#Sly & The Family Drone

[theimmaculatearchive]

See you there.

[narizentupidocartazes]

[2016] 29 de Abril | Sly & The Family Drone | Stef Ketteringham | Talkoot | DAMAS - Lisboa

Cartaz [Patrícia Guimarães]

[streetart-nightly]

AJA + PHANTOM CHIPS + LOULA YORKE + A’BEAR

Poison Idea + The Domestics + Rad Pitt + To The Nines

Sly & the Family Drone + Justice Yeldham + Buddy Lee Dickens + MU2

posters at Colchester Arts Centre, 2019

[bangaveragewhitewine]

soft slow, morning glow

Steve Harrington x Reader

A prosaic peek at Steve Harrington’s inability to sleep in and stay in bed and his reasons for changing his ways. 

October 1997; a cosy easy morning, where kisses are shared and ABBA songs are sung as a lullaby.

Word count: 4.3K

Content/Warnings: TW for talk of bleeding during pregnancy, borderline neglectful parents. 

Mention of sex (18+), not explicit. This contains dad!Steve & mom! reader toward the end; pregnant reader. Kinda rambling. Very soft. Low angst (but not none).

Note: Thank you to my ST rewatch for making me fall for Steve all over again. 

Proofread by @specialagentmonkey | Divider by @silkholland

Steve Harrington was always an early riser. 

As a honey-haired little boy, he spent Saturday mornings on the sofa watching cartoons with the volume dialled low as his parents slept. He knew not to make a mess with the cereal, or the milk, rewarded with a stack of pancakes or a new toy for keeping himself amused as Richard and Katherine Harrington slept off the previous evening’s dinner party hangover. 

Always the first awake at sleepovers, he would wait with bated breath for Tommy to stir or feign a sneeze to wake him. 

He never had to be dragged from bed to go to school during the week, always up and at ‘em to go see his friends, play tag and swap baseball cards on the playground. 

As a sporty and popular teenager, he started running when he didn’t have early swim practice or basketball. Steve rose with the sun and waved to his neighbours politely as his shiny sneakers slapped the pavements of Loch Nora. 

He was never sure what he was running from, or towards, but the burn of chilly morning air in his lungs made him feel alive. 

When he started going to house parties and hangouts on Saturday nights, his Sundays still started early, dragged to show face at his parent’s church. It was less about faith and god and all about appearances. He snuck out of bedroom windows, hopped white picket fences as the sun rose, fought hangovers as the priest’s voice droned and caught the eyes of pretty girls from the convent school a town over - they always blushed when he smiled at them or dropped them a sly little wink as the collection plate was passed around. 

When his parents started travelling more, after the shortlived re-commitment to the church, Steve’s Sunday morning hangovers were kept at bay with cold swims in the pool or hot coffee and loud music in the kitchen as he tried and failed to focus on homework.  

Steve started working right out of school as punishment for unsubmitted college applications and lower-than-predicted grades. He volunteered for the opening shifts in Scoops Ahoy and Family Video - he liked the responsibility and having a purpose, having an excuse to be out of the house before his parents could tutt and fuss and lecture him. It was easier when they weren’t there; when the office in Indy needed Richard’s attention more than his wife and son did, when Katherine spotted smears of lipstick on his collars again and insisted she spend some time with him in the city apartment. 

In their absence, the Harrington house was a mausoleum of failure that Steve couldn’t bear to be in. So he raised his hand for early delivery shifts and stock takes and drove his friends to school when he didn’t have to, already awake after another night of nightmares, memories of flying fists. 

Steve Harrington rose early and burned bright; burned out quickly when he realised he didn’t know what to do with himself or what his purpose was. 

He filled his time with making himself useful to other people, chasing and seeking a purpose or a person to fill the gaps and spaces in his chest; the hollows once reserved for the people who didn’t return the outpouring of love he offered so freely, so innocently. He found and made a rag-bag bunch of friends, a found family, who returned the love he deserved in the ways they knew how. Woven and knotted friendship bracelets, squished candy bars, mixtapes, weed sold and rolled at buddy rates or for nothing at all.

Steve Harrington moved to the city with his best friends; a Beemer and a battered van filled with boxes and suitcases. The early morning drive made Steve Harrington glow golden in the rising sun, his excited eyes hidden behind dark-tinted sunglasses as Robin Buckley snored in the passenger seat and Eddie Munson listened to metal at an ear-bleeding volume in his van and flipped Steve off with that big grin in the rearview mirror. They stopped for strong coffee and sweet pancakes and started a new chapter in the city. 

When you fell in love with Steve in 1990, he found a reason to stay in bed a little longer. A reason to slow down, soak up the sunshine glow you shone on him. 

You spent Saturday nights with friends, a patchwork group cheering on Corroded Coffin and selling T-shirts and tapes at a merch table when they scored a bigger venue and a bigger crowd. Movie nights and takeout Chinese food and a stack of new and old movies from Blockbuster. Date nights at swanky bars and restaurants, with flickering candles and pizza on the way home because you didn’t want the night to end yet. You spent hours in bed together, night and morning, talking about everything under the rising sun and dwindling moon, learning about each other’s life and mapping each other’s body with kisses and gentle touches. 

In the morning he gazed at your sleepy softness and took his own pulse to make sure he wasn’t dying. No heart attack, just falling in love.

He brought you cups of coffee and sweet pastries from the bakery a block away when his limbs felt restless. He always got back into bed with you to cuddle and while away the morning without a moment wasted. With Steve, those mornings were syrupy slow; he worshipped you between your thighs and held your hands as the headboard bashed against the wall.

You became Mrs. Steve Harrington in the spring of ‘94. 

A small wedding. A big party for your friends. A honeymoon week where every morning felt like a perfect lazy Saturday.

When Steve found his reason to stay in bed, together you created a reason that kept you from it. 

Bethany Rose Harrington. Born June 21st 1995. 

Beth had her Daddy’s eyes and her Mama’s nose, and the sweetest little dimples in her smiley pink cheeks. She was her Daddy’s little doughnut, her Mama’s little bee. She inherited Steve’s charm and wrapped her extensive collection of doting uncles and aunts right around her tiny finger. She took after you in the way that Steve was completely and utterly in love with her. 

Just like her Dad, Beth liked to start the day early. After a few weeks of seeking out and settling into a routine, Steve spent the earliest part of the day feeding his little Bethie her bottle of milk in the cosy armchair nestled in the corner of her pale yellow nursery. As he watched her big brown eyes gaze and blink, felt her tiny fist wrap around his finger, Steve decided that these were the happiest mornings of his life. 

On those soft and slow mornings, you could hear Steve’s low murmur to your little girl through the baby monitor when his excitement to see her gummy smile or stop her sad fat tears bypassed the off-switch. You fell back asleep to the sound of Steve telling Beth about how the Cubs and the Bulls (their teams now) were doing this season, or about the walk in the park you were going to go on once ‘beautiful mama’ was awake. He sang to her; never typical lullabies, Queen and ABBA and Dusty Springfield. 

Steve basked in the joy of her little smiles, soaked in the soft cooing noises as Beth found her voice to talk back to her Daddy. When she fell asleep again, milk-drunk with her cheek against his heartbeat, Steve watched the morning sky shift and brighten and listened out for the sound of your waking time. The soft thud and shuffle from bed to bathroom, running water, your yawn and stretch, the gentle steps to seek and find him and your little treasure. You filled reams of camera film, documenting Steve as a Dad, your little girl's first weeks and months. Lit by morning light, by afternoon sun and the shade of the tree in your yard, and dusky nighttime lit by nightlights.

When your laundry list of chores allowed it, you took one of your three options on those mornings of parenthood - take turns to bask in the warmth of lavender and milk-scented baby cuddles while the other showered; bring the sleeping beauty back to your bed to gaze at the ten fingers and ten toes you had created together; or leave the sleepy and full-tummied grub to sleep in her crib again to spend the slow dawn hours holding each other and trading kisses, and knotting yourselves up in the sheets together once the doctor gave you the all-clear and a prescription for birth control. 

