horrified.

His fingers shook as he tried to upload the video.

Upload failed.

His phone buzzed. The Photos app opened.

“Wh—what the hell? No, no—”

The screen lit up, and the video started to play. But it wasn’t the one he recorded.

On-screen was the same face… but not the same man. He was shirtless now, glistening slightly with sweat, beard thick and perfectly shaped. The chest hair that once terrified Dylan now framed him like a badge of pride. He leaned into the camera with a cocky smirk and a slow rumble in his voice.

“Hey there, stud,” he said, fingers brushing through his beard. “Name’s Dirk McLean. Big, bad, bearded, and damn proud of it.”

Dylan froze.

On the video, Dirk rolled his shoulders, his pecs flexing visibly beneath a mat of dark fur. His eyes burned with confidence, voice honeyed with flirtation.

“Just got back from the gym, thought I’d show you boys what a real man looks like. You like chest hair? I got a damn forest. Wanna touch? Bet you do. I know you’re watchin’ this with one hand already.”

“No! That’s not me! That’s not—I didn’t say any of that!” Dylan shouted at the phone, his hands trembling.

But something in him… shifted.

A numbness rolled over his thoughts like fog. The fear drained away. His mouth parted. His eyes lost focus. And then…

He found himself holding the phone again, like before. But this time, he wasn’t watching the video. He was recording it.

And he was saying it all—word for word.

“Hey there, stud,” he purred into the lens. “Name’s Dirk McLean. Big, bad, bearded, and damn proud of it.”

He grinned wide, deep voice laced with flirtation as he rubbed his fingers through his dense beard, slowly sliding down to rake across his hairy chest. He let out a satisfied growl.

“Just got back from the gym, thought I’d show you boys what a real man looks like. You like chest hair? I got a damn forest. Wanna touch? Bet you do. I know you’re watchin’ this with one hand already.”

He winked.

Dirk stopped the recording, smiling lazily. His thumb hovered over the send button — not to family, not to coworkers. Not even to anyone he’d known before.

He opened Grindr.

There was a guy nearby, profile name “MuscleChaser69.” Dirk didn’t hesitate.

Sent.

As he leaned back into the leather seat, stretching his now-massive arms behind his head, he felt no trace of Dylan Harper in his mind. The meek office drone, the nervous wreck in a cardigan — gone. His memories were foggy, faded like a bad dream. All he knew now was Dirk McLean: bold, flirty, hairy, hot as hell.

He scratched his beard, admiring himself in the reflection of the window. That smirk never left his face.

And when his phone buzzed with a “🔥” and a message saying “Damn, stud. U free tonight?” he just chuckled.

“Damn right I am.” he sent.

[obibail]

"Still not helpful."

[hinamie]

theyre soft your honour

[seoksoonwoo]

🤍🤍🤍

[tayloralisonswift]

the i can see you mv is sooooooo sad like it's this fun heist movie until you see her running away from everything she created and she turns back and watches everything she's ever built collapse. and in that moment you don't feel like the re-recordings are triumphant! you feel her pain. she did all of this and now she can never go back. it's time to go says her past is frozen behind glass but at least in that song, it still exists. she could go look at it, even if it's not hers to touch. but no, in this music video, everything except that painting is destroyed. all she did was want to own what is hers, and she barely escaped with her life.

[nataliescatorrccio]

When I think back on the Fearless album and all that you turned it into, a completely involuntary smile creeps across my face. This was the musical era in which so many inside jokes were created between us, so many hugs exchanged and hands touched, so many unbreakable bonds formed. So before I say anything else, let me just say that it was a real honor to get to be a teenager alongside you. And for those of you I've come to know more recently than 2008, I am ecstatic that I'll get to experience a bit of that feeling with you in the very near future. Now that I can fully appreciate it in its whimsical, effervescent, chaotic entirety.

Fearless was an album full of magic and curiosity, the bliss and devastation of youth. It was the diary of the adventures and explorations of a teenage girl who was learning tiny lessons with every new crack in the facade of the faIrytale ending she'd been shown in the movies.

