A friend who was at the KiA Forum in L.A. Sunday night for the final show of Lord Huron’s Cosmic Selector tour sent me a photo of the end-of-tour cake rolled out at the after-party.
As you can see from these photos, cakes are kind of an LH thing.
Curious about whether it’s a widespread music-industry tradition, I turned to Google and got this “AI Overview’:
“The tradition of bands having a cake at the end of a tour is not a formal or widespread historical practice across the entire music industry. Instead, it is typically an informal, celebratory gesture used at the wrap party of a tour or the final show to mark the completion of a long, shared journey and to thank the crew and fellow musicians.”
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Summary: The party was fun, but neither needs to be seduced into admitting that the after-party is the best part.
Continuation of A New Year
Word Count: 1,458
Warnings/Info: Fluff; Sexy foreplay; Implied smut; Established relationship
Author Notes: The original post for the prompt ask from @justagirlinafandomworld can be found here. I made some minor grammar corrections. I also wanted to separate the parts into two posts to make it less cluttered. Otherwise, it's the same story.
Credits: A shout-out to @princessmisery666 for the review and support. Any mistakes are mine.
Photo Sources: (x, x)
The celebration was amazing! The decorations were extravagant, the food delicious and plentiful, and the alcohol flowed freely. The partygoers were raucous but fun. Though the band only played 40s-era music, Dean grudgingly admitted they were talented and helped create a decade-appropriate ambiance.
Seeing Dean truly relax and enjoy himself in the crowd-filled room brought tears to your eyes more than once during the evening. Without the burden of another impending world-ending event—the only threats being getting a drink spilled on you or someone stepping on your toes on the crowded dance floor—the two of you had been able to focus on the festivities and each other. You’d even managed to get him to dance with you a few times. The fireworks display was spectacular. Maybe not as spectacular as Dean’s midnight kiss, but still fabulous.Â
When you kick off your shoes in the elevator and refuse to put them back on, Dean gives you a piggyback ride to the Deluxe VIP Suite included in your package. Tears of laughter at the way he literally gallops down the hallway with the skirt of your dress billowing behind you make it a struggle to unlock the door, and he nearly drops you on your ass when he tries to help.Â
Once inside the room, Dean refuses to let you down, taking a tour of the large space, including the view from the balcony, before finally dropping you on top of the suite’s ornate bed. Still giggling, you watch as he double-checks the door locks and scans for potential threats—old habits still adjusting to the new minimal monster world order. Draping yourself across the crisp white bedding, you not-so-patiently wait for him to join you.
You promptly feel the shift in his mood as he removes his jacket, placing it neatly over the back of the chair near the bed. Looking up as he removes his cufflinks, he instructs, “Take it off. Show me what’s underneath.”
Crawling to the end of the bed, your pulse kicks as you stand. He’s had you on edge all evening, hands roaming flesh left bare of fabric, lingering looks, and whispered words of devotion and lust. He was so attentive that only one of the many individuals you noticed admiring him throughout the evening dared to approach him. When she had the audacity to plop down onto his lap, he immediately stood, unceremoniously dropped her onto the chair, then reached for you and walked away without a backward glance, but not before you got a few choice words in.
“You’ve been teasing me all night—that barely there dress, sexy scent, those red-stained lips putting that obnoxious blonde in her place. I have to say, it’s hot when you get all jealous like that. I wanted to drag you into the coat room and take you right there.”
“Me?! Teasing you?! You’re the one who’s been doing all the teasing! Those hands …with the touching, the dirty talk with that voice …that …,” you flail a hand in his direction, “that getup! I’ve been wet since you put those cufflinks on. And I wasn’t jealous,” you spout, “she was just out of line.”
Dropping the aforementioned accessories on the nightstand, Dean hums his disbelief as he rolls up his shirt sleeves, and you shift, rubbing your thighs together, remaining indignation transforming into arousal. Dean chuckles, knowing full well what he’s doing to you.
“Show me,” he calmly orders, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yes …Sir,” you consent, earning a twitch of his upper lip. Truthfully, you would have removed every article of clothing as soon as the door closed behind you, but earlier, you had agreed to follow his command when the two of you returned to the room.
The dress is a replica of one worn by Rita Hayworth, but your lingerie isn’t entirely historically accurate. You hope he enjoys it nonetheless. Unhooking the collar, you slip your arms from the jeweled straps and let the bodice fall, baring your chest, then reach behind you to unzip the skirt. Chiffon and lace slither down your body to form a halo at your feet, and you slowly twirl in place to give him the full view. When you meet his gaze again, the slight curl of Dean’s lips and the glint in his eyes let you know he approves of your choice.Â
“Back on the bed.” The demand is gruff, his tone smooth, warm, and dark with a little bite—like the finely aged bourbon at the party. It settles on your flesh and seeps into your pores, warming you from the inside.