You did plenty of all three. 

Summer turned to Autumn, then Winter, and Steve balanced being a father and husband with keeping a roof over your heads and the final year of his programme to get his qualification to become a guidance counsellor. His mornings with Beth were part of his routine, leaving her smiling and drooly for you when he kissed his girls goodbye. Missing him during full days of supervised sessions and hours in the college library when he wasn’t in classes bonded you and Beth, thick as thieves and lovestruck for the golden Harrington boy-turned-man. You made sure that he never missed a moment with how many pictures you took, and Beth saved all of her firsts for when he was home. You coached her to say ‘dada’ in Steve’s absence and he sobbed happy tears when she parroted it back. (He had been coaching her to say ‘mama’ during their early mornings together).

Your late nights of talking turned to early-to-bed nights, sleeping when the baby slept and when your little home was some semblance of clean and tidy. Steve fell asleep to the sound of Bethie’s breath on the monitor, your heart under his cheek and the soft stroke of your fingers in his hair, along the length of his arm. 

Both of you were exhausted. Neither of you had ever been happier. 

When he graduated in the Summer, you and Beth cheered and clapped for your golden boy along with his best friends - the loudest bunch in the college auditorium. A picture of the Harrington trio - Steve in his shirt and tie and graduation gown balancing a smiley baby and his degree as you kiss his cheek and tickle Beth’s tummy for the camera - was placed with pride on his desk when he started a counsellor job that landed in his lap in the late summer of ‘96. He coached basketball two afternoons a week on the side; it was perfect for him.

You go back to work part-time and you balance taking care of Beth and each other with the utmost care. With help from your family and Steve’s trust fund from the Harrington’s, you make it work. You are what he holds dear, pride of place in the centre of his chest, once vacant and hollow. The gaping space he yearned to fill with the wrong friends, the wrong girls, watery beer and too many cigarettes. 

By the Fall of ‘97, Steve had learned to sleep again. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Enjoy your days off. Enjoy every moment. He is. He’s so tired but never happier. 

This morning, you wake first. 

Your little house in the Chicago suburbs is bathed in autumn darkness on a lazy Saturday.  Six a.m. and Steve snores peacefully. 

Beth is silent, dreaming of her two favourite things: fairies and pancakes. That top five list favourites is rounded out by her Daddy and Mama and Mrs. Murphy’s orange cat that visits the backyard. 

The littlest Harrington is an early bird too, twirling in your tummy beneath Steve’s protective hand. Until Steve can take the morning shift, you are the early riser.

Beth is your sleepy little dreamer, she loves her bed like her Mama. She sneaks in between you and Steve (and the bump now too) when she wakes too early; you spend those mornings gazing and counting fingers and toes again like when she was a tiny thing. 

This baby however seems to take after her father’s love of sport, the way she practices the aim and strength of her kicks on your bladder. You don’t officially know yet (they were less than cooperative at the last ultrasound), but you know it’s a girl. Steve swayed to boy for a day or two before realising you were right. Maybe next time… 

The flush and sigh-groan from your aching back pulls Steve from sleep. When you pad back in from the little bathroom, he’s just about upright and wild-haired. 

“Y’okay?” Eyes swollen with sleep, he reaches blindly for you to help you back into the cosy nest of blankets. 

“Mm, needed to pee.” 

You try to keep your cold feet away but Steve sandwiches them between his own size fourteen and always warm feet. His lips brush your shoulder and the back of your neck when you settle into a comfortable position; Bump dictates what will suffice as ‘comfortable’ and settles under her father’s comforting hand. Harrington’s magic touch is famed in your home; settling gassy babies and working out knotted shoulders, fixing leaky faucets and carrying all of the groceries inside in two heavy handfuls, making shadow-puppet shows on the bedroom wall and holding back your hair when you’re not well. 

Slowly, small-spooned by Steve’s bigger body, you drift again. Sleep comes and goes like an inconsistent tide, and you are anchored safely in his arms. Baby names ebb and flow into your tired head and you wish Steve was awake to tell you what he thought of ‘Heather’ or ‘Ava’. Whether your (very slow) re-read of Little Women was influencing you too much to ‘Josie’. You wonder about how much candy you should get for the trick-or-treaters, and whether Beth will be too scared to help you answer the door to them this year. 

You wish he was awake - because you always wish your every waking moment was spent with Steve Harrington - but you’re so glad he is sleeping soundly, snoring sweetly behind you. You wish you could take more responsibility, take the pressure he puts on his own shoulders from him, but this pregnancy is less easy than the first and you hate that you can’t do it all anymore. You take solace in the fact that Steve is asleep, not awake worrying or nesting. 

Turning in his sleepy hold, you place his hand back on the bump to keep the littlest Harrington settled and content, and watch your handsome husband look like the teenager you wish you had known. You map the laughter lines instead of the ones etched by worry, counting the happy memories (which are insurmountable) as you fall back to sleep with him at last. 

Sleeping Beauty herself slumbers on until almost 8 a.m., meaning that both you and Steve sleep until almost 8 a.m. too - later on you will toast coffee (decaf for you) over that parent win. For the next few months, the weekends mean Steve will be hitting snooze on his body clock when the chances arise. 

This morning Beth’s little voice sings his name down the hall. Steve wakes with a smile and kisses your sleepy face as you stretch and peel your eyes open. 

“You’re up, Coach.” Your voice is a tired yawn, mumbled into the fluffy duvet Steve untangles himself from.

“Bring her in for cuddles please.” You pout for a tired kiss and hum happily when he grants your wish. 

Steve’s ankles crack as he walks from your room to Beth’s. She’s wide awake and wild-haired, matching her Dad, and she sits up in her bed with her bunny-teddy clutched in her fist. 

“Hi bumblebee,” he gasps, his tiredness swept away by his genuine joy to see her. Steve lays down on her too-small-for-him baby bed and pretends to get comfy to sleep again. “Sleepover?” he asks, opening his arm for her. 

“Nooooo, yo’bed!” Her sweet voice crackles with sleepiness and the remnants of a cold she picked up as the seasons changed. 

In the warmth of your bed, you can hear the mini-eye-roll she’s giving her Dad as he plays up to her dramatics. Uncle Dustin has a lot to answer for. 

“Bethie,” you call from your nest, “I miss you.” 

Steve watches with barely restrained amusement as her face beams bright like sunshine before leaving him in the lurch to seek out Mama. “Hey! What about me?!” 

You can hear his grumbling as he hauls himself up from the tiny toddler bed but your focus is the bundle of sunshine that bounds her way to your room in her sky-blue jammies. Pushing messy hair from her face, she squeaks happily as you lift her before Steve can beat you to it. You didn’t want another moment apart from your girl and she burrows against your chest under the toasty-warm duvet. 

“Morning Betty Boop.” You press kisses to her smiling face and hear Steve stomp and flop back into the room and into the bed. 

“Is Daddy not invited to this love-in? Just for Mama and Beth?” he asks, scowling at your smushed-together faces. 

You cuddle Beth and stroke her back as the girl shifts her impish gaze to Steve. “What do you think, Betty? Kisses for Dada?”

She can never ever resist him and reach-grabs out to be gathered in his big strong arms for kisses and cuddles. 

Steve lights up, features relaxing from his feigned annoyance, as he gives and receives morning kisses. You are gathered up alongside the titch of a girl and with her help, you smother kisses all over Steve’s happy face. 

“Never ever not invited to the love-in, my love.” You kiss his shadowed jaw once and tuck yourself under his arm. 

“Kiss d’baby?” Beth’s messy head pops up and looks at you hopefully. 

“You wanna say good morning to Baby?” Steve asks, and she nods. “Mama?”

“I think she’s asleep, but I bet she’ll wake up when she hears Big Sis and Dada.” Beneath the pitched tent of the duvet, you lift Steve’s t-shirt and present the rounded bump for inclusion in the morning love-in.

