#loft jazz

[dustedmagazine]

Alan Braufman — Infinite Love, Infinite Tears (Valley of Search)

Photo by Gabriela Bhaskar

A veteran of the New York loft jazz scene, alto saxophonist and flautist Alan Braufman is best known for his 1975 album Valley of Search notable as the only recording from the free jazz performance space founded by Braufman, Cooper-Moore, David S. Ware and Chris Amberger at 501 Canal St. On his latest album, Braufman smooths off some of the rough edges of his early work and his collaborations with Cooper-Moore whilst retaining a joyous, exploratory tone. Braufman takes a heavily rhythmic approach to his music both in his choice of line-up and his own playing. On alto, he favors a reedy staccato approach whether building intensity in unison with tenor player James Brandon Lewis or soloing, Braufman tends to circle his themes, adding detail, darting through the register.

The two longest tracks illustrate the album’s title. “Spirits” is the love. This up-tempo major key piece opens with Chad Taylor’s straight ahead beat as Ken Filiano lays down a funk bass line. Patricia Brennan’s vibraphone floats almost pianistic above them before the reeds enter, bright. Braufman takes the first solo, pushing high in short bursts. His clarity and harmonic control remain as he extends his notes and skirts dissonance. Lewis follows his tone in a muscular fashion, his solo pitched somewhere in Coltrane’s mid period, melodic but moving outward as he piles ever more notes into each bar, the rhythm section responding in rumbling waves. Patricia Brennan’s vibraphone evokes Bobby Hutcherson with its warm tone and oblique routes through the polyrhythms of Taylor and percussionist Michael Wimberly. Braufman and Lewis reenter circling one another before merging into a triumphant fanfare.

“Liberation,” the tears, is darker. The track builds from Filiano’s resonant arco and a febrile clatter of percussion. The horns sound a foreboding lament, before branching into impassioned solos that evoke struggle against binding chains. Brennan works beatific figures over the rising register of the bass before Braufman and Lewis return to the fray, freer now as Filiano drops his bow to allow his fingers to roam the fretboard. Each reiteration of the lament is met with increased resistance. It ends ebbing back to the beginning. Whatever progress made mired in the ahistorical stasis of the present. Bleak as a history, it is a graceful tribute to forbearance and a magnificent piece of music.

Andrew Forell

[b1lliesb1ues]

Loft Jazz, Manhattan by queer feminist photographer Val Wilmer

Ed Blackwell, Dewey Redman, Ornette Coleman, Charlie Haden, at Prince Street May 1971 © Val Wilmer

Ornette Coleman

Sam Rivers, Joe Daley

Thelonious Monk

(via Manhattan’s Long Lost Era of Loft Jazz)

[sesiondemadrugada]

The Jazz Loft According to W. Eugene Smith (Sarah Fishko, 2015).

[fuchinobe]

Live At The Montreux Jazz Festival 1980 (1980, Latin Percussion Ventures, LPV 474)

[lascitasdelashoras]

Eugene Smith - The jazz loft

[5516-minutes]

i kinda love that whenever i come up with an AU that involves carlos or oscar it automatically includes charles and lando

[american-tabloid]

[arbitrarykiwi]

Third Times a Charm: Taste Test 1/3

Nam-Gyu (Player 124) x AFAB Reader smut series

Summary: you ran into him three separate times. First was at a party, second time was at a club. And like his favorite drugs, he was addicted. The third time? Well he wasn’t going to let you get away so easy. Third times a charm and he was going to get his fix. ((Non-squid games au))

Warnings: smut(18+), drug usage(be safe, don’t do drugs, i don’t condone drug usage, all that jazz), mixing substances (…it’s a Gyu fic…there’s gonna be drugs) alcohol mentions, sex while under the influence, fingering, dirty talk, choking, exhibitionism, (he fingers you at a party), proof read but im dyslexic so spelling errors, read at your own risk

Additional chapters: Taste Test 2/3 , Bodytalk 3/3

The first time you ran into him was a house party.

You weren’t sure how you even ended up there- maybe a friend through a friend? You didn’t care, you were here for a good time!!

The music was loud, bodies were crowded around in someone’s loft apartment, drinks were flowing, and drugs were being passed around. You find yourself people watching as you sip from a solo cup filled with some liquor. Your friend group brings you out of a trance. Your mostly empty cup is thrown to the ground and someone replaces it with a shot.

“C’mon! take it and then hit this shit!” Your friend says pointing to the shot glass then she holds up her hand. On the top of her hand, along the back of her thumb was a white substance that you were familiar with. Wasn’t your drug of choice- but right now it seemed like just what you needed. You imagined that the heightened experience the substance would give you would only help to make this night more fun.

You quickly take the shot, the liquor burning your throat. “Now for your chaser!!” Your friend laughed and cheered, holding up her hand with the white powder.

Your nose brushes her hand, inhaling the powder and bringing your head back with a sigh. Immediately your senses are heightened, you feel like you’re buzzing and soon you’re laughing along with the group of girls who excitedly cheer on your escapades.

Your friends drag you into the crowd, the loud thrum of the music enchanting you into following them, a sway in your hips as you make your way into the sea of dancing bodies.

In the massive wave of dancing party goers- you got separated from your friends somehow, the music and substances keeping you dancing alone in the sea of people you seemed to pay no attention to. The loud vibrating bass of the song has your hips swaying, your arms running over the sides of your own body before reaching up into your hair. You felt free, all in your own little world, the drugs and alcohol in your blood stream making you feel like you're flying.

His hand snaked around the left side of your waist, across your stomach, securing itself on the right side of your waist, pulling you back against him.

