#Brazilian Vinyls

[mamoods]

Verde que te Quero Rosa, 2023

Allan Machado

[soulfulinvention]

[ghostieking]

pile of LPs I scored for free today plus some highlights

[mywifeleftme]

253: Gilberto Gil // Gilberto Gil [1968]

Gilberto Gil Gilberto Gil 1968, Philips

Robert Christgau and I find ourselves in the same boat when it comes to understanding tropicália. Here’s the first line of the Dean’s capsule review of Gilberto Gil’s Soy Loco Por Ti America (1988): “Milton Nascimento and Caetano Veloso are aesthetes like, to be kind, Joni Mitchell; Gil is a pop adept like Stevie Wonder, which I'd probably think was kind to Stevie if I understood Gil's lyrics.” Like Christgau, I’m stuck on the wrong side of Portuguese but gravitate more toward the exuberant weirdness of a Gil or a Tom Zé than I ever have to the comparatively restrained Veloso (though I like some of Nascimento a lot). Language barrier or no, Gilberto Gil’s first self-titled record from 1968 (sometimes called Frevo Rasgado after its first track) is among the most colourful LPs of the first psychedelic era, and on pure sonics I’d make the case for it as the equal of anything that emerged from the Anglo-American axis during the period.

As with other tropicália touchstones, while Gil borrows many of the aesthetics of psych pop (its vivid, lysergic pomp and tasty electric guitar textures principally), his compositions are still founded in samba and bossa jazz, which means these songs are much nimbler and more rhythmically complex than those of his counterparts in the Northern Hemisphere. For every track that plunges directly into acid rock (a la the swaggering blues of “Coragem pra suportar”), there are three that ecstatically cartwheel from zanily-orchestrated hook to hook; on wildly gesticulating songs like “Marginalia II” and “Frevo Rasgado” I can see what Christgau’s getting at when he says Gil writes showtunes. Gil’s lyrics survive translation better than most, and they’re a lot bleaker than you’d expect, chafing under the military dictatorship that would imprison and then exile him and his friend Veloso in 1969. Yet there’s also something about his vocalizations that you just kinda get. Perhaps inspired by his youthful collaborators, the irrepressible Dadaist weirdos Os Mutantes, Gil gibbers, scats, and raves his way through the LP: at the record’s hottest, like “Pega a voga, cabeludo,” it feels like a maniac conga line winding its way through your home.

Prices on recent reissues of Gil, Veloso, Gal Costa, etc. amount to highway robbery, though I was able to get my copy of Gilberto Gil for quite cheap as it’s an unauthorized (but quite good) Russian pressing. However you get your hands on it, the album earns its reputation as a classic of Brazilian and world music that I think every pop music lover should hear.

253/365

[leodarno]

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

🎛️

Não temos culpa de nascer no terceiro mundo!

[niharsavala]

Listen/purchase: Acute Fun Monopoly by Nihar

Recorded, Produced & Mixed at Mastosho Studios

Mastered by John McCaig, panicStudios

Artwork by Avalokitaa

[dilemmaontwolegs]

What a Mess || CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!reader Summary: After the disastrous start to the Brazilian GP, Charles needs an outlet Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, smut, oral, rough sex, choking WC: 1.3k

Charles didn’t say a word as he navigated his way through the garage to you. His team patted his back and offered words of consolation but he didn’t feel them, he didn’t hear them. All Charles needed was an outlet for the blood pulsing through his body with all the rage of an inferno.

You were on your feet as soon as you saw him round the corner and though you couldn’t see his eyes through the visor of his helmet you knew that they would have darkened with the storm of emotions ravaging him. He didn’t stop as he reached you, merely reaching out after ripping the glove off his hand and grasping your upper arm to tow you along with him.

“Charles, I’m so sor-”

“Don’t,” he spat, the tone clipped and acerbic. “Don’t say another word.”

You kept your lips closed and nodded as you let him guide you out of the sight of his team. The garage wasn’t as permanent as some of the other tracks, with temporary walls erected from thin materials, so silence was needed when he shut the door to his driver room. You watched as Charles grabbed a chair and shoved the metal back up under the door handle before testing its durability. 