Settling into the middle of the mattress, you turn to find him unbuttoning his vest. The vintage suit—frustratingly for you—holds as many layers as his hunting attire. However, Dean makes a show of undressing, his heated stare never once leaving yours, and the final display is well worth the price of time.
When his boxers hit the floor, he steps from the layers of fabric at his feet and reaches for your ankle, pulling you to him. For a brief, glorious moment, his hard length is mere inches from your face. Calloused fingers grip your chin as you lean forward, tilting your head back and holding you in place.
“Not yet.” He chuckles when you whimper. “You’re still wearing too many clothes.”
Dean places a gentle kiss on your lips, the tip of your nose, and then your forehead before straightening to ghost his fingers across your collarbone and down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Lightly cupping the side of your breast, his thumb caresses your nipple until it’s taut and your chest is heaving. “Deeean …,” you whine when he drops his hand.
With a hum, he drops to his knees between your legs, hands resting on the downy comforter on either side of your hips, no part of him touching you. “Patience,” he drawls. “Keep your hands on the bed.”
The intensity of his stare makes you gasp. Leaning back, you fist the bedding and spread your legs wider. His touch is feather-light, teasing as he traces the top edge of a stocking. Heat suffuses your veins, and nerve endings spark, making your skin prickle with desire.
“You’re stunning.” Releasing the clasp on the first strap, he drags his bottom lip through his teeth, watching as your breath hitches. “Thank you.” He grins, popping another clasp.
“F-for what?” The words are barely audible. Dean’s agonizingly slow movements and playful smirk have your fingers bunching the thick cotton in a death grip and your heart beating like the band’s bass drum.
“For planning all this, knowing what I need before I do,” another clasp is freed, “for the car … wearing that dress,” your stockings are liberated from the final clasp. Still, he pauses, looking at you with—well, there’s no other way to describe it—a sinful smolder, his voice intoxicatingly resonant, “for always being such a good girl for me.”
Your head falls back with a moan, your hips canting forward as your walls throb with need. A finger grazes the top of your thigh, slipping beneath the edge of lace and silk to stroke between your lips and circle your clit. Disintegrating onto the mattress, you keen, “Pleeeeeease …,” begging for more …for anything …for everything—the warmth and weight of his body caging you, hands gripping and manipulating you to his whim, teeth biting, lips sucking bruises into your flesh, his cock filling and splitting you open.
“Almost.”Â
The tightness in his tone has you smiling as you close your eyes. He’s on edge, too. It won’t be long before he gives you what you want. Tilting your hips as he drags your panties down, you release your fists, flexing your fingers to ease the joints, body jolting with a deep inhale when his breath fans your inner thighs as he removes a stocking. His touch is tender and tickles when he lifts your foot to release it from the silk.Â
Dean repeats the action with your other leg, but this time, he kisses the inside of each knee, then grasps your ankles and pulls them up to rest on his shoulder as he stands. You know he won’t let any harm come to you, yet you frantically grip the comforter with a shriek as your ass reaches the edge of the mattress. Eyes dark and intent, he releases his hold, and you wrap your legs around him as he leans in and orders, “Touch me.”
Sighing, you grip the nape of his neck in one hand, nails of the other gently scraping down his spine as he nibbles along your jawbone. Then he whispers …
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UMK's Nine Hour Party For 13,000 Fans.
ESC Insight's Ben Robertson was not just inside the Nokia Arena for the final of UMK, he was present for the pre-party and after-party that was open to everybody attending the show. All 13,000 of them.Â
The live show at Uuden Musiikin Kilpailu is more than just a live show. Everybody attending can enjoy the two hours inside the arena, three hours of pre-party, and four hours of after-party, all in the same venue.
Last year’s UMK was the first year for this concept, but it made sense last year. The Logomo complex in Turku had multiple rooms, stages, and spaces for cocktail bars and acoustic sets…
“Is this Martini too salty or did Gideon Rutherford cry into my drink?”
The disappointig look on the Rutherford’s face when she won Woman of the Year and the Most Successful was the best part of this useless fucking ceremony.
Delphine didn’t bother socialising much during the official part, but with the after-party kicking off, it was time to mingle with the London social scene. It’s not that she found this exhausting - she’d been trained in this her entire life - but the Frenchwoman was certainly hoping for some extra entertainment - preferrably, one of the Rutherfords embarassing themselves.
