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raisindave · 1 month

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[Chapter 73] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

This is just an entire chapter of unhinged, depraved smut, idk what to tell you. Come get y’all juice I guess. Enjoy <3

There's something so exciting about pushing someone's buttons. It's no fun when it's someone who doesn't want to be fucked with; it's also no fun when there's no reaction. But Ghost always has a reaction. You just have to push the right buttons. He might play stoic at first, feign ambivalence like he always does, or flex his authority if you happen to forget his exalted rank. There's something so exciting about tipping water droplets onto the surface of an overfilled glass of water, testing how far you can push the surface tension. And push things you have. What's he gonna do, tell Price that you were mean to him with a quivering lower lip?

You weren't expecting him to withdraw entirely, but he lifted himself from over you leaving you shockingly empty and cold both metaphorically and literally. Maybe it wasn't wise to spit in his face when he has your arms tied in a way that you definitely wouldn't be able to free yourself from if he happened to up and leave. Fuck. What's scarier is that he doesn't even look mad, just dark. Like his chin is tilted slightly downward and the whites of his eyes glint just above his waterline. The thought of apologizing never necessarily crossed your mind, but it did for a moment as his hand flashed toward you, harshly swiping the pillow from under your head and making you flump back into the mattress.

In your daze, you didn't even connect what he was doing with his neatly folded clothes until he pried free a grey rectangle from the pocket of his jeans, wiry headphones dangling in tow. He almost instinctively measured the chords against his forearm like he does for all other ropes, an act that even made him blink in confusion; what you wouldn't do to know what was going on in his head right now. His phone, headphones, and a pillowcase he shucked from the pillow you'd been robbed of. At least you got a glimpse of a heavily cracked screen- a well-loved piece of technology, to put it lightly. Cleanliness and durability don't always go hand in hand. An odd glimpse into his personal life makes you wonder whose numbers he might have saved in there. While he was occupied by tapping away at his small, bulky personal cell, you thought to clear the unsteady silence.

"Listen, it's not that serio-"

"Shut the fuck up," he barked.

A chill ripped through your body; that's his this is serious tone. You held strong to your belief, owning what you'd done rather than submit like he's expecting. If he has the gall to step into your field of view again, you'll happily grace him with another spatter of saliva across his face. Fuck, his arms look so good. He stepped forward again, seemingly satisfied with whatever he was up to, an utterly unreadable expression in his eyes.

There was a tenderness to how he placed the sheet over your eyes, and it all clicked into place. He made the pillowcase into a blindfold, tying it carefully behind your head in a thick knot. For some reason you could feel air flashing past your face. Seconds later, it connected with you that he was probably drawing punches to see if you could see past the blindfold. You couldn't, and now you'd lost access to two of your major faculties, your arms and eyes. For a second, you could hear him let out a low chuckle, and a sudden wash of eager anticipation crashed into your system. Your wrists writhed under your spine. He still wasn't touching you. Even worse, you've been stripped of the privilege of gawking at his form. The more time passed, the more you craved his touch, any touch in this void you're now floating in, and he finally caved. Of all the places on your body you were anticipating his hands, your ears were the last. Carefully, he was tucking your hair behind your ear to clear the way to place those earbuds in either of your ears. As much as you might baffle him with your so-called unprofessional attitude, he too baffles you with these wily schemes he gets up to.

Just as you were about to say something snarky, the sound of deafening noise came through the flimsy speakers, startling you enough to make you flinch. It took you a second to recognize the noise as blasting metal music, and suddenly his hands were all over you. Pinching taut skin and ropes over your chest, cool air flooded over your tongue as you gasped. To say his touch was ravenous would be an understatement. Much-needed contact on your skin that made you crazy, and the feeling of his teeth over your collarbone made it worse. Teeth? He's taken his mask off, or pulled it up at least. An excuse to bite and nip at your skin while you're particularly susceptible, stripped of sight and sound, expertly crafted torture. He slipped himself back within your folds without any effort, another gasp torn from your throat that you couldn't hear past the squealing guitar and thundering drums.

You did it to yourself, really. It's probably pretty not the best idea to piss him off when he has you in a state like this. Though, maybe that's the best part of it. Inciting his wrath to be taken out by fucking your brains out. That sounds like a win-win, except you are winning both times. His trusts weren't kind, even if they felt like a gift. They left your body shaking after every push against your cervix. Out of nowhere, his two fingers hook under your lower teeth, prying your jaw open. You do as you're bade, only because you have no other option. His other hand closing around your throat made you flinch at the additional unexpected touch. If you could hear what he was up to it would make all the difference, but unfortunately every action came as a shock to you. Heat grew over your face, more than what's already there. What came next was once again confusing at first, but it was a sensation you were all too familiar with. He'd spat in your mouth he pried open, spattering his own hot saliva over your tongue, returning your insubordination. All while he continued to punish you with his pace, fuck, the friction he created was divine. Worse yet, his hand tightened around your throat, disavowing you from swallowing the act. This was an act he'd done on your last birthday, an act that set your blood on fire all the same. Hopefully this won't end like that night did.

