#a few of his songs he's composed are in french from when he lived in france

[vipermenace]

When not doing hero work or kicking it at his mechanic job, Zeno performs with his rock band Null & Void.

Here are a few of the outfits he's performed in!

#Zeno #catboy #rockstar #musician oc #guitar #listen I was proud of how I drew the instrument sjdhfdsk #outfit 1 is my fav <3 #a few of his songs he's composed are in french from when he lived in france #his bandmates are his old music uni classmates #they all moved to Halycon and share a house

[blackswaneuroparedux]

I am by far your superior, but my notorious modesty prevents me from saying so.

- Erik Satie

To his contemporaries and peers Erik Satie was something of an enigma. Just a few of his quirks included claiming he only ate white foods, carrying a hammer wherever he went, founding his own religion, eating 150 oysters in one sitting, and writing a piece with the instruction to repeat 840 times! As a composer, Satie paved the way for the avant-garde in music and became a very influential figure in the classical music of the 20th century whose works still sound fresh today.

Born into a poor and difficult childhood in the Normandy harbour town of Honfleur on 17 May 1866, Satie would always be an outsider. The Paris Conservatoire to which he was enrolled by his stepmother, herself a pianist, became for him “a sort of local penitentiary” during his teens; he left with no qualifications and a reputation for being lazy. He signed up for military service in 1886 and dropped out within the same year. Immersing himself in the bohemian life of Montmartre, he became linked with the popular music scene and eked out a living as an accompanist, playing at the Chat Noir cabaret. Always on the periphery, and forever out of money, he later downgraded from the cramped room in which he lived to the less fashionable Parisian suburb of Arcueil, where he holed up in isolation and squalor – no visitors set foot in the room during the near-30 years he lived there.

Much has been made of the eccentricities of this flâneur, who was always seen in a grey velvet suit, and yet underlying Satie’s music is his serious desire to create something new. You can hear it in his popular piano pieces: the haunting scales and rhythms of the Trois Gnossiennes written under the spell of Romanian folk music, and the meditative world of Gymnopédies, where, as in a cubist painting, motifs are “seen” from all sides. At a time when French composers were looking to escape the shadows of Wagner’s epic Romanticism, the French composer’s stripped-back mechanical sound, inspired by the humble barrel organ, offered a radically simple approach.

Satie preferred originality to the mundane. The composer of the famous Gymnopedies, could never be accused of having an uninteresting personality. For one, his outgoing fashion statements always caused a stir. During his Montmartre years, he had 12 identical velvet corduroy suits hanging in his wardrobe, which earned him the nickname ‘The Velvet Gentleman’, and in his socialist years, he donned a bowler hat and carried an umbrella.

Debussy helped to draw public attention to Satie, orchestrating two of his Gymnopédies, yet Satie had to wait until much later in life to attain celebrity status. While still earning a living writing salon dances and popular cabaret songs, and after suffering a creative crisis, he enrolled himself at the Schola Cantorum in Paris at the age of 39. Rather than finding him validation, his studies seem to have fuelled his hatred of convention - it’s with more than a hint of bitterness that he claims to put “everything I know about Boredom” into the Bach chorale of his masterful Sports et Divertissements piano pieces. But notoriety led to a succès de scandale and when it came it came with a bang in Parade, his surreal, one-act circus ballet for Diaghilev. Into the orchestral score, which featured jazz and cabaret tunes, were thrown typewriters, sirens and a pistol - just the kind of noises a wartime audience would normally pay not to hear. With its rigid cubist costumes by Picasso - which restricted Massine’s choreography - and a promotional push from Cocteau, it was provocative enough to secure Satie’s position at the vanguard of modernism.

Yet Satie was continually frustrated in his attempts to be accepted as an artist in high society France - his failure to establish himself at the prestigious Académie des Beaux-Arts, to which Debussy had won a scholarship, only compounded his resentment. Was this treatment by the cultural elite fair? Certainly his determination to antagonise his audience in his late ballets did little to endear him to the critics, but the fierce criticism he received in Paris was also a sign of things to come. Pierre Boulez would later poke fun at Satie’s lack of craft, while composer Jean Barraqué - another proponent of 12-tone music - would deride Satie as “an accomplished musical illiterate … who found that his friendship with Debussy was an unhoped-for opportunity to loiter in the corridors of history”.

Satie is perhaps, to this day, the most audacious and original composer when it comes to naming his works e.g. Gnossiennes and Gymnopédies. With Satie you will not see symphonies, concertos or opus numbers. Satie possessed a wicked sense of humour and his mockery, both of himself and others, became an inspiration for many of his irony-tinged works. His Sonatine bureaucratique is a spoof of Muzio Clementi’s Sonatina Op. 36 and contained many witticisms in the score. For example, he writes Vivache (vache being French for cow) instead of the original Italian tempo marking Vivace.

Whether in the collage-like miniature piano parodies he wrote during the World War I, his creation of a theatre format that has endured over the years, or in his collaboration with Jean Cocteau, Pablo Picasso y Sergei Diaghilev, there is a liveliness of imagination and a hunger for innovation that made Erik Satie In the torch bearer of the vanguard in his work. Satie would influence so many so strongly that years later some of his closest friends became radical artists, for example. ManRay, the sculptor Constantin Brâncusi, and Marcel Duchamp, or a much younger group of Paris-based composers like Les Six.

Satie, a known drinker of absinthe, and apparently every other alcohol available, died of cirrhosis at the age of 59 in Arcueil, France in July 1925. But his compositions, especially those deceptively simple-sounding solo piano works, find life today through recitals, concerts, and great movie scores. Although he died in poverty with little success to his name, today Erik Satie is acknowledged as a founder of 20th-century modernism, who changed the face of music.

Personally I do find Satie's music enriching, But I also find that his calculated wackiness is culturally apt. Pieces like ‘3 Pieces in the Shape of a Pear’, ‘Flabby Preludes for a Dog’ and ‘Desiccated Embryos’ rewardingly deflate Wagnerism's excesses in a characteristically French way.

#satie #erik satie #quote #music #classical music #composer #pianist #debussy #modernism #paris #french #france #arts #culture #french culture #innovation #artist #life

[madreemeritus]

Don Juan Triumphant — An analysis of Erik's masterpiece

Warning: i don't speak French and i don't have english editions of PotO, only Portuguese, so i will translate it directly from my text

Gaston Leroux's novel narrates the fact that Erik was producing an Opera of his own with the theme "Don Juan Triumphant". Unfortunately, we never hear it because it's a book, but a few adaptations brought his work to live with different interpretations.

Let's analyze what Leroux intented to write with Erik's character.

Don Juan is a Spanish archetype of a lascivious and libertine man, created by Tirso de Molina, a poet and religious playwright of the Middle Ages. His character was supposed to be an antagonist of what society considered to be moral and pure at that time. And as any other story, it has its adaptations.

Don Giovanni (the same as Don Juan) is the work of Mozart (composer) and Lorenzo Da Ponte (writer), where Don Giovanni is a scoundrel who seduces and abandons women; one of his victims has his father murdered by Don Giovanni after he tried to prevent the seduction. The spirit of the Commander (Donna Anna's father murdered by D. Giovanni) returns in the form of a statue and drags the protagonist to hell with the help of demons.

Erik, after Christine asks him to play Don Juan Triumphant, says: "Never ask me that. This Don Juan was not composed for the libretto of a Lorenzo Da Ponte, inspired by wine, by furtive loves and by vices finally punished by God. I can play Mozart if I so wish, which will bring beautiful tears to your eyes and inspire you with frank reflections. But my Don Juan burns, Christine, and not because he has been hit by heavenly fire!" (...) "You see, Christine, there is a song so terrible that it consumes all who approach it. You haven't reached it yet, and that's good, because you would lose your soft colors and they wouldn't recognize you anymore on your return to Paris" (...)

Erik says that his Don Juan "burns" and that Christine was in no condition to understand the somber depths of his masterpiece. He refuses to play Don Juan at first (although he is willing to play other Mozart pieces), but after being unmasked, he plays in a form of escapism. Christine is enthralled by the terrible, somber performance. Erik's Don Juan is a reflection of the pain he feels.

He apparently has no interest in writing a story like Don Giovanni, possibly an inspiration for him is Lord Byron's version, where Don Juan is neither a seducer nor a villain: but a victim of a cruel and false love of a woman. Erik says that it took him years to finish his work, as if each event in his life influenced the work more. He also says that, when finishing Don Juan Triumphant, he would die and be buried along with the scores: he changes his mind when he falls in love with Christine.

Don Juan is an archetype that contradicts everything Erik is and believes. Erik scares women by his ugliness / Don Juan seduces and conquers them all. Erik wants true love / Don Juan wants to deceive women in exchange for sex. Don Juan is a handsome, seductive man who is admired by people / Erik was born deformed and was abused, humiliated and rejected by (almost) everyone he met. Erik would probably change the character of Don Juan just as Lord Byron changed it according to his own life experience. That's why he is "Don Juan Triumphant", rather than the protagonist's defeat.

Christine's words after hearing Don Juan Triumphant: "His Don Juan Triumphant (for there was no longer any doubt that he had rushed his masterpiece to forget the horror of the present minute) appeared to me only one long, frightening, magnificent sob, where poor Erik had deposited all his misery." (...) "I remembered the notebook with red notes and easily imagined that that song had been written in blood. It guided me through all the details of martyrdom; it made me enter all the corners of the abyss, the inhabited abyss by the ugly man; it showed me Erik atrociously banging his poor, ugly head against the funereal walls of hell, where he had taken refuge so as not to frighten human eyes any longer, where Pain was deified, and then, the sounds that saw from the abyss and suddenly grouped together in a prodigious and threatening flight. the world. I understood that the work was finally done and that Ugliness, borne on the Wings of Love, had dared to look Beauty in the face!" (...)

For me, Erik's Don Juan is an expression of his life and inner demons. The rejection, the suffering, the pain, the hate, the jealousy, and at the same time, the love, the desire and the will to be loved like any other human being. Erik is as much compared with Death as with Sexuality. This duality would be expressed in his work. And since the work is Triumphant, in the end he would find the love and happiness he longed for.

Adaptations

In my opinion, Andrew Loyd Webber's "Don Juan Triumphant" doesn't make much sense because it only explores a carnal scandal between Don Juan and Aminta. It looks like the same character as Tirso de Molina and Lorenzo Da Ponte, not the alternative — painful and suffering — version of Erik. There is no tragedy, no hellfire and no suffering. It just seems like an empty work made to shock the society of the 19th century. "Oh but it's Erik's self insert", the original work was clearly an escapism, a reflection of his life, a form of expression of the pain he felt. It's not that Erik's work in the book doesn't explore the theme of sexuality, but that's not all. It's not just a horny show between Erik and Christine. Especially because it gives off a weird vibe that Erik just wanted sex with her, and that's a lie. I do love The Point of No Return by its beautiful melody and my E/C bullshit that likes some horny fanfiction.

I adore, however, the 1925s (or 1929s rebuilt) "Don Juan". Not only because it's the main theme scored by Gabriel Thibaudeau, but also because this specifically is the unmasking scene and it captures everything that I imagined as Leroux's description. The pain, the passion, the tragedy, is all there. Lon Chaney's Erik says to Christine that since the first time he saw her, he was inspired to write such a magnificent piece of music. Not 20 years writing it as originally, but more a romantic inspiration coming from his heart. This adaptation, to be fair, is my favorite.

And another version which I apreciate a lot is the 1989 slasher movie with Robert Englund. It's such a sublime song that remarks the exact 'Dark Romance' vibes of E/C relantionship. Obviously is not the best adaptation, actually it has little to do with the original work as Christine is a time traveler, Erik is a murderous psychopath villain and the story goes totally into a supernatural horror. But if you put in your mind that PotO and A Nightmare On Elm Street were merely an inspiration to a slasher/supernatural movie, it's actually an interesting experience.

