#text: joni s.

[syldexter]

TEXTS 📲 SYLVESTERS.

DEX [Undelivered]: I don’t actually hate any of you.

@dannyssylvester @pennysylvester @sagesylvester @syljoni

[syldexter]

DEX: Joni?? DEX: I'm not going to tell Mom so long as you don't die. If that happens, it's fair game. [SENT]

TEXT 📲 DEX

JONI: I know you'd never tell mom this - but don't tell mom this. I'm scared, Dex. [UNDELIVERED] @syldexter

[jamneuromain]

💦🎉✨ with Ransom Drysdale 😏

Hmmm... I'm going to assume that you're planning a surprise for Ransom when something went terribly wrong...

An Attempt at Stalling

Ransom Drysdale x You

Warning: None?

A/N: Sorry Jaqui it's taking so long :( I had some me-time away from social media. (and this is my first time?! writing for Ransom I hope I get the bf!Ransom vibe right) Thank you for your support and love to my fics <333

It's nearly impossible to pull a stunt right under Ransom's nose. You know. You've tried (and failed).

Despite the failures during the past two times when you tried to celebrate his success in running his grandfather's publishing house, you have decided, yet again, to surprise him by asking a group of friends to decorate your shared home with photographs - photographs that recorded the history of Ransom taking ownership of the publishing house, how he was doing his best to strike deals and follow the steps of his grandfather.

Hundreds of photos.

You planned to have them printed, hanging from the ceiling with detachable fishing lines, from the living room to the kitchen, where he'd receive a cake that said "Congrats Mr. CEO!"

And unfortunately, it takes time to pull this stunt off, and your only hope would be stalling him during his family dinner at the mansion, for your friends to finish up the decoration at your house and sneak away before your return.

When Joni drones on about her environmentally friendly cosmetics, Ransom texts you with a bored face, tapping his foot on the floor.

Ran: Honey let's bounce

You check on the group chat, in which you talked to your friends five minutes ago.

TEAM SURPRISE PARTY: Need 30 mins Ryan forgot about the bouquet!!!!!

Which means you need to stall for at least another half an hour for them to clear out. You decide to come up with an excuse to Ransom.

You: just a few more minutes I want to hear Joni s story

Ran:?

Ran: Am I out of my mind or have you been brainwashed by aliens?

You chew on your lower lip to calm your nerves. It didn't help, and you are out of options to lie about.

Ransom takes your wrist and drags you to his room, leaving a grumbling "She needs to go to the bathroom", before kicking his door shut.

"What?" He snaps slightly when you eye him curiously. His hand still clutching your wrist, making it impossible for you to wiggle free.

"I..." You are not good at lying. You get nervous every time you try to cook up with a lie. Your palms get sweaty, your face burning hot, and you fidget like standing on a cushion of needles.

"Are you trying to keep a secret from me, honey?" Ransom allows a small grin to creep up his lips. He knows the symptoms too well: the jumpy look on your face, the hair on the back of your neck, and you are gripping your sweater with your fingers - the typical standard combo tells of you trying to lie.

"No... No." Your voice comes out high-pitched, which you quickly lower your voice to pretend to be confident, "No, not at all."

He takes that as a "yes", and asks, "And it has something to do with the fact that you suddenly don't want to go home?"

"No." You clear your throat, "Absolutely not."

Ransom nods thoughtfully, ignoring all the previous "no"s you've said, "You're not hiding a dog in our house, are you?"

"What? No." Although you are tempted to. You are hiding a cake and a bunch of your friends, and that hardly qualifies as "dog". Answering with more confidence, "Stop being paranoid. I want to spend some time with your grandpa. He seems ... lonely."

"Harlan?" Ransom snorts, "Honey, I appreciate you not adopting a dog in our house, but I don't want to spend a second more in this stinking place. Can we please go home?"

You sigh in defeat. There's no way on Earth that you can stall any longer without causing more suspicion. You pray that your friends are out of your house by now, as Ransom takes your hand to leave the room, waves goodbye to Harlan, and pulls his car out of the driveway.

You text frantically (and as subtly as you can sitting next to Ransom, who is driving the car) on your way back home.

You: SOS RAN'S DRIVING BACK HOME W/ ME

You: I hope ur done with the decor and the cake

You: AND THE FLOWERS!!

You could only text as fast as you can, hitting send before you could check the spellings and shutting the screen down before Ransom could peek in your direction.

You are a truly terrible spy if you ever come to it.

The drive home takes roughly fifteen minutes, which you let out an exhale of relief on arriving at your house and notice the empty front yard. Your friends drove here, it must have meant that they drove away a few minutes earlier.

Go Team. You chuckle silently.

Shoving away your phone in your pocket, you hold Ransom's extended hand as he shuts the car door and locks it. Every step you have taken nearer your house makes your heart jump out, fearing that Ransom would hate this surprise.

Ransom is the type of person who prefers seeing everything as if he's a clairvoyant. He doesn't hate surprises, he only hates it when the surprise has nothing to do with him - for example, celebrating someone else's birthday.

He mentioned once or twice about Linda forgetting about his birthdays when he was a kid, which you could only assume is the origin of the dislike of surprises.

Deep down, you secretly hope that he would enjoy this one.

Ransom spares a glimpse at his phone before turning the lights on.

The chandelier sparkles to life, and hanging from the ceiling, dozens of photos that recorded the history - his proud history of supporting the company, expanding it into not only publishing Harlan's books, but also owning a few newspapers and investing in some apps.

You wipe the invisible sweat from your forehead, relieved that this is a beautiful scene that you could almost cry.

"So this is what you've been hiding, huh?" Ransom comments lazily, giving your ass a light swat, which earns a squeal from your lips, "You know I hate surprises..." He mutters, pinching one of the photos closest to him, and taking a good look.

It was a photo taken from the earlier days, when he had just landed himself the company. A photo of you taking a selfie with him, as he struggles with the tie on his neck in a black suit.

"But I love this one." His soft gaze falls in your direction, pulling you close like a magnet, "Thank you, Honey."

You smile in his embrace. The said smile grows wider when he kisses the top of your head.

"Though I must say, you did a terrible job keeping secrets."

"Oh BULL," You scrawl, looking up at him in defiance, "admit it, Ran, you had no idea that I was gonna surprise you with this beautiful decoration."

Smirking in triumph, you challenge him for his reply.

"Too bad, honey," Ransom pulls out his phone, reciprocating your smirk, before opening the messaging app, and scrolling down to reveal your messages, "Aww, you are a terrible spy."

You: SOS RAN'S DRIVING BACK HOME W/ ME

You: I hope ur done with the decor and the cake

You: AND THE FLOWERS!!

They were meant for your friends, but you must have been so tense that you didn't even notice the receiver when you hit send.

As you huff out in defeat, Ransom sneaks a kiss from your lips, grinning wildly, "Now where's the cake I was promised?"

Find Jammy's 500 Follower's Celebration here 👈

Questions? Comments? Requests? 👉Send them to my inbox 👂

[monstrousgourmandizingcats]

I sat on this for weeks and lost track of the post on @staghunters's blog (sorry, Nina!) but she tagged me in a meme where the idea was to do a song I like for each letter in my URL, then tag a number of people equal to the number of letters. My URL has twenty-six letters in it so I'll do my best to scrounge up that many people I think might be interested!

M: "Mother," Florence and the Machine

O: "One Song at a Time," Mark Knopfler

N: "Non sofre Santa Maria," which a ton of great early music groups have done; I found out about the text it's in, Cantigas de Santa Maria by King Alfonso X of Castile, from a group called Ensemble Decameron, but I don't think they've done this one in particular

S: "Stranger," Vampire Weekend

T: "These Foolish Things," lots of people but I really like Greta Keller's version

R: "Romeo and Juliet," Dire Straits

O: "Other Side," Metric

U: "Un di, felice, eterea," Giuseppe Verdi (from La traviata)

S: "Slow Boat to China," lots of people but I really like Joni James's version

G: "Gondola no uta," Baisho Chieko's rendition of which I especially love

O: "Our Song," Taylor Swift

U: "Utakata," Pink Lady

R: "Reversion (Desire)," Nakamori Akina

M: "Morning Elvis," Florence and the Machine

A: "Atlantic City," Bruce Springsteen

N: "Night and Day," lots of versions but I really like the one from Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Song Book

D: "Disposer supreme and Judge of the earth," which hymnary.org says is by someone called Jean-Baptiste de Santeul and, in its English form, someone called Isaac Williams

I: "Idumea," apparently a Charles Wesley hymn (Hymns Georg) according to hymnary.org

Z: "Zero and Blind Terry," Bruce Springsteen

I: "In questa reggia," Giacomo Puccini (from Turandot)

N: "Nanpasen," Nakamori Akina

G: "Get Out of My House," Kate Bush

C: "Celebrate," Metric

A: "Alone," Moritaka Chisato

T: "Ti voglio bene, Minnie," Giacomo Puccini (from La fanciulla del West)

S: "Seven," Taylor Swift

Tagging (DEEP BREATH) @wedding-shemp @lilaccatholic @marzipanandminutiae @invisiblemelonmoose @please-dont-pet-the-okapi @tar-miriel @nekozalenky @rebeccadumaurier @absynthe--minded @itsallwearecalledtodo @teabooksandsweets @ryttu3k @deankarolina @sapphicscience @taramacgay @ace-and-ranty @2008hondacivic @clarascuro @mysticalsadgirl @teabookgremlin @adelestein @pikestaff @goldoans @vickythestrange @liesmyth @carys-the-ninth

I think that's the right number. If it's not, oh well.

[lgbtmusic]

Hello! My name is Elena, and I am a queer singer-songwriter from Seattle, WA. 

I have a single, “Eva Green Time Machine (Queer Waltz) coming out on 9/15, pun intended! 

I wrote this song after waking up from a dream in which I traveled back in time. I fell in love with a woman who looked like the actress Eva Green. I convinced her to come back with me to the 21st century so we could be together.

Here is a link to a music video clip for the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jv559DuUYms

Videographer Tiffany Tomkinson found and edited this clip from a public domain film (“Pandora’s Box” by P.W.Pabst, 1929) that matched the mood of the song so perfectly I got chills. 

And a link to the unreleased track on Spotify: https://soundcloud.com/user-830136637-320889135/evagreentimemachinequeerwaltz/s-tYw6w7kOVMm?si=b5b76fbbca4745e2899851feb7af44f6&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

I can send along Spotify and other streaming links once the song goes live on 9/15. 

Thanks!

Quick info: 

Spotify https://open.spotify.com/artist/3lzubMg1SDtWRe9feyHEEV

Instagram https://www.instagram.com/elenalopermusic

Bandcamp: https://elenaloper.bandcamp.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ElenaLoperMusic

RIYL: Alexi Murdoch, Joni Mitchell, Adrienne Lenker, Anna Tivel, Tift Merritt, Patty Griffin

Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@elenalopermusic

Press: 

Featured in The Bluegrass Situation, Glide Magazine, and Americana UK

“Understated and beautiful” -- Craig Shelburne, The Bluegrass Situation 

https://thebluegrasssituation.com/read/bgs-top-moments-of-2019/

“Cozy up to the warm fingerpicking and beautifully woven melodies…[Elena] shows the restraint of an old pro, changing her vocal inflections at just the right times to let the steady guitar picking and winding melody drive you slowly through the heyday of Laurel Canyon.  -- Glide Magazine

“The next Neko Case” -- Nathan Marion, director of the Fremont Abbey, Seattle

Bio: 

Elena Loper is an alt-folk singer-songwriter and guitarist based in Seattle, WA. Her music combines her soaring vocals with her intricate guitar picking and introspective writing. Her unique melodic sensibility is reminiscent of Joni Mitchell and a trans-Atlantic modality. Loper has built up an extensive community and draw in the PNW, while touring WA, CA, and OR. She has also played live on radio and television with KBCS, KSER, and Seattle TV Channel. 

More at elenalopermusic.com

[bluewinnerangel]

can you pls explain the tweets that happened on sept 28th 2013?? i just saw someone say it got debunked but i didn’t know that??

Oh god ehm. I'm sure this has been covered. I think I mention it in a post I linked earlier today, so maybe you saw it there? That in turn links here too. But I'll give it a go to debunk from scratch...ish.

Putting a cut in because I'm really good at annoying people with long posts <3, but here we go:

I am late to the party so anyone that was actually actively following the events at the time feel free to chip in.

These tweets happened on/around sept 28 2013:

Harry's tweet is a lyric from Joni Mitchell - My Old Man. The tweet is the line that describes how they do NOT need to be married, which I mean would be counter-intuitive to tweet after just getting married. The song is a really cute lovesong, and says they don't need to be married to be together/their love to be real, (which hits different if you're not legally allowed to get married):

My old man, he's a singer in the park He's a walker in the rain He's a dancer in the dark We don't need no piece of paper from the city hall Keeping us tied and true no, my old man Keeping away my blues

He's my sunshine in the morning He's my fireworks at the end of the day He's the warmest chord I ever heard Play that warm chord, play and stay, baby We don't need no piece of paper from the city hall Keeping us tied and true, my old man Keeping away my blues

Louis' and Ash' tweets? I mean? Yey I just got married so I lost my voice? Sad face? Again that would be a... strange joke to tweet.

El's also just... could be anything, if anybody knows the context of that one be my guest.

Anne's was live tweeting during the X-Factor and clarified that too

Ed's best friend got married on a Saturday before articles published this info on October 6th 2013, those articles saying it was yesterday, so October 5th. So I guess that makes it not a proper debunk, but I mean what makes more sense: 1) Harry and Louis getting married on September 28th, Ed tweeting about it, then having another best friend get married exactly a week after, not tweeting about that, but attending it publicly, singing at it, bladieblah. Or 2) his tweet was about this best friend Jake, the article is wrong and this wedding was actually the saturday before that on sept 28.

