#rolli shades

[rollishades]

Rollishades is a leading provider of custom motorized roller shades for homes and businesses. Our Rolli app enables easy remote control of automated shades, including motorized roller shades and other custom options.

[itsxcowboyrocksteady]

Please don't be mean to me about this 😅 It's a sincere request and I still love that everyone is having fun with all of this.

I mean no shade or nastiness towards the people who write these things or are into these things, and I'm not trying to be the fun police. Do you and have fun! But, like...

Can I get some tiefling fanfic that doesn't talk about their "sensitive horns" or how they "purr"?

The horns thing moreso. It takes me right out of it every time. Which sucks because there are so many awesome fics out there, that wind up doing this thing, and then my brain kind of checks out.

As a fanfic writer, myself, I get that fics are usually written primarily for the writer, and I totally appreciate that fact. And as such, I'd honestly just write it, myself (like I did for the lack of Dwight Fairfield {Dead by Daylight} stuff) instead of asking the community at large, but I'm so burnt out I haven't been able to work on anything on my current list, and I've been living off of the incredibly talented people writing for Rolan and Zevlor in particular. Seriously, you are all so wonderful and your work has been a bright spot for me right now during a majorly difficult time I've been going through ❤️

Although I read someone on a different site say that tiefling horns could be viewed like goat horns because devils and goats are so often associated with each other, their horns seem to be a lot more like ram horns. This is an important distinction because goat horns have important nerves inside of the horn, whereas rams don't.

If a goat breaks a horn, not only is it incredibly painful, but they can bleed out and die. Rams, not so much.

Tieflings are shown to not only have broken horns (i.e. Karlach) in both D&D and BG3, but filing the horns down is also an option tieflings can take... Which means that there aren't nerves inside of the horn. If there were, at best, something like that would be unimaginably painful. At worst, they could die from it. And considering tiefling children can straight up break off a horn and grow it back, it's even more highly unlikely that that's the case.

If there aren't nerves in the horn, they can't feel it if you stroke the horn, or graze it with your fingers, etc.

I know we all wanna write steamy sex scenes and such—and, again, because tone is so often lost in text, I don't mean this as something mean or eye-rolly—but not everything needs to be an erogenous zone. Besides, horns can still be grabbed and used as handlebars! That's super sexy!!!

As for the purring, or other Infernal traits that get written similarly, like I said, that's way less a thing for me. But they're not Tabaxi and were originally made from humans whose blood and bodies were altered by making deals with Asmodeus. It's why tieflings can only be born of two tieflings, a human and a tiefling, or two humans with infernal blood.

Again, if you're into this, or write this, I'm not trying to tell you to stop lmao. It's just that this is everywhere and I'd like some variety that takes these things into account 😅

[quietblueriver]

Because I couldn’t get this out of my mind, some Southern Gothic fluff. Very minor spoilers for last night’s ep but this is almost entirely just them being soft witches in love.

-

Her hair is a tangled mess. It has been since that shitshow with the dead Paragon’s Call fuckers, but she’s had other things to worry about—ghost pirates and FCG and parleys and, if she’s honest, her girlfriend’s tits, which had caused her brain to stop in its tracks at least half a dozen times since Laudna had declared that she was “bringing out the girls” to help their cause.

Now, though, after an hour-long game of rollies she escaped only because Fearne flirted her way into the bony lap of her opponent, she’s staring at the results of Laudna’s attempt at braiding.

Her reflection winces back at her as she tries to untangle what she can with her fingers, turning her head side to side to take stock of the damage. She’s gonna need a comb.

“Shit. Fuck. Fuck it.”

“Alright, darling?”

Imogen looks up from where she has been wrestling with a knot to find Laudna in the doorway, crooked, concerned smile on her face as she hefts a small stack of blankets that they must have managed to scrounge up between the ship and their stock in the hole. Her top is still arranged for ghostly seduction, and Imogen lets her eyes wander appreciatively. Again.

She finds suddenly that she could give a shit about the comb stuck in her hair and pulls it, and a chunk of purple she doesn’t let herself think too hard about out (she’s been bald for fuck’s sake; what’s a little hair loss for love?), tossing them onto the small barrel by the mirror.

Three steps and she’s taking the blankets and cupping Laudna’s sharp jaw, kissing her softly in greeting. Laudna’s little sigh, the small, surprised noise she makes almost every time they do this, makes Imogen’s stomach flip as it always does, and she leans into the kiss, deepens it and then pulls away, drawing a whine.

“Hey there.” She lifts the pile of blankets. “Looks like y’all found some.”

“Yes.” Laudna clears her throat, face that deeper shade of purple Imogen tries to bring out as often as she can, and Imogen smirks, smug as can be, until Laudna rolls her eyes at her. “Oh, hush.”

“Don’t know what you mean, Laud. I didn’t say a word.”

“Your face said plenty, thank you.”

Imogen grins and kisses her again before turning to toss the blankets onto the bed.

“Can’t say I’m sorry ‘bout it.” She turns back and lets her eyes trail purposefully down Laudna’s neck, stopping at her chest and staying there. “It’s been real hard to focus today. Nice knowin’ I can fluster you a little, too.”

Laudna laughs disbelievingly, and Imogen raises an eyebrow.

“You sayin’ you wouldn’t have trouble focusin’ if I…” She undoes a button and Laudna’s dark eyes focus in on her fingers. “What did you call it? Bring out the girls?”

Her eyes are still pinned to Imogen’s hands, and she undoes another button, because she likes it when Laudna looks at her like this, wants Laudna to look at her like this, and there’s no reason now to pretend she doesn’t.

She offers a gloating, teasing, “Laud?”

Black eyes snap up, and she smirks again when Laudna pouts at her even as she flushes that pretty color. “Yes, well. There’s a bit more there to admire, dear, isn’t there?”

She’s working on this. On Laudna moving beyond a blustering veneer of self-confidence and learning to see herself at least a little bit like Imogen sees her. It’s not exactly a hardship, letting Laudna know how beautiful she is. The chiding voice inside her head had already shifted over the months before the market in Jrusar, moving from “she’s your best friend, Imogen” to “don’t ruin this, Imogen” to “it’s not the time, Imogen.” (She doesn’t think about the days when the voice had been nothing but a raging, screaming thing. She’d answered its call. She’d gotten her back.) Now, the voice says only, “Show her.”

So she does. She’s back in Laudna’s space quickly, hands gentle but sure as they make a home on her waist, and she catches her eye seriously, holds it.

“No, baby, I don’t think there is.” When Laudna’s smile wobbles into place, the quirk of her lips small but genuine, Imogen flexes her fingers and presses her own lips to the skin of Laudna’s neck, letting her tongue tease skin as she says, “Wanna show you how much I admire you later, if you want.” She pulls back with a graze of her teeth, and Laudna brings her hands around Imogen’s shoulders and kisses her with purpose, mumbling, “Yes, please,” as she winds her hands up into Imogen’s hair.

It’s then that she remembers the state of it, hissing as Laudna’s fingers get caught in a tangle. They’re gone instantly, as is the heat of the moment, Laudna’s cool palms cupping her cheeks as she apologizes and checks for injury, eyes roaming over Imogen’s scalp.

