#THAT FRAME IS TRULY A BAROQUE PAINTING

[willestears]

Once again thinking about the masquerade ball in young royals and how it is truly a master class in cinematography. Every frame looks like a real life baroque painting.

[anawrites3]

There was a leopard staring him down. Eyes round and unnerving, maw wet with hunger. Its body looming, spotted, and tightly wound into a hunter’s bow. There was something jarringly familiar about the creature before Dick. He had met this beast in the eye many, many times.

The RISD Museum was hosting quite the unique exposition that season. The theme was Innocence is Violence. And the museum’s broad collection of Guillermo Lorca paintings seized Dick by the throat in a way so honest, so cruel. The observation room, or the Blue Room as Damian referred to it as, was plagued by Lorca’s work. They hung on golden frames – bright, high, and brutal against the milky hue of the walls.

Dick was enamoured with every tragic stroke of paint. How the composition drew on paranoia and dread. The imagery was bloody, and the animals were often carnivorous and praying on the naivety of some lost looking child. And if that was not the case, there was always some sort of sad dying creating at the feet of an infant. Where there was baroque, there was surrealism. Where there was blood, there was a smile. And where there was a weeping wound, there were dripping teeth.

The English Bed.

He tasted the painting’s name, trying to make sense of it. Dick was never one for art. The meanings were often lost on him, or the piece itself did not intrigue him to a point where he wanted to appreciate their substance. But the artwork before the man, the one that struck him with this odd feeling of knowing and being known, did more than interest him.

There was a bed, a leopard, and a little girl.

And then there was Dick, questioning where he fit in this equation.

Was he, the viewer, the hero in this situation? Was he the one meant to save the child before the wild beast above could taste more of her? What if he was anything but the hero? What if the leopard was there, hungry and crouched for him? The child, wrapped in a nighty as white as she was young, was meekly looking and peering up from the bed. There was the impression that the girl had been thrown on the English bed, with how unnatural her body seemed positioned. With how still figures in the painting were angled, and the dimensions of the frame levelling at the spectator’s hip, it was clear who was truly preying on the child.

Maybe, there was no third piece to this puzzle. Maybe, there was only one chilling question to be answered.

The predator or the prey?

The child or the leopard?

Whose eyes did you find your reflection in?

“The leopard.”

“What?”

Slade arched an eyebrow at him, seemingly confused.

“Do you like the leopard, kid?” His husband repeated, and worry wrote in the deep curve of Slade’s frown. “You’ve been looking at it for a while now.”

Dick blinked away whatever bewitchment The English Bed had put him under.

“Yeah,” Dick said, “I love it.”

“Baba,” Damian chirped from the heights of Slade’s shoulders. It was his favourite perch to take when they went on family trips to the museum. “This is Guillermo Lorca. He won the National Prize for Visual Arts. I want to win the National Prize for Visual Arts, too.”

Dick smiled, “really, baba?”

“Yes, really. But not right now.” His son signed. “Because right now I am small, and I only like to paint the flowers in our garden.”

Slade peered up at Damian, and Damian, feeling his father’s shift in position, stared down back at him. “Who said you're too young to win the damn award now? your flower paintings are great.”

“But father,” The boy stressed. “You can’t win the National Prize for Visual Arts with just flowers.”

Slade simply shrugged, and Damian giggled as he went up and down like a yoyo. Like his spouse, Slade didn’t care for the realm of fine arts much. What they both cared greatly for, however, was their son having a strong sense of confidence and the knowledge that his fathers supported his interests in life.

“I think you could.” Slade concluded.

They drifted from painting to painting until the Wilsons had had their fill of the Blue Room and took to exploring the rest of Rhode Island’s Museum of Arts. Damian sprung at every opportunity there was to tell his parents all about the different art movements and techniques one could use, and which out of all of them he preferred. But soon it was getting too late in the day to continue to walk the stretch of the museum, and Slade was hinting at lunch.

There was a tradition for the Wilsons to set up a picnic after a day spent at the museum. Typically, they walk to the park closest to them, and find a sunlit spot on the grass to lay out a chequered cloth and enjoy the warm afternoon. Winter was creeping closer however, and that meant wet grounds and thick wool coats. So, instead of trotting off to a muddy park, Slade had the idea that they should drive home and remodel the sunroom. And while Damian was a stickler for tradition, that had the boy chirping and pulling at his father’s collar, asking if they could leave now and ready the room for their picnic. They were driving home before Dick could enquire what his husband meant by remodel.

Slade Wilson had a money problem. Or rather, he had a problem with how much money he wanted. There never seemed to be a particular number that satisfied his monetary thirst.

Dick had only ever asked once how much of Slade’s finances he was burning through. It was a question he had been nervous to ask months after Slade had surprised him with a house. Their house. A house with five bedrooms, a spacious backyard, and a kitchen so grand it made Dick feel as though he was on a cooking show every time he boiled a pot of water.

See the house I bought you, kid? If you don’t like something about it, say the curtains for example, I’ll burn down the damn block and buy you another one. But with better curtains, of course. So, don’t worry about the finances. Worry about filling up your new house with pretty things. You little birds are good at that.

After a few years, Dick learnt how to bite his tongue and laze around his big house in Burberry sweaters and Hermès Go Mules.

When the family found themselves at home, Slade was quick to take charge of the situation. Rearranging the chairs, coffee table and plants to open a space in the centre of the room for them to lay their things down. Dick made sure that everything soft and warm was strewed tastefully across the picnic blanket before chasing after Damian to the kitchen. His son had a big heart, always wanting to help where he could. But Damian also had little hands and the tendency to carry too many things at once. Dick stressed over the possibility of what a smashed plate could do to a child’s barefoot. Slade was still pondering on where to put all his husband’s plants.

Eventually the food appeared, and everything settled. Damian was sipping on a honey and lemon tea, snuggled next to him was his dear Titus. Damian’s plate carried the carcass of a whole dragon fruit and the shells of lychees. The boy had a good appetite even if refused to eat the crusts of his sandwich. Dick pretended to not see how his son would slip the family dog whatever sandwich scraps he didn’t want. Instead, the acrobat kept his eyes low to focus on tracing a finger along the sharpness of his husband’s jaw. Slade had eaten his fill before lounging himself across Dick’s lap like a housecat. The weight of him alone was nearly crushing, but there was a certain charm of having the world’s greatest mercenary idle before you.

The doorbell tolled and the sleepiness that snuck over the family was broken.

“I’ll go get the door.” Damian said, putting his teacup down and detangling himself from the sheets. He called Titus to his side and ran off into the house without another word.

Dick went to follow, unease causing his limbs to tense and for his words to become stuck in his throat. He didn’t like Damian being out of his sight for too long these days, especially in the case where he was answering the door. Before he could properly get up to shadow Damian, Slade, who was once a lazy house pet in his lap, saw the opportunity he needed in order to pin Dick beneath him.

Slade stole his attention with a simple kiss. It was sweetened by the honeydew he had eaten earlier, but Dick could taste the command between teeth and tongue nonetheless.

Stay.

_____

Heyyyyyy Ana! Happy new year.

I'd like to ask for some guidance for a Dick x Slade fic im writing. I'm struggling with getting the family vibe that i want from this section of the fic, it just feels flat to me and I was hoping that a fresh and experienced set of eyes could help either tell me where I'm going wrong or that it's fine and I'm over stressing.

Thank you I really appreciate it!

Hi! Happy new year!! 💕 I'm very flattered, I hope I'll be able to help you out!

First of all - it's a very good fragment, I liked it a lot! The way you're desribing the painting sets an amazing mood through the story, with Dick contemplating about its meaning.

And I know you asked about the vibe, I'll get to that in a second but lemme just point out something I noticed - in the first paragraph you wrote "He had met this beast in the eye many, many times.", I believe you meant here "looked" or its synonym. Also, I'm not expert in Arabic but I know that 'baba' means 'dad' so Damian calling that Dick is alright but Dick saying it back to him doesn't make much sense to me.

And finally the family vibe! Well... that really depends on just what kind of family vibe you're looking for exactly because if you mean more of a domestic kinda thing it's not really it because the painting you chose doesn't give you that carefree setting you need for a domestic vibe. But maybe I'm understanding that wrong and you're asking just for a more general family then yeah, it's already great and I don't think you need to change anything!! It shows that they're close, that Slade cares for them both, with assuring Damian he could win the award even at this age and finding a way to picnic when it's cold outside, even if sometimes he does it in a weird way with his telling Dick that he'd burn the house if he doesnt like something.

The only thing that's a little bugging me is the way Slade doesnt allow Dick to go after Damian, when Dick is clearly distressed about letting Dami go answer the door alone. If they're close, Slade should know that Dick "didn’t like Damian being out of his sight for too long these days," and he wouldn't pin Dick down to stop him from following Damian. Unless Slade knows who's at the door but still, I'd add something there like Slade saying "Don't worry" or "It's okay" to show Dick that he has the situation under control and Dick doesn't need to worry.

(Also. This paragraph; "Slade stole his attention with a simple kiss. It was sweetened by the honeydew he had eaten earlier, but Dick could taste the command between teeth and tongue nonetheless." It's so freaking good!! I love it so much!)

So yeah, I hope that helped, even just a little bit? It definitely doesn't feel flat to me, I think it's very well written! I'd love to read it when you finish and decide to post it 💕

[zeroducks-2]

There was a leopard staring him down. Eyes round and unnerving, maw wet with hunger. Its body looming, spotted, and tightly wound into a hunter’s bow. There was something jarringly familiar about the creature before Dick. He had met this beast in the eye many, many times.

The RISD Museum was hosting quite the unique exposition that season. The theme was Innocence is Violence. And the museum’s broad collection of Guillermo Lorca paintings seized Dick by the throat in a way so honest, so cruel. The observation room, or the Blue Room as Damian referred to it as, was plagued by Lorca’s work. They hung on golden frames – bright, high, and brutal against the milky hue of the walls.

Dick was enamoured with every tragic stroke of paint. How the composition drew on paranoia and dread. The imagery was bloody, and the animals were often carnivorous and praying on the naivety of some lost looking child. And if that was not the case, there was always some sort of sad dying creating at the feet of an infant. Where there was baroque, there was surrealism. Where there was blood, there was a smile. And where there was a weeping wound, there were dripping teeth.

The English Bed.