Last and most obvious one:

They were in Perth, Australia that day where same-sex marriage wasn't legal back then. (x, x)

But to me none of that even matters because Harry clearly really loved this theory a little bit too much, and entirely unhinged on its 2 year anniversary, screaming about anniversaries, dancing the single ladies dance on stage, aggressively serenading Louis, and whatever else we have missed. And it's not like oh oopsiefloopsie what a funny coincidoink because #2YearsOfLarryMarried was trending and articles about it were floating around. I don't think this is the first and probably not the last headcannon formed by the larrie-fandom that most likely wasn't true, but then they liked it and ran with it anyway. Especially Harry lol. And then ofcourse not to mention the many years worth of 28-insanity that followed and is still getting more and more ridiculous today, how Louis is now the one that has publicly claimed it, and how Harry has been subtly dropping 28ths everywhere for years as well, although ofcourse these 28's don't have to relate to the 28th of September.

But then there's Harry again putting this Hollywood area code on instagram (may 2015) which people quickly linked to the date (9/28). Yes it's a zipcode. But also yes nearly everything these lil shits do seems to have double if not triple meanings. It's just a boat. It's just his doncaster football number. It's just a hollywood sign. I'd say he's aware of the impact of that sign he posted because then we have him using it again on a shirt years later (on >>september 27, 2019<<) You can't see in the pic but the teenytiny text on the shirt is an adress, 6367 Selma Ave., Hollywood 90028:

There's probably more shenanigans at or around that date through the years but this got long enough I think.. Hope that helped!

[thepavementsings-archive]

Joni Maxiel retirement

Hello Anon😂 Firstly I would like to say thank you for this ask because it is less of an ask than a statement, and also maybe the funniest way someone has ever requested I share thought on something, so well done. I apologize that I am the worst at cutting down my lyric snippets, but in this case Joni has MUCH to say. Warnings for mentions of injury/death. Also some of these are more like, flushed out in my brain than others but some of the lyrics are so good they're here anyways. Under the cut as always!

Both Sides Now: Max has an existential crisis

I've looked at life from both sides now / From win and lose and still somehow /It's life's illusions I recall / I really don't know life at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud / To say, "I love you" right out loud / Dreams and schemes and circus crowds/ I've looked at life that way

Max loses the 2021 championship battle and Daniel retires and he just keeps going. He thinks if he just wins and doesn’t think about Daniel then everything will be fine because that's what he is meant to do. But then he gets it done the next year, what he set out to do since he can remember, but it doesn’t make life feel any more meaningful and he doesn’t know why. What he does know is that he wishes Daniel was there to smile and laugh at him on the podium, and through all the interviews and the paddock circus he thinks about what Daniel might say to get himself through the dread he can feel rising. It takes him weeks to respond to the congratulatory text (he just shows up at Daniel’s apartment in Monaco.) He can’t tell him he loves him for at least another year. But for now he lets himself cry into Daniel’s chest, and that's a start.

A Bird That Whistles: Daniel’s POV of said existential crisis

I took a house by the water / Took a man on a mountainside/ Pretty house by the water/ Lovely lover by the waterside / Last time I saw that man / He hung down his head and cried

Daniel moves back to Australia for three months before the dirt-biking and the hiking and the ‘scaring himself at least once a week’ no longer scratches the itch. When he moves back to Monaco he doesn’t tell Max until Sky asks him to do the commentary gig at the GP. After the night max comes to see him, he doesn’t hear from him for a week. He gets the news notification about Max’s retirement two minutes before the ‘they are going to ask me to do Ziggo like you did and I will throw my phone into the harbour’ one. Daniel pulls on his shoes and laughs as he jogs up the trail to find a red-faced Max at the top of it.

You dream flat tires: Injury Retirement

When you dream flat tires / With a jack and a spare, you're there / Trying to get to where love is / Coming in on a wing and a prayer / Trying to get to where love is

When Max feels his tires flat spot as his brakes lock on the wet track, he closes his eyes and braces for impact. He doesn’t die, but sometimes he feels like should’ve. Would’ve been easier than remembering the teary pleas from when he was fading in and out of consciousness in his hospital bed. Easier than the looks Daniel tries not to give him when he drops him off and slowly shoves him in towards the physio centre. Easier than the stocks of Tomato soup left for him in the fridge on race weekends.

Two Grey Rooms: Sometimes love comes later

You look so youthful / Time has been untruthful / Heaven knows I loved you / Thirty years ago

No one knows I'm here /One day I just disappeared / And I took these two grey rooms up here /With a view / When you walk by / Below my window

They stay in touch as much as two people can living on opposite sides of the world. Max moves to the middle of nowhere in the Netherlands and he builds his racetrack with his father and he drives most days and he is terribly, terribly lonely. But then, some years down the line, J*s dies. And when Daniel shows up at the funeral, and sees how the tight set of Max’s jaw look just like it did the first time he DNF’d at Red Bull, he knows he made the right decision to come.

Help Me: Where does a house become a home? (not alone. not alone)

Oh, didn't it feel good? / We were sittin' there talkin' / Or lyin' there not talkin' / didn't it feel good?

Help me, I think I'm fallin' in love with you /Are you gonna let me go there by myself? / That's such a lonely thing to do /Both of us flirtin' around / Flirtin' and flirtin', hurtin' too

Daniel and Max are together beforehand in this one! (They fucked in Zandvoort now theyre dating etc etc). And they stay in Monaco while Max is still racing, and Max learns to love riding Daniel on the couch with the balcony doors open so Daniel has a view of the ocean and Max spread open for him on Wednesday mornings before Max leaves for race weekends. Max secretly likes to think that’s what Daniel sees when he looks out the window when he’s away. Max blushes every time Daniel fondly smacks his ass a little on his way out the door and even though it terrifies him a little he thinks he could do this for the rest of his life.

Until Max retires, and Daniel asks him to move to Australia back to the farm with him because Monaco is too familiar on his best days and suffocating on his worst. He wants to take Max to the farm and maybe never leave again because he wants the hills and Max all to himself in a way that scares him a little bit. But Max can’t. He knows racing and he knows Monaco and he knows Daniel. But Daniel has friends and family and a life in Australia he is convinced Daniel knows just fine without Max in it. He’s already lost racing, he loses Monaco, and if he loses Daniel to the love and the family and the hills, he will lose himself entirely. So he lets Daniel go. At least when he sits alone on his balcony he can still see the ocean view.

[gabrielkahane]

Heirloom

Short form:

Heirloom (concerto for piano & chamber orchestra) premieres with Jeffrey Kahane & the Kansas City Symphony under the baton of Michael Stern, September 24-26. Tickets are here.

I’ll play a solo show at Rockwood Music Hall on Tuesday, September 28th. My dear friend and colleague, Johnny Gandelsman, will open with a solo violin set. Johnny’s on at 7pm, I’ll go on around 8pm. Tickets are $20 and are here. This will be my only NYC appearance this year!

Applications for Luna Lab with Oregon Symphony are now open! If you are a female-identifying, non-binary, or gender-nonconforming composer between the ages of 12 and 18, and live in Portland or Southeast Washington, please apply for your chance to study for a year with the incredible Nathalie Joachim!

Long form:

Several years ago, my friend Eric Jacobsen started pestering me about writing a piano concerto for my father, Jeffrey Kahane. It was an intriguing (and natural!) idea, but I kept putting it off in large part because I’ve never felt comfortable with large-scale instrumental composition. I think of myself first and foremost as a songwriter, and while I love to write for instruments in the context of vocal music, I feel almost entirely unmoored when voice & text are taken away. But Eric was persistent, and, well, here we are. Next month, the Kansas City Symphony will open its season with Heirloom, after which the piece will be heard in the coming years in performances presented by the co-commissioners who’ve rounded out the consortium: the Oregon Symphony, the Aspen Music Festival, the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, and Eric’s Brooklyn-based group, The Knights.

Heirloom is an aural family scrapbook, exploring, in its three movements, a series of inheritances. I’m incredibly excited to witness its birth September 24-26 in Kansas City. You can find the program note I’ve written to accompany its premiere at the end of this email.

The following Tuesday, September 28th, I will play my first concert in New York City since our lives were individually and collectively turned upside down by the pandemic. Most of the evening will be devoted to a new slate of songs drawn from thirty-one composed in October of 2020, the final month of a year-long, complete internet hiatus. Johnny Gandelsman, violinist of Brooklyn Rider, opens with what promises to be a ravishing solo set. Tickets are here.

Lastly, in 2019, I took on the position of Creative Chair with the Oregon Symphony. I’m very pleased to announce that this season, we’ve begun a partnership with Luna Lab, the brainchild of composers Missy Mazzoli and Ellen Reid. Luna Composition Lab offers mentorship and professional training to female-identifying, non-binary, and gender-nonconforming composers between the ages of 12 and 18. We at the Oregon Symphony are incredibly grateful to partner with Luna Lab to offer one student a year-long period of mentorship with Grammy-nominated flutist, composer, and songwriter, Nathalie Joachim, who happens to be one of my all-time favorite humans, and who will be giving the world premiere of Suite from Fanm D’ayiti with the Oregon Symphony in the spring of 2022. What makes this even more amazing is that another all-time favorite human, the violinist Pekka Kuusisto, will be playing Nico Muhly’s concerto Shrink, on the same program. Oh, but we were talking about Luna Lab. If you or someone you know wants to apply, you can find more info & the application form here; you just have to submit one score & a recording (MIDI is acceptable). I will be reviewing submissions along with Nathalie. Applications are due on September 7th.

Obligatory capitalism appeal: I know it’s been a while since I’ve put out new music. It’s coming. I promise. In the meantime, may I remind you about this gorgeous limited edition vinyl record?

That’s it for now, folks. Stay safe. Try to lead with love, even when it’s hard.

All my best,

Gabriel

Heirloom program note:

Tucked away in the northernmost reaches of California sits the Bar 717 Ranch, which, each summer, is transformed into a sleep-away camp on 450 acres of wilderness, where, in 1967, two ten-year-old kids named Martha and Jeffrey met. Within a couple of years, they were playing gigs back in L.A. in folk rock bands with names like “Wilderness” and “The American Revelation.” They fell in love, broke up, fell in love again. By the time I was a child, my mom and dad had traded the guitars, flutes, and beaded jackets for careers in clinical psychology and classical music respectively. But they remained devoted listeners of folk music. Growing up, it was routine for dad to put on a Joni Mitchell record when he took a break from practicing a concerto by Mozart or Brahms. That collision of musical worlds might help to explain the creative path I’ve followed, in which songs and storytelling share the road with the Austro-German musical tradition.

That tradition comes to me through the music I heard as a child, but also through ancestry. My paternal grandmother, Hannelore, escaped Germany at the tail end of 1938, arriving in Los Angeles in early 1939 after lengthy stops in Havana and New Orleans. For her, there was an unspeakable tension between, on the one hand, her love of German music and literature, and, on the other, the horror of the Holocaust. In this piece, I ask, how does that complex set of emotions get transmitted across generations? What do we inherit, more broadly, from our forebears? And as a musician caught between two traditions, how do I bring my craft as a songwriter into the more formal setting of the concert hall?

The first movement, “Guitars in the Attic,” wrestles specifically with that last question, the challenge of bringing vernacular song into formal concert music. The two main themes begin on opposite shores: the first theme, poppy, effervescent, and direct, undergoes a series of transformations that render it increasingly unrecognizable as the movement progresses. Meanwhile, a lugubrious second tune, first introduced in disguise by the French horn and accompanied by a wayward English horn, reveals itself only in the coda to be a paraphrase of a song of mine called “Where are the Arms.” That song, in turn, with its hymn-like chord progression, owes a debt to German sacred music. A feedback loop emerges: German art music informs pop song, which then gets fed back into the piano concerto.

“My Grandmother Knew Alban Berg” picks up the thread of intergenerational memory. Grandma didn’t actually know Alban Berg, but she did babysit the children of Arnold Schoenberg, another German-Jewish émigré, who, in addition to having codified the twelve-tone system of composition, was Berg’s teacher. Why make something up when the truth is equally tantalizing? I suppose it has something to do with wanting to evoke the slipperiness of memory while getting at the ways in which cultural inheritance can occur indirectly. When, shortly after college, I began to study Berg’s Piano Sonata, his music— its marriage of lyricism and austerity; its supple, pungent harmonies; the elegiac quality that suffuses nearly every bar—felt eerily familiar to me, even though I was encountering it for the first time. Had a key to this musical language been buried deep in the recesses of my mind through some kind of ancestral magic, only to be unearthed when I sat at the piano and played those prophetic chords, which, to my mind, pointed toward the tragedy that would befall Europe half a dozen years after Berg’s death?

In this central movement, the main theme is introduced by a wounded-sounding trumpet, accompanied by a bed of chromatic harmony that wouldn’t be out of place in Berg’s musical universe. By movement’s end, time has run counterclockwise, and the same tune is heard in a nocturnal, Brahmsian mode, discomfited by interjections from the woodwinds, which inhabit a different, and perhaps less guileless, temporal plane.

To close, we have a kind of fiddle-tune rondo, an unabashed celebration of childhood innocence. In March of 2020, my family and I were marooned in Portland, Oregon, as the world was brought to its knees by the coronavirus pandemic. Separated from our belongings—and thus all of our daughter’s toys, which were back in our apartment in Brooklyn—my ever resourceful partner, Emma, fashioned a “vehicle” out of an empty diaper box, on which she majusculed the words vera’s chicken-powered transit machine. (Vera had by that point developed a strong affinity for chicken and preferred to eat it in some form thrice daily.) We would push her around the floor in her transit machine, resulting in peals of laughter and squeals of delight. In this brief finale, laughter and joy are the prevailing modes, but not without a bit of mystery. I have some idea of what I have inherited from my ancestors. What I will hand down to my daughter remains, for the time being, a wondrous unknown.

Heirloom is dedicated with love, admiration, gratitude, and awe, to my father, Jeffrey Kahane.

[gretavanbitch]

Tangled up in blue- 2

warnings- drugs lol 

One month and six weeks prior- 

Keeping herself busy when Josh was gone was no easy task for Penny. She tried her hardest to focus on work, sitting in front of rows of developed film, feeling burned out. There was no good reason for this feeling, simply that she was lonely. Sighing, she thought of the only thing to relax her and calm her mind without Josh, weed. 

