#'the gorgeous young fop'

[callsignmav]

Where are we going?

Nowhere.

[dreamsofthekingdom]

"The trick is not to think about it. See that one there? Widow St. Clair. She had the gorgeous young fop murder her husband....She blamed a slave for his murder. Imagine what they did to him. Evildoers are easier, and they taste better."

Interview With The Vampire (1994)

[angelswing236]

The next chapter of In You I Trust is up and it's longer than usual. Here's an excerpt:

The dance was in full flow, with couples whirling around the floor. Normally, Mary would be with them, right at the heart of it, but tonight, the fashionable young men were steering clear of her.

On several occasions, she had seen some of her male acquaintances coming towards her, but then they’d apparently caught the eye of their disapproving mothers and diverted to another young lady instead.

It seemed the rumours were still in full flow.

She kept her head high, ignoring the little knots of matrons and gossipy girls casting glances at her and whispering. Instead, she amused herself by imagining Tom in these surroundings. In reality, she knew he’d feel like a fish out of water, but left to her own devices, she summoned an image of him in white tie, smart and achingly handsome, a real man compared to so many of the weak-chinned, lily-livered fops around her now.

She could see him perfectly in her mind’s eye, walking towards her, his hair brushed to a shine, asking her to dance. He would bend over her hand and kiss it, smiling up at her, his beguiling blue eyes full of mischief and affection. And then he would straighten up and offer her his hand, pulling her onto the dance floor. They would twirl around, him holding her close, and she would be the envy of all these small-minded debs, with the arms of her gorgeous man tight around her.

How she wished it could be so. With Tom beside her, all the disdainful looks and whispered jibes, all the conversations that suddenly ceased when she walked by, none of them would matter. Nothing else would matter. Because she had him, and he knew the truth and still loved her.

A crippling wave of sadness washed over her, threatening to make her cry, her little fantasy crashing and burning as she realised that was exactly what it was: a fantasy. It could never be real. Tom would never be accepted in this world of small-minded, petty people.

Taglist: @starryeyes2000

If you'd like to be added to the taglist, just let me know.

[nansorella]

That gorgeous young Fop

imagine it's your first day of filming Interview with the Vampire and Tom Cruise is telling you that you're actually gay for him WHILE you're already filming the scene with him

the scene in question

[sonofdorn-vii]

Sir Ferrus ‘The Iron Man’ Manus sat hunched low over his drawing board. The room was dim, the early morning light not yet reaching the ceiling-high windows of his chambers. A small electric lamp with a shade worked in different shades of amber glass illuminated his efforts, freehand drawings for a new gearing system. His curious clockwork hands ticked and whirred quietly as he worked, the dexterity in his iron fingers belying their manufactured nature. How he came by his marvellous hands, whether by design or necessity, was a mystery as much to him as to any other soul curious enough to ask about them.

He sat perched on a high stool of plain black iron, stripped to the waist; the braces for his woollen breeches dangling around his hips. The skin of his remarkably strong body was pale, like fresh marble, with veins like dark silver running beneath. The muscles of his back and shoulders were defined clearly, his impressive hairless physique maintained through manual labour, but gifted to him by breeding.

He brushed a lock of black hair back over his left ear and looked back over his shoulder, almost shyly. The room was a well-appointed bedroom, high on the mezzanine level of his factory. The outside windows looked east across the river; the curved inner windows looked out over the factory floor, his domain.  Plush velvet drapes were drawn for privacy, making the room appear like any well-to-do Gentleman’s sleeping chamber. A pair of brandy balloons next to the decanter on the nightstand, clothes left carelessly on the rug by the fireplace. The memory of breathless passion and unequalled intimacy.

A large four-poster bed of dark stained mahogany took up much of the far wall. The sheets, black Chinese silk, were rumpled around the most perfect being he had ever seen. His friend, lover, brother, whatever you wanted to call it lay on the bed, deeply asleep and breathing softly. Ferrus loved seeing him this way, as only he was allowed. No pomp and ceremony, no dazzling smiles and calculating looks with his astonishing violet eyes. Just him, the Viscount Fulgrim.

His face, so beloved of Society photographers and artists was guileless and innocent in sleep, like that of a young boy. His skin, pale like Ferrus’ own, had a singular luminosity even now in the lamp light. Silver hair, matching perfectly shaped eyebrows, tousled and unkempt across the silk pillows. The eyes, those impossible eyes, closed blocking out the world. The skin around them a shade darker, edging toward purple. His cheekbones, sharp and defined, any woman would kill for.

Fulgrim’s full lips parted slightly, a small frown creasing his brow as he dreamed dreams in vivid technicolour. Ferrus allowed his gaze to linger on his lover’s body, his abdominal muscles taught and perfect, like the rest of him. Ferrus felt his heart beat faster as his eyes found the black silk sheet barely covering his lover’s manhood. Knowing what was beneath; its utter perfection, the need he felt for Fulgrim growled in the pit of his stomach.

He smiled and turned back to his work. He always felt inspired after a night with the Viscount, truly inspired in a way he’d never felt before. Of course, his machines and devices were famous across the Kingdom before they’d met, but Fulgrim had a way of pulling more from him, more than he’d ever felt possible. His designs since had transcended science; gone beyond engineering.

They had become art.

The Viscount Fulgrim was his Muse, he realised suddenly. Ferrus longed for his gaze, a smile, a light touch on the arm. The unparalleled ecstasy of their bodies entwined.  He craved it like other men needed water. To be seen by Fulgrim, truly SEEN was like feeling the sun on your face for the first time.

The perfection of Fulgrim was legendary, like his reputation as a decadent Society fop. But nobody knew the real him. The Big Show, the gorgeous clothes, the scandalous behaviour, the illicit substances. It was all an act, Ferrus knew now. The REAL Fulgrim was asleep in his bed, exhausted by his own manufactured persona. He was safe here and, Ferrus vowed silently, he always would be.