He really is cruel to no end. You could only hear him whenever the music would pause between songs; once the screaming guitars and vocals withdrew, his rhythmic panting and gasps made your heart flutter, just as another crashing drum riff returns to command control over your senses again. All these sensations and lack thereof were all too much. The elevation to your senses from the denial of others made heat quickly grow in your core, and his palm finally withdrew from your throat, permitting you to swallow his spit. Once again, those fingers hooked under your teeth, and for a moment you rejected the second lashing of punishment, but he persisted. After considering biting down on his fingertips, he pried your mouth open again, and that free hand returned to the side of your head with an unanticipated air of clemency. It seems your expectations might never match reality because you swore you could feel his nose touch your cheek for an instant. Something hard touched your teeth, and you instinctively recoiled. Hot breath swept over your damp lips. Breath? Reluctantly, you opened your mouth fully, and shuddered as he placed some small item in your mouth from his own. A million thoughts and more surged through your neurons, and the taste of blackberries swept over your tongue. A candy? He'd placed a hard candy in your mouth, one of those German fruit-shaped sweets Laswell gifted you with the candle. It tasted so sweet, so sweet from his mouth; it felt like lightning had struck your body and left your skin electrified.

That familiar tense energy between your thighs built, and his mouth closed around the side of your neck as you came undone around him. The sensation was slow to fade, leaving you twitching and trembling as he continued. For a few beats, he carried on, only to withdraw entirely. Spatters of hot seed spilled over your stomach, not nearly as hot as candle wax, and you could only imagine the look on his face right now. You were so used to him spilling himself within you that the thought of him withdrawing almost came as a shock, but it's no matter. You crunched the hard candy you'd lapped at with your tongue, a satisfying crack across your molars and smiled at the sweet candy.

Heat had been sapped from your body, and the energy receded, he seemed to have stepped away. Blasting metal music continued, allowing you to catch on to what must be lyrics once your attention was free. Just as you started to grasp the actual rhythm of the tune, a hot fibrous cloth on your belly made you flinch as he swiped away his sin. A few more seconds of oblivion, and he lifted the blindfold, so too removing the headphones from your ears. The world spun for a short while, brighter than ever before. Blinding light from the lamp at your side made your pupils strain to catch up to the world around you. Your ears were ringing, and his mask had been pulled back over his face, he was neatly wrapping the headphone wires around his cell phone. It hadn't even occurred to you how out of breath you were until the music wasn't blaring in your ears anymore.

He looked more exhausted than you'd ever seen him, a thin sheen of sweat over broad shoulders that challenged your unwinding hormones. He, too, was gathering his breath, but after another pause he rose to hook an arm under your spine. Your eyelids were heavy, but he was unravelling the ropes that bound your arms behind your back, suddenly acutely aware of the strain they'd left along your shoulders. That tenderness had faded, and he roughly twisted and tugged at loose chords, one by one unravelling his masterwork. Finally, your arms were free. He sat himself at the edge of the bed, and the discarded sheets felt more heavenly than before once you wrapped them around yourself. Warm, sated, with the taste of sweet blackberries lingering on your tongue. You even spotted the torn candy bag beside you on the table, assorted candies splayed over the wood. The relief you'd felt from the orgasm that ravaged your entire system let you easily consider this one of your top-ten birthdays of all time. Even if it's otherwise miserable. At least a minute was spent in blissful silence, catching up on your breath and peace before a series of sinister thoughts clicked into place. Your voice finally caught up, and you put your pieces on the board.

"Are you satisfied now?" you croaked.

"Quite."

"Well, I'm not," you sighed, rolling on your side.

"No? You sounded pretty satisfied," he boasted in that gravelly accent you knew all too well.

For a beat the thought occurred to you that his spit and the candy might have been an attempt to silence you, that these thin walls might invite some privy voyeurs. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe that's part of his psyop, and he wants you to be doubting yourself right now. There's this thought that's lingered in your conscience since you had a taste of it with your first encounter with him. It's both within grasp and entirely out of reach, a pipe dream that you'll have finess from him. This man won't comply of his own volition. You can't overpower him physically, that one time you did was a fluke.

"If you want to make this birthday extra special, I was think-"

"Not happening," he grumbled.

"You don't even know what I was gonna say," you raised your head from your now bare pillow in outrage.

"I know what you want," he shifted to face you from the end of the bed. "You're not tying me up."

"Why not?" you pout.

"Security."

"Security? What, you don't trust me?"

"Don't trust anybody," he shrugged, "life's easier that way."

"How righteous of you," you scoff. "How about this, if you let me do this, I'll give you one I-Owe-You. And If I-"

"Deal."

"That was fast," you shook your head in confusion.

"The mask stays on," he held steadfast, making sure you caught the gravity in his tone.

"Deal."