“I’m sorry, darling. Are you…” Fingers move back to her hair then, gently exploring, and Laudna bites her lip. “Oh dear. It’s my fault.”

Imogen doesn’t shake her head, doesn’t want to dislodge the hand still on her cheek, but she says, dismissive, “Nah. Just a long day. Quick comb and I’ll be right as rain.”

The purse of her lips tells Imogen exactly what she thinks of that explanation.

“It really is no big deal.” She turns her head to kiss gray skin, the smallest tang of ichor on her lips as she licks them distractedly and fights the urge to go back for more.

“Can I…would you mind if I…” Gentle black nails trace the skin of her temple as she tucks a lock of hair, blessedly free of knots, behind her ear. “Would you like help brushing it out?” She adds hastily, before Imogen even has a chance to breathe out her obvious and immediate yes. “I understand if not. After all, it is my fault it’s like this in the first place.” Her mouth is pulled tight at the corners, eyes squinted in worry, and Imogen places a kiss at the corner of one, stretched onto her toes to reach.

“Thanks. That would be great.”

Laudna is, of course, gentler than Imogen would ever be with herself. She produces some herbs from somewhere, busying herself at the basin before she returns. They’re far enough away from the others that she doesn’t think much before she takes off the circlet, sitting it gently on the table near the bed and sighing into the sound of Laudna’s thoughts, the musical hum of them.

“I could work around it, darling.”

It’s nice, hearing you. If you don’t mind.

Laudna’s smile reaches across her face, delighted, and Imogen feels it, stomach flipping at the surge of affection. I love having you here. Stay as long as you’d like.

She kisses her then, chaste with the barrier of their smiles, before situating herself on the floor. As it turns out, it’s too fucking cold, so Imogen reclines, propped between Laudna’s knees on the bed, which is much better anyway. The angle is a little awkward but they mess around with a few pillows and blankets until it works, and then Laudna’s hands are in her hair, gently working whatever she made through tangles.

“Smells good.”

Laudna hums, pleased. “Rosemary.”

“Mmm.”

She gets lost for a bit, in the feel of Laudna’s fingers on her scalp, the rhythm of the brush, the lilt of her thoughts. She lets them wash over her, beautiful but fleeting, and avoids processing details as much as she can.

Laudna is so gentle with Imogen, whispered apologies with every knot, occasional internal rebukes loud enough to break through the general flow of her thoughts. Imogen soothes those as best she can, stopping the brush to plant a kiss on Laudna’s wrist, a none of that, darlin’ paired with the press of her lips. It seems to work, mostly, thoughts of gratitude that Imogen doesn’t deserve but doesn’t challenge for the moment replacing the self-criticism.

Imogen wonders, not for the first time, what Laudna’s life would’ve been like if she’d been given all the love she deserved right from the start. She thinks of a little girl who never learned to braid, lonely and strange and kinder than anyone deserved. Beautiful and familiar.

Imogen can’t help her, but she can love Laudna. She will love Laudna.

“You know,” she says, eyes closed and as casually as she can, “I could teach you how to braid. If you’re interested.”

The rhythm of the brush stops just for a moment before it continues, Laudna’s voice, small, answering, “I think I’d like that. Thank you.”

She reaches back for a hand, kisses knuckles and fingertips until Laudna is giggling and then she presses her mouth to palm, to deep purple veins on a fragile and perfect inner wrist.

“My pleasure, darlin’,” she says as she tilts her head back to catch deep black eyes. “I think you’ll look real pretty with a braid.”

Laudna blushes, catches Imogen’s fingers and brings them to her own mouth, drops a cool kiss to the back of her hand. Imogen closes her eyes again as Laudna resumes brushing and relaxes into the bed beneath her.

[sabbathbloodysabbeth]

Title: “big boy” (ftm steve harrington)

Summary: Steve Harrington has never asked someone out successfully, unless you count Nancy without them turning him down because he’s trans. Tonight during his last week at family video before it closes, a certain Eddie Munson asks him out and it goes a lot better then what he thought it would

Tags: #transsteve #suggestivejoking (rest down below)

Word count: 1502

Ships: Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson

Square and prompt: B1, trans steve

@steveharringtonbingo

Steve lazily keeps his head propped up on family videos counter as he stares up at the small tv currently plying a old Clint Eastwood movie. No matter what he did he always found himself staring at the screen and trying to take notes about how the character held himself. Shoulders back, chest out and standing as tall as possible. Chin raised up a bit as if the character was looking down at everyone. Steve knew who used to do that, thought it would be the only way he could convince everyone he was passing. Biting his lip he moves twirling a strand of hair around a finger before stopping when he catches his reflection in the mirror. He needed a haircut, and bad. The ends were starting to grow dead, and he felt like the feminine parts of his face was starting to pop out more. He scratches at his thigh, the itchiness from where he did his shot agitating his skin. He doesn’t think about it to long as he quickly straightens his back as he hears the bell of the door ring. Relaxing a little when he realizes it’s not one of the older women who liked commenting about everything.

The person, he recognizes as Eddie Munson. A boy that was a frequent visitor. Steve moves his head back onto his hand and starts watching the movie again. Waiting patiently for the other to come to him and check out. Knowing already that the movie was probably going to be some horribly produced horror movie from the eighties. He bounces his leg up and down anxiously as he waits and waits. Ten minutes of the movie passes before a tape is being placed on the counter. A awkward cough is made as Eddie Munson tightly smiles at Steve. Who smiles awkwardly in return as he flips the tape over. Scanning it and looking at the screen as a big red error sign pops up on the screen. Groaning he rolls his chair to get closer to the computer. Typing away before shaking his head, “it says you haven’t returned the last two movies you borrowed?” Steve asks raising a eyebrow looking at the other. Who shifts on his right foot before his left. Groaning after a pause and picking up the tape to go put the case back on the shelf.

Steve sighs waving his hand for the other to come to him. “We’re closing permanently in like a month, so I don’t really give a shit. You mind as well keep the other movies as well. Not like we aren’t going to do a big sale at the end of the month with them anyway.” He chuckles as he moves handing the tape to the other. Before leaning back in the Rollie chair and propping his shoes up on the counter. Trying to get back to the movie before he realizes the other was still standing in front of him. Wearing a denim vest over a band t shirt. If Steve looked closer he was sure that it was a Ozzy shirt. A small pin with different shades of blue like a flag almost, was currently on the right pocket of the denim vest. He’s about to ask whether or not the other had a staring problem or not before the others quickly moving up to the counter. Breathing a bit heavily, it was a tad creepy at how heavy the other was breathing.

“Doyoupossiblywanttogooutonadatewithme.” Eddie spits out. No pause for air as he stares at Steve through his bangs. Once again, wearing a equally outdated hair cut along with the denim vest. The guy looked like he wanted to live in the eighties. Who the hell wanted that was beyond the point. What was strange was that he was asking Steve of all people out. He thought it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t a real guy, and here - an obviously gay guy was asking him out. Gender euphoria fills him first, before dread comes second. Almost like a after thought. Steve tenses a little as he makes fists on his side. Growing anxious as he stutters a little, not a coherent word coming out. He understood what the other had said shockingly. He’s never been asked out before, it had always been him who done the asking. Each time he would have to clarify that he was trans so that the other wouldn’t break his heart later on when they realized he didn’t have a dick. Now, this felt as if he had to come out. Something he hadn’t mentally hyped himself up for.