Beth has been immensely eager to meet her baby since she took notice of your bump and realised the new baby was actually in there.

The little girl’s pillow-soft cheek rests against the curve as she hugs around your middle. “Moh’nin, baby.” Her little voice is still a little stuffed up, nasal. 

Your heart and tears swell as you watch her with Steve, who kisses the bump and murmurs hello. You’re at that point of pregnancy where you could cry when the wind changes and you cover your eyes so Beth won’t go out in sympathy-tears with you. 

Steve’s big hand squeezes your hand as he distracts Beth, who babbles in toddler talk to her sibling. His eyes are wide and worried as he looks up and sees the hitch of your chest. He’s had that worried look since you bled at ten weeks and the doctor put you on bed rest, just three weeks into actually knowing you were pregnant. Everything has settled bar your hormones and emotions; two perfect heartbeats, an active healthy baby, a happy but tired Mom. Steve is more scared now than he was with Beth but pretends to be brave for you.

You swipe at your hot tears, dry your hand in your t-shirt before reaching down to stroke through Steve’s thick hair. 

“M’okay.” You give him a watery smile. “She’s just… so sweet, Stevie.” 

Moving up to lie along your side, Steve wipes your cheek and presses a kiss to the trail of the tears left behind. “Sweetest. Sweet Bee. Feelin’ okay?” 

His hand stays on top of your bump and then passes over Bethany’s bedhead when she looks up curiously. 

Seeing that she is missing out, Beth decides she has had enough and wants to cuddle with you instead of the baby who won’t kick back hello. She wiggles up to lie on Steve’s chest, little fingers poking into the freckles and moles as he pulls the duvet back around you all like a cosy cocoon. 

“Feeling good. You okay?”

Steve has tucked away his worry again, but you still see the pinch in his brow - though the curious little fingers might be the reason for that. 

“Peachy.” He chases the poking fingers with a growling kiss, pulling a shrieking giggle from Beth. “Hello, can I help you? Why are we poking Daddy this morning, huh?” 

You giggle with Beth and kiss where her fingers had pressed, modelling the gentle sweetness you know she possesses in multitudes. “Poor Daddy. See, Betty? Gentle kissies.” A kiss is snuck onto his mouth for good measure. 

“Daddy,” Beth sing-songs, patting his cheek lovingly. 

“Bethie,” Steve sings back to her, echoing her melody. He accepts a wet baby-kiss as you curl close to them both.

You twirl a finger in the messy wave of her hair. “What will we do today? Do you want to get some library books? Or we could��� go to the park?” 

Steve pats her back gently. “Oh wow. All the possibilities, huh?” His lips press to Beth’s forehead as she cuddles up to him, her fingers distracted by the gold chain he wears around his neck. “Gentle, please.” He kisses her head again and looks at you. “We can do both… Go get a t-r-e-a-t?” 

You smile and nod, covering Steve’s hand on Beth’s small back. “I like t-r-e-a-ts. What do you want to do, big guy?” 

Steve’s fingers slot with yours. His lips brush your head as you share his pillow - the firm one to help with his neck pain. “Just be with you two. Could stay right here all day and I’d be the happiest guy.” 

You press your nose against his cheek and close your eyes; you’re both surrounded by your favourite people, it is utter bliss. 

“I love you.” Your voice is soft and tired against his stubbly jaw. 

“Love you. So much, babe.” 

Steve tilts his head so you can share a morning-breath-be-damned kiss. He wishes he had woke up sooner, before the wide-eyed toddler, so that he could have showered you with kisses, made out like teenagers (despite the baby bump between you). 

“No! Me!” The frustrated little whine makes you smile apologetically to each other, chancing one more peck before you both look to scowling Beth. 

“Sorry, Bee. Mama’s too delicious for me to resist.”

“Steve!” you tuck your face in his neck as you laugh, an affectionate headbutt. 

“What? The kid’s gotta know.”

The two-year-old smushes her face to her Dad’s chest, still too little to comprehend her Dad’s silly banter when she just wants to be the centre of both of your attention. You have a few months left to figure that out before the baby arrives, but it scares you that she might feel like she’s not the best thing that ever happened you (bar her Dad, of course). 

Your pout matches hers and you push back the stinging Mom Guilt Tears. She is only coaxed away with sweet little cheek-kisses from you as you hum-sing Take a Chance on Me (accompanied by Steve’s tapping fingers on her back ‘take a chance, take a chance, take a, take a chance-chance.)

The girl's smile splits her frustrated face, a quiet giggle as she is serenaded by her current favourite song (you have just got I Was Made For Lovin’ You out of your head after Steve had introduced her to KISS in the car). Her little arm hooks around your head as you whisper how much you love her, soft voice tickling her ear and cheek. 

Beth’s laughter coaxes a fluttering kick against your belly, which Steve feels against his side as you spoon against him. He wears the same wide-eyed joy on his face every time he has felt your babies kick. 

“Oo, she’s awake again. Finally joining the party.” You rest your hand against the side of your rounded belly and telepathically tell the tiny one how much you love them too, how you can’t wait to meet them but please stay in there until they’re fully cooked and ready. 

Steve’s free hand - the one not keeping Beth upright as she sits up on his torso - joins yours and echoes your telepathic communication to the littlest Harrington - I love you, I can’t wait to hold you, please stay safe in there and be nice to your Mom. 

His wide palm on your bump settles the fluttering before she aims her kick right against it Hi Dad! Okay, Dad!

You share a secret little smile with him and kiss his cheek as his eyes shimmer before rolling onto your achy back, feeling the satisfaction of the pop and crack as your spine relaxes against the mattress. Steve’s hand stays on your belly, and you hug his arm to your chest, as Beth sings her toddler-babble version of an ABBA mashup for you both from her throne. 

Steve’s face hurts from smiling as he listens to her, hears some semblance of the lyrics in Beth-speak. He doesn’t remember mornings like this with his parents, few and far between were the times he was even allowed to cuddle with them in bed on a weekend morning.

You glance at his face, watching shifting emotions come and go as he remembers, tries to forget and focuses on the memories being made right now in your cosy nest of a bed. You squeeze his arm and hold his hand on your belly - matching gold wedding rings clicking against each other as your fingers intertwine. 

Steve squeezes your hand, three pulses. There is simply nowhere he would rather be. 

[thebearer]

autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place |carmen berzatto x reader|

prompt: target, halloween, carmen, and you. or a short, fluffy work about halloween shopping with target bc why not? 'tis the season.

contains: fluff. that's it lol. mentions to past family memories and some insecure carmen, but honestly just fluff!

“Oh, look at this one!” You coo, snatching the tiny ghost figurine off the shelf.  

“Cute.” Carmen muttered, one hand on the obnoxiously red cart, the other on your lower back. “Put it in.” He nodded towards the cart that was slowly starting to fill up. 

The speakers droned out some dull pop song, your coffee and his melting away in the drink carriers on the cart. Carmen didn’t usually prefer Starbucks, much more of a fan of the local coffee spot a block over from The Bear. They knew his regular, made it for him as soon as he walked in. No fuss, no forced conversation- just the way he liked it. 

But you liked Starbucks, well, in the right circumstance. You liked going to Target, you liked having a coffee to sip on while you “browsed”. Browsed, Carmen had grinned when you told him that. 

“You don’t just go out and browse sometimes? Look at things? Window shop to make yourself feel happier?” You’d asked him earlier in the car, head tilting to the side. 

“No, baby. I, uh, I don’t.” Carmen looked over at you, his hand still holding yours in the center console. “But maybe you’re onto somethin’.” 

Carmen’s lack of decorations was deemed a crime in your eyes, which inspired the trip. Halloween trinkets filling the cart, the sly smile you’d give him when you’d slip another one in, just like you were doing now. 