Her bare feet padded across the hardwood floors of their loft softly, overalls rustling slightly as she made her way to their bedroom. She walked to the brown cabinet next to her side of the bed and pulled out a small encrusted gold box. This box was opened probably too often when she was home without Josh, but also when he was there. She pulled out a filter, and papers. Then taking a bunch off the gram, she grinded it slowly, closing her eyes and wishing she was somewhere else. As her hands moved absentmindedly, she imagined what the boys were doing right now. They were probably on some tour bus or green room getting drunk, which sounds a lot more fun than getting high alone. She imagined Josh, sitting in some plush chair with some extravagant jumpsuit on, smiling and laughing with his friends, without her. She decided to shoot him a text, just some reassurance that he was still there. 

Penny: Hey babe, Jake try to murder you yet? 

Sent: 8:23pm 

She sat, licking the joint closed and waiting eagerly for a reply from Josh. After five minutes, she decided that she would put on a record and smoke, just to pass the time. Joni Mitchell’s Blue started to reverberate off the walls of the apartment, causing her to smile softly to herself. She remembered back to the first road trip she took with Josh, playing this album over and over again until they reached the other side of the country. His hair would run wild with the windows down, and a smile never left his face that week. Snapping back to reality, she brought the joint to her lips and lit her lighter, inhaling deeply and falling back into the couch. After the record had run through both sides, she felt like she needed to do something with her day other than smoke and miss Josh. 

Once again, the rows of film stood daunting before her. It was as if they were the royal guard for an impenetrable force in which her motivation was protected. With a hazy mind, she started flipping through the photographs of the recent week, smiling wider with each one. Your favorite was one that you took of Josh outside of a cabin in Washington. He stood away from the camera, but was smiling straight at it, teeth shining and bandana around his neck. That was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, the purest form of natural beauty. Nothing like anything, ever. She also chuckled to herself as she flipped to one of Sammy biting Josh’s hand, and Jake posed dramatically against a boulder.

She loved the way that the light reflected with the camera lens, and the way that it interacted with the subject. Just as she was about to write down a title for the series, her phone buzzed on the table next to her, lighting up with a notification from Josh. 

Josh: Hey mama, just got off stage, it went great. I wish you could've seen it. How did the film come out? 

P.S, Jake has tried to stab me sixteen times already. 

Sent: 12:34AM

Penny: It came out great, here see. 

Attachment: 3 images 

Sent 12:35AM 

Josh: Beautiful, my love. You have a gift for manipulating the light, it's amazing. Can we talk or are you too tired? 

Sent: 12:36AM 

The thought of talking to Josh without seeing his face and expressions change with each word, caused her chest to hurt with want. So instead, she clicked the Facetime button rather than call. 

Her phone vibrated for a few seconds, panging in her ear loudly. Yet within the blink of an eye, she was greeted with her favorite pair of brown eyes staring onto the screen in front of him. She smiled, and floofed her hair to make sure it didn’t look too trash. 

“Hey pretty lady,” he smiled at her. Josh was laying on his back on a bed, presumably on the tour bus. He was lacking in a shirt, but the beads that always decorated his neck hung down past his chest. His hand was stretched above his head, and the phone was angled up from his stomach. 

“Hey pretty boy,” she responded, positioning the phone in a more comfortable position on the couch, “watcha up to rockstar?” 

“you know the usual, living the life, but I really really really wish you were here, everybody does.” His eyes blinked slowly, showing signs of tiredness, but he would never reveal that to you right now, your time was too precious. 

“I do too, trust me its so fucking depressing here with just me and Marely,” she sighed, reffering to the tabby cat that her and Josh adopted together a few months ago. 

“aw how is she?” He asked, smiling into the phone. Penny moved the camera to her right, displaying the cat that was curled up by her hip. 

“She is great, but wishes she was living the rockstar life,” Josh chuckled to Penny’s response. 

“Okay but seriously Pen, can’t you just call sick for one week, say you got really bad food poisoning,” he pleaded. 

“If I say that, then I feel like I will accidentally manifest that I will actually get food poisoning for a week,” she laughed into the phone. 

“fair point, but it’s not the same without you here, I’m not the same without you here,” his tone shifted to a more serious one with every word, looking straight into her eyes through the screen. 

“I mean technically I’m on studio time right now, so they wouldn’t know if I came with you for a week or two...or they would fire me,” she scratched her chin, thinking out the possibilities in her head. 

“If they fire you, then just go freelance, they never fully understood your work anyways,” he smirked at her, knowing that she always complained about the company she was hired by, repeating their failures for understanding creativity. 

“Alright Kizka, you drive a hard bargain,” Penny smiled. 

“Is that a yes?” Josh’s eyes widened at the blonde girl through the screen. 

“it is not a no.” 

“fuck yes, so I can book you a plane ride to California for tomorrow?” He now got up from the bunk, excitedly running to his computer. 

“Mhm, just tell me what time.” 

“Ok here’s one, leaves Nashville at 8, gets in Cali at 10,” Josh said, calculating the time difference in his head. 

“you are such a bad influence, Kizka,” Penny rubbed her forehead tiredly. 

“I will see you tomorrow my love, get some sleep okay?” he smiled at her tired expression, kissing the camera of his phone sweetly. 

“see you tomorrow.” and with that she hung up the phone and exhaled loudly. What just happened? One conversation with Josh and she hits the road. It makes her think back to when she didn’t have anyone, and spent years alone in her little studio apartment, taking photos of walls and birds. Now she would drop everything with the snap of his fingers. In her heart she knew that her dependency on him for happiness was not right, but she was too deep in. Her head was stuck underwater, surrounded by the cool rush of his love. The flaws went unnoticed by both of them in fact, just simply mistaking it for head over heels infatuation. 

As her head hit the pillow, she thought that the emptiness of the room was less significant as it was a few hours ago. Maybe it was the excitement of the idea of not sleeping alone tomorrow, or just the few minutes of hearing his voice. Whatever it was lulled her softly to sleep. 

In a hazy dream, she remembered her and Josh’s first kiss. It was outside of their favorite bar after their second date. He stood next to her, shoulder pressed to hers, and hand interlacing with her own. He was wearing his usual attire, a white long sleeved shirt and tan pants. Yet he looked extravagant, his energy was inherently outgoing. As he says, the Kizka’s have a “flair for flair”. The cool wind seemed to push the pair together, jostling her hair softly as he looked over at her. His eyes were slightly hooded, closed just a slightly against the wind. Her glances fell down to his cupids bow, admiring its shape, then to his lips where she wished she never had to leave. He noticed the shift in her gaze and did the same himself, smirking at her. She smiled, tugging his chin towards her. His hands laced through her hair, smiling into the kiss. Their lips met, and they fit together like they were made for each other, and no one else. 

Her alarm forced her out of the wonderful image that played in her sleep, jutting her eyes open to the harsh sunlight of the morning. She quickly packed an old leather suitcase with a few pairs of jeans, shirts, and dresses, knowing that she would be stealing jewlery and sweatshirts from Josh. In what seemed like five minutes she was at her gate, coffee in hand, and camera stowed in her carry-on bag. She decided to text Josh that she was about to board the plane, knowing that he was probably still asleep. 

Penny: Hey, boarding now. I’ll text you when I land

sent 8:05am

She then put her earbuds in, deciding on listening to the new album, just so she was prepared to sing alone at the shows. It wasn’t like she hadn’t memorized it the night it came out, but she always felt bad listening to it with Josh, it just felt odd to her. The first song to come on shuffle was Light My Love, and she nearly cried remembering the fireside performance she witnessed a not too long ago. 

The plane ride went by in what felt like minutes. Her mind was racing with so many thoughts, most about getting in trouble with work, but others about Josh and how excited she was to see him and the rest of the band. The tires of the plane landed in California with a jaulting thud, and she was brought out of her dissociation. 

She knew that Josh expected her to uber to the venue, after all he was probably just waking up now. So she called an uber, standing outside of LAX clad in an old Janis Joplin shirt, flare jeans, and her classic high heeled leather boots. Penny looked straight out of the 70′s, but Josh felt like the 70′s, a pair who perfectly complimented each other. 

The uber ride was bumpy and seemingly and hour too long. She finally reached the venue at 11:46, hastily thanking the driver and sauntering to the tour bus parked behind the stage. She knocked a few times on the door, and after the third time, she finally heard a groggy “what do you want” 

She smiled, pushing the door open with her foot and walking up the stairs, she was met with a pool of long brown hair and a very naked Jake laying on one of the bunks. Josh was nowhere to be seen. 

“Oh hey Penny, what are you doing here?” Jake asked casually, ignoring the fact that he was naked. She was not phased by the latter twins actions, after all, she spent a fair amount of time with the band and often felt like she was equally as close with all of the members. 

“Just lookin for my loverboy, any idea where he is?” She answered, leaning against on of the seats camly. 

“I think I remember him saying he wanted to go hear the acoustics of the empty stage, so maybe he’s there,” Jake answered groggily. 

“thanks,” she said as she made her way, now at a faster speed then before towards the back entrance of the venue. The staff didn’t seem to bat an eye at her as she hastily walked hallway after hallway until she reached the back of the stage. Then she saw him, standing with his arms out wide, silently absorbing the feeling of the empty arena. 

“babe?” she said, accidentally making it sound like a hushed whisper. 

The curly headed man then turned his head over his shoulder, smiling. His smile widened nearly ten fold when he saw the girl to his left. She looked amazing, her hair seemingly always falling in just the right way, she paused for a moment, reaching for something in her bag. 

“don’t move, and look forward again, just like you were before,” She smiled and clicked the shutter of the camera, knowing it would be beautiful, every photo with Josh in it is. She then put the camera away and ran into his arms, collapsing into his embrace. He hugged her tightly, moving his hands up and down her back. 

“I missed you so much my love,” He said into her hair. 

“I missed you more lover,” she replied. 

Hey pretty people! I hoped you liked this chapter, I may or may not write another either tomorrow night or by sunday! Asks are open for Jake or Josh imagines BTW!

[path-of-my-childhood]

Aaron Dessner Talks Taylor Swift’s New Album folklore

By: Sam Sodomsky for Pitchfork Date: July 24th 2020

Like millions of people across the world, Taylor Swift spent the past few months in isolation, stuck at home, changing plans, reflecting on the past, and imagining new connections. One of those new connections was with Aaron Dessner, the multi-instrumentalist and producer from the National.

On release day, he called us from his home in the Hudson Valley to speak about their entirely virtual but highly collaborative process, sounding just as surprised as anyone. “Nobody needs to tell Taylor Swift how to write a song - and I certainly didn’t,” he says with a laugh. “But it did feel like we were going toe-to-toe pushing each other.”

What is your personal relationship with Taylor Swift’s music? I’ve always admired her craftsmanship and talent. But 1989 was the first one I was really listening to as a fan. My brother [Bryce Dessner, guitarist in the National] and I were in Iceland with [performance artist] Ragnar Kjartansson, and he’s a total Swiftie. It was the summer of 1989, and we’d be hanging out listening to it loud. Ragnar is an art historian, so he was just contextualizing every moment. It was a lot of fun. That’s when we became bigger fans.

When did you actually meet her for the first time? We met her at Saturday Night Live in 2014 when Lena Dunham was hosting. And then she came to see us play last summer in Prospect Park during this crazy torrential downpour. She was there with Antoni [Porowski] from Queer Eye. She talked a lot with my brother and me. That’s when we realized how much of a fan she was, and how lovely and down to earth. I don’t know that many people who have that sort of success, so it’s a nice feeling to realize they’re cool. That left a good impression.

She got in touch again at the end of April. I got a text and it said, “Hey it’s Taylor. Would you ever be up for writing songs with me?” I said, “Wow. Of course.” It was a product of this time. Everything we had planned got cancelled. Everything she had planned got cancelled. It was a time when the ideas in the back of your head came to the front. That’s how it started.

You ended up with a credit on 11 of the 16 songs. How did the collaboration get going? At the very beginning of March, Justin Vernon and I had gone to Texas to work on the new Big Red Machine album. I had been living with my family in France as COVID was starting to spiral out of control in Europe. I said to my wife that maybe they should come back to the States with me because I was worried about getting separated. So we got tickets, and my kids and wife flew to [the family’s home in] Upstate New York and I flew to Texas. I was there for a week, and by the time I got back Upstate, the borders were being shut and we got stuck. I have the Long Pond studio here, so in a way it was lucky.

I hunkered down here and started to write a ton of music - more than I ever have. I thought maybe they were National or Big Red Machine ideas or maybe something totally different. Things were happening.

So when [Taylor] reached out, I had this large folder of ideas that were pretty well on their way. She was very clear that she didn’t want me to edit any of my ideas; she wanted to hear everything that was interesting to me at this moment, including really odd, experimental noise. So I made a folder of stuff, including some pretty out-there sketches. A few hours later, she sent “Cardigan,” fully written in a voice memo. That’s when I realized that this was unusual—just the focus and clarity of her ideas. It was pretty astonishing. Over the next couple months, this would just happen; all of a sudden, I’d get a voice memo. And then another. Eventually, it was so inspiring that I wrote more ideas that were specifically in response to what she was writing.

When did it occur to you that an album was forming? There were moments when we started to reflect on what we were doing. The first three songs we wrote were “Cardigan,” “Seven,” and “Peace.” “Cardigan” is probably the closest to a pop song on the record—it’s this epic narrative. And then “Seven” was this nostalgic, wistful, emotional folk song. And then when she wrote “Peace,” I realized she can do anything! She is so versatile. It’s just a harmonized bassline with a pulse and a drone, and she basically wrote a Joni Mitchell love song to it. She only did one vocal take, and that’s what’s on the record.

Were you communicating through the whole process? Yeah. We were pretty much in touch daily for three or four months by text and phone calls. Some of it was about production and restructuring things but a lot of it was just excitement. We both felt that this was some of the best work we have done. That was a strange and surreal thing to have happen, especially at this time.