He probably thinks he can easily break free of whatever scheme you have in mind for him. He's probably right. But that doesn't mean you don't have a few tricks up your sleeve to keep him compliant. There's no reason this can't also be beneficial for him. Your knots might not be as pretty and neat as his, but they'll get the job done. It's your turn to turn the tables, but you won't forget the kindness he offered you while you were under his control. And you won't forget his brutality either.

You stood uneasily at first, but the pads of your feet eventually landed on the grainy carpet. Even your shoulders ache, and your ears are still ringing. He eyed you cautiously as you rose, even more cautiously as you gathered his clothing from the wooden chair in the corner and tossed it to the floor. That one looked like it stung, and his eyes lingered on his jeans and shirt, now splayed on the ground. You also made sure to grab the black survival rope he'd neatly ravelled into a tidy loop, cocking your head to the side as he, too, watched you with skepticism. He seemed more bold and challenging than you were, though. The tables have turned. With the chair within reach, you repositioned it to sit at the foot of the bed, right next to him.

"Sit," you order sweetly.

"Am I going to regret this?"

"It's likely."

He rose from his position and for a snapshot in time you stood face to face. All this time, you'd encountered him from the context of you being on your back or something of the sort, but he lazily met your stance. Even standing at your tallest, you couldn't even clear his shoulder, and his bare skin in your peripheral made your heart skip at the size of him. You swallowed hard. For a moment, it looked like he recognized your internal struggle, satisfied by his evident effect on your heart rate. Brown eyes met yours, and you swore his pupils dilated. He leaned forward and it made your stomach lurch, but instead he sat down in the creaky wooden chair, tilting his head back to easily meet your eyes.

"Don't break the chair now," you manifested your sweetest voice as you aligned his wrists to align with the chair's wooden arms.

"Why should I care about an old chair at a run-down motel?"

"It's a charge on Laswell's credit card that will require an explanation."

"Chairs break all the time," he watched your hands move with a smug expression. "Just say you sat on it and it fell apart."

"You think I want to take responsibility for your mistake?" you frowned sadistically, drawing a black rope around his wrist.

He doesn't really have a choice to argue back since you're already tightening the cord that secures his wrists to the chair, haphazardly looping twice, thrice around his wrist to make sure it's extra tight. If you're honest with yourself, you're not entirely clear on what you're doing, but basic logic suggests you fasten his wrists and forearms and loop around the back of the chair to secure the other side. Unfortunately there isn't enough rope to secure every limb, but you'll have to settle with this with your limited resources. It's becoming clear that it'd be a miracle if you can secure him at all with how quickly this rope is being used.

Around his back, and now it's time to secure his tattooed arm. Swirling inky imagery of skulls and weapons, how sinister. No match to your gruff ties along the curves of his bicep. His muscles are so warm under your fingertips. Focus, he's watching you actively stoke his ego, his chest even flexed as he laughed at your lingering eyes. Asshole. Both arms were secure, held fast by black ropes hard as iron, looped half a dozen times each over his arms to ensure he wouldn't break free without at least some breakage. A new heat in your core sparked. He looked heavenly, even if he didn't have the same shock he did that first time. Not to worry though, you have a plan.

There's a certain arrogance in his look, like he thinks you can't outdo his previous act. While that was one for the history books, you have every intention to test the ego in his level gaze.

At first you felt a twang of guilt at the thought of defacing the chocolate birthday cake your comrades had supposedly been up at the crack of dawn for, but at the same time, it's not their business how you want to consume it. Still, you couldn't help but cringe as you swipe your fingers across the delicate icing, scooping exquisite chocolate frosting on your two fingers. Without a moment of hesitation you transferred the treat onto his molten skin; heat from tight muscles radiating under your tongue as you lapped up the sugar. You'd always had a sweet tooth. He cocked his head to the side as he watched you glide your tongue over his shoulder, his pectoral, even haphazardly spreading a palm of the sticky treat across his abs. At least you avoided the gauze, an obstacle you were considerate enough to steer clear of. Your enjoyment of this birthday treat was made extra sweat by the rippling surface, he couldn't seem to take his eyes off you. Sitting back upright, you spared a glance to consider his expression, still arrogant and brash. It made your breath hitch, stepping further to rest your shins on either side of his thighs, straddling his lap.

"How's this for too sweet?" you purr, slipping the decadent fingers under his mask, despite some resistance, and past his lips.

He should consider himself lucky that you're loyal enough to respect his wishes, not lifting the mask above what's necessary to slip your fingers into his mouth, concealing his jaw with your palm. His tongue was warm over your fingers. Once he detected that you wouldn't betray his trust, he leaned in, lapping at your fingers with sultry eyelids, a foreign sensation that felt so unbelievably erotic around your fingertips. But he, too, wasn't so quick to forgive. He bit down on your fingers hard. Pain shot through your fingers and up your arm and your jaw tightened in agony. It seems you're each taking turns trading blows, and soon you won't even know who made the first slight.