You could turn around and throw a punch…but the skillful way his hips move against yours, the way his cologne fills your nose, and not to mention the multiple substances in your system, you find yourself moving your hips with his hand guiding you.

You tilt your head back to get a look at who is dancing behind you. He had dark eyes, dark hair to match. His hair was just long enough to tuck behind his ears, strands falling loose as he leans down to your ear. A silver chain is around his neck that falls tantalizingly between his collarbones. You smile sweetly at him.

“Here I was thinking I’d have to ask for your name first.” He says, a low timbre in his voice as he squeezes the small of your waist for emphasis.

His voice sends a shiver up your back. It’s a low gravely tone that tickles the shell of your ear. It has a mocking, degrading lilt to it, one that makes this all the more exciting.

“Maybe I want to do it different…” You found yourself humming as you turn yourself towards him, arms finding purchase around his shoulders. Your fingers play with the hair that sits at the base of his neck- an attempt to tease him or to ground yourself from the raging high, you weren’t sure.

His eyebrows raise as he looks down at you, his pupils blown and the whites of his eyes tinged red- at least he was just as fucked up as you, if not more. A look of a strange intrigue washes over his face as he looks you over. He’s overt about it, eyes looking at the swell of your breasts that is visible thanks to the low v-cut shirt you decided to wear.

It’s sleazy. But it’s so hot.

“Different, huh?” He hums, his arm around the small of your back keeping you pressed against him. You can feel the growing hard on that’s tenting his black slacks. He’s shameless about it too, making sure to maneuver your lower half over his erection with a deliberate guidance. “And how do you intend to do that, pretty thing?” He added with a tilt of his head, looking down at you with a smirk that you were sure was a drug in itself, making you feel higher the more you stared at him.

“You’ll have to earn it. Impress me and I’ll give you my name.” You say as you reach up to grab the silver chain that’s around his neck, pulling at it. He leans down, his face inches away from yours. You can feel the way his breath hitches as stares at your lips then to your eyes. “You think you could do that?” You say with a grin, your lips brushing against his as you spoke.

He chuckles, a low vibration that has you spinning. You could swear he was in your brain with how the deep laugh of his resounded throughout your mind and ignited goose bumps over your whole body. You can’t even respond before he swings you back around. Your back once again pressed to his chest as he slips a leg between yours, hovering you above his thigh as he moves your hips back against him.

It’s as if you are in another world, just you and him. Your eyes flutter shut and you let out a sigh of ecstasy. The people around you don’t matter, the music just a distant bass to keep the tempo of your hips. You were sure you couldn’t even focus enough to hear the lyrics if you tried. All that mattered was the feeling of his back pressed to yours, the feeling of the drugs and alcohol in your system, his rough hands gripping at the plush of your hips, and his hard on digging at the small of your back.

It was quick motion, one he did with such strategy you didn’t even realize what was happening until you felt the rough material of his pants drag against your core. Your eyes shoot open and a gasp leaves your mouth as he moves you in a deliciously slow back and forth motion along his thigh.

He guided you against him with a fluidity that had you second guessing just how much drugs you did. His head drops low once again to press his face against the side of your head. He takes a deep breath that has a shiver running up your spine as he shamelessly breathes in your scent. One of his hands travels from your hip, up your torso, and over your breasts to your sternum. Stopping there, his large hand is splayed across your collar bones, his thumb rubbing at the base of your neck.

Loud music be dammed, he was going to feel you come undone. And if he couldn’t hear the small whines and pants of breath that spilled out of your mouth while he moved you against his thigh- contributing to the growing wet spot in your panties- he was going to feel it.

He was feeling your breaths. The way your breath hitched when he flexed his thigh, the way it caught in your throat if he ground you down just a little bit harder, the way your chest rose- your whine lost to the loud music, when he ran his hand higher on the column of your neck, threatening to begin squeezing.

“How ‘bout this, hm? Impressed you enough?” He hums low, his nose brushing against the shell of your ear. Before you could retort, say some bratty comment, anything…he speaks again. “You can’t even deny it, pretty. I can feel you making a mess on my pants.”

You whimper, feeling embarrassed that you were letting him move you like this in the crowd of people around you that dance along to the music. You know he wasn’t lying either, you could feel the wetness from your panties bleed into his pants, making a mess that only helps him to move you against his thigh.

You just nod, a pathetic response, your head tilting back against his shoulder. You let him manipulate your body against his, his hand moving up your sternum to your neck, grasping at it and pulling you back against him more, tiling your head to look back at him.

“Look at you, fucked up beyond belief…on what is it? 4 different substances.” He rambles with a degrading tone, a large smirk on his face as he takes in the details of your face. Pupils blown, whites of your eyes stained red and your eyebrows turned up in a desperate expression that has a growl resounding from his throat. “And yet here you are…letting me manhandle you like this.”

He swears he could cum right then and there just by the look you were giving him. Eyes hazy and looking back at him with a doe eyed stare, lips parted as you try to find your words.

You can’t feel yourself become hotter, it’s like you can feel every thread of his pants kiss against your clit as he drags you against him. You bite your lip, trying to keep in your sounds, hoping to keep some decorum in the crowded house party. Letting a man you didn’t know get you off on his thigh? How debauched.

But you loved it.

“You poor thing…how am I supposed to learn your name if you can’t even speak.” He says with a chuckle, squeezing at your neck. You watch as he just stares at you, like you were the most delicious thing he ever had the pleasure to lay his eyes on. “I’ll go first…help you out a little, since I’m so nice.”

He snakes his hand on your hip around to the front of your stomach, and then lower, pushing down as he gyrates your hips harder against his thigh.