At one point I was randomly doxxed by right-wing conspiracy theorists who misidentified me as an Antifa organizer in Ohio, long story, but it was in the middle of all this work. I didn’t want to stress her out so I didn’t tell her. But at some point she laughed and said, “So you’re a notorious anarchist?” And I’m like, “Yeah, I was gonna mention that."

How did the collaboration with Bon Iver on “Exile” come about? Taylor wrote that one with the singer-songwriter William Bowery. When Taylor sent it to me as a voice memo, she sang both the male and female parts - as much as she could fit in without losing her breath. We talked about who she was imagining joining her, and she loves Justin [Vernon]’s voice in Bon Iver and Big Red Machine. She was like, “Oh my god, I would die if he would do it. It would be so perfect.” I didn’t want to put pressure on Justin as his friend, so I said, “Well, it depends on if he’s inspired by the song but I know he thinks you’re rad.” Which he does.

So I sent him the song and he was really into it. He tweaked some parts and added parts as well - the bridge where he says, “Step right out.” The end too, and his choral parts. It was fun because Justin and I work on a lot of stuff together, so it was very easy and natural. At some point I felt like a superfan, hearing two of my favorite singers. This was all being done remotely, but it was one of those moments where your head hits the back of the wall and you’re like, “Fuck. Okay.”

There is some fan debate over William Bowery’s identity - I’m not familiar with him. I’m not either. I haven’t actually met him because of social distancing, which is kind of funny. I think he’s a friend.

Did you feel the pressure of working with an artist at Taylor Swift’s level? I tried hard not to think about the scope or scale of making a record that would be heard by millions and millions of people. I did a pretty good job of tuning that out. Music for me is an emotional necessity. It’s therapy. It’s what I live and breathe. All these songs are things I was working on already, and we both felt there was some serendipity in the fact that we ended up in this situation together. I just stayed focused on that, on making this as good as we can.

As the release got closer, I almost thought it wouldn’t happen. Or maybe I just told myself that! The National guys will tell you the same thing - I tend to work until the last possible minute. I didn’t really have a moment to be like, “Holy shit! People are gonna hear this.” We were joking about it last night. I said, “So this actually happened?” And she goes, “Yep!”

What was it like working under total secrecy? There was no outside influence at all. In fact, nobody knew, including her label, until hours before it was launched. For someone who’s been in this glaring spotlight for 15 years, it’s really liberating to have some privacy and work on her own terms. She deserves that. At times, if I wanted friends to play on the record, it was a little difficult because you can’t send a file with her vocals. But everyone was cool. At the end, I reached out to some wizards just to add bits, and that was nice. It was kind of fun: “What? Why can’t you tell me, Aaron?” Then they start guessing. Everyone made a game out of it.

Is there any music that was left on the cutting room floor? There are things I feel could still be songs. It does feel like an ongoing collaboration. Now Taylor is starting to help with other things. We’re bouncing other ideas off each other, whether it’s Big Red Machine or other things. There’s a community aspect. I think that’s how music should be.

[chrisevansgoodgirl]

you’re screwed up and brilliant and look like a million dollar man

summary: murder gloves.

warnings: S M U T. sex everywhere. it’s violent sometimes. what’s a safe word? lol ransom wouldn’t know. (seriously, reader tells him to stop a few times and he doesn’t, so pls do not read if that is upsetting to you) and they’re annoying, legit can’t talk without fighting. and that daddy kink because y’all know me. a lot of choking. very vanilla bondage. spanking. fluffy feelings about sweaters.

word count: a bit over 8,000

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

a/n: lol and nearly THREE FUCKING MONTHS LATER 🙄🙄🙄🙄 truly, i am sorry. i hope that you picture a raccoon with creepy evil little hands when you think of me bc i am trash. and i have creepy evil little hands. you guys know how excited i got when i thought of this title, right?

It was your anniversary even though it hardly felt like one at all.

Six years today. Somehow, you had put up with all the shit. His horrid behavior at times. The family drama. The extravagant events Harlan planned that your high maintenance boyfriend never let you miss. Whenever you tried it, he either pouted or just fucked you until you wouldn’t dream of ever saying the word ‘no’ to him. At least not for a few days.

Six years.

Yet, you were sure he was still nowhere near proposing. That was a battle for the next anniversary, you had decided. This anniversary required much more pressing topics to be discussed.

You heard Ransom pull up in the driveway and come inside, but you kept your place at the counter. When he found you in the kitchen, you were in a thin robe, making him an Old Fashioned while your coffee brewed.

You glanced at him over your shoulder as he sat at the dining table. His eyes lingered on you for a moment but then he turned down to his phone, so you took your chance to stare. After all these years, you would think that the sight of him in a sweater wouldn’t matter to you, but it still did.

You’d met him in a sweater, several December’s ago at a ski lodge where you had bonded over unfathomable resentment toward your respective families and an inability to ski—something he still wouldn’t admit. I can ski, I just wanted to fuck you. You were practically begging me. Was I supposed to say no? That wasn’t exactly how it happened but when Ransom pouted, that often meant no sex, so you let him lie. Regardless, he was beautiful then and you swore he got more beautiful by the day.

He lifted both hands onto the tabletop in front of him, phone set against his palm, showing off those stupid leather gloves that were starting to make you question your sanity. You thought about those gloves too much and in the most depraved ways.

“Did you get the house?” you asked, a distraction for yourself. No sex, not until he gave you an answer. Hell, he was gone most of the day with Marta, so he damn well better have some success to report.

He narrowed his eyes, lifting his gaze from his phone screen. “Why are you so dressed?”

Normally, he liked you walking around the house in nothing. A bodysuit, maybe. A bra, panties, and thigh-high socks. He liked you as naked as you could get. You liked it as well, it reminded him that even though, most of the time, he was in control, there were times when it was you. You who had final say, you who would withhold sex as some deranged power play. Sure, you needed Ransom like you needed oxygen or money, but he needed you just as much.

The robes were for occasional visitors. He knew that, he was just trying to prolong this conversation. He was trying to bait you, actually. If you were feeling…playful, you would have lied or refused to tell him. Then, long story short, you wouldn’t have been able to walk or sit right for a week. It wasn’t that he even needed such an elaborate reason to start this game, this time he was just trying to distract you.

“Joni stopped by.”

He gave you a flat look. Nothing confused him more than you sincerely getting along with Joni.

“She brought some crystals for us.”

“Rocks,” he corrected. “And they’re damn ugly and they’re not staying in my house.”

“Tiger’s eye for mental clarity,” you explained, voice level. It was your house too, and if he wanted to play this game, well, you had no problem throwing a chair through the window. Again. “Amethyst, for protection and stress—and intuition! It’s great for the third eye chakra—”

“Don’t start all that bullshit with me—”

“You’re just mad that I’m psychic—”

“No, you are not,” he snapped.

“Scared I’m going to find out about whoever else you’re fucking?” Okay, he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. If you truly thought that, you would have been so far out the door the second you had a suspicion. Ransom was good. Even though he liked to pretend he wasn’t.

He glared. “It’s a god damn scam—”

“Your family specializes in those.”

“She’s not family.”

“Meg is,” you pointed out. It was left unstated but blatantly clear that that did, in fact, mean that Joni was family also.

“Joni thinks you have money, she’s trying to play you.”

“They don’t need to play me, Ransom. I like Meg, she’s nice…and she’s finishing her degree. I’ll make sure of that, with or without your help. And I like Joni, you know, she was the first one who was nice to me. Other than Walt, I guess—”

“Yeah, he was nice because he wants to fuck you.”

“You think everyone wants to fuck me.”

“Joni does, too.”

“Oh yeah, your whole family?”

“My grandfather included.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not be so…you, right now? Please, he’s fucking dead, Ransom.”

“He was a fucking perverted bastard. He always stared at you, tried to get you alone as much as possible. And don’t even get me started on that time he had you on his lap—”

“It wasn’t like that,” you argued.

He arched an eyebrow.

So, you were sitting on Harlan’s “lap”. It was Christmas, Harlan had dressed up as Santa. Ransom liked to pretend that Meg and Marta weren’t in the picture with you. Okay, maybe it was that you were trying to make him mad. You remembered that to be around the time you discovered that angry sex with Ransom was something else, something you truly weren’t sure how you had lived without.

You walked his drink to him and you watched as he downed the entire glass.

“Make me another. Please.”

You returned to the counter to oblige. You weren’t much of a cook, neither was Ransom, but he had the strongest desire to see you acting domestic for him. Sometimes, that just meant you making him drinks or bringing him a beer. You didn’t mind, so long as he watched you the entire time.

You once again set the glass in front of him. “So, your mother wants to fuck me?”

He eyed you, lifted the glass to his lips, took a small drink, set it down, then he nodded once. Instead of speaking, he went back to texting on his phone.

“Donna?”

“Not family, but yes.”

“Jacob?”

He scoffed. “Yes, he would fuck you. Also, possibly tie you up and dismember you after that—”

“Nana?”

Again, his eyes narrowed at you. He knew you were up to something now. He lifted one of his hands, smirking when he saw how intently your eyes were following it. He pulled at the tie of your robe; it was such slinky material that it slipped off your shoulders just after it was loose enough.

Your bodysuit was lace because Ransom loved you in lace. It was a tiny white scrap with thin straps and cups that your breasts spilled out of when you bent over. You were never one for modesty, but there was always something that made you want to cover up whenever Ransom was looking at you—even though his eyes were always full of lust and appreciation.

He let his hand return to the table and he looked at his phone.

Seriously? That was it? You shoved his phone away, it clattered to the table a few inches over, and you sat down on top of him. Your arms around his neck, your knees pressed to his hips, hovering over his soon-to-be hard cock. “And what about your dad?”

“Excuse me?” he demanded.

“Does he wanna fuck me? Because maybe I should ask him to get me that house and maybe fucking him would be all the motivation he needs, motivation you clearly are not feeling—”

You heard his arm brush across the table and then his glasses were shattering to the floor. Before you could scold him, his hand tangled tightly in your hair and he jerked you down flat to the table. He abruptly stood, leaning over you, his face mere inches away from yours.

You should have been scared; you knew that. He was so strong and he rarely ever stopped to think, he was fast actions and apologies later. But this was Ransom and you couldn’t be scared of Ransom.

“Wanna try that again?” he challenged. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

“I would love to sit on his face,” you stated. “And I would love to feel his m—”

He gripped your jaw with his free hand and you utterly melted. You couldn’t explain coherently how much you needed that cold leather against your skin. Despite what you knew he had done with those gloves. Hell, maybe that was why you liked them so much. All of his scheming and malice, the killing. But then he would come home to you and he was so soft and so sweet, until he wasn’t, until he was fucking you, spanking you, choking you.

“You. Little. Brat. I got the fucking house for you—”

“You did?” you blurted out.

You suddenly realized, of course. That was why he hadn’t answered you. He knew you were getting impatient and he knew you would act out. Now, he would get to punish you. You would have been mad but the Thrombey house was the most beautiful house you had ever laid eyes on. The idea of building an actual life with Ransom there, in a house that he loved even though he wouldn’t admit it to his parents, only made you happy.

“I did,” he promised. “And now, you have to earn it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Brats don’t get houses.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” you accused. “I’m not earning anything. Every day I fucking put up with you, I earn that fucking house.”

“You just made a comment about wanting to fuck my dad—”

“No, I said I wanted your dad to eat me out. There’s a difference.”

He pressed his fingers into your jaw harder and yanked a little on your hair. “Say you’re sorry, baby doll.”

“Fuck. You.”

He narrowed his eyes, hand snapping from your face down to the clasp of your bodysuit that lay between your legs. He yanked it open, settling his hips against your knees to hold you open for him.

He never moved his eyes from yours and you, if only to meet his challenge, did the same. “I swear, you better not be wet.”

He was in a fucking sweater, what did he expect? You figured voicing that question would do nothing for you, probably only make him even more conceited. No, silence could damn you if that meant Ransom was knocked down a little.

“Or you’ll have to be my father’s latest mistress because I will fucking throw you out.”

“Well, maybe he’s better than you,” you pointed out.

Instead of a verbal response, his leather-clad fingers smacked your cunt.

Pleasure was right on the tail of pain, so close that you weren’t sure what you were feeling. Yes, it hurt, but wow—it fucking hurt. Half of you wanted to retract from the pain but as it settled, you immediately wanted more. If you weren’t wet before… Your body was vibrating with your undeniable need for him, but still, fuck him. He’d been an ass since he walked in and you didn’t feel like just giving in.

“Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you?” you demanded, only because he was smirking at you and staring with knowing eyes. “Get the fuck off of me.”

He snorted at what you both knew was a sad attempt on your part.

You began to struggle against him, attempting to push him back with your knees. “Ransom, let me go.”

He forced you into a sitting position with the hand still in your hair and let go just to grab your wrists. His other hand grabbed quickly at the scarf around his neck.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you warned.

He shoved you back down, forcing your arms above your head.

“Ransom, I swear—”

He cut you off with a rough kiss as he wound his scarf around you in some complex way that he probably wouldn’t even be able to get you out of when this was all over.

You turned your head away, and he moved his mouth to your neck. “If you do not untie me, I am going to leave and never come back!”

He bit you hard enough to leave a mark before pulling back to set himself onto his forearms. “And live where? The street? Or you wanna go crawling back to your fucked-up parents?”

“Tell them I finally came to my senses; they’d take me back.” Long story short, your parents fucking hated Ransom. They thought he would never do anything for you or give you anything.

It didn’t help that you sort of cut back on work once you’d met Ransom. He was possessive, he just didn’t want you flying all over the world if you couldn’t take him with you. And you couldn’t because his family was beyond demanding and Ransom still had to show up now and then at whatever theatric event Harlan could think up. And as a model…taking pictures with men sometimes, or other women, wearing very little? Well, Ransom would never ask you to quit but he was always so insecure afterward. You still had your campaigns, a few projects you did with friends, but you were hardly a model anymore.