Ferrus would never judge him, never mock, never ridicule. Never get drunk and leave the party with some society sweetheart. As Fulgrim, sharp of mind and sharper of tongue, would likewise never make Ferrus feel inferior for his own failings. Shy, withdrawn, quiet. The very opposite of Fulgrim’s reputation, Ferrus had learned at an early age that trust was a difficult thing to come by. Bullied mercilessly at boarding school for his hands, his size, his intellect, his name. Children are the cruellest of tormentors and will turn your worst fears against you; Gorgon they called him. Ugly, unloved, unlovable. His quietude and sensitivity immediately targeted as clear evidence of his homosexuality, before the other boys really understood what that meant.

Well, it turns out they were right about that, Ferrus thought, reaching for his pocketknife and sharpening his pencils again. For the first time in his life, Ferrus felt a contentment he’d never known. The secrecy of their relationship was a small price to pay for what he got in return. Those in Society would never understand, but Ferrus didn’t care. He wanted neither their permission nor their acceptance. He had his beautiful Phoenix and needed nothing else.

[eagna-eilis]

I'm watching the 1994 'Interview With The Vampire' because I need to make my comparisons to my beloved AMC show and I haven't seen it for ten years.

Without further ado, my liveblog.

*

3.26: the straightwashing begins. Daniel and Louis did not meet in a gay bar.

Christian Slater is kinda cute tho.

5.00: Brad is already phoning it in. Jacob really had no competition at all.

9.05: the score is so melodramatic. kind of a bit much tbh. The flouncy shirts are 10/10 though.

10.44: I do love the line 'I'm going to give you the choice I never had' though.

15.35: also 'Actually I'm quite fond of looking at crucifixes'.

I'm remembering that I used to be able to recite lines from this film when I was a teen.

16.00: THERE WERE TWO COFFINS BOOOOOOOO. Not so in the book or series.

21.15: Lestat isn't being straightwashed as much, what with calling that fella a 'gorgeous young fop', but it's so caged in plausible deniability.

25.00: oh hey look, the racism from the book is in the movie what with the way the enslaved people are being portrayed.

29.00: Pitt's delivery is serving Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker and I don't like it but I DO like the fact that we get Pyromaniac!Louis in the movie. He didn't do a single pyromaniac in S1 of the show and it makes me very sad.

32.32: I do like the creepy harpsichord though.

General observation: I remembered Tom!Lestat being a lot flouncier and flamboyant but I guess he just felt that way compared with Stuart!Lestat. I actually used to really enjoy Tom's performance but it hasn't a patch on the sheer chaotic energy that Sam Reid brings in every scene of the TV show.

37.07: KIRSTEN KIRSTEN KIRTSTEN. She is the best thing in this film.

38.26: THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LADY YET. Lestat dancing with the corpse is iconic even to this day.

39.40: I always quoted it as 'I always know where to find you Louis, I just follow the trail of rats' and delivered it with about twenty times more flounce, and so 'All I need to find you Louis is follow the corpses of rats' delivered unflouncily is not as iconic. Boo.

43.33: Kirsten whispering 'I want some more' is perfect though. Both she and Bailey play very different Claudias and both of them are incredible.

45.00: Tom!Lestat is so tender with baby Claudia and it makes me kinda sad that Sam!Lestat and Bailey!Claudia didn't get more cute moments together.

50.50: the bit where Claudia watches the bathing woman and says she wants to be like her is a really good piece of writing. In some ways I think we can consider Claudia of having a sort of dysphoria. She wants a grown up body, an exterior to match her interiority.

53.35: Kirsten really brought the rage. I love her.

59.00: 'I hope it's a beautiful woman with endowments you will never possess' is mean, but Tom just isn't as good at the meanness as Sam is.

01.06.15: I'm sad we won't get Swampstat on TV tho.

01.11.22: I love Kirsten waltzing in the dressmaker's in her pretty blue gown. Want Bailey to get a similar moment because I love Bailey.

01.12.12: A WILD STEPHEN REA APPEARED. fuckin Santiago. he IS a buffoon.

01.13.40: the only person in this film who projects any sexuality (hetero or queer) at all is Antonio Banderas as Armand. I know people were whining about Assad Zaman but he looks way more like I imagine Armand than Antonio does.

There isn't any comparing the two from here on out because we're past the end of S1.

01.26.06: I do enjoy that Armand reads some very questionable romantic energy between Louis and Claudia, because of course the fledgeling of freakin' Marius would read that. Marius is vile.

01.31.30: 'I haven't tears enough for what you've done to me' is also a great line.

01.38.50: The Pompeii effect of Claudia and Madelaine's remains is very smart.

01.40.35: TIME FOR ANOTHER EPIC PYROMANIA FROM OUR BOY.

01.44.32: THEY ALMOST SMOOCH. And then Louis is all like, 'Soz Armand I'm leaving' and Armand pulls a 'If you leave me I will die' but then he still leaves Armand. TV show Louis would never leave a shitty manipulative man so easily.

01.50.05: What I DO hope we get in the show in lieu of Swampstat is Pathetic Husk Lestat telling Louis he's beautiful and being genuinely scared of him and absolutely PETRIFIED of helicopters. Delightful. Sam would nail it.

01.53.10: Actually amazing that Anne only fit one 'preternatural' into her screenplay considering it was her favourite word.

01.55.00: Apropos of nothing, I love Daniel's car.

And now it's time for the ending which remains pretty iconic.

So.

Queue up Guns and Roses.

And say it with me with all the glee we ever said it with before we had the TV show...

I ASSUME I NEED NO INTRODUCTION!

(Tidy up your sleeves.)

OH LOUIS LOUIS, STILL WHINING LOUIS! HAVE YOU HEARD ENOUGH? I'VE HAD TO LISTEN TO THAT FOR CENTURIES!