“W-wait, a-ahh-“ You didn’t even mean to let the wanton plea slip from your lips, but as it does, it just spurs him on. “Feels good doesn’t it?” He chides with a laugh, enjoying how easy you seem to be falling apart under him.

The drugs running through your system don’t help you, they make every feeling 100x more emphasized and it is damn near pathetic how little it’s taking you to get worked up. As much as you wish to say some snarky remark back, you can’t even think straight enough to scold yourself for not having more resilience.

“Name’s Nam-Gyu.” He says simply, stating his name first like he promised, his hand now working to bunch up the front of your skirt. The idea that anyone in this house party could look and see the two of you is still very prevalent but you couldn’t care. He releases your neck only to bring a hand up to your hair at the back of your head and force you to look down. The visual of his hand playing with the small bow of the panties you had on has your eyes fluttering shut with a shaky breath. You force your eyes open to look again. The ring on his pointer finger is cold against the skin of your pubic bone.

His fingers are long and thick, finding their way under your panties and making quick work to dip between your folds, smearing the mess you’ve mad. “Want you to say my name when I make you cum.” He says simply.

He is messy with it, rubbing his fingers between your folds as if he’s trying to memorize how you feel, playing with the arousal that has pooled in your underwear. He moves two fingers against your clit in soft, teasing motions.

He’s truly in his own world, mesmerized by the soft feeling of your pussy against his fingers. He swears he could do this for ages, just simply playing with you. He grins when he feels you grind up into his hand, a desperate attempt to catch your clit on his fingers anytime he pulls them back. God, you have got him hooked. As much as he wants to sit here and take his time with you, your eagerness spurs him on to continue.

He makes quick work of moving his fingers down, circling your entrance teasingly. He catches your eyes again, looking down at you with a hungry and drugged out gaze that leaves you entranced. You can’t find your words, every nerve is lit up by the feeling of his fingers- you swear you can feel his fingerprints, each microscopic ridge ruining you for anyone else that now dares to be with you.

His fingers work diligently, your wetness practically invites his two thick fingers into your cunt. You let out a choked breath, your body going slack. If it wasn’t for his one arm around your torso, you’re sure you would have fallen. When he’s knuckle deep in your walls, he pauses, a moan slipping out of his mouth as he finally feels just how tight you are. Your velvety walls were wrapping his fingers in a constricting vice that he never wants to leave.

His palm grinds into your clit as his fingers scissor themselves inside you. You writhe against him, biting into your lip hard enough to draw blood. It’s a rapid pace that has you twitching against him. It’s almost too much. The drugs in your system has you thinking his fingers were made for your cunt. The way they move in a delicious rhythm, spreading you open before burring deep within your warmth once again to massage the sweet spot inside of you.

“F-fuck N-Nam-Gyu.” You whine out in a desperate attempt to get him to slow down. “There it is…sweet thing.” He coos through gritted teeth, trying to restrain himself from fucking you in the middle of the crowd. “My name sounds so good coming out of your mouth..” He responds, not letting up. You can feel your thighs begin to become covered in your own wetness, his fingers not stopping, keeping up the nearly sadistic, rapid pace.

It’s embarrassing how fast you feel yourself cumming. It’s a wild wave of white hot heat that explodes over your body. You let out a gasp, your mouth soon is covered by his free hand as the gasp quickly turns into an obscene moan. Your sounds are muffled by his hand, your own hands latching onto his forearms in an attempt to keep your body upright. You can hear him growl low as he feels your pussy clench around his fingers in a spasm, your cum spilling out over his knuckles.

“Ohh…fuck….there you go.” He hisses as he finger fucks you through your orgasm. “Squeezing my fingers so hard…shit you’d feel so good around my cock…” He growls, more to himself than you but it has just as much as an effect.

He grips your chin, turning you to face him. His lips meet yours to swallow your cries as you continue to convulse around his fingers. It’s a mess of teeth and tongue, a desperate and hungry motion. He savors every moment of it- becoming addicted to the taste of your saccharine lips.

He massages you through it, his fingers pumping in gentle curling motions, wanting to drag it out. You whimper against his lips and writhe in his grip as you grind your hips desperately into his hand.

Your lips part with a messy string of saliva. You both are panting, recovering for the oxygen lost. He looks at you as if you’re a marble statue sculpted by the hands of an ancient artist. A rare marvel on display for him and him only.

His thumb runs across your bottom lip, disconnecting the remains of your kiss.

You fall limply back into him, your body twitching from the aftermaths of your orgasm. He drops his hand from your mouth, using it to brush back the mess of hair that was in your face.

You stare blankly at the ceiling as you catch your breath. His fingers are still nestled deep inside you. He nudges your cheek with his nose. His lips pressing gentle kisses on your jaw and then under your ear. “You with me still, sweetness?” He says with a chuckle as he nudges your face again.

You laugh with him, looking over to him and nodding. “That was…” You lose your voice as you try and catch your breath, a blissed out smile on your face. “Impressive?” He says jokingly, recalling the game he was playing- trying to impress you for your name.

You laugh again, nodding, leaning back into him. His fingers still inside you, he rocks you gently to the music, the motion almost calming. “Impressive enough to tell me your name?” He asked with a grin, his lips dancing along the shell of your ear as he speaks.

You’re yanked out of your post orgasm haze by a hand gripping onto your wrist that was balled into a fist by your side. You gasp, turning back forward about to cuss out the intruder out for ruining your moment with your new acquaintance.