But well, your parents were obviously fucking wrong. He got you the house. The first time he had taken you there was to meet his grandfather—which was huge because it was the first time Ransom was letting you get that close to him. He hadn’t anticipated Joni and Meg being there but you hadn’t complained. He had, non-stop. Still, it was something…special. He’d shown you his old room and fucked you. Took you out to the woods and fucked you against every awful statue out there. Then took you to his parents’ room and, of course, fucked you there.

They were meant to show the next week, you’d left before that. Much to his pleasure, his mother left him a screaming voicemail or two or seven once she’d realized what had been done on those silk sheets.

You’d fallen in love with the house and you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it to an outsider. At the will reading, when it was announced that it belonged to Marta, you nearly fainted. Ransom had been so damn calm though, up until he was laughing like the god damn psychopath that you’d always suspected he was.

That was five days ago and things between the two of you had been…unconventional. When he had shown up that night—after ditching you, no less, to do whatever he was doing with Marta—you immediately started fighting. You had to get a fucking Uber! And he refused to apologize because, according to him, you were “having an attitude”. Things were thrown, insults were traded, and it was the longest night of your whole relationship.

It was only two days ago that you admitted to the root of your hostility. The house. He couldn’t lose the house. It wasn’t like you thought you were going to be living in it any time soon, but when he did finally propose, maybe things would work out that way. The following morning, he apologized with a diamond necklace and the promise that he would get the house back from Marta.

“Or you could just apologize,” he pointed out.

See, he never did, and in all your time with him, you decided you never would either. It was a good relationship. The sex was amazing, you guys never lied, never cheated, but there were a few communication barriers that neither one of you wanted to mend. Who really needed the word ‘sorry’?

“Seriously, Ransom, fuck you.”

He sighed, but that did little to hide how thrilled he was that you wanted to fight today. “I try to be nice to you, you know. But you don’t want nice, do you?” He jerked you up higher on the table by your arms and crawled his way over you. His forearms were on either side of your head and his leg was coming up to settle between yours.

The table had been freezing, but with him over you, and his heavy coat caging you in, you were just hot. Too hot. The snow-covered back yard seemed the better option at that moment. Anything to get away from him.

“Ransom,” you sighed. “Enough, stop—”

He pressed his knee against you and you shuddered. It hadn’t been long at all, so why you were so desperate was beyond you. Since Harlan, Ransom truly had a new outlook on life. He was impulsive and selfish before, but after the death of his beloved grandfather, there was nothing that could stand in the way of what he wanted. And what he often wanted was you, not that you were complaining.

“Get yourself off, baby.”

You glared up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Yes, you heard, but what the fuck?! You didn’t get yourself off. He was controlling enough to need to dictate every single one of your god damn orgasms and if it wasn’t because of his mouth, his fingers, or his cock, it wasn’t happening. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m not sure if I’m going to let you finish at all,” he explained. “I suggest you do it yourself.”

You theorized that if you complied now, then maybe he would forget he was so angry and just fuck you. That had happened a few times before, he did always tend to pout when he remembered, though.

Despite your pride and the burning you felt on the tip of your tongue because you sincerely wanted to yell at him, you rolled your hips. It was tentative almost, which made him scoff. The material of his pants was too soft and with no assistance from him and your awkward angle… You figured he was enjoying making you work for this so much.

After what you said about Richard? There was no way you were going to be able to convince him to help you. You supposed he didn’t need to. Hell, you didn’t even need to finish. He just had to think you did. You turned down to watch, moved your hips faster, started making just a little more noise—

“You’re faking.”

You stopped altogether with a huff. “I am not!”

“You are. You wanna know how I know? Because for the past few years, every orgasm in your life has been because of me. You don’t know how to get off without me.”

“You are such an ass.”

“You don’t just want to ask for some help?” He looked down, one hand lowering slowly. “You know I can be very helpful when I need to be.”

You watched, gasping just when he pulled his hand away. “Ransom.”

“Let me just take the gloves off—”

You whined an incoherent protest. You knew that he knew.

He pretended to be confused, eyebrows pulled together. “You want me to keep them on?”

You frowned at him.

“Why?”

“Fuck off, Ransom.” You didn’t know why! Your only theory was that you were just as messed up as him and that you needed to make an appointment with a mental healthcare professional!

He smiled widely, and you hated how that made your heart skip a little. He always smirked, rarely ever smiled, so when he did, you were screwed. “You want to hear about it again? About how I murdered my grandfather?”

You snorted. “Oh, is that what happened? I thought Marta murdered Harlan—”

“She didn’t.”

“She’s the one who gave him the medicine,” you pointed out. “You didn’t have to do anything except switch a vial.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You’re trying to provoke me.”

“Are you going to kill me, too? Oh, correction, are you going to get the help to kill me, too?”

“I might.”

“God, you are disgusting.”

He finally released your wrists to grab your jaw again. “Keep your arms up, I won’t tell you a second time.”

You were already moving them down, stopping right when you heard his threat. With a soft sight, you settled back against the table.

“Good girl.”

You wanted to hit him.

His thumb and forefinger pressed hard against your cheeks until you opened your mouth. He took that as his chance to slide two fingers inside your mouth until you gagged. You closed your mouth anyway, refusing not to meet one of his challenges.

They tasted even worse than you had imagined but you weren’t going to stop. You started to grind against his thigh again. It was better now, like maybe this was going to be enough to get you off.

He set his forehead to your temple, lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. “You don’t want to hear what happened after we left the party, after I fucked you in the car so good you couldn’t stand?”

Oh, that night. Where to begin with that night. It was Harlan’s birthday party, you’d been to all the ones before that and they’d gone off without…okay, well, there were definitely hitches, but nothing you hadn’t come to expect. Nothing that lasted too long. Yes, this family was all kinds of fucked up, but they never stayed away from one another for too long.

You had assumed Ransom’s argument with Harlan was going to be just another one of those cases. You’d been talking to Walt and Linda, the latter trying to ignore her husband’s attempts at pulling her into an argument he was having with Joni. Walt was talking about the company again; it didn’t bore you or Linda like it did everyone else.

Ransom’s voice carrying out from Harlan’s office startled everyone silent. He stormed out just to grab you and drag you outside, all while his family watched from windows at the front of the house. You told him to stop, which he didn’t. You told him your heels were a hazard, which he ignored.

When he started driving, you were honestly scared. Ransom was hardly a cautious driver generally, so when he was angry? And god, he was angry. You were sure you had never seen someone else get to him the way that Harlan had.

And he was ignoring you. He wouldn’t tell you what they fought about, but he always told you. It was, very simply, too much, and you were not going to put up with it. It was dark, cold, and Ransom had been drinking. You directed him to stop the car, and as firm as you hoped you were being, you were stunned when he listened.

The way he looked at you was so unlike any way he had ever done it before. You were more than just confused and you were a little worried, there was realization in his eyes. You could see that his mind was moving and you had known him long enough to know that that never meant anything good.

He demanded that you get out of the car and you did, even though part of you was worried he was going to leave you there. He followed, coming around to lead you into the of the car. He wrapped one hand around your throat and pinned you against the car door with his body, his chest to your back. His free hand was working his clothing out of the way, then fumbling to open the door.

He wordlessly shoved you against the seat, shoving your dress out of the way. Before you could say a word, he was inside you, his body covering yours. His hold around your throat was tight, and you knew that meant that he didn’t want to talk. That didn’t shut him up, however.

He just kept saying he was going to take care of you, and he didn’t loosen his hand until he asked you if you wanted him to take care of you. You said you did. He asked if he had taken care of you up to that point. You said that he had. He asked you if you trusted him. You said you did.

He left you in the backseat, covered in his cum and reddening marks on your neck, hips, and breasts, wrapped in his coat. He turned the car off and you echoed with just about 100 questions, none of which he directly answered. He said you couldn’t come with him because well, you honestly couldn’t walk.

The following morning, you woke up in bed while Ransom was making breakfast. Well, okay, you hadn’t actually seen him make anything, but since you didn’t find any restaurant containers, you couldn’t throw that accusation at him. He brought you pancakes to eat in bed and you guys had an amazing morning together.

By noon, the family was calling both of you with news of Harlan’s death.

He pressed his free hand over your face, covering your nose, and shoved his fingers deeper down your throat. You were choking and that didn’t frighten you like it should have. Some of the best orgasms you’d gotten from Ransom were when you were choking on his fingers or his cock.

You didn’t stop rocking your hips until you were finishing and you never once looked away from him. He stared into your eyes the entire time because it was undeniable at this point, Ransom had a kink for murder, and this was as close as he was going to get to it with you—some minor breath play.

He pulled away from you completely, stepping back onto the floor. He glanced down with a self-satisfied smirk, admiring the mess you had made on his pant leg. His amusement only grew as he watched you try to catch your breath.

You were still coming down when you felt Ransom leave the space between your legs. Glancing around the room, you found him at the counter. His back to you, you heard him pour some bourbon in a glass. You weren’t much of a bourbon person but whenever you tasted it on Ransom’s tongue, you never minded it too much.

When he returned to you, it was with a knife from the block on the counter. A large knife, you wondered what he would do if you made a comment about him compensating for something. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He smirked. “You scared?”

You snorted. “No.”

Arching an eyebrow, he pressed the blade down just barely against your thigh, dragging it upward toward your soaking center.

You had to bite your lip as he touched you there, just a tease because he didn’t truly want to cut you. The cool surface made goosebumps rise on your legs and your heart began to pound with excitement. You often wondered if you would be this fucked up if you had never found Ransom.

He lifted it to your chest, eyes bright as they followed the knife. He pressed down just slightly harder and led the knife to your shoulder. Your heart dropped the second you realized what he was doing.

“Ransom—”

“Shut up.”

“This is a piece from Megan Fox’s collaboration with Fredrick’s—” You felt the snap of your bodysuit’s strap and your jaw dropped.

He smirked down at you, proceeding to the next side to do the same.

“You fucking psycho!” you reprimanded. You thought dating a man with too much money and a narcissistic concern for his appearance would have given him at least some respect for clothing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? You’re the one so wet over a god damn knife.”

“You can’t just destroy my clothes!”

“Well,” he shrugged, “just did. The fuck are you going to do about it? And consider your answer carefully, you know, if you want that house so badly.”

“It’s already my house,” you declared. “You got it for me. Stop pretending—”

“Pretending what? That I couldn’t find someone to replace you in a second? I bet Marta would be up for it.”

You shut up immediately, just staring at him. You knew Ransom liked it when your anger was quick. And truly, the last thing you wanted was to give him anything he wanted. You weren’t trying to be jealous in any way, but you’d always wondered how he felt about Marta.

He seemed to like talking to her—albeit, he also liked talking to Meg…just to get a rise. But he also liked getting a rise out of you, clearly. You just wanted to know. And he wouldn’t answer you, any time you asked him how he felt about someone else, he just fucked you.

“Now, don’t pout—”

“Fuck you—”

“Don’t be such a baby—it was a joke.”

“I don’t care,” you proclaimed. “You know, you can fuck her if you want.”

“Oh?”

You nodded, humming. “Please do. Then I’ll follow up with your dad.”

He snorted. “That’s getting weak.”

“You think he wants me to call him daddy?”

He took your neck in his hand. “If you say that again, I’ll fucking…”

“What?” you demanded. “What the fuck are you going to do, Ransom?”

Suddenly, he was kissing you. You’d blinked, then he was over you, hand tearing down your bodysuit as he held you by the throat. He stood to toss the bodysuit out of his way, eyes tracing your body.

He didn’t seem to care that you were completely out of breath by the time he’d pulled away, you didn’t either. This was something you both had in common. In moments like these, nothing mattered. You both did and said whatever you wanted, but by the time he was inside you, it was all forgotten.

“I’m moving out,” you announced.

He snorted. “You’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I’m going back home; I can’t stand another day with you.”

“You ever try to leave me and I will drag you back. Every fucking time, Y/N.”

You scoffed weakly. “Learn to hear the word no. You’ll need to. Now that you’re poor, especially.”

“You think that’s what this is?” He still wasn’t looking at your face, just your naked body as if he’d never seen it before. “You think it’s because I’ve never been told no?”

“What else would it be?”

He snorted. “Try to be less transparent. Is this your way of asking what we are?”

You knew what you were. To an extent. It was just that sometimes, Ransom wasn’t the most traditional, and you were okay with that. But well, it had been 6 years. You were waiting on the future to start, the engagement, the ring, changing your last name, possibly starting a family. But well, Ransom hadn’t even told you he loved you. You knew he did, love wasn’t just words, and he definitely showed you, but it would be nice to hear. Still, that was not what you had been asking… okay, maybe it kind of was what you were asking.

“No, I couldn’t care less. I won’t have to stay with you much longer anyway… I would never date anyone poor.”

“Baby, call me poor one more time and your ass is going to be so sore.”

He was in such an odd mood. You didn’t know exactly what he wanted. It had sounded like he’d wanted to fight, then he started getting…well, sappy for him. Now, he was threatening to spank you for stating fact?

“Look at that,” he taunted, smirking at your silence. “You can be such a good girl when you try.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I should give you incentive to shut your mouth more.”

“Excuse—”

He shushed you as his free hand pressed to your pussy.

You quieted only because you forced your mouth shut. You hadn’t been sure how the leather gloves were going to feel, if you should like them… But well, you did. And maybe you didn’t want him to know that.

But he did, that much you could tell from the arrogant look in his eye. You closed your eyes, letting your head roll back against the table. Whatever, you might as well get an orgasm for all this trouble he’d given you.

He traced small, gentle circles around your clit and you couldn’t even remember what you’d been arguing about. You knew he was watching you; you knew you shouldn’t be giving in so easy. That was why he was a dick; he knew you would let him be because he knew how to fuck you well. Two fingers easily slipped inside you—at least you thought it was two, you couldn’t tell.

You were caught off guard. It had been years since you’d felt something inside you other than Ransom*.

Was it supposed to feel good? What you liked was that these gloves were not supposed to be inside you, yet there they were. Ransom didn’t seem to care that they were close to a thousand dollars. You remembered glaring at him when he showed them to you, sent to him by one of his few friends, a designer (🙄) You had lectured him. They were real leather! You did not believe in killing animals for fashion. It was your one rule. You’d never participated in a campaign or contract if there was an animal harmed in the making.