So in conclusion, this was my analysis of the mysterious Don Juan Triumphant. Feel free to disagree or point out new things in the comments 🙏🏽❤️

#erik #the phantom of the opera #poto #gothic #gothic literature #gaston leroux #andrew lloyd webber #musical #broadway #lon chaney #poto 1925 #the phantom of the opera 1925 #silent movies #robert englund #don juan triumphant #the phantom of the opera 1989 #erik destler

[imeternallylove]

Moulin Rouge Sous le Ciel Bleu - S.Strange

Red Mill under the Blue Sky: the roaring '20s era

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader

Genre: angst and fluff, mostly bittersweet 💔✌️

Warning: forbidden love, sexual content

Word: approx 4k

main mastetlist | request | prompts

theme song (im very rec to listen while reading this)

A brilliant red mill stood out among the other buildings in the Jardin de Paris, at the foot of the hill in the Montmartre neighborhood, commanding attention with its vibrant color and unusual façade. Large metal letters spelled out the word Moulin Rouge over the entryway to the colorful venue. The Red Mill, because it was exactly what the building looked like. It certainly drew attention to itself, and Monsieur Strange had no doubt that this was the proprietors' goal. Moulin Rouge had grown infamous in Paris, and he had no doubt that it was also infamous throughout the rest of France.

The building's bright scarlet façade contrasted with the pristine blue of the sky above it, making it stand out even more on clear days like today. Stephen would not have imagined, looking at the red mill, that this was the edifice known as The Bastion of Pleasures in the city of love. It wasn't visually appealing, but it was a novelty, and the mill at the entryway was one of the reasons for the establishment's notoriety. That, and the female cabaret performers.

Stephen Vincent Strange, heir of an eastern trade enterprise and an expert in oriental goods, was known as "young Monsieur Strange." He had been sent to France by his father a year before starting university to acquire the French language, and now, years later, he was studying for a degree in Orientalism at the famed Sorbonne. He'd become a go-to man for Parisian socialites, advising them on real Chinese and silk textiles, among other things, all sourced from his family's import business.

But, underneath the elegant and wealthy heir, he had become enthralled by the revolution, a movement that began in the middle of the last century, a stride towards freedoms and liberties that he had never known in his own home of New York.

That's how he ended himself in the Moulin Rouge cabaret. Stephen adored it. The excitement of doing something that would be considered inappropriate in his own nation was exhilarating. He wished he was an artist or a poet some days. Of course, he was brilliant at both due to his considerable schooling, so it wasn't that he couldn't do either. Nonetheless, he wished that he could live off his riches and do whatever he pleased, composing poetry, creating watercolours on rice paper, and attending the cabaret.

Most crucially, in those crazy daydreams, he could freely love you.

You'd met when he came to consult with you about some costumes you were working on for a Moulin Rouge performance. The surroundings were supposed to be inspired by the Orient, interesting, exotic, and beautiful all at the same time, and you required assistance with the designs. Young Monsieur Strange had paid you a visit in your sewing chamber as an orientalist. He was impressed by the attention to detail you had placed into the costumes and was eager to help you in perfecting the ideas.

He was back in your workrooms a few weeks later, checking the finished product as well as the music hall stage set. Because your lodgings were close to the Moulin Rouge, he stopped by to see you and your fellow seamstresses on his way back. He had admired your outfits and had recommended you to the proprietors.

That's how you met and then kept meeting, each one ending with you smiling a little brighter, his smile getting cheekier and cheekier.

Stephen often assumed that falling in love with one of the dancers would be simple. Monsieur Strange, on the other hand, was not one to take the easy way out. He had been unimpressed by the dancers' charm, flirty manner, and womanly figure. He was an orientalist visiting Paris from his hometown, and he had no interest for the loud women of the cabaret, famous for their cancan. 

Instead, he had chosen the difficult path. He fell for you.

It was an impossible love. Hopeless in more ways than one; not only had he fallen head over heels for you irrevocably and explicitly, but there was no future in which he could do so. Your love was ephemeral, not because the sensations vanished, but because you couldn't freely love each other in this world, neither in France nor anywhere else. It was a forbidden love. 

Something forbidden. 

It's a hopeless love.

You knew it wouldn't last, you wouldn’t; but nothing does, so you loved him the same way he loved you.

Stephen would never marry a mere seamstress. He was a class above you, and he was certain his father had already picked a merchant's daughter for him, one from New York, just like him, just like his father wanted.

Tonight, he could spend naked in your arms, snuggled in the warm sheets of his bed, listening to his heartbeat while his long fingers combed through your hair.

"The sky was falling," you said as his heat cock finally came out, weary, clogged, and squeezed all the air out of your lungs. The palm of his hand lingered warmly on your exposed breasts, like a boy's toy.

Your hair is wet, and so is his. You look at the mess on the bedsheet, it's like a war, so criminally. Unless, of course Stephen's sharp smile, the top of his chest breaths heavily, and the bottom is buried beneath his blanket, but you pull out it to cover yourself so you can glimpse his entire body again. "And I'm falling for you, amour."

It was a quiet night. He'd snuck you into one of his smaller homes, where no servants could spy on you two. You had a glass of dry red wine and a baguette with camembert and red grapes. It was a basic dish by his standards, but it was everything the two of you could have desired for dinner tonight.

You had been kept busy by the continual repairs of Moulin Rouge costumes, as well as other work sent to you by higher and middle-class women, in the heart of balmy summer, with the sun shining down in all its splendor, warming you up and making all proper ladies sweat under their garments. You made no complaint. It was good job, and there was always additional money, which you could never have enough of.

Stephen did all the whining for you, about how you didn't have time for him, about how he felt neglected, about how you were too gorgeous to spend the days in a workroom instead of on the garden outside, enjoying in the sun and definitely keeping him company.

Finally, your work was completed, and you decided to take the day off, and now, at the end of the day spent in his arms, you were falling asleep in his arms, his gentle breathing feeling like a summer breeze in your hair, and his golden skin was warm on yours. Because of your body heat and the warm night, you couldn't sleep beneath a blanket, so you slept on a light linen sheet.

"Mon plus cher amour," he said into the air, that’s the way he called; "my dearest love." And you had responded to his call through the thin veil of sleep, turning in his arms to face him, your lips brushing against his as he spoke, the delicate touch sending thrills down Stephen's spine.

"Mon cherrie?" You'd wondered, laying a sly kiss on his pouty lips.

"I cannot imagine living without you." He engaged, his eyes staring into yours with such affection that you wondered if a mortal man could be filled with so much love. Such deep feeling was surely destined for something more holy than you; for ladies whose beauty lived on in legend, a kind of beauty caught by poems, songs, and prayers. Not you, mortal, frail, and average.

"Don't say such things." You murmured softly, your tone echoing Stephen's love in his gaze. His breath caught, and you could feel his heart rattling against your chest, its steady beat matching the pace of your own. "They make me fall in love with you even more." Your lover grinned at your comments, his long fingers reaching to gently hold your hand before bringing it to his lips, kissing your knuckles delicately, his lips smooth like rosebuds, flushed a deep pink as blood flowed through him, red and strong. His aquatic eyes never left yours for a second. 

Hopelessly, you loved him so badly, too.

The days passed without him, and eventually, after all work was finished, Stephen decided to take you to the premiere of the new cabaret show, the one you had spent months sewing costumes for, and now he would allow you the pleasure of seeing the fruit of your labors, and you had a feeling it would be sweet.

Tonight, he had taken you to the cabaret. The moulin rouge was full with patrons, their cacophonous banter before the show was like the beginning of a birdsong, someplace deep in the rainforest, their words, not always French, rang throughout the room like a flock of tropical songbirds, unorganized but cheerful. You sat at a table for two, he in a magnificent black suit, you in your best dress, your hair done up in a stylish style you had seen many of your clients wear. When you looked in the mirror before leaving the house, you couldn't believe the lady in the reflection was you. You wondered if he had always thought you were beautiful.

"You are lovely to look at. Never forget that, mon amour." He leaned in to whisper into your ears, the dim light shimmering golden against his skin, making the shape of his nose and the plushness of his lips even more refined, even more seductive. Your heart skipped a beat despite your will. As the dancers entered the stage, the flock fell silent, leaving only the melody of the orchestra. Stephen relaxed in his chair, entirely at ease, sipping champagne.

The show was spectacular, but no one expected less from the legendary Moulin Rouge. The dancers glided around the stage in perfect synchronicity. Even their most frantic routines were carried out with beauty and precision. others gowns were shorter than others, and others were more scandalous. You hadn't skimped on the feathers and sequins. Each costume was meticulously fitted, with every thread perfectly in place and every color carefully chosen.

"Something like this would never be tolerated where I come from." Stephen whispered in your ear. Even without looking at him, you could tell that his gaze was drawn to the dancers and his lips formed a sneer against your ears. You knew he wasn't talking about the cabaret. "I'm glad it's allowed here." When you didn't react, he whispered, and you felt a delightful chill down your spine.

"They look gorgeous." Instead, you stated that your gaze never leaves the stage. The dancers span, their skirts swirling with them, exposing more of their legs, and the audience couldn't stop gasping.

He questioned as he took another sip from his flute. "The dancers?"

"Pretty women look good in pretty clothing." When another round of cacophonous delight rippled through the audience, you responded with a nod, a smile on your lips.

"Are those your dresses?" Stephen smiled, his eyes twinkling as he examined the colorful outfits, feather plumes, and embroidery on the bodices and skirts. 

“Oui.” You sipped your drink, allowing the buzz of alcohol to enhance your enjoyment of the evening. "What's the point of staring at me?" After a while, you said, the feeling of Stephen's deep ocean eyesight staring at you becoming uncomfortable as the night progressed, your second flute of champagne now standing empty in front of you.

"I can't stop myself. You are like the moon." He smiled, turning his head to look at you from a fresh perspective. "So attracting me." He spoke, and his hand moved across the table to grip yours, his long fingers weaving through yours.

You stayed like that till the end of the show.

When the night was done and he had draped your coat over your shoulders like a gentleman, a cheeky smile graced his lips, his eyes bright with mischief.

"We went to the pleasure palace, and yet my greatest pleasure was watching you." He told you, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, savoring the crimson that warmed your cheeks, both from the champagne and from him.

Another week passed, and you were again in his chambers, laying among the lovely covers, holding a book as Stephen dressed. He was dressed in a suit identical to the one he wore to Moulin Rouge, but he had changed the jacket to something more suited for dinner. You liked his straight brows and heavy lashes as you combed his hair back away from his face. 

"How do you think I look?" He approached, tying his black bowtie in front of the mirror above his dresser.

Looking at his tiny figure over your book, you told him. "Handsome as always." You said that when he turned around and winked at him. "You will be fine, Monsieur Strange."

"Whatever you want to say, Mademoiselle." He smiled as he walked over to the bed and knelt down. His plush lips were on yours in an instant, and you melted into the kiss. 

When he turned to slide into his jacket, he looked back at you, his eyes filled with concern. You could tell he was tense by the clench of his jaw and the strain in his shoulders. 

"Enjoy yourself." You smiled at him, attempting to cheer him up. Whatever was on his thoughts was weighing heavily on him. Enough to make him wary of telling you about it. It was a rare occurrence. 

"It's just another business meeting; I'm recommending teapot purchases." He muttered, presumably to himself, and you sprang from the bed, wrapping your arms around his torso and staring into his eyes. Their maritime blue reminded you of hot coffee and chocolate in the morning. "New York ceramics have grown in popularity among those who can afford to import them." He spoke, his arms wrapping over your shoulders. Stephen buried his face in your hair, and you gave him a minute of silence. He pressed you against him, and you listened to his heartbeat, sure and steady like him. 