He’s trying to figure out how to work his mouth for a second before he takes a deep breath. Face a bit pink, stomach doing flips and heart aching. “Well- that depends.” He says softly. Awkwardly crossing his arms over his chest, feeling the outline of his binder that had been digging into his sides since he got here. In a rush to get to work he had tossed it on immediately after shower, causing the material to stick to his skin more then what it should have been. That and a part of his brain believes that his chest has gotten bigger, when in reality his shoulders have gotten broader.

“Depends on what?” Eddie stumbles over his words. Staring at the other with hope and excitement. Moving as he sets the movie on the counter and leans forward a bit. The careful not to get in the others space, never breaking eye contact as he does. His eyes are soft, and welcoming which was convincing Steve that he could trust him. But he’s met the hugest Allie’s of the LGBTQ+ community who have changed completely when they find out he’s trans.

“Well, if you’re okay going out with a dude that literally doesn’t have balls… unless you count the ones on my chest.” Steve says bitterly. He wasn’t good at coming out, this was just proving to himself further that he didn’t know how to do this at all. He never stops looking at the other, wants to watch every reaction the other has. Doesn’t want to miss this, so he can teach himself a lesson. Remember the next time that someone asks him out, to just say no. What he doesn’t expect is Eddie to pull back with a relieved look. Before tapping at the pin on his chest. Specifically the white stripe.

“White part is for trans guys and those in between Stevie, now what time am I picking you up at?” Eddie grins before he’s frowning. “Wait- no. What time are you picking me up?” He says with a smirk. Leaning his head on his hand as he grins at Steve who is completely baffled and close to falling on his face from the chair he was on. He was a flustered mess, and he felt like Clint Eastwood was taunting him for not being manly. Though at the moment he doesn’t give a shit as he moves pulling out his phone. Setting it carefully on the counter and sliding it over to the other after unlocking it.

“Well, that’s something we have to figure out Hm?” Steve says making a attempt at acting cool. Inside his whole body was on fire as Eddie pulls the phone and typed in his number. “Though how do I know this isn’t your way of trying to get free movies next week when we start to sell them?” He jokes playfully, causing the others head to toss back. Laughter filling the store as Eddie shakes his head.

“Hm- you don’t.” He giggles. “That’s the best part.” He grins. Sliding the phone over back to Steve. “Now I have to go, but you better text me ASAP big boy. I need to be wooed before a date, and I want to see some of that Harrington charm so I don’t cum in my pants on our very first date.” He jokes. Wide grin on his face as its Steve’s turn to toss his head back with laughter. Playfully saluting him.

“Yes sir,” he laughs as he watches the other twirl his hair. Stepping back as he hides his face for a second. Before turning on his heel to leave the store. Steve’s shaking his head before realizing the other forgot his movie. Snorting he messages the other, which is read almost immediately. Followed with a certain Eddie Munson running in awkwardly. Cursing under his breath as his face is a light pink. Nearly falling on his face when Steve winks at him.

“Keep looking at me like that Harrington, I might just let you use my strap on me.” He spits out without thinking before he’s covering his mouth. Looking at a stunned Steve who, at that very point had expected to never be able to top in any relationship with the lack of equipment. Steve lets himself fall out of his chair when the other lets the door click behind him.

[outofangband]

Have you ever considered an environmental (or societal!) worldbuilding post for Taur-im-Duinath? There's so little in canon, I'd be fascinated to know your headcanons.

(This is a somewhat selfish ask as I am writing a fic that will have a significant portion set there, but genuinely love reading your posts -- no rush or pressure on this!)

Environmental World Building Masterlist

Taur Im Duinath is a large forest located in southeast Beleriand. Its name translates to Forest between rivers as it is located between the river Sirion (on the west) and the river Gelion on the east. In its southern reaches on the western border it extends to the lands around the Bay of Balar. The Andram, the wall of rocky hills ending with Amon Ereb in the east, lies directly to the north of Taur Im Duinath

As you said, it is mentioned very little in The Silmarillion, only twice actually. This corner of Beleriand is described as dark, tangled and wild with no elven or human inhabitants save some Avari

It can be difficult to judge exact sizes on Tolkien’s maps but Taur Im Duinath appears to be one of the largest forests in Beleriand

My thoughts

These are more general thoughts and for flora and fauna I gave examples of genuses or families rather than species but if you give me specific categories I can make more detailed posts!

-The climate is not as mild as Ossiriand but is far more mild than northeast Beleriand. The winters do not generally drop below negative one degree Celsius or thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Snow falls lightly in mid winter with sleet often occurring before and after.

-Humidity is higher than the rest of eastern Beleriand excepting parts of central Ossiriand with high rainfall especially in late winter and spring.

-The forest is dense. It is deciduous and coniferous mixed forests with scattered swampier areas which tend to be slightly more open. Most plants must be shade tolerant.

-There is an undergrowth of a variety of species of mosses and ferns as well as fungi. Some species of extremely shade tolerant herbaceous plants grow as well as a wider variety in the wetlands, scattered clearings, and forest edges

-The conifers are primarily spruce, Asian pine, with some fir and even cypress closer to the bay. Tsuga dumosa, a species of hemlock, grows closer to Ossiriand

-The deciduous trees are primarily birch and several species of oak. Ash and tilia species also grow

-Willow and aspen grow in the wetlands and closer to the river with some alders and a few wych elm.

-Animal biodiversity likewise varies throughout the large region. High diversity of small birds, mostly passerine but also nightjars, owls, a few species of ground birds, etc.

-The undergrowth provides habitat for the highest diversity of animals. Lots of Orthoptera (crickets, grasshoppers etc) so the forest is rarely quiet though the dense canopy muffles the sounds. Also high diversity of beetles, worms, rolly pollys, snails and slugs, and then toads, salamanders and newts, certain species of wood frogs, and small mammals like shrews especially by the water

I hope this is ok, @polutrope! I wasn’t sure what areas to focus on so please feel free to ask for more specific areas!

[malorisaurus]

The day before yesterday, I drove to SE Idaho to go to some fossil beds and to see displays of fossils from the area (as well as some from nearby states because this was all one large wetlands region before concepts like states existed). I will post more about this stuff later.

The other part of this trip was to test out camping in my car to see if traveling around by myself and sleeping in relative comfort was possible for me.

Here is my bed setup! In the front passenger's seat is all of my food storage, including an electric cooler that is acting as my refrigerator. The floor behind the driver's seat is my "closet" (where I am storing my towel, toiletries, and duffel bag lol) and is accessible from inside the car in bed mode. Everything stashes away nicely. I even have solar panels and my Bluetti battery in there, three gallons of water (plus my 2L hydration bottle and 32oz hydroflask). A 1.5" memory foam pad serves as the matress, and there are blackout shades that fit perfectly into the windows for privacy, though I hadn't put them up for this photograph. It has turned out to be rather cozy.

Since childhood, I've really loved making small, enclosed spaces that I could crawl into and feel cocooned. My car feels like I made the best little blanket fort, which is kind of wild to me. I could probably enjoy staying like this—as long as I had access to a bathroom and shower—for quite a while!

