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sitp-recs · 5 months ago

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livvvv my rec goddess. i’ve recently developed an insatiable knack for draco doing little muggle things, like being obsessed with soap operas, or learning how to bake, or playing board games, or painting a house (??) etc etc. any recs as such perchance?? my eternal thanks x

Love this ask anon, “Draco in the Muggle world” can be such a fun trope! I tried to include a bit of everything but I feel like driving and cooking are very popular in fic, so there’s probably a lot of it here. I hope you enjoy these!

magic in the making by getawayfox (G, 2k)

I didn’t see Malfoy for a year after the trial. When Gin told me that, according to Pansy, he had opened a little posh bakery in Mayfair, I thought she was joking, so I went to see for myself.

Market Saturdays by iota (M, 3k)

In which Harry is an accidental part-time cheesemonger, Draco is an organic farmer and they fall in love.

Muggle 'Drug Store Items' by loveglowsinthedark (E, 4k)

Malfoy's interest is caught by a certain Muggle drug store item. (Hint: Flavoured Condoms)

To Make A Way by cavendishbutterfly (E, 5k)

When Harry finds Draco in the back row of the cinema, he doesn't mean to accidentally befriend him. Or fuck him. Or catch feelings. The thing is, Draco only does casual.

How We Throw Our Shadows Down by thistle_verse (T, 14k)

Draco has finally found the perfect, rare piece to complete his collection. The only problem is that the item belongs to Harry Potter, the last wizard on earth Draco wants to ask another favour from.

The Tapestry of Kinship by khalulu (T, 15k)

Harry is at loose ends, Draco is good with needles, and Draco's young daughter wants to see a certain tapestry repaired. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black will never be the same.

Tuesday Nights by firethesound (E, 15k)

The absolute last place Harry expected to see Malfoy was in a rundown Muggle cinema on a Tuesday night.

Rich Friend by iota (E, 18k)

As far as Harry can tell, Draco Malfoy is still rich as hell. He’s just not a wizard anymore. Featuring: Draco Malfoy trying to make it as a Muggle pop star, Harry Potter as our confused and horny hero, bad driving, good music, and the mysterious magic of falling for someone.

Harry Potter and The Bisexual Awakening by Writcraft (E, 23k)

Harry is perfectly content being single, heterosexual and living in Godric's Hollow with his very clingy rescue dog, Snitch. When Draco Malfoy turns up on Harry's doorstep demanding that Harry teach him how to drive, things quickly become a lot more complicated.

I Bet That You Look Good on the Dancefloor by birdsofshore (E, 28k)

Harry felt lit up from inside as soon as he entered the bar. There were blokes dancing together, their bodies close to one another, not keeping a wary distance as Harry was always careful to do when he was near another man. God, he wanted this – wanted it so much he could taste it, a metallic tang of heat and desire. He suspected nothing would ever be the same again – especially when he saw who else was in the room.

Around You Moves by ignatiustrout (M, 29k)

Harry knew Draco was gay when he invited him to move in. He’s never had a problem with this. So why does he feel so weird about Draco bringing men home all of a sudden?

Faint Indirections by ignatiustrout (T, 30k)

Draco Malfoy is the last person Harry expects to turn up in Boston, Massachussetts. But now he's here, and he won't stop requesting books from the library where Harry works.

Open For Repairs by FeelsForBreakfast (M, 35k)

After the war, Draco works at a tv repair shop and Harry breaks things.

(Un)wanted by aibidil (E, 36k)

Ginny's pregnant, then she's not and Harry's single. Harry, again with no family, doesn't know what to do with this turn of events, or how to find a new life—post-war, post-Ginny, post-abortion—in which he belongs. He doesn't expect that life to include dancing to the Backstreet Boys with Hermione and Draco Malfoy. A story of finding belonging in the unexpected.

The Miseducation of Draco Malfoy by magpie_fngrl (E, 37k)

Zacharias Smith writes a tell-all about the D.A. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are not happy about it.

Take A Chance On Me by mintaminta (E, 40k)

There's a DJ on RareFM with a secret. Or: the one with all the ABBA in it.

Nights With You by The_Sinking_Ship (E, 58k)

Draco is mortified when moments prior to departing for the most anticipated destination wedding of the year, he is cruelly dumped. But when he learns that Harry Potter has, at long last, split with his horrible boyfriend, Draco is certain his luck has changed. Never a man to squander an opportunity for revenge (and what would probably be a spectacular shag), Draco vows to make Potter his for the weekend. Now all Draco has to do is convince him.

Salt on the Western Wind by Saras_Girl (M, 60k)

When the war isn’t quite as over as it first appears, a guilt-ridden Harry is sent to a mysterious safe-house. Among sandwiches, insomnia, and Mills & Boon, he discovers something quite unexpected.

Modern Love by tackytiger (E, 61k)

Harry Potter, of all people, knows that life isn’t always fair. And no one gets to be happy all of the time. But surely there’s something more—something better—than a rubbish Ministry job, and a lonely old house, and that feeling that everyone out there is doing a better job of living than Harry is.

Running on Air by eleventy7 (T, 75k)

Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.

#asks #anon #Drarry reclist #Draco in the Muggle world #Draco with Muggle hobbies

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katerinaaqu · 9 months ago

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Epic the Musical:

Circe: Oh my! He cannot be transformed by my powers! What do I do?! What do I do?! Think think I need to protect my nymphs! Oh I know! He's a man after all! I'll seduce the hell out of him to get my power over him back! He clearly can defeat my entourage of wolves and lions all by himself! I mean he's damn immune to my magic! I am sure he can do anything with his sword!

Circe: *aggressive flirting*

Odysseus: Oh my gods oh my gods she is hot...what the hell?! Oh I am just a man! Forgive me... No! Wait! J can't! I love My wife way too much! Please let us go home! I miss my wife!