Fearless (Taylor's Version) - April 9, 2021

[see-arcane]

When I read about the relationship between Jonathan and Mina on jstor or spark/cliffnotes, it's always "their marriage is sexless, the only time it was not was when they had their child" and the reasons aside from "stoker hated sex with women" or "they are too spiritual, they see sex as lowly carnal desires" is that "They never write about having sex in the book". And I'm like. Why... would anyone... put anything regarding their bedroom activities on the How To Hunt A Monster Files. Not only that, it's been edited for every one among them to read. Why would Mina put "his dick game strong last nite" on the groupchat. Are readers suffering from object permanence? Do I disappear to you mid-peekaboo??

Mina: “Almost done with the manuscript. Hmm. Should I leave in the part where you [REDACTED] my [REDACTED] until [REDACTED]?”

Jonathan: “Maybe trim that down to me being like a new man. Perhaps leave out the bit where you [REDACTED] me until I [REDACTED] and needed the cane to get around for the day as well. Not vital to the narrative, after all.”

Mina: “True.”

Jack, listening through the wall, white-knuckling his lancet: “Dear Phonograph, the audience and I are being robbed.”

[kiyomitakada]

so the news is out

death note the musical is having its 10th anniversary revival during november 2025 in tokyo, specifically tokyo tatemono brillia hall! english name annotations on the cast poster by me :]

here's the cast list:

Seishiro Kato & Ao Watanabe as Light Yagami (double casting)

Hiroki Miura as L

Riho Sayashi as Misa Amane

Riko from HUNNY BEE as Sayu Yagami

Megumi Hamada as Rem (returning from the original cast)

Kenji Urai as Ryuk (returning from the original cast)

Kiyotaka Imai as Soichiro Yagami

and translating the summary from the instagram post:

10th Anniversary: ​​The Beginning of a New Legend For the 2025 commemorative performance, original cast members Kenji Urai and Megumi Hamada will be returning for the first time in eight years!! Additionally, new talents are joining the cast to form "the strongest Death Note [musical]" yet, one that can only be realized in this very moment. This is a story of the Shinigami who dropped a notebook, and the humans who claimed to be gods. "Death Note THE MUSICAL" brings the original thrilling story to the stage with soul-stirring music by world-renowned composer Frank Wildhorn and detailed, bold direction by director Tamiya Kuriyama. And now, all the new pieces have come together. Come one, come all. This is the culmination of 10 years of work, and the beginning of a new legend.

[evermoredeluxe]

beyond even the elation about taylor owning all her work, the amount of relief i felt reading the letter was unreal. i can’t imagine the number of meetings she had, from exec meetings convincing them to change industry norms to meetings with shamrock to meetings with lawyers to communicate with certain other parties. like she was resilient enough to make this whole thing into a movement and smart enough to even create the eras tour and use it to her advantage, but at the core of it all, this is something unfair that happened to her. no matter how hard she worked, she would have never gotten back all the content other than the actual music, but now she does! she probably let out a breath she’d been holding for ages.

[eepykito]

I have a personal headcanon that vbs have shitty sex humor, like 12-year-old middle school boys levels of stupid. You could literally say “balls” and they’ll start shitting their pants like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard.

[iwatcheditbegin]

People who were on the wrong side in 2016 not getting to experience rep era again as a “fan” karma is a funny thing

[bearforcecaptions]

It was a quiet evening, the sun casting long amber streaks across the hardwood floors of the apartment Jared Lewis and Nate Coleman shared. The air was still, heavy with the faint scent of stale coffee and the microwave dinner Nate had half-finished an hour earlier. Their apartment was as unremarkable as the lives they led: two straight guys, roommates by necessity rather than friendship. Jared, a pudgy, soft-jawed sports podcaster who mostly kept to himself, lounged on the worn couch, scrolling absently on his phone. Nate, tall and wiry with a slouched posture and a mop of unstyled brown hair, sat at the kitchen counter, finishing off a beer as he stared at his laptop screen, half-heartedly pretending to work.

They didn’t talk much. Their shared space was functional at best—white walls bare except for a few generic posters, mismatched furniture, dishes stacked in the sink. Two bedrooms, two separate lives.

The evening light dimmed as the city outside settled into its usual nighttime hum. Nate pushed his laptop aside, rubbing his eyes. He picked up his phone to snap a picture of the apartment’s sorry state, thinking maybe he’d send it to his brother as a joke. But when he opened his photos app, it glitched. The screen flickered, and for a second, it went completely black.