Prioritizing lots of pillows (including an armchair pillow thing) was the way to go. I have reclined in my pod and read, edited, and watched movies before sleeping each night. It feels like being a little rolly poly, and the car is my exoskeleton. Or I am a turtle, and the inside of my shell is AWEOME. A cave bear with a SICK den. Even when I go back home, I might set it up sometimes just to have a fort.

[butmakeitgayblog]

Did AWTR lexa help her dad make cute treats for fall and Halloween like pumpkin flavored everything?

That's very much a tradition between them. The year with Clarke is a bit different of course. Lexa just doesn't have the energy she used to, but she tries. Instead of helping kneed doughs and hand rolling out croissants, she sits on her little rolly stool in the bakery kitchen and helps in other ways.

She cuts intricate lattices of pie dough to decorate each handheld spiced apple pie, crimps the edges of pumpkin pies and cuts mountains of cider sweetened doughnut holes, makes sweet caramel drizzles, keeps an eye on batches of pumpkin seeds roasting in the oven for Gus to weigh out and bag up later. Clarke puts that 60k dollar art degree to good use by helping her decorate about a thousand sugar cookies, mixing up batches of orange, purple, and black powdered sugar icing to her wife's demanding shade specifications. "Clarke. Love. My love. It has to be blacker. Black like my soul. 😐 Mwahahaha 😐." "Babe, you are literally a little gay rainbow in human form. But thank you for the direction."

They pass the time just talking, Gus and Lexa both trading stories from the past. Stories about a tinier version of Lexa in too-big aprons who used to have to stand on stools just to see over the counter. About hard learned lessons involving the discovery that cocoa powder isn't actually ~forbidden chocolate~ and that apple pie spice isn't just as good licked directly from a tiny finger. Stories about when Lexa's mom used to rule this corner of the shop. The same woman who came up with all these recipes they were making now. They told stories about how she'd clap overly floured hands above Lexa's head just to make her daughter laugh when she said it was snowing. Stories of burned cupcakes and curdled pumpkin pie fillings and dropped cookie batches accidentally scattered across the floor once upon a time. It's afternoons and early mornings to the backdrop of an old radio, telling stories of Gus and Lexa's life that Clarke knows they must've revisited a million times over, but they still share the same quiet laughs. The same soft, barely sad smiles. But the best part is that they don't seem to mind sharing them all with her.

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 10, Number 4

Alena Spanger

For one day in April, we were transfixed by the sun’s brief disappearance, marveling again at our smallness in the universe, our dependence on a fiery ball in the sky which might, it seems, not be as reliable as we had always assumed.  It was pretty cool, even if you weren’t in the path of totality (what an excellent phrase, by the way), and it distracted everyone for a couple of hours from all the bullshit flooding over the transom.  Which is also one of the main functions of the music we consume so voraciously.  We are always hoping for one or two or many transcendent experiences in these CDRs and tapes and mp3 folders that bombard us, and sometimes, dear reader, we find them.  Here’s this month’s report with Tim Clarke, Bill Meyer, Andrew Forell, Alex Johnson, Jonathan Shaw, Jennifer Kelly, Ian Mathers and Bryon Hayes contributing.

Adult Jazz — So Sorry So Slow (Spare Thought)

Hard to believe it’s been 10 years since Adult Jazz’s stunning debut album, Gist Is. Perhaps the title of the Leeds band’s second full-length can be interpreted as an apology to those who have been eagerly awaiting a follow-up. So Sorry So Slow has not only been a long time coming, but also unfolds in fits and starts, as if unsure of the best way forward. It’s convulsive art-pop in the vein of Dirty Projectors or Bjork, with shades of hyper-pop in the digital sharpness of some of its edges, and chamber pop in the prominent employment of strings and horns. The album is most successful when the songs are straightforwardly beautiful, as in “Suffer One,” with its Owen Pallett string arrangement, and closer “Windfarm,” which has a pure, aching, almost New Age glow to it. Elsewhere, the overall lack of focus proves frustrating, and ultimately rather exhausting, across the album’s hour-long runtime. There’s plenty of beauty to be found, you just have to be patient.

Tim Clarke

Jeb Bishop / Tim Daisy / Mark Feldman — Begin, Again (Relay)

Begin, Again welcomes a couple of revenant Chicagoan musicians. Trombonist Jeb Bishop came back to the city after roughly ten years away, and violinist Mark Feldman after about 40. Drummer and vibraphonist  Tim Daisy invited them both to workshop some material in his home studio, and this session resulted. While both Bishop and Daisy wrote pieces, there’s an authentic ensemble feel; this music is very differently balanced than Daisy’s other chamber trio, Vox Arcana. Quick changes in direction and two-on-one dynamics abound, and it’s all enacted with a lightness that gives this music a feeling of floating even when the players are bearing down with serious intent.   

Bill Meyer

Cadence Weapon — Rollercoaster (MNRK)

The first thing you hear on Rollercoaster is a warm strum of acoustic guitar and the mellifluous voice of Bartees Strange. Then Canadian rapper/activist Rollie Pemberton AKA Cadence Weapon takes aim at technological saturation on his new LP Rollercoaster. The hectic production (there are 11 producer credits) mirrors the overwhelming chaos of social media flooded with bots, trolls, ads and misinformation overseen by the bloodless founder of Facebook and X’s fatuous head jester. Hip Hop, electro, RnB and manic hyperpop provide the backdrop to Pemberton’s diatribes which, although they occasionally have an odor of fish-filled barrels, say what needs saying with a maximum of snark and wit. Strange reappears periodically to offer a more organic musical and lyrical counterpoint to the hyperactivity. Pemberton has the awareness to embrace the paradox of working within the system he excoriates which adds an edge to his lyrics. If no-one is innocent and everyone’s throwing stones, Cadence Weapon is at least slinging the sharpest slates.

Andrew Forell  

The Children… — A Sudden Craving (Erototox Decodings)

Michael Wiener describes the music of The Children…, his long-running collaboration with Jim Coleman, Phil Puleo and others, as “gothic blues ambient.” At the height of my concern for tidy iTunes taxonomies, I would’ve been thrilled to think of that. And I’m not being glib: it is apt. One might be tempted to flip the last two words to get the more genre-y “Gothic Ambient Blues,” but Wiener, a Dusted contributor, has the order right. Their latest release, A Sudden Craving, may lead with a loose-hinged “gothic blues,” complete with eerie electronics, possessed voices, disturbed drums and alternately ghostly and shearing guitar chords, but it’s the way the band plays in the looming ambience, the engagement with the persistent presence of space – traced, occupied and ruptured – that ties together the album’s unsettling visions. In its haunted volatility, this can be a viscerally entertaining record and easy to get into, just make sure to carve out enough headroom.