Circe: Awww that is so sweet! Of course darling. I was always a sucker for a good soap opera. Of course I'll help you free of charge and here's some useful tips for your trip! Drive home safely!

The Odyssey:

Circe: Oh my! This man actually had the AUDACITY to come in my home and threaten me! And he took all precautions (a God helped him no doubt). Finally a man I can consider worthy of standing by my side and not bad looking either!

Circe: Come on, darling. Remove your clothes and let's get down on it! Let's see what you've got!

Odysseus: (oh my! Forgive me Penelope that is the only way to save my men! Hermes told me not to refuse her a thing! She is a freaking goddess that commands all these wild beasts! Power over me or not she's a force to be reconed with!) F-Fine but I cannot do what you ask before I ensure my men are safe. Please release them first and then I will (gods gotta buy myself time! Ain't prepared!)

Circe: *does that*

Odysseus: *sighs* I guess we're doing this...

*A year later*

Odysseus: Okay men you had your fun but I can't keep entertaining her forever! We must go home!

Odysseus: Please Circe let me and my people go! We have to go back

Circe: Oh but can't you stay a bit more?

Odysseus: No...I miss my wife and son

Circe: Fine, my dear, if that's what you want... Your happiness is more important than my satisfaction and I love you so I shall let you go. You paid your price fully. Here are some useful tips for you, some provisions and good luck...

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flowerandblood · 1 year ago

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The Man in the Death Cloak

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, public sex, fingering, smut, angst, violence, overstimulation, description of murder ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

When he saw her among the crowd of masked figures dancing with this strange man, when he noticed his hand shamelessly placed on her naked back, when he noticed that they were conversing with each other between turns, flirting with each other, he thought at first that he would kill them both.

However, he changed his mind when he saw how, as soon as the music stopped, she left this brazen man, like a cruel, beautiful goddess laughing at his pathetic efforts, without even turning to look at him again, heading towards one of the tables.

He felt his manhood throb painfully hard in his breeches at the thought that she had done this to provoke him, that by the thought of him looking at them and what he would do to her she was already soaking wet.

He decided to find out, approaching her slowly between the chatting people, another dance began and the music echoed around him. He stepped behind her, grabbing the jug she was struggling to lift and filled the cup she held in her other hand halfway.

"Are you enjoying yourself, my Lady?" He asked lowly, trying to control himself and not think about the fact that he would gladly fuck her from behind on the table in front of him, taking what was due to him as king and husband.

"Yes, my Lord." She whispered softly, sweetly, her voice trembling slightly. He felt the way she said the words in his cock, which was twitching all over with impatience, he knew she recognised him.

"Dance with me."

She turned over her shoulder and looked at him, her lips parted in disbelief when she noticed that he was clad just like her father's guards, just like when she had met him for the first time. A smirk of satisfaction appeared on his face when he noticed in her dreamy eyes what he had suspected for some time.

She was so fucking wet.

Spinning with her among the couples, holding her shamelessly close to him, admiring her almost defiant gown exposing her naked body, her shoulders and back, everything that belonged to him, all he could think about was that he will fuck her in front of everyone.

She welcomed him inside her with ease, his cock sliding in and out of her with the sticky slap of naked flesh against flesh, her walls soaking wet − he could see that his manhood was all glistening and moist every time he slipped out of her.

He rooted into her with groans of pleasure, holding her by her throat, thrusts of his hips again and again stretching her tight, hot core, his place on earth, a delight meant only for him.

He glanced sideways, at the man standing in the distance againt the wall, at the fool who dared to dream of his wife, and was taken aback to see his hand slipped into his breeches, his gaze directed at her. His cock throbbed hard at the thought that he dared to imagine he was in his place, that he was fucking his wife.

"− look at him − he's fucking himself with his hand while looking at my wife − at my − fucking − wife −" He breathed out into her ear, thrusting into her in a frenzy of anger and pleasure, feeling her muscles begin to squeeze and suck him deep inside her.

He knew she was close, that she was about to come and completely soak his cock − he was twitching inside her with his every desperate, rough thrust.

"− you know he's already dead, don't you? − ah − would you want him to touch you before he died? − for him to root his cock deep inside you just for once? −"

"− n-no − your seed − I want it inside me −" She mumbled with her lips parted wide, panting and moaning with difficulty along with him, her eyes clenched shut. He thought with amusement and relief that she completely didn't care what the man did or wanted, that she only craved him, faithfully begging for his seed as any obedient wife should.

He felt a powerful shudder run through his body as her flesh shook with fulfilment, her walls clenching around him − he came inside her at last, filling her with himself, his face pressed against her hair, taking in her wonderful, familiar scent, her body trembling in his hands.

He released her and slid out of her with a loud splat of his cock against his lower abdomen, all wet from her moisture, his spend mingled with her wetness running down her thighs.

He covered this wonderful, ungodly sight with her gown, recognising with calmness that he was the only one who had a right to look at it, tied his breeches and then moved off disappearing into the crowd, leaving her alone.

He had all night to take care of her and explain to her exactly what he thought of it all.

The man he was hunting was just tying his breeches, wiping his hands in them, apparently wet with his seed − when he noticed him out of the corner of his eye he began to run away as if he had seen a ghost.

He felt like laughing at the sight, amused, taking his dagger, which he always carried with him, out from under his cloak, thinking that he was a mere deviant and coward, that he must keep her wife safe so that he would never worry her with his presence again.

He thought she would be grateful to him for this.

Before he killed him in one of the empty, dark corridors of the fortress, with only the rays of the night moon falling into it, he pulled off his mask and hood, wanting him to know who would take his life.

"− m-my King, I beg you − if I only knew, I would never −" The man mumbled, kneeling before him, shaking all over − he recognised in him up close one of his guards enjoying entertaining himself with female servants instead of concentrating on his work.