But now, here you were, rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his fingers as he wore those sickening gloves. It was a strange sensation, maybe not good, but not bad. He started to crook his fingers against that spot that he could now locate in record time, and so it didn’t matter what it felt like anyway.

He leaned over you, grabbing one of your arms to pull you into a sitting position. “Watch, baby girl. Watch your pussy take my fingers.”

You turned down and at an agonizing speed, his fingers disappeared inside you. He crooked them twice before pulling them out almost completely. The gloves were embarrassingly wet and you could feel your cheeks heating because of it.

“Can you take another?” he inquired.

You weren’t capable of forming thoughts. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to want an answer. He pulled his fingers back, pushing three back in.

Your head dropped back and you closed your eyes. “Fuck, Ransom, please—”

“Keep watching, baby—I’m only going to tell you once.”

You hurriedly turned back; struggling to keep your eyes open and your hips still. Watching made you anxious because you knew exactly when you were going to feel what and you were simply not patient enough for your tease of a boyfriend.

“You hear how wet you are? Your pussy is so desperate…I bet it could take all four of my fingers. What do you think?” He took your jaw, turning your gaze up to him. “Hmm?”

You began to eagerly nod. “Yes.”

He pulled his arm back and let his pinky join as he moved it forward—once more, you felt yourself blushing at how easily they all slipped inside. It was a delicious stretch that was already driving you crazy. He rarely ever got to four fingers, by the time he was three in, that usually meant he was ready to fuck you. He always tried though, mindful of his size and how difficult it was to take him sometimes.

You sighed his name and whimpered a plea, you did not know what for, but he did. His free hand wrapped around your neck and he leaned in to kiss you, the fingers inside you still curling skillfully. His lips were soft against yours, a notable contrast to everything else he was doing.

“What is it about these gloves that get you so wet? he pressed. “Huh? Let me tell you, my love, about all the bad things I’ve done in them.” He seemed completely detached as he recounted all those events that you had missed because he’d wanted you to miss them, you wondered if he’d decided to that just so he could bring it up while he was fucking you.

Everything was calm and slow. Then he said Fran’s name and his hold on your neck tightened, and he started fucking you with his fingers, relentless in pressure and pace. His stare was locked on yours and you noticed how he brightened when tears finally filled your eyes. You would start turning a terrible red soon, you knew because he’d choked you enough times in the mirror. He always liked it so much so you never complained.

You had run out of air several long seconds ago and that was why your finish was coming so harshly. You just hoped he couldn’t tell because he would undoubtedly make you wait.

“I liked killing her,” he told you. “I would do it again. She was standing in the way—our way of the future I want to give to you. I’d fucking kill anyone for you, baby, you know that?”

“Yes,” you coughed. You didn’t think he killed Fran for you. Maybe, maybe on some low level, but it was ultimately for him. You didn’t mind that, though.

He smirked. “Say my name.”

He loved it when you were choking but still so desperate for him that you wasted what little oxygen you did have on saying his name, letting him know that he was pleasing you. You obliged and his hand instantly fell away from your neck. You took a deep breath in, coughing as you tried to blink away your tears.

He grabbed your hands and put them over his pants. “You feel how hard you’re making me, baby?”

Your pussy clenched around his fingers in anticipation, you couldn’t wait for him to be inside you. You hurriedly searched for the button on his pants until he shoved your hands away.

“No, not yet.” He grabbed your neck again and then crouched down, immediately burying his lips in your pussy.

A strangled yell came from your parted mouth, pure nonsense. You grabbed his forearm, a pathetic attempt to keep yourself sitting up, not that he would have let you fall if he didn’t want you to.

He tilted his head back to look up at you as his fingers kept working you. “Keep saying my name, baby.”

You did so three times before he finally placed his mouth back on you. You were shaking as he flicked his tongue over your clit repeatedly. Your end had built up to this impossibly high place, you were sure it was because your last orgasm was so unsatisfying.

Regardless, he’d barely been on his knees long at all when you knew you would come soon. And fuck, you needed to come. “Ransom—I—I’m—”

“You’re close?” he spoke against your hot, wet flesh, humming as he started sucking your clit gently. “Hm, baby?”

“Yes!” you sobbed.

And you couldn’t so much as blink before he was standing, pulling you off the table by your hips. You came crashing down hard, collapsing onto the table as you realized what was happening. You had been confused for only a second, but then, this was Ransom—why would you expect anything else?

That fucking piece of shit.

You were leaned over the edge of the table, legs shaking so much that he had to hold you up. Your bound arms were in front of you, unable to offer you any assistance. You wanted to push him away or kick him but you worried about your physical safety if you tried. The only thing that could make this situation worse was falling on your ass in front of Ransom.

The dick probably wouldn’t help you up.

You rested your forehead against the table, that was when you realized you were crying. Your cheeks were hot and lined with trails of tears. “I fucking hate you.”

His hand came down on your exposed ass with no warning at all.

You yelped, attempting to pull away from him.

He held you right where he wanted you with one hand closed around your hip bone.

“You’ve been acting like a brat this whole time, what the fuck did you expect?”

“Absolutely nothing from you!” you hissed. “You can’t fucking do anything right!”

And that rewarded you another slap on the opposite side of your ass.

You grit your teeth until your skin stopped stinging. “If you hit me again, I’m going to kill you!”

But hell, even you knew that was only going to get you another one. “You’re going to apologize.”

“For what?!”

“Everything—your attitude, talking about my father, and hanging out with Joni—”

“Oh, fuck you, Ransom! You’re a fucking psychopath with serious possession issues. I’m not a god damn object—”

His hand cracked across your ass, maybe a little more forceful than he intended but he hadn’t expected you to put up so much fight today.

Your mouth was clamped shut and more tears had gathered in your eyes. You weren’t sure what you were crying about anymore, sheer frustration or because he was hitting you so hard.

“Say you’re sorry.”

“No!” Was he out of his mind? He had never made you apologize like this. He let you suck him off or he just tied you up and you were “sweet” enough that he just forgave you. He had never tried to force you to say those words.

“Do it, now—”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” you decided.

“I will give you one more chance,” he informed. “Then I’m done talking.”

“That sounds like the best idea you’ve had all day.”

He smacked you again. And again, you were finally starting to realize that the leather hurt more than his bare hand. Again, and your legs buckled. He quickly scooped you up, setting you atop the table.

“Ransom,” you pleaded.

Instead of responding verbally, he spanked you again. You only took three more before you blurted out those dreaded words. He paused but you knew he wasn’t going to give you more opportunities to make it right, you would have to do that on your own.

“I’m sorry for my attitude.”

He hummed and you were stupid enough to think he was going to let the rest go. Not a blink of an eye later, he smacked you again.

“And I’m sorry for what I said about your dad!”

Yet again, he struck you without a word.

“Ransom, please, I’m sorry! I’m really sorry—”

“Sorry…what?”

“What?” you breathed back. He didn’t say ‘for what’ because that much he knew; you’d said that much. Then what the fuck did he mean?

He tsked and you knew what was coming.

You flinched before he even touched you. “S-sir? I’m sorry, sir!” He’d tried to start that but it was awkward at best. Sir did nothing for either one of you. You were running out of logic though and seemed the best bet.

He snorted. “No, baby. Not ‘sir’.”

“Daddy!” you realized, nearly crying tears of joy. Of course, after that joke you made about Richard, Ransom just needed to assert his dominance. Then his temper tantrum would be over. “Daddy, I’m sorry—”

“Now I don’t think you’re being sincere; you’re just telling me what I want to hear—”

“No, daddy, I’m so sorry—”

But he hit you again.

And okay, fuck him—you had just been telling him what he wanted to hear. You were done. “Stop!”

“Or what?”

“Ransom, I swear—”

He wrapped his arm around you, grasping your neck so he could yank you up. His forearm was pressed hard between your breasts, his elbow digging into your side where he held you tight against his chest. “You made a mess of my gloves, clean them.”

Before you could argue, he shoved his hand into your mouth. You were refusing to obey, however, which he realized when your mouth was completely still. His solution was to force his fingers down your throat until you were gagging violently.

When you realized he wasn’t going to give, you started sucking. You could feel his sweater against your back. It shouldn’t have been able to calm you down, but fuck…this was Ransom. This sweater-wearing asshole was apparently the man you loved—how fucking stupid could you be?

He began dragging you to the sliding door. Ransom’s house was pretty secluded and the only other people that regularly showed up was the help. Three weeks prior, you had pointed out that there was no point in having a sliding glass door if you didn’t have a dog. That was your subtle hint that that was what you wanted.

He flat out refused and you guys had ended up screaming at each other until he held you against the glass and fucked you silent. He had enjoyed it, but you couldn’t relate.

Once more, he pressed you into the glass, lifting your arms over your head. You tried to recoil the second you felt the cold surface against your breasts but he just pushed you back harder. You began turning your head pointedly, his fingers were still in your mouth but you knew he would take the hint.

Finally, he pulled them free and began brushing your hair away from your face. “What do you need, baby?”

“You are such a fucking asshole, Ransom!”

“And you are disrespectful.”

“Why the hell should I respect you?”

“Keep it up, baby, we already have a long night ahead of us. You really wanna let this go on tomorrow, too?”

You couldn’t, you knew that with total certainty. Your body was worn out, the only thing that was keeping you going was the anger you felt. You dreaded imagining how sore your muscles would be when you woke up the next morning.

“Now,” he sighed, feigning patience, “Try not to make a mess of my gloves again, or I’ll make you clean them again.” He reached between your legs and began rubbing his fingers quickly over your clit.

“Ransom!” you cried, attempting to push your body back against his. You could not keep doing this. “Stop, please!”

“No.”

That was all he said, the last thing, in fact, even though you didn’t stop talking the whole time. The whole nine almost-finishes he gave you, that he would stop in the middle of because you kept “making a mess”.

He had to know when you were truly almost spent because that was when he tore his pants out of his way and without even a teasing remark, thrust into you. It took a mere two thrusts before you fell apart.

The glass was stained with streaks from your skin, sweat, tears, and probably other bodily fluids, and you hated that the housekeeper would know why. God, he was the fucking worst person on the planet.

He never gave you a moment, he just kept fucking you through your orgasm and then after because now he needed to finish. “Tell me you’re not going to leave me,” he ordered.

You were more than just confused, wondering briefly if you’d even heard him correctly. “What?”

He let both hands grasp your hips and he pushed into you harder. “Tell me that you’re never going to leave me.”

You turned your head back, attempting to be coherent through the whining and mewling. “What—the fuck—are you talking about?”

“Even if this shit all goes wrong,” he explained. “Even if I get caught. Right now, tell me that you’re not gonna fucking leave. Say you won’t leave me.”

“Of course, I’m never—going to leave, you fucking idiot.” You turned forward, eyes shutting because you didn’t want to be looking at him when you said this. “I love you.”

His hips stuttered and he froze buried inside you, but you weren’t going to acknowledge what you’d just said. He pulled out just to turn you to him, lifting you so he could properly fuck you against the door.

Your legs hung loose around him but your tied arms could successfully hold around his neck. And just like that, the fight was over. Neither of you would probably ever bring up a single thing said during this disastrous night. He just kissed the side of your face as he told you how good your pussy felt.

[narniadreams]

very many tags that i’m sure nobody cares about (with songs and a quiz and facts about me if ur curious) 

tagged by the ever so lovely @trumpkinhotboy​

drop three completely different bands/artists u listen to

Super Junior (kpop)

Regina Spektor (anti-folk)

Flairck (dutch acoustic)

Stumbled upon this and decided to make it a tag game ! (this is so very accurate like how do quizzes know this !?) The socially awkward brains of the team // Socialization doesn't come easy to you. You might struggle to be heard or seen by the ones around you so you prefer to avoid it all together, as frustrating as it can be sometimes. For that reason you might be selective with the people you blend with, and at times it might seem that nobody will truly understand you. But when you find those who resonate with you, you're an extremely kind and loyal friend. Most importantly, you're smart, and people always value that about you. They will constantly rely on you, ask for your guidance and advice, and you're happy to provide it. You like being the reliable friend. You don't get crushes easily, but when you do you don't really know how to handle them. They feel overwhelming and like a waste of time. There's no way they like me back, is it? What if I ruin it? What if I'm reading way too much into it? Remember to relax enjoy the feeling once in a while, chances are that your crush sees that intelligent and kindhearted person everyone else seen in you as well

list 5 things about yourself you want your followers to know. they can be as simple as your age or as complex as your deepest fear, as long as it’s something you’re comfortable with sharing.

i haven’t been in love since the last 10 years and sometimes i am afraid that i will never fall in love with anyone ever again.

there was a period in my life where i really hated reading books. before, i loved reading, but when i was around 8 i started to dislike it, and i only ever read comic books or magazines or very short/easy books. when i got into my last two years of highschool (15/16 age-wise) we had to read 5 books each year, so i was forced to read. i kind of started to love it again and i read a lot of books easily. since then, i never hated reading books again hahaha.

i’m going to study in south-korea next month, so i won’t be able to go to my violin classes. it’s the first break i have ever taken since i started playing violin in 2007. 

when i really love a piece of media, i often remember quotes from it, and in a period of obsession, i will keep saying that quote over and over again for no reason. a while back i replayed heavy rain and i kept walking around saying: ‘’oh shit jack, ain’t nothing to it, just a little bit of self defense. page one of the police manual, kill or be killed.’’ at random moments. 

that being said, i love video games !! i’ve sometimes got surprised responses to that because people say i ‘don’t look like a gamer-girl’ whatever that’s supposed to mean????? just two days ago i started playing days gone and it’s been very stressful so far hahaha.