Alex Johnson

Ciro Vitiello — The Island of Bouncy Memories (Haunter x Hundebliss)

Italian producer Ciro Vitiello’s work plays out like a reverie in the liminal space between dream and memory. Ethereal vocals and impressionist lyrics from Russian born singer Zimmy and Italian musician CRÆBABE float on warm wisps of synth and closely miked acoustic guitars. The instrumental tracks have a fractal, dislocated feel as Vitiello layers keyboards and sound effects of water, birds, child’s play and the odd menacing sounds one images hearing in the beast filled fairytale forests of childhood. The mood darkens further on “Sell Change of Heart for a Crocodile” or “Living in a Bouncy Castle” as scratchy disruptions like misfiring synapses interrupt the former as the keyboards swell crepuscular in the background. On the latter, titular castle seems to be deflating slowly, closing in on the occupants in slow motion, the air escaping in big wet bubbles. CRÆBABE closes the album steeped in a lonely haze of romantic and erotic nostalgia. Altogether as lovely and disquieting as the misty maze of memory can be.        

Andrew Forell

Coral Morphologic & Nick León — Projections of a Coral City (Balmat)

Miami duo Coral Morphologic (marine scientist Colin Foord and musician JD McKay) have worked together since 2007 producing projects that raise awareness of threats to marine biodiversity. Their new collaboration with producer Nick León soundtracks a multimedia installation which imagines the rising ocean reclaiming their city and enabling its colonization by resurgent coral reefs. The trio imbues this five-track suite with the tenacity and generative power of coral. An aqueous flow of somber tones dominates, but within them minute lifeforms take shape, coalesce, and spread with a quiet majesty that evokes the fragility of the reefs and inexorable process of survival and regrowth. Projections of a Coral City feels like a requiem, as much for Miami as the damage it has wrought on its environment. Poignant and hopeful it is a fitting tribute to the worlds we are in danger of losing for ever.    

Andrew Forell

Critical Defiance — The Search Won’t Fall (Unspeakable Axe)

Chilean thrash specialists Critical Defiance have delivered the metal record equivalent to a day at a theme park — absent all the waiting around in long lines. There are some long-ish tunes on The Search Won’t Fall (the title track runs close to eight minutes, and album closer “Critical Defiance” clocks in over nine and a half), but you never have to wait, for the next shift in rhythm, usually from fast to really, really fast; the next solo; the next crunching, athletically paced riff. Rollercoaster-scaled ascents and descents? Yep. Tilt-a-Whirl passages of dizzying axe-craft? Check. And the whole thing has the sort of so-bad-for-you-it’s-good sensibility of that extra-large bucket of French fries that came out of a huge bag of frozen shards of spuds, or the funnel cake you watched some tatted-up kid squeeze into a viscid pool of boiling oil of indeterminate age. It’s all hugely entertaining. This reviewer loves it when the songs get short; check out the sequence of “All the Powers” (44 seconds) to “Full Paranoia” (85 seconds) to “Margarita,” in which the record suddenly bottoms out into power-ballad mode. The move is delightfully goofy, a stolen kiss in the Tunnel of Love. It’s an open question if listening to The Search Won’t Fall has any sort of enduring significance, but when the ride is this much fun, who really cares?

Jonathan Shaw

Hässlig — Apex Predator (Sentient Ruin Laboratories)

Hässlig makes an unhealthily ugly sort of noise that the metal underground has insisted on calling “blackened punk” — a strangely provoking phrase that we seem to be stuck with. This specific iteration of the sound renders the relative kinship to punk neutral (wouldn’t “raw black metal” suffice here?), or perhaps a bit more worrisome. We should note that sole member DB also makes an especially bleak variety of depressive, sometimes doomy black metal under the name Negativa, the band logo of which does an irritating nod-and-wink in the direction of the swastika. So: A Spanish dude who records under a German-sounding band name and makes a record titled Apex Predator? Do we have to do some digging on the internet’s expanding communities of fash-hunting metal listeners? Likely we can take some consolation from Hässlig’s relationship with Sentient Ruin, a label that doesn’t fuck with NSBM nonsense. Unhappy song titles like “Psychopathic Triumph” and “Raping the Exoskeleton of Life” are likely meant to communicate equal-opportunity misanthropy: DB hates everybody. But “Slaves” and “Watch Them Hang” are a more unsavory combo, and it doesn’t help that DB claims Bone Awl and Ildjarn as influences. One wonders if associating the project with punk is a sort of semiotic gambit, hoping to temper some of the more troubling language DB uses (and maybe gets an edge-lord charge out of). It’s all becoming a bit tiresome. This reviewer really enjoys the music on Apex Predator, but by saying so, what is he validating?

Jonathan Shaw

Hour — Ease the Work (Dear Life)

Michael Cormier-O’Leary leads an ensemble of 10 through pensive instrumental reveries in this third full-length as Hour. You might know Cormier-O’Leary from the bands 2nd Grade or Friendship, or from running Dear Life Records. Others playing here have done time in various ambient, folk or mildly experimental outfits, Jason Calhoun, the synth player, in Paper Armies, Elizabeth Fuschia, a violinist in Footings and on the last Bonnie Prince Billy album, Peter Gill from 2nd Grade and drummer Peter McLaughlin from Dead Gowns among others. But the players meld in a very seamless, ego-less way, supporting brief, lovely bits of melody in guitar, strings, percussion, keyboards and, occasionally, electronic samples. The title track ambles nonchalantly, a skittery beat pacing tremulous washes of strings . “Dying of Laughter,” shades a little darker, pitched somewhere between conventional Americana and David Grubbs’ languid improvisations. None of these tracks last very long or stick very well in the limbic system, but Ease the Work is, regardless, a very pleasant way to spend three quarters of an hour.

Jennifer Kelly

Paul Lydon — Umvafin Loforð��un (Píanó)

Paul Lydon is an American who has lived in Iceland since the late 1980s. Throughout that time he’s kept up persistent but low-key recording under the names Blek Ink, Sanndreymi, Paul & Laura and most recently his own name. Over time, the music has changed from brittle, miniature songs to deliberately paced piano instrumentals. As befits a guy who lives his life within cultures, the music on Umvafin Loforð​un (translation: Wrapped Up In Promises) doesn’t slot easily into any genre. While spare, it lacks minimalism’s interest in repetition, and in its quiet way it remains to assertive to be ambient; and while his articulation brings to mind Mulatu Astatke and Alice Coltrane, there’s really no jazz or Ethiopian influence, just a similar respect for the qualities of individual notes. It does give the impression of reflection, as though he’s conversing with himself when he plays, but each piece has a lucidity which suggests that any spontaneous processes are tempered by some compositional pruning. It’s companionable stuff, at the service of those who could use some quiet company.

Bill Meyer

Mandy — Lawn Girl (Exploding in Sound)

Sugar pop melodies nestle into blistering onslaughts of fuzz guitar in this first solo outing from Melkbelly’s Miranda Winters, and maybe what’s interesting here is how a mature artist uses the basic rock and roll tools of her youth.For instance, though a new mom and well past the acne years, Winters casts a jaundiced eye on teenage love in “High School Boyfriend.”The song ends in a drum churning, guitar-busting, cheerleader shouting finale that kicks the whole experience to the curb.Sludgy “Forsythia,” by contrast, acknowledges the distance that Winters has travelled, the experiences she’s had, though that knowledge comes couched in muscular guitar blare.The one cover, of Jimmy Webb’s “I Am a Woman Now,” is acoustic and soft enough that you can hear Winters taking a sniffly breath, but also searing.“Now that I’m a woman, everything has changed,” she murmurs.The sentiment, maybe, but not so much the sound.