"Selling a lot of teapots, then, mon cherie." You told him, and he let you go with one more farewell kiss.

"Don't worry about missing me too much, mon plus cher amour." He called out as he walked out of the room, and you couldn't help but smile as you watched him go.

Sadly, you do.

The dinner was drab. The hosts were rich, as they always were, and they loved to gossip, as they always did. Normally, Stephen avoided the ladies' gossip, preferring to sit and drink whiskey with the males, but tonight he found himself in the center of it. Not because he was really interested, but because he was the topic of it. 

Many guys stood around the room conversing, and some women avoided the host's wife, who was a nasty gossip who could run her mouth like no other. Unfortunately, Stephen was on his way to meet his business partner, Monsieur Holmes from England, when he overheard the conversation.

The guests sat on luxurious sofas, with a tiny wooden mahogany coffee table in the center, containing a lovely tea set, white porcelain with delicate lotus blossoms painted in red for adornment. Last summer, it was one of the models they carried. Surprisingly, it was not a high-end set.

"I heard he went to the cabaret with his mistress last week. I'm curious who she is." The harsh voice of one of the ladies pierced his eardrums. Stephen could tell she was one of your clientele based on her attire. In your shop window, a similar dress, however green rather than the caustic salmon color this woman was wearing, was shown. He could recognize your work from anywhere right now.

"There will be no high standing." Another woman interrupted him, and he wanted to stop listening. Morbid curiosity kept him quiet, listening to those women criticize you, his blood boiling under his skin. 

"A Frenchwoman and a New Yorker. In public!" Stephen tried to stop himself from cursing after hearing the woman in salmon scream. 

"How are you doing, ladies?" Instead, he put on a happy face and walked right into the women's chat, interrupting their gossip. "I heard you ordered two tea sets, Madame." He turned to gaze at an older woman sitting between the two who were chatting about you.

“Yes. My daughter is marrying into a good family, and I want to make sure she brings only the best to her new home." She had spoken, her nose turned almost comically high as she tried to gaze at him with contempt. 

"I hope you will be pleased with the quality of our products." He had bowed lightly, a sickly-sweet smile lingering on his lips, as rage had no doubt poked through his eyes. When you glanced into his eyes, you stated you could tell he was upset. He would have spoken more, but Shrr had come to his rescue, his cheerful attitude brightening the mood of the women.

"Ah, Monsieur Strange, I was looking for you." He talked, his rich voice filled with joy as he tried to pull Stephen away. 

He pushed him to the side and handed the shorter man a tumbler of scotch. Sherlock's massive body towered over him, hiding him from the gossips' gaze. His huge hand reached out and squeezed Stephen's shoulder in reassurance.

"Young men are young men regardless of where they come from." Do not listen to old rumor." Sherlock's powerful voice slowed to a mumble, and Stephen assumed his companion was growling rather than speaking.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He mumbled, gulping the scotch down, too frustrated to taste it. He found the burn of alcohol to be a pleasant distraction.

"Better to love one woman than to hate one woman." When his pal looked down on him, his teal eyes were soft.

Stephen asked shifting the conversation from one unpleasant issue to another. "Any news from my father?" 

“None yet. I’m not sure he even knows about her.” Sherlock reassured him, a small smile playing on his lips. He sipped on his scotch.

"If he knew," Stephen said, his heart pounding wildly against his chest, making him dizzy, before Sherlock cut him off. 

"You'd have been on a ship back by now, and that merchant's daughter would have been waiting for you at the docks." He finished for him, gulping down the rest of his scotch before proceeding to refill their glasses.Stephen received an increasing number of inquiries for imported pottery as the evening continued. Tea sets, plates, and bowls were among the items requested. By the end of the meal, his notebook was full of names and catalog numbers. 

Stephen had removed his coat and unfastened his bowtie when he returned home. His white shirt had a few buttons undone, displaying his golden collarbone. He sat on his living room sofa, sipping more scotch from a crystal glass. When he arrived, you tossed the book and sat alongside him on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder. The fabric beneath you was velvet, far more expensive than you could possibly afford. You could see he had it built to order.

Stephen had remained silent other than greetings and a couple brief kisses. Despite the drink he consumed, the worry shown on his face had not subsided. From the corner of your eye, you noticed his jaw clenched and relaxed.

"Are you ready to tell me now?" You asked him, and he turned his chin towards you. His gaze was drawn to your lips first, then up into your eyes. He'd always assumed they were sapphires. Not because they were blue, but because they reminded him of the sea, deep and uncharted. They hid your heart, so they gleamed like valuable stones and reflected light like the tumultuous waters of the sea. Deep, so deep that he lost himself in them and found himself in them as well. 

"I'm worried about my father." His heavenly voice broke, heavy with uncertainty, and he mumbled.

"We knew about your father from the start,” you told him as you pressed your palm against his cheek, allowing Stephen to sink into your contact and relish in how warm he felt against you. “We knew how this was going to end before it even started."

"What if I don't want this to come to an end?" He asked whether and you were the one to lose yourself in the depths of his irises this time.

You kissed him with your other hand on his cheek. Passionately and uninhibitedly. It didn't matter if the end was coming or if it was already here. You had feelings for him. You were hopelessly in love with him. 

Stephen went violet when you touched him. He felt it seep into him when he pressed his lips to yours with bruising force, and again when you grabbed him in his bed, and again when you left purple marks over his collar bones, each one a visible stain on his body; something to remind him he was yours, something to remind you that you were his. 

Days flew by in a blur of color. You awoke in his bed, went to work, and spent the evening at Moulin Rouge. Every night was spectacular; every night was the same. You had grown fond of Moulin Rouge. Stephen could sit by you in public and flaunt your devotion for him. In Montmartre, most people were preoccupied with the concept of liberty and freedom. You shared their hopes, that the world will be a better place to live one day. Both you and he fit in. It was simple to be at the Bastion of Pleasures.

After one of the shows, when you had finally returned home to recuperate, an unexpected guest appeared. 

Sherlock had come in one evening, just as Stephen was falling asleep in your lap, your voice calming him. The British man had arrived with a letter. It was obvious that it was from Stephen's father. Because the characters were strange, you were illiterate and blissfully unaware of the contents. 

"Not good." Stephen had risen from your lap and was pacing as he read over the letter. Sherlock had taken a seat near you, his form looming over you. You weren't bothered because you were used to being in his shadow, but the expressions on both men's faces made you nervous. 

Sherlock told them. "He wants you to return by the end of the next year." His strong voice boomed through the room, and his loving brown eyes looked down at you, and then at Stephen, with such sadness that you couldn't tell who was more saddened by the news.

"I understand." Stephen paused his pacing and requested that one of his assistants bring them some cognac. "To one more year." When the vodka was poured into crystal glasses and delivered to the three of them, he toasted.

You raised your glass with a cheeky smile, toasting with him. Sherlock raised his glass reluctantly and witheredly, the amber liquid shimmering in the faint light, before taking a gulp.

You lay wrapped in Stephen's arms that night, a pleasant breeze blowing through the open window, drifting over your naked shoulders as you glanced up at your sweetheart.

"Let us leave. Just… Run away with me." Stephen mumbled, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of his room, more pensive than you had ever seen him.

"Is this? …New Americana proposal’s? Where’s my ring?" You commented, a broad smile on your face, as though pondering of the possibilities, soon, your shoulders jolted down. "Where shall we go?"

"Wherever my father won't find us." You pressed closer to him, further into the protection of his arms, as he aware you. “Italy?” You sought out, considering locations too far away for the Strange business to pursue you to.

“Britain? Erm-”

"French Indochina?" You kissed his forehead, with an awkward smile on your lips.

"I don't care… literally. Where we go; my heart goes to loving you everywhere." He spoke softly, and you knew he loved you now more than ever. 

Stephen was ready to leave everything to be with you, where his father could not intervene, and you were ready to leave with him, you knew you would; for anything even your cabaret flora life here; for one condition… just be with him.

"Then let's go anywhere." You gave in, putting a kiss to his lips and whispering love words into his ears as he held you. He whispered them back, breathed love into you with his kisses, was firm and soothing alongside you, and despite the frost in the air, you were warm. 

His lengthy fingers knead over yours, enveloping them. You know he staked his entire future on it. You are mindful of this. "Whether it's an ice-covered world or warfare, I'll be the one that burns it." Your lips curled together, his words so sincere, and his rich tone melt with every emotion you've ever beheld. "Like frost and flame; hot and cold both evaporated."

You draw stars on his chest, another one, another one… Attentively paying attention to his heartbeat. The galactic cosmos feels incredibly near whenever you're with him, your Monsieur Strange, yours.

"Trust me?"

"Always have."

Love was occasionally hopeless, but maybe this time, just this time, there was hope.

And this is hope that you want would be go on survived.

For everlasting. 

a/t: how was it 🥹 idk why but the plot comes while i listen this so bitter, tortured but sweetener so it’s challenging me to write 1920’ era. Well… in fact, the forbidden love is my first time writing… so erm yk what i mean? just please give love to it bc Monsieur Strange is watching you 😂🥹🤭 the core of this story is foreign man who has love affair with the owner of cabaret and he bet everything on it to stay with his heart, so fucking romantic yeah? this side is so rare to see from Stephen x reader ff and that’s why, so sorry to bring him out of character again bc it’s not my first time actually HAHAHAHAHA xD well next story we will see new youtuber Stephen who open YouTube channel so bright the boredom of quarantine by corona, he’s doctor right? let’s go romantic comedy yahooooo

#multiverse of madness #doctor strange #stephen strange x reader #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange fanfiction #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange one shot #stephen strange one shot #marvel fanfiction #stephen strange #doctor strange imagine #doctor strange smut #stephen strange smut #dr strange smut #mcu x reader #doctor stephen strange #benedict cumberbatch #imeternallylove

[lovesongbracket]

Reminder: Vote based on the song, not the artist or specific recording! The tracks referenced are the original artist, aside from a few rare cases where a cover is the most widely known.

Lyrics, videos, info, and notable covers under the cut. (Spotify playlist available in pinned post)

God Only Knows

Written By: Brian Wilson & Tony Asher

Artist: The Beach Boys

Released: 1966

“God Only Knows” is a song by American rock band The Beach Boys. It is the eighth track on the group’s 11th studio album, Pet Sounds, and one of their most widely recognized songs. “God Only Knows” was composed and produced by Brian Wilson. Tony Asher helped Brian with the lyrics. Carl Wilson sang lead, and Bruce Johnston sang harmony vocals with Brian in the outro. The song broke new ground in many ways. It was one of the first commercial songs to use the word ‘God’ in its title. As producer, Brian Wilson used many unorthodox instruments, including the harpsichord and French horns that are heard in the song’s famous introduction. Although The Beatles engaged in a friendly rivalry with the Beach Boys based on mutual respect, Paul McCartney called this song the best song ever written.