You’re met with the face of one of the friends you showed up to the party with. Her face twisted into a worried expression as she looks at you. “There you are! We gotta go! KJ is black out and throwing up over the balcony!” Your friend says, referring to another friend, KJ, you had arrived to the house party with.

Your friend pulls you out of Nam-Gyu’s grasp, not noticing how your face was flushed and your legs were wobbly. You whine a pathetic sound as your friend yanks you off of Nam-Gyu, his fingers pulled out of your cunt in a rapid motion. She begins to pull you frantically through the crowd. You look back desperately, trying to give him an apologetic look for being taken away, assuming he’d be annoyed by your hasty exit.

Yet you didn’t see him angry. He stood in the middle of the dance floor, in the same spot you were pulled off of him. He stares directly at you, a smirk on his face as he brings his hand that was just knuckles deep in your cunt up to the air, spreading his fingers. It’s a debauched display, only for you. Your cum is between his fingers in ribbons as he spreads the digits into a ‘V’ shape. It’s shining in the lights of the party, hard to miss. He brings his fingers in front of his face his tongue slipping out between his lips to lick between the ‘V’ shape of his fingers.

He gathers your cum on his tongue, leaving it stuck out for a brief moment- making sure you saw it- before he pops the two fingers that were inside you, inside his mouth.

He rolls eyes, his head tilted back and his mouth latched to his fingers as he makes a show of letting you know how good you tasted. He brings his head back down and winks. He pulls his fingers from his mouth and smirks before turning on his heel and disappearing into the sea of dancing bodies.

Your friends drag you out of the loft apartment where the party was hosted. You stumble down the stairs, watching as your friends help KJ, who was throwing up into a plastic bag. Your mind is elsewhere.

As you stumble down the stairs of the apartment complex you can still feel your wetness covering your thighs. It’s a raunchy feeling, one that has you second guessing your standards but you can’t stop the grin that spreads on your face as you think about him once again.

And as you’re hauled into a taxi with your friends, all you could think about was him.

Nam-Gyu.

You repeated his name in your head like a mantra. You wanted so bad to go back into that party and find him, but the diligence of taking care of your friend kept you from doing so. You just hoped by some miracle you’d see him again.

It’s like you can feel the ghost of his fingers pumping in and out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing as you try to remember the exact way he felt, the way he sounded, the way he smelled.

Unbeknownst to you, he was already asking other partygoers if they knew you. Despite winning your little game, impressing you for your name- you were pulled away before you could tell him your name. And he didn’t like cheaters.

After the one taste he got of you, he’d be dammned if he didn’t get another.

[dustedmagazine]

Evan Parker — NYC 1978 (Relative Pitch)

NYC 1978 by Evan Parker

On April 30, 1978, Evan Parker recorded Monoceros, his first album of long-form, solo soprano saxophone music. With unbroken streams of intertwined tone and complex simultaneous explosions of sound, it upended assumptions of what was deemed possible on the instrument, and opened up for Parker a field of possibilities that he’s still harvesting 40-something years later. About five months later, Parker undertook his first solo tour of North America, where it’s unlikely that many of the people who went to hear him had heard Monoceros yet. If the concerts were all like NYC 1978, they must have blown a lot of minds. At the time, no one was playing saxophones like Evan Parker, nor were they making music like he made.

NYC 1978 is taken from a cassette tape of a concert that took place on October 13 of that year at the loft venue, Environ. Aside from shaving off a bit of high end, the recording method in no way interferes with appreciating the performance. “Environ 1” begins with a swirl of discrete notes spinning away from an unbroken column of air; at the time, the only comparison would have been Terry Riley’s Poppy Nogood, only he needed a tape machine to make it happen, and Parker just had his fingers, lungs, and unyielding concentration. The echoes on the tenor showcase, “Environ 4,” smacks you in the face like a newspaper tossed by a delivery person with major league pitching aspirations, and the intricate dance of piercing, high pitches and raw, punctuating barks on “Environ 5” loses none of the complexity experienced by people who were in the room when the music first went down. 

Parker would go on to sustain his circular breathing for longer, and to finger his patterns more quickly and with more complexity. But there’s an unrepentant aggression in his attack throughout NYC 1978 captures the just how ornery this music was at the time. It’s no longer sui generis, but it still stands as a formidable statement of how one person with sufficient command of extraordinary gifts can change what is possible. 

Bill Meyer

[dollyhyuckii]

BROOKLYN’S PRETTY BABY —!⋆୨୧˚ (엔시티 드림)

📞 ⋆୨୧˚ based on brooklyn baby by lana del ray ⋆୨୧˚

in which… in brooklyn’s chaos, jeno adores you, his “pretty baby,” but love blurs who’s in control. — 이제노 x fem!reader ⋆୨୧˚ suggestive /full fic ⋆୨୧˚ wc • 935 pet names such as my baby, pretty baby, pretty girl, baby! made with love by autum ⋆୨୧˚

⋆୨୧˚ authors note- likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated, everything is in lowercase on purpose, enjoy reading ⋆୨୧˚

the loft is loud with laughter and cigarette smoke, the hum of a pretentious jazz record playing from a beaten up vinyl player in the corner. you sit on the floor by the window, your back against the peeling brick wall, a notebook sprawled open in your lap, your pen hovers over the page, thoughts half formed as you glance around at the crowd.

jeno across the room, leaning against a rusted radiator, his arms crossed and his head tipped slightly to the side. he’s watching you. he always is. you can feel his gaze even when you don’t meet it , heavy and steady, like your the only thing worth noticing in the whole chaotic scene.