*

Conclusions...

I don't begrudge it. It's all we had for a very long time.

I remembered Cruise's performance being way camper than it was. Maybe it DID feel camp before we had Sam Reid doing the hair toss and shoulder wiggle and being completely unhinged.

Brad Pitt was so badly miscast it wasn't funny. He gives off the most intense No Homo energy I have ever seen and it's cringe. He does look miserable, but not in the right way. He's so monotone he could be saying 'I hate sand'. His hair is the wrong colour. You never really get any sense of who Louis is as a person.

Compare that to the fuckin' revelation that is Jacob Anderson, who has incredible range.

Bailey Bass was the only one who had any competition in terms of performance and I think the AMC writers knew it. The fact that her Claudia is so different from Dunst's gave Bass the ability to go just as hard, to perform with just as much gusto and pathos and horror, and to not have to face comparison. Both actresses are incredible. I hope Bass's career is at least as successful as Dunst's has been because she's SO GOOD.

It's kind of dull, though, the movie. The humour in the TV series is so important because there is something deeply goofy at the heart of the VC (even if 'IWTV' is very serious compared with the other books).

The movie isn't my favourite vampire movie (that's 'Only Lovers Left Alive') despite the fact that Rice's is the only vampire lore I really care for. It isn't even my favourite Neil Jordan vampire movie. That's 'Byzantium'.

I'm glad it exists. I'm glad it was good enough to keep us going for 28 years. But it's like feeding from rats and pigeons when compared with the TV series, which is like a long drink from the jugular of an attractive member of your preferred gender. It sustained us, but it wasn't a true feast.

[trixcuomo]

Daily Writing Challenge Feb 2022 – Days 1, 2, 3

@daily-writing-challenge​

That’s not my hot Nightborne OC -this- is my hot Nightborne OC! Keywords: Love; Protect; Shine

Read part 1 of It’s Raining Gunmen here

 Madames, monsieurs…

Never trust a man who says he is a lover, not a fighter. You know that old line.

You hear it after the Nightborne man leans up from the bar, puts the dark cigarette in his mouth. Soft lavender light floats through a pane of stained glass to cross the Suramar café done in the lavish style of Elisande’s ancien régime. A romantic, tragic time. That purple light makes this man’s handsome elven features all the more intense.

“Don’t worry about me, mon cherie… I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

But then there’s about five seconds of dread filling your throat, knowing that he’s already drawn his gun. That fast. Those words are always a ruse, as they say. Cruel poetry to protect his true, dastardly nature. Always a ruse to buy a true gunfighter one sweet little moment before your end.

Tonight, loverboy Sylvain Sabergryn who was very much reputed to be that type, styled as a fop would be styled, in all the frippery, tight wine-colored leather and blue skin bared that a man out for a hot date would wear, he stood in a blinding white column of arcane energy holding a silver shotgun. The raging magic tore out of the ancient Nightwell. The inglorious Nightwell that had drawn the Burning Legion back to Azeroth, the inglorious Nightwell that was said to have doomed the Nightborne people. Maybe in the era before, in the ancien régime of Elisande and her Mousequetaires armed with vile ley-rifles that could annihilate entire disloyal city blocks of Suramar, long before a mere First Arcanist could decide to let the very magical life-blood of their people rot away and die, Sylvain standing in such a deadly spot as the Nightwell would not have been possible.

But the Nightwell was dying. It wasn’t as intense, not anymore. So Sylvain was able to stand at the brink of the very arcane torrent.

Now? Yes, now. Sylvain stepped off the ledge into thin air. Nothing beneath him but the unknown depths of the ancient Nightwell and its full flow of hot white arcane magic thundering up. He dropped for a moment, and he had to take a sudden breath himself. But then the magic buoyed him up. Sylvain looked down and saw how he levitated, how fast he’d mastered this. A deadly feat, but pushing himself this far was very much worth it. He was able to hide from his quarry in plain sight. A manasaber must get close before it can pounce.

The bold young punk smirked at his enemy far off on the other side of the vault. The only other Nightborne man in the room stood next to the notorious talk show hostess Trixany Cuomo.

Sylvain raised his shining rifle, and this one was a true ley-rifle, gorgeous in all its delicate crystalline runes, the magnificent artwork of silver and magic coursing over the quadrupled barrel, and yet grotesque in all it might wreak on the one he hated more than anyone else in this fragile world.

“Maintenant pour la viser…” Now to aim her…

“Maintenant tirer.” Now to fire.

*Annoying Goblin pop theme music blares*

This episode of The Daily Mail Dalaran Show, now with shalassian and subtitles! is brought to you by Kaja-Cola Shadowlands Edition. How did we get that crisp anima taste inside of every can during the drought? It’s totally not because Kaja-Cola Co is partnered with The Jailer. Perish the thought, and enjoy the cola!

Now, on with the show. The last time we tuned in, our hostess was getting a safe, simple tour of the Nightwell for a rare Nightborne marksmanship demonstration. But instead, it looks like it’s raining gunmen! Let’s watch.

Trixany blinked as she thought she saw movement, somehow inside the light of the Nightwell itself far off on the other side of the vault. Or, what was left of the dying font of magic? Whatever it was had been in the shape of a certain young gangster gunslinging punk she’d only heard about in Shalassian myths and legends, or really fifteen minutes earlier in her show notes.

Swatting her cheeks, looking truly startled, Trixany gasped. “Um, what was that? Is there something there? Look! Right over there, watch out!”

When the Nightborne marksman Captain Jules le Mort looked to Trixany, the show host, he had to look far over his shoulder, then down. The sly Blood Elf woman had got back behind a wall of old metal crates. Her team of Goblin security guards must have been hunkered down as well. He could scarcely see one of them, so the rest had to be out of sight now too.