“It’s my treat.” You’d remind him, with a little wink. Carmen let you think that. Like he’d ever let you pay. And miss out on a chance to spoil you? No way. 

“Where’re you gonna put all this?” Carmen hummed, watching you situate the tiny ghost next to the plastic cauldron and iridescent ornaments- something you saw on TikTok that you were going to attempt to DIY. “My place isn’t that big.” 

“I’ll find a place, don’t worry.” You hum, sliding back in beside him, swiping your cup out of the basket. “You’ve got a bathroom, and the kitchen, and the bedroom-” 

“-Bedroom?” Carmen grinned lightly, his hand snaking to your waist while his free hand pushed the cart. “You gonna put this creepy shit in there?” 

“It’s not creepy.” You huff at him. “It’s cute, festive. Makes the place feel more… homey.” 

Carmen decided then, he’d let you put a full fucking skeleton in his room if it made you feel that way. He’d get rid of all his shit, didn’t need it anyways, so you’d have room for all your holiday stuff. Carmen’s heart fluttered at the thought of what Christmas would look like. Would you put up a tree? He hoped you would. He’d go and chop one down if he had to. Where in Chicago he’d find a tree? He wasn’t sure, but he’d find one for you. If it made you as happy as this did. 

“Ok,” You pulled him out of his thoughts, stopping the cart lightly. You plucked the bright orange bag up. “Did you know these are my absolute weakness?” Pumpkin shaped Reese’s, in their bright orange and purple glory. 

“Yeah?” Carmen grinned. “This is it, huh?” 

“Yes, in any shape too. But I prefer the pumpkin.” You went to set it back, Carmen’s hand grabbing the bag lightly and putting it in the cart. 

“‘M more of a Christmas Tree fan.” Carmen shrugged. “You know Cicero- uh, Jimmy-” You nodded, slipping back into his side. “He, uh, he used to bring a bag of these to Christmas every year when I was little. He’d always have to hide ‘em, ya know? My dad… My dad didn’t want us havin’ all that sugar before dinner. Jimmy would come in where all the kids were, toss ‘em to me or Mikey or Richie when he started hangin’ around. Tell us not to get caught, and Merry Christmas, and hide the evidence. We’d eat them before goin’ to Mass, and he did it every year until I got in high school.” 

You smiled softly, hand sliding down his back. “That’s sweet.” You hum, squeezing his hip lovingly. “You should get him some for Christmas this year. Return the favor.” 

“Yeah,” Carmen scoffed lightly. “Yeah, I think he’d like that.” 

A silence fell between the two of you, chatter from the surrounding people, the scratchy-screech of the cart. Carmen’s heart hammered, mind racing. Why the fuck did you tell her that? Fuckin’ ruined the moment. Stupid, fuckin’ stupid. 

“Hey, uh,” Carmen’s hands shook lightly, fingers drumming on the red plastic over the cart. “I-I didn’t mean to… ‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to say all that, ya know? Ruin the-the… I just, I dunno, you said that and-and I-” 

“-What?” You asked softly, brows creasing lightly. “What are you talking about? Say what?” 

“The, uh, the thing with Jimmy. I-I didn’t mean to make it awkward-” 

“Why is it awkward?” You pressed, setting down the candle you were smelling. “I thought it was sweet.” 

“Yeah? I-I just… I dunno why I said it, I’m sorry.” Carmen rambled, a hand falling over his face, hoping you couldn’t see the blush growing over his face. 

“Don’t be sorry, Carm. There’s nothin’ to be sorry about.” You shook your head, waving him off. “It’s a sweet story. I like that you told me that.” 

“Yeah?” Carmen asked softly. 

You nodded, smiling at him. “You know I do, bear.” The nickname rolls off your tongue so effortlessly, calmly- Carmen’s sure he’s going to melt into the floor. 

“Here,” You twist the lid off the next candle. “This one has caramel. You like that, right?” 

Carmen wasn’t sure how you remembered that. He’d mentioned it once, in passing, that he liked whatever you were burning at your apartment when he was over. It was caramel and coffee, you’d remembered, because you showed up at his house with the same candle the next day. A love present, you’d called it, pressing a kiss to his cheek. You didn’t want anything in return, no strings, just buying him something because you wanted to; because he liked it. It was still a new concept to Carmen, how you could love him without wanting anything other than love in return. 

Carmen ducked down, the brim of his hat bumping your wrist lightly. “Yeah, I like that one.” He nods. “Smells like that other one.” 

“Yeah? Not too pumpkinny?” You tilt your head to the side. 

“No.” Carmen laughs, breathy and light. “I don’t smell any pumpkin. Is there pumpkin?” 

“Caramel Pumpkin Latte.” You tilt the label towards him. “They’re saying it’s in there.” Carmen hummed lightly. “You calling them a liar?” You giggle playfully.  

“No, but I am sayin’ there’s not pumpkin in there.” Carmen snorted lightly, putting the candle in the cart anyways. “Not real pumpkin, anyways.”

“Maybe if this chef thing doesn’t work out, you could be a candle critic.” You tease, falling into slow steps beside him. “Be a candle blogger or something.” 

“Candle blogger?” Carmen repeats with an amused smile. “That’s not real.”  

You look at him, eyes wide in excitement. “Oh, Berzatto, am I about to blow your mind.” 

“No? Really?” Carmen laughed. “You’re fuckin’ with me?” 

“No! It’s a real thing, Carmen.” You laugh, pulling out your phone. “There was this woman that, like, went viral because she was going insane about Bath and Body Works not having her candle or something.” You giggle, typing slowly in the search bar. 

“That’s fuckin’ insane.” Carmen rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah.” You smirk. “Think she might’ve started a trend.” 

“Well, can’t do that then.” Carmen shrugged, loading the items on the small platform at the self checkout. “Don’t wanna go up against her, baby. She’s intense.” 

“Yeah, good call.” You grin, pocketing your phone, opening the bags while he scanned the ghost. “Guess you’ll have to stick to cooking.” 

“Guess so.” Carmen muttered, putting the plush pumpkins in the bag, reaching for his wallet. 

“Eh! No!” You click your tongue, eyes flashing at him. “I told you I was buying it.” You put a hand over the card slot, glaring at Carmen with a frown. 

“C’mon,” Carmen shook his head lightly, pushing your hand away lightly. “You got a number you wanna put in?” He nodded towards the screen. 

You pouted, pausing for a moment. “Yes.” You mutter, typing in your number quickly, pivoting your body in front of the card machine. 

“You gonna move?” Carmen looked at you, already reaching around to put his card in. 

“No, I told you it was my treat.” You mutter, twisting with your phone in your hand. One look at the screen, and you were tapping your phone against the screen. The ding chimed, your smug smile spreading across your lips when the receipt printed. 

Carmen was stunned, card still in his hand. “What- How did you-” 

“Gotta be quicker than that, Berzatto.” You grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Carmen looked down at his card in his hand, shoving it back into his wallet. Maybe Sugar was right, maybe he did need to actually learn how to use his phone. He grabbed the bags from you, swatting your hand away while you pushed the basket back. 

“Shoulda let me pay.” Carmen grumbled, walking beside you out the sliding doors. It had started to get chilly, leaves tinging with warm color and the temperature beginning to drop. “Stuff’s for me anyways.” 

“Yeah, but I wanted you to get it.” You bump your hip playfully with his. “Besides, I told you it was my treat.” 

Carmen didn’t respond, unlocking the trunk and putting the bags in carefully, but the frown didn’t fade. Brows still furrowed and lips still in a hard line. 

“Hey,” You call, stopping him before he could close the trunk. “I told you I wanted to buy it for you.” 

“Yeah,” Carmen’s brows furrowed. “But you shouldn’t’ve-” 

“-Carm.” You groan lightly. “I wanted to pay, ok? You always get me stuff. Let me get this for you, ok?” You say lightly, arms snaking around his shoulders, looping behind his neck. “Let me spoil you, bear. Lemme be your sugar mama.” 