[Verse 1: Carl Wilson] I may not always love you But long as there are stars above you You never need to doubt it I'll make you so sure about it [Refrain: Carl Wilson] God only knows what I'd be without you [Verse 2: Carl Wilson] If you should ever leave me Well, life would still go on, believe me The world could show nothing to me So what good would living do me? [Refrain: Carl Wilson] God only knows what I'd be without you [Interlude: Carl Wilson, Brian Wilson, and Bruce Johnston] Ooh, ooh Do, do, do, do, do, do, do Bow, buh-bow, buh-bow, buh-bow (Do, do, do, do) Buh-bow, buh-bow, buh-bow (Do, do, do, do, do, do) Buh-bow, buh-bow, buh-bow, buh-bow (Do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do) [Refrain: Carl Wilson] God only knows what I'd be without you [Verse 3: Carl Wilson] If you should ever leave me Well, life would still go on, believe me The world could show nothing to me So what good would living do me? [Chorus: Carl Wilson] God only knows what I'd be without you [Outro: Carl Wilson with Brian Wilson and Bruce Johnston] God only knows what I'd be without you God only knows what I'd be without you God only knows what I'd be without you (What I'd be) God only knows what I'd be without you (God only knows) God only knows what I'd be without you (What I'd be) God only knows what I'd be without you (God only knows) God only knows what I'd be without you (What I'd be) God only knows what I'd be without you (God only knows) God only knows what I'd be without you (What I'd be) God only knows what I'd be without you (God only knows) God only knows what I'd be without you (What I'd be) God only knows what I'd be without you (God only knows)

Your Song

Written By: Elton John & Bernie Taupin

Artist: Elton John

Released: 1970

The song was composed and performed by Elton John but the lyrics were written by Bernie Taupin. It originally appeared in his self titled and second album. Elton John hadn’t come out of the closet yet, but Bernie Taupin knew, which is part of the reason why the lyrics avoid using gendered pronouns. In a 2013 interview with Rolling Stone, Elton John said: “What can I say, it’s a perfect song. It gets better every time I sing it. I remember writing it at my parents' apartment in North London, and Bernie giving me the lyrics, sitting down at the piano and looking at it and going, ‘Oh, my God, this is such a great lyric, I can’t fuck this one up.’ It came out in about 20 minutes, and when I was done, I called him in and we both knew. I was 22, and he was 19, and it gave us so much confidence. ‘Empty Sky’ was lovely, but it was very naive. We went on to do more esoteric stuff like ‘Take Me to the Pilot,’ of course, but musically, this was a big step forward. And the older I get, the more I sing these lyrics, and the more they resonate with me.”

[Verse 1] It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside I'm not one of those who can easily hide I don't have much money, but boy if I did I'd buy a big house where we both could live [Verse 2] If I was a sculptor, heh, but then again, no Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do My gift is my song and this one's for you [Chorus] And you can tell everybody this is your song It may be quite simple but now that it's done I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind That I put down in words How wonderful life is while you're in the world [Verse 3] I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss Well, a few of the verses, well, they've got me quite cross But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song It's for people like you that keep it turned on [Verse 4] So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do You see, I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen [Chorus] And you can tell everybody this is your song It may be quite simple but now that it's done I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind That I put down in words How wonderful life is while you're in the world [Outro] I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind That I put down in words How wonderful life is while you're in the world

#god only knows #the beach boys #brian wilson #your song #elton john #polls #poll tournament #poll bracket #tournament #bracket #lovesongbracket #round3

[lorirwritesfanfic]

Berk Atan as Prince Hamid Osmanoğlu

Disclaimer: this character profile was created specifically to fit Prince Hamid on Meant To Be universe . I unfortunately don't own the character, I don't assume to know everything about him and I have no intention to affirm this is exactly who he is and how other people should write him. I'm merely a hardcore enthusiast of this lovely character and I do my best to keep his essence while adding a few headcanons of my own.

Name: Hamid Osmanoğlu

Nationality: Turkish

Birthdate: December 3, 1991.

Hometown: Istanbul, Türkiye

Current Residence: Ithaca, NY, USA

Occupation: Envoy of Türkiye in the United States of America, graduate student of MBA Economics and Management at Cornell University

Talents/Skills: public speaking, a knack for languages, charm, cooking, self-defense and combat skills.

Parents: Murat Osmanoğlu and Raisa Doğan-Osmanoğlu

Siblings: Nesrin Osmanoğlu-Aksoy, Malak Osmanoğlu, Sevim Osmanoğlu.

Closest relatives: Ahmet and Halime Osmanoğlu (uncle and aunt), Osman Osmanoğlu (grandfather - deceased), Kaan Aksoy (brother in-law).

Background: First born of Ambassador of Türkiye in Australia Murat Osmanoğlu and prosecutor Raisa Doğan-Osmanoğlu, Hamid is easy going, perceptive and polite, has the ability to make friends everywhere he goes and charms everyone with his sense of humor and kind heart. With an impressive wit and knack for languages, he's fluent in seven languages (Arabic, English, French, German, Hindi, Mandarin and Spanish) aside from his native tongue. He fell in love with International Relations when he was nine and studied Economics and Finance at Bahcesehir University (2008-2011), hoping to follow his father's footsteps and become a diplomat.

To please his mother, he studied Law in Cambridge (2012-2015), worked with her for six months and quit to spent a month traveling with his father. He returned to Cambridge to get a Msc in International Relations and Politics (2016-2018), getting his first job at UK Parliament, where he worked with Earl Vincent Foredale.

He enrolled in MBA Economics and Management at Cornell University (2018-2021) and now works as an envoy of Türkiye in the USA, taking a job as legal advisor right after that.

What's his family like?

The Osmanoğlu family (on his father side) is composed by direct descentants from the House of Osman. When the Ottoman Empire fell, his grandfather Sehzade Osman was exiled in the UK with his family, then moved to the United States, where he married and lived most of his life. Most of his relatives live in Germany, UK or USA, but they still gather every year for festivities. All Osmanoğlu members follow Muslim traditions, but living in western countries made them inclined to a modern lifestyle.

The Doğan family (on his mother side), however, is more traditional. Mostly composed by women, they live in the same neighborhood and gather around at least twice per month. Filthy rich, pragmatic and meddlesome, they often interfere on younger relatives career choices, friendships and relationships, calling family meetings and interventions whenever they see fit. Though Hamid loves his mother and aunts dearly, their intrusive habits are among the reasons why he moved out of his family's house and doesn't have plans to live permanently in Turkiye again.

Favourite childhood memory: sailing with his father, grandfather and uncle.

Nicknames: Aslan (among the men in his family), Osman (among friends at school/university because of the name on his football jersey), Hamidciğim (most women in his family call him that, but according to him, this petname sounds more endearing to him when Daphne calls)

Astrology sign: Sagittarius sun, Aquarius rising, Cancer moon

Hobbies: Driving, fishing, reading, cooking, MMORPG

Relationship status: In a relationship with Daphne Wang

Top 5 songs:

Burcu Güneş - Sen Benimsin, Ben Seninim

Emre Aydın - Hoşçakal

Paul McCartney - My Love

Coldplay - A Message

Norah Jones - Come Away With Me

Favourite books:

The Twenty-One Balloons by Pene du Bois

The Museum of Innocence by Orhan Pamuk

Poems of Nâzım Hikmet (1986 edition)

Favourite movies:

Psycho (1960)

Spirited Away (2001)

Sonbahar (2008)

Favourite TV shows:

He likes most cooking TV shows, but his favourite is Masterchef Kids (he is amazed by talented children). From Netflix, his favourites are Sex Education, Aşk 101 and The Crown. But his all time favourites are period dramas (Magnificent Century, Magnificent Century: Kösem, The Great Seljuks: Guardians of Justice, Kuruluş Osman, Reign, The Tudors, The Spanish Princess...), He is also into K-Drama and Chinese drama because of Daphne and his sisters, but he only watches with them.

Biggest guilty pleasure:

watching Daphne's trashy TV reality shows while eating greasy food. He's not entirely ashamed of the greasy food and says it motivates him to exercise more in the next day, but will blantantly deny liking Love Island, Love is Blind and Say Yes To The Dress.

Sweet or savoury?

Normally he says both, but when push comes to shove, he'll choose savoury.

Favourite food:

Menemen, kofte burger, ramen, baklava

Favourite drinks:

Non-alcoholic - Turkish coffee, cappucino, Turkish tea, pomegranate juice, strawberry daiquiri mocktail

Alcoholic - Irish coffee, rakı, wine

Most treasured possessions:

A Ducati Panigale V4R and A. Lange & Söhne Lange 1 Zeitzone watch with his initials engraved in the back.

Close Friends:

Sevim Osmanoğlu (OC), Yusuf Konevi, Ali Koveni (OC), Sanem Konevi (OC), Veronica Dantas (OC), Bartholomew Chambers.

Goals for the future:

Travel to Sub-Saharan Africa, take Daphne to travel with him more often, buying an apartment in London.

Dog lover or cat lover?

Both (don't expect him to choose)

Early bird or night owl?

Early bird (unless he's jetlagged)

How does he relax after a bad day?

When he's alone, he goes jogging or driving to clear his head then finds something to eat. When he's with Daphne, he stays home with her, preferably resting his head on her lap as they watch movies.

Personality: ENFP-A (Assertive Campaigner)

Campaigners (ENFPs) are true free spirits – outgoing, openhearted, and open-minded. With their lively, upbeat approach to life, they stand out in any crowd. But even though they can be the life of the party, Campaigners don’t just care about having a good time. These personality types run deep – as does their longing for meaningful, emotional connections with other people.

One random headcanon:

During his teenhood, he used to play MMORPG with then Prince Liam of Cordonia and Drake Walker during late nights. He's not as close to the King of Cordonia as he used be, but they're still good friends. He attended the King's coronation, the King's engagement parties to Lady Madeleine and Lady Jade, the bachelor party in Paris and wedding to Queen Jade. He was also invited to the bachelor + bachelorette party in Vegas, but politely declined because he was preparing himself for the interviews for the MBA at Cornell University.

#character profiles #choices fanfic #desire and decorum fanfic #desire & decorum modern day au #prince hamid #hamid osmanoğlu #meant to be au #lorirwritesfanfic #lorircreates

[gerogerigaogaigar]

Creedence Clearwater Revival - Willy And The Poor Boys

After three albums of progressively cleaner tighter production the boys of CCR decided to go and do one more sloppy style. While the main hit Fortunate Son still has the crisp production of their recent output the rest is closer to the swampy slop of their debut. There's a solid amount of funk influence in their blues rock and it makes Willy And The Poor Boys stand out among their discography. There's a solid mix of politically charged and party songs that makes it very emblematic of the CCR style.

Beastie Boys - Licensed To Ill

I've said already how I love the Beastie Boys. I think they are one of the best at their type of flow and on their debut they are probably the most focused they ever were. Now I do think that focus comes at the expense of a fun looseness that permeates their next few albums, but it does mean that all the songs are more fully realized. I imagine that if Brass Monkey or Girls had been on Paul's Boutique instead they would have been a minute long each but here they get to be some of the Beastie Boys most well remembered tracks. Also a totally weird thing to be able to say about a hip hop record but the guitar solo in No Sleep Till Brooklyn rips.

Etta James - At Last!

I've known the name Etta James for a long time but I've never knowingly listened to her until now. Her blend of traditional pop, soul, and rock actually caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting that kind of crossover energy from a female pop singer from 1960. The more rock and doo wop stuff was good but the more traditional pop/soul stuff was amazing. The title track and her version of Stormy Weather especially were amazingly delivered. James' voice is husky and rich, with a lot of toughness and it somehow works most beautifully with the more delicate songs. It gives them a sense of wavering confidence.

The Who - Tommy

On the face of it Tommy is an album about a boy who is stricken deaf, dumb, and blind by childhood trauma, experiences every kind of child abuse imaginable, and finally is cured of his condition only to immediately become an abusive cult leader himself and finally lose all of his followers when they realize he's a fraud. It's a lot and it's densely packed even as a lengthy double album. I find it to be very thematically interesting and, though I won't analyse it here, ideas about the cycle of abuse, a representation or Plato's allegory of the cave, and a condemnation of spiritual guidance in general are just a few of the things that I personally read into the lyrics on Tommy. It's a shockingly intelligent album from the band who once made a fake ad for baked beans. Musically this is also the most complex and mature thing The Who would ever write. Already a talented batch of musicians they show off harder than ever with Pete Townsend proving that he could arrange as well as any classical composer, John Entwistle pulling out the French horn on more than a few tracks, Keith Moon just completely obliteration the drum kit at every chance, and Roger Daltry successfully vocalizing the emotional depth of the story's various characters. As an attempt at real operatic formula it features an overture repeating motifs, and even a few interludes that could be called the rock version of recitative. It's bigger and more dramatic than any Who album before or after. It more than lives up to it's reputation and could stand to be more seriously analysed from a literary standpoint in my opinion.