Your fingers were already reaching for the zipper at the side of your dress as he tugged his helmet off his head and let it fall to the concrete floor with a crack. He tugged his balaclava off next and dumped it next to your dress at your feet as you reached for him. For a moment he closed his eyes and let you cradle his face, the lack of crease lines on his cheeks showing just how little he spent wearing the protective gear. You would do anything to see Charles race again - really race, like he did last year. 

Somehow he still had hope for next year.

But what he needed now, well, Ferrari couldn’t give that to him. Only you could give him what he needed. An escape.

“Turn around,” he whispered as he caught your hands and pulled them away from his face. “Bend over.”

You complied in an instant, eager for the pleasure he promised and the high he was chasing. Your hands spread across his massage table as you pressed your front down onto the cold black vinyl and heard the velcro snap of his collar before the zipper was dragged down his race suit.

“Don’t make a sound,” he breathed across your skin and you shivered with delight as dropped to his knees behind you. “Fuck, you’re already so wet for me.”

His palms grasped your ass, roughly massaging them as he watched you squirm on the table impatiently. Next came his teeth, a chuckle following the bite to the sensitive skin at the back of your thigh as your back stiffened with the sounds you barely suppressed. His strong hands pushed your stance wider and his breath was heavy at the sight before him.

Finally. Finally, he buried his head between your legs and dragged his tongue along your slit. You couldn’t hear his moan when he tasted you but you could feel the vibrations on your core and your nails nearly pierced the vinyl at the sensation.

Charles worked you into a frenzy with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. He wasn’t happy until your legs could barely hold you without buckling and your silence was broken with a muffled cry. One orgasm rolled into the next and you lost yourself in the heady feeling, your mind empty save for the man who rose to his feet behind you.

“You’re a mess,” he whispered in your ear as he draped his body over yours, pride thick in his tone. You relished the weight that pinned you in place and the warmth of his skin on yours, barely being able to remember when he had stripped his fireproofs off. Charles’ hand fisted your hair and turned your head to crane back enough to see his green eyes jaded. “You’re a mess, just like me.”

Whatever argument you might have put up was swallowed by his kiss and it was just as messy with teeth and tongue. You melted at the growl he gave as he won the fight for dominance as he always did and a hand slipped between your bodies as he lined himself up with your entrance. 

“Putain,” he swore as he reverted back to his native tongue. Your neck was still strained and the ability to talk or even swallow was almost impossible but still a strangled sound escaped as he snapped his hips and filled your cunt with one hard thrust. “Shhh, ma chat.”

You tried, you really tried, but your brain was no longer connected to your body as he fucked you into a mindless state. Your eyes rolled back into your head with each long stroke and your ability to breathe was lost when he bent his knees and somehow found a deeper angle. 

There was no hope of keeping quiet when he found the sweet spot deep inside you and whatever he saw on your face had his hand curling around your throat. The sound that was building deep in your chest was choked with his tightening fingers and your heartbeat began to throb in your ears. 

Your head spun and your body reacted, your hips bucking and your core tightening. Just when you thought you were going to have to reach for his hand, his fingers loosened and your lungs gasped for fresh air before it was stolen again. He knew what you could handle, and you knew you could trust him. He needed this as much as you did. He needed to be in control of something when it seemed everything was out of his reach. You were more than willing to let him control you. 

This time when your orgasm came your cunt clenched tight around his cock and he trembled at the feeling. He called you his vice, in every sense of the word, and he relinquished the control he had yearned for as he lost himself in his own blissful release. 

For a few moments he just lay there, draped across your body like a comforting blanket but all too soon the noise of the world around returned to your drumming ears and reality drew him from you. 

“Why the fuck am I so unlucky?” he asked as he swiped his clothes from the floor, but you weren’t sure if he was asking the universe, himself or you.

“There’s no such thing as luck, Charles,” you answered anyway. His eyes flicked to you and watched your skin disappear beneath the dress you pulled back on. “Ferrari is unreliable. If you want to change your ‘luck’, start with changing your team.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he sighed. He kicked the chair aside that blocked the door before opening it and brushing his sweaty hair back into place. “I’ll see you tonight?”

He shouldn’t have had to ask and his insecurities only made you sad as you stepped closer to him. You caught his chin between your thumb and forefinger, tipping his head down so you could see your reflection in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

His smile almost chased away the shadows on his face before he kissed you, soft and gentle this time. “I should go.”

“You smell like sex.”