“What the fel—”

Another Nightborne’s voice cried at him, “Jules le Mort! My name is Mousequetaire Sylvain Sabergryn. You once sold me out to Elisande herself!”

“What? But Sylvain was disgraced… It can’t really be you! That was ages ago!”

“PREPARE TO DIE!”

A single, silver shot rang out. But it cried for havoc…

Stay tuned for more next time, after this special message from Gallywix’s Pleasure Palace!

Portly Gallywix wearing a crazy top hat sparking with fireworks, leader of the Steamwheedle Cartel Goblins, suddenly struts across your scrying orb onto what is obviously a bluescreen of Azshara. The autumnal scene of cliffs and forested plain sort of hovers around him, burning blue at the edges.

“Have ya ever considered buying a time share at tha heart of Azshara? At tha heart of action in Kalimdor? Relax poolside, take in a bit of golf, while ya watch tha Horde and the Alliance tear eachotha apart in an epic showdown below in one of Kalimdor’s most ancient! And beauuutiful! natural scenes? Hello there, I’m Gallywix of course, and for the next 140 minutes of this infomercial...” his stubby green finger points to the screen, “Do I. Got a deal. For you.”

...

Trixany’s Daily Mail Dalaran Show seemed promising, but her producers swapping between the fancy Nightborne aesthetic and Goblin corporate craziness really feels like too much. It is actually causing you stress. You consider finally changing the scrying orb channel.

But do you???

#dwc

[nansorella]

I just love seeing the GORGEOUS young Fop!

Book Lestat: would fight hell for Louis, i would kill anyone who dares to approach my Louis, I'll hurt anyone to protect Louis.

Show Lestat: I'll hurt anyone, Louis included.

[iwt-v]

See that one there? Widow St. Clair. She had that gorgeous young fop murder her husband...Evildoers are easier, and they taste better.

[ask-the-ace-attorneys]

I’d rather be dry, but at least I’m alive. (Part 1)

“Po-Mr. Justice. This is strictly business. I’m sorry.” Phoenix averted his eyes from the young man in front of him.

Apollo’s entire body seemed to droop. From the little horns on his head to his legs shaking and…

I’m just unlovable.

“Why… what did I do to make you…?”

Of course. I’ve been waiting for this. He abandoned me. Like everyone else in my life.

“Mr. Justice. This isn’t personal. We’ll be on opposite sides of the courtroom. You have your reasons… and I have mine.” The blue suited man said, with a cold, calculating look in his eyes. Those eyes that used to be filled with such… pride and... love? Was that it?

Or was I just pretending to make myself feel better?

“Those eyes… they… why…?” Apollo whispered to himself.

It was all fake. All of it. How could I believe him? How could I have trusted him?!

“Two lawyers from the same firm going head to head? Who could have thought? Ha ha!” Paul Atishon said.

He... he promised that he wouldn’t leave me! He promised! He... he lied. Like everyone else in my life.

“Da… no. Mr. Wright. I should have expected this.”

Jove died on me. Dhurke shipped me off to Japan. Kristoph was just using me for status. And now Phoenix. I should have learned by now. No one could love Justice.

“...Mr. Justice. I’m sorry. I’m… so sorry.” Phoenix said, trying to stay stoic, but with tears in his eyes.

He’s not. This is his way of telling me to leave him alone. To go away from his little family. I’m not worthy of his love.

Apollo took off running. Just… ran. Rain started falling.

“Apollo, wait!” Dhurke yelled out, before trying to follow him through the rain.

You… you abandoned me here in Japan. You promised you would come back! But… I don’t blame you. I’m unlovable. How could someone love me compared to Nahyuta… or Trucy… Athena? Never. Kay, Sebastian? The Great Thief and The Best? Simon? Klavier? Maya? Pearl? They’re too good. I’m just… me.

He crashes into something after running for far too long. “Schatzi!” Klavier smiles at Apollo, and plants a kiss on his forehead. “You’re literally falling for me, huh?”

Klavier smiles at me like I’m... special.

“Don’t… please… don’t pretend to love me like this…”

“Pretend? Herr Forehead, I’m not pretending.” The blonde pulls the shorter attorney to his chest in a hug.

He is.

“How can I believe you? Let me go.”

“Liebling? What’s wrong?”

Schatzi? Liebling? He’s the gorgeous rock star. How could he love me?

“I said let me go.”

The glimmerous fop reluctantly obliged. Apollo shot off again, slipping on the pavement a ways away from Klavier.

“Huh? Pollo! Are you alright?!” Athena ran over, draping her umbrella over a soaked Apollo.

“Thena…?”

“Polly, you look like shit. What happened to you? Who do I need to fight. No one messes with my brother.”

Athena thinks of me like a brother?

“Just… go. Leave me alone.”

“Apollo…? What’s wrong? Did something happen to you?”

“Just… just leave, goddamn it! Get it over with! Stop pretending to care about me!”

“Apollo, what’s gotten into you?! I love you! You’re my brother!

She doesn’t. She’s just using me. Just like Kristoph and Mr. Wright. The goddamn bracelet. If I didn’t have it, she wouldn’t still care about me.

Apollo shoots off for the third time, hearing Athena screaming his name behind him. He can feel something warm on the back of his head, but he sure as hell doesn’t care.

“Polly! Where are you?! Please, come back! Daddy didn’t mean it!” The little magician called out from behind. “It’s just a big misunderstanding, Polly! We all still love you!” Her footsteps got closer. “Polly! Is that you?! Please… I miss my big brother! Come back!” She says, and she finally collided with Apollo. She grabs him from behind and holds him in a tight hug.

Trucy literally calls me her older brother. More lies.

“Polly, you’re bleeding! Calm down and let me look at it! Thena and Klavier both called me, saying they ran into you and that you were acting really weird!” She said, dragging him into the nearby cafe.

“Truce, let me go!”

“No! Athena and Klav both made the mistake of letting you go, and you’ll just start running!”