“my baby” he calls over the din, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he pushes off the wall and strolls toward you. his voice carries, low and familiar sending a ripple through the group. heads turn, but he doesn’t care. he only had eyes for you

you glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “what, jeno?”

he crouches down beside you, his leather jacket creaking softly as he moves “what masterpiece are you working on now, pretty girl?”

“it’s not for you” you said, closing the notebook before he can peek inside. “i don’t expect you to get it”

jeno laughs, and the sound feels warm against your skin. “your so full of it” he plucks the pen from your fingers like it belongs to him and twirls it between his fingers. “but that’s why i like you. you��re my baby, even when you’re acting all untouchable”

you roll your eyes, through you can’t help the small grin tugging at the corners of your lips. jeno always knows how to disarm you, breaking through your carefully crafted armor with a single well placed word or trust.

the night wears on, and the conversation around you blurs into white noise. jeno says by your side, his presence steady and grounding in a way you don’t like to admit. he doesn’t try to join the debates about the art and politics, he just sat there, his arm slung casually over the back of your chair, watching you with that soft look in his eyes.

at some point, his lips find your ear, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down your spine. “lets get out of here baby”

you hesitate, glancing around the room. these people, the scene it’s your world, the one you created so carefully. but jeno doesnt belong here, and somehow, neither do you.

“fine” you say, standing and grabbing your jacket. “but only because this place is boring”

he laughs, low and teasing, but he doesn’t argue. instead, he takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as he leads you out into the cold brooklyn night.

the city is alive, the streets buzzing with honking cars and the chatter of strangers. neon signs flicker overhead, casting their glow on the slick pavement. jeno walked beside you, his hands warm and steady in yours. he doesn’t ask where you want to go, he just keeps walking, weaving through the chaos like he knows exactly where you’re meant to end up

eventually, the noise fades, and you find yourselves alone on a quiet street, a single street lamp flickering above. jeno leaned against the lamppost, his dark eyes meeting yours in the dim light.

“you think you’re better than everyone in that room” he says, his tone teasing but his gaze serious. “and you are.., but you’re also mine”

you cross your arms, tilting your head. “oh im yours now?”

he steeped closer, his hands finding your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. “yeah, my pretty baby, you are. even with your big words and your bigger attitude”

you don’t reply, not with words, anyway. instead, you let him kiss you, his lips soft, his touch grounding you. in the moment. jeno has a way of making you feel small and infinite all at once , like your both the queen of the city and the girl who can’t resist the boy who calls her “baby”

when the kiss breaks, he smirks, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “see?, told you”

you scoffed, stepping back but letting your hands linger in his “you’re insufferable”

“and you love it” he says, his grin widening as he tugs you closer again.

maybe you do, but you’d never admit it.

as the two of you wander further down the quiet street, he suddenly stops by a graffiti covered wall. the bright colors and the bold strokes of paint are almost hypnotizing under the streetlights. he pulls you close, resting his chin on top of your head.

“someday, im gonna paint you” he muttered, his voice soft. “something that’ll last forever. you’d look good up there, don’t you think? my pretty baby on ever wall in brooklyn”

you laughed, shaking your head. “you’re delusional, jeno”

“maybe..” he says with a grin, titling you’re face up to meet his gaze. “but you’d love it, don’t lie”

the truth is , you would. you’d love to see yourself up there, to know that even in the chaos of the city, you’d left your mark. for now though, you left jeno to think he’s the dreamer, the artist, the one with the vision

but between the two of you, you know who the real muse is.

and the city?, it can wait. tonight, it’s just you, your boy, and the dream you both keep pretending doesn’t scare you.

[jezebelblues]

old records on the shelf | h.s

summary: y/n and harry are holed up in a record store due to inclement weather.

cw: unedited - none (?)

word count: approx 2.5k

super short blurb i wrote during lunch break

masterlist

The rain had been relentless all day. the kind of downpour that turns cities into rivers, umbrellas were useless and the sky never shifts from a slate grey gloom. the storm drains even started to clog ever so slightly, and the ground was just one big shallow puddle. Y/n ducked into the record store just in time as a roar of thunder boomed. Her clothes were damp despite her best efforts, drops of rain still clinging to her sweater and hair. The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, the warm, dimly lit space a stark contrast to the growing chaos outside.

The store was almost vacant, almost. it was a lofted, building, which allowed her eyes to drift up to a man standing on the second floor with his hoodie pulled over his head, looking at different records front to back. There was also a shorter old man who sat at the front desk, flipping through a quaint book after greeting Y/n with a smile. She hadn’t planned on staying long, but the rain had other ideas. The droplets pelted the glass a bit harder, and if it wasn’t the end of summer she’d assume it was sleet. She maneuvered around the dusty aisles, floorboards creaking with each step as her fingertips feathered across the different records sleeves. She had just moved into a studio after years of saving up for a move to New York, and she desperately wanted all her favorite vinyl albums littered about.

Not finding the genre she wanted labeled on the wooden shelves, she ventured up the spiral stairwell to the second floor, hand barely grasping the handrail. Her sneakers squelched against the metal, a sound she’s grown to hate. Gazing around, her eyes met an oddly familiar seafoam green pair. Their glance was fleeting, but she would recognize this man anywhere. Was she a gigantic fan? No, but she enjoyed his music - and it’s hard to not know who Harry Styles was; given his decade long reign in the spotlight. A baggy grey hoodie hung from his frame, stained with raindrops. his hoodie was pulled up over his head, but he wore a baseball cap underneath - most likely an effort to hide his face, maybe? The tattoo on his knee was visible, and his once pristine white vans were speckled with mud.