He tasted the painting’s name, trying to make sense of it. Dick was never one for art. The meanings were often lost on him, or the piece itself did not intrigue him to a point where he wanted to appreciate their substance. But the artwork before the man, the one that struck him with this odd feeling of knowing and being known, did more than interest him.

There was a bed, a leopard, and a little girl.

And then there was Dick, questioning where he fitted in this equation.

Was he, the viewer, the hero in this situation? Was he the one meant to save the child before the wild beast above could taste more of her? What if he was anything but the hero? What if the leopard was there, hungry and crouched for him? The child, wrapped in a nighty as white as she was young, was meekly looking and peering up from the bed. There was the impression that the girl had been thrown on the English bed, with how unnatural her body seemed positioned. With how still figures in the painting were angled, and the dimensions of the frame levelling at the spectator’s hip, it was clear who was truly preying on the child.

Maybe, there was no third piece to this puzzle. Maybe, there was only one chilling question to be answered.

The predator or the prey?

The child or the leopard?

Whose eyes did you find your reflection in?

“The leopard.”

“What?”

Slade arched an eyebrow at him, seemingly confused.

“Do you like the leopard, kid?” His husband repeated, and worry wrote in the deep curve of Slade’s frown. “You’ve been looking at it for a while now.”

Dick blinked away whatever bewitchment The English Bed had put him under.

“Yeah,” Dick said, “I love it.”

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

Do i keep this in my fic? or is it too confusing and/or overwritten?

please help :')

As it often happens, it depends!

I don't find it either confusing or overwritten. It's an introspection which gives some (albeit not crystal clear) insights on Dick's personality through the way he's fascinated by The English Bed, and it's well done. I assume he's projecting his feelings for Slade (and Slade's feelings for him in return) into the emotions the painting causes him.

Does it fit the overarching theme of the fic? Will it be picked up later as metaphor for their relationship? Will it be part of Dick's character development, either in a practical or purely symbolic way? Will it be used even just as a prop for a specific conversation to happen? If the answer to one or more of these is yes, then yeah, absolutely keep it!

I would advise against keeping it in case it's just fluff (fluff as in, something inconsequential which is there just to fill a gap) because it would detract from the rest of the story. It's pretty intense and it seems to mean a lot for Dick even just from this small paragraph, so if it doesn't serve any purpose except kind of just being there, I'd cut it.

[onceuponanaromantic]

The House Always Wins

(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial​‘s prompt: Comedian’s Night! Enjoy!)

There’s a party at the end of the world where nothing is real and everything is beautiful.

 And everybody, absolutely everybody, is invited.

 The light alights on you as soon as you step in, and you’re cloaked in starlight. You wear whatever you please, as much or as little as you like. By the time you get to the ballroom, you’ll have encountered ballgowns and sundresses and saris and cheongsams in the finest silks with the shortest hems, and men in all manner of suit and shimmering coats. The ballroom is awash in light, despite the hour, the chandelier twirling overhead and the laughter effervescent.

 The corridors twist like smoke, revealing all manner of secrets at every corner and all manner of delight at every turn. There are paintings all along the walls and the paintings are always changing, though you would never know. They all share the same gilded frames after all, and nobody spends time to stare at paintings when there is music the next door down. The music is always playing, and everyone will tell you how pleasing it is.

 “This is definitely a baroque.”

“No, that’s a Romantic chord. That’s a waltz.”

 Everyone disagrees, but they’re always right anyway.

 There are no rules, you can kiss whoever you like, say whatever you like. There’s a gambling room even, lush red carpet all over the walls and the cling of a win chiming every other minute.

 But the house always wins, obviously. But we all knew that.

 The walls are always turning, and you will never see the same person twice at the party. The candles are always glittering and no footsteps will ever stain the cashmere carpets shadow black.

 There are no staff, and there are staff everywhere. A man everyone insists they’ve heard a friend of a friend once met insisted that he had been met by a hostess with long hair dyed blonde, who giggled at every comment he made and insisted he must be a comedian. No one agrees on what the hostess looks like, whether she has long blonde hair or short curly brown, whether she’s even a woman or if it’s a man in a fine suit and a owl mask, but everyone knows someone who has met the hostess.

 She always smiles and insists you enjoy your night.

 (They say, there are people who have never been found after attending the party. But everyone knows someone like that.)

 The windows spill night air in, smelling faintly of childhood memories and joy. Ivy and roses twirl on their grilles, keeping the mosquitos out and the patrons in. The clocks chime prettily every so often, but the night never ends.

 It truly never does, with all the excitement.

 The hotel must have had an owner once, before it became a house. No one’s ever met the owner, but everyone knows there’s always a party there once the sun has set. It’s so well-maintained, never anything like plumbing issues or blood on the bathroom floors.

 The house wouldn’t be crass like that, of course.

 The night is beautiful, of course. Nobody knows how it is, except that it must somehow be magic. The lights are always on, the fairy lights dancing around the corridors in corners that might conceivably be called dim compared to the rest of the house. There is always an eerie sense of laughter, always that sense of stumbling hazily from one room to the next, down corridors covered in the most magnificent carpets with strange oriental patterns and falling on a bed with the softest sheets. There’s always some soft tune even when you swear you’ve closed your door and someone just beyond the doorway.

 The house sings you to sleep, flutes and violins crooning you a little night time music for all the joy you’ve had. You drowse, makeup just warm enough to flush and the alcohol enough to paint everything in charcoal and watercolour, and then you close your eyes once, revelling in the celebration that nobody knows the reason for.

 And you never open them again.

 There’s no such thing as a haunted house these days. There’s no need for all the wailing and the slamming windows and doors or eerie shadows in strange places and cobwebs. There’s no need for ghosts and fury. The house remembers when it was first setting out and tried a video game arcade. It was good, of course, and it got its first taste there.

 Then, it realised the power of memories of a golden age. Memories that everyone has, of good old days when everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. It listened, to ballrooms and music, and learned from paintings and statues. It learned how to create dreams so sweet people didn’t want to wake in the first place.

 It wasn’t going to leave any ghosts, of course. Ghosts were easy enough to consume when you had already gotten the body and the mind.

 It didn’t take them all, of course. When the dawn light came, it gently opened doorways into gardens and driveways and tiny little apartments covered in water stains and fast food grease.

 You always need people to come back, after all. It’s not horrifying if it’s beautiful. It doesn’t matter how it’s beautiful as long as it is.

 So people wake, and they smile and they say,

 “There’s a party at the end of the world where nothing is real and everything is beautiful.

 And everybody, absolutely everybody, is invited.”

 And the house, despite not having a mouth, smiles.

[duxiaomin-blog]

The Status of French-Chinoiserie

French-Chinoiserie, as a fusion of Eastern and Western cultures, has become a cultural bridge connecting two worlds. It not only facilitates profound cultural exchanges between France and China but also serves as an example for the integration of diverse civilizations worldwide. The collision of two distinctly different cultures engages in a dialogue across time and space. The romance of France and the ancient history of China, in this unique amalgamation, create a new aesthetic that is both ancient and trendy. The rise of French-Chinoiserie is not just a fashion trend but a resonance of civilizations, a profound manifestation of the interchange between Eastern and Western cultures. In this cultural feast, people witness not only the birth of art but also perceive the profound connotations of cultural heritage.

The dialogue between culture and art began in the late Baroque period, primarily among the court nobility. Whether it was Louis XIV appearing in Chinese attire on the 'Eight-Lift Sedan' at the New Year's feast in the Palace of Versailles in 1700, the construction of the Trianon de Porcelain in France, or the creation of the Porcelain Cabinet in Schloss Charlottenburg, Berlin, completed in the late 17th century, all these instances substantiate the introduction of Chinese influence into European court culture by the late 17th century. Particularly, they underscore the unique charm of the Chinese blue-and-white porcelain among various exotic imports from China.

What truly propelled the French Chinoiserie into the pinnacle of artistic trends was the mid-18th century in France and throughout Europe. During this period, the prevalence of the Chinese aesthetic indirectly gave rise to the Rococo style. As people sought an escape from the solemn, symmetrical, and overwhelming nature of the Baroque style, artists found immense inspiration in the asymmetrical layouts, luxuriousness, vibrant colors, and decorative motifs of Chinese influence. The convergence of cultural and artistic desires resulted in the emergence of Rococo, characterized by asymmetry, soft pastel colors, delicate ornamentation, flowing curves, and pervasive opulence. The renewed fusion with Chinese elements brought forth a series of uniquely innovative and artistically valuable works.

Jean-Baptiste Pater's "The Chinese Hunt"

The French Chinoiserie, derived from this fusion, remains a top-down influence, often initiated by court artists. In the realm of painting, for instance, Louis XV possessed a piece titled 'The Chinese Hunt,' centered around a Chinese hunting scene. Executed by the court painter Jean-Baptiste Pater, a protégé of the pioneer of French Chinoiserie, Antoine Watteau, the painting epitomizes the Rococo style. Adorned with a gilded frame, it embellished the rooms of Versailles. The composition features lush and delicate figures, with a clear blue sky at the top, distant pagoda-like structures, and vividly contrasting foreground. Notably, a figure resembling a Chinese emperor on the right, carrying a bow and arrow and dressed in luxurious attire, adds a subtle sheen to the scene. Employing Western-style shading, the essence lies in using Chinese exoticism to express the opulent lifestyle of the French court. While the trees and architecture echo Watteau's work, the color palette differs from Boucher's lighter and softer tones. Despite this, the painting's full-bodied composition, vivid depictions of figures and animals, and impeccable interplay of light and shadow render it artistically valuable.

ChuCui Palace Dancing in Clouds Necklace

In the 19th and 20th centuries, although Chinoiserie experienced a decline, classic works continued to emerge. An example is the high-end jewelry brand ChuCui Palace, formerly an Italian jewelry dynasty. Similar to the Western chiaroscuro in Jean-Baptiste Pater's work, ChuCui Palace employs Western jewelry techniques but essentially interprets and enriches three-dimensional aspects of Chinese paintings. Their work, the 'Dancing in Clouds' necklace, employs a classic Chinese asymmetric composition, featuring the symbol and totem of the crane, a traditional Chinese cultural motif. The necklace captures the essence of the crane delicately rearranging its feathers. The crane's neck is abstracted into long lines, with a pointed beak complementing its lush tail feathers, creating a tension between simplicity and complexity, abstraction, and representation. Following the tradition of ink painting, the piece uses Chinese ink colors, highlighting its elegant and pure essence. Depicted through gemstones, the artwork embodies the traditional Chinese expressive technique of capturing the spirit of the object. It expresses the refined elegance of the crane, as revered in Chinese literati art, and echoes the free-flowing ink strokes seen in traditional Chinese ink paintings.