"− you touched my wife − you touched yourself watching me take her − painless death is too mild a punishment −" He said softly and calmly, playing with his dagger between his fingers, his blade flashing again and again in the starlight.

"− I beg you, my King, have mercy, send me away from the fortress, just don't kill me − I beg you, I will never look at someone's wife again, I will go to the monastery, I promise, please −" He exclaimed folding his hands as if to pray, as if to make him believe that now he would change, that from this moment on he would never again look at a woman who belonged to someone else.

In one swift, sure movement he slit his throat − his blood gushed onto him, soiling his coat and hands. He caught himself instantly by the neck, falling to the floor, coughing loudly, trying to catch his breath, a gurgling sound came from his mouth.

He grabbed him by his hair forcing him to look at him, and then stab after stab pierced his heart with his blade, slamming his dagger into his flesh like mad, thinking that if thoughts of his wife filled it, he had to destroy it and tear it to pieces.

"− only I have the right to want her − only I have the right to touch her − only I have the right to love her −" He growled in rage, after another stab of the blade the man's eyes rolled back, a huge pool of his blood surrounding them. He let go of him at last, his body fell with a thud to the floor, dead.

He wiped his dagger into his cloak and hid it, breathing loudly through his mouth, mouthful of the sight. He hummed quietly and stepped over him, heading towards his chamber, knowing that she was waiting for him there, bare and wet, that she would fuck him all night once he told her what he had done.

He held her by her hair, pressing her cheek against his bed as he pounded into her brutally from behind, their naked bodies slapping against each other loudly. She moaned and whimpered beneath him, after her third fulfilment completely losing touch with reality, their bodies sweaty from the exertion, his cock soaking wet from his spend and her moisture.

"− what is it? − my little wife has had enough? −" He sneered, speeding up, his other hand firmly squeezing her waist, rooting his cock into her with sure, rough, deep movements of his hips.

"− I − p-please − mghmm −" She mumbled wearily, her lips parted sweetly in a gesture of complete submission, her muscles clenching tightly against his and sucking him wonderfully at his words, his fat cock twitching hard inside her, close to the next fulfilment.

"− for what you've done I should pierce you through with my cock tonight − like I pierced the heart of that fucking bastard with my dagger − again, again and again −" He hissed, speeding up his pace, thrusting deeper into her with each of his words, their bodies slamming against each other faster and faster. She squirmed in protest clenching her hands on the bedding, her thighs quivering from overstimulation in his hand as he opened her weeping cunt on his cock.

"− no − fucking take it −" He growled low clenching his teeth not letting her escape − he heard her whine of pain and pleasure, another devastating orgasm shook her body, her core began to squeeze him from all sides. He sighed loudly and and threw his head back, closing his eye, coming inside her at last, panting hard.

"− that's it − just like that −" He cooed, delighted that as he rocked his hips inside her, little streams of his seed flowed out of her − she was so filled with him that it was leaking out of her.

He slid out of her with a sigh of satisfaction and tightened his fingers on her warm slit at once, not letting a drop of his spend go to waste.

It was all going to stay deep inside her and take root there, his legacy and proof that she belonged to him, to her husband.

He lay behind her with her on his side, still holding his hand between her thighs, the other stroking her hair, trying to soothe her, her whole body trembling in convulsions, her fingers tightening on his shoulder, needing his closeness and tenderness.

"− it's all right now − your King has forgiven you − forgiven you and filled you as any loving husband should do − hm? −" He hummed, placing loud, hot, moist kisses on her bare neck and shoulders, and she nodded, her hand sliding into his, pressing his fingers tighter against her womanhood.

"− I want it all inside me, husband −" She whispered fondly and he felt a wonderful thrill of satisfaction, licking his lips dried from exertion and emotion, swallowing loudly.

"− fear not, my dearest − your husband will make sure that nothing flows out of you −"

They fell asleep in the tender, tight embrace of each other's bodies, their legs and hands entwined, his cheek nestled against her hair.

He slept wonderfully peacefully that night.

It was also because the sarcophagus for his family in the vaults of the temple in which he was crowned, and under which his great ancestors lay, had finally been completed.

Lord Walford had buried his family in a mass grave beneath the keep − they had searched for their bodies for months, but without success. When he had almost given up hope, one of the servants reported an unpleasant smell coming from one of the kitchen cellars.

They had been buried without appropriate respect and he felt relieved to give their souls and their memory proper honour.

He rode on horseback in front of the gathered crowds behind a long procession of coffins amidst a chorus of monks, at once sombre and hopeful, at the very front on an ornate cart lay his father's coffin, followed by those of his mother, Aegon, Helaena and Daeron.

He rode behind them through the streets of the city − apart from the chanting of the monks there was complete silence, the folk looking at them with some kind of reverence, shouting his and his wife's name, calling them just.

He thought, as he followed them on their last journey, that when they were properly buried he would at last have peace, and they could be saved, no longer suffering any humiliation or pain.

They would be free.

He felt shame as his throat tightened at the thought, tears squeezed into his eye, his crown uncomfortable and heavy, weighing down on his head more than ever.

He was consoled by the snow lying around them; he had a feeling that the world was telling everyone in this way that their souls were pure, that the heavens were rejoicing with them today.

In front of the temple he dismounted from his horse, glancing at his wife who had settled down beside him, both of them shivering from the cold, knowing that there were still hours of service ahead of them.

She nodded at him indicating that she was ready, and he felt proud at the thought that, as always, she had stood by his side, witnessing the weakness that others had failed to see in his gaze, not allowing him to fall, to pull down his mask before those who might use it.

He prayed fervently, trying not to think like the others about the cold and the chill, his breath turning to steam in this gigantic stone temple, stopping from foot to foot, trying to warm himself in this way, thinking about what the priest was saying.