You'll return the courtesy if he wants to toy with the unexpected. If he wants to bite down on your fingers in protest, coy as he might think he is, you won't tolerate the insult. Shifting your posture to rest on one shin, and lifted your other leg while his gaze remained transfixed on yours. Candlewax would have a negligible effect on someone like him, so you'd have to up the ante. You had the wisdom to withdraw your fingers from his mouth before you slammed your knee into his groin, sending an explosion of anguish to wrack his body.

He gulps in a gasp, holds shakily, and lets out a low, creaky whine. There's something so thrilling about it, though, so invigorating. You'd never thought of yourself as a sadist, but something about how he whimpers and groans when you hurt him like this makes you feel alive. More alive than ever. You'd seen needles get drawn through his skin just hours ago, gauze on his stomach that only slightly softens your heart, but only you can rip this reaction from his lips. Transfixed, you can't take your eyes off how his Adam's apple flexes on the column of his pale throat as he whines. For some reason, the thought occurred of hovering your mouth over his as a distraction. Through the cloth, you can feel the void of his open mouth, gasping hot air as you can only imagine the level of pain he's in right now. Your lips only technically making contact with his through the cloth of his mask, you breathed with him as he heaved for air. It feels so good. You'd never heard him groan or show any signs of distress until now, even if by a normal man's standards he's still remarkably tame.

Your glory gained a twang of pity as he gasped. You barely saw eyebrows knit together in agony as he strained to tilt his head back. Gentle fingers caressed the side of his face, along the cloth on his jaw, around the skull-shaped plate across his nose. No reaction other than agony, except for when you softly took his cock in your palm. For a moment, his eyelids fluttered in recognition, but he only sucked air between his teeth and flexed his shoulders. Still in agony, you felt an odd twinge of pity for betraying him, even if it was all in the name of particularly sadistic sex. It still lit a fire in your core, and your own ache became clear as his muscles buckled against your restraints, you lifted yourself to straddle his lap again. Without even thinking, you did it again. Slamming your knee into his sensitive balls, he doubled over despite his arms being securely fastened. Not even for any particular reason, just call that one preemptive.

Another cry tore from his throat, gruff and low. The pain threatened to make him go soft, but you still sat down gently on his cock with a sigh, taking him within you once again. He winced, and gulped, and his fleeting gaze finally focused to meet yours. His shoulders were tense when you wrapped your forearms around his neck as you had to wrangle this mechanical bull. The entire encounter started to feel like a song, slow and rhythmic, as you worked electric muscles to sow pleasure back into his body. He slowly gave in, letting his head fall back again and exposing his neck. And his neck tasted delicious along your tongue, even if he didn't have chocolate frosting along his skin that made it extra sweet. His agony was delicious, it just made you want to ride him harder. His voice was creaking in his throat, whining words like 'oh fuck’ and 'shit,' music to your ears as you took him deeper within you.

You found yourself grinding down into his orgasm as your own found your system in turn. He poured himself into you, straining and bucking against you to dig himself further. For a brief instance, you were connected, no matter how briefly, thanks in part to what some might call guilt. It's definitely something he won't forget, and it's easy fodder for dialogue if he ever wants to get petty in the future.

You furthered your makeshift apology by palming a circular container of sweet-smelling lotion, pistachio and salted caramel, and swiped it over his broad chest. Something you'd picked up in Italy at one of those boutiques before the gala. You eventually lifted yourself from his lap, watching his eyes as you took your fingers to re-administer his dripping succour back within you. If anything, he looked like he blushed at the action, a reaction that you’d never expect from the likes of him. Carefully and tenderly, you worked the balm over his skin; his breath finally started to steady after a few minutes of your kindness. It's only fair. You did just technically brutalize him with cruel torture that even Narcos debt-collectors might not consider. Not that you have any guilt, though. He smelled so sweet, sweeter than the usual musk and grime and sweat and gunpowder. He was even such a good boy when you loosened your dodgy ropework around his wrists.

"Are you satisfied now?" you repeated your question from earlier.

"Fuck you," he groaned weakly.

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hollowsart · 6 months

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does anyone know of any really good really durable and affordably cheap headphones/earbuds?

the right earpiece on my earbuds JUST got quieter signaling that it's literally about to die even tho I barely had it for a couple of months now. hearing the music and videos I'm trying to enjoy ONLY IN ONE EAR.. it's the WORST experience. HORRIBLE. Nothing makes me feel more violent.

#ghostie mumbles #-squints- ...I just put them in and they're working fine again. but I know that won't last.

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multiverse-imagines · 2 years

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I think about if I was vash travel buddy I would probably annoy him(or be entertaining) cause we just be walking In the desert and he’s like 🚶‍♂️and I’m like 💃 behind him cause I listening to 2000s pop music on an old iPhone that still miraculously works, just dancing to Beyoncé and one direction. Or tell him old mythological stories of gods and beasts and hero’s by the campfire. I probably be good entertainment for him.

A/N: Okay, I'm dying at this concept! I'm totally gonna make it a 160GB ipod Classic tho. It has a screen for video, and soooo much more space than a dinky old iPhone xD durable af too. I miss mine ;-; I'll probably increase the era of songs as well, because I'd be right there with you doing the same damn thing!