He froze and realised he hadn’t even been thinking clearly enough to wash his face and after running his tongue over his lips he could still taste you. A real smile grew on his face and his head fell forward to touch yours with a laugh. “Oh my god, I told you I am a mess.”

“Yes, you are,” you agreed with a laugh as you closed the door again. “But this is a mess that I can help with. Come on, take a seat, it’s my turn to boss you around.”

[brightgoat]

was naming the stand dimesion 'the flipside' a fnaf reference? i asked on twitter but im brazilian so even if you answered i cant see it now

Nope, it's named the flipside as a reference to the 'flipped side' of a vinyl record.

[lily-s-world]

Julie and the Phantoms vs. Julie e os Fantasmas

I had recently been practicing my Portuguese and listening to music in that language, which lead me to the soundtrack of Julie e os Fantasmas. The original Brazilian version of the show. Funny how music works, because the more I listened to the songs the more I remembered about the show. Which is why I decided to make a list about the main differences between the shows.

First, the Brazilian cast and the name of their counterparts so you know who am I referring to:

Side note before we start, their music is also pretty cool. My favorite one is Essa noite somos um so (Tonight we are one).  You can find it on Spotify:

The Brazilian show lasted 1 season with 26 episodes, which were divided in two parts from 2011 to 2012. However, the show was always planned with one season only, so it had a proper closure.

In the original version, Julie isn’t dealing with the loss of her mother. Her mother is alive but decided to take a job far away from them, which leads to Julie resenting her because she feels that her mother doesn’t care about them and only shows when it is convenient for her. This makes Julie feel invisible across her life.

Both shows revolve around music and how much Julie loves it. Julie (BR) suffers from stage panic, one of the reasons she had never sing in front of people. The phantoms help her with this. Also, her preferred instrument is the guitar.

The phantoms had a more tragic death on the BR version. They were trying to replicate The Beatles’ Abbey Road cover, but where hit by a truck and died instantly. One member was alive, but he retired from the music industry after the accident. They had been dead for over 30 years and were trapped on a vinyl record instead of a CD.  

The phantoms don’t have their instruments like the new version. After they help Julie with her stage panic, she buys them new instruments and decides to form the band.

The name of the band on the show is Os Insólitos (The Unusuals). They play in different venues and parties across the season. Unlike the new version, they sing the same songs repeatedly across the episodes. There are some special episodes where they reveal a new song.

The Julies share basically the same personality on both shows. Martim and Reggie are also really similar, being a flirt and a little bit clueless. Felix is way more anxious and fearful than Alex, he was scared of ghosts since he was a kid and being turned into one didn’t help with that. Daniel and Luke are probably the ones with different personalities, while Luke is this cutie that falls for Julie almost immediately; Daniel is egocentric and cold at the beginning of the show. It takes a long time for him to warm up to Julie and is resentful against the world for what happened to them. He had a lot of character development during the season.

Pedro (Carlos) and Bia (Flynn) learn about the ghost right after Julie does. Pedro and Martim develop a friendship based on pranks and jokes.

Julie, Pedro and Bia are the only ones that can actually see the phantoms. Whenever they play in the band, they hide behind masks and keep the idea as a mystery to attract followers.

Julie and Thalita (Carrie) were also friends when they were younger. The reason their friendship didn’t lasted, was because Julie realized that Thalita was a bully that picked up on other girls. Julie cut out all communication with her, which Thalita didn’t took well and continued to antagonize her until they were teens.

The main difference is that Caleb doesn’t exist in this original version, there is an agent of the Ghost Police that looks for the boys because he is convinced they escaped the rules of death. They should have crossed over, but never did. There also some kind of ghostbuster that is looking for them.

 At the end of the first part of the season, the boy say goodbye to Julie because they are planning to cross over; however it is later revealed that the ghostbuster capture them. They manage to escape and return with Julie.

Daniel develops feelings for Julie in the second part of the season, Julie also starts liking him, but she also likes Nicolas who had been her crush for years. Nicolas and Julie start spending more time together after he broke up with Thalita, and he develops feelings for Julie. At the end of the show Julie ends up choosing Nicolas, because she had liked him longer and he makes this grand gesture for her at school. She has a talk with Daniel about what they feel, and they both decide to still be friends and continue with the band.

Some fun facts: The show was sponsored by Monster High, so you can see a lot of merchandise in the show; Julie even dresses up as Frankie Stein for a Halloween party. The show was super popular, earning nominations for Kids Awards in LATAM.