She had made a sharp right to the shelves beside her, breaking eye contact first. They were both hiding from the downpour, and she didn’t want to make the atmosphere even more unsettling by gawking. After all, he’s just a human. A low rumble of thunder bellowed, the windows fogging up from the heat inside. Y/n strolled through the aisle, wanting to dry off a bit and make a beeline straight out of the shop. She tried her very best to keep her eyes only on the items around her, but she couldn’t help but sneak a few glances at the brunette. He looked as stranded as she felt, pausing now and then to look out the rain streaked-windows before turning back to the shelves. The soft hum of jazz flowing through the speakers buzzes between the walls, a coziness settling in the air.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows, and the shopkeeper looked up from his book, frowning at the droplets that pelted down harder. After a beat, he bends the corner of a page and closes the book, clearing his throat. He stepped out from behind the counter, craning his neck upward at the two who stood on the second floor. “Sorry, folks.” He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Closin’ up early. Weathers gettin’ worse, radio said subways flooded - complete mess out there. You can wait he for a while if ya like. Ain’t nobody getting anywhere in that storm.” He informed, his accent thick. “Let me know ‘fore I lock the door.”

Harry’s brow furrowed slightly as his words sunk in, nodding at the old man below them. He shot a slow glance back toward the girl on the other side of the room, trying to decipher if it was a smart decision or not. He looked for any inkling of her being a jittery bundle of nerves, a fan that could make being trapped a bit more claustrophobic. He’d like to think he was good at reading people, and when he found a gaze that seemed as uncertain as he was, he felt his shoulders relax. The city was grinding to a halt outside, and there was no escaping the storm outside. Y/n hesitated before crossing the room, standing next to a window that was closer to Harry than she was. She sighed quietly, her breath fogging the glass.

“Well,” Harry broke the silence, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Seems like we’re stuck.”

She turned her head toward him, managing a small smile. “Guess so.”

He shifted on his feet, glancing back down at the pile of records he’d been browsing. A lopsided grin formed his lips. “Could be worse. Least we got good music to keep us company.”

The shop owner muttered something about going to the back and disappeared, leaving Y/n and Harry by themselves. The jazz played on, mingling with the constant drumming of the rain. The dim lights overhead flickered briefly as the wind stared to pick up. “So,” Y/n paused, hoping conversation could distract her from the mess outside. “Looking for anything specific?” She asked as she took a soft step to continue down the aisle, fingers absentmindedly finding their way back to the spine of the albums.

Harry shrugged, following behind her, mirroring her slow pace. “Jus’ browning, really.” He mumbled, watching her fingers. “Thought I could wait out the rain, suppose not.” He let out a breathy chuckle, which earned a small glance from Y/n. “Are you big on vinyl?”

“A little.” She admitted, sneaking a peek of him through the corner of her eye. “I like coming here to clear my head.”

“Yeah?” His grin widened slightly as he leaned against the shelf behind them. “Sorry for takin’ your spot then.”

The conversation flowed easily after that. They gazed over the rows of shelves together, occasionally pulling out an album and showing their favorite artist. Harry shared small anecdotes about certain records that held sentiment. She would do the same, and she felt surprisingly comfortable in his presence despite the strangeness of their situation.

Harry found himself wandering toward a record player on the first floor toward the back, eyeing the old turntable. “Y’mind?” He asked, nodding toward the table as he held up an album she didn’t immediately recognize. Y/n shook her head, curious to what it sounded like. She watched as he carefully pulled the record from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable, his fingers brushing the edge of it with ease. There was a low crackle as the needle hit the grooves, followed by the smooth voice of Otis Redding.

A familiar melody filled the room while Harry leaned back against the counter, arms folded over his chest as he listened, a smile spread across his lips. “Not bad for a stormy night, eh?”

She laughed, nodding. “Could be worse.” She echoed, repeating his earlier words. The record continued to spin as the mood shifted into something quieter, Harry humming a line here and there. His voice was honey. They stood side by side, an unspoken understanding settling between them as they soaked in the moment.

Their hips would occasionally bump into each other if a beat of the song was repetitive enough, and goofy smiled pasted itself on both their lips each time. It felt easy, like the sun shone in the record store alone. “S’like time slowed down.” Harry mumbles, his voice smooth and quiet - almost harmonizing with the music.

She turned to look at him, eyebrows raising slighting in agreement. She hummed, nodding her head before gently bumping her hip into his again - which earned a smile from Harry. “City won’t let you catch your breath unless it forces you to.”

He laughed under his breath, absentmindedly fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie. “Y’right. S’like everything moves so fast, but when it stops…” He paused, gesturing around them. “It’s kind of nice.”

Y/n’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. There was something calming about his presence, an easy charm that floated around him like an aura. They were just two strangers, trapped by circumstance.

The shop owner shuffled back in, glancing at the two of them before nodding in approval to the music playing. He didn’t say much - just grunted and went back to his book, leaving them to stay in their bubble a bit longer.

The fourth song on the album stated to fade into its end, and the girl tilted her head toward the records they browsed earlier. “What else have you got?” She asked playfully, her gaze gentle.

He grinned, eyes twinkling. “Plenty.” He paused, rummaging through the nearby stack, fingers moving swiftly as he flipped through the albums. He chuckled to himself as he pulled out a pink cover, Harry’s back front and center on it as he flipped it over to show her. His smile was contagious as he held up his first album next to his head, simple poking through. “Thoughts?”

She couldn’t help but mirror his smile, recognizing the cover as his own. She feigned a confused look, eyebrows furrowed as she sent him a shrug. “Heard of him.”