The "Chinese Tea House" (Chinesisches Haus) in Sanssouci Park, Germany

The "Chinese Tea House" (Chinesisches Haus) in Sanssouci Park, built by Frederick the Great from 1755 to 1764, is located approximately 700 meters southwest of the Sanssouci Summer Palace. The pavilion, designed by architect Johann Gottfried Büring, served as an ornamental addition to Frederick's garden. During the peak of Chinoiserie influence across Europe, the architect incorporated the popular Chinese style, blending decorative Rococo elements with Chinese architectural features.

The most distinctive feature of the building's exterior is the gilded sandstone sculptures depicting various Chinese figures (with European facial features). The columns of the pavilion still feature Rococo-style patterned decorations, while golden bells resembling Chinese pagoda ornaments hang from the eaves. At the pinnacle of the tea house sits a Chinese figure wearing a hat and holding an umbrella, a popular motif in the Chinoiserie of the time, also evident in high-altitude Chinese figure murals inside. Dragon imagery appears above the lintels of windows and on golden chandeliers hanging inside. Inspired by Christophe Huet's famous Chinese-style monkey room (La Grande Singerie) in the Château de Chantilly in France, various monkey sculptures and murals adorn the "Chinese Tea House." The palace's color palette is soft and elegant, decorated with gold-scrolling Rococo reliefs, embodying both the luxury, dynamism, and lightness of Rococo style, as well as the exotic charm of Chinese-themed figures. Cleverly, the high murals feature railings, allowing various Chinese figures to gaze downward. One can imagine that during a royal banquet, the Chinese figures in the paintings and the European nobility in reality exchange glances, creating an amusing and truly artistic and cultural fusion in the pinnacle banquet of Chinoiserie.

Just as in modern society, the profound and extensive influence of Western civilization on Eastern civilization and art is reflected in the enchanting world of Chinoiserie. In the realm of French Chinoiserie, the lasting and widespread artistic trend from top to bottom has seen the aesthetic influence of both East and West in Europe. From the artist's brush strokes and the exquisite craftsmanship of jewelry to the distinctive charm of royal palaces, the prevalence of Chinoiserie represents not only a collision of cultures but also a grand feast of East-West cultural integration. It allows people to feel the profound heritage of civilization in the ocean of art. French Chinoiserie, like a bridge between cultures and art, tightly connects the Far East with France and Europe. In this journey of circulating civilizations, people witness the mutual blending of the mysterious charm of the East and the romantic sentiments of the West, creating a splendid moment in the unique trend of French Chinoiserie. This distinctive fashion trend is not just a retrospective of history but also a legacy of civilization, leaving an eternal mark on human artistic creation.

[bslack12]

Art, Art, Art, and Sports

The past two days have been probably been the most art I have consumed in that short of a period in my lifetime. Yet, despite my existence currently inhabiting Paris, this segment of time does not feature the Louvre or the Musée d'Orsay. It also does not only include happy stories and enjoyment.

Upon my first viewing of the itinerary, I knew that the class components of this stretch would be my least favorite of the trip, and it was not even close. Not only were the plans going against my preferred taste in art, but it included my participation in making said art, an anxiety inducing trigger in me that takes on of the top spots on that list. I have never been good at art and have always been told that, so I have always steered away from that field. I do not like to do things in which I know will fail, as the aversion to anything but success is what guides my life. Furthermore, I feel like there is a block in my brain when it comes to creative things; it truly feels like there is nothing clicking, a feeling which I never get anywhere else and is quite scary as much as it is annoying.

Nevertheless, when in Paris, right?

I actually consider myself quite lucky to have found a program in my favorite city and country in the world that is so geared towards my interest that I am all in for 90% of the course. So, I sucked it up and was going to make the best out of this stretch. Sunday morning started with a trip over to Saint Sulpice to take in my first mass, which happened to be in French. It was an amazing building and a beautiful service. I was able to pick up bits and pieces and connected the leftovers that did not get scratched during the reformation to what I experience back home in the United Methodist Church. It was also cool to complete another part of my unofficial Da Vinci Code hunt, finding what I assume was the inspiration for the "Rose Line" in the church. (I added another stop this morning, finding one of the Paris Meridian markers at the Louvre.)

It was then time to head over to the Atelier des Lumières for the immersive art exhibit. While I enjoyed the shows for a little bit, I was not captivated in the same way that I have been in other places. First of all, the exhibits were a little to modern for my taste in art that centers in Baroque, Classical and Romantic periods. I also just felt that, if I am viewing art in Paris, it should be firsthand, not a light projection of a painting somewhere else. However, it was much better than I thought when I first read the itinerary and the way that we were immersed in the art was way more my speed than when I though I was going to have to make something.

To continue the theme, though, we headed over to the Petit Palais to view the works housed there. This wasn't initially on my big to-do, but it was something I just stumbled on during the Bastille Day all nighter, as I saw that their collection was free admission and was connected with Beaux-Arts. I would have to say that my favorite spot there was Dutch/Flemish painters and their Baroque landscapes/still life, as I had not really seen much from this time in the other places that we went. I really enjoy how this type of art manipulates the light by darkening things out and drawing the viewer the the subject of the painting. I was also really drawn to a David piece, The Death of Seneca. The was it was positioned in the gallery was such that the painting was almost divided into two, with the glare cancelling out the other half of the frame. It added another dimension in the division between the men and the women, who were already separated by the emotions they were exuding as well as the meridian of the canvas.

The day ended with an interruption to the theme of art, although I would argue that the purity of sport and the grace in which athletes perform can be its own category of art. The Para Athletics World Championships have been in town all week and as it is the only live event of note happening in the city during my stay, it felt my duty to attend for a night. It it quite impressive to watch the para athletes perform, as they push past physical, mental, and financial boundaries to pursue competition at the highest level. It was also nice to see the event treated as any other sporting event would, not being othered because the athletes are handicapped. My favorite event had to be the universal relay, where runners from four different classes come together to run a lap.

Moving over to today, I had another early start. After waking at 7 and immediately getting ready, I headed down to the Louvre to complete my aforementioned Da Vinci Code stop, grab a quick croissant and tea, and stroll through the Tuileries before reaching the objective of the morning, La Musée de l'Orangerie. Since hearing about it on our first day in Paris, I was determined to make it here and see Monet's Water Lillies. So, I rose early and arrived at the museum when it opened. I did not realize it was so important to pre-book here, but it was not a problem as I did not have to queue for more than 5 minutes. Once I was inside the room designed specifically for the masterpiece, I was stunned by how massive they were. For some reason, I had not realized how grand the canvases were. It strikes you immediately and does not allow for any view of the room, or a singular painting, to be the same. I really enjoyed just sitting and strolling through, working my way around the 8 panels and enjoying their beauty, from close and afar. I was probably down there for over 45 minutes and it was wonderful. I made my way through the other halls of the museum, but there was not much else that was in my area of enjoyment and it was close to time to leave for Bercy anyways.

This was where my own personal hell would come to life. I would enjoy and learn about the arts all day, every day, but I usually draw a firm line on doing it myself. My mind is moving too fast to slow down and translate anything from my head into existence. Yet, I still had to sit down and do it so I gritted my teeth and tried my best. The act of spray painting itself was somewhat enjoyable but it was very frustrating not having the physical ability to replicate the quality of the examples and the work of my peers. I was very much on edge during this, especially when I had to contribute to something that I knew everyone else cared a lot more about than me. I tried my best to slow down and not rage out, but I was mentally exhausted by the end of it.

To try and work myself down, I went over to the Hôtel de Ville to finally see the Olympic Rings before a leisurly walk along around L'Île de la Cité, beside the quais of the Seine, and down Boulevard Saint Michel to Maison des Mines, where I was feeling more of myself upon my return.

[hostess-of-horror]

Could I request some hcs of Saltbaker with a chubby s/o who is insecure? Your writing style is so nice!! 💞

As a chubby girl, I feel so represented right now...

Chef Saltbaker with an Insecure Chubby S/O

First off... Chef Saltbaker thinks you are absolutely beautiful. Besides, who is he to judge you or anyone based on their weight?

In fact, he loves how soft you are whenever he hugs you or has you cuddling up inside his arms. You can definitely say the same for him, despite being made out of glass.

He doesn't care about how your body looks, but he does care whenever you make self-deprecating jokes or comments about yourself.

You were feeling rather down one night after a long day at the bakery. Taking one look at yourself in the mirror while in the bathroom did not help at all. It was extremely hard to ignore every roll, every crevasse, every bump and lump you had.

How on earth did I managed to steal Saltbaker's heart?, you thought to yourself. You knew there were other people far more prettier - skinnier - than you, and yet he chose you.

Surely... He must have thought about having someone else...?

You were so completely deep in thought, you didn't hear Chef Saltbaker approaching you from behind. You snapped awake when you felt his arms wrapping around you waist, planting a kiss behind your ear.

Chef Saltbaker knew what was going on. This was not the first time you've done this, but he genuinely hopes that this will be the last.

"Hey..." Chef Saltbaker spoke, "Do you want to know what you truly remind me of?"

You tilted your head, curious as to what he meant. Taking you by the hand, he leads you from the bathroom and all the way to the bedroom. He sat you down and then went into the closet across the room.

After a few minutes of searching, Chef Saltbaker pulled out a small framed picture. It was an old painting - you guessed it had to be a Baroque or Renaissance portrait. In the painting was a semi-nude individual sprawled across a beautiful garden, admiring a crystal lake, creating ripples with one finger.

"You see this? Do you see how they look? That is you.", Chef Saltbaker said, pointing at the picture, "This work of art reminds me of you. Every flaw you pick out, every roll you mention, and even your double chin is all here. If this person in this painting can have all of those and still be beautiful, so can you."

This was, undoubtedly, the most sweetest thing anyone had ever said to you. You can't even remember the last time someone had tried to make you feel better the way Chef Saltbaker did.

"I was going to put this up somewhere, but I didn't have enough room. But until you came into my life... Perhaps it's time to hang it up, don't you think?", he smiled, looking at you.

"You are a work of art, my love... Always remember that."