[fleet-of-fiction]

Jake Kiszka // Female Narrator

Part Five

After a blinding light eradicates mankind, you're left in a desolate and empty world. A year of solitude eliminates all belief that anyone else was left behind. Until a chance encounter on the side of the road. Jake is injured and fighting for his life, but his presence brings a renewed sense of hope. Touch starved and lonely, you need him. And undoubtedly, he needs you too.

"It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

Explicit sexual content Sex (penetrative & oral) /Foreplay /Blood / Injury / Hunting. / Intense emotions / Death.

Day 469 ~ Jake

The house sat at the top of a steep incline, up a winding driveway that had begun to be reclaimed by nature. Cracks in the cement where little shrubs had started to grow and leaves that were never blown away. Neglected and abandoned.

It reminded me a little of Josh's house. With pristine edges and white walls, coveted by obscure works of art. Book shelves that were gathering dust and kitchen utensils left out on the surfaces as if the owners had just stepped out of the room.

Amelia seemed to know where she was going. "I found this place a couple of months after I moved into Grandma's cabin."

She led me down a narrow corridor, flanked by a bank of full length windows overlooking a sweeping back yard that was shrouded by trees. Photo's of the family who once lived there sitting on the wall opposite, happy faces forever immortalised for no one else to ever see.

"I hit every house within a 10 mile radius. Looking for supplies, anything that I could use. Food, toiletries. And I was about to leave when I noticed this..."

She stopped at the end of the corridor, leaning against a nondescript door. Her face sincere as she ran hands up my arms, coming to rest around my shoulders.

"We have to take whatever joy we can find in this world." She said, "And if we're lucky, we'll take back some of the joys we had before."

I'd known nothing but joy since I'd almost died. There wasn't a single moment I'd had with her that hadn't made me question whether I would take any of it back to have the world filled with every other person I'd ever loved again.

It was something I'd wrestled with. The notion that I could happily exist in a world I'd come to hate simply because she was in it with me. I was thinking about Josh again when she opened the door, simply because I'd been reminded of him. And the certainty within which I knew I wouldn't take any of it back, even if it meant having him back, drew a conflict within the likes of which I'd never known before.

But it was all for nothing. As I stepped into the room she'd been eager to show me, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I loved her enough to never want the old world back.

"Amelia..." I gasped. "What in the...fuck."

Mounted on an oak panelled wall were an array of vintage guitars. A brazilian board 1959 Gibson Les Paul. Shining in the last rays of the afternoon sun. I reached out and touched it, trembling as my fingers remembered what it felt like to know strings. A custom Fender strat in dark red with a black mottled pattern that looked like spilled paint if you looked too closely. A plain red stratocaster and an acoustic Martin dreadnought with a mahogany neck.

"I know that you said you didn't play anymore. Not without your brothers. But I think you should play again. For them. To them. And maybe somehow, I don't know how insane it might be, but maybe they'll hear you. Wherever they are..."

She was nervous. Biting her lip and wringing her hands in the sleeves of her sweater. Anticipating that I'd reject the sweetness of her idea, of this perfect gift.

"You brought me here because you knew that I would love it, didn't you?" I asked, although it wasn't really a question.

"Is that so bad?" She replied, opening her arms as if I would somehow be mad at her.

The room was decked out with framed vinyls. Some were so old I'd never seen them before. There were a few more guitars leaned up against the opposite wall and a beaten up drum kit in the window. It looked as if it had been played to death, with the cymbals hanging off and the kick drum looked as if one more pound on it would tear it right in half.

"It's not bad at all, why would you think that?" I pulled her into me, her little body slotting into my embrace like it had always meant to be there. "Just because I said I didn't play anymore doesn't mean I wouldn't love this."

She rested her head against my shoulder. Let me sway her back and forth a little. Everything was so eerily quiet. Up here the wind howled a little more than it did around the cabin. It sounded like ghosts were singing to us, begging me to pick up one of those fine old ladies.

"Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe I just wanted to hear you for myself." She looked up at me, resting her lips on my jawline.

"Plenty have paid for the privilege." I replied, "What will you pay me for a private show?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I saved your life. This is you paying me, sweet thing."

She laughed and buried her face into my neck, kissing me there and holding me tight around my waist. Familiar and wholesome. Like she hadn't tried to push me away at all in the beginning.