Lost Melodies

"Gonna make a move to a town that's right for me!" Vash watched you dance alongside him to the music playing through the headphones of your family's iPod, which had been passed down since before the space fahring age. You sang little "doots" to the electronic melody as the town you left behind disappeared from the horizon.

"Town to keep me movin' keep me groovin with some energy" the smile on Vash's face widened as you raised your hands up to chest height, "Well I talk about it, talk about it, talk about it, talk about it." You opened and closed your hands as if they were talking, "talk about, talk about, talk about mo-ooovin'!" You grooved, "Gotta move on!" You had shared this music with Vash before, as the two of you had taken turns listening to music on your iPod, and Vash's Walkman.

"A-Won't you take me to… FUNKY TOOOOOWN!" You belted out into the vastness of the desert. Vash loved it when you got lost in the music when your little group had to travel on foot through the desert. Granted, this caused you to drink more water than without the additional singing, but you had bought a second canteen so you had enough water to stay hydrated.

Wolfwood and Milly also found your little concerts entertaining, Meryl…. She had her limits. She was more interested in the Audiobooks of various Mythology the little iPod contained. Vash recalled a night where the five of you relaxed around a campfire, an Audio book of Norwegian Mythology playing through a speaker through the audio jack. It told stories of Gods that were long forgotten to Gunsmoke.

"Fair enough,” said Thor. “What’s the price?” “Freya’s hand in marriage.” “He just wants her hand?” asked Thor hopefully. She had two hands, after all, and might be persuaded to give up one of them without too much of an argument. Tyr had, after all. “All of her,” said Loki. “He wants to marry her.” “Oh,” said Thor. “She won't like that."

They listened to the story of the fortification of Asgard. He remembered the look of horror on Wolfwood and Meryl's face when the origin of Slepnir was mentioned. He remembered the cackle that erupted from your lips, knowing another mind was ruined by the fact that The All Father, Odin, rode his own nephew into battle.

"Your arms are my castle, your heart is my sky. They wipe away tears that I cry…" he tuned in long enough to hear you'd changed songs, and he caught your glance towards him at the lyrics. The blush on your face made you stutter the next lyrics, but he smiled sweetly towards you.

It was late In the evening when the two of you entered Warrens City. Vash needed another tune up from Mr. Marlon. Thankfully, your journey had been smooth sailing, and you two were soon cuddled up in their shared bed, sharing the earbuds as they watched a movie on the tiny screen.

"What do you have hidden in your pocket, Sophie?" The blonde man on the screen asked. The old woman, Sophie took a red piece of paper out of her pocket, and handed it to Howl. As the paper met with his fingertips, the paper caught fire, burning a carving into the table.

"Woah, scorch marks! Howl, can you read them?" Markle, the apprentice, asked.

"This is ancient sorcery." He mused while he caressed the table outside of the scorch marks.

"You who swallowed a falling star, O' heartless man, your heart shall soon be mine. That can't be good for the table." He shook his head.

"Ugh, this movie is so pretty." You mused, and you let your head rest on Vash's shoulder.

"It really is. I wish we had more than just this movie from that animation studio." Vash leaned his head against yours, a sweet smile across his face.

One night after Vash had gotten his gun back, You, Vash and Frank went for a drink at the bar. Frank insisted on a single drink, and Vash of course went overboard.

"Hey! Vash tells me you play the guitar. Why don't you play something for open mic night?" Frank gentured over to the little stage in the corner. An acoustic guitar sat in a stand, the bar's logo painted on the front.

After some thought, you agreed, and went over to the stage. You picked up the guitar, checking to see if it was tuned, and adjusting the microphone so you could be heard while sitting on a barstool. You strummed the guitar, as you sang the opening pitches before faking a throat clear,

"Hey baby won't you look my way? I can be your new addiction. Hey baby whatcha gotta say, all you're giving me is fiction." You sang, getting the attention of the bar,

"I'm a sorry sucker and this happens all the time, but I find out that everybody talks, everybody talks, everybody talks." You glanced over to Vash who was already enamored by your performance, pausing mid-chat with the newly arrived insurance girls,

"it started with a whispeerrrrr, and that was when I kissed herrrrrr. And then she made my lips huuuurrt. I could hear the chit chaaaaaat. Take me to your love shaaaack. Mama's always gotta back traaaaack , when everybody talks baaack!" Your voice gave a lovely vibrato to every long note.

You concentrated on singing for Vash, something you always did when you got nervous about singing around other people. Once your brain believed it was just the two of you, you could sway to the beat, and really let loose on your vocals. You loved spreading the power of music to the people of Gunsmoke, since you held such a rare and precious outer of music long gone.

It often made you wonder about the songs that didn't make it into this device. What genre were they? What did they sound like? You guessed unless you got a time machine that you would never know. You were thankful for what you did have, because you didn't know how the people of Gunsmoke lived without it.

End~

Songs used:

Funky town- Lipps Inc.