[love-minor-poltergeist]

Given your Devil Marriage headcannons (So sweet btw♥️), I think be funny if one day Devil got so drunk that he tried burning his marriage certificate because “Try returning me without the receipt now! MWHAHAHAHAHA!” 🤣🤣🤣

A/N: This message has been sitting in my mind rent-free for the past few days. So I ended up writing a little one-shot for it-- albeit, it unfortunately came out a little bit fluffier than intended 😔

I hope that you enjoy regardless!!

┍━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┑

When you had to leave for two weeks to help a sick friend, you had thought everything would be fine. Your hubby was a grown man– err, demon. He can handle being separated from you for a little while.

Of course, when you had first told him the news, the Devil was none too pleased. His nose had scrunched up as an annoyed scowl– well, it was more of a pout if anything– curled his lips. His side of the bed shifted as two furred arms wrapped themselves around you. You groaned when you’re met with a faceful of chest-fluff; internally rolling your eyes when you felt his tail coil itself around your leg.

“...Oooor you can stay home. With me. Your loving husband?”

The Devil had drawled in his low voice, practically purring out the word ‘husband’ in a honey-coated cadence. That had earned him a chuckle and ear-scratch for his troubles, but you refused to budge.

He had been particularly moody the entire time you packed your bags. You had watched his fur bristle and tail whip erratically about from the corner of your eye. Slitted pupils had stared at your suitcases with such disdain that you feared he’d set them ablaze. However, the moment the Devil caught you watching him, he stiffly turned his nose up with pursed lips.

At the time, you just rolled your eyes. Your husband tends to act like a huffy cat when he doesn’t get his way. Not to mention that he was quite clingy with you (not that he’d ever outright admit to it). You had figured that the worst thing he’d do while you’re gone was brood in his office for a tiny bit.

Of course, your expectations were a little bit too unrealistic for the routine of oddities life had planned for you.

Because you return to an absolute warzone.

The walls, once adorned in pristine wine-red paper and gold-framed baroque paintings, were littered with deep claw marks; exposing the aged dark wood beneath like an aged scar. Imps of various shapes and sizes were scattered about the chessboard-tiled floor. Some of them lay prone on the ground, unconscious. Most of them were either groaning in pain or pressing themselves against the wall; their eyes practically bulging from their sockets as they stared up at the ceiling.

Alcohol bottles, from champagne and wine to whiskey and rum, littered the floor in a haphazard trail. Some of the bottles were shattered, their remains faintly glittering under the lights like tiny fractured gems. Others were left open and discarded along the carpet, pools of red and amber marring the fabric.

Trailing your gaze further down, you’re met with the sight of two figures. King Dice and your husband. Who's currently hissing at the poor, stressed-out King Dice beneath him; multiple pairs of arms sprouting from his body and clawing cracks into the ceiling like some sort of demented spider.

Quietly, you set your bags down.

Two less-roughed up imps quickly swoop over to take your luggage. You pay no mind to them as they scuttle away. Though it hasn’t been long since you’ve returned, you can already feel a dull pain begin to throb at the back of your skull.

You love this man. Truly, you do. But dear lord, you cannot leave him alone for one minute. Without a word, you begin to walk toward the two men. Your footfalls are silenced by thick carpeting, though it mattered little. Your husband is far too busy being a little shit and King Dice is too busy trying to get him down.

“BOSS! Please! Just come down!”

Dice’s voice is hoarse and strained as he reaches a hand out to rub his temple. Just how long was he dealing with this?

The Devil, on the other hand, refuses to budge from his place; only digging his claws deeper. Stone faintly crackles and a cloud of plaster dust and bits of marble falls on the die beneath him. The demon, oblivious to your presence, glares daggers into King Dice. He spits out a hiss, baring sharp teeth, and swipes a clawed hand out.

Of course, in his drunk state, the demon ends up fumbling his grip on the ceiling for a moment; your heart drops. Thankfully, your husband quickly regains his balance, and a displeased growl rumbles in his chest.

Good god, this man is going to hurt himself if he keeps it up at this rate.

Before King Dice could move to resume his fruitless endeavors, you clap a hand onto his shoulder. The man starts with a jump, letting out a weird combination of a gasp and cough from his throat. He whips his head towards you with wide eyes, and the die visibly sags in relief.

“Ohthankgod-” he wheezes out, grabbing you by the shoulders.

You wince as the die invades your space, eyes bordering on frantic as his voice falls into a stage whisper.

“I have been stuck dealing with this drunk idiot for the past eight hours. He’s done nothing but whine for you and break things when he doesn’t get his way.”

He tightens his grip on your shoulders, and you begin to notice just how tired the poor man looked. His suit jacket was wrinkled and undone, leaving the cloth to hang limply at his waist; faint gray circles laid beneath his eyes, a stark contrast to his bright blood-shot eyes. Good god, when was the last time Dice rested?

You offer up what you hope is a comforting smile, weakly patting at the smooth plane of his pale cheek.

“Well, hey, I’m here now, right?” you softly say, and the die sags against your touch. “Just leave him to-”

A hiss– angry and full of venom– fills the air, cutting you off. Instantly, you turn your head up towards the ceiling.

A deep spiderweb of cracks began to bloom from how hard the Devil dug his claws into the smooth marble. Wild, wiry black fur bristles like jagged spikes. His spaded tail thwacks against stone like an aggressive metronome. Slitted pupils dilate in the bright red pools of his irises, twitching erratically as they form into skulls aimed directly at King Dice.

Instinctively, you look towards the hand canoodling with Dice’s flat cheek. Then you look back at your husband, who’s practically frothing at the mouth.

Ah. Now you understand. You’ve been gone for so long (in his mind, anyway), and the first person you comfort is King Dice? No wonder the demon was so incensed– he’s jealous.

God, what a baby. Your baby, but a baby nonetheless.

From the corner of your eye, you can make out a nervous sweat on King Dice’s brow. He’s gone stiff as a board, pupils dilated to the size of pinpricks as he stares up at the demon looming above him like a deer in headlights. With little fanfare, you pat his shoulder and shoot the man a tense smile.

“I think you ought to run off.”

The suggestion just barely tumbles from your lips when the die shakes himself from your grasp. With little fanfare and without so much as a glance your way, King Dice makes a break for it. He barrels through any unsuspecting imps in his path, undeterred by their pained yelps. The demons shoot the retreating man a cowed look. Then they look back towards you and instantly pale at the sight of an enraged Devil.

The air fills with the sound of claws clicking against hard tile like frantic typewriters as you watch the imps scramble to get up. A tidal wave of imps race down the hall, desperate to hobble away from the danger. Some drag their unconscious friends with them– their limp bodies dragging along the floor like sacks of flour. You cringe as you watch vases shatter and side tables upturn in the chaos. Good lord, you can already imagine the amount of time it’d take you to monitor the cleanup process.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. You haven’t even been home for more than ten minutes, and you could already feel a headache begin to bloom at the back of your skull. You briefly shake your head and huff, lowering your hand back to your side.

Before you could fully survey the extent of the damage, a large THUMP! booms behind you. Loud crunching cracks against your ear and pebbles of broken marble flooring spray the back of your legs. You sharply inhale and the overpowering stench of spirits and alcohol floods your nose. Hot breath puffs against the back of your head and teases against the nape of your neck.

An involuntary shiver is torn from your body. Goosebumps break out against your arms and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand. Soon, a strange sound fills your ear– almost like a growl, purr, and chirp all rolled up into one confused cat. Without a word, you slowly turn your head around.

There, looming so close to you that he casts a slender shadow over your smaller frame, was your husband. Gone was the rage from his eyes. His pupils, normally thin and angular, were now wide and full like the face of the moon. Dark cheeks had been dusted with bright red– whether it was from the drinks or the sight of you, you weren’t quite sure. Multiple sets of long, furred arms hung loosely at his sides, some of his hands twitching and others opening and closing.

Underneath the hot haze, you also make out the rhythmic thwacks of his tail hitting the floor. Curious, you glance down to see the demon wagging his tail like an overexcited puppy. As if it senses your gaze, the limb eases its wagging and slowly coils itself to form a tiny heart. A huff of laughter bubbles in your throat, though you conceal it with a cough as you raise a hand to cover the smile forming on your lips.

A part of you wants to be mad. Your husband had gotten drunk and trashed the place when you were gone. Not to mention that he looks and smells awful…And yet…

You look back up to meet your husband’s gaze. His pupils tremble and waver like the surface of the ocean’s waves. They grow in size, further dilating as you hear the soft thwacks of his tail steadily growing louder. Dark moons soon melt and twitch into dark hearts enshrouded in bright red.

Heat floods your cheeks as you duck your head back down. Your lips tremble and an ache settles into your cheeks. A smile threatens to break out against your will. With a huff, you half-heartedly nudge his face away. The demon only purrs against your hand, gently butting his chin further into your palm. You feel a set of large hands grab your shoulders and another set snake around your hips, enveloping your world in pure warmth.

This bastard is lucky he’s cute…

“You know, I ought to be yelling at you right now,” you mumble through pouty lips.

“But you won’t,” your husband purrs back. “‘Cause you loooooove me~”

He suddenly pulls you close, filling your world with scraggly fur. Your feet lift off the ground as the Devil drunkenly sways to and fro, his grip tight as he swings you around. A smile finally breaks out on your face, and you find yourself letting out peals of laughter as you gasp out half-hearted pleas for him to put you down.

Your husband merely lets out a hum in response as he carries you down the hall, his gait somewhat clumsy and wobbly as he sidesteps broken glass and furniture. Now and then he takes the time to glance down at you, and his eyes slowly blink as he shoots you a drunken smile.

Maybe you can put off being mad at him for at least a little while.

┕━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┙

[miraculan-draws]

why do literally all of the Mediterranean people you draw look Black, bro. have you seen a single ancient portrait or are you just inventing shit yourself. fucks sake.

All the paintings and statues you recognize on sight in museums are Renaissance/Baroque, so created during let’s say broadly around the 1400s/1500s. The era that comes to mind when we think “Ancient Greece” is actually “classic era”, let’s use Alexander the Great for example. He lived in the 3rd century BCE. So 1700 years before the depictions you recognize were created.

Now let’s take the Trojan War time frame. This is before the Bronze Age collapse, before the Greek Dark Ages. That would be in the 12th Century BCE. That’s 900 years before Alexander the Great was born. So about 2600 years before the renaissance paintings were painted.