When at last it was all over, and coffin after coffin had been brought down to the proper sarcophaguses and enclosed in them, he closed his eyes and breathed loudly, feeling the enormous weight fall from his shoulders, he had the sensation of suddenly becoming astonishingly light.

He returned their reverence and honour.

By the time they returned to the fortress it was already dusk; when his wife informed him that she was tired and would go to bed already he simply nodded, massaging his temple, gazing thoughtfully into the flames, feeling still preoccupied by what had happened.

When he finally joined her bare, embracing her from behind he immediately sensed that something was wrong. She lay dressed in a thick nightgown, her body strangely inflamed and hot, and he had the feeling that she was trembling − he swallowed loudly touching his hand to her forehead, feeling his heart pounding like mad.

She had a fever.

"My love?" He whispered in a trembling voice, gently shaking her, looking at her terrified. "My love, wake up."

He heard her quiet, faint muttering; she tried to open her eyes but her eyelids immediately closed − she began to breathe through her mouth, her body quivering in his embrace, all aflame.

"I'm cold." She mumbled softly. He pressed his lips together, got up from their bed, quickly put on his nightshirt and breeches and opened the door, ordering the guards to summon a medic immediately.

A man entered his chamber after a few minutes − he was the same monk who had treated his wound when he was brought to their monastery as a child.

"She has a fever and is shivering all over." He told him, approaching the bed with him, trying to sound calm, − his voice broke at the end of the sentence, betraying his grief and desperation, his throat squeezed so tightly that he could not breathe.

It was only when his servants lit all the candles in his chamber and added fire to the hearth that he noticed how pale she was, her lips blue, her face flushed with sweat. The medic ordered her servants to be summoned to find out if anything had happened, at the same time placing cool cloths on her forehead.

"Has the Queen complained of anything, been troubled by any discomfort?" The old man asked, rolling up the long sleeves of his worn, old robe.

One of the girls swallowed loudly, looking at them with fear.

"The Queen came back frozen from the temple. She didn't have a coat or gown suitably thick for the weather, suitable for such a ceremony. The decision to perform the funeral was made suddenly and the dressmakers did not have time to sew a new garment for her." She mumbled out in a trembling voice, playing with her fingers, and he looked at her in disbelief.

He had made his decision as soon as his parents' bodies had been discovered, he hadn't considered what she thought about it and whether she needed to prepare for it, whether she had the strength to stand for several hours in the cold, whether she felt unwell and wanted to return to the fortress or hide for a while in the warm chambers of the monks.

He had completely forgotten about her, immersed in thoughts of his family, of those who had passed away, and now she was shivering with fever in his bed. He felt rage begin to boil inside him and licked his lower lip, breathing loudly.

"You let her go out inappropriately dressed?" He hissed, her servants looked at each other horrified, fearing that his reaction would end in death for them.

"Your Grace, we begged her, but she said she was choosing this gown and this cloak, that she would not bring shame to the King, that she must look proper on such an important day, we could not force her." Muttered the other one.

"You fucking fools! I'll hang each of you in turn as soon as…"

"− my King −" He heard her faint, quiet whisper, and looked at her − her eyes half-open, staring at him, her lips slightly parted in effort, her long black curls spread in disarray around her head.

He completely lost interest in his rage and what he was saying to them, approaching her quickly, sitting down beside her on their bed, grasping her hot hand in his.

"− I'm so cold − yet at the same time my body seems to be on fire −" She whispered with difficulty, as if each word she spoke cost her a great deal of effort.

"− you have a fever, my love − brother Albert will prepare a decoction at once, which you will have to drink − rest now −" He said tenderly, stroking her inflamed cheek, wet with sweat, and heard her sigh softly, hugging her face to his hand.

A moment later, her mother walked into the chamber, a long blue robe hurriedly put on over her nightgown, her hair tied in a long braid, her eyes wide, terrified.

"− my beloved child −" She whispered running over to her bed, sitting down across from him, stroking her hair.

They ordered the servants to leave − only he, her mother and brother Albert, who was preparing the medicine on his table, remained inside. He watched in thoughtfulness as her mother tenderly and carefully placed on her forehead and chest the cold cloths, previously soaked in the snow she kept in a basin on her lap, brought by the servants over and over again.

He turned impatiently, looking at the monk, who did not seem to be in a hurry despite the fact that every second was precious.

"− how much longer? −" He asked roughly, the man, however, seemed not at all bothered by his warning tone.

"The onions need to release their juices after being sprinkled with sugar, it takes a while. I also brew a tea of lime leaves, chaste and sage, and add a little garlic, honey, pepper, lemon and ginger. It is necessary to support her body from within, to burn out the plague that has taken hold of her body. A fever is a sign of struggle." He said calmly, squeezing a garlic clove with the side of the knife blade, crushing it into a mush, dropping it then into the cup.

After a few minutes he added the rest of the ingredients and stirred it thoroughly − that smell of it all was foreign and unpleasant, but he trusted him and prayed that it would work.

Brother Albert approached their bed and ordered her mother to help her up to a sitting position so that she would not choke.

"− the Queen must drink this immediately −" He said calmly − her mother took the cup from him, with his help lifting her weakened body higher on the pillows, putting the cup to her lips. She lifted her eyelids slightly, semi-conscious, breathing with difficulty.

"− drink, my sweet child, it will help you −" She said warmly, tipping the contents of the goblet. She took a hard sip and began to cough, shaking her head, shuddering all over, moving away.

He pressed his lips together, breathing hard, furious.

"Leave us alone. Both of you." He said coldly, her mother looking at him in shock.

"I will not leave my child."

"Get out, woman."

