I know fuck all about music. I can't read sheet music, I don't know how music works and I pretty much failed all my music classes in school. Sometimes I mix up composers and don't even try ask me about the structure of a symphony.
But when I was a kid I watched Barbie in Swan Lake and fell in love with the music. My mum bought me a huge vinyl recording of Tchaikovsky afterwards. She took me to see The Magic Flute and Swan Lake once. When my English teacher told me to watch the Last Night of the Proms for homework I did and I try to watch it every year. Even when I didn't understand a single thing in music class I appreciated the music we listened to and I'd get interested in the composers, especially Beethoven, and try to watch biopics and read Wikipedia pages. I recently bought a biography on Händel after doing a translation workshop with an author. Occasionally I try to watch classical concerts or opera on the telly. I went to a baroque concert with a friend in the pouring rain last year and the same friend and I watched the new year's concert at the state opera house. I found a conductor I really like and I get excited when I hear about her. I have a long playlist of classical music I listen to and I definitely have favourites. My mum and I listen to Classic FM in the car a lot, even at the drive through of a fast food chain.
Music, even classical music, is for everyone. It shouldn't be a fancy thing only for rich people to enjoy or something you need to have studied to appreciate.
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After very little research into the other writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Rose Wilder Lane, my hypothesis about the Little House authorship question is that the writing is mostly Rose's, but the heart is Laura's.
In Laura's newspaper columns, the parts that sound most like Little House mostly come from the extracts she shares from Rose's letters (incidentally, it's kind of adorable how proud she is of Rose: "My daughter's in France!", "My daughter's in Albania!", etc.) The prose of Old Home Town, Rose's inspired-by-my-childhood-home novel, has some of the same concise descriptive prose that I've come to associate with the Little House style (I could hear passages in the voice of the Little House audiobook narrator).
Yet the Little House soul is all over Laura's columns. She's fascinated by the simple tasks of life, believes in home and family and hard work, believes in holding onto the goodness of childhood and looking forward with hope toward the future. There's an optimism, almost a romanticism, about life. The children's series that bears her name clearly comes from the same woman.
Rose, by contrast, is much more pessimistic. When writing about childhood, she's almost cynical about the life of a small town. She highlights the dark stories underlying the wholesome exterior, is extremely sensitive to the pitfalls of the social scene around her. Part of the difference is that Rose is writing for adults, but there does seem to be an essential difference in the personality behind the pen, despite the stylistic similarities to Little House.
(At the risk of pop psychoanalyzing people long dead, Rose seems much more neurotic and introverted and sensitive than her mother. In her writings and in the books about her childhood in Missouri, she comes across as child of a fairly comfortable modern life, with all the modern anxieties, in contrast to a woman who grew up starving on the prairie and knows that there are much worse things to endure than small-town gossip).
It's not much of a thesis, but I'm just fascinated by the fact that the Little House series can share so many stylistic similarities with Rose's writings, yet feel so much more like Laura.
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Two Times Desire Leaves You Hanging .... & One Time You Get Sweet Revenge
Pairing: Desire x gn!reader
Warnings: orgasm denial, edging, rutting, hair-pulling, semi-public sex, I have not read the comics only watched the show, apologies (although I’d love to get my hands on all the comics)
Originally suggested by: @sherazyjade, inspired by this post
*goes to get my headcanons scanned*
"Congratulations, its a fic!"
fuck me
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Summary: Desire enjoys denying their favorites ... unfortunately you've been high up on that list ever since you stumbled into an unlikely friendship with Dream. Whatever their brother had, Desire wanted their claws on ...in...around. You get the picture.
they had you wrapped around their perfectly manicure fingers from the first time your lips connected: New Year's Eve in a fever rush of bodies and lights
Desire showed up to satisfy their curiosity about you and "bumped into you" on the dancefloor
the stranger with golden eyes and chiseled cheekbones was just so intriguing to talk to, and made you feel so comfortable in their arms, like you'd known them forever
(you just couldn't remember where you'd met before, though they assured you that you had)
and the way they moved against you on the dance floor in time with pulsing music... soon you were drifting away from your circle of friends towards the outer edges of the dancefloor
you didn’t know who kissed who first but before you knew it things were hot and heavy, you were tangling your hands in their stiff slicked-backed hair
"My .... you are something, Y/N..." they purred appreciatively, their lipstick-smudged lips were parted and breathless.
With a mischievous glint in their eyes, they slipped their hands under the hem of your clothing, scratching lightly over you skin with their nails
at that point, you'd had enough teasing
you snatched their hands in yours and pull them away from the crowd, resolute
you were trying to hide the fact that your legs were trembling with the want coursing through your veins, your skin sensitive and hot
it's all you could do to walk in a straight line
You found the nearest exit, and, leaning against the wall in the darkened hallway and pulled them flush against you eagerly
kissing you open-mouthed with tongue, Desire was more than happy to oblige, they grabbed your ass harshly and ground their hips up against your's
You growled in frustration into the nape of their neck, and paw at the waistband of their trousers
"Frustrated, are we?" they chuckle.
You whined incoherently in response
They tugged your hair, pulling your head to the side and whisper in your ear, "You don't know the half of it, Y/N."
they unceremoniously shoved their knee between your parted thighs, momentarily satisfying the ache that was building between them
the music and the voices of the revelers still droned in your ears, but you were hyperfocused on the gorgeous being who torturing you
you moaned and rutted against there leg, begging for more
“Ohh...since you asked so prettily ...” they whispered.
The sucked and bit at your neck, before pinning your wrists against the wall behind you with one hand, pulling you farther up their thigh with other.
You moved on each other shamelessly, frantically, sinful little noises escaping your throats at the friction you generated
“We should … go somewhere more private.” You managed to form a coherent sentence.
They froze.
“We should, should we?”
You stared into their golden orbs in confusion as they pulled away, grinning, but suddenly aloof.
“Tell me, though, this must be rather sudden for you. Are you sure?”
You nodded firmly. “I know what I want .” Wasn’t it obvious?
“Good … very good…” they murmured, their voice dripping with honey.
You stepped towards them, eager to be back in their arms. But as you reached out to touch them black smoke began to rise off them like vapor.
You withdrew your hand in shock as it swirled and flashed.
“I’m so glad you know what it is you truly desire, Y/N…” they said, enveloped in the shadows. “…now, hold that thought.”
You blinked, and they were gone.
“What the actual fuck?”
Edit: made a new blog, follow mostly-morpheus-and-myths for more
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