During the late Bronze Age, which is our Trojan War time frame, Mediterranean trade and travel was easy and frequent. Mycenaean Greeks (a different ethnic group than Alexander would have been most likely, and neither of these are the same genetic group in modern Greece) would have seen trade with Mesopotamian cities but also with African cities and empires like Libya, Egypt, and Ethiopia. (The demigod Memnon, son of Eos, was implicitly stated to be Ethiopian and depicted with dark skin. He fought on the side of the Trojans.) Egyptians in this time frame? Black. Libyans? Black. Ethiopians? Black. These were successful trade empires that interacted often with Southern Europe and West Asia.

So the Mediterranean before the collapse was absolutely a melting pot ethnically speaking. And even if it wasn’t, the only leftovers of the Mycenaean ethnic group were traced to the extreme south of Italy. So. At their absolute PALEST, long diluted- they would only be as light featured as…let’s say Sicilians?

So in actuality, it’s less accurate to depict our Trojan War heroes as snowy white. Because it is almost impossible that they would have been.

And truly, even if none of that was relevant? I can do whatever the fuck I want? Drawing everyone the same would be boring to both me and my audience. One day you’ll slip up with one of us and forget to hit Anonymous.

[not-saying-revolution-but]

on the artistry of Loïc Nottet's "Mr/Mme"

We open to a cobbled, deserted Brussels intersection. The title appears in old-timey yellow against the grayscale. A white-clad Loïc Nottet enters as a piano teases the opening, and it starts.

I have a lot of emotions about "Mr/Mme," the last track on Nottet's second studio album (Sillygomania) and, to my knowledge, his first song fully en français. "Mr/Mme" dropped in April of 2020, which was still near the start of the pandemic in Europe and North America. I, for one, did not anticipate what the next year would hold. And yet when this song appeared in Spotify’s suggestions (as the algorithm knows my weakness for Nottet's vocal range and off-pop sound), it touched a nerve that has pulsed for the last 12 months.

To be clear, I'm not going to present any new revelations about this song. Nottet is indisputably a phenomenal artist, "Mr/Mme" is a perfect example of his skill, and that's that on that. I'm more interested in the raw emotions that this song explores and how the piece indicates a radical departure from Nottet's previous body of work. Or does it?

Born in 1996, Loïc Nottet is a Belgian singer/songwriter/dancer who made a name for himself on The Voice Belgique and ESC 2015. You can look up his Wikipedia page if you like. His first album, "Selfocracy," is entirely in English and handles themes of bullying, selfishness, the corruptibility of society, and related. I don't know what the Belgian and French reviewers said, but the album was fairly well received in the English-speaking places I inhabit. The songs are punchy and get stuck in your head. The lyrics feel clever but maybe a little strained. A Youtube star dropping his first studio album.

And then "Mr/Mme" came out. Nottet greets his audience with a "bonsoir Monsieur, Madame / aujourd'hui, j'te dis tout" (good evening sir, madame / today, I'll tell you everything). He proceeds to do just that. Nottet describes a living hell, a world that "m'étrangle, m'écrase et me brûle" (strangles me, crushes me, and burns me). The ensuing musical monologue swivels from individual anguish to a broader critique of humanity, described as nothing but a bully without love. Those who cannot afford morphine are refused the moon. Children turn into monsters and the rest of us pay rent.

About halfway through the song (which lacks a chorus), Nottet tells the listener how alone he feels while walking the glorious road to fame. He copes by drinking, poking fun at his youth, and grappling in the darkness for any sense of meaning (he's in his 20s after all). Despite living out his childhood dreams, Nottet admits to his own unhappiness.

While Nottet sings all of this, alternating between confessional and belting tones, the camera tracks his wanderings through the streets of Brussels. It looks utterly empty until we see another figure walking past. They look over their shoulder as they pass this strange young man who sings, skips, and spreads his arms in the way of music videos. With a bitter twinge of irony, his oversized white dress shirt has "enjoy yourself" written on the breast pocket.

Nottet takes us down the narrow, shuttered, and graffitied alleyways that spread out from La Grand-Place. He carefully avoids the Baroque square, though, taking rapid turns just when you think you're nearing it. The camera follows in its shaky way. The crowds increase as the song swells, now showing other young people in their sparkling little groups. Nottet breaks through, and everything stops as he sings "je n'sais plus qui je suis, j'suis perdu" (I no longer know who I am, I am lost).

And finally, finally. We reach La Grand-Place, and the lyrics shift. Nottet tells us how he feels when he’s on stage, which is far from the horrific picture he just described:

Car j'écris quand j'me plante

Et je ris quand je danse

Et je vis quand je chante

Et pour tout ça, j'te dis :

Merci

(Because I write when I mess up, and I laugh when I dance, and I live when I sing. And for all of that, I say to you: Thank you.)

Nottet’s figure paints a bright absence on the darkened Grand-Place. The song is officially over but Nottet launches into a series of ethereal "oohs" that transcend this mortal realm. He now shows off his dancing and spreads himself open as the "oohs" reach their highest pitch. Nottet looks like a broken bird, splayed open in La Grand-Place and suspended by his rib cage. The video ends with a few more leg kicks and spins before Nottet wanders out of frame. Everything was done in one take.

So what makes this song and music video so special? Is it not another artsy, indie production about a young singer struggling with fame?

I say to that nay. In "Mr/Mme," Nottet uses his extraordinary voice to access an emotion that is often trivialized. “A young man makes it big and then feels lonely, so what,” we could say. “Life is hard.” This is both true and not. Nottet's struggles are different from most of ours, but he speaks in terms that feel familiar. How many of us realize too late that success isn’t all it’s cracked up to be? "Mr/Mme" holds extremes that more often coexist than contradict in real life, including "humanity is fucked and we should burn everything to the ground" and "there are moments when life is worth living." I know of few other songs that capture both emotions in such a poignant way.

Moreover, the video is carefully done. Directed by Hugo Jouxtel, it seems almost self-conscious about its artsy look. The passersby may be hired extras, I don't know, but they react organically. It's almost embarrassing to see them hastily cross the street and give the singer funny looks. There’s a bit of self-recognition through the other, if you will, particularly if you’ve ever had a breakdown in public (hands, anyone? just me?). It is one thing to sing about feeling alone and quite another to be alone amid the crowds of La Grand-Place. La Grand-Place, a tourist attraction with very few things to do. A place that is good for milling about, snapping a picture, and then hurrying on with your life, oblivious.

Besides the video being aesthetically pleasing, it feels real. Nottet cannot step beyond the gated storefronts as he laments. Sometimes the camera captures an unflattering angle as he tilts up his chin in anguish. It's pretty but gritty. Like the song. Like fame. Like life.

The view from my chair is this: "Mr/Mme" signals a new moment of maturity for an artist who (I am convinced) will one day be known worldwide. It acknowledges the darker threads present in "Selfocracy" (the darkness inside us, the ever-watching “million eyes”) but strips it all down to the bare essentials. The song is honest. And for a popular artist like Nottet, who has already proven himself many times over, honesty might be the rarest thing.

*All translations are from yours truly. Any errors are, of course, my own.

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums: a Great Album that your average rock critic would actually agree with me about! Find out how Kate Bush got her groove back with her fifth LP, Hounds of Love, and whether she ever came down from that hill. Full transcript below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Ever since I first conceived the idea of Great Albums, I’ve always intended it to reflect nothing other than my own personal “canon”--not necessarily a list of albums that were influential, successful, or acclaimed by anybody’s standards but my own. But in this installment, I’m making a somewhat uncharacteristic move, and diving into an album that really doesn’t need me to advocate for it: Hounds of Love, by Kate Bush, often considered Bush’s greatest masterpiece--if not one of the greatest albums of all time.

Released in 1985, Hounds of Love was Bush’s fifth studio LP. Her career had started off surprisingly strong in 1977, with the release of her debut single “Wuthering Heights,” written when Bush was only 19 years old. With a high-concept theme, based around the titular novel by Emily Brontë, it would set the template for much of Bush’s subsequent career: irreverently eccentric, high-concept art-pop with the intensely personal passion of a singular singer-songwriter. But just how much patience for that sort of thing does the general public have, beyond letting the occasional “Wuthering Heights” through as a sort of novelty hit? Bush’s subsequent work in the early 1980s met with inconsistent reception, with her fourth LP, 1982’s The Dreaming, marking a particularly low point. The first album that Bush produced all by herself, The Dreaming took even more radical creative liberties, pushing her sound into increasingly experimental territory.

Music: “Get Out Of My House”

Following the fairly cold reception of The Dreaming, Bush took several years to produce her next album, but it would prove to be the one that redeemed her career, and arguably turned her into a bigger star than ever before. Hounds of Love managed to stay true to the core principles of the Bush aesthetic: moody and introspective, full of rich and complex narratives, as well as musical risk-taking. But it honed and refined that sound into something that was also remarkably pop.

Music: “Running Up That Hill”

“Running Up That Hill” was one of the biggest hits of Bush’s career, and arguably dethroned even “Wuthering Heights” as her signature song. I think the secret to its success is its ability to balance Bush’s experimental impulses with an intuitive, deep-felt emotional quality that makes her best work resonant in an accessible way. On paper, “Running Up That Hill” is as high-concept as anything else in Bush’s catalogue--a song about making a deal with God to swap sexes with your lover, and feel what life is like in another body? But at the same time, the song has an ability to “work” even if you don’t know all of that. Who hasn’t longed for a way to bargain with supernatural forces, for a chance at the impossible? There’s a certain applicability to its themes, which I think is a chief reason why it’s inspired so many covers and reimaginings over the years. But even when one listens to the original, the stately washes of digital synthesiser and the powerful conviction that propels Bush’s vocals make it easy to sympathize with. It feels grounded and physical, rooted in the most carnal aspect of the human body. Positioned as the opening track of the album, “Running Up That Hill” feels like an obvious lead single--in the best way possible. But it’s worth noting that not everything on the album is quite so radio-friendly.

Music: “Cloudbusting”

Perhaps one of Bush’s most compelling narratives, “Cloudbusting” is also, ostensibly, fairly high-concept, portraying a heavily fictionalized episode from the life of Wilhelm Reich. A controversial figure both in life and legacy, Reich is best remembered for his work in psychology, heavily influenced by the spectre of Sigmund Freud. But “Cloudbusting” focuses on his later-life fascination with the physical sciences, and his belief that a mystical energy called “orgone” was responsible for both human emotional woes as well as disturbances in the Earth’s atmosphere. Reich attempted to develop a machine that could manipulate this energy, and hence achieve the longtime dream of technological weather control, but there’s no evidence his “cloudbuster” really worked, or that there’s any such thing as “orgone.” But Bush’s “Cloudbusting,” and its accompanying music video, portray Reich as a tragic hero, silenced by government authorities who sought to destroy what they couldn’t understand, conflating his work with cloudbusters with his censure by the FDA for his questionable medical devices.