I saw one on the mcr side of my dash where you put a song title for every little of your url and I thought it would be fun

N - nella fantasia - il divo

A - angels - owl city

R - rockin’ the suburbs - ben folds

N - no other - super junior

I - idea - akmu

A - a case of you - joni mitchell

D - dream girl - shinee

R - resta qui - andrea bocelli

E - einstein’s idea - johnny flynn

A - après moi - regina spektor

M - mayday - victon

S - she - jannabi

RULES: post your top five favourite comfort characters

Samual Drake (Uncharted)

Edmund Pevensie (The Chronicles of Narnia)

Nagisa Hazuki (Free! Iwatobi Swimclub)

Hideyoshi Nagachika (Tokyo Ghoul)

Warren Graham (Life Is Strange)

hot shower or cold shower // texting or calling // earphones or headphones // paperback or hardcover // matte or gel // 12 hour clock or 24 hour clock // blue or green // sunsets or sunrises // tulips or orchids // candle light or moon light // sci-fi or horror // pen or pencil // pandas or koalas // gold or silver // sneakers or boots // denim jacket or leather jacket // pink or purple // wind chimes or dreamcatchers // chocolate or sour candy // deodrant or perfume // drive-in movie theatre or the cinema // pastel colours or neutral/earth tones // butterflies or honeybees // lemonade or iced tea // past or future // constellations or aurora borealis

cloud watching or stargazing // cherries or strawberries // messy room or tidy room // cooking or baking // blue pen or black pen // poetry or prose // loose clothes or fitted clothes // bookmark or dog-ear // orange or yellow // chocolate or red velvet // rings or necklaces // netflix or cinema // monsoon or autumn // late nights or early mornings // road trips or train/flight // candles or fairy lights // music streaming or record player // blinds or curtains // picnic date or carnival date // piano or violin // ice cream or frozen yogurt // museums or libraries // pancakes or waffles // cookies or brownies // moon or stars

there are more tags that i still have to do but this is it for now lol !! i tag anyone who reads this, no taking back >:)

[northernstories]

African American Literature Suggestions from NMU English Department

The English Department at Northern Michigan University has prepared this list of several dozen suggested readings in African American literature, with some materials also addressing Native American history and culture. The first section contains books that will help provide a context for the Black Lives Matter movement. It includes books that will help readers examine their own privilege and act more effectively for the greater good. Following that list is another featuring many African American authors and books. This list is by no means comprehensive, but it does provide readers a place to start. Almost all of these books are readily available in bookstores and public and university libraries.

Northern Michigan University’s English Department offers at least one course on African American literature every semester, at least one course on Native American literature every semester, and at least one additional course on non-western world literatures every semester. Department faculty also incorporate diverse material in many other courses. For more information, contact the department at english@nmu.edu. Nonfiction, primarily addressing current events, along with some classic texts: Joni Adamson, Mei Mei Evans, and Rachel Stein, editors. The Environmental Justice Reader: Politics, Poetics, and Pedagogy. This classic collection of scholarly articles, essays, and interviews explores the links between social inequalities and unequal distribution of environmental risk. Attention is focused on the US context, but authors also consider global impacts. Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. A clear-eyed explication of how mass incarceration has created a new racial caste system obscured by the ideology of color-blindness. Essential reading for understanding our criminal justice system in relation to the histories of slavery and segregation. Carol Anderson, White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide. A very well-written but disturbing and direct analysis of the history of structural and institutionalized racism in the United States. Gloria Anzaldua, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. Anzaldua writes about the complexity of life on multiple borders, both literal (the border between the US/Mexico) and conceptual (the borders among languages, sexual identity, and gender). Anzaldua also crosses generic borders, moving among essay, story, history, and poetry. James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time. A classic indictment of white supremacy expressed in a searing, prophetic voice that is, simply, unmatched. Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me. A combination of personal narrative in the form of the author’s letter to his son, historical analysis, and contemporary reportage. Angela Davis, Are Prisons Obsolete? In this succinct and carefully researched book, Davis exposes the racist and sexist underpinnings of the American prison system. This is a must-read for folks new to conversations about prison (and police) abolition. Robin DiAngelo, What Does It Mean To Be White? The author facilitates white people unpacking their biases around race, privilege, and oppression through a variety of methods and extensive research. Ejeris Dixon and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarshnha, editors. Beyond Survival: Strategies and Stories From the Transformative Justice Movement. The book attempts to solve problems of violence at a grassroots level in minority communities, without relying on punishment, incarceration, or policing. Frederick Douglass, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass. The most well-known narrative written by one of the most well-known and accomplished enslaved persons in the United States. First published in 1845 when Douglass was approximately 28 years old. W.E.B. DuBois, The Souls of Black Folk. Collection of essays in which Dubois famously prophesied that “the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line.” Henry Louis Gates, Stony the Road: Reconstruction, White Supremacy, and the Rise of Jim Crow. Must reading, a beautifully written, scholarly, and accessible discussion of American history from Reconstruction to the beginnings of the Jim Crow era. Saidiya Hartman, Lose your Mother: A Journey Along the Atlantic Slave Route. In an attempt to locate relatives in Ghana, the author journeyed along the route her ancestors would have taken as they became enslaved in the United States. bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation. A collection of essays that analyze how white supremacy is systemically maintained through, among other activities, popular culture. Harriet Jacobs, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. Narrative of a woman who escaped slavery by hiding in an attic for seven years. This book offers unique insights into the sexually predatory behavior of slave masters. Ibram X. Kendi, Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America. A detailed history not only of racist events in American history, but of the racist thinking that permitted and continues to permit these events. This excellent and readable book traces this thinking from the colonial period through the presidency of Barack Obama. Winona LaDuke, All Our Relations: Native Struggles for Land and Life Any of LaDuke's works belong on this list. This particular text explores the stories of several Indigenous communities as they struggle with environmental and cultural degradation. An incredible resource. Kiese Laymon, Heavy: An American Memoir. An intense book that questions American myths of individual success written by a man who is able to situate his own life within a much larger whole. Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldua, This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color This foundational text brings together work by writers, scholars, and activists such as Audre Lorde, Chrystos, Barbara Smith, Norma Alarcon, Nellie Wong, and many others. The book has been called a manifesto and a call to action and remains just as important and relevant as when it was published nearly 40 years ago. Toni Morrison, The Source of Self-Regard. An invaluable collection of essays and speeches from the only black woman to win a Nobel Prize in literature. Throughout her oeuvre, Morrison calls us to take "personal responsibility for alleviating social harm," an ethic she identified with Martin Luther King. Ersula J. Ore, Lynching: Violence, Rhetoric, and American Identity. Ore scrutinizes the history of lynching in America and contemporary manifestations of lynching, drawing upon the murder of Trayvon Martin and other contemporary manifestations of police brutality. Drawing upon newspapers, official records, and memoirs, as well as critical race theory, Ore outlines the connections between what was said and written, the material practices of lynching in the past, and the forms these rhetorics and practices assume now. Claudia Rankine, Citizen: An American Lyric. A description and discussion of racial aggression and micro-aggression in contemporary America. The book was selected for NMU’s Diversity Common Reader Program in 2016. Layla F. Saad, Me and White Supremacy. The author facilitates white people in unpacking their biases around race, privilege, and oppression, while also helping them understand key critical social justice terminology. Maya Schenwar, Joe Macaré, Alana Yu-lan Price, editors. Who do you Serve, Who Do You Protect? Police Violence and Resistance in the United States. The essays examine "police violence against black, brown, indigenous and other marginalized communities, miscarriages of justice, and failures of token accountability and reform measures." What are alternative measures to keep marginalized communities safe? Ozlem Sensoy and Robin DiAngelo, Is Everyone Really Equal? The authors, in very easy to read and engaging language, facilitate readers in understanding the ---isms (racism, sexism, ableism etc.) and how they intersect, helping readers see their positionality and how privilege and oppression work to perpetuate the status quo. Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption. An analysis of America’s criminal justice system by the lawyer who founded the Equal Justice Initiative. While upsetting, the book is also hopeful. Wendy S. Walters, Multiply / Divide: On the American Real and Surreal. In this collection of essays, Walters analyzes the racial psyche of several major American cities, emphasizing the ways bias can endanger entire communities. Booker T. Washington, Up from Slavery. Autobiography of the founder of Tuskegee Institute. Harriet Washington, Medical Apartheid. From the surgical experiments performed on enslaved black women to the contemporary recruitment of prison populations for medical research, Washington illuminates how American medicine has been--and continues to be shaped--by anti-black racism. Malcolm X, The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Autobiography of civil rights leader that traces his evolution as a thinker, speaker, and writer.

If you would like to enhance your knowledge of the rich tradition of African American literature, here are several of the most popular books and authors within that tradition, focused especially on the 20thand 21st centuries. Novels and Short Stories James Baldwin, Go Tell It on the Mountain James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room Octavia Butler, Parable of the Sower Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man Langston Hughes, The Ways of White Folks Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God James Weldon Johnson, The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man Nella Larsen, Passing Nella Larsen, Quicksand Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye Toni Morrison, Beloved Richard Wright, Native Son Drama Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun Ntozake Shange, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf August Wilson, Fences August Wilson, The Piano Lesson Poetry A good place to begin is an anthology, The Vintage Book of African American Poetry, edited by Michael S. Harper and Anthony Walton. It includes work by poets from the 18th century to the present, including Gwendolyn Brooks, Lucille Clifton, Countee Cullen, Rita Dove, Robert Hayden, Langston Hughes, Yusef Komunyakaa, Claude McKay, Phillis Wheatley, and many others. Here are some more recent collections: Reginald Dwayne Betts, Felon Wanda Coleman, Wicked Enchantment: Selected Poems Honorée Fanonne Jeffers, The Age of Phillis Tyehimba Jess, Olio Jamaal May, The Big Book of Exit Strategies Danez Smith, Don’t Call Us Dead

[joemuggs]

James Blake: Before Before

James Blake has a new EP out, called ‘Before’. It’s really good. I like him, he’s authentic. I’ve spoken to him on and off since he very first released music, and it’s been interesting to see his transformation from north London bohemian to LA superstar bohemian. Below is the text of the first time I interviewed him - I think the first feature length interview he did - from Mixmag in 2010. 

James Blake is good at confounding expectations. At a recent gig at Shoreditch's warehouse-like XOYO, Mixmag saw the 22-year-old play a super-heavyweight mutant dubstep set, then immediately afterwards start larking about with Beyonce and Ms Dynamite tunes, much to the delight of the messy ravers – and yet the tune that's getting him known outside clubland is the deeply odd Feist cover 'Limit to your Love' with its haunted croon and folky repetitions. So, when we catch up with him in a Brixton pub a few days after the gig, we make a point of asking him what his ultimate musical ambition is – thinking it might reveal a common thread that draws these disparate sides together. "I'd like to play a solo piano show at Carnegie Hall," he says without hesitation, referring to one of the most renowned classical venues in the world, which has also played host to legendary shows by the likes of the Beatles and Pink Floyd; "maybe not even singing, just the piano." We think he means it.

That's how he is, though: pretty much every tune he's put out so far has come as a curveball. Going from the soulful mutant dubstep of 'CMYK' – which has ruled underground clubs all year – to the four tracks of gorgeous, weightless piano-laced electronica on his 'Klavierwerke' EP alone was a more radical shift than most artists his age would even think of making. But to then not only make the leap to the intense weirdness of 'Limit to your Love', but to make it work to the point where it is all over radio and sitting alongside 'CMYK' in everyone's “best of 2010” lists demonstrates a boldness that it making heads spin throughout the industry, and generating the sort of anticipation for his major label album that doesn't come around often. In a climate of insane gener meltdowns and turbulence stirred up by dubstep's big push into the mainstream, he truly is the maverick's maverick.

So, we ask him, what is with all of these stylistic shifts? “I get bored!” he laughs. “When I get a sound, like the 'Klavierwerke' tracks, I will just do it and do it until I literally can't do it any more, so then I just have to move on and do something different.” There's an intense air about James, not in the nerdy or over-serious way you sometimes get with electronica musos – quite the opposite, in fact: he's fun and engaging company, and our interview quite frequently gets derailed into just chatting away merrily about tunes, nights out and mutual acquaintances – but nonetheless with a fierce intelligence on display and a maturity way beyond his years. He'll fix you in the eye when he speaks, but often, especially when talking about music that he loves, his gaze will divert up and to the side, darting back and forth as if browsing some inner database to locate exactly the right reference, and he speaks with the clarity and lucidity of someone who has spent a serious amount of time thinking about their plans and beliefs.

As you might expect given the strangeness and diversity of his music, James's upbringing as an only child in the London suburb of Enfield, wasn't entirely conventional. His artist mother and singer/guitarist dad never listened to pop radio but played vintage blues and soul constantly – then as soon as James took up playing the piano his musical interest focused 100% on that. “I listened to Art Tatum and Errol Garner, and I listened to Bach and Satie and Chopin,” he explains; “it wasn't about being into a style, it wasn't a jazz thing or a classical thing, it was just piano, just technique.” And that was that – until finally he discovered dubstep as a teenager, and instantly realised that this could be, as he puts it, “a vehicle” for his musical ideas. “It was,” he says, “just massive for me.”

Listening to the likes of DMZ's Mala made him realise that electronic music had possibilities like the blues he grew up with: “it has that thing where if the ideas and the personality of the artist are strong enough, they can do whatever the fuck they like – Mala could take one simple idea and stretch it out for ages, and it would just work because it's him, and because it has that dread and intensity, and you go with it because you trust him.” It also gave him a way to be musically creative without simply relying on his previous schooling. “When I hear a producer is 'classically trained',” he scowls, “I'm suspicious, to me it's usually a euphemism for 'doesn't have any ideas'. Just because you can read the dots on the score and play complex pieces doesn't mean you have any ability to come up with something new.”

Music production took over his life completely from then on. “I went through a lot of shit, but once I got to 18, 19,” he says, “I just decided that I didn't really give a shit about anyone else. Not friends, not girls – I mean, girls are great...” – he flashes a grin – “...but I didn't want to be distracted. And I didn't want to socialise for the sake of it, go to some shit club just because my mates were, I knew that music was my focus and that was that. I knew from my parents that if you're serious about your creativity you have to be alone a lot.” He did, however, very quickly make connections with fellow one-offs Mount Kimbie and Jack Dunning aka Untold. The latter, after hearing a DJ play one of his demos on Rinse FM got in touch and became something of a mentor, releasing James's first 12” on his own Hemlock label. Mount Kimbie also got in touch after James sent them “a really gushing email about their music” and ended up performing live with him on vocals.