She was the most incredible woman I had ever known. Her fears were like shadows now, she had this uncanny ability to turn them into her most beloved passions. Once she had been afraid to love me. And now, the ways in which she loved me were making me feel unworthy of it.

"Sometimes I don't think you realise how much you saved me." I told her, casting my eye on the acoustic. "Not just from that car wreck. But from a life of misery."

Of course I would play for her. If not her, then nobody. She made herself comfortable on a shaggy looking bean bag, folding herself into it and resting her head against her curled fist as she regarded me. I pulled the mahogany acoustic down from the wall, not wanting to tend to wires and amps just yet.

I considered coming up with something on the fly, but it had been so long since I had tinkered with strings that my mind began to wander so far away I couldn't make them work. I strummed a little, hearing the notes play out and something weird happened. I thought I'd never feel this ever again, this visceral wave that washed over me to the point of almost growing hard as I felt the back of the guitar against my groin.

Her eyes widened. She wasn't prepared.

"How does it make you feel, to have an audience again?" She asked softly, seductively.

The strings needed tuning a little. I turned the keys at the top of the neck, plucking out chords until they sounded pitch perfect.

"Sexy." I replied, "I always felt sexy whenever I went out on stage. They made me feel sexy. Kinda the same way you are now. Knowing they want to fuck you every time you play for them."

I didn't realise how much I missed the adrenaline. The feral cries of a crowd. Their voices rising in unison. Lights and screaming and the feeling that I might ascend with their love. I'd been someone in my life before. I'd known what it felt like to open my eyes and know I was doing something I loved completely. I hadn't felt like this in what felt like a life time.

"This is who you are, Jake." She uttered, sliding her hand down the curve of her hips. "You can't run from who you are forever."

I felt as if I didn't deserve her. For all she had done for me, for how incredible she was. There was no crowd that could ever compare to the way I felt in that moment playing for her.

"I can't sing our songs like Josh could." I confessed, "I'd be a poor imitation. But I'll try."

I couldn't hold the same power with my voice that my brother could. The part of me that had promised never to play again still sat in the shadows whispering to me that it would never be the same. But louder than that was Amelia's face watching me strum out the first chords of a song that meant everything to me.

"What's it called?" She asked.

Day 469 ~ Amelia

I knew he would love it. I'd all but forgotten about the little music room at the back of the big house on the corner of the road that led into Lafayette. It had meant nothing to me the first time I'd ventured in there. There was nothing in there that was of any use to me.

But today, it was like seeing the sun peek out from a grey cloud. I'd gone from doing everything in my power to ensure that he was never necessary to me, to doing everything in my power just to see him smile.

"It's called Broken Bells." He replied, "Josh used to say that it was about seeing that when things sometimes feel broken most of the time they're just lessons sent to help us see that everything will be alright in the end. I really wish he could be here to see that he was so fucking right."

What would I have done if he hadn't felt the same? I could feel myself dying a little inside at the melancholy way he played. His face expressing his grief. He played so hauntingly beautifully, in a way I hadn't really been prepared for. He closed his eyes and didn't even need to look at the way his fingers moved across the strings. He knew them, and they responded to him so lovingly. Almost as if they were an entity all of their own, able to come when he called.

If he hadn't have loved me in return I'd have been driven mad by it. Every rational bone in my body broken if I'd been forced to live beside him unrequited. I began to understand how lucky and fortunate I was as he began to sing. That he and I were somehow fated. And it wasn't just a coincidence that he was driving past me that day. He was creation and I was necessity. He'd made music for a world that needed to hear it and I'd treated them when they were sick. And for some unfathomable reason, we'd been left behind to exist together in this empty world.

But empty didn't have to mean broken. There was nothing but love in the world again. Nothing but this painful song that made tears spill from my eyes as I watched him and listened. What if this song was the only one being played? And the only one being listened to? I had hope that if anyone else had been left behind that they had somehow managed to find each other and find love within it.

"That was...beautiful." I sobbed, laughing at myself for crying at it.

He put down the guitar and came to me. Launching himself into the bean bag, the scrunchy sound of tiny styrofoam balls moving around as he wiggled into the space beside me.