Every time we touch- Cascada

Everybody talks- Neon Trees

Audio books:

Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman

Movie:

Howl's Moving Castle

#trigun #vash the stampede #trigun brain rot #vash x reader #music fic

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toskarinfr · 9 months

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Pros of metal earbuds: durable

Cons of metal earbuds: forgetting to put one in winter and having to feel the sensation of putting icicles in your ear

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crazydiscostu · 3 months

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Nank OE Earbuds

Step into a world where audio innovation meets unparalleled comfort with Nank OE Earbuds. These earbuds boast an open-ear design that seamlessly integrates with the user lifestyle. These earbuds redefine the conventional listening experience, blending cutting-edge design with unparalleled comfort and functionality. Nank has set a benchmark for excellence with its range of premium audio…

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wonderhecko · 4 months

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sony linkbuds 1.75 year review:

excellent design, we love hole. hole allows you to hear things around you without any of that hacky speaker relay shit all the other competitors do. the sounds good for something with a hole in it. excellent for working where you have to hear voices + sounds. excellent if you just hate closing your ears off to the world with earbuds or headphones.

the case holds up for durability. its not flat like the airpod styled ones but its compact enough where i havent had issues putting it into a pocket. dropped it a billion times from varying heights. connects well. tap controls work okay but there are compromises. set it too sensitive and clicking your tongue can pause.

decent runtime and case capacity...wait im getting word here that theres a problem

THE PROBLEM:

batteries are cooked. case doesn't hold a charge anymore and the headphones run out very quickly from full charge. don't know how many cycles this went through but it was not daily use. several times a week id use these things for hours at a time.

are we just expected to throw these things out after 18 months? i understand we're making compromises for size but fuck dude, at least put that on the box. "this shit will die sooner than a pet rat and we made it impossible to fix despite knowing the central point of failure". putting aside the dongles you have to use for wired earbuds/headphones now, thats an impossible use case for me. i cant have loose cords while im working.

if it worked id give it a 4/5 but i have to deduct 4 points because it doesn't work. will give fixing it a go bc the batteries are 20 dollars total but that wont fix the score

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dustedmagazine · 1 year

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Dusted Mid-Year 2023, Part Two

Yo La Tengo

And we’re back with the second half of the alphabet—from Kookei to Yves Tumor. If you missed it, check out part one here. We’ll have the writers’ lists tomorrow.

Kookei — The Incredible Hulk (H$G Studios)

youtube

Who picked it? Ray Garraty

Did we review it? No

Tim Clarke’s take:

Detroit rapper Kookei has a truly bizarre rapping style. He delivers almost everything in a hushed whisper, as if he’s right there inside your earbuds, sibilance sizzling, braggadocio booming. Though Kookei rarely wavers from this vocal approach, the production across The Incredible Hulk varies wildly in consistency and quality. Trap beats, synth stabs and rudimentary piano loops dominate the backing tracks, with cuts such as “Jackie Chan” sounding much more rich and polished, while others such as “Cousin Skeeter” and “Headshot Gang 2” bleed into the red, making for some wince-worthy distortion. Admittedly this stuff is no doubt supposed to be heard loud while high as a kite, so I can’t say I’ve been able to fully appreciate its intended effect.

Kali Malone — Does Spring Hide its Joy (Ideologic Organ)

Does Spring Hide Its Joy by Kali Malone (featuring Stephen O’Malley & Lucy Railton)

Who nominated it? Jason Bivins

Did we review it? No

Andrew Forell’s take:

At three hours in duration, Swedish composer Kali Malone’s latest long form composition seems a daunting proposition. Based on Malone’s tuned sine wave generators, Stephen O’Malley’s guitar and Lucy Railton’s cello, Does Spring Hide Its Joy is an extraordinarily rewarding experience. Within the elemental drones, Malone conjures tectonic movement both sweeping and incremental. Microtonal changes feel enormous, the glacial pace focuses the ear on every imperceptible progression, every movement of bow across string and the shimmering harmonic interaction between the instruments. Recorded in early 2020, Does Spring Hide Its Joy reflects those early days of the pandemic when time seemed at a standstill and lethargy, dread and inertia slithered their way in. Three years on, this music resonates with the ongoing effects of those upheavals. All the terrible beauty is here and if you have the time to concentrate, Kali Malone and her collaborators provide a cavernous space in which to process. Very highly recommended and thank you to Jason for the impetus to listen.

Natural Information Society — Since Time is Gravity (Eremite)

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Who Picked it? Bill Meyer

Did we review it? Yes, Christian Carey said, “Whether the new collaborators will remain, or other players will join Abrams, Since Time is Gravity demonstrates that Natural Information Society is a durable creative enterprise.”