Sleater-Kinney - Dig Me Out

Coming out towards the end of the riot grrrl scene of the 90s Sleater-Kinney's third album manages to be a little cleaner and more nuanced than their contemporaries but no less angry. They deliver a hard hitting punk adjacent brand of alternative rock that is aware of grunge but is very much doing its own thing. The feminist themes common to the riot grrrl movement are on full display and nuance is out the window. There's no time for nuance when you are raging against the patriarchy and as a bonus Sleater-Kinney are not one of the terfy riot grrrl bands.

T. Rex - Electric Warrior

Electric Warrior is probably the most important release for the glam rock genre. There's this hint of folksiness mixed with a glitzy sheen and those two things are somehow not at odds with each other. The lyrics? Damn this shit is horny. Marc Bolan was exquisite at expressing sleaze without making me feel uncomfortable. There's this combination of cheek and haunting atmosphere that leaves me with the impression that Bolan is singing about fucking to keep something scarier at bay.

#500 album gauntlet #creedence clearwater revival #beastie boys #etta james #the who #sleater-kinney #t. rex

[opera-ghosts]

OTD in Music History: Composer Georges Bizet (1838 – 1875) is born in France.

Bizet achieved remarkably few successes before his final work, “Carmen” (1875) – which he lived to see premiered to mediocre reviews and middling popular success, and which became a smash hit only *after* his death, three months later.

During a brilliant student career at the Paris Conservatoire, however, Bizet won many prizes, including the prestigious “Prix de Rome." He was also recognized as an outstanding pianist (no less a figure than Franz Liszt [1811 - 1886] hailed him as one of the greatest sight-readers in the world), although he rarely performed in public. After returning to Paris following his obligatory three years in Rome, Bizet discovered that Parisian opera theatres strongly preferred to stage works from the established operative repertoire. As a result, he was forced to eke out a meager living arranging and transcribing the music of others.

Restless for success, Bizet began many theatrical projects during the 1860s, but he eventually abandoned almost all of them. Neither of the two operas that he did finish during this period – “The Pearl Fishers” (1863) and “The Fair Maid of Perth” (1867) – achieved immediate success, in large part due to being saddled with particularly ridiculous librettos.

After serving in the National Guard during the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871), Bizet once again tried his hand at writing for the stage with an opera entitled “Djamileh” (1872). This, too, was a failure.

The production of “Carmen” itself was delayed due to fears that its themes of betrayal and murder might offend Parisian bourgeois audiences. When it finally premiered in March 1875, it was not an immediate success, either...

PICTURED: A first edition printed score for one of Bizet’s most popular “melodies” (French art songs), “Goodbye to the Arab Hostess" (1867), which he has signed and inscribed on the cover to a fan.

#Bizet #composer #classical music #piano #pianist #opera #conductor #Georges Bizet #Carmen #symphony #orchestra #bel canto #music history

[dont-justdont]

im writing this as i rewatch the episode again with much more attention and i give yall all the little details to look for (in chronological order, im literally pausing the episode as i go to write this down)

- on lestats first appearance, he holds a blue book (from what i read basically a register of all the prostitutes in the district)

- when paul arrives he tells louis the birds told him to come "but also one voice" and then louis cuts him off, i believe that voice is lestat (he appears on screan a few seconds later

- the mayfair reference at the diner table during breakfast

- he refers to his homosexuality before we even see lestat (when he arrives after going to church with his brother)

- the sazerac (the drink louis orders) is a classic new orleans' cocktail and is said to embody it's richness very well, started getting popular in the 1800's and then some more in the beginning of the 1900's

- the whole "your name is louis, of course it's louis" because lestat is french (although there might be something deeper than that but idk, im thinking it's because it's the name of the king from the time lestat was around in france (louis xvi) but it seems far-fetched, any thoughts?)

- when he talks about settling there, he looks at miss lily and goes "but there's the food" aka im a vampire (not very hard to tell but i thought id add it to the list) also can we appreciate louis' face during that interaction he seems so done

- lestat wanted to go to st louis at first (maybe thats way the whole name thing) which was one of the most developed cities in america at that time

- i cannot find the name of the song that the man is singing (the one who puts out the lights) and its driving me crazy. if anyone wants to search, it goes something like (on parlait raymond, raymond... aller simon, simon... lui parlait titi, titi... tomber dans le chagrin... elle lui parlait titi, titi... elle est tombée dans le chagrin... and i cant for the life of me comprehend what he says during the last line sorry) im not 100% sure about those because of the english accent (french is my first language) but yeah if you find it please tell me im dying to know

- at the poker table they mention the murders take place near decatur, which is a street where there was a shooting (in 1910). from what i read the whole thing was discriminatory and there was like a strong anti-immigrant sentiment and everything

- the black star line (the company on the tickets louis gives his sister) is a black led company that was made to encourage black people to participate in the economy as they were often left out (from what im reading it was mostly a shipping company so im confused about that one but yeah), apparently it started in 1919 so im also confused about that

- the sister's husband is levi freniere, referencing the freniere family in the book (babette's family)

- lestat's past being referenced at diner (although that's not really a detail)

- THE SAVAGE GARDEN REFERENCE

- the song he composed for nicolas:( "infinite beauty and sensitivity" yes yes yes yes yes

- SOMEONE TELL ME WHY LOUIS LEGS ARE CLEAN SHAVED IN DYING OVER HERE

- when tap dancing louis and paul set the rhythm before the musicians play (which is normal i guess but a nice touch)

- before louis and paul watch the sunset, we see two glasses : one full and standing, one on the side that seems shattered (foreshadowing hehe)

- louis didnt grow up in the house he lives in, they moved in when he was 7 (i just did a little math on the number of days they had been in the house), im wondering where he grew up

- im so so glad paul didnt die after an argument and instead sort of made peace with louis (although it took me by surprise since i was expecting a fight)

- "lily was a poor substitute" aka he killed her

- not a detail but can we talk about jacob anderson's acting in little confession box thingy (i dont know the term) because DAMN that man is talented

- "i give death to those deserving" aka lestat being lestat and only killing the bad people (although i dont believe lily deserved it)

- lestat's pupils stop being dilated when he gives his little speech to louis meaning he doesnt talk like that out of hunger/arousal but out of desperation/love

- louis' complexion goes grayish when he's drained of blood but it comes back

- lestat is missing a nail when he's down on the floor with his hand on his stomach (that's not important for the plot i just found it funny)

- THE BLOOD TEAR

okay now that was a terribly long post and im sorry about it, i just enjoy seeing all the work put into this show and thought id share the little things i notice, i hope yall are doing well byyye

#the vampire chronicles #vampire chronicles #lestat de lioncourt #lestat #louis #louis de la pointe du lac #iwtv #iwtv series

[dakardreamsofsheep]

The Cast of Characters

“The soul of a country lives in any one block” -Peter Hessler

The people make the place, and that’s especially true in Dakar. Besides the painted pirogues in Lebou villages, the bustling downtown markets and -gulp- the remaining French colonial architecture, Dakar is not a very Instagram ready city. “Lots to do, nothing to see,” is how someone described it to me. It’s a magical and compelling place because of the density and full commitment of it’s inhabitants to living their lives out in public space, and often together. Men work out in the dozens on the beach in muscled groups, women stride together in neon tailored dresses down the street, the nightclubs are filled with coordinated Afro-beat dancers, kids run squealing in neighborhood bunches down the alley, the fisherman grunt and haul their vessels together out to see, vendors cluster together with hair products and mangoes and dried fish. It was so overwhelming, at first, that it took a minute to separate out faces and stories from the crowd. Some of my first attempts at friendship didn’t quite take, as happens in anyplace. Here are snapshots of some of my favorite Senegalese and West African friends I spent time with this year:

-Ibraham: Guinean musician with a spider tattoo on his shoulder (he told me the spider protected the prophet Muhammed by weaving a web across the entrance to a cave where he was hiding, leading his pursuers to think it was abandoned.) I met him trying to haul heavy new flower pots up my stairs, when he stopped to lend a hand. He’d lived in Dakar for about 8 years, came looking for work and learned Wolof from kids here, though he spoke a half dozen other languages besides. He was an incredible musician, especially percussion, with a whole stable of guinean songs he could lead solo or sing as part of a group. I eventually started taking drumming lessons with him in the spring. He was constantly meeting new arrivals -especially from Guinea- and taking them under his wing, as well as striking up conversations with friendly foreigners. People were drawn to him, I could see. It was also a tough year for him, precarious housing and economic situation. COVID hit everywhere hard, especially creative industries that depended on live performance, and Senegal was no exception. He battled some dark days, alternating between seeking work in low-skill labor fields and holding out for musical gigs that never materialized. There was always his family home in Guinea to go back to, and at the end of my time he was ready to head home and recharge if things didn’t improve in a few months.

-Abdalla: I drew a portrait of Abdalla for his mom, and I needed to erase the mouth twice to make the smile bigger each time. That should tell you most of what you need to know. I had trouble connecting with a lot of the Baye Fall besides occasional greetings, but Abdalla was a local boy who seemed to dip his toe in just enough to scoop out reggae music and an extra dose of peace and love. The songs he composed himself are some of my favorite pieces of music from Senegal, and I hope he has the chance sometime to sing them in front of the huge crowd he deserves. His mom -Madame Faye- was not only acknowledged as making some of the best thieb in the village, but gave some of the best life advice around- I spent a good few days in her kitchen, where we’d berate Abdalla together for not helping with the cooking and he’d laugh his big laugh and play us another song. He was trying to organize a local music festival through the town, and waiting for enough funding to record an album. I worried about how trusting he was, sometimes; he always took people at face value. In the winter he let a new arrival looking for work sleep in his bed, and the man took off at 4 AM with his recording instrument, phone and guitar. The village seemed to take care of it’s own, though, the tough fisherman always jostling him affectionately when we walked around. He led a lot of our song circles, parceling out melodies and crooning high notes. During one golden afternoon I walked out to the beach and swam to Ngor Island, to find Abdalla on my favorite hidden beach with a few friends. They had guitars, flutes, drums. We sang together, and then when the sunset came we hugged and I swam home.

-Nalla: Friends who work towards goals are high on my list, whatever those goals. I few years ago Nalla was a pastry chef, when he decided he wanted to pursue art. He spent most of his time on the island, helpings uncle fix up a giant dilapidated house they were going to one day turn into a hotel/restaurant. There he holed up with paints and scraps of wood and canvasses and worked on his technique all year. Soft-spoken, blue-black skin, the chiseled Lebou cheekbones. He was one of the most constant presences at the Tuesday art nights, and I saw his technique improve dramatically while we were there. At the end of the year, he had a piece entered into the Dakar Biennial, and I felt like a proud cousin. He was an Ngorois through and through, with his dad a fisherman and dad an underwater welder. It was astonishing how may people he said hi to, both in the village and on the island. Sometimes we’d take out kayaks from the house, paddling out the the surf wave and daring each other to take bigger rides in the hard top. Even in the water, he knew every fishing boat and solitary figure that slippered along with a spear gun. He was focussed on bettering his art with a laser focus, to the exclusion of looking for a romantic partner, trying to stay on the island so he wouldn’t get distracted.