He laughed, shaking his head and putting the album back down with the rest. “Looks like a wanker.” He smiled, accent thicker than before. He finally settled on Stevie Knicks, letting the needle settle over it and crackle into a song. The notes were soft, her rasp entrancing. “Dance with me?” His voice resembled cotton candy, an edge of anxiety to it.

She raised her eyebrows, smiling at him. “Do you even know my name?”

His lips press into a flat line as he pulled his hood down, adjusting the ballcap that sat on his curls. His cheeks flushed a shade of pink as he smiled, “Tell me your name.”

“Y/n”

The brunette rolled his sleeves up ever so slightly, stepping aside and extending his hand out to her. “Dance with me, Y/n.” Her name rolled effortlessly off his tongue, and a part of him hoped it wouldn’t be the last time he could say it. Her face scrunches, a mix of confusion and amusement as she places her hand into his much larger one. His movements are slow and calculated, pulling her close but not too close, swaying with the melancholic rhythm. She exhaled, soft and gentle, the tips of her shoes touching Harry’s as she inched closer. He smelt of lavender, and the rain on his hoodie only made the scent of laundry detergent radiate from him. It was quiet, comfortable and Harry swore he hadn’t felt so transfixed on someone so quick before.

“You ever get tired of it?” She thought out loud, leaning her head back a bit to fall into his gaze. It was delicate, and his features fluttered into an expression to urge her to continue. A stubble peppered the top of his lip, a crease in his forehead and a lock of hair dangling from the corner of his cap. He could be cut and molded from marble. “Of the attention, I mean.”

Harry blinked, his movements stalling as he thought about her question. He lowered his hand to her waist - barely. His touch was a whisper, fingertips only grazing the fabric of her sweater, his palm hovering over the curve of her hip. “It can be overwhelming.” He whispered, his breath a cold peppermint. He bit the inside of his lip as his eyes narrowed, taking in every line and angle of her pretty face. “But it’s worth it. ‘specially in-between the spotlight where I can enjoy moments like these.”

Y/n nodded, understanding the measure of his words. She parted her lips to speak, but Harry let out a small giggle, “The calm between the storms.”

She laughed, and Harry could hear her sincerity even though it was a bad joke altogether, but maybe that was the humor she found in it. Her fingers wriggled in his light grasp, brushing her hands up his arms to lazily wrap behind his neck. Goosebumps appeared on his skin, and he internally cursed at whatever God there was for letting the rain ease up. It faded into a drizzle, and the darkened sky started to lighten into a grey. A pang of disappointment hit them both as they realized the storm couldn’t last forever, and their bubble was meant to burst eventually. She slowly pealed herself from him, a sheepish grin on her lips as she looked back outside. For a moment, they stood there, locked in the reality that this was a fleeting moment - an unexpected connection - was about to slip away as easily as the droplets did. “Don’t think we’re stuck anymore.”

Harry nodded, a sigh falling from his lips as he removed the record from the turntable and placed it back into its sleeve, organizing the pile to sit neatly. He could hear the floor creak as she began to move, and his words fell from his lips before he could stop himself. “Do this again with me?”

Her heart skipped a beat, surprised and hopeful. She smiled, turning around to face him. His expression reminded her that of a schoolboy, and she couldn’t help but giggle. “Are you asking me out, Harry Styles?” Her voice held a lightness despite a familiar flutter in her belly.

He chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “If you’ll let me.” A smile spread upon his lips. “Maybe next time we can plan for better weather - though I won’t complain if it rains again.”

She felt a warmth spread through her, pins and needles in the tips of her fingers. “I’d like that.” She nodded, smile matching his.

He nodded toward the shopkeeper as they ambled out the door, holding the door open for the pretty girl behind him. His lip tucked between his teeth, the breeze light and airy as he pulled the hood over his head. “Um-“ He mumbled nervously, reaching his hand into his pocket and unlocking his phone. But Y/n already took one of his hands into hers, palm upward as she delved into her tote with the other hand, pulling out a pen that’s been in there for god knows how long. She scribbles her number onto his palm, ending it with a smiley face.

His hand still tingled, and his eyes crinkled from the smile he couldn’t wipe off. “What if it smudges?” He calls out, Y/n already beginning to walk the direction back to her apartment.

She turns, her grin almost as wide as Harry’s as she continues her trek, but backwards and slower than before. “You’ll know where to find me!”

[fuchinobe]

Here Comes The Sun (1971, RCA Victor, LSP-4536)

Cover of The Beatles

[artdcnaldson]

looove the patrick’s sister au where art is super mean to her but hear me out im having thoughts and behaving in ways

im gonna emoji sign this if i may just in case you’d like to enable me

alt au where patricks sister is just super super mean and unapologetic like patrick. think sarah michelle gellar in cruel intentions kinda. like fully a bitch and she has a craaazy corruption kink with repressed art

like mayyybee patrick mentioned art wanting to save himself for marriage or smth like that to her and her brain goes brrrrrr i need to defile him… maybe everytime arts at their house she’ll like flirt with him unabashedly… suck on lollipops while looking him in the eye… rub her ass against him pretending to reach for things… and her just having so much fun when he gets all red and flustered and hard :(

idk just some thoughts

- 🐚 (if its available)

This made me need to take a walk. Had to crack open a cold Diet Coke to address this.

But yeah :(( art comes to stay with you and Patrick a lot for summers and holidays since, y’know, he can’t exactly stay at his grandmother’s nursing home.

You and Patrick have lived in the pool house forever— pool house is actually a stupid name for it. It’s a guest house, two full bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, a whole loft upstairs. It’s obscene how fucking rich you two are.