Jennifer Kelly

Orgöne — Chimera (3 Palms)

A chimera is a monster constructed of various parts—body of a lion, wings of an eagle, tail like a snake, etc.—and while by no means a monster, this latest LP from the West Coast soul collective Orgöne melds disparate threads into a slinky, funky groove. You can hear, for instance, futuristic fusion jazz, polyrhythmic Latin percussion, Afro-beat, way out soul positivity and psychedelic rock in these cuts, some instrumental, some with chanted vocals. An organ trembles with flickery vibrato, a bass slaps the off beats, a drum cadence saunters shambolically; it’s hot and cold at the same time. Blues-funky “Parasols,” blurts low-end and oozes chill, like Booker T & the MGs, but looser and more discursive. The groove rears up and you expect an old-style soul chorus—Charles Bradley maybe—but the work is done by the instruments, a nattering guitar and a flaring soaring keyboard. “Basilisk” twitches with wah wah and shudders with blasts of bass, not so far off from what the Budos Band does, but “Tula Muisi (Dance with Them)” adds torrid, Afro-beat style vocals. This stuff is fine on the home speakers, but likely much better in the room.

Jennifer Kelly

Polar Inertia — Environment Control (Northern Electronics)

There’s a lot of obscurity surrounding taciturn Parisian techno… artist? project? collective? Polar Inertia, but after a self-described “eight years of silence” they’ve reappeared with a full-length LP (a full hour, even) after previously only releasing EPs and live recordings. As with those EPs, there’s one track with a grim, foreboding spoken word accompaniment and if it puts one in mind of Annihilation at the South Pole, well, following it up with the brain-frying fuzz and throb of “Smothering Dreams” cashes that check immediately. The rest of the album ranges from beatless, dense noise (“Modeless Singularity”) to darkly insistent techno (“Arctic Singularity”) but all with enough of a shared vocabulary and similarly overwhelming, totalizing effect that it all lives up to the end of that opening monologue: “You will soon conceive what polar inertia is. What we do, at our scale, is environment control.”

Ian Mathers

Tomeka Reid / Isadora Edwards / Elisabeth Coudoux — Reid / Edwards / Coudoux (Relative Pitch)

This hour-long, completely improvised performance was captured in August 2021. The trio had played together a few days previously at the third iteration DARA Festival, a gathering of female string players organized by Biliana Voutchkova, so this was not a first encounter, but the trio’s interactions express a still a freshness that could come from players newly falling into a sympathetic union, or simply from the good vibes that tended to suffuse gatherings that post-vaccination, pre-Delta variant surge summer. Tomeka Reid (USA), Isadora Edwards (Chile/UK), and Elisabeth Coudoux (Germany) all play cello, and there’s sufficient consonance within the collective’s approach that time spent trying to figure out who’s who would be wasted. Rather, appreciate the spontaneous counterpoint, astute support, and uncluttered clarity of these four improvisations, which flow easily from rustling quietude to bright, bold cross-hatchings.

Bill Meyer

Sam Rubin — Bullet (Pleasure Tapes/Michi Tapes)

Two bullets, labeled “Bullet” and “Bullet 2” rip through the air on scuzzed-out guitar tone, like shoegaze but dirtier, as a rapturous chaos of drumming erupts and a noxious fog of noise envelopes high wistful vocals.You can taste the grit and sulfur in the air. Sam Rubin raises a lo-fi racket out of Kent, Ohio, letting factory effluents run through fragile melodies, corroding them, poisoning them and coaxing a poisoned beauty from the wreck. From the heart of Red America, Rubin launches “Trump,” a slow-motion, gut-shock of lumbering chords and feedback, but the best songs are about firearms.“Sniper Rifle” closes things out with Swans-ish clangor, guitar, drums, bass, all jumping on the downbeat, repeatedly, like a metal stamper gone amok in a post-apocalyptic heartland. Good stuff.

Jennifer Kelly

SAICOBAB — NRTYA (Thrill Jockey)

NRTYA by SAICOBAB

Japanese quartet SAICOBAB douses Indian raga in accelerant and showers it with sparks, creating an amorphous and fiery mix of traditional and contemporary sounds. Vocalist YoshimiO (Boredoms, OOIOO) both leads and chases the melodies proffered by sitarist Yoshida Daikiti. The two are engaged in a whirling quickstep (NRTYA is Sanskrit for “dance”) over the polyrhythmic pulsations of Motoyuki Hamamoto and Yojiro Tatekawa (Boredoms). The four musicians apply a hyperkinetic avant-rock slant to the traditionally placid raga format, emphasizing both rhythmic and melodic movement. YoshimiO’s extremely broad vocal range helps the music leap into the fourth dimension, and subtle electronic flourishes offer a glimpse into SAICOBAB’s futuristic worldview. With NRTYA, SAICOBAB challenges tradition, as the group’s infectious energy fractures the boundaries of both time and space.

Bryon Hayes

Alena Spanger — Fire Escape (Ruination)

Fire Escape by Alena Spanger

Alena Spanger’s voice is small, soft and very brave, as she ventures out of the shelter of prettiness into the wider world of dissonance and experiment. The singer made her first mark in Tiny Hazard, a Brooklyn art-music ensemble that similarly tested the boundaries of pop. Here in her debut solo album, she coos and hums and trills against a shifting background of baroque experiment; she lets us in, engagingly, into strange and wonderful places. “All that I Wanted,” for instance, pits a wild splatter-beat of tonal percussion, against a wispy pop anthem. “All I wanted is to dance with you,” she declares, in true diva pop style, against surging synths—but wait for it, the tune disintegrates into a soup of off-kilter fragments and spasmic beats. Spanger has some of Joanna Newsom’s wiry fragility, a way of infusing melody with intelligence and conflict, and she surrounds herself with Brooklyn avant-garde-ists, like Kalia Vandever on trombone in “My Feel,” Kitba’s Rebecca El-Saleh and harp and the critic Winston Cook-Wilson on keys and percussion. Ryan Weiner, who was also in Tiny Hazard, plays, engineers and mixes. But in the end, it comes down to one Alena Spanger, with the girlish voice and the voracious appetite for innovation. She can make a Satie reference sound like a sweet confessional ditty and a fire escape stand in for the soft, comforting edge of experiment.

Jennifer Kelly

Sunburned Hand of the Man — Nimbus (Three Lobed)

Nimbus by Sunburned Hand of the Man

Nimbus is Sunburned Hand of the Man at peak fidelity.Imagine Ken Kesey’s Furthur bus tuned up, cleaned up and given a fresh coat of DayGlo.The album also spans multiple iterations of the ever-mutating Sunburned line-up.Original member Phil Franklin returns after a multi-year hiatus, bringing his Franklin’s Mint songcraft with him; long-time associate Matt Krefting appears, offering a sinister spoken word monologue as the band writhes beneath.Poet and new Sunburned member Peter Gizzi unravels his verses over a pair of synth-heavy tunes: both the loping title track and the intense “Consider the Wound” benefit from his wry deadpan.The rest of the tracks are fare for those yearning for the Sunburned of yore, full of lysergic introspection and hedonistic grooves.Even at their cleanest, Sunburned Hand of the Man are weird and wild to the very core.     

Bryon Hayes

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Tom is not nervous; that would be ridiculous.