She swallowed loudly hearing his tone of voice and stood up slowly, telling him to change the clod cloths every few minutes, handing him the cup in her hand, disappearing after a moment with the monk behind the door.

He sat down next to his wife and squeezed her cheeks in his free hand, forcing her to open her mouth.

"Drink, or I swear I'll force it down your throat." He growled, putting the goblet to her lips. She shook her head, flinching at the smell alone, close to tears, her vision clouded.

"− please −" She whined out like a small, terrified child − he wasn't sure she knew where she was or what was happening to her.

However, he was unable to sympathise with her or express his understanding; all he could think about was that he was terrified, that if anything happened to her he would fall into complete madness and kill everyone around him, including himself.

"− drink − that's an order − you are to obey your King and husband −" He said in a cold, impatient voice, tilting the goblet and holding her tightly so that she couldn't break free even though she tried. She began to swallow it loudly, tears trickled from her eyes down her cheeks, a quiver of terror and disgust came from her throat.

"− just like that − just a little bit more − my good, obedient wife −" He gasped as he tilted the cup all the way down and the last drops spilled out − she cried out loudly as he let go of her cheeks, turning her face away from him, trembling and despairing.

"− shhh, my sweetest − I know −" He hushed her, applying to her forehead the ice-cold piece of cloth he had sunk earlier into the bowl of already melted snow, her whole body quivering.

He covered her tightly with the furs, slipping under them beside her, wanting to warm her with his own body as well, and embraced her, nuzzling her hot cheek into his chest. He swallowed loudly feeling her tremble all over, breathing hard through her mouth, knowing he wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep that night.

"− am I dying? −" She asked quietly in a shaking, terrified voice.

He felt a tightness in his throat at her question, leaned in and kissed the top of her head with tenderness, with devotion, with love.

"I am Death itself, my sweet wife −" He whispered low, at the same time with warm affection and dark coolness, stroking her hair with his hand. "− and I assure you that you will not leave this world before me."

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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princesssarisa · 4 months ago

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That post about all the different possible interpretations of Frankenstein, and my response post about the different interpretations of Little Women, have made me think of all the different ways that other stories can be interpreted.

For example, the opera The Magic Flute. Some people wonder why I never get tired of that particular opera. Well, one reason is that no two productions feel exactly the same, because it can be looked at in so many different ways.

Here's a list of different interpretations I've read. This is probably just scratching the surface of possible perspectives, though.

Nor are these readings mutually exclusive: several can be and have been combined with each other.

*The Magic Flute is about the Age of Enlightenment. The Queen of the Night represents the Baroque era (hence the pseudo-Baroque style of her music), with its powerful Catholic church and ancien régime: luxuriantly beautiful and captivating, but decadent, manipulative and ruthless. Sarastro and his priests represent the Enlightenment, and in particular the Freemasons, with progressive values of reason, mercy, fraternity, self-control, etc. The Queen's ultimate downfall and Sarastro's rise in her place represents the social, cultural and philosophical changes that swept the Western world in the 18th century, leading to the American and French Revolutions, among other reforms. (As for why the progressive men still oppress women and own slaves... well, just look at real life.) Tamino and Pamina are an idealized young everyman and everywoman, who learn to embrace Enlightenment values and will carry them into the future.

*The Magic Flute is a socio-political and Masonic allegory focused expressly on Austria. All the sentiments above still apply, but the Queen specifically represents the staunchly Catholic Empress Maria Theresa, Tamino her more progressive son Emperor Joseph II, Sarastro the prominent Masonic leader Ignaz von Born, and Pamina the country of Austria itself, whose soul they struggle for.

*The Magic Flute is about Freemasonry as religion, namely as an offshoot of Christianity. Pamina's late father, who bequeathed his power to Sarastro, represents Jesus Christ himself. His widow the Queen of the Night, who sees herself as his rightful heir, expressly represents the dazzling yet corrupt Catholic church, the so-called "Bride of Christ." Sarastro and his priests, again, represent the Freemasons, who are portrayed as the true heirs of Christ, faithful to His teachings of mercy, brotherhood, endurance, and forgiveness. Tamino and Pamina learn which religion is false and which is true, then prove their worthiness to be initiated into the true religion.

*The Magic Flute is about the progress from nature to civilization. The Queen of the Night is a matriarchal nature goddess who reigns in a realm of stars, rocks, birds, and animals, where there is no law, only emotion, intuition, and personal will. Sarastro, by contrast, rules a patriarchal city and religious order, where laws, rituals, collectivism, and codes of virtue reign supreme. The opera celebrates the progress from the former to the latter, which has occurred in every country since recorded history began. Yet because humans need emotion and intuition as well as law and order, Sarastro's world keeps the best aspects of the Queen's world: her daughter Pamina, the Three Boys, and the magic flute and bells.

*The Magic Flute is about man vs. woman. Sarastro and his followers define all their values as "manly," while all things "womanly" are associated with the Queen of the Night. "Manhood" equals strength, reason, self-control, steadfastness, and light, while "womanhood" equals passion, intuition, vulnerability, manipulation, and darkness. The entire struggle between the Queen and Sarastro, which Tamino, Pamina, and Papageno are caught up in, embodies the tension between the sexes and all the principles associated with them. As for the resolution, there are two ways of viewing it:

**(a) The story is entirely pro-man and anti-woman. Masculinity triumphs, femininity is defeated. An individual woman (Pamina) can only redeem herself by renouncing her femininity (her bond with her mother the Queen) and aligning herself with masculine principles (joining Tamino in his trials and being initiated into Sarastro's order).

**(b) While the male characters think the solution will be the triumph of man over woman, they're wrong: the true solution is for man and woman to reconcile. The conflict is resolved not by the Queen's defeat (which is almost an afterthought), but by the union of the sexes through Tamino and Pamina. Both the hysterical Queen and the stern Sarastro are too extreme in their feminine and masculine principles, so they can never reconcile, but Tamino and Pamina succeed by loving each other and by balancing the feminine with the masculine (using the Queen's magic flute to survive Sarastro's trials).