The song was inspired chiefly by the memoirs of Wilhelm Reich’s son, Peter, with Bush explicitly portraying Peter’s naive childhood perspective on his father, and that does allow for some substantial nuance here...but at some point we have to ask ourselves what responsibility an artist has to the truth. “Cloudbusting” is the musical equivalent of a film that’s “based on a true story,” and I see no reason why music can’t be just as capable of spreading misinformation as the Oscar-bait biopics of Hollywood. Just how accurate, or how beautiful, does a work of art need to be, for us to allow a bit of playing loose with the facts for the sake of a great story?

Setting aside these quandaries presented by its subject matter, “Cloudbusting” undoubtedly delivers musically. Across its sprawling runtime, it develops and earns a sense of grandeur, building from its infectious percussion and cresting with Bush’s fragile, but assertive prayer: “I just know that something good is going to happen.” If you listen closely to the percussion tracks on the album, you’ll notice that there’s no cymbal or high-hat utilized anywhere, which helps give the album its particular hazy, meandering ambiance.

That effect is perhaps even more pronounced on the second side of the album. Hounds of Love is divided quite sharply into two sides. The first side, also sub-titled Hounds of Love, opens with “Running Up That Hill,” and finishes with “Cloudbusting,” which serves as something of a bridge between the two, combining a singable hook and a pop-like verse-chorus structure with a taste for more visionary narrative. While the first side is home to all four of the album’s singles, the second side, sub-titled The Ninth Wave, strays much further away from the standard expectations of pop.

Music: “Under Ice”

Going by the tracklisting, there are seven tracks that make up *The Ninth Wave,* though their smooth transitions and willful defiance of verse/chorus structure create a seamless oratorio or song cycle feel, not unlike many of the great “album sides” of the prog tradition. The Ninth Wave also departs from the feel of the first side in its instrumentation. While the Hounds of Love side has its fair share of exotic instruments, such as a balalaika on “Running Up That Hill” and a didgeridoo on “Cloudbusting,” The Ninth Wave is more richly baroque, with elements like that jarring violin on “Under Ice.” As it progresses, the breadth of timbres increases, climaxing in the Celtic-inspired “Jig of Life.”

Music: “Jig of Life”

The explosion of folkish, backward-looking sounds of “Jig of Life” and “Hello World,” with their fiddles, whistles, and full choir, represent its protagonist’s return to the realm of the living, after the trauma represented by earlier tracks like “Under Ice.” The abstract, though affecting, narrative presented by The Ninth Wave seems to be a tale of death and rebirth, with a narrator who drowns themselves, only to be reborn--whether literally revived from a failed suicide attempt, or metaphysically reincarnated after a passage through the realm of the dead.

Much more has been written about the themes of *The Ninth Wave* than I’m getting into here, but suffice it to say that many people consider it the relative highlight of the album. But I think it’s worth questioning that a little bit, and taking the time to look at Hounds of Love a bit more holistically. Just because the first side is a bit less overtly experimental doesn’t mean it doesn’t have just as much to offer, artistically, or that it isn’t a part of what makes this album truly great. At the end of the day, I think we can probably agree that far fewer people would have ever heard The Ninth Wave if it weren’t for those more accessible singles on side one, moving copies of the record and adding to Bush’s widespread acclaim. Without “Running Up That Hill,” Hounds of Love might have gone down in history as a fairly niche cult classic like The Dreaming, instead of the era-defining album that it got to become.

On the cover of Hounds of Love, we see an image of Bush reclining and embracing two dogs--who were, in fact, her own pets. The image’s saturation in purplish pink and Bush’s perhaps sultry expression combine to create an impression of traditional femininity, which resonates with the album’s themes of gender and sensuality. Framed in by large white borders, we might read the composition of the cover as evocative of a personal locket or memento, a sort of furtive glimpse into Bush’s more private or intimate essence, fitting for the introspective and emotional focus of much of the music. This “framing” is perhaps also evocative of the idea of the domestic sphere of life--and hence, again, of femininity.

While the title track of the album portrays the “hounds of love” as figures of menace, who are said to “chase” after its narrator, the submissive and comfortable-looking canines portrayed in the cover art seem like a foil to that idea. In the history of European art, dogs are often used as symbols of fidelity, particularly in the context of romance. Titian’s Venus of Urbino, painted in the 1530s, is often considered the progenitor of the Western “nude” as an archetype. Alongside the titular goddess, paragon of eroticism and the feminine, the painter has also included a lapdog, peacefully dozing beside her. It’s tempting to see the composition of the cover of Hounds of Love as doing something similar, invoking confident sensuality alongside a symbol of faithfulness to portray the essence of idealized love.

After the release of Hounds of Love, Bush would once again take several years to produce her next LP, 1989’s The Sensual World. More closely related to The Ninth Wave than the A-side of Hounds of Love, it was nonetheless another commercial and mainstream success for the artist.

Music: “The Sensual World”

From the mid-90s to the mid-00s, Bush took an extended hiatus from music, focusing instead on her family and her personal life. Despite uncertainty surrounding the future of her career, she would eventually return to the public spotlight in the 21st Century, and remains active, if somewhat intermittently, to the present day. At this point, it’s safe to say that Bush has a fairly enviable position, having lived long enough to become a cultural institution, and able to bask in the cult following her unmistakable and distinctive work has earned her. For as much as I’ve praised the more commercial side of Hounds of Love in this piece, I still believe in the power of the truly unfettered creative soul, and I’m still happy for Bush that she’s achieved that kind of freedom.

My favourite track from either side of Hounds of Love would have to be “The Big Sky.” In the context of the album, it stands out for its rousing, triumphant crescendo of energy--a marked difference from the languid, introspective sensibility that dominates most of the material. And it manages that without bringing the cymbals back, either! Thematically, its emphasis on weather and the sky prefigures that of “Cloudbusting,” perhaps providing a more hopeful and naive vision of what weather can do, which resists being “clouded” by political drama. That’s all I have for today--as always, thank you all for listening!

Music: “The Big Sky”

[obediencess]

for @leducdeorleans​

It began in Rome. The influx of Parisian hopefuls that flooded Rome with their soft clicking argent tongues and expressive eyes. Riccardo had been free of the coven a spare ten years before they came, speaking in tongues, studying the great marble hunks that were unearthed from the cities ancient bowels to sketch by and render in magnificent paintings that copied the old Master’s Riccardo had been schooled by. It was again the fashion to look backward, to gaze upon the great Italian school that Riccardo himself had come from, and among these young artist’s Riccardo made his new home. He painted with them, traded secrets behind his hand, showed those that were kind to him how to mix their own pigments and soften the edges of their works in a sfumato reminiscent of their adored Raphael. It was among these Frenchmen that Riccardo gained preeminence again. And it was there that he gained his first apprenticeship in almost two centuries. It seemed the French King had grown a taste for the Italian Baroque, and no Frenchmen was better at satisfying this hunger than Charles Le Brun. It was for Le Brun that Riccardo was acquired, and retained for a time in Paris among a number of other young French and Italian artists, to join an atelier of such artists that would assist the great Master in executing some of his immense works which would sprawl across the new great palace that the young King of France was steadily building and re-building. It didn’t matter to Riccardo that he was above such work -- whatever experience this Charles Le Brun had acquired, he was mortal --  he was ever loyal to his new painting Master, and he would take any such opportunity to leave Rome behind. Riccardo was drawn like a moth to a flame to the very idea of France. They called this French King the sun itself. And though Riccardo hadn’t seen the sun in two hundred years, he imagined the warmth of it must radiate from the palace walls even in the darkest of nights. 

It felt good to be dressed in fine clothing again. It didn’t matter that the court regarded him as little more than a well-schooled workman, under Le Brun he was dressed in silks and frills and fitted with frock-coat, his inky, tight curls restrained at the base of his neck poorly by a length of ribbon. There were ruby rings glittering on his fingers again. The dust of the catacombs was finally out from under his glistening, glassy, long fingernails. And now he moved among these mortals, disguised by his olive-toned skin, as if he were one of them, simply another pretty young ornament to adorn the court. Their minds as much as their whispers met his ears in a cacophonous, sweet symphony, and he tested his newly acquired modern French among them, kissing the ladies hands, careful that they not feel the point of a fang against his smiling mouth. His ambition wouldn’t allow that he simply remain under Le Brun, no matter how kind, nor talented he was. Riccardo longed to paint more than the mere under shadows and the flushing blue sky that reigned behind Le Brun’s kittenish goddesses. It was from one of the Baron’s wives that he first learned of the King’s brother. Unorthodox, she had called him. Her much less kind companion had used a myriad of very different words, but both had concluded in much the same way. He adored the arts as much as his brother, the King. And he could no doubt be persuaded to patronize Riccardo, if it was truly his wish to step out from Le Brun’s shadow. And he must, since Le Brun’s uncontested position as the King’s favourite was now waning. 

It was. Riccardo couldn’t deny that his ambitions had grown in the confinement of the catacombs. He wanted more than to hide his work beneath the over-painting of a more famous Master. In France, he would renew himself. He painted three portraits, two of wives, one of a vicomte, before he was granted an introduction. Riccardo traded two of his rings and sold another of his works to purchase a suitable brocade waistcoat of rich Venetian silk for the occasion. He was clutched on the arm of one of the King’s old favourites, herself a patron of the arts, the somewhat disgraced Madame de Montespan, and it was she who pointed out the elegant figure of the duc d’Orleans. Even among the throng of richly dressed courtiers, the duke’s refinement and poise distinguished him as much as the long dark that fell around his unusual, but nevertheless handsome face. Riccardo studied him for a time before the Marquise urged him forward. Riccardo had come from the Venetian Republic, he had grown among men that, at least of the higher classes, looked upon one another as brother’s and equals, and only now did it occur to him that he had never been so near to royal blood. But he stood under the duke’s azurite, piercing gaze, now, and Riccardo’s face flushed with an anemic blush before he bowed. The gesture loosed a number of tight, inky coils of hair which fell to frame his face. “Your royal highness,” he said, his unusually smooth voice slightly fraught with his uncertainty. “Forgive my interruption, I was told I must speak to you, above all others, you see I...” he faltered again, swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat. His accent was slightly clumsy with a floral, Italian emphasis. “I wish to paint, my liege, that is all. I wish to paint, and to paint you.” 