“That’s the point, Trucy!”

“Well, I’m not going to let you go, Polly!”

“...I’m sorry, Truce.”

“What?”

Apollo shoves her off him and bolts out of the cafe.

“Polly! Come back!” Trucy screams from the floor.

I should have known that they were all goddamn liars.

Apollo took his bracelet off and threw it into his pocket. His body was so tense, it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t tell him whether or not someone was lying. He sat on a curb… somewhere in the city. He doesn’t know where he is. Tokyo’s a big city. What are the chances that they’ll find him here?

If possible… please… try not to embarrass me.

Kristoph motherfucking Gavin. Even from a goddamn prison cell, he wouldn’t leave Apollo alone.

Et tu, Justice?

“I’m sorry…”

How could you betray your mentor like this?

“I’m sorry.”

You’re just a disappointment.

“I’m sorry!”

The voice in his head changed to Phoenix’s.

I should never have offered you a job.

“D-Dad…”

Without your bracelet, you’re useless to me.

“I’m so sorry…”

Ha, I was “grateful” for Clay telling you to take the job? I “wouldn’t have my beautiful son” without him? I can’t believe you fell for that. You’re supposed to detect lies.

“I just… felt so happy… even though I left you…”

That’s right, Apollo. You left me. You left your siblings. You accused Athena of Clay’s murder.

“I didn’t want to believe it!”

You just couldn’t trust her. How could you betray her like this. Betray us?

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…!”

How do I believe that, Apollo?

Apollo felt his vision slowly fade away. Trucy’s voice filled his head.

Just die already! No one would miss you!

Then Athena’s

God, I should just throw you off a bridge.

Dhurke’s comes next

I can’t believe I saved you. I didn’t raise a son who runs away at the slightest inconvenience.

And finally… Klavier’s voice echoes.

You’re a 5’5 nerd with a big forehead. I’m a rockstar who could have any Fraülein that I wanted. I can’t believe that you actually thought that I could love you.

And with that, his vision finally faded to black and he collapsed.

[catcorsair]

Hahahahh this one cracked me right up, Anon. Anyway, this happened…

Enjoy! (Short and sweet! Very mild smut)

––––

Following the Persian about had gradually become something of a hobby, fueled by boredom and a vague if passive curiosity, though if Erik were honest with himself, the obsession had mainly been a response to the man's own odd and oft-aggravating surveillance of The Opera Ghost in his various going ons beneath the Opera. In truth––besides killing him outright––Erik really didn't know how to express his annoyance at his old friend by any other means than, well... simply annoying him in kind.

Today Erik had followed his feet quite without realizing where they had taken him, thoughtlessly accompanying the old Daroga through the bowels of the Garnier and well beyond, through the summer market in the Bois where he (very-mundanely) purchased a chicken, two heads of asparagus, and four! macarons, then on a leisurely stroll through the first floor public gallery of the Louvre. Now, ingloriously crouching at a dirty window in a lonely alleyway off the Rue St. Honore, Erik held back a dingy curtain and studiously stared as the well-built-if-aging man trimmed his beard in his steamy bathroom mirror. After preparing and placing the chicken in the oven, the old Daroga had long-ago undressed, carefully hanging his dress shirt and his trousers in the modest apartment's solitary wardrobe and wrapping himself in a long white towel.

Nothing exciting, Erik knew; he really ought to go…Christine Daae would be performing tonight, after all!

And yet.

The old Daroga was far more interesting to look at without his clothing on than he had been with. He had the body of a man far younger than his deeply-lined face would suggest; despite the graying curls at the center of his fine, distinguished chest, he possessed a sort of muscular, sinuous thickness––smooth and taut and lean––that Erik found himself unintentionally admiring. As the odd, yet not entirely uncommon tingling beneath his trousers could apparently attest to, the Daroga was certainly a fine specimen of masculinity.

Erik always had an eye for beauty.

As the Persian turned to the tub, letting the towel loosely slung about his hips fall to the cracked terra-cotta tiles, Erik mindlessly drummed the tips of his gloved fingers on the stone windowsill, staring. Between his old friend's shapely legs hung a sizable shaft, sleepily bobbing against the thick curls that clung to his inner thighs; above that, as he bent low to test the temperature of the bathwater on his fingertips, two lush mounds of soft, supple, honey-brown skin, shiny and reddened with steam––

"Daroga, old chap!" Erik mused aloud, as steam crept up the window-glass, obscuring his view of the aging Adonis within, "who knew! A cock like a log––God willing, he hasn't wasted that thing. And an ass like two plump, juicy, chocolate cherries…!"

He released the curtain, allowing the gauzy fabric to ease back into place and chewed at his twisted lower lip. He was suddenly ravenous: he really ought to stop at the sweet shop on his way back home, or risk succumbing to an all-together more desirous craving…

Little Christine Daae could wait. Her young man would surely be in the wings to admire her anyway––rendering his own angelic praise unfortunately redundant––and Erik hardly needed to spend yet another night surreptitiously crying in a darkened restaurant window as he watched his beloved protege be wooed into bed by a gorgeous, if alarmingly doltish, complete and utter fop.

But perhaps it was a good evening to pay a visit to his old friend, after all!

And this time––in the flesh!

––––

I KNOW GUYS, PHAROGA!!! Stay tuned, I have three or four more of these I wrote over the weekend that I just need to take a second and upload, but more smut is on the way.

Feel free to keep sending me prompts y’all! I’m too stressed to work on anything I am supposed to (the virus is pretty bad where I live) and I’ll likely keep slowly plodding along with these (not in any order though, I’m sorry!) for the bulk of the quarantine, or until the baby is born! :)

-Cat

PS! I’ve been slowly compiling some of these short smutty prompts in a collection on Ao3 called Far Too Many Notes for My Taste, if you are interested in keeping track of them.