Carmen snorts, lips curling in a grin lightly. “Shut up.” He mutters, your lips closing over his in a sweet kiss. 

You pulled apart, blushed and swooned in a Target parking lot. “You gotta put the stuff up anyways.” You tease, hands sliding down his toned arms, over his color block jacket. 

“Yeah?” Carmen snorts lightly, pulling the trunk shut. “You’re not gonna help me?” 

“I’ll be directing.” You declare, pinching his butt lightly, grinning at how he jumped and flushed. Sliding into the passenger side, you lean across the console to Carmen. “I’ll make sure the ambiance is there.” 

Carmen nodded, starting the car, eyes bright when they met yours. “Light the candle?” 

“Yes.” You laugh. “And I’ll pick out a movie.” 

Carmen snorted lightly, his free hand moving behind your head rest while he backed out. It made your tummy flip with excitement. “Yeah? Casper?”  

You give him a feigned unimpressed look. “You know I’m more of a Hocus Pocus girl.” 

“Right, my bad.” Carmen laughed, hand gripping your thigh lightly, thumb rubbing patterns over the material of your leggings. Your heart skipped. “Fine. As long as you open those Reese’s.” 

“Deal.” You grin, kissing his forearm gently. 

Hours later, wrappers piled on the coffee table, the candle burning in the kitchen, and the orange lights glowing from where Carmen string them over the TV stand in the living room. One Jack-O-Lantern fleece blanket thrown over both of your legs, your head on Carmen’s while the beginning credits of Beetlejuice played on the TV. Carmen decided right there that you were right. This was more homey. Felt… right and content. He wasn’t so sure it was the decorations, more likely it was the girl who picked them out.

[moonsaver]

You've had the unfortunate privilege of being on the recieving end of Sunday's influence.

He's no ordinary man, at least by status. Penacony, although now a huge tourism spot, had it's plethora of secrets, and The Family seeks to keep it as just that. With secrets comes trouble, and with trouble comes opportunity. Sunday is a man who seizes it when he has the chance.

And you suppose his nature has rubbed off on you. The moment a flicker of freedom sparked before you, you didn't hesitate to seize your opportunity, grabbing tightly, and running into it headfirst.

The fact you've made it this far surprises even you, as your legs ache from the sheer amount of distance you've had to cover on land, the splinters and cuts on your feet burning as you drag yourself as far away as you can, hop planet to plant if you must, to escape Sunday at all costs.

Of course.. you haven't been in the best physical condition ever since you decided freedom was worth it. Hair messy, fingers bruised, and your lips bloodied as you gnawed on them continuously from the sheer dread and fear. You've managed to make it on Belobog's icy cold planet that's only starting to warm up, and to your dismay, the snow only worsens just how bad your splinters and cuts hurt.

It's not long before you make it to the city. You go through a lengthy procedure and are finally taken in, provided for and hidden under wraps by your own request. You suppose the silver-haired girl didn't need much convincing from the long struggles your body seems to have endured.

However, word reaches fast.

Its also not long before there's representatives and ambassadors sent from different branches of the Families in Penacony, and a few unfamiliar names. Your ears stay close to the wall as you try to make out their words.

It seems Sunday has chosen to brand you as a dangerous, wanted criminal instead of his lover. But perhaps you'd prefer that?

And the countless visits put a strain on legal relations. The silver-haired girl has to let up with resignation, and informs you Belobog cannot house you. Not anymore.

However, even in your desperate, anxious state, you can clearly tell Sunday was desperate. It seems he's managed to rope the IPC into it aswell, given the talkative, sly blonde man who keeps droning on about how excited he is to help Sunday out as a favor. You get the impression he's not keen on really making friends, but rather debts.

As for Sunday.. he hasn't heard from you in a few weeks. It's been your longest time missing, evidently. He sighs grimly as he reviews reports, clearly fabricated. The last time you really were seen after the expedition of that retrieval group, was with none other than Aventurine.

That peacock just loves seizing his opportunity, doesn't he?

[dustedmagazine]

Workers Comp — S-T (Ever/Never)

Workers Comp raises a raucous, twanging ruckus on this self-titled debut, spitting home-spun poetry about dead-end jobs off the back end of a bucking blues-vamp. Disappointments are rife, the struggle is real, but it’s always music o’clock somewhere, and that’s something to celebrate.

A stripped-down trio, Workers Comp marshals the talents of Deadbeat Beat’s Joshua Gillis on guitar, Luke Reddick of Divorce Horse on bass and Ryan McKeever of Staffers on drums. Fair warning, however, the new band sounds not much at all like any of its three predecessors. Instead, it evokes the humorous wallop of the Strapping Field Hands, and the drunken rave-ups of Hootenany-era Replacements. This country viewed through a cracked mirror, amped up and agitated, but also extremely articulate.

The disc starts with its honkey-tonk-i-est track, the Cash-worshiping “When I’m Here,” which starts in profanity and an aborted count, and goes from there. Gills drawls in an uncertain croak, but the lines include some doozies (My favorite: “Labor day in Baltimore/that’s time and a half/planting flowers on a plot between a joke and a laugh/if irony were ecstasy we’d rave until we die, eating bubblegum for breakfast or McDonald’s apple pie.” ) Indeed, the combination of absolute commitment and sly subversion might remind you of Ryan Davis.

It’s a good first track, but also a bit of a head fake. The rest of the songs run more to rock than roadhouse, though of a rootsy, blues-fired, early 1960s variety. And, these dear reader, are the good ones. “Pick and Choose,” rolls like a semi-truck on a steep down-grade, driver frantically looking for an off-ramp. “High on the Job,” maybe the disc’s best cut, flares out of a box drum cadence, its blues riff jutting off towards the horizon, as the singer spouts poetry. “Tripping hard in the parking lot of a quick stop on the go/feeling like an open mic at a lip-sync funeral,” drones Gillis, and it make sense in a lurid, trance-y way.

Gillis sings most of the cuts, but Luke Reddick takes over vocals on “Peel Away” and “It’s Fine” have a noticeably different tone to them, less sardonic, more anthemic and with the singing coming from a different place in the mix. In addition, Anna McClelland stops by to sing “Never Have I Ever,” slipping a bit of sweetness into Workers Comp’s bleak, hyperverbal dystopias, and it makes you think about what a different band they’d be with her as the singer. Still furious, still clanging hard, still letting loose an ecstatic “Whooo!” at unpredictable intervals, but lots more pop.

The music is consistently excellent, rough-edged and full of heart, but brainy enough to catch you up short. I played “Gilt Rigs” for a member of the family and asked him if he heard any Dire Straits in the guitars. “It’s like Dire Straits played by the Fall,” he said, and if you want to know what that sounds like, get on Workers Comp.

Jennifer Kelly

[hearteyeshayley]

Ao3 is down so I decided to post a cut scene from an early draft of my latest Timkon 50k friends with benefits fic! In this version of the story, Tim thinks they’re fuck buddies and Kon thinks they’re already dating lmaooo enjoy! 

“Are you scared to tell your family?” Kon asked, lying on his stomach across the picnic blanket on the grass. He’d planned a late lunch for them on a secluded New York beach. It was a crappy beach, with a polluted ocean and grassy hills pressed right up against the sand which was mostly sharp pebbles. It had an endless blue sky and guaranteed privacy though, which was what Kon had been looking for. 

Tim poured himself a glass of wine. 

“I’m not scared. I’m preemptively annoyed, because none of them have any sense of boundaries.” 

Kon gave him a look.

“I can be annoyed and a hypocrite. My private life is none of their business. And my sexuality shouldn’t change anything, so why do I need to shout it from the rooftops?” 

Kon held out his empty glass and when Tim didn’t refill it, used his TTK to tilt the bottle. 

“I would’ve made a move way sooner if I knew you were gay.” 

Tim was too flattered to give him a proper eye roll.

“How much sooner?” 