Julie: My Congolese friend, with a big smile and a weakness for sappy French love songs. She’d lived here for a few years, but been in a toxic relationship that she’d just escaped a few months before we met, with a jealous partner who didn’t want her to leave the house much. She talked about her mom often, a professional chef who cooked for airline pilots at the flight lounge. (Incidentally, her chicken recipe is one of my most treasured phone notes from my time there) When we met she was managing a clothing boutique, and sparring with an owner who seemed both not to trust her enough and to ask for too much commitment. It was fun to be around her; she had she energy of just having moved to the city and wanting to try everything. Carolyn took her along on several dance nights, and I think she might be hooked. Notably, she has an identical twin named Juliet, and two gorgeous twins with almost the same name caused a stir whenever I saw the two of them out together. In some ways she seemed to be adapting to life in Senegal, and others still seemed to grate. Taxi drivers going for the financial jugular in proposing fares never stopped annoying her. I’d long since resigned myself to giving the many kids asking for money a sympathetic smile and walking on, but it made her angry to see every time. “What parent would let their child out to do this??” She’d always ask. We were both trying to make friends and community in the new city, and reconcile it’s patterns with what we were familiar with. It was so nice to have a partner in that.

Petit: I first saw Petit marching around at midnight acting like a tree come to life. He was acting out a scene on the dance floor with his friend Tafa. The two of them remain some of the most creative individuals I’ve come across in any country. Like athletes slumped over chairs except for the big game, they had the ability to hide in a crowd, or to dazzle. Petit was often out of town, down performing or taking workshops down the coast in Toubab Diallo, but when he was around I loved getting together to dance or just play with movement. He had recently taken a puppet making course as well as a mask-styling workshop, and also worked as an acting teacher for a local school. He grew up in the southern region of Casamance, and talked about it always with deep, abiding love. I have no doubt when I go back he will be living there. His projects dealt often with the relationship between the self and the whole, or past traumas unearthed and confronted. One night he extemporized over Ibrahim’s drum beat, a monologue on the contentment we feel or don’t when alone. The last week before I left he was preparing a dance to welcome a group of black Americans, part of a program called Back to the Source. They were traveling to the famous Door of No Return on Goree Island, where slaves where loaded onto ships. After, they'd come to Ngor, where Petit and his crew were constructing a beautiful wooden door, through which they'd dance their American cousins as a blazing contrast to the door on Goree they’d just “closed.” Having such bright creative energy was a blessing and a half this year.

-Cheikh: ran a clothing boutique near the beach. He invested a lot in upgrading the space while I was there, until it became the hang-out spot for his group of friends. Twenty years ago he started out just selling clothes from a bag on this beach, and it was cool to see him now with a fancy shop. He started selling ice cream near the end, which I thought was a smart business move. I set him up with a Tinder account and we talked about love and dating a lot. His friend Moustafa always had a good sense of the political goings on of the neighborhood, and I lived leaning against the clothing racks, picking their brain and occasionally helping them sell things to tourists or lay out new merchandise.

-Amadou: Worked at a French-Senegalese organization around the corner, a center for unhoused kids, often running away from Quranic schools or home. Amadou ran soccer programs for them, helped with the lunch programs and literacy courses. He was a formidable soccer player himself, chiseled straight out of a men's health magazine. I couldn't believe he was still single. It was a treat watching the African Cup with him, such intense concentration and joy.

And many, many others of course, too many to fit here, everyone on their path, with lovely traits and foibles and disappointments and dreams little and big.

My European and American friends are dear as well, and just because I don’t spin out their stories here doesn’t mean they didn’t make this year so very special. Ben, Nick, Emily, Sait, Anne, Sara, Liz, Jake, if you’re reading this, sending you a big hug.

[classicalmusicdaily]

If you have ever listened to classical music, then chances are the name Claude Debussy has come up. But what kind of music did he write? Was it romantic or more modern? Did he focus on solo works or choral works? All these questions and more will be addressed in today’s blog post as we explore the incredible legacy left by Debussy. We will look at his musical influences, some famous compositions that reveal the beauty of this composer’s work, and how even though Debussy is no longer with us his music still lives on. An Overview of Debussy's Music and Influences   When it comes to the world of classical music, few names are as revered as Claude Debussy. This French composer was a true pioneer in the field, pushing the boundaries of what was considered acceptable in his time. His music was characterized by dreamy, impressionistic melodies and clever use of harmony and dissonance. Though he passed away over a century ago, Debussy's influence can still be felt in modern music, from film scores to pop songs. But what were the influences that shaped Debussy's own sound? From Wagner to Chopin, and from Javanese gamelan to the sound of the sea, Debussy drew inspiration from a wide range of sources to create something truly unique.   How Debussy Incorporated Impressionism into His Music   Have you ever listened to Claude Debussy's music and felt like you were transported to a different world? There's a reason for that - Debussy was a master at incorporating impressionism into his music. He didn't just write notes on a sheet; he created a sonic landscape that was meant to evoke a particular emotion or feeling. He did this by using unconventional chord progressions, unusual harmonies, and non-traditional scales. He was inspired by nature, art, and other elements of the world around him, and he wanted to capture that essence in his music. It's no wonder that he is considered one of the greatest composers of the 20th century. So, the next time you listen to Debussy's music, try to pay attention to the emotions it evokes - you might be surprised at what you feel.   The Impact of Debussy's Work on Modern Music   Do you love modern music? Then, you should definitely know about the interesting impact that Debussy's body of work has had on it. As one of the most renowned French composers, his music explored the limits of tonality, rhythm, and chord progression, ushering in a new era of music that broke away from the traditional Romantic era. His innovative ideas have been influential in different genres like jazz, pop, and electronic music, and many contemporary composers still draw inspiration from his work. Thanks to Debussy's bold vision, music has become more experimental, daring, and boundary-pushing. So, let's tip our hats to this visionary artist who opened doors to new possibilities that continue to shape our modern music scene!   Examining the Different Genres That Debussy Wrote for   Ah, Debussy, the French composer who gave us such enchanting works as Clair de Lune and La Mer. Did you know that he explored a wide range of genres in his compositions? He dabbled in everything from solo piano pieces to orchestral works and even vocal music. One of his most famous pieces, Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, is a tone poem for orchestra that is considered a masterpiece of impressionist music. Debussy was also fond of chamber music and wrote several works for small ensembles, including his String Quartet and Sonata for Flute, Viola, and Harp. It's fascinating to see how he experimented with different genres and pushed the boundaries of musical expression.   How to Recognize a Piece of Music Written by Debussy   If you're a fan of classical music, chances are you've come across the works of Claude Debussy. The French composer is known for his unique style, which is often described as impressionistic. But how can you tell if a piece of music was written by Debussy? One way is to listen for his use of colorful harmonies and unique scales.

He often used modes or scales other than the traditional major and minor, in his compositions. You may also notice his use of timbre or the unique sound quality produced by different instruments. Debussy was particularly fond of the harp, which features heavily in many of his works. So if you hear a piece of music with a dreamy, ethereal quality, and some unexpected harmonies, there's a good chance it was written by Debussy.   A Comparison Between Debussy's Music and Other Composers of the Period   When we think of classical music during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, we often think of the likes of Mozart and Beethoven. But there were other composers of the period who may not be as well-known, like Claude Debussy. Debussy's music stands out from his contemporaries for its use of unconventional harmonies and rhythms, which gave his elegant compositions a unique sound. While his music was sometimes criticized for being too experimental, it ultimately influenced later composers, such as Stravinsky and Ravel. Listening to Debussy's music alongside that of his peers offers a fascinating study of how he crafted a distinct musical style. Conclusion: All in all, Debussy was a remarkable composer who greatly influenced music history. His abandonment of traditional harmony and technique into something far more dynamic marked the bridge between old and new. He incorporated a range of genres, from romantic pieces to impressionist soundscapes, and corresponded with artists such as writers and painters to further explore Impressionism. And, of course, if you ever find yourself wondering what kind of music Debussy wrote it’s safe to say that it embraced experimentation, which is just one way he changed the very face of modern music. In short, Debussy’s talent for pioneering composition will always remain an unparalleled part of our musical heritage! FAQS: Q: What kind of music did Debussy write? A: Debussy wrote a wide variety of music, from romantic pieces to impressionist soundscapes. He often incorporated elements of different genres into his compositions and embraced experimentation in order to create something new and unique. Q: How did Debussy influence the world of classical music? A: Debussy's unconventional harmonies and rhythms greatly influenced the world of classical music. His compositions paved the way for modern composers, from Stravinsky to Ravel, to explore new techniques and create their own musical styles. Debussy is widely considered one of the most important figures in classical music history. Q: Did Debussy collaborate with other artists? A: Yes, Debussy often corresponded with writers and painters to further explore impressionism. He was greatly inspired by the works of Cezanne, Monet, and Mallarme, and even wrote music for a ballet based on the fairytale Cinderella. His collaborations with these fellow artists helped to shape his own compositions.    

[jasonblaze72]

[damonjuicyscock]

Power Failure

Pairing: Dilf! Damon Albarn x Female Reader

Summary: You’re in Iceland with Damon and there’s a power cut, you have to light yourself with a candle, who knows what will happen?

Warnings: Fluff, Smut (Oral both receiving, candle play, reader is on the pill), language

A/N: Hello everyone, as promised, here's the little smut you've all been waiting for. This is my first smut so please, be gentle with me. Also, English is not my first language, hope I didn't make any spelling mistakes.

This smut came to me after the Paris Match interview, here is the link if you want to read it : https://www.parismatch.com/Culture/Musique/Damon-Albarn-melodies-planetaires-1769882

It's in French, but you can always translate it with DeepL (at least that's what I advise because google translation is terrible in the field of translation.

Here's the part which inspired me:

" Paris Match: What is your dream for the planet?

Damon: A massive power outage. We wouldn't be able to charge our phones, our screens would go blank. The chaos would be interesting to experience. I would only have to play the piano..."

Enjoy your read !

_____________________________________________________________

-Y/N ? I can’t see anything, where are you? Damon asked me, from his studio

-In the living room, I’m coming!

I walked towards him with the light from my phone.

-My phone is soon gonna run out of battery, do you have some candles?

-Yep, might have some in the kitchen, follow me.

He put his arm on my shoulder, both going to the kitchen. He looked in a drawer and found some pilar candles.

-Here they are. Shit, I don’t have my lighter, could you bring it to me please?

-Where is it?

-In my studio probably. I had been smoking a cigarette before the lights turned off.

I went to pick his lighter in his studio and came back to him in the kitchen. He lit a few candles, and gave one to me.

-You might need this.

-Thank you. Are you still working on songs?

- Yup. Wanna watch?

-Can I? I don’t want to distract you.

-You won’t darling, I’d be really happy for you to join me. You inspire me.

I followed him to his studio, and I sat beside him on the piano stool, looking at him playing and composing. The thing is… looking at his fingers running on the piano gave me sinful thoughts. I imagined his fingers inside me. And his voice… imagining him whisper sweet dirty things in my ear with his low sexy voice… I felt the heat invade my body. And I didn’t want to disturb him. At least, not yet.

-Alright Chopin, I’m heading for a shower.

-In the dark?

-I got candles remember? And the light could come back soon! Or maybe you might want to join me to make sure nothing happens to me?

- I would have loved too my love, but I’ve got to work.

-You’ve been working for a few hours, take a break! Take some time for yourself!

-Just give me an hour okay? And I’ll be all yours.

-Okay. I’m just worried about you honey, I don’t want you to work yourself to death.

-Don’t worry about that. I’m fine baby.

I kissed him on his forehead before heading to the bathroom. I took my clothes off, and stepped into the shower, putting the temperature to cold. That’s what I needed. And an idea came to me, I wasn’t sure it would work, but at least, I would try.

When I stepped out of the shower, I dried my hair and my body, and went to Damon’s home studio naked, holding a candle in my hand. I stopped and stood in the doorway.

-I know you said you wanted to work an hour more, but I insist that you take a break.

He turned around to look at me, he was speechless.

-You’re right. I think I need to take a break.

He turned his back to the piano, still sat. I walked towards him, sat on top of him and kissed him passionately.