[achenne64]

#Are those vampire eyes? #What a gorgeous young fop #I’m thinking after he became a vampire, he commissioned Armand to paint his portrait

Lestat de Lioncourt x

[badassindistress]

Clothes Make the Man

Claquesous&Montparnasse, 1k of Canon era humour

Written for Montsousweek 2019

“This won’t work if you don’t look the part,” Montparnasse says, holding up a light blue waistcoat with a smirk. There are flowers embroidered on it and it is almost offensively bright. Claquesous is certain Montparnasse went to Les Halles expressly to find something Claquesous would hate. Of course it would probably still be deemed conservative by the people this dress-up game is meant to fool. But that is exactly what is supposed to happen. These bourgeois rich boys languishing in imagined poverty are supposed to see an equal who they can induct in their circles of artistic brotherhood.

Tonight there is to be a salon of sorts, given by a son who has bravely rejected his father’s title, but not his money. It is the noble father they’re interested in. Claquesous would prefer to slip into the house in the dark of night, aided by dagger and cosh. But with all these infernal parties everything it too well-lit, too much in the public eye and overrun with witnesses. The Fortescue-Fils is taking every opportunity to exploit Fortescue-Père’s absence, the very thing Montparnasse and Claquesous were told to do. In the Vicomte’s study there are some documents that will be very lucrative indeed. Lucrative enough that Claquesous will allow himself to be helped into the tight trousers of a ridiculous dandy. His mask however, he will not relent on. Nor his hair, which Montparnasse is looking at with a clear desire to reach for some scissors.

“No.” Claquesous said firmly. The clothes he can bear, but he will not have his hair styled like a bourgeois idiot. It doesn’t matter that Claquesous generally stays in the shadows, it doesn’t make a difference that his hooded cloaks and hat  hide his hair from sight. If Montparnasse even looks at a pair of scissors, Claquesous is going for his knives. He eyes his cloak, which is thrown haphazardly over the lone chair in the room. In it, at least five knives of varying sizes are concealed. The ridiculous coat Montparnasse picked out would barely hold two. But even one would be enough to wipe that infuriating smile off of Montparnasse’s face.

“Why can’t you do it,” Claquesous mutters, instead of lunging for his knife and cutting the coat to pieces.

“I’ll be there to keep a lookout, but our gracious host didn’t leave me out of his sight for a single moment last night. I’m afraid he doesn’t like me very much. He’ll never let me wander around unattended, he’s lost to me at cards a few too many times for that.”

Montparnasse looks far too smug about getting one over a fop who’s never had to work a day in his life. Haughty pride looks gorgeous on his well-sculpted face. Claquesous wants nothing more than to punch him in his exquisite jaw.

~*~

In the dark corner just outside the stately apartments, Claquesous takes of his cloak and bundles it up. He takes of his mask regretfully and forces a dumb, trusting smile to grace his face. That will have to do to obscure his identity. No one would guess that the neatly dressed man with his hat in a rakish angle is one and the same as the dreaded Claquesous. He makes his voice booming, just a little too loud, and rounds the corner hailing strangers and known faces alike. He immediately finds the man who invited him, a friend of a friend of their noble host. They exchange jovial greetings and Claquesous allows himself to be steered inside by the arm thrown around his shoulder. He gets introduced to a sea of badly dressed young men who all seem to be trying to outdo each other in artistic idiocy. There is improvised poetry. Claquesous keeps smiling and laughing and wishing he could just slip his knife in between the ribs of M Benet, who is still touching him. No one would even  notice for a while, since the man’s russet coloured waistcoat should perfectly conceal the bloody wound. Finally, finally the man moves out of his space to shout and wave at someone near the door.

Claquesous forces his shoulders to relax and his steps to waver a bit. Time to find his way to the study. Before he can get more than two steps, the buffoon is back, and so is the arm around his shoulders. Claquesous is starting to suspect these parties might not only be for artistic appreciation. That’s certainly something Montparnasse, who did the initial reconnaissance, ought to have told him. But of course Montparnasse was still sore about that time Claquesous tore the button of his coat. This is exactly the kind of petty thing he’d do to get his revenge.

“Now here’s a fellow you absolutely must meet!” shouts Benet, who doesn’t know how close he is to losing his fingers.

“Fortescue dotes on him, calls him the best muse he’s ever had,” his broad grin seems to imply rather a lot more. Claquesous allows himself to be turned to the door and immediately has to stop himself from freezing. There, looking shy and young and terribly innocent, stands Montparnasse.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” says Benet, in a far too audible whisper. The rosy blush on Montparnasse’s face does make him look extraordinarily soft and beautiful. If only Claquesous wasn’t sure its origins lie firmly in his unholy delight at having successfully pulled one over Claquesous.

“Fourier, might I present to you Valois, a fellow patron and admirer of the arts,” Benet looks delighted to be able to arrange this first meeting, of which he clearly has high hopes.

Montparnasse drops his eyes shyly and extends his hands to Claquesous. He mumbles a soft greeting to the air just to the side of Claquesous. He’s playing the shy little flower and he’s got all these people eating from the palm of his hand. There’s nothing Claquesous can do about it now, but he can wait. Unlike some others, he knows the value of patience.

“Delighted to meet you!” Claquesous booms, and grasps Montparnasse’s hand tightly.

Montparnasse shows off his most innocent smile. It loses a little of its softness when Claquesous grips his hand tight enough to grind all the little bones in his hand together. Just a little taste of what’s to come, the moment they’re home again. It gets the message across. Montparnasse will be paying for this little stunt and paying dearly.