He has been waiting for this moment for years. It is now so close—literally in the palm of his hand—so he is not nervous. Still, he takes a deep breath, suddenly lightheaded, and reminds himself to continue steadily breathing.

Much to the insistence of his peers, when Tom turned seventeen last December, he quickly took advantage of the remaining holiday break and apparated to Gringotts for a Blood Inheritance test. Upon discovering his ancestry (unsurprising, but the confirmation was most definitely appreciated), he read through the dusty old grimoires left in his family vault and catalogued the sparse artefacts.

Most were utterly destroyed with time. Whatever charms had protected each item had long since wavered, with no one to recast them. However, he was able to salvage one.

He admires the dull shine of the golden band and the gleaming black stone of the Gaunt Ring. This heirloom, his heirloom (and isn’t that still a thrilling thought), has been a welcome companion these past several months. And now, on this cool Samhain night, it awaits his command.

The grimoires had no recent entries. Most seemed to stop well before this century, but what remained still gave startling insight. So as written, Tom twists the ring once, twice, and on the final spin, he watches as a faint light starts glowing and growing in intensity.

“This is it,” he shudders. The ring gets colder and nearly unbearable to hold. “I finally get to meet-“

Suddenly its light dims to something not much more substantial than a Lumos, and—he’s taken aback because surely not—classical music plays from the ring’s stone. It’s a quiet and peaceful melody that he swears is coming more from his head than anywhere else.

“We’re sorry,” A deep guttural and grinding voice speaks out, causing Tom to flinch and cover his ears. A terrible mistake, he quickly realises, as the ring presses the words louder and closer into his ear. “But the deceased you are summoning is currently unavailable.”

Unavailable?

Bewildered, Tom asks, “What?” But the voice carries on without pause.

“Your reunion is important to us. Please hold while we connect you with the next available Master of Death.”

“What?!” Panicking as the stone grows brighter than it ever had, Tom throws the ring some meters away, reflexively shields his head with his arms and waits for some sort of impact-explosion-something because what bloody else would be happening-!

Everything is eerily quiet for far too long until he hears soft footsteps snapping the fallen twigs littering the ground and a susurration of robes over leaves, their sound coming steadily closer.

“For someone who has done the unimaginable and gone out of their way to escape Death’s inevitable clutch, you are a sorry sight. Definitely not what I was expecting.”

Tom peeks through his arms. He first notices stars on a black so dark he is sure he had fallen over and was now staring at the night sky from his attempt to brace himself. His eyes follow the trickling pattern, nearly alive with movement until it stops, a sharp divide against the smooth column of a throat.

The celestial embodiment of the Black Family Tree continues, “You look like a rollie pollie. Do they have those in this dimension?”

Embarrassed, Tom realises he hadn’t fallen. No, he only tucked into himself much like he used to do at the orphanage long before he came into his specialness, his magical-ness, and figured out how to fight back.

He stands quickly, brushes his shoulder, casting a wandless cleaning charm with the movement, and looks up, only for his words to die before he can even open his mouth.

He never knew eyes could be such a beautiful shade of green.

[waffledrop]

Haven’t really drawn much recently even though I really wanna draw something shaded. But I’ve also been hyperfixated on object shows for months and it’s what my brain has been set on. The last four object ocs i just made and i made Rolly a month or two ago

[crimson-chaser]

SOZED anon, Louie, is back for more

anyways, room hcs ( thanks to the million, they bought a fucking mansion, Shawn was not messing around (( Shawn won in my country )) )

They did change some random storage rooms into bedrooms because there were originally only 3 bedrooms and they all agreed to have a singuar room, but they do move into someone elses room sometimes

anyway, Dave's room is neat and tidy obviously, but its not like pale white, it hurts his eyes too much Its more shades of green and brown He has alot of books ( mainly plants and classic literature ), although he is an extreme germaphobe he still loves plants and has plenty of them all over his room. His room is forest cabin themed so he has a plain wooden desk with one of those rolly, spinny chairs with a laptop and even more books. He has a basic bedframe with a black bedsheet and a plain blue blanket and pillows ( he also has rolled up band posters that he is too shy to put up )

Shawns room is messy. Its all over the place, his wooden bedframe is broken but it still manages to hold him up, with the million he subconciously bought one of those "earthquake protection bunkers" that he managed to squeeze under his bed. He does have acouple books but its all fantasy books and about zombie survival, his drawers are mainly packed full of weapons or his dirty ass clothes that he REALLY needs to wash or shiny things that he keeps safe in a secret drawer at the bottom of them all

Jasmines room is stocked full of interesting things full of things she found on her little adventures, whether it be crystals that Sky polished for her or skulls that she keeps in her drawer to hide away from Ella, she also has an iguana in her room who she named "Rotten Banana" because its brown and has yellow spots on its back, She has the biggest bed in the house because of how tall she is but she still cant fit on it fully and had to slightly curl up to fit on it. She has like 2 or 3 posters of her favourite famous explorers ( one of them is manitoba )

Ellas room is as stereotypical as a princess fanatic would be, she has plenty of bird feeders and bird hourses hanging from her ceiling and walls so her window is always shut but it gets cold so she has the thickest door in the house so they dont have to keep the heating on every hour of everyday. She has a heart-shaped mirror which the frame is covered in pictures of her partners, their partners and pictures of her animal friends that she takes everyday. She has alot of books all about princesses, animals and singing coaching books.

Skys room is very generic, there is nothing very special about it other that the shelves and shelves of trophies and medals shes won, she has posters of her favourite gymnasts ( one of them is svetlana )

If you look closely you can tell who is my favourite

- SOZED anon, or Louie

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH!! IT IS VERY WELL THOUGHT OUT AND SUIT'S EACH CHARACTER AMAZINGLY, I LOWKEY LOVE THESE SOZED HEADCANONS SM.

they are so silly :3

[little-ankle-biter]

What if I was but a small rolly polly walking upon a world so vast, so unimaginable. And yet the only thing I see are the shades of brown and green that decorate my vision. One day I feel the danger of a giant grasping my body. I curl up awaiting death and pray to see the browns and greens one more time. Nothing happens.

I uncurl my body and feel the squishy pink ground underneath me. Then I see it.

I'm being held to the heavens. Blue, yellow, purple and pink engulf the world around me. I see the world so vast and beautiful. I'm but a spek amount the barrage of color.

And then it's over. The world is yet again browns and greens. I stand disoriented and annoyed.

[garfieldlover3000]

i keep on forgetting i have tumblr

Rolly in the tub :p

I’m just starting to learn how to make backgrounds and stuff instead of just drawing headshots in white space.