"It always got an emotional reaction whenever we played it." He sighed, trailing soft palms down the side of my face. "It felt like people resonated with our songs for all different kinds of reasons. But with Broken Bells it always felt we were all on the same page. All of us feeling the same thing at the same time."

How could I have ever doubted him? This beautiful man with his beautiful music?

"I was just thinking, while you were playing it, that I hoped that somewhere out there that other people were listening to songs for the first time. That they'd found each other and found love, even in a world seemingly broken." I countered, feeling the heat of that familiar rush when I knew he was about to make love to me.

"If they aren't, then we have to love for all of those who can't." He said, trailing kisses down my jaw line.

Sometimes it felt silly. The things we said to each other. Things in the dead of night. In the cold light of day. In the middle of the afternoon when he was at his most sleepy, when he would linger in the kitchen looking to score a bowl of stew or soup before curling up on the couch with a book before he would fall asleep.

Even now, I could feel him nuzzle in. Our bodies entwined on the bean bag lazily tracing his thumb over my nipple as he sucked the flesh on my neck into perfect little shapes of his mouth.

"So, you really do like it?" I checked, just wanting to hear him say it one more time.

"Oh, yeah." He yawned, "That Les Paul is coming home with us for sure. And maybe I'll come back for the Strat, too."

I was wearing the black yoga pants I saved for hiking. The ones that I wore to collect fire wood. To muck out the horses and clear out the chicken coop. I never felt particularly sexy in them, or desirable. It felt almost like we'd become accustomed to seeing each other in our most desolate states.

But when he slipped them down around the curve of my ass and hitched me around so I was facing away from him, I was glad that I'd worn them. The way he pressed his hard on into my back and continued to roll my nipple around between his fingers as he breathed harder into my ear was the blessing I'd needed to know that I'd done the right thing.

We were both tired from the hike. Our bodies crying out for rest. The afternoon sun began to slip away, making room for cloud and darkness. I was acutely aware that there was no power in this house. No electricity. No running water. No heat. It was in my mind to interrupt his ministrations with these facts, but as his hand slipped below, coming up into my entrance from behind, I lost all manner of speech.

"You gonna let me thank you properly?" He asked, slaking two fingers inside me slowly. "Be my good girl and let me show you how much I love you?"

I was in no mood to protest. I watched the light outside fade as he ran stripes up my slit and into my clit. Whispering obscenities and freeing himself one handedly as he played with me. Letting his cock rest between his stomach and the curve of my ass, leaking a little against our flesh.

"Can you feel it?" He breathed, "How much I love you?"

It was all I could feel. There was no house. No darkness. No eerie silence as the wind rushed through the trees. Howling like there was someone out there to hear it. Only Jakes breath, the bean bag as it shuffled beneath us, and the sound of my untamed scream as he penetrated me.

He didn't try to quieten me. Buffeting my wild moans with deep thrusts that came like chasms to break me in half. Each time he bottomed out, he savoured it. Taking the briefest of moments to feel me clenched around him before pulling back slowly. The need to fuck and the need to sleep battling it out for supremacy.

"Pretty fucking grateful, aren't you?" I replied, leaning my head back into his waiting mouth.

When he was like this, all in need and eager to satisfy any way that he could, I often thought back to how it had been that first time. On the ground in the mud, knees caked in it and the earth beating in time with us. And how in the time since, we'd leisurely made love on the kitchen floor some mornings. In the shower, just stroking each other to pass the time. Him, on top of me, in the bed we now shared. And me, arms around the trunk of a tree whilst he fucked me from behind out in the woods even though it was still a little cold out there.

"For this pussy? Always." He purred into my ear, like he was serenading me.

I knew that I'd never tire of it. The way he felt inside me. The way he fit so perfectly. I never felt so full, like something had been made just for me. He wasn't just rhythm and blues, he was equipped to make me quiver with the mere mention that he might take me right there and then.

I'd lament it later on. How all my lovers before him had been lacking. How I'd swiped left and right, attended blind dates and settled when I shouldn't have. For men that couldn't make me cum or men who couldn't text me back.

"Mmmmm..." I murmured softly, arching against his quickening pace. "It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

The gentle laughter that expelled from his mouth against the shell of my ear was like summer rain. Teasing my senses, touch taste and scent. His hair was sweat drenched at his temples, as it often was when he fucked me, and I could taste the salt of it in his kiss.

"She speaks so highly of me." He breathed, "Now let her know no other man will ever have her..."