[etlunainmorte]

❄❄❄

***

*Bella Basil Raspberry Tea*

Total Time - 45 minutes preparation plus chilling

Serves - 6

Ingredients

3 cups fresh raspberries

1 cup sugar

1 cup packed fresh basil leaves, coarsely chopped

1/4 cup lime juice

2 individual black tea bags

1 bottle ( 1 liter ) carbonated water or 1 bottle ( 750 milliliters ) sparkling rose wine

Ice cubes

Fresh raspberries and basil leaves, optional

Directions

In a large saucepan, combine the raspberries, sugar, basil and lime juice. Mash berries. Cook over medium heat for 7 minutes or until berries release juices.

Remove from the heat; add tea bags. Cover and steep for 20 minutes. Strain, discarding tea bags and raspberry seeds. Transfer tea to a 2 - qt. pitcher. Cover and refrigerate until serving.

Just before serving, slowly add carbonated water or wine. Serve over ice. If desired, top with raspberries and basil.

Nutrition Facts

1 cup: 281 calories, 0 fat ( 0 saturated fat ), 0 cholesterol, 9mg sodium, 44g carbohydrate ( 37g sugars, 4g fiber ), 1g protein.

*Cookie Dough Stuffed Oreos*

Yields - 30

Prep Time - 10 minutes

Total Time - 1 hour 35 minutes

Ingredients

1/2 c. ( 1 stick ) melted butter

1/2 c. granulated sugar 

1/2 c. packed brown sugar 

1 tsp. pure vanilla extract 

1 c. almond flour 

1/2 tsp. kosher salt 

2/3 c. mini chocolate chips

24 Oreos

1 c. chocolate chips

1 tbsp. coconut oil 

1/4 c. sprinkles 

Directions

Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper. In a large bowl, whisk together melted butter, sugars, and vanilla. Stir in almond flour and salt, then fold in mini chocolate chips. 

Separate Oreos trying to keep cream intact. Place 2 tsp of cookie dough on Oreo half with cream, then sandwich with other half of Oreo. Repeat with remaining Oreos and dough. 

Place chocolate chips and coconut oil in a microwave safe bowl and microwave in 30 second intervals until melted. Dip Oreos halfway into chocolate, place on prepared baking sheet, and top with sprinkles. Refrigerate until chocolate is hardened, 1 hour.

***

"You said, please, say yes." You excitedly informed him. "And I said, yes! I'm going to the New Year's Ball with you, V!"

It took the poet a full minute before he finally realized what you were talking about. And when he finally realized what your words truly meant, his eyes slowly widened and his mouth fell open in shock. He grabbed his messy hair with both hands and spoke, "That - that's your answer, right? You'll go to the Ball with me?"

"Hahaha! Of course, you silly poet!" You laughed as you threw yourself at him, hugging him and placing a tender kiss on his cheek. Oh, how sweet you smelled. What a nice morning, indeed! "See ya!"

And before V could even reciprocate with a kiss of his own, you took your hands off him, waved, and went back to your house.

Now, if it were only that easy.

"What happened to you, dear?" Adelaide asked you, a plate of fluffy pancakes in her hand. 

Your hands automatically went up your hair as realization finally kicked in. "I told him I'd go the Ball with him."

"Yes, and?"

Giving your grandmother a horrified look, you answered, "I don't have a vintage dress!"

***

❄ Three Wishes ❄

***

IX

***

"You're in luck." Your cousin, Avery, told you as she nudged your arm with an elbow. "I got your back."

"Thanks." You answered with a shy smile as the two of you made your way to her mansion.

It was a good thing that you called Avery first before going to the shopping district to look for a decent vintage dress. You never knew much about gowns or even dresses ( except for the ones you wear for your concours and concertos ), and you're just glad to have her around.

And honestly? She didn't disappoint. Not only were you not going to spend a single cent, you're also going to have the full vintage wardrobe experience free of charge!

Avery opened the heavy wooden door, a feat which always awed you, and allowed you to step into the threshold first before her.

The warmth of the place welcomed you like an old friend, and the entirely redesigned interior made it look as good, or even better, as new. Avery chucked ( not literally, of course ) the old Grecian statues and the rest of the old stuff away ( including your great grandfather's intimidating life - size portrait, which, if she could be honest, was already considered cursed by a lot of curators ), put them up for auction, and actually gained a lot of money from it ( well, not that Roman would refuse, anyway ). She hired a florist and an interior designer for a revamp of the mansion, and voila!

And now, as you glanced with wonder and admiration at the complete transformation of the interior, your jaw couldn't help but drop and your eyes couldn't help but widen. The house, and all the places and corners the eye could possibly reach, looked actually clean, it didn't even look like a haunted mansion, anymore. In place of the old Grecian statues were two Venetian pedestals with modern flower vases in it. The baroque period paintings were gone from the walls, replaced with modern ones depicting gardens in all four seasons. The old and worn down window frames were also replaced. Even the floorboards don't squeak anymore.

Everything was brand new! And everywhere you look, there were lots, and lots, and lots,... of flowers! And,... this actually made you a bit confused.

Avery, actually decorating her house with flowers,... ?

"Didn't know you'd go for flower power." You let out your thoughts as you followed and observed the positively radiant woman upstairs. "And you looked, ah,... different." You remarked, seeing that she finally got rid of her blue highlights and just let her hair grow naturally, letting its true auburn color show, which looked perfect in its own way. You also noticed that her style changed, as well. Instead of a loud statement shirt, a pair of ripped jeans, and a pair of thick leather boots, she's wearing a pastel - colored floral dress, and a pair of wedges.

Avery,... wearing dresses?

Am I missing something here? You thought to yourself as you smiled at your cousin.

"Who? Me? Different?" Avery replied as she glanced at you at the corner of her eye.

You hummed in approval. "You looked,... radiant."

"Nah! I'm still old me. And you're the main focus here, not me. So, if you please,..." Your cousin requested as she gestured for you to open the door to the bedroom on the left hallway. You grabbed the doorknob firmly, carefully turned it, and opened the door,...

You felt a strange wave of nostalgia brush you gently in the face as you entered the old room. The huge French canopy bed on the left, the sweet scent wafting about the cozy room, the pastel colored wallpaper, the heavy floral curtains, and even the white vanity table on the right gave the impression that this room belonged to a very delicate lady,...

... who seemed very much in love.

Huh? Why did I think of that? You pondered as you heard the door close behind you.

"I had this room renovated." Avery told you as she walked towards the vanity table and placed a hand on the ornate mirror. "This belonged to gran's mom."

"Really?!" You gasped, taken by surprise by what you just heard from your cousin. Your eyes wandered once more all over the place, drinking in all the lovely sights the room could offer. It's as if,... the room itself held some sort of significance to you. Like you've been here before. "Wow,..."

"You know, V spent a lot of time in this room last October." Avery giggled as she gave you a sly sideways glance, wanting to see your reaction. And you didn't disappoint. The moment your cousin mentioned his one letter name, your face heated up, making it as red as a beetroot.

"W - what's he doing here?" You stuttered, making the other woman laugh.

"Ah! Long story. I'll tell you some other time." Avery answered as she went towards the large wooden closet on the left near the French canopy bed. "But, I'll tell you this: he's in love with gran's mom."

"Sorry?"

"Never mind." Your cousin teased as she opened the closet, revealing a huge collection of Victorian era dresses of all fabrics, colors, and shapes.

And it simply took your breath away! And instantly made you forget what Avery just revealed.

"Amazing!" You gasped in awe as Avery took one dress made completely out of lace from the huge closet. "It's so, so beautiful!"

"Look, I may tell you that this lady here suits your skin tone but, you can try as many of these as you like." Avery told you as she carefully handed you the delicate dress. "Hell, you can try all of them!"

And that's what you did for the next few hours. As tiring as it was, carefully putting on these dresses and making sure that they don't get damaged in the process, it really was fun trying them on. There were just too many, in different shades of red, blue, purple, green, and yellow, in different fabrics like lace, satin, silk, chiffon, and in different cuts, although ninety - five percent of them had extremely low necklines and all of them had tight fitting bodice.

And somehow, the dresses,...

... felt so familiar to you. From the colors perfectly matching your skin tone, to their sizes exactly fitting your form.

It was like you actually owned them.

"That's beautiful." Avery, who got so tired of waiting and elected to just sit on the bed to watch your every move, said for seemingly the hundredth time that day.

"Yes but," You answered as you uncomfortably looked down at what you’re wearing: an exquisite pale green dress with an empire waist and a pair of bishop sleeves made of voluminous silk. " ... it doesn't seem right."

Avery rolled her eyes as she crossed her arms. "I told you. Pick whatever you like. V will not judge you if you pick the wrong one, come on!"

"No, it's not that I'm worried about V judging me." You said as you faced the closet once more. "These dresses are all beautiful, and they all fit so perfectly, it's actually scary. But, I don't feel,... special,... in any of them. In a way."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's like,... I'm happy they all fit. But, I'm not happy wearing them."

"Really? How so?"

"It's like,... ah,... how do I explain this?" You bit your lower lip as you browsed the many more dresses that were hanging inside the vintage closet belonging to your gran's mom. "It's like, I'm looking for something that resonates. That feels special. You know what I'm saying?"

"I'm not sure I know what you meant." Avery answered as she collapsed on the white pillows.

"Ah, it's so hard to - "

"Hard to what?"

You turned towards your cousin, your eyes almost popping out of their sockets and your mouth opening wide. Like you've just awoken to a huge revelation.

"Found something that resonates?" Avery asked as she rolled on the bed, propping her chin on her knuckles and playfully swaying her feet back and forth.

"I might have." You replied as you took a particular dress from the closet and made your way once again towards the massive bathroom. "Wait."

"Isn't that what you're already making V do?" Avery teased with a huge grin plastered on her face as she rolled on the bed once more and laid on her back.

"What's that?!" Your voice echoed from the bathroom. You were just too weirded out with your cousin's behavior.

"Nothing! And make it quick already! I'm starving!"

"Alright! Alright! And can you put something else in here, like a vanity table or something? It feels really empty here!"

"Just like how V feels without you?"

"Come again?!"

"Did I say something?"

"Ugh!"