*The Magic Flute is about growing up. It's a fantastical version of a Bildungsroman. The Queen of the Night represents the mother, nurturing and indulgent, but smothering if the child stays in her care too long, as personified by Jung's "devouring mother" archetype. Sarastro represents the disciplinarian father, who teaches the child right from wrong and trains him to be an adult. Tamino and Pamina are symbolic children: they start out in the Queen's thrall, like a baby attached to its mother, but then switch to Sarastro and undergo his trials, like an older child who outgrows his mother's apron strings and switches his focus to earning his father's respect. In the end, they achieve a synthesis of both parents, using the Queen's flute to succeed in Sarastro's trials, and are initiated into adulthood.

*The Magic Flute, contrary to popular belief, is a post-Enlightenment work of early Romanticism, which revolves around spirituality. Sarastro and his brotherhood are priests, after all, not scientific philosophers or politicians. Tamino and Pamina's journey involves rejecting not only "nature" (i.e. base instinct, which reigns supreme in the Queen of the Night's realm), but cold, worldly reason too. They learn to "renounce the world," transcend earthly fears and temptations, and achieve unity with the divine. Central to this journey is their love for each other, which transcends mere mating instinct in favor of a mutually inspiring spiritual bond, and the spiritual power of music via the magic flute and bells. The Queen of the Night's downfall is that she seeks worldly power. But Sarastro leads Tamino and Pamina down a more godly path instead.

*The Magic Flute is about the search for love. It revolves around three lonely young protagonists, Tamino, Pamina, and Papageno, whose deepest desire is to love and be loved. At first they look to the Queen of the Night to grant them love, and then to Sarastro. But neither the Queen nor Sarastro can do so, because they're both too detached from love – the Queen in her hatred, Sarastro in his noble yet chilly ideals – and use the young people as pawns in their battle against each other. Yet with help from the ethereal Three Boys, the story's purest embodiments of goodness, they find love in the end. Tamino and Pamina unite and save each other, Papageno finds Papagena despite not having "earned" her, and love conquers all.

**For a more sympathetic view of both Sarastro and the Queen, we can argue that they're both seekers of love too. The Queen loves her daughter and is desperate to get her back, but fails because her love is possessive and selfish. Sarastro's love is an idealistic, detached, universal love for all mankind, which is admirable, yet cold in a way. Tamino and Pamina strike a balance between the two by loving each other in a personal yet generous and unselfish partnership.

*The Magic Flute is a symbolic, proto-Jungian or -Freudian journey through the psyche of Tamino, a young everyman. Pamina is his soul, or his self, whom he needs to find and unite with to be complete. The Queen of the Night is his "feminine" unconscious, who embodies all his powerful and dangerous emotions, which he learns to resist... yet not discard completely, as symbolized by the fact that his soul, Pamina, is her daughter. Sarastro embodies his moral conscience and his noblest ideals and aspirations, which he learns to embrace as his ultimate guides. Meanwhile, Papageno represents his base, "animal" side that cares only for bodily safety and pleasure, which needs to be kept in check (hence Papageno can't be initiated), yet still honored (hence he does find joy with Papagena). And Monostatos represents his darkest and most selfish urges, which his nobler self (Sarastro) must suppress. Tamino's journey with all these aspects of himself represents the process of self-actualization that we all go through.

**With a few small tweaks to this outline, it can also be read as a more gender-neutral journey through the human psyche, with Tamino and Pamina as co-protagonists who represent two halves of one person seeking to unite.

*The Magic Flute is specifically a journey through Mozart's psyche. Tamino and Papageno each reflect aspects of Mozart – his "higher" and "lower" selves, respectively – while Pamina and Papagena likewise reflect his beloved wife Constanze. The Queen of the Night can be viewed as a caricature either of his difficult mother-in-law Cäcilia Weber (as Amadeus indicates) or of her daughter Aloysia Weber, Constanze's sister, whom Mozart once loved and who rejected him. (Make what you will of the fact that the soprano who first sang the role was Constanze and Aloysia's other sister and Cäcilia's daughter.) The trials of initiation into Sarastro's brotherhood reflect Mozart's relationship with Freemasonry, and possibly also his efforts to please his difficult father Leopold. While of course Mozart didn't write the libretto, he put his soul into the music, and he may have influenced Schikaneder enough to infiltrate the libretto too.

*The Magic Flute is just a classic fairy tale of good vs. evil, with some Masonic overtones, which Mozart and Schikaneder wrote as a crowd-pleasing, moneymaking spectacle.

Some of these interpretations I like better than others, but none of them are necessarily wrong.

@ariel-seagull-wings, @leporellian, @tuttocenere, @cjbolan

#opera #the magic flute #die zauberflöte #interpretations

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saccharinerose · 8 months ago

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Furina/Focalors - Remus similarities & narrative parallels

Both have Latin titles - Remus being Imperator and Furina being Regina. Both are named after figures from Roman mythology - Remus is named after one of the mythological founding twins of Rome, Furina is named after Furrina, a Roman goddess of springs. Both share a love for humanity - Furina being willing to endure 500 years of suffering and Remus being willing to end his own life for a chance to save them. Both share a connection to art/performance - Furina's being theatre/opera and Remus' being music.