He would claim me. Over and over again. Even when there was no other to counter his claim. I let his hand wrap around my throat, edging me to the distance it would take to push me over the edge of the world. Thrusting into me so hard my entire body shook. I knew the bean bag had ripped at some point, sending the tiny little white foam balls scattered across the room. But I didn't care.

I'd keep finding them in strange places for weeks afterwards. As he rolled me onto the floor and continued to pound me, vicious and unrelenting. He'd never silenced my mewling cries before, content to let them ring out into the ether.

But not this time. It was like his gratitude couldn't be satisfied until he could hear the one sound he desired. His body raged on top of mine, our clothes half on and half off. His sweaty palm came to rest over my open mouth. Muffling my cries to a dull humm. His eyes silently pleading with me to let them die. And to just listen...

"Hush." He encouraged, resting his mouth against the back of his hand as he continued.

There it was. Against the backdrop of the breeze outside. The sound of how wet I was. His cock hitting my satiated pussy. Moist flesh against moist flesh. The most inconceivable feeling washed over me. This man, the only man that ever was, wanted to silence my mouth only to better hear the sound of my pussy being fucked.

And the drop of his eyelids as he listened had me in another state of being. Half closed and fucked with desire for the way it slipped in and out, wet and completely his.

"Thankyou, my love." He whispered, before he allowed himself to cum.

I was never certain if it was for the music, or the way I let him fuck me. I didn't really care. I let my own orgasm rise moments later, the two of us breathless and spent on the gutted belly of that old bean bag.

Day 470 ~ Amelia

We hunkered down for the night. Choosing to make our way back at first light, gathering all the blankets we could find and sleeping on the couches that were, quite simply, more luxurious than any couch we could have gotten in the cabin.

Jake took the one opposite me, falling asleep first. His gentle snores lulling me into my own dreams. It felt like no time had passed at all before my eyes sprang open, the red of morning creeping in.

I rubbed my eyes and stretched. Taking a moment to recall where I was. This place was eerie, even in daylight. And I wished that there were something, anything...that would remind me that people had once lived here. The ticking of a clock, perhaps. Or the grass being cut outside. I could have laid there a little longer, still tired and drowsy, but I was eager to be gone.

I kicked off the blankets and expected Jake to be laying there, ever the one to wake up last, but my heart fell into my stomach at the sight of the empty couch. Blankets still left precisely where he had kicked them off.

"Jake?!" I called, expecting his voice to filter down the hall from the music room.

Silence.

"Jake?!" I called again, pulling on my pants and shoes as I made my way through the house.

I expected to find him gathering up all the instruments he wanted to take. Agonising over which ones to take now and which ones to come back for. But there was nothing but the aftermath of what we'd done. And all the guitars were accounted for.

"Jake, this isn't funny." I cried, checking behind the curtains like a child playing hide and seek. "Jake, I'm being serious now!!!"

Panic began to rise in my chest. My heart soaring, making me dizzy as I flew through the house. Room after room coming up empty.

"Jake!!!" I screamed, running now. "Jake please!!!"

Had I ever given myself permission to imagine this, I would have driven myself mad. That one day he would simply vanish, like everyone else had, and truly I would have walked to my death in that moment. I had no desire to live in a world void of the man I loved.

"JACOB!!!" My voice broke on his name as I fell out of the door and into the back yard. "PLEASE!!!!"

I fell to my knees on gravel. Crying. Racking sobs expelled from me as I took fists full of tiny pebbles that cut into my flesh as I squeezed. I felt as if I couldn't breathe. My chest was tight, all the horror of him disappearing coursing through my veins as tears spilled down my flushed cheeks.

"Jake, I can't do this...you have to come back..." I begged, broken and beyond redemption.

In a matter of moments I'd gone from waking up, to screaming on my knees. I'd have thought it a nightmare had I not already endured one. The reality of this feeling was one I knew. Only this time, intensified by a love that had known no bounds. I could live in an empty world before I'd ever known him.

Not anymore.

To be Continued...

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@caprisunsister @thewritingbeforesunrise @takenbythemadness @katuschka @its-interesting-van-kleep @lvnterninthenight @writingcold @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @edgingthedarkness @velveteencatch @lyndz2names @nina-23-45 @itsafullmoon @vikingisthenewsexy @char289

[mywifeleftme]

150: Luiz Carlos Vinhas // O som psicodélico de L.C.V.