-God Y/N, do you want to kill me?

-Only with love, baby. Let me relax you a bit.

I slipped to the ground, getting on my knees. I unzipped and unbuttoned his jeans. As per usual, he wasn't wearing any underwear. He was already hard as a rock. I pulled down his jeans all the way. His length painfully sprung free, and I took him in my hand, running it up and down. He threw his head back and whimpered. Then I kissed the tip of his cock before pushing him in my mouth, eliciting a groan from him.

-Fuck baby…

I bobbed my head up and down, as his hand went to grab some of my hair, so he could hold onto something. I sped up the pace, swirling my tongue around his tip.

-Oh…Oh… Wait…Y/N…stop…I don’t w-want to come like this. He said taking your mouth away from his shaft.

We both got up, and he grabbed me by my waist.

-Bedroom, I’m right behind you.

I walked to the bedroom and lied on the bed. A few seconds later, I saw him entering our bedroom with a candle.

-You’re going to have what you ask for. Stay still.

I obeyed, he took his clothes off and approached me with a red candle. He straddled me, his legs on either side, tilting the candle, the wax flowing on my naked body. It was hot, but not unbearable. I gasped at the feeling. His index traced a full line on my chest, putting some wax all around my torso. He kept tracing this line lower and lower until he reached my womanhood. He spread my legs and rubbed my clit before shoving his mouth on it, licking long stripes from my clit to my entrance, tasting my juices. He was swirling his tongue around my sensitive nub, then sucking on it making me cry out in pleasure, while holding my hips to keep from squirming under him.

He pulled his lips and tongue away from me, making me whine at the sudden loss.

-Don’t worry baby, I’m not done with you, I’m going to fuck you, and your moans are going to be the melody we will hear on my next album. He said, stroking himself

His length was erected in front of me, soaked with pre-cum. He started teasing my entrance with the tip and entered me with a harsh thrust, not letting me adjust to him. He grabbed my hips again and started pounding into me with a merciless pace.

-T-That’s what you’re g-getting for being so sexy. You’re mine, all mine. Y-You’re my girl. He said between grunts

So much I love yous were slipping from our lips between moans and pants. Suddenly he hit my sweet spot, I let out a high-pitched moan.

-D-Damon… I almost screamed

-That’s right, say my name. He growled with a low tone voice

He kept going with his brutal pace, and I felt the coil form in my stomach, indicating I would cum soon.

-D-Dames, I’m going to…

-Come on baby girl, cum for me.

He put my legs on his shoulders, then licked his thumb, moving it to my clit, rubbing it. This position gave a new angle to our union. I started to scream. It was too much. I could tell he was close as well as his movements got sloppier. My face contracted in a wince of pleasure. My back arched on the bed, I threw my head back and my eyes squeezed shut, as I started trembling, and my walls convulsed around him. Seeing me threw him over the edge. I felt him release his hot cum inside me, grunting and panting loudly, as his Adam Apple bobbed in his skin.

He let go of my legs and collapsed on me, both catching our breath.

As I started to caress his sweaty skin, the light came back.

-looks like you can work again. I said

-Work? Nah, I’m done with it today. I propose a shower. You’re full of wax.

-Do you also propose a round two?

-with pleasure.

-And this time, I want you to finger fuck me like there’s no tomorrow with these beautiful fingers that know how to touch a piano.

-Think I can do that. Just give me a minute, I’ll join you, I have to cut the voice recorder.

-What? I said confused

- I recorded us, I can always use it on tour if you're not there.

-Smart ass.

#damon albarn #damon albarn smut #damon albarn x reader

[goldenmetstli]

More Ratigan headcanons because why not

Note: This can be interpreted as him both as human or rat 🙆🏻‍♀️ (except the part where I talk about his height and age lmao) whichever you like more !

♕ He's 43 during the movie and has known Basil for 6 years.

♕ He's HUGE. Almost 6'3 ft, not only that but he's robust and strong. Impressive enough, for someone as big as him he's pretty good at hiding even in plain sight.

♕ In contrast to his sturdy complexion, there's the fluidity of movement, almost light weighted, and can be pretty gentle when he wants, but there's always an underlying threat of violence under the fake tenderness.

♕ He smells like tobacco, wine, and expensive cologne. Sometimes is overwhelming. If you get really close you can smell something musty from living under London.

♕ I headcanon him as bisexual.

♕ Totally against the idea of being a father. He hates kids. They are loud, annoying, and sticky.

♕ He learned the harp and piano by himself, and has composed quite a few songs in his spare time.

♕ In his lair, he sings or hums pretty often. If he has gone to the opera recently he's definitely gonna try to remember the tune and sing.

♕ Oh yeah, he adores the opera. Loves to go to the theater and wishes there was someone with who he can share his opinions, but he deems his minions as dumb and uncultured.

♕ Has a journal where he writes his critiques of the last play he saw, and sometimes about his feelings and his day to day.

♕ He's really proud of his wardrobe. Every single piece is expensive and tailored.

♕ Fidget takes care of Felicia lol Ratigan is really fond of her but would never ever clean her mess.

♕ Knows french, italian and a little bit of spanish.

#ratigan #the great mouse detective #basil of baker street #tgmd #professor ratigan

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 55: Music

One afternoon Harry returned from work earlier than his boyfriend anticipated.

When he came into the flat, the sound of piano music drifted through the doorway and wrapped itself around him. The notes flowed together, floating around him and tugging at his gut, and Harry followed the music into the other room, imagining that Draco probably had the wireless on the old classical station that he liked to listen to when he got into a blue mood.

He was not prepared for his lovely partner to be sitting at a piano (that hadn't been in their living room that morning) with his back straight and fingers dancing over the keys.

He played with his whole body, and Harry was mesmerized by the way his hair long, blond hair swayed with his movement; by the way his long, elegant fingers stretched across the keys; by the way his hands seemed to move effortlessly over the keyboard.

He watched as Draco's body curved in on itself as the music got quieter, sadder; watched the way his presence seemed to expand with the music as it rose to it's climax. And he felt it all the way down his toes as Draco slowed the last few bars, his fingers drifting over the keys with great care, before landing on the final chord.

The last notes hung shimmering in the air and Harry's breath caught and held until Draco released the chord, lifting his fingers from the keys and foot from the pedal, leaving the room in silence.

"That was amazing," Harry breathed when he could finally call words to mind again.

Draco startled so badly that Harry feared he was about to fall off of the piano bench, "Merlin, Harry," he gasped, a hand clenched over his heart. "What on earth are you doing here?" he asked as he stood up from the bench.

"I live here," Harry replied.

"But you're early," Draco informed him, before casting a quick 'finite'.

Harry watched as the piano rearranged itself into the writing desk it had been earlier once more. "You play beautifully," he said.

Draco shook his head, "It's nothing."

"No seriously," Harry pressed, "You're so talented! I had no idea-"

"Yes, for a reason," Draco snapped.

(Read more below the cut)

Harry blinked, Draco didn't often use that tone with him anymore. They'd both worked hard to sand down all of their rough edges so they could stop carelessly cutting each other. They'd worked hard at communicating, at infusing the love they felt for each other into their words. He exhaled slowly.

"Sorry," Draco finally said, running his fingers through his hair, "It's nothing. Really. Can we please just drop it?"

Harry looked at him, looked at the desperate look on his face, and he knew what that felt like. When you weren't ready to talk about something that still cut you up inside. "Okay," he said with a nod. "But maybe not forever?" he asked.

Draco nodded once, "Maybe not forever," he whispered.

Harry gave him a little smile, "What are you thinking for dinner? I was thinking on my way home that I could go for some Thai."

-----------

It was six months before Harry managed to hear Draco play again, and not for lack of trying. As often as he could, he'd sneak out of work a bit early and head home, hoping to catch his boyfriend playing piano again but he didn't manage it.

Until the day that he forgot his lunch at home and decided to go home to grab it. He stopped dead when he opened the door because there was music drifting through the rooms again. Softer this time, sadder somehow. He tiptoed through the kitchen and into the living room, watching as Draco moved with the music and he was entranced once more.

Something must have given him away, because Draco's head shot up and he looked over at Harry. The notes faltered for a moment and Harry feared he was about to stop.

But he didn't, after a moment, he turned back and started playing once more, fingers drifting over the keys.

When the song ended, Harry couldn't help but whisper, "You're incredible."

Draco didn't turn to look at him, he stared straight ahead as he said, "When I was young, my parents insisted I learn an instrument." His pale fingers stroked lovingly over the keys. "All respectable, pureblood children learn an instrument. Even Greg learned how to play the french horn." He shook his head, "I hated it at first. The hours of practice, the lessons with the old woman who always smelled like mothballs."

An image of Mrs. Figg teaching piano sprang to mind but Harry didn't share it. Whatever Draco was trying to tell him was difficult for him and he didn't want to distract him.

"Eventually, I got quite good at it," he continued, and Harry could see that it was true. "I once told my parents that I might like to pursue music. They told me I was being ridiculous. My father said if I was going to play piano for a living, I might as well have been a squib and they might as well disown me."

"That's horrible," Harry murmured stepping closer and lightly resting a hand on Draco's shoulder in a sign of support.

Draco shrugged, "Not as bad as Auntie Bella," he confessed. "She heard me playing once and whatever it was, must not have struck her fancy because she came in and cast a spell that broke all of the bones in my fingers."

"Circe, Draco," he gasped, his hands unconsciously reaching for Draco's. He sat down beside him on the piano bench and carefully took his hands then pressed a kiss to each finger.

"My mother heard me screaming and came and fixed them immediately," he said, voice calm and steady as though this was all the most reasonable thing in the world. "But I didn't play again. Not for a long, long time. Not until we moved in here, actually," he added with a little smile.

"Why here?" Harry asked, looking around at the tiny flat they'd moved into together.

He cupped Harry's cheek and traced his cheekbone with his thumb, "Because there's so much of you here," he murmured. "Because you are music. I spend every moment I'm with you composing in the back of my mind. Songs for when we cook together, songs for when you wash the dishes, songs for when we clean the flat, for when you wake me up in the mornings just as the sun's rising. Songs for our nights together, for our fights with each other. Songs for the way you kiss me, the way you hold me, for the way you make love to me." He shook his head helplessly, "You are music, Harry."

Harry's hands cupped his face and he drew Draco's lips to his, kissing him breathless because he didn't know what he was meant to say. He didn't know it was even possible to feel this much, to love someone this much. "It's completely unfair," Harry murmured against his mouth.

"What is?" Draco asked, drawing back slightly to look at Harry.

"You have your beautiful music, and your beautiful words, and then I'm just completely awful at this."

Draco laughed, "What do you mean?"

"Just," he huffed, "I think that I made out a lot better than you in this relationship."

He shook his head and leaned in to brush his nose over Harry's, "Don't be ridiculous. I see it on your face and feel it in your touch; in the way you cast warming charms on my side of the bed before we get in. I feel it whenever you hold my hand when we're walking down the street, like you're proud to have me by your side."

"I am," Harry grumbled.

"I know," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Harry's lips.

When Draco pulled back, Harry asked, "Does this mean I can hear you play more often?"

"Only if you get me a real piano," Draco replied. "The weight of the keys is always wrong when I transfigure it."

Harry called out sick from work and went out to buy a piano that afternoon.

----------------

Day 54: There Was Only One Bed | Day 56: Phone Call

#100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #drarry #drarry drabbles #drarry ficlets #my writing #day 55 #thanks for the prompt! #Enjoy!

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning Into Stone

A/N  Another long drive, another Outlander fanfic idea that dropped into my brain out of nowhere, shoving aside the historical AU I have been wrestling with for months.  Here’s the pitch: Claire Beauchamp is a psychiatrist specializing in grief counselling.  Jamie Fraser is referred to her by his sister, who is worried for his well-being after a series of family tragedies.  You can probably guess the rest, but I’m going to write it anyway.   The title is taken from a song by the amazing Phantogram that was playing as the story idea came to me.