Bryon Hayes’ take:

Most of us at Dusted love Natural Information Society, and with good reason: Joshua Abrams and his ever-evolving ensemble know how to concoct a hypnotic brew. As such, it’s no surprise that this record made it to the top of someone’s list this year. If you were lucky enough to catch the latest incarnation of the group – swollen in ranks and named Natural Information Society Community Ensemble with Ari Brown – play live in 2022, you’d have an idea of what’s in store for you on Since Time is Gravity. Even though they might not have been playing this particular material, the large ensemble interplay featured here was definitely on display in the live setting, as was Ari Brown’s crafty soloing. It’s prudent to note that the songs are shorter in comparison to the marathon that was Descension (Out of Our Constrictions), but this is great because as a listener you get to follow the group along a variety of pathways. It will be interesting to see where Abrams takes Natural Information Society next, but you can be sure of one thing: we at Dusted will love it.

Pile — All Fiction (Exploding in Sound)

All Fiction by Pile

Who picked it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? Yes, Patrick said, “All Fiction furthers that thinking, another reason this feels less like a leap and more like a carefully considered step toward further Piledom — the band’s flowing, peripatetic nature makes writing about individual songs less important than considering the whole.”

Ray Garraty’s take:

All Fiction is anemic enough to ask yourself: do they eat enough? Rick Maguire’s voice here sounds like he could use more nutrients and proteins in his diet. He kind of wakes up on some tracks, like “Poisons,” yet core of the album is that sad, melancholic material disillusioned middle-aged men write. It’s Radiohead-ish, it’s rock-ish and it’s… just flat? If it’s really what fiction is these days, I better stick with nonfiction.

The Reds, Pinks and Purples — The Town That Cursed Your Name (Slumberland Records)

The Town That Cursed Your Name by The Reds, Pinks & Purples

Who recommended it? Christian Carey

Did we review it? Yes; Jennifer Kelly wrote, “Glenn Donaldson puts a louder, fuzzier attack behind his gossamer-wistful songs this time, amping up the volume for a set of darker, more desolate tunes.”

Jonathan Shaw’s take:

It seems to me that Pitchfork gets something right about the Reds, Pinks and Purples: Jude Noel’s review of The Town That Cursed Your Name notes, amid a breathlessly positive assessment, that the band’s records “simply pick up where the last left off, like a series of Moleskines filled end to end.” That may be so, and the consistency of Glenn Donaldson’s songcraft likely provides a good deal of the band’s appeal—but do you really want to spend time reading a batch of someone else’s Moleskines? The Whole Foods grocery lists and the snatches of wood-shopped poetry and the paragraphs of winsome repining? If so, check out “Almost Changed,” the ninth track on The Town That Cursed Your Name, which doesn’t quite brood and doesn’t quite whine and doesn’t really seem interested in making anything change in the first place. To be fair, it’s very, very hard to find fault with this record’s compositions, the rhymes and the musicianship, which are like a May breeze, a Monet pastel or a warm cup of ginger tea—or all three at once, in someone’s comfy suburban sunroom. If that’s your situation, maybe you don’t want (or need) much of anything to change. Must be nice. Here and there, The Town That Cursed Your Name stirs from its state of cloudless repose to threaten some fuss. “What Is a Friend?” picks up the pace and thrums and hums with something like urgency. Then Donaldson sings: “Dodged your call from the jail / No birthday card in the mail, I always fail / Maybe you lost the plot / You could have offered an opening slot, it’s food for thought.” The inside-baseball, indie-rock vernacular and the literate metaphors dominate the record’s lyrical register. They are always clever and inevitably build an emotional tone best described as precious mopery. The music of the Reds, Pinks and Purples is pretty and precise, and it winces when the world gets ugly. Unfortunately, it’s an ugly world.

Cécile McLorin Salvant—Melusine (Nonesuch)

Mélusine by Cecile McLorin Salvant

Who nominated it? Jason Bivins

Did we review it? No

Bill Meyer’s take:

Cécile McLorin Salvant isn’t exactly beyond my ken. If, like me, you spend time reading and writing for jazz publications, her name and striking taste in eyewear are inescapable. However, having caught her some years back at the Chicago Jazz Festival, I was under the impression that she was a skilled but hardly innovative jazz singer, so I haven’t been trying to keep up. On a formal level, Melusine wipes the floor with that misconception. The material, which consists of original songs sung mostly in French and much older ones sourced from Francophone-adjacent cultures, is certainly not standard. Subtle production touches situate this recording in the 21st century without lapsing into pop pandering. And her singing, which is both technically unassailable and emotionally communicative, transcends any linguistic barriers. There’s a lot to appreciate here; thanks for the tip, Jason.

Tacoma Park — Tacoma Park (self released)

Tacoma Park by Tacoma Park

Who picked it? Ian Mathers

Did we review it? Yes, Ian wrote, “Tacoma Park manages the always-difficult feat of simultaneously reading as the heady product of multiple creative minds in deep conversation and yet fluid and confident enough in its own voice that the result still registers as singular.”