[chromoluminous]

also lindy is not butch or femme she is Just Lindy. 

she very much does not subscribe to either label, and finds them, Personally, pigeonholey for her.*

if you Really wanted to give her a label in the presentation-behaviour-subculture regard, the Correctest ones, in order of most to least Correctness, would be ‘garconne,’ in the ‘young woman of the 1920s who rebelled against conventional ideas of ladylike behavior and dress’ sense, or ‘androgyne,’ if you want to call her a word people actually use today ; with ‘fop’ or ‘dandy’ close behind. she is Mayhamps decently masculine and definitely feminine, but she sees herself more in and i believe willingly emulates the overdelicate, sometimes consciously superficial feminine of effeminate [ gay ] men, most notably of the 18th century late-baroque court fashions and 1920s burlesque clubs than ~traditional~ Str8 Woman Feminine or Str8 Dude Masculine. she seems to really like this sort of Dandy Masculinity, with its feminine overlay on top, sort of. this doesn’t mean lindy wants to be a man, or is a man by any stretch just so we’re all on the same page.

she also sees herself in, but feels more of a Deep Kinship to, trouser roles in the opera. as said before in an earlier post lindy’s Gendre is 'opposite of man,’ but her gender, to a certain extent and more accurately, is also ‘trouser role in an opera.’ it’s ‘trouser role in an opera cosying up to a gorgeous lady monarch.’ essentially, lindy’s Looke is ‘dandy foppish masculine,’ with its masculine foundation and femininity layered on top, but also ‘trouser role’, in which people stop for a second to wonder whether or not she’s Really male or Female. 

lindy’s use of makeup and Ladielike demeanour and mannerisms does not make her a femme, but her decision to dress almost exclusively in menswear does not make lindy a butch either. lindy intentionally mixes Gender Symbols primarily through clothing, but also through behaviour ( ie Dykespreading and kissing the backs of women’s hands and bowing to them instead of curtsying in court ~Like A Man~, but possessing the warmth and charm and Outward Appearance of a ~Woman~, ) so she is not Explicitly categorised as either one.

peep the first third of the wardrobe section on her pinterest board for a clearer example of what i’m saying re clothing.

is her official title ‘lady?’ yes. is she feminine? sure. is she masculine? to a certain extent. is she gnc? through and through. 

lady evaline falbury, called lindy, she / her, gnc lesbian. 

*not to say, of course, that butch / femme as a whole is pigeonholey in any sense: I Myself am a femme writing several butches and femmes i’m the LAST person to call my Own Subculture restrictive. but lindy has tried calling herself both labels and she found them to be restrictive. labels you pick for yourself are supposed to be helpful and feel natural and you shouldn’t feel pressured into the behaviour accompanying it. so butch / femme wasn’t for her. 

[gatissed]

“She had the gorgeous young fop murder her husband.” Louis : “How do you know?” Lestat : “Read her thoughts.” Louis : “I can't.” Lestat : “The dark gift is different for each of us. But one thing is true for us all, we grow stronger as we go ...”

- Anne Rice {Interview with the Vampire}

[musicoccurred]

Kamasi Washington

Who: Kamasi Washington Where: Saturn Birmingham When: December 5, 2017

*Note* This is a guest post by MO friend and frequent contributor Brett Lass.

The suit feels heavier today than it did when I was in training. I am watching with abstracted vision the pre launch software flicker and display code on the many tiny monitors of the cockpit as I bring the visor down over my face. An aural vibration fills the cabin and remains constant underneath the other automated clicking and whirring noises. The computer does everything nowadays, I just sit here like an “L” lying on its back suspended in air and strapped into a metal phallus with wings and thrusters and a body full of foam and circuitry pointing towards the clear blue sky, ready to penetrate the atmosphere. The hiss of ignition beginning followed by multiple ascending, high-frequency pitches. The comms crackle, a countdown through the static. We leave the ground with rattling speed. I close my eyes and grip the armrests and say a little wordless prayer in my head. Tense with excitement and anxiety as the boosters roar, it is as if there are hands on me, pulling the skin of my face back and pushing down onto my stomach. Through one meekly lifted eyelid, I watch the blue sky slowly fade to black. Once again, we endeavor towards the stars, we are supersonic, and I swear to God, I hear the sound of a tenor saxophone warming up.

An intriguing, oft echoed remark about the sax man from Los Angeles is that he is not here to save jazz or bring back jazz, but rather that he exists as a musical anomaly, or to put it another way, he is a spiritual and melodic force all his own. Take a look at any photograph of Kamasi Washington away from the stage lights and there is a certain kind of reverence that hangs over him that I assume he must be at least slightly aware of. Case in point: his meditative posture, the ceremonial dashiki, and the way he seems to hold his saxophone the same way one would hold, say, a ritualistic cane; resting it against the body and slightly over the shoulder. His Coltrane-influenced sound has drawn comparisons to “A Love Supreme,” an album considered John Coltrane's masterpiece that merged spirituality with jazz. Whilst the themes of spirituality as it pertains to religion is not as much on display in Mr. Washington's work as they are in “A Love Supreme,” it still can be easy to link his music to more spiritual themes as he spent parts of his childhood playing saxophone in a gospel band, so one still gets the impression that there is a lot of soul and deep meaning behind works like “The Epic” and “Harmony of Difference.” I personally discovered Kamasi Washington when I heard the beautifully smooth arrangements underneath Kendrick Lamar's lyrics on “To Pimp a Butterfly.” I'm not sure I've ever felt as emotionally conflicted about a song as I did when I first heard the fifth track on “T.P.a.B.” called “u.” In it, Kendrick is shouting and repeating the words “loving you is complicated” over a gorgeous, subtle saxophone sweetly crooning in the background before the song shifts and then Kendrick performs as a person in a drunken, bitter state condemning someone and running down a list of all of the disappointments and unforgivable betrayals that that person has committed, again with Kamasi's sax underneath. It is a serious, deeply cutting song, yet also absolutely beautiful. That album really opened up a new world to me in many ways, and one of those avenues introduced me to artists like Flying Lotus, Thundercat, Vince Staples, Frank Ocean, and, of course, Kamasi Washington. In May of 2015, Mr. Washington released his first album, “The Epic.” If you'll indulge your humble writer for second, let me ask you a rhetorical question. If you were going to release your first album to the world, would you ever in a million years think it should be a dense, 3-hour long, triple disc album? Because that's exactly what “The Epic” is, and it is a genius piece of work. The fact that I'm a neurotic fop aside, I don't think I would ever have the chutzpah to put together something so long form and bold for my first album, even if I was already well steeped in jazz music, raised in a large, musical family, and had the honor of working with artists like Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock, and the experience of arranging music for a multitude of other artists like Mr. Washington had done at the point that he recorded and released “The Epic.” It is an exquisite, lengthy album that should definitely pass through your ears at some point in your life. With his next full length album expected to drop in 2018, he released the “Harmony of Difference” EP back in September of this year and it is a promising listen of things to come.