Kon swirled the wine in his glass and pretended to think about it. 

“3, 4 years.” 

This time, Tim rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, right.” 

“I’m so serious,” he said, forcing a light-hearted tone that betrayed a touch of insecurity. That made Tim pause. Maybe he was serious. 

“What about you?” Kon asked, sitting up, “I mean— when was it, for you?” 

“Well, when you kissed me, I figured, what the hell?” 

Kon crawled on top of him and Tim let him, setting his wine glass on the charcuterie board with a smirk. 

“Yeah, right,” Kon parroted back to him, pinning him to the blanket. “I bet it was the Costa Rica mission. I looked really sexy in that wet suit.” 

“I was pretty distracted by the robot sharks.” 

“No, I know what it was,” his eyes lit up, “After we fought Luthor and the drones, back when I still wore my leather jacket. I got pissed off at everybody, stole a motorcycle, and just drove off like a badass.”  

“I think I was probably upset. And worried about you.” 

“But you were a little into it,” he gave him sly look, “Because you have a thing for bad boys. Obviously.” 

“Oh, right. Because of my crush on Jaime.” 

Kon scooped him up and rolled to flip their positions, but kept him wrapped in his arms. Tim smiled down on him. 

“You’re full of shit. I’m the baddest boy you know.”   

“Remember when you baked a second batch of cookies because you felt bad you didn’t save one for Bart.” 

“Totally irrelevant.” 

“Remember when you— what are you doing?” 

Kon grinned. He floated three feet into the air, Tim lying on top of him. 

“Remember that time we had sky sex?” 

Tim raised his eyebrows, but he was smiling too. 

“No way. You’ll lose concentration and drop.” 

“You don’t think I can keep it up?” 

Tim reached down and unzipped Kon’s pants. He didn’t ask if Kon had done this before, because if he had, they all would’ve heard about it for weeks. It was exciting, getting to do something together for the first time. Even if it was something stupid that was probably going to end with something sprained. He sat up, balancing with his knees on Kon’s legs until he felt his TTK wrap him up securely in position. 

“I’ll do it as an exercise to improve your concentration.” 

“Ooh, yeah, baby. Tell me my mission objective.” 

Tim couldn’t tell him anything because he swallowed his dick into his mouth. To his credit, he managed to stay in the air until he came, and Tim didn’t sprain anything because Kon broke his fall. The wine glasses were collateral damage, but they still had half a bottle protected carefully in the picnic basket. 

They laid on the blanket face to face, with the smell of salt in the air and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. 

“Happy one month,” Kon joked. “You’re— I’ve been… um. It’s been cool.” 

Tim knew it’d been a month since this whole friends with benefits thing started, but he didn’t expect Kon to remember something like that. It was probably because they got together on the night of the Wendy premiere, a date he’d never forget. A part of Tim wondered if this spontaneous picnic was supposed to be a joke, or maybe just an excuse to hook up on the beach. Kon was really into beach sex. 

“You didn’t get me flowers?” Tim pretended to be disappointed. Kon went from zero to hundred, looking so panic stricken that Tim had to give up the joke of a real anniversary and laugh. 

Kon started laughing, too. 

“Just you wait. I’m gonna give you the most obnoxious, cheesy flowers ever.” 

Tim kept laughing, but suddenly the joke wasn’t funny. 

The problem was Kon didn’t do serious relationships. He hadn’t since Cassie. And he’d defended his casual sex lifestyle a million times, outlining the ways it was more fun, more convenient, and more practical in their line of work. 

He might’ve thought Tim was hot, but he thought a lot of people were hot. 

Tim had to ask him to be his boyfriend at just the right moment. Once he made himself an integral part of Kon’s schedule. After he’d convinced him that monogamy could be convenient, too. Once he was confident that he was the best sex of his life, and proved to him that he could be whatever he needed. And of course he’d need to do more research, figure out if Kon was seeing other people, or if Kon saw him as more than a friend who would fuck him. 

He couldn’t rush this. It was a mission that deserved his time and 100 percent effort, maybe the most important mission of his life. Maybe they could get married one day.  

Tim felt sick. They’d been fucking around for a month and he was thinking about marriage. It was so easy to delude himself, like now, watching Kon pack up the picnic he’d prepared for them. His hair, blowing in the wind, his ass in the air as he put the food back in the basket. It was so ordinary that it wrapped back around to being a scene from his wildest dreams. A paper napkin got caught in the wind and Kon flew after it. It was a tiny piece of litter, but that’s the kind of person he was. Of course he’d plan a perfect lunch like this for a friend. It was like the cookies for Bart. He went above and beyond for the people he loved. 

Tim clung to the scrap of hope that one day, Kon would love him in a different way. 

[gerogerigaogaigar]

Curtis Mayfield - Curtis

The sprawling funk/soul explorations of Curtis Mayfield display a masterful talent for bombastic arrangements and biting political commentary. The calls for unity are par for the course when it comes to 70s funk, but rather than the both sides-ism of Sly And The Family Stone, Mayfield would like to remind us that we're all gonna fucking die if we don't work together. As for the music, the lush horns, frenetic percussion, frequent harp parts, and aspects of psychedelia make for an incredibly unique album, especially for it's time.

The Byrds - Sweetheart Of The Rodeo

Gram Parsons wanted country rock to be a thing so bad. He was willing to completely overhaul half the personnel of his band and tank their careers just so he could have his country album. Sweetheart Of The Rodeo has been severely vindicated by history considering how big of a genre country rock wound up being in the 70s and all the conservatives who got mad that long haired hippies were ruining their music can suck it. The album consists almost entirely of covers including artists like The Louvin Brothers, Merle Haggard, and Woody Guthrie. It feels very authentic. Acoustic guitar, fiddle, pedal steel, and honky tonk piano abound as Parsons croons over some decidedly non hippie country songs. It's clear they're being a little cheeky when they do The Louvin Brothers' song The Christian Life after all.

Gang Of Four - Entertainment!

What's better than angular, funky, post punk? Angular, funk, Communist post punk obviously! Frustrations about commodity fetishism make up like half of this albums lyrical content. But beyond just the politics the music is also revolutionary. The jittery guitars are matched by punchy drums and staccato singing. It's disorienting, it's angry, it's hugely influential. Come join the proletariat dance party.

Velvet Underground - White Light/White Heat

This album is completely feral. Half the songs are about people dying horrifically and there's a seventeen minute jam describing an orgy. No joke for real content warning ⚠️ this album features a very stark and realistic portrayal of how trans people were treated back in the 60s. We have to talk about Lady Godiva's Operation. It's a song about a transgender woman dying in the operating table due to a botched lobotomy. It's brutal and has always been one of the only songs that really scares me. The song's attitude is intensely sympathetic to it's subject, the only hint of Lady Godiva's trans status is one line were a doctor misgenders her and the fact that she was going in for a lobotomy at all (by the 60s they were mainly reserved for gay men and trans women). The humanity of the character in the first half of the song versus the indifference of the doctors in the latter half is an incredibly succinct condemnation of how society treated queer people at the time. ⚠️ Ok content warning over y'all can open your eyes again. Putting the subject matter aside White Light/White Heat is musically unhinged. The guitars are so scrungy and fuzzed out that it can be hard to understand what's going on. Songs like Here She Comes Now and the title track are basically 50s rock and roll with the most fucked up guitars imaginable. The Gift, Lady Godiva's Operation, and Sister Ray are weird droning things with mostly spoken word lyrics. And the guitar solos on Sister Ray are beyond punk and more like noise rock or even just noise. This album is not for everyone, hell it might not be for anyone, but I really like it. I have a soft spot for weird anomalies.

Mary J. Blige - What's The 411?