O som psicodélico de L.C.V. Luiz Carlos Vinhas 1968, CBS (Bandcamp)

This album is so fucking good, ay ay ay. Pianist Luiz Carlos Vinhas was a founding member of the bossa nova movement who played with the instrumental trio Bossa Três; as a sideman for Jorge Ben and many others; and released a handful of solo records, of which his ’64 debut Novas Estruturas (New Structures) is the most acclaimed—though it’s sadly as desperately rare as the rest of his catalogue. A fine album in its own right, Novas Estruturas is laid back bossa jazz that will class up any joint lucky enough for it to be played in, but 1968’s O som psicodélico de L.C.V. (The Psychedelic Sound of L.C.V.) is on a different level. In the four years since his debut, Vinhas has clearly drawn influence from the burgeoning Tropicália movement. If L.C.V.’s not quite as deliciously off-meds as Gilberto Gil or Tom Zé’s releases from the same year, it’s at least their equal in colour and pure festive pleasure.

The trio of Vinhas originals on the A-side testify to the album’s carnivalesque range: on “Tanganica” (possibly named for a province in the Congo) simulated birdcalls scream around a twanging electric guitar, samba percussion, and a series of stirring trumpet solos; on the militant “Yê-Melê” (which Sérgio Mendes would cover the following year), the music switches between pounding Afro-Cuban piano and strafing organ runs, while a chorus of female vocalists and a group of trumpeters take turns riling up the audience; “Zize-Baio” (Google Translate shrugs its shoulders at me) is pure pop, with a rising instrumental hook that continues to build pleasure until the song cuts just over two minutes in and you feel a little ruffled it’s over so soon. But life goes on, and Vinhas’s band throw everything at you: a stunning rendition of Horace Silver’s “Song to My Father,” a trio of inventive medleys on the B-side that find time for Ary Barroso and “Chatanooga Choo-Choo” alike, the attack of pure mania that is the motormouthed “O Dialogo” (another Vinhas original), and on and on.

Only reissued for the first time in 2020 by Mad About Records, my copy is a weird bootleg that appears to be from ’68 and is identical to the hyper-rare original release, aside from differently coloured labels on the disc itself. Considering the price of bossa nova original pressings, I feel lucky to have it, and though I’m no expert in the genre, it’s hard to imagine this ever falling from its high perch among my favourites.

150/365

[leodarno]

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Cazuza – Boas Novas

[kulapti]

Bookbinding of L'Ombre de ton ombre by windfallswest, Dec 2023.

L'ombre de ton ombre (Fantastic Beasts, Percival Graves x Credence Barebone) is another of my favorite Fantastic Beasts fanfics. It is a novel-length work that deals sensitively with the characters' experiences of grief, depression, and healing. The story has a strong visual element, with the setting and landscape playing a prominent role in the story: the landscape is beautiful and isolated, which fits appropriately parallels the characters' slow process of learning how to live again and appreciate beauty, while emphasizing the difference between being isolated in your struggles and being companionably alone with someone. Treating mental illness is often a long haul, and the structure and resolution of this story addresses that fact with a balance of frankness and optimism.

About this project under the cut.

The gorgeous endpapers are marbled paper by Brazilian artist @renato-crepaldi. Since the landscape is important to the story, I specifically wanted endpapers that reminded me of the Australian badlands. I literally looked for months until I saw this paper before finishing the book. I was so pleased with this!

I'm honestly not entirely convinced by the pinkish tone of the cover, but I made this book to be part of a set of four, and I do think it matches nicely with the others in the set (here's another one of the four).

The frontispiece art is an edited version of J.J. Audubon's illustration of gyrfalcons. Yes, bird guy Audubon. I love this falcon illustration and falcons play a symbolic role in the text, so it was a great excuse!

Materials: Textblock is archival paper, laser printed text, marbled endpapers, with linen and beeswax stitching, reinforced with cotton cheesecloth as mull. Sewn endbands are cotton embroidery floss. Covers are Italian rayon bookcloth (spine) and hand-dyed cotton batik backed with handmade wood pulp paper (ink-like cover pattern). Cover lettering is machine-cut metallic heat transfer vinyl. The case is constructed of archival bookboard, handmade wood-paper, cotton rag paper, and PVA craft glue.