The packed house at Saturn was a wonderful sight to see. I was uncertain what kind of draw a jazz band would pull in Birmingham, especially one taking place in the Avondale neighborhood. Kudos to the Saturn and Seasick Records marketing departments for doing a really good job advertising this show. I recall seeing videos and posts on social media for months in advance so clearly they were just as hyped for the show as the throng of people who came out this evening were. The audience itself was impressively diverse, normally I don't really care about the demographic an artist draws, but it was hard to ignore the fact that there was an interesting mingling of people who attended the show who were either young or college aged or older folks in the 40+, 50+ range.

Los Angeles based trio (plus touring drummer) Moonchild opened the show, they had a pretty nice sub sect of fans in the crowd who were familiar with their songs. I had actually never heard their work prior to tonight. They reminded me a lot of bands like Hooverphonic and Morcheeba, but with an additionally jazzy twist. In my research I found that their influences contained acts such as J Dilla and Flying Lotus, which when I think back to their set I could hear a little bit of Dilla and Fly Lo in their music. Amber Navran was very expressive on stage as she sang and danced between two keyboard players (Max Bryk and Andris Mattson). One of the cooler parts of their set would be when the trio switched away from the synthesizers and vocals over to the brass section, Amber and Max on saxophones, Andris on the trumpet. As if that were not enough, they also showcased their talents in the woodwind section on a song with Amber on the flute and Max on the clarinet. Their sound was smooth and soulful, easy listening to bob your head along to. Moonchild were definitely up to the task of bringing the chill vibes, so now that we were all nice and relaxed, it was time for us to put our tray tables up, stow away our carry ons, leave our problems at the door, and prepare for our epic journey.

“You guys ready to blast off?”

Out stepped Kamasi Washington and his band, which included two drummers, Tony Austin and another person I will cover in just a moment, the sweet harmonies of Ms. Patrice Quinn, Brandon Coleman on keys and wearing a gigantic cat head that I presume he found on the costume rack located in the Saturn backstage area, trombone player Ryan Porter, and Mr. Washington's father, THE Mr. Washington (a.k.a. Rickey Washington) on soprano sax and who was also decked out in some very colorful ceremonial garb alongside his son who sported a half black, half one quarter green and white polka-dotted and one quarter black and yellow striped dashiki. I couldn't tell if it was him because he came out wearing a mask at first, but Ronald-freaking-Bruner Jr. was at the helm of one of the drum kits on stage. I could easily devote a good page or so to how much I love his drumming on “The Epic,” and his work with his brother Stephen Bruner (a.k.a. Thundercat), and his debut album that dropped in early 2017, “Triumph.” (Forgetful writer's note: I cannot recall the bass player's name who was filling in for Miles Mosely and for some weird reason I did not make note of it. Googled my butt off, but alas could not track down his name. Apologies.) As we took off from Terra, the band opened their set with the aptly titled “Change of the Guard” showcasing the band's talents one by one in a steady build up before Kamasi Washington approached his spot at the center of the stage and unleashed the fury with his tenor sax. A little later in the set we were treated to a jazz rendition of “Little Boy Blue,” which was a cover of sorts off of an album titled “Spangle-Lang Lane” and whose tracks are comprised of jazz-ified compositions of old lullabies that was released this year by trombone player, Ryan Porter. At the midway point of the set, Mr. Washington tells us a story about how himself and Ronald Bruner Jr. met way back when he was 3 and the future drum virtuoso was just a 1 year old and was already killing it on the drums, upstaging a young Kamasi at his own birthday party. As a kind of intermission, Tony Austin and Ronald Bruner decided to have a conversation with each other, using only their drum kits as a means of speaking. It was a gorgeous improvisation between the two drummers with their respective styles weaving in and out of each other for a good 5 minute “conversation” before breaking off into dueling drum solos. If you couldn't catch this live at the show, definitely check out some of the uploads on YouTube, well worth the time. Sadly, our journey above the atmosphere could not last forever. The set clocked in somewhere around two hours and change, and it really did not feel like that long of a show, and this was a weeknight after a long day at work plus I was suffering from a bad sinus cold, I don't know where I got the energy from (for argument's sake, let's just say it was the power of music). I seriously cannot recall a show that I have been to where I did not stop moving my feet and bobbing my head along to the music on display. This was easily one of the best shows I've ever seen. It ticked all of the boxes as far as what I would consider something near perfect in a live performance; a tight as hell set, a star studded lineup, good interactions with the crowd, and, especially, bringing it even though you're not in a bigger city. Also, I must reiterate how great it was to see such a large crowd show up for Kamasi Washington. Birmingham needs to bring more artists like this to town so they can gain further exposure and raise the profile of the city as a place that welcomes more than just the 44th coming out of retirement tour of Garth Brooks, not to mention to also expose a city on the rise like Birmingham to a more eclectic mix of talents. For the time being though, it was great to have a chance to see the stars with Kamasi and his band but I suppose it is now time for me to touchback down to earth. It's lonely out in space, anyway.