Tim Clarke’s take:

This self-titled duo recording by John Harrison and Ben Felton documents a fruitful pandemic collaboration, overflowing with possibility. With each track built around a handful of rhythmic and melodic ideas, the music is given plenty of air to breathe, plenty of time to evolve. Fingerpicked acoustic guitar and arpeggiated synths dominate the palette, then there’s some drums here and there, both live kit and electronic. At 68 minutes, Tacoma Park is a long record that meanders a fair bit, but it feels like it reaches an apex of sorts with “Circles As A Path As A Valley,” a nearly eight-minute exercise in cathartic layering. Beyond that point, drum-machine-driven tracks such as “We Lost Our Place, We Started Over” and “I Left My Wallet in the 90s” (great title) feel like starting points for another project entirely, or a postscript pointing towards recordings to come.

Tørrfall — Tørrfall (Den Pene Inngang)

Tørrfall by Tørrfall

Who picked it? Ian Mathers

Did we review it? Yes. Ian wrote, “If there’s intoxication here, it’s the post-panic euphoria of a body running out of air; and if this is water music, it’s for currents deep enough they’ve forgotten what the waves are, if they ever knew.”

Patrick Masterson’s take:

In a way, I’m tor[r]n. Tørrfall’s “psychedelic water music” can at times feel languid and flowing as water is, so I see where both the band and Ian are coming from — but what I hear more over these four songs that all clock in between nine and 13 minutes is an alien drone, something elemental but not necessarily earthen. The key to that otherworldliness is Nils Erga’s synthesizer work and wordless vocals: Hovering like a UFO over the rubbery, at times counterintuitive basslines of Kristoffer Riis and Thore Warland’s rainshower percussion, Erga graces these tracks with an omnipresent ethereality that suggests terrain not entirely our own. The music can’t help but follow: Not quite jazz, not quite krautrock, not quite drone, not quite house or techno, Tørrfall skirts the fringes of each to make an entrancing, immersive sonic universe (calling it a mere world feels insufficient) all its own that, headphones or speakers, the louder you play it, the more unsettling it gets. I can’t imagine how these guys must translate live.

Wound Man — Human Outline (Iron Lung)

Human Outline by Wound Man

Who nominated it? Jonathan Shaw

Did we review it? Yes, Jonathan wrote, “The whole record is a barely contained bundle of nerves, electric, hardened, threatening to come completely undone. For those of us walking around in twenty-first-century cities full of anger, suffering and insanity, Human Outline feels infuriatingly apt, mad and full of madness. It’s a terrific record.”

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

In his review, Jon spends a fair amount of time considering which metal subgenre Wound Man belongs to, a subject that I can contribute exactly nothing to. I can say, however, that Wound Man grips and ravages, at slow speeds and fast ones. I like the blistered assaults of “Leashed,” mad forward surges of rabid energy that hurtle forward at mouth-foaming speed, then pull back abruptly, as if on a choke chain. “Punisher” does exactly what the title implies, disintegrating guitar tone into buzzing aggression with sheer force of speed and volume. These cuts are over before they get started—the title track, for instance, is 40 seconds long—but you’ll feel the impact in your gut and ear canal long afterwards.

Yo La Tengo — This Stupid World (Matador)

This Stupid World by Yo La Tengo

Who picked it? Bryon Hayes

Did we review it? Yes. Tim Clarke said of the closing track that it’s "a searingly emotional purge and soothing balm all rolled in one.”

Ian’s take:

These assignments really are actually selected randomly (there are slips of paper and everything!) but it so happens that not only was I already enjoying This Stupid World but that Bryon and I wound up representing Dusted’s Canadian wing at the Toronto stop of YLT’s tour for this record. We had tickets before I got selected to cover it here, even! As a moderate fan of the band (love some classic albums of theirs, have been sorta half-paying-attention to the new stuff for a while now), this is actually the first time I’ve really sat down and engaged with a new Yo La Tengo record in years. That means I can’t really compare it to the last couple, but it feels like I picked a good time to check back in. That closing track, “Miles Away,” might be my favorite song of theirs plus or minus a “Night Falls on Hoboken” (perhaps unsurprisingly, there’s some overlap in vibes there), but overall this is a packed and consistently great 48 minutes. The skronky ones go for it, the gentle ones do in fact soothe, and the deadpan yo-yo tricks on James McNew showcase “Tonight’s Episode” tickled me. To still make records as good as Painful, nearly 30 years after they made Painful? That’s a significant achievement.

Yves Tumor — Praise a Lord Who Chews But Which Does Not Consume; (Or Simply, Hot Between Worlds) (Warp)

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Who nominated it? Patrick Masterton

Did we review it? No

Andrew Forell’s take:

Having been peripherally aware of Yves Tumor I was excited to hear Praise a Lord..., and when it hits it’s very good with Tumor coming on like a latter-day Prince. Their combination of alternative guitars, courtesy of producer Alan Moulder and swaggering RnB is compelling. “God is a Circle,” “Lovely Sewer” and “Operator” have a real edge and a sense of transgressive danger, but other tracks are weighed down by the everything-including-the-kitchen-sink operatics that plague Kevin Barnes’ most indulgent moments with of Montreal. Having said that, this is a really enjoyable, immaculate sounding record and you can’t help but be won over by Tumor’s charismatic performance and their willingness to take risks.

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