Narratively, both were the rulers of a country faced with an unavoidable prophecy in which their country would be flooded and their people would die. Both welcomed a dragon-born to their country, Scylla following Remus out of the Fontemer to witness the future he wanted to bring about, Neuvillette following pre-split!Focalors' invitation to serve as Fontaine's Iudex. Both of these dragon-born are also enamored by their god's respective forms of art - Scylla loving Remus' music and Neuvillette loving Furina's acting. Both Remus' and Focalors' final plans to save their people involved a self-sacrifice to grant the power to their dragon-born ally to change the properties of their peoples' bodies - Scylla was meant to return the Remurians to flesh and blood bodies had Remus' plan worked, Neuvillette used his restored Authority to turn Fontainians into "true humans" as Focalors planned.

Remuria is essentially a Bad Ending AU of the AQ in ancient history.

#saccha's thoughts #remus #scylla #neuvillette #furina #focalors #neuvifuri #remulla #cannot believe they made nvfr yaoi

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thinkingimages · 1 month ago

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The Death of Maria Malibran ~ A Morte de Maria Malibran (Der Tod der Maria Malibran), de Werner Schroeter (Alemanha Ocidental, 1972).

This is about the life and myths about famous opera singer Maria Malibran (1808-1836), who, literally sang herself to death, collapsing on stage.

The Death of Maria Malibran, Schroeter's 1972 masterpiece, seems bent on emulating its eponymous heroine; the film is Malibran's passion, condensed. Magdalena Montezuma and Warhol superstar Candy Darling head a cast of women and cross-dressers who perform still-life duets in a series of theatrical, painterly tableaux; like moving statues, they evoke the gamut of romantic allusions with the slightest gestures. Theirs is a sensuality of the mind, in lamp-lit faces and silent screams. As always, when Schroeter's camera moves outside of these hermetic interiors, he manages to find the same rich colorization in forests and clouds, and to find "ancient" ruins in modern settings. The soundtrack weaves opera and Shakespeare, blues and country music (Marty Robbins singing"Carmen"?) into a tapestry of mock classicism and trashy modernism; dialogue is in whispered snippets, in English and German (no subtitles necessary). For Schroeter, it seems that male form flows into female just as mock passion flows into ghostly sadness. Thus it is no contradiction that, having dedicated the film to yet another fated diva, Janis Joplin, he has her impersonated by an enormous cross-dresser.

BAMPFA ~ University of California, Berkeley Art Museum & Pacific Film Archive

⊹ The mezzo-soprano Cecilia Bartoli dedicated her 2007 album Maria to the music composed for Malibran and her most famous roles. In 2008 Decca released a recording of Bellini's La Sonnambula with Cecilia Bartoli in the lead role using many cadenzas that la Malibran herself used and which restored the tessitura of the role to the high mezzo-soprano range (as Giuditta Pasta and Maria Malibran had sung it).

#The Death of Maria Malibran #Werner Schroeter #1972 #A Morte de Maria Malibran #Der Tod der Maria Malibran #cinematic still #film #still #stills

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nesiacha · 4 months ago

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Life and Fate of Sophie Momoro, née Fournier, and Her Childrens According to Certain Information

Festival of Reason where Sophie Momoro played a key role during certain ceremonies

Sophie Fournier was born in 1766 in Auxerre, where her family was involved in the creation of printing typefaces. Her grandfather had purchased the Blé foundry, one of the most important in France. On her mother’s side, the Gando family specialized in printing typefaces for musical scores.

Given her family’s professions, it was natural for Sophie Fournier to cross paths with Antoine François Momoro, a printer. They married on January 18, 1786, and on December 13, their only child, Jean-Antoine Momoro, was born. Antoine-François Momoro was initially a cautious revolutionary in 1789 but later dedicated himself fully to the cause until his arrest and execution. Although Sophie remained in the background, it is believed she remained loyal to her husband during his most difficult times, such as his arrest following the Champ de Mars massacre in 1791.

It wasn’t until late 1793 that Sophie Momoro began to play a public political role. On November 10, 1793, during the Festival of Reason, a woman portrayed the Goddess of Reason, wearing a Phrygian cap and carried on a stretcher by men. Patriotic songs echoed throughout the event. There is some doubt about whether Sophie played the role of the Goddess of Reason during this ceremony (some think it was Maillard, an opera actress, or Mademoiselle Aubry). However, Duquesne notes that since the ceremony was presided over by Antoine François Momoro, it is highly probable that it was Sophie Momoro.

On December 5, 1793, at the Temple of Reason, Sophie Momoro was clearly identified as the Goddess of Reason, playing an important role in the de-Christianization campaigns. Sophie was carried on a stretcher, then placed on a platform, with the crowd proceeding to the Convention. On the way back, she was again placed on a stretcher, but due to someone losing balance, she fell and broke her arm. Another notable event during the ceremony involved the impromptu burning of wooden statues of Saint Sulpice and Saint Peter. The president of the Mucius Scaevola section (formerly the Luxembourg section) Ceyrat declared, "If this God exists, let him thunder and strike me down with a bolt of his thunder!" When no thunder struck, he concluded, "He does not thunder, therefore his existence is a chimera."

Despite her injury, Sophie continued to participate in similar ceremonies of dechristianization . When portraying the Goddess of Reason, she would reportedly wear white and carry a pike (considering the struggle for revolutionary women to bear arms, this shows a certain determination on Sophie’s part).

One of Sophie Momoro’s other political actions was presiding over a reconciliation between former Catholic priests and Protestants. According to Jean-Pierre Duquesne, she was surrounded by "two or three hundred young girls dressed in white, beautiful to behold, with provocative looks, low-cut dresses, and crowned with oak leaves." During this de-Christianization ceremony, it was declared that the two religions had only survived through "clerical charlatanism according to theirs words. Thus, Sophie not only supported her husband but also demonstrated significant militancy herself, like many wives of revolutionaries who remain too often in the shadow of their husbands.