And he gets so squirmy when he’s around you and Patrick, but even more when it’s just the two of you alone. He’s been staying up in the loft, pads down the stairs after a lazy, midday nap. And it’s just you on the couch, watching a movie. It’s dark, maybe he slept later than he thought he did.

“Where’s Pat?”

You shrug, pat the sofa beside you. He sits, but leaves an entire cushion between the two of you. “I think he’s fucking the neighbor. The one with the cute curly hair.” Art flushes, ducks his head. You smile, showing off pretty teeth. “Aw… I’m sorry, should I have said he’s making love to the neighbor?”

“Shut up,” he mutters. He’s pink to the tips of his ears.

It’s interesting, you think, that he told Patrick he’s saving himself. It’s sweet, very… admirable. But it’s such a fucking waste. He looks so yummy in his flannel pajama pants and grey tank top that shows off his muscles.

“So, you’re a virgin?” You ask, turning to face him. His eyes go wide before his face twists in annoyance. He splutters out weak— what did Pat say— That’s none of your business— you’re so out of line— but you interrupt. “No need to be shy about it, Art. I think it’s… very cute you want to wait until your wedding night. I’m sure you’ll have a really riveting time figuring out where it goes.”

“Shut up.” It’s the second time he’s said it that night. He really needs to work on his comebacks.

“I can give you a hint,” you say with a grin, scooting across the empty cushion until your knees touch. “There are two main holes down there, and it’s the one that gets all slick and wet when she’s turned on.” He clenches his jaw, looks away.

You laugh and sit back, only slightly. “Aren’t you going to thank me for the tip?”

He turns back, eyes narrowed. “You’re not very funny.”

“Was I joking?” You trail a finger up his arm, give him a crooked smile. “Really, Art, it’s sweet. Maybe I should’ve saved my virginity for a nicer boy instead of losing it in the golf cart shed at the country club.”

He stammers. “You— you could always—“ he can’t even meet your gaze, it’s too humiliating. The smug expression you wear pins him in place. “Start now. Promise to not have sex anymore, not until it’s with someone you love. It’s— it’s more special that way.”

You stick out your bottom lip. “You think I deserve special?” You ask softly. He shivers as your fingers trace swirls onto his chest. “That I need candles and rose petals and soft jazz music when someone stuffs me full of their cock?”

It’s too precious. Too good. His cheeks flame and he sits back. He stands suddenly, doesn’t even look at you as he marches back upstairs. You grin and listen to the sound of the shower turning on upstairs.

You wait until you hear the scrape of the shower curtain closing to pad upstairs and sit outside of the door. A smug grin spreads across your lips at the sound of him jerking off.

All whiny, poorly muffled moans, the slick sound of him beating his dick. All, ah! ah! ah! oh, fuck! god— fuck! You can tell when he cums based on how pitchy and whiny he gets, and the way you hear his head knock against the tile.

You fight the urge to let him know you heard, instead you slip back downstairs. When he comes down, you’ve switched the movie, act like you’d never left at all. You can see the guilt in his expression, like he knew he’d done something bad.

God, he’d be so easy.

[franglishetchocolat]

A mostly decorative parking lot for Riverview

FOOD TRAILER PARKING LOT

Built on patch 1.67 - Originally built in Riverview where the Diner lot used to be (18x24) - Lot label = Visitors Allowed

Parking lot with food vendor (WA food register), for the Industrial District. Located just behind the Jazz Lounge.

Using Items from: 

No Store Item, No CC

EPs: WA, Ambitions, Late Night, Generations, Pets, Showtime, Seasons, University Life and Island Paradise.

SPs: High End Loft and Outdoor Living. Maybe Town Life and Fast Lane. But there shouldn’t be anything from Mastersuite, Diesel, the 70s,80s and the Movie Stuff packs (and I don't have the KP one)

DOWNLOAD

I use markers on my lots: skip level, hidden room, public room… So to be able to modify any of  these buildings you need to have cheats on:  ‘testingcheatsenabled true’, then ‘restrictbuildbuyinbuildings false’ To see/remove the markers you need ‘buydebug on.

[twshipoftheday]

Teen Wolf Ship of the Day, January 17

Vernon Boyd x Cora Hale x Erica Reyes

Vernon loves to pop on a vinyl and watch his girls dance and twirl in the loft. It felt like home. There was no place he'd rather be.

Headcanons under the cut.

Boyd and Cora go hiking together and, because she likes to wake up early to see the sunset, he'll sometimes wake up early to join her

Erica is the kind of person who keeps wanting to learn an instrument and then gets bored by them so she knows the basics in a lot of different instruments (she definitely serenades her partners with twinkle twinkle)

Cora takes Erica and Boyd to get the Hale pack triskelion tattoo (Erica is super into the whole thing and Boyd is very supportive but nervous)

Erica and Cora love to dance together! they love to dance to jazz and classical music and sometimes Erica pulls out some pop music and they vibe to that

Boyd has a record player in the loft and he loves to watch the girls dance

Boyd scrapbooks and loves to take pictures of himself and the girls everywhere, just for his little scrapbook of the three of them. Erica and Cora also enjoy taking pictures for the scrapbook and they compete to get the cutest picture of Boyd

Cora is the little spoon, Boyd is the big spoon and Erica kind of throws herself onto the bed wherever she fits. Erica is not a still sleeper so she moves around a lot at night

[neptune-scythe]

I had this sick ass theory that Eddie gave Buck his couch when he moved into the loft because they are EXTREMELY similar

but alas I am too good at my research and I proved that to be incorrect

it's cannon to me tho

why else would Eddie get a new couch in season 3 the same time Buck gets one

and besides the show has done far weirder things with canon than that

and ya know

couch theory and all that jazz