From thereon in, things snowballed fast, with dancefloor-oriented releases on Ramdanman and friends' Hessle Audio and the legendary Belgian techno label R&S – but he was also honing a freakier sound: the sparse, folky vocal tracks that would make up his new album. Only three other people got to hear these initially– Untold, this Mixmag correspondent, and a friend of James's who works for major label A&M records and persuaded them to take a punt. These all feature James extraordinary and emotionally intense singing voice, and are, he says , all about restraint. “I get fed up when people keep describing me as a 'soul' singer, because I'm not,” he insists – “I don't let rip, I just sing the notes as I write them. It's like the production: I don't want to just bang away, I use silence and quiet for effect, and then when it does build up to something tougher it hits much harder in contrast.” And he makes a surprisingly violent punching motion.

The result is something that is both completely removed from trends, and perfectly suited to the current climate of genre meltdown. It's possible to hear everything from ancient echoes of folk and blues to the influence of the crispest modern hip hop, particularly the anything-goes aesthetic of Outkast, who James says are “the Beatles of today, maybe not in sales, but definitely in importance and technical innovation.” It also completely tramples over the idea of dubstep as macho, with a real sexual ambiguity to both James's voice and playing. This is very deliberate: one of his greatest desires is “to learn to play piano in a female way – there's a particular way that Joni Mitchell plays, and also Nina Simone, that is technically incredible but isn't flash, that supports the voice without coming too much into the foreground, yet is incredibly beautiful in its own right.”

There's no disconnect from the dancefloor in any of this, though. He still talks with passion about dancing to his friend Joy Orbison's DJ sets in small, dark clubs - “at one point I completely lost track of where I was, and felt plugged into something bigger,” he says, “like the music was joined into a wider history” - and at XOYO Mixmag witnessed at first hand how even his oddest, most strung-out tracks have a sense of dance dynamics that grabs people on a very basic level. Surveying XOYO's punters, we met everyone from electronica dorks who proclaimed him “the deepest British producer since the Aphex Twin” through indie hipsters waxing lyrical about his voice, to a couple of girls in borderline hysterics about how fit he is (James is indeed striking looking, not to mention well over six foot tall). With this breadth of support, the sky would seem to be the limit for James right now; but whether in five years he's perfoming solo piano or singing with Andre 3000, evidence suggests the results will be beyond anyone's abilities to predict.

[stevie-baby]

50 Questions you’ve ever been asked before …

✨ Thank you to @pomegranatecurses​ @saywecanart​ @sunshinesinhereyes​ & @satingrass-maidensfair​ for tagging me! Love y’all!! ✨

1. what is the colour of your hairbrush? White with green leaf designs all over 

2. a food you never eat? Eggs. IDK man they are just awful. Texture? Vile. Flavor? Abhorrent.

3. are you typically too warm or too cold? Too damn hot

4. what were you doing 45 minutes ago? Showering

5. what is your favourite candy bar? Honestly i’m a slut for a good bar of dark chocolate.

6. have you ever been to a professional sports event? Sadly, yes.

7. what is the last thing you said out loud? “Are you fucking kidding me?” Just found out we might be going under tornado watch. Haven’t experienced that since I lived in Nashville (so like a year).

8. what is your favourite ice cream? Either rocky road or mint chip

9. what was the last thing you had to drink? Wine

10. do you like your wallet? I’ve been using this wallet for like 8 years now. She get’s the job done.

11. what was the last thing you ate? A tostada

12. did you buy any new clothes last weekend? I impulse bought a really cute floral blouse from the 70′s but I just got an email from the shop owner saying they had to cancel the order because they didn’t have the blouse in their inventory anymore and they never took down the listing.

13. the last sporting event you watched? I think it was a basketball game when I was still at Belmont last year. Unless NASCAR counts (which it should)

14. what is your favourite flavour of popcorn? I usually love plain ol’ butter and salt, if I’m getting fancy I’ll toss some lao gan ma on it.

15. who is the last person you sent a text message to? My dad

16. ever go camping? I used to go all the time when I was a kid. I’ve been itching to go camping again or at least go on a good hike.

17. do you take vitamins? I’m lacking in many things, most notably iron ;)

18. do you go to church every sunday? I’ve only been to church for weddings, funerals, and a few times the year I went to a Christian university.

19. do you have a tan? Nope

20. do you prefer chinese food or pizza? This is such a weird question to me because it’s like “do you prefer this entire category of food or this particular dish???” Like, I love pizza. You can’t go wrong with pizza. But I also love Chinese food because I’m part Chinese and I grew up eating it.

21. do you drink your soda with a straw? Sometimes(?) But sometimes it’s just in a can and I don’t actively seek out a straw for it??? I don’t really drink soda that often. 

22. what colour socks do you usually wear? black 

23. do you ever drive above the speed limit? I don’t drive

24. what terrifies you? Getting stuck in a monotonous job.

25. look to your left, what do you see? My crystal ball

26. what chore do you hate? Washing the dishes

27. what do you think of when you hear an Australian accent? The Australian stripper that was hitting on my cousin when we were at a rest stop in Texas

28. what’s your favourite soda? I don’t drink soda that often, but when I do I prefer Sprite

29. do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive-thru? Drive-thru

30. who’s the last person you talked to? My mom

31. favourite cut of beef? Filet mignon. I don’t eat meat very often, but when I do it’s a treat.

32. last song you listened to? My Old Man by Joni Mitchell (I just put my Blue record on)

33. last book you read? Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid

34. favourite day of the week? Well they all kind of melt together now that I’m not working, but I’m fond of Wednesdays for some arbitrary reason

35. can you say the alphabet backwards? I have a single tired brain cell

36. how do you like your coffee? I like cold brew with a little bit of cream and vanilla

37. favourite pair of shoes? My ankle boots. They’re comfy.

38. at what time do you normally go to bed? Lately I’ve been going to bed around 2 in the morning

39. at what time do you normally get up? Around 7 or 8, but when I was working I was usually up by 3.

40. what do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets? Sunrises

41. how many blankets are on your bed? Two

42. describe your kitchen plates? Deep red

43. do you have a favourite alcoholic beverage? Wine! I love a cheap semi-sweet, doesn’t matter if it’s red or white

44. do you play cards? I love card games! I used to play cards all the time with my friends in high school, but I haven’t had anyone to play card games with lately.

45. what colour is your car? I don’t have a car or a license.

46. can you change a tire? Yup. I grew up in a family of truck drivers and mechanics.

47. what is your favourite state/province? I absolutely love Tennessee and I miss living there. As soon as I can, I’m moving back.

48. favourite job you’ve ever had? I worked at a country club in high school and for a while I was an assistant to the event planner. I also liked working at the pizza place my friend’s parents owned.

49. how did you get your biggest scar? A nail was sticking out of someting that was on the ground and it cut a giant L-shape on the top of my foot

50. what did you do today that made someone else happy? I’m not sure

[guccifloralsuits]

ON THIS PRIDE MONTH PLEASE URGE YOUR SENATOR TO PASS THE EQUALITY ACT

If passed, the Equality Act would ban discrimination on the basis of sexuality. The immediate implication: lgbtq+ people could not be denied service on the basis of who they love. 

You can read the full text of the Equality Act Here. 

Alexander, Lamar - (R - TN): (202) 224-4944 Baldwin, Tammy - (D - WI):  (202) 224-5653 Barrasso, John - (R - WY):  (202) 224-6441 Bennet, Michael F. - (D - CO):  (202) 224-5852 Blackburn, Marsha - (R - TN):  (202) 224-3344 Blumenthal, Richard - (D - CT): (202) 224-2823 Blunt, Roy - (R - MO):  (202) 224-5721 Booker, Cory A. - (D - NJ):  (202) 224-3224 Boozman, John - (R - AR):  (202) 224-4843 Braun, Mike - (R - IN):  (202) 224-4814 Brown, Sherrod - (D - OH):  (202) 224-2315 Burr, Richard - (R - NC):  (202) 224-3154  Cantwell, Maria - (D - WA):  (202) 224-3441 Capito, Shelley Moore - (R - WV):  (202) 224-6472 Cardin, Benjamin L. - (D - MD):  (202) 224-4524 Carper, Thomas R. - (D - DE):  (202) 224-2441 Casey, Robert P., Jr. - (D - PA):  (202) 224-6324 Cassidy, Bill - (R - LA):  (202) 224-5824  Collins, Susan M. - (R - ME):  (202) 224-2523 Coons, Christopher A. - (D - DE): (202) 224-5042 Cornyn, John - (R - TX): (202) 224-2934 Cortez Masto, Catherine - (D - NV):  (202) 224-3542 Cotton, Tom - (R - AR):  (202) 224-2353 Cramer, Kevin - (R - ND):  (202) 224-2043 Crapo, Mike - (R - ID):  (202) 224-6142 Cruz, Ted - (R - TX):  (202) 224-5922 Daines, Steve - (R - MT):  (202) 224-2651 Duckworth, Tammy - (D - IL):  (202) 224-2854 Durbin, Richard J. - (D - IL):  (202) 224-2152 Enzi, Michael B. - (R - WY):  (202) 224-3424 Ernst, Joni - (R - IA):  (202) 224-3254 Feinstein, Dianne - (D - CA):  (202) 224-3841 Fischer, Deb - (R - NE):  (202) 224-6551 Gardner, Cory - (R - CO):  (202) 224-5941 Gillibrand, Kirsten E. - (D - NY):  (202) 224-4451 Graham, Lindsey - (R - SC):  (202) 224-5972 Grassley, Chuck - (R - IA):  (202) 224-3744 Harris, Kamala D. - (D - CA):  (202) 224-3553 Hassan, Margaret Wood - (D - NH): (202) 224-3324 Hawley, Josh - (R - MO):  (202) 224-6154 Heinrich, Martin - (D - NM):  (202) 224-5521  Hirono, Mazie K. - (D - HI):  (202) 224-6361  Hoeven, John - (R - ND):  (202) 224-2551 Hyde-Smith, Cindy - (R - MS):  (202) 224-5054 Inhofe, James M. - (R - OK):  (202) 224-4721  Isakson, Johnny - (R - GA):  (202) 224-3643  Johnson, Ron - (R - WI):   (202) 224-5323 Jones, Doug - (D - AL):  (202) 224-4124  Kaine, Tim - (D - VA):  (202) 224-4024  Kennedy, John - (R - LA):  (202) 224-4623 King, Angus S., Jr. - (I - ME):  (202) 224-5344 Klobuchar, Amy - (D - MN):  (202) 224-3244 Lankford, James - (R - OK):  (202) 224-5754 Leahy, Patrick J. - (D - VT):  (202) 224-4242 Lee, Mike - (R - UT):  (202) 224-5444 Manchin, Joe, III - (D - WV):  (202) 224-3954 Markey, Edward J. - (D - MA):  (202) 224-2742 McConnell, Mitch - (R - KY):  (202) 224-2541 McSally, Martha - (R - AZ):  202-224-2235 Menendez, Robert - (D - NJ):  (202) 224-4744  Merkley, Jeff - (D - OR):  (202) 224-3753 Moran, Jerry - (R - KS):  (202) 224-6521  Murkowski, Lisa - (R - AK):  (202) 224-6665  Murphy, Christopher - (D - CT):  (202) 224-4041  Murray, Patty - (D - WA):  (202) 224-2621  Paul, Rand - (R - KY):  (202) 224-4343 Perdue, David - (R - GA):  (202) 224-3521  Peters, Gary C. - (D - MI):  (202) 224-6221 Portman, Rob - (R - OH):  (202) 224-3353 Reed, Jack - (D - RI):  (202) 224-4642 Risch, James E. - (R - ID):  (202) 224-2752 Roberts, Pat - (R - KS):  (202) 224-4774 Romney, Mitt - (R - UT):  (202) 224-5251 Rosen, Jacky - (D - NV):  (202) 224-6244 Rounds, Mike - (R - SD):  (202) 224-5842 Rubio, Marco - (R - FL):  (202) 224-3041  Sanders, Bernard - (I - VT):  (202) 224-5141  Sasse, Ben - (R - NE):  (202) 224-4224  Schatz, Brian - (D - HI):  (202) 224-3934  Schumer, Charles E. - (D - NY):  (202) 224-6542  Scott, Rick - (R - FL):  (202) 224-5274 Scott, Tim - (R - SC):  (202) 224-6121 Shaheen, Jeanne - (D - NH):  (202) 224-2841 Shelby, Richard C. - (R - AL):  (202) 224-5744 Sinema, Kyrsten - (D - AZ):  (202) 224-4521 Smith, Tina - (D - MN):  (202) 224-5641 Stabenow, Debbie - (D - MI):  (202) 224-4822 Sullivan, Dan - (R - AK):  (202) 224-3004 Tester, Jon - (D - MT):  (202) 224-2644 Thune, John - (R - SD):  (202) 224-2321 Tillis, Thom - (R - NC):  (202) 224-6342 Toomey, Patrick J. - (R - PA):  (202) 224-4254 Udall, Tom - (D - NM):  (202) 224-6621 Van Hollen, Chris - (D - MD):  (202) 224-4654 Warner, Mark R. - (D - VA):  (202) 224-2023 Warren, Elizabeth - (D - MA):  (202) 224-4543 Whitehouse, Sheldon - (D - RI):  (202) 224-2921 Wicker, Roger F. - (R - MS):  (202) 224-6253  Wyden, Ron - (D - OR):  (202) 224-5244  Young, Todd - (R - IN):  (202) 224-5623

What to say: “Hi, my name is ______, my zip code is______. I am calling to urge Senator_____ to vote yes for H.R. 5, the Equality Act. Thank you.”

The opinions stated on this post are mine alone, and do not represent the office I work for.