“Huh,” Nate muttered, tapping it.

Jared glanced over, disinterested. “Your phone crapping out again?”

Before Nate could answer, the app reopened—but it wasn’t his photos anymore. The front camera was active, showing his own reflection in the dim light of the apartment. But something looked... off.

Nate leaned in, squinting. The face on the screen didn’t match his memory of himself. His jawline looked stronger, more angular. His cheekbones seemed sharper. His eyes, once hidden behind black-rimmed glasses, were clearer, brighter, framed by thick, dark brows that hadn’t been there before.

“Jared,” Nate called, his voice tight.

Jared heaved himself up, walking over lazily. “What is it—whoa.”

They both stared at the screen. Jared’s reflection, too, was changing. His soft, rounded features were firming up, his jaw gaining a subtle cleft, his cheeks hollowing slightly beneath prominent cheekbones. His usually unkempt hair was shorter now, styled neatly, a slight curl to it that hadn’t been there before.

“What the hell…” Jared murmured.

Nate felt it then—the heat. It started at his neck, spreading down his spine, like he was standing too close to a fire. He gasped as his shoulders pulled back, his posture straightening involuntarily. His narrow frame began to fill out, his chest pushing forward, pecs forming beneath his thin t-shirt, the fabric stretching tighter with every breath. He reached up to touch his face, feeling the coarse texture of stubble sprouting along his jawline.

Jared grabbed at his own shirt as his torso seemed to expand, the small belly he’d always carried melting away as muscle took its place. His chest rose and fell rapidly, a layer of dark hair creeping across it, spreading like ivy, thick and masculine.

The screen showed it all in real time, as if it were leading the transformation. The two men stared at their reflections, transfixed and horrified, watching as their bodies redefined themselves. Jared’s biceps bulged slightly as his arms thickened; Nate’s lanky limbs packed on lean, defined muscle.

Then came the final wave. Nate’s hair darkened a shade, his beard filling in, neat and dense. His neck looked thicker, more solid, and his once-slouched stance was replaced by a relaxed confidence that came effortlessly. Jared’s face now wore a permanent, easy grin, his eyes bright, his chest hair curling in perfect disarray. His shorts hung differently now, snug around stronger thighs.

The names they’d always known themselves by felt distant, fuzzy. The faces in the camera weren’t Jared Lewis and Nate Coleman anymore. These were new men entirely—Ryan Castillo and Mark Bennett. The names surfaced naturally, effortlessly, as if they’d always been theirs. Ryan—the dark-haired one, broader, more rugged. Mark—the slightly leaner one, with the tousled brown hair and warm eyes.

The apartment changed, too. The sad little space where two indifferent straight guys once coexisted was gone. The sagging couch was replaced by a sleek gray sectional. The bare walls were now decorated with framed photos of the two of them—shirtless at the beach, arms around each other at parties, goofy grins and matching sunglasses. There was a pride flag hanging by the window. A bar cart gleamed in the corner, stocked with good whiskey and cocktail shakers. The air smelled faintly of cologne and fresh laundry.

Mark put an arm around Ryan without thinking, his hand resting comfortably on Ryan’s furred chest. The reflection in the phone now looked exactly right: two relaxed, masculine gay men, shirtless, happy, at home.

Ryan chuckled softly. “What are you doing, babe?”

Mark smiled back at him, squeezing his side. “Just admiring the view.”

The phone buzzed in Ryan’s hand. The app had shifted again—Grindr, installed like it had always been there. The screen showed their profile:

“Ryan + Mark. Couple looking for a third. Friendly, masc, down to have fun 😉”

They shared a grin, the easy, knowing kind of smile that came from years of being together. There was no memory of an apartment filled with tension, of nights spent apart in separate rooms. There was no Jared, no Nate. Just Ryan and Mark, as they’d always been.

The first message arrived:

“Damn, you two are hot. Into hosting?”

Mark laughed, nuzzling against Ryan’s beard. “Guess tonight just got more interesting.”

Ryan grinned, setting the phone down on the counter as he pulled Mark in closer. The city outside kept humming, unaware that inside, two lives had been rewritten in an instant—and neither of them would ever know the difference.