I'm usually pretty harsh on lengthy 90s R&B fuck jams, but this album is really good at being that thing. 92 was probably the exact time for a funky Hip hop influenced R&B album to be really good by my standards specifically. The beats, produced by Puff Daddy, are very reminiscent of late 80s style hip hop and the vocals are spaced out, very echoey. They combine nicely to create an effect where the vocals encompass you while the beats hit you in the face. A lot of the songs structure are more focused on layering vocals to create a sound more similar to P-Funk than soul, it stops the longer tracks from being boring since they need the four to five minutes length to explore those layers.

Kacey Musgraves - The Golden Hour

Unbelievably boring. I don't care at all about this album. Did you know that Weird Al also has a song called Velvet Elvis? It's basically the exact same song but it's a joke and it came out in the 80s.

[agentsquirrelsgotrobots]

Quickshadow was a sly bitch.

Charlie knew of her from Heatwave, who once drunkenly confessed that he had an on and off again relationship with her and described how she had severe ptsd and how careful he had to be to keep her from having a flashback from any little noise or movement. He had gotten very descriptive, and with the help of some b grade nuke and some careful visual suggestions, Charlie was confident that he could kill two birds with one stone.

Err, well, stage a murder suicide by priming a slightly suicidal, ex special ops agent to mutilating her boyfriend's corpse and then killing herself.

(fanfic jazz's anything goes special ops, not just strike teams and data harvesting. This one's dark folks, the tags are the tags)

Let's just say it went better than Charlie had hoped.

He lured her to Griffin Rock by sending a very concerning comm from Heatwave's hacked comm link, making him sound like he was having a mental crisis.

Once the nuke was in her body and she saw Heatwave's artificially flickering eyes swinging from the warehouse rafters, she went ballistic, using her old, expired service medical kit as she tried to close the wound on Heatwave's graying body.

When she came off of the nuke enough to understand that Heatwave was already dead, she grabbed her service weapon, nuzzled Heatwave's cheek, and blew her own processor out.

As expected, her life signal going out lead to Jazz and Ratchet investigating, finding the two lovers in the warehouse and driving to the firehouse personally to deliver the news.

Of course, everyone played their part, the right people breaking down and staying stoic. Blades blubbered out the right information that Heatwave hadn't returned from what he had described to be errands.

The transcripts from the deceased comm links backed up his story, and the two were taken away to be prepared for a double funeral, which the whole Burns family showed up for.

It was a quiet affair, Optimus preaching in a droning cybex before blessing Heatwave's stone sarcophagus.

Quickshadow was an atheist, so Jazz set a stone tablet detailing Quickshadow's decorated military service before they were set inside a cave in a canyon in rural Nevada.

[eggoverlord]

It's been a bit. I mainly listen to music on my commutes to and from school, so I didn't listen to as much over the summer, but here is my list for summer, June through August

The Soul Children - The Soul Children - Soul

Remain in Light - Talking Heads (as preformed by a mostly cover band with the guitarist from talking heads I saw them live and they did really good also I have already listened to the original) - Post Punk

Animals - Pink Floyd (Covered by Colonial Claypool Flying Frog Brigade also already heard the original same story as previous one) - Prog Rock

Mouth to Mouth - Lipps Inc - Disco

PetroDragonic Apocalypse; or, Dawn of Eternal Night: An Annihilation of Planet Earth and the Beginning of Merciless Damnation - King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard - Doom-ish Prog Metal. Basically, King Gizzard metal, it's very much them and you can tell (in a good way obviously)

Apollo XXI - Steve Lacy - Alternative R&B

Star Booty - Bitch Magnet - Like early early math rock, punk or grunge sounding almost

Light Of Worlds - Kool & The Gang - Funk

My Sound (1993-2004) - Dillininja - Jungle

G I R L - Pharrell Williams - R&B&Pop

The Origin Of My Depression - Uboa - Experimental Stuff I don't even know

Fresh - Sly & The Family Stone - Funk

Incunabula - Autechre - IDM

Phocus - VHS Head - Music made from VHS tapes (weird electronic shit)

Zen, or the Means Without Ends - Heaven Pierce Her - Yeah, this guy listens to Swans, how could you tell? But fr good music a lot of droning with some chill guitar

Isolation - Kali Uchis - R&B

To Smithereens - Gay Beast - Very Noisy Math Rock

Songs EP (Live In Chicago) - Piglet - Math Rock

Ascenseur pour l'échafaud - Miles Davis - Modal Jazz

Vespertine - Björk - Experimental Pop

The Beggar - Swans - Experimental Rock

Songs For The Terrestrially Challenged - Speaking Canaries - Math Rock

Grievances and Dead Malls - Nero's Day At Disneyland - Experimental Breakcore Shit

From Rotting Fantasylands - Nero's Day At Disneyland - Experimental Breakcore once more

Dream of an Endless Ocean - David Szymanski - Experimental Electronic with a lot of Classical Elements

Don Caballero 2 - Don Caballero - I've already listened to it also math rock

10,000 gecs - 1000 gecs - If you havent listen to the album you wont believe me but. Hyperpop with a shocking amount of nu metal of all things. It goes hard though. Also ska sometimes

Locked Into Phantasy - Laura Bousfield - Experimental Breakcore stuff

When The Pawn - Fiona Apple - Some Kind of Pop and/or Alternative

Songs From The Big Chair - Tears For Fears - Pop of the very 80s variety

Attention Shoppers - Nero's Day At Disneyland - Experimental Breakcore

It Was Written - Nas - Gangsta Rap

A Go Go - John Scofield - Instrumental Funk

Surrender - The Chemical Brothers - Dance (which is one of the least creative genre names)

Ashes of the Wake - Lamb of God - Groove Metal

My War - Black Flag - Hardcore Punk with a bit of Mathy stuff

Anthology - Colour - Midwest Emo

The Blues - BB King - Blues

Celebrity Skin - Hole - Grunge

Something Else (Rudy Van Gelder Edition) - Cannonball Adderley - Hard Bop

Songs In The Key Of Life - Stevie Wonder - RnB

100 One Says - 100 Onces - Mathy Rocky

Superunknown - Soundgarden - Grunge

"Bird" Symbols - Charlie Parker - Bop

Clifford Brown and Max Roach - Clifford Brown and Max Roach Quintet - Bop

Light as a Feather - Chick Corea and Return Forever - Jazz Fusion (re-listening)

Quebec - Ween - Experimental Psych Rock

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | London Has Fallen (Najafi, 2016)

Despite being released a few months before the 2016 election, this feels like it could be a key cinematic text of the Trump era, in that it essentially has the same politics of films that defined the Bush and Reagan eras, but is substantially lower rent and less glamorous. As this movie argues, when it comes down to it, all of America's allies are entirely useless in a crisis situation, and only when America takes matters into its own hands (personified in a key moment by the President himself picking up a gun to off a terrorist, which is immediately met with a quip about coming out of the closet) can it defeat the legions of swarthy foreigners who hate it for its freedoms.

At one point the hero, secret service agent and presidential bodyguard played by Gerard Butler says that from hereon out, they must assume that everybody they run into is an "asshole terrorist", at which point the movie graduates from eyeing every brown extra suspiciously to gleefully gunning them down. There's no covering of the ass with a guy from said demographic in the control room. Torture in American movies has become depressingly commonplace, to the point that the Rambo series, whose hero suffered PTSD from being tortured during the Vietnam War, and which previously only featured torture to highlight its villains' sadism, has in its fifth installment turned around on the subject to the point that the hero wholeheartedly employs it without remorse. But there is a certain boldness in this movie's depiction of torture, which the hero repeatedly employs but admits serves no real tactical purpose. After he twists his knife into an opponent for an agonizing length of time (or maybe he was choking him out, apologies if I got my torture scenes confused), the President asks him, "Was that really necessary?" To which he responds, without missing a beat, "No." All of this is punctuated by endless speechifying by the hero about the greatness of the American empire as he brutally kills any number of terrorists. "You know what you assholes don't get? We're not a fucking building! We're not a fucking flag! We're not just one man! Assholes like you have been trying to kill us for a long fucking time. But you know what? A thousand years from now, we'll still fucking be here!"