However, this marked the beginning of the end for her marriage. Following his involvement in an attempted insurrection and the complex context of 1794 with factional struggles, Antoine François Momoro was executed as part of the "Exaggerated" faction alongside Charles Philippe Ronsin, Jacques René Hébert, François-Nicolas Vincent, and others. He was falsely accused, among other things, of attempting to sabotage supplies and was allegedly (likely falsely) claimed to have amassed 190,000 livres, despite being known as an incorruptible revolutionary who lived very modestly. The saddest part is that, although he died bravely, his heart must have been broken knowing that his wife had been arrested and risked following him to the guillotine.

In prison, Sophie Momoro was inconsolable when she learned of her husband’s death from a man named Jean Baptiste Laboureau, who escaped the Hébertist execution by implicating, among others, Antoine-François Momoro. Laboureau’s remarks were either highly insensitive or downright cruel: "The Goddess of Reason was not at all reasonable; during the day, she lamented greatly over the accident that happened to her husband." Unlike Marie-Françoise Goupil and Lucile Desmoulins, she was not executed. Sophie Momoro was released on May 27, 1794, but was left without means and had to raise her son alone. Since Momoro was not rehabilitated ( and he will never be), she could not request the return of his assets, and even so, her husband had left very little inheritance. On August 25, 1794, she requested financial assistance and the return of Antoine-François Momoro’s printing presses. Both requests were denied by the State.

There is a point of divergence between Jean-Pierre Duquesne and Albert Mathiez. In 1795, a family council appointed Sophie Momoro as her son’s guardian. However, Momoro’s father was appointed as substitute guardian. According to Albert Mathiez, Momoro’s father, a shoemaker, had died before his son’s execution. Mathiez stated, "At that time, Momoro’s father, who had worked as a shoemaker, was already dead. But his mother, who had taken a job as a servant after her husband's death, was still alive." According to reports from the commissioners of the Besançon district, Momoro’s mother died shortly after her son, likely of grief. The report reads: "Today, Germinal 11, Year II of the Republic, at eleven o'clock in the morning, we, Jean François Denisot, member of the general council of the Besançon district, appointed by order of the same district on this day to affix seals at the home of the mother of the named Momoro, who has just suffered the death penalty in Paris, and having with us François-Joseph Bernard as our secretary clerk, we went to the home of citizen Forno, a war commissioner, where the said Momoro was a cook. There, we invited citizen Forno to show us the room of the said Momoro, to which she replied that she had died the previous night but was ready to introduce us to the room she occupied." I believe Momoro’s father was alive, and Albert Mathiez likely made an error, but it is possible that the opposite is true.

Sophie Momoro remarried on November 7, 1796, to a military man named Jacques-Marie Botot, who had been appointed commander of the Seine gendarmerie in 1793 (one of his apparent roles was escorting the former Queen of France, Marie Antoinette, to the scaffold). In 1795, he was appointed brigade leader. Together, they had a daughter in 1798 named Stéphanie Joséphine Adèle. Sophie’s mother also came to live with the couple and their children. However, the marriage began to falter. With the rise of Bonaparte, who was suspicious of Jacques-Marie Botot, he was appointed brigadier general and retired by the First Consul. Some accused Botot of becoming difficult and bitter in their marriage, while others believed it was due to Sophie taking a lover, the architect Jean Joseph Clotilde Lelouche. According to Georges Lenôtre, Botot’s disgrace precipitated the end of their marriage: personally, I don’t think there is any evidence of opportunism on Sophie’s part. After all, it seems she remained faithful to Momoro even in the hardest times. Perhaps Botot’s bitterness over his disgrace under Bonaparte, combined with Sophie taking a lover, led to their incompatibility over the long term. Sophie retained custody of her son, while Botot retained custody of their daughter.

Sophie moved in with Lelouche and gave birth to a daughter in 1806 named Joséphine-Clotilde-Sophie. Although he never married her, Lelouche acknowledged his daughter. However, when Sophie died two years later, it was not her lover who reported her death, but her son, Jean-Antoine. Apparently, she and her son were facing new financial difficulties. Another strange fact: despite her civil status clearly stating she was a widow of Momoro and divorced from Botot, Jacques Marie Botot did not mention his divorce status in his civil records, even though she had been dead for 14 years.

Despite their parents’ divorce, Stéphanie Joséphine Adèle Botot seems to have remained close to her brother, Jean-Antoine Momoro. She died on January 15, 1860. Joséphine Clotilde Sophie married a history painter on February 4, 1830, named Henri Louis Hippolyte Poterle.

Jean-Antoine Momoro never abandoned his mother, and it seems clear he never renounced his father and remained proud of his parents. He always signed his name as Momoro-Fournier in the registers. This was bold, as Momoro was never rehabilitated, and in some cases, family members temporarily abandoned the family names of unrehabilitated revolutionaries (understandably so, as life must have been hard enough for them), but he also signed with his mother’s surname. He always lived in the neighborhoods where his father had been active when he was in Paris. He worked as a civil servant. According to Joseph Marie Quérard, he was an "assistant chief at the Ministry of Public Works" and a "playwright" with three comedies, though it is unclear if they were published or simply performed. He married a woman from Nantes named Séraphine Emilie Nicolas, and they had a daughter, Marie-Adélaide, who married a postal worker. Jean-Antoine Momoro died in 1868.

P.S.: I mentioned some similarities and differences between Camille Desmoulins and Antoine-François Momoro in this post: Camille Desmoulins and Antoine-François Momoro. It seems that their sons (Horace-Camille Desmoulins and Jean-Antoine Momoro) also had in common a sense of pride in their parents.

Sources:

Albert Mathiez

Jean-Pierre Duquesne

#frev #french revolution #women of revolution #cordeliers #sophie momoro née fournier #momoro #It makes me angry that Momoro's printing press was not returned to his wife or that Sophie was denied assistance.#When people like Tallien #who were acquiring wealth illegally during their time in office #were living the good life.

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