After losing my WIP virginity posting Ginger Snap, I’m going out on that limb again and posting this first chapter with only a rough outline mapped out in my head.  You people are a terrible influence!  Also, there will be some trigger warnings on future chapters, so please watch out for those.   And now, on with our show.

Claire Beauchamp glanced down at the leather-bound calendar open on her desk.  The ivory page for Thursday was packed to the margins, each hourly block filled with the name of a patient followed by a series of cuneiform symbols she used to remind herself of the last session, course of treatment, overall progress, all while maintaining strict confidentiality.  Not even Geillis Duncan, her office administrator and very good friend, knew how to decode the script.

Geillis liked to laugh at the old-fashioned day planner, reminding Claire that their practice utilized software that could perform the same function electronically, but she enjoyed the act of physically logging each session.  The solid heft of her Mont Blanc pen in her hand, a medical school graduation gift from her Uncle Lamb.  The scratch and grab of the nub as it bled black ink over virgin paper.  It was a tactile ceremony in a detached world.  Geillis would nod and then tell her she needed to get laid.

Speak of the devil, a sharp rap on her office door was followed by the appearance of her strawberry blonde head. blue eyes alight with mischief.

“Yer two o’clock is here.  Did ye need more time tae finish bolting down tha’ chaff ye call a salad, or can I show him in?”

“It’s kale,” she defended.  “It’s full of anti-oxidants.”

A disdainful scoff was the only response.

“Yes, Geil, please show Mister...” she glanced down at her planner, “...Fraser in, thank you.”

The tiny rectangle contained only a name, which meant this was their first appointment.  Geillis vetted all prospective patients, but Claire preferred to go into the first meeting blind, with no assumptions or pre-conceptions.  

She wondered what misfortune had caused Mr. Fraser to seek out her psychiatric services.  The death of a child, perhaps, or the end of an extra-marital affair.  People grieved for very different reasons and worked through or around that grief with a surprising variety of coping mechanisms.   Most called upon her practice in much the same way they would a breakdown truck when their car’s engine failed.  They simply wanted to get back on the road to happiness.

Despite the degrees and accreditations that decorated her office wall, Claire wasn’t certain such a thing was possible.  In her experience, grief was a phantom limb that never really went away.  The best one could hope for was to learn healthier ways of living with it.  

The sound of Geillis clearing her throat snapped her back to the present.

“Was there something else, Geil?”

“Och, no’ really.  Just, when yer considerin’ how tae thank me later on, remember tha’ my favourite stone is an emerald, that I prefer gold tae silver, but platinum is ne’er amiss.”

“What are you on about, Duncan?”  But her friend had already disappeared back into the reception area, leaving behind only the glow of her Cheshire smile.  Claire was shaking her head, bemused, when another knock rang out, this one considerably heavier than the first.

“Come in,” she called as she looked up.  And up.  And up some more.

The man who now practically filled her office door had to be at least six foot four, with powerful shoulders and a broad torso encased in a blue henley.  His nearly endless legs were likewise muscular, as testified by the stretch of his jeans across each thigh.  As if his physique wasn’t remarkable enough, he had a head of outrageously wavy red hair, worn long enough to graze the tops of his ears and the nape of his neck, but swept back from a high brow by a judicious use of product.  His face was angular in a pleasingly unique way, with a day or two’s growth of beard counter-balancing an almost youthful, earnest appearance.  But his most striking feature by far were his aquamarine eyes that shimmered like a tropical sea.  Eyes that were currently observing her with perplexity.

“Dr. Beauchamp?” a deep Scottish brogue inquired.  He pronounced it as though she were French.

“Yes,” she startled.  “That’s me.  And it’s pronounced Beecham.  Please, come in Mister Fraser.”  She shuffled a few items around her desk needlessly as she tried to compose herself.  Damn Geillis for not giving her a bit more warning that her newest client was some sort of fitness model.

“Thank ye,” he replied.  “An’ it’s pronounced Jamie, if ye please.”   She added wit to the growing list of the man’s attributes.

If anything, he grew even more impressive as he approached.  She could see he was nervous, although hiding it well.  His striking eyes darted about the room, trying to get a sense of his environment.  She indicated the well-upholstered armchair that sat to one side of her desk.

“Have a seat,” she invited.

With a surprising amount of grace for one so tall, he eased into the chair but didn’t lean back.  The fingers of his left hand tapped restlessly against his thigh.  She watched him quietly, waiting for him to speak.  This was a trick she had learned when she first started practicing psychiatry, but in this case it also allowed her to continue her appraisal.  He was, she concluded, the most attractive man she’d ever seen in the flesh.

“No couch,” he finally observed.

“No.  That’s a bit of a Hollywood trope, I’m afraid.  Lying prone in front of a stranger is hardly conducive to feeling at ease.”

He nodded his acceptance of her logic, but was otherwise silent.

“So,” she spoke at last, unable to wait him out, “what caused you to seek out counselling, Jamie?”  His name suited him, she thought as she spoke it for the first time.  Both boyish and imposing at once.

“I didna.  Twas my sister, Jenny, who insisted I see a doctor.”  His mobile mouth twisted into a grimace.  She could imagine the sibling discord that such a demand would have caused.  Whoever this Jenny was, she was made of strong stuff.  Unfortunately for her, a hostile patient would receive no benefit from merely visiting her office.  Counselling was a participatory process, and she could tell from the stubborn set of Jamie’s shoulders that he had no intention of participating.

“I see,” she said carefully.  “Well, it’s your time and your dime, Mr. Fraser.  This session lasts for forty-five minutes, and you’ve not been here for five.  There’s a carafe of hot water on the table over there, if you care for some tea.  Or you’re welcome to just enjoy that comfortable chair for another forty minutes.  I’ll be working on some administrative necessities.”

She turned her chair away from him, but from the corner of her eye she could see his gobsmacked expression.  He had clearly expected her to cajole and manipulate him into co-operating, but that simply wasn’t her style.

“I meant no offence, doctor.  I’m certain ye’re verra good at what ye do.  Tis only... well, Jenny is my older sister, ye ken.  She practically raised me.  And so ofttimes she treats me like a muckle-sized bairn, and no’ a man who’s capable of lookin’ after himself.”

As he spoke, Jamie leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees, expressive hands gesturing in front of his face.  Hostile to the notion of counselling he might be, but he clearly wanted her to understand it wasn’t a slight.  As a physician, she had been trained to never take a patient’s reactions personally, but it didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the effort.

“No offence taken, Jamie.  If you don’t need my assistance, I’m happy for you.  That’s one less person hurting in the world.”

“I didna say I wasna hurting.  But I can handle it my own way.  I am handling it, that is,” he hurried to add.

Unable to sit still any longer, he rose and walked over to the small table where she kept an assortment of herbal teas and a tray of Geillis’ homemade biscuits.  Bending over, Jamie set about making himself some; chamomile by the smell of it.  The sound of spoon ringing off porcelain as he stirred in some honey made her smile, reminding her of Lamb and his obsession with the lost art of afternoon tea.

“Can I make ye a cup?”

The question was so unexpected, it took her a moment to process it.  The tea was there as a distraction for her patients, to give them something to do with their bodies as they worked through difficult emotions.  None of them had ever thought to offer her a reprieve as well.

“No, thank you.  I just finished lunch.”

He dipped a shortbread into the steaming tea, then ate it in a single bite.  Instead of sitting back down, he began to browse the framed certificates and photographs along the far wall as he sipped his tea.  With his back turned, her eyes dipped to admire his ass, which filled out his jeans perfectly.  When she caught herself, she gave her head a shake, appalled at her lack of professional detachment.  Maybe Geillis was right.  Maybe she really did need to get laid.

“How long have ye been a doctor?” Jamie asked without turning around.

“Ten years,” she replied.  “But I’ve only been a psychiatrist for the last two.”

It was a dangerous topic, and she blamed his ass for letting the words slip out.  Fortunately, his inquisitiveness took him in an entirely different direction.

“Were ye some kind of prodigy, then? Ye hardly seem old enough tae have yer own practice, let alone fer a decade.  If ye dinna mind me sayin’ so,” he added quickly, as though realizing what he’d just said.

“Not at all.  And you hardly seem young enough to be a, what was it? A muckle-sized bairn?”

As he turned to look her way, she understood the expression ‘shot-gun smile’ for the first time.  It spread across his face like a sunbeam, transforming what was already remarkable into a work of art.  If she hadn’t been sitting, she likely would have stumbled backward from the force of the blow.  Scrambling for something familiar to keep her from making a very grave fool of herself in front of this man, she clasped her clinical training with both hands.

“Are you and your sister close?” 

“Aye, when we’re no’ tryin’ not tae kill the other.  Our Mam died when I was only four, and with Da workin’ dawn til dark on the farm, Jenny was parent, teacher an’ playmate all rolled inta one.”

“You’re not from Edinburgh, then?”  Although what that had to do with his counselling, she hadn’t a clue. 

“Nah, I hail from a wee village in the Highlands ye’ve likely ne’er heard of called Broch Mordha.”  She shook her head to indicate she was indeed unfamiliar with it.  Jamie launched into a detailed description of the place, his hands sculpting the landscape out of thin air.  He obviously cared very deeply for his home, and she felt a twinge of jealousy, having never known that feeling of deep belonging  herself.

“And what brought you to Old Smoky?” she asked as he wound down, her interest piqued.  It was like slamming a lead door on his previously sunny disposition.

“Family obligations.” Said in such a way as to make it clear that no further words would be forthcoming on the topic.  She regretted her nosiness immediately, despite what it revealed about his emotional state.  Jamie was most certainly grieving something, but handling it he was not.

Before she could find a way back to the easy flow of conversation, a chime from her laptop indicated that the session was up.  She couldn’t bear to dismiss him without trying to set things right.

“Listen, Jamie, I understand that you only came here today to humour your sister, but I want you to consider something.  Whether we’re grieving or angry or jealous, or any destabilizing feeling, we’re often the worst surveyors of our own landscape.  Just like you can’t know your place on the sea without referencing the stars, it takes something external to ourselves to measure how far adrift we have become.  Your sister obviously loves you.  Ask yourself, what has she seen in you that prompted her to force you to seek help?”

They parted with cordial but muted goodbyes.  The door closed behind him, leaving Claire to stare at the blank rectangle in her planner that bore his name.  No coded symbols flowed from her pen.  When the door re-opened, it was Geillis, closing it firmly behind her.

“Weel, did I no’ tell ye?  Wee fox, tha’ one.  And he told me he liked my shortbread!”   Geillis said this as though it was some kind of sexual euphemism, which for all Claire knew, it was.

“Yes,” she replied distractedly.  “He’s very nice.”

“Nice!  Nice?  Tha’ man is tae nice what Wagyu is tae beef jerky.  Have ye completely lost yer senses, woman?”  

“Yes, well, he’s a patient, Geillis, as you well know.  And not one I’m likely to see again,” she added, acknowledging out loud what she already knew.

“Oh, no?” Geillis sing-songed.  “Thas’ strange, as he just made an appointment fer the same time next week.”

Claire’s eyes flew to where her friend looked on, smug as could be.

“Yer three o’clock called tae say she was runnin’ five minutes late.  I’ll leave ye tae think about yer... patient.”

Claire picked up her pen, trying to pull together something resembling a professional summary of her first appointment with Jamie.  Her mind replayed their interaction, but all she could remember was the way his eyes crinkled when he was listening attentively, the tidy half-moons of his fingernails, the seam of his jeans as it contoured his thigh, and the cymbal-crash in her chest that accompanied his smile.

Patient, she reminded herself.  Jamie Fraser is your patient. 

#my writing #outlander