The fact that the movie offers no apology or no bet hedging with its politics is interesting to reconcile with the fact that the director, Babak Najafi, was born in Iran and whose family was separated and fled to Sweden as a result of the Iran-Iraq War. If one wanted to, they could read this movie as a sly satire of this kind of action movie, and certain choices, like when the movie dissolves from the dust cloud in the aftermath of a drone strike to the flags on the presidential motorcade, can support that reading. But I do think we need to be wary of reducing artists down to biographical or demographic details, which can carry its own kind of condescension, especially when we don't have much else to go off in the way of their work. It's perfectly possible that Najafi took this on as a journeyman, or sympathizes with the views expressed by the movie.

I mentioned earlier how low rent this feels. Rambo: First Blood Part II and Bad Boys 2 looked like they had sizable budgets. The Delta Force, whose brand of racism this likely takes most after, benefited immensely from location shooting (and let its villain be an actual character rendered with an actual performance by the great Robert Forster, who has about a minute of screentime here). This depicts London with a number of totally unconvincing establishing shots and otherwise keeps the lighting dim and the settings nondescript to hide the fact that it was shot in Bulgaria. And while a budget of $60 million these days only gets you so far, the big special effects sequences here look like something out of an Asylum movie. (What should be cool enough helicopter shit to save this movie ends up being irreparably lame as a result.) But at the same time, there are stretches of strong B-movie craft, like the shot that trails the smoke grenade, or the digitally enhanced long take, which understands that the power of such sequences is less about feigned technical virtuosity than in navigating the geography from the hero's perspective and building forward momentum. And it does spend its approximately hour and a half runtime letting its hero brutally kills bad guys at a steady pace.

So if I had to summarize this movie, it's like a sloppily wrapped, extremely greasy cheeseburger that makes you feel like you're inching closer to the grave but also kinda, sorta hits the spot, served by a racist McDonald's employee who's making everybody uncomfortable by not shutting the fuck up about their awful views.

[burlveneer-music]

MultiTraction Orchestra - Reactor One

Reactor One is the debut album from MultiTraction Orchestra, a networked ensemble with a fluid line-up of experimental musicians brought together by composer/guitarist/producer Alex Roth and including members of GoGo Penguin, Supersilent, Melt Yourself Down, Crash Ensemble, Sly & The Family Drone, and Hen Ogledd. The Orchestra was formed as a creative response to the first coronavirus lockdown, and debut single "emerge entangled" was constructed from improvisations recorded remotely by 27 musicians from 15 cities in 8 different countries. The 10-minute track was released to widespread critical acclaim in May 2020, hailed by Jazzwise as "powerful, immersive and intense" and featuring on radio stations around the world. Now, two years in the making, Reactor One brings together a dream team of internationally renowned improvisers, each of whom created their own parts in response to atmospheric guitar pieces Roth shared as musical prompts. From hours of material, the Orchestra's founder produced six tracks that span a range of soundworlds, from plangent trumpet melodies and ambient string textures to heavy synth drones and saturated beats. As with "emerge entangled", the album title borrows from particle physics. Where the earlier single nodded to what Einstein called "spooky action at a distance", Reactor One suggests an imaginary site where energy is produced through a process of experimentation and fusion under extreme conditions. What better metaphor for an album forged during a global pandemic, with an energy crisis unfolding and intensifying climate change underpinning it all?

Arve Henriksen – trumpet, piccolo trumpet James Allsopp – bass clarinet, tenor saxophone Kate Ellis – cello Rhodri Davies – electric harp Ruth Goller – electric bass Jon Scott – drums Alex Roth – electric guitar, synths (Click the individual tracks to view the specific line-up on each one.)

[stabobsessed]

A Disintegrating Family… A Flashback.

A Flashback to Summer of ‘09.

Age: 15

Location: Miami, Florida.

He won't shut up. Why won't he just shut up? He keeps droning on and on about the damned medical books he's written, how he's this savior of humanity, curing cancer, and walking on water, no doubt. I despise him. He's never been there for me, never cared about me. It's always been about himself, Nellie, Tonya, and whatever that other woman's name is – but honestly, it doesn't matter. None of this does.

"Uh, yeah, cool. I gotta go, dad. I've got something I gotta—"

Before I can finish my sentence, he's already barging in with another self-aggrandizing story about how exceptional his work is. What a conceited prick. I'm not enduring this any longer. I leave, right in the middle of his sentence, and, of course, I run into my mom as I'm making my exit. Was she eavesdropping? Of course, she was. I know because she doesn't waste a second before interrogating me about who dad was with and whether he mentioned her name. I guess mom can smell the perfume too, but I can smell the cologne on her, and it's not one I'm familiar with. What a fucking whore. I refuse to engage further. I shove past her and descend the stairs, leaving her abandoned outside her good-for-nothing husband's office.

Damn them both.

I discover a moment of peace on the front steps of this three-story mansion that I currently call home. I can't wait to get out of here, to leave this all behind. If it weren't for the weed, I would've lost my sanity by now.

That's when I spot her, Tiffany Marcus. A real tight-ass, raven-haired, and with a family nearly as loaded as mine. She's flashing a sly smile at me, our secret code for a rendezvous at her place since her parents are away. I don't waste a second. I'm on her doorstep before I even realize it.

[pohonbulandua]

apa yg saya dengarkan di jan 2024.

inspiral carpet, devil hoping (indie rock). Band fondasi britpop bermain tidak seperti roots aslinya, lebih rock!

deftones, white pony (nu metal). Jauh sebelum ada playlist mid-west emo x screamo menjamur di youtube, deftones dengan whitepony nya sudah merekamnya

nick cave and the bad seeds, the good son (blues rock, new wave). Bayangkan dracula atau hantu kastil memainkan musik di dalam chapel miliknya semalam suntuk

big noyd, episodes of a hustla (thug rap). Boombap’s 90s tak pernah salah untuk diputar ulang di dekade 2020-an

kilat, rantai penjinak (black metal). Black metal kultus bertema setan dan panyembahan nusantara tak pernah sekeren ini

liturgy, aesthethica (black metal, avant garde), Ketika godflesh dinyanyikan dengan vocal parau black metal, maka liturgy lah yang mampu merepresentasikannya

sly and the family stone, stand! (psychedelic, funk, soul). Seperti berada di tengah riuh ramai parade demonstrasi dan tuntutan warga keturunan africa

nine inch nails, bad witch (art rock, industrial, post rock). Kegelapan industrial dan macam genre yang berbaur menciptakan nuansa kegelapan yang mudah dimaknai tetapi sulit ditafsirkan

godstar, the brightest star (indie rock). Aku terpelanting ke irisan ruang antara era 60’s dan 90’s. Sesekali merasakan manis nya suara beach boys dsb - sesekali begitu noice seperti band indie rock era 90’s

all natural lemon and lime flavors, straight blue line (space rock, shoegaze). Ketika shoegaze ala mbv bercampur dgn post rock dan trip hop dimainkan di space ship yang meluncur menuju Planet Dagobah

star99, bitch unlimited (emo, alternative rock, indie rock). Album rilisan 2023 yang siap mengguncang romansa manis nya masa remaja era Y2K

the obsessed, the church within (doom, heavy metal). Abang-abangan band N.O.L.A. - Tak perlu evolusi, sebab album ini relevan di tiap zaman.

khanate, to be cruel (experimental, doom, drone). Segala kata ganti kegelapan tumpah ruah dalam satu gelombang dan menghujam telinga selama puluhan menit. penyiksaan yang setimpal

boris, amplifier worship (alt. rock, noise, doom, sludge). Paket komplit: Doom, Sludge, Stoner siap bergantian berdentum tak henti henti

cek playlistnya disini!

[yourownsmallgarden]

Sly & The Family Drone, Pando Pando, The Eurosuite (2023)

Sly & The Family Drone The Eurosuite Pando Pando The Victoria, London, 2023