For this drawing in particular i traced a picture i took of my bathroom as i intended for this study to be specifically for me to get used to coloring in a whole canvas as well as pick colors on my own/eyeball. I often have troubles with coloring anything white that’s in shadowed areas so i made sure to use the bathroom picture as it had a lot of white in shaded areas. I also ended up adding my dog rolly in at the end because i love him

picture i took of my bathroom

ended up removing everything even the shades? blinds? :p idk

also picture of rolly in the tub so that i could accurately add him in. Even if the angle is more higher than the original tub photo, i still figured it out :D

[rustedhearts]

i can't quit you, baby (70s!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: steve doesn't like the thought of you spending time with another man while he's gone. but doesn't steve know?—he's the only man for you.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ rolly's roller wheels ✶ blurbs ✶ the only living boy in indiana

tags: smoking but in such a sexy way, jealous steve, fluff, smut-ish at the end, just something short and sweet. ignore that it changes tense like halfway through, I simply cannot edit right now.

for thea ⭐️ thought 70s!steve deserved a little love. hope you enjoy! thank you for supporting me <3

wc: 1,204

august 1978

The windows are open when Steve gets home, letting in sticky summer air and blaring horns from the street below. Your new apartment was two stories above a busy Indianapolis street, and with that came all the city noises that you still struggled to sleep through four months post-move. And without sleep, you became restless.

Without Steve, you became restless. And a combination of both—after busy work days for Steve that kept him from dinner and bed—you were absolutely insatiable.

"Sweetheart?" Steve calls, dropping his keys on the coffee table on his way to the kitchen. "Where are you—oof!"

You throw yourself into his arms, knocking him off kilter until he braces himself on the wall. He envelops you once he registers the assault, chuckling into your neck.

"Hey, honey. Missed me?"

You sigh contently, rubbing your cheek on his cologne-and-sweat-scented chest. "Mhmmm."

"Well gimme a kiss then, sugar."

You giggled on your journey toward his mouth, kissing it with eager tongue and a little whine. You're barely five seconds in before Steve furrows his brows and pulls away, nudging you back by the waist. Eyes fluttering open, you frown at him and try to tug him close.

"Why do you taste like that?"

You laugh again. "What?"

Steve narrows his eyes. "Whose cigarettes have you been smoking? Huh? They're not mine."

Cheeks warm, you wriggle out of Steve's grasp and pluck the rag you were dusting with from the counter. "What? I haven't been—"

"C'mere. C'mere, sweetheart, who've you been smokin' with?"

Steve follows you, and you giggle through the scampering cat-and-mouse chase around the living room.

"Steve, I haven't—no, no!"

He catches you when you attempt to leap over the coffee table, one strong arm anchored around your waist. He pulls you down, sweeping you to his side and spinning you around until you're giggling and batting at his hands.

Steve decides to spare you and sets you on your feet, waiting until you've caught your breath and your cheeks stop hurting before tugging you close by the chin. He kisses you again, firmer and with writhing tongue.

When he pops away, he shakes his head and huffs. "I fuckin' knew it—Camels. Whose fuckin' Camels have you been smokin'?"

"What?" You place your fingers on your lips again. "How can you even tell that?"

Steve wags a finger in your face. "I know my smokes, honey, and you're avoiding the question."

Sighing, you retrieve the rag from where it fell on the floor and take it to the end table to dust under the magazines.

"I was hanging out with Dalton earlier. We had a smoke on the roof."

Steve's hands find his hips, eyes following your ministrations throughout the room. "Oh, you 'hung out?' You just hung out with some dude while I was at work?"

“Not some ‘dude,’” you argue, eyes rolling into the lamp shade that you readjust. “He’s one of the only neighbors that’s introduced himself, and that’s actually been nice.”

Steve tips his chin down, eyes slanting to a glare. “Yeah, because he wants to get in your pants.”

“I resent that, Steve Harrington—and why would you think sharing a cigarette with him would mean anything?”

Your boyfriend mutters under his breath, and when you turn with a quirked and accusative brow, he grumbles and turns on his heel. He stomps into the kitchen, where you hear the rattle of the refrigerator and the hiss of a beer can opening soon after.

“I don’t like that you’re here hangin’ out with random guys while I’m gone,” he calls through the wall.

“Excuse me, what year are we living in? We didn’t move to the city so I could be the little woman, Steve—“

“I never said that!”

Your bare feet pad into the room, where it’s your turn to pop your hand on your hip and glare at him.

“It was implied.”

Sometimes, it was hard to remember the days when Steve was just your best friend. The best friend that teased and ridiculed you, and the best friend you teased and ridiculed back. Until moments like this when it all came flooding back. When you fixed him with an attitude and a fiery stare akin only to when he forgot to pick you up from school in the snow, or said something stupid and out of line when you were eighteen years old.

You were grown now, but he didn’t seem any smarter.

Steve’s tongue clicks on the roof of his mouth, sweetened with his first sip of Miller Lite. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply that, sweetheart. I just…—it just makes me….—I just feel—“

“Jealous?”

Steve lifts his hand in an empty gesture. It smacks down onto his thigh when he drops it, shoulders shrugging shortly after.

“Yeah! Yeah, maybe I am.”

Your glare coils into a cocky smirk, teeth digging into your lip. You drop your hand from your hip and step his way.

"Aw, Stevie," you coo, words dripping with mockery. "How cute—"

"Psh," he scoffs, head turning when you come to brace it with your hands. "Yeah, yeah."

"You're jealous of the neighbor? That's sweet, Steve, really."

He tips his head back to the ceiling and shakes it. "Jesus, you're not gonna let this go."

You take the new position as an invitation to press your mouth against his neck. He swallows under your touch, fingers curling tighter around the countertop behind him. Your teeth scrape the soft and musky flesh of his throat, giggling when he shivers. You press a firm, open-mouthed kiss to his jaw, under his ear, down the column of his throat, over his collarbone at the top of a tight navy t-shirt. He's so full and muscular these days, and you can't help but run your hands over the broadness of his pecs.

Steve's hands fall to your ass, sliding into the back pocket of your jeans. You squeak, squished up against his front when he tugs you in.

"Only want you smoking my cigarettes," Steve demands, voice hoarse with arousal.

You guide your mouth back up to his ear, kissing the shell of it delicately. "Okay, honey."

"Promise?"

You pull back enough to meet his eye, and flash him a smile. "Promise. Now, you gonna show me how jealous you are, or what?"

Steve chuckles, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek. "Go grab my smokes for me first. By the door, hmm? Wanna see how pretty your lips look wrapped around one."

You pause. It's your turn to swallow, cheeks warm as you stumble back. Steve's grin is salacious and sideways, head tipping to nudge the other way.

"Go on, baby."

Steve steals the Winston from your mouth just as you're climbing into his lap, deciding you look prettier without it. But before the smoke can leave your mouth, he grabs a fistful of your hair at the back of your head and seals his lips over yours. He steals it from your lungs, sitting back against the headboard with a grin when you whimper.

"Tastes much better than Camels," he muses.

And watching Steve leisurely smoke a Winston is all the encouragement you need to keep bouncing in his lap.

[matcha-x-matcha]

ive used chat gtp once (1) in my life and to this day I live in shame about it

Had like 6 essays all due within three days time and I knew I wouldn't be able to do it, so ever so begrudgingly I waddled to my brother with my head hung low, and asked him to use chat gtp to write my essays for me. And that fucker put on his visor reflective shades and stood up from his old rolly chair and said "I'll do it"

Anyway that's how I graduated and to this day I can't look my teacher in the eye without feeling extreme shame because he was so proud of me for graduating, but I gave him Texas Roadhouse Rolls so it's not that bad

Moral of the story, sometimes it's okay to take the easy way out, however you will constantly cringe and shame everytime you think about it

[grantvaleska]

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