Avery was clutching her stomach with both hands, hysterically laughing at her jokes when you finally came out of the bathroom. And when she saw you, her mouth simply dropped.

"Girl," She gasped, feeling as if her eyes were deceiving her. " ... you're wearing,... that?"

"Yes!" You proudly declared as you made a little pirouette, the soft fabric of the dress flowing gracefully with your movement. "Isn't this perfect?!"

"W - well," Avery said, still a bit tongue - tied, as she got off the bed and made her way towards you. " ... I must say that's a really curious choice. A good choice, nonetheless. Looks perfect, yes."

Your eyebrows knitted, confusion with Avery's strange commentary on the dress you chose starting to set in. "You don't look happy."

"What? Ugh! Come on, I said it's perfect, right? Now, get dressed and come down, I'm really starving, I could eat a huge bird right now!”

You were still staring at the dress laid carefully on the sofa a few minutes later as you and your cousin enjoyed some cookie dough stuffed oreos and bella basil raspberry tea.

"So, are you gonna tell me?" You said after taking a sip of the sweet beverage. "What V was doing there last October?"

"Ye really wanna know?"

"Well, duh. Of course."

Avery took one cookie from the huge plate and pointed it at you. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

"Umm, yes? No? I don't know,..."

"Well, whatever your belief is, this place," Avery said, taking a bite of the treat. " ... used to be haunted. And I commissioned the Legendary Devil Hunter to drive the spirit out. But, he refused!" She said, then took another bite. "And this man, this thin man who calls himself V, he volunteered. He confronted the Demon who took over this place," She plopped the treat into her mouth and chewed. And with a still full mouth, she said, " ... and set the tortured souls free. Safe to say he won, right?"

"Oh, I s - "

"BUT, of course, you wouldn't believe me! So, forget what I just said." Avery took another cookie and ate it whole. Then, after that, she took another one from the plate and ate it as well.

"You, ah, eat well!" You said, carefully choosing your words so as not to offend your cousin.

"Who, me?" Avery asked as she ate another cookie, then took a sip of her tea. "Nah. Must be your imagination."

" ... okay,... "

"I answered your question, now answer mine." Avery gestured at the dress on the sofa and took another treat from the almost empty plate. "What made you choose that dress?"

"Instinct." You simply answered.

"Meaning?"

"I feel it's the one, you know?"

"Just like how you feel about V?"

"OH, SH - !"

"I'm home, ladies!" Roman, who just entered the living room, greeted you and made his way towards his wife to plant a kiss on her radiant cheek. He, then, took out a box of dumplings from a plastic bag and showed it to Avery, whose eyes and mouth widened in delight.

"Roman Mikael Francisco, you greatest husband in the world!" Avery exclaimed in ecstasy as she grabbed the Chinese take out box from Roman's hand. "How did you know I'm craving this?"

"Instinct." Roman answered as he winked at you, making you nod in realization of the real situation.

"Oh, shush, you!" Avery playfully slapped Roman's hand and looked back at you. "And you! You have to go back home, it's getting late."

"I'm not a kid!" You replied with a silly grin on your face as you took the dress from the sofa. "And it's only afternoon."

"Whatever." Avery said and stood, accidentally dropping her handkerchief from her lap to the floor in the process. "Oh, it fell! Just like how you and V fell for each other!"

"Stop!"

***

❄ @la-vita , @clevermentalitybeliever , @birdgirl69 , @v-vic , and @dreaming-gamer . ❄

***

"You alright on your own?" Roman asked graciously as he walked with you towards your house. "You need help with that box? That's huge!"

"I can handle this, thanks!" You replied with a smile as you held the box containing the dress and its accessories closer to your form.

"Are you a hundred percent sure?"

"Yes."

Roman nodded, his charming smile showing on his young - looking face. "Alright, alright. I'll go back to Avery, then. She's getting more and more delicate these past few days, you know?"

"Yeah. Take care of her, alright?"

"Si, si." Roman smiled, waved, and walked back towards the mansion.

So, I'm right! You thought as you opened the door to your own house. "Gran, I'm home - "

However, something, or someone, stopped you in your tracks.

Christopher Lancaster, your narcissistic former lover, was waiting for you in the living room. What's more, he was holding an expensive - looking bouquet of red roses, there was a box of expensive French chocolate on the table, and Adelaide was looking at the man with utter hate and disdain from one corner of the room. Like he forced her to let him in the house.

"(Y/N)!" The man greeted as he stood up from the sofa and made his way towards you. "I was waiting for you."

You took a few steps back and held the box right in front of you to prevent the man from getting closer to you. "What do you want, Christopher?"

"Aww, how cold! Yikes!" The man sarcastically said as he made a shivering gesture. "I only wanted to give this to you - "

"What. Do you. Want?"

"Sheesh, can't a man invite a lady properly to the New Year's Ball?"

"Oh! Is that so?"

"So, you'll come with me! That's great news! I - "

"Get out of here, you're scaring gran."

The man drew back in shock at what he just heard. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, GET OUT! I'M NOT GOING TO THE BALL WITH YOU!"

"WHAT? YOU CAN'T REFUSE ME!"

"WELL, I JUST DID!" You yelled as you took the box of expensive chocolate from the table and shoved it forcefully into his arms. "NOW, GET OUT!"

The man gave you one last look of contempt before turning and finally leaving you and your grandmother alone.

And, hell, it felt good!

***

❄❄❄

***

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 27

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: We update weekly, have a masterlist, and a tag list.

Warnings: Swearing?

Abstract: don’t shun it fun it

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

John Deacon saw himself in the mirror looping his necktie into a perfect full Windsor knot. It was a fancy knot, entirely sophisticated and completely ironic regarding the rest of his carefully chosen ensemble. Clothes could be used to intimidate, to beguile, and to disarm. Deacy knew more about this than most people. Clothes could repel and repulse others or compel them through charm and sex appeal. Deacy might not have the obvious raw beauty of Roger Taylor, but he was attractive in a different way: his style was his own and he committed to it with every inch of his gigantic heart. His style was a reflection of his paradoxical personality, and he was proud of that. He always wanted to simultaneously bring people close and push them away. It was unexpected and always a success. If you wanted to fight for him, fight with him, play with him and join the chase, well, he’d be down; he usually didn’t find someone who was able to do this, to understand him and his innate shyness and his unflappable confidence. He was more handsome than pretty and more lupine in the lines of his face than cherubic. His shy, almost reserved confidence was tempered by his natural wit and sharp tongue; he liked the power he had in knowing he could destroy anyone with a few chosen words. The power wasn’t from being able to do this, but from not doing it. From his holding back, from his benign sparing of one person to his ruthless random attack on another; this meant people were always kept guessing and paralyzed in a glorious suspense entirely controlled by Deacy. They never knew when he would strike. And his fashion was a reflection of this chaotic energy, and every piece of clothing he was wearing tonight was a play, a game, just like everything else in his carefully controlled life. Deacy kept looping the tie, smiling to himself.

Brian dragged an unhinged Roger into the bathroom; his arms were looping through the air, trying to get at Brian’s hair, trying to get away; Brian’s arms were so unnaturally long, and Roger knew it was a fool’s errand to try and wrench himself away. He shoved Roger into the shower, fully clothed, and turned on the water. Cold sheets of moisture cascaded onto Roger’s shaking frame. Brain saw Roger’s perfect blond hair fold into lackluster browns under the water’s transformative powers. He growled, wiping water from his long eyelashes. His white shirt was soaked through in a matter of seconds and his tuxedo pants immediately weighed him down. Despite this, he tried to heave himself out of the shower. He gripped the once azure marble frame around the sliding glass door, and used his slippery leverage to regain his footing. Brain, in the mood to suffer no fools, immediately pushed Roger back into the shower and onto its cerise and cerulean tiles; those tiles, a daring choice from Roger, now only looked grey to him. Everything was grey. He felt more stable and less panicked since being forcibly emerged into the water; he had been hoping this shock to the system would reboot his sense. But it hadn’t. He was still as blind to the colors of world as he was to the whispering of his own heart.

You knew what your heart was saying, however. You didn’t want to ignore it or deny it. If anything, you wanted to tell everyone about your budding feelings. You couldn’t wait for Lydia to get home; though considering the timing of the dinner, you might miss her altogether; you hadn’t seen each other all day, and whereas this wasn’t uncommon, it was unfortunate as you were as curious about her night as she might be about yours. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what a night with Roger Taylor would look like or feel like, but you were intrigued to hear from your best friend what the details of that experience were like. You rather thought it would be different from your night with John Deacon; they were two very different kinds of people. Roger was a clear choice, meaning that he was overtly attractive, charmingly abrasive, and mostly harmless. His depth was hidden, carefully so; yet Deacy kept everything, or so you thought, mostly transparent and out in the open. You had felt if you asked him any question he’d give you an honest answer. You had told each other you didn’t want to hide things from each other, no matter what; and yet, and yet, he hadn’t told you about his dead wife. You didn’t want to push him into talking about her; you couldn’t imagine how hard it would be for him to do so, and what his relationship with you made him feel regarding her; you didn't want to speculate; you’d rather hear the truth from him. So you had decided to wait for him to bring her up, and then as kindly as you could let him know you already knew and why, and that you weren’t hurt by her or his keeping the story of them back, but that you did deserve to know what you were getting into, and not to hear it from someone else, but from Deacy personally; you hoped this wouldn’t come to ahead anytime soon.

You were trying to brush out your hair; you had just had a bath, and the entire time, you only thought of Deacy, and how excited you were to see him tonight. You had a black towel wrapped around your body as you slid a comb through your hectic dark hair. With your glasses off your olive eyes shined in the light of the black and white bathroom. Lydia was obsessed with this bathroom; it was her design; she had, more or less, financed the entire decoration process of your shared apartment; childhood friends, you knew everything about each other. She had money. Lots of money. Her family was embarrassingly well-off, and even at university she lived off a generous trust fund that would, to your understanding, triple upon her graduation. What she loved most about this bathroom was the color scheme. She was a large scale artist. Her bedroom was covered in her original artworks; she also had a painting studio in the apartment full of ongoing projects. Her obsession had always been painting in black and white. You had never seen anything like her pieces. No matter what she painted, no matter what style she was using, landscape, abstract, or portrait, she would paint only using blacks and greys and whites. And her scale was terrifyingly large, so these pieces that should be in color were shockingly powerful when all the color was sucked out of them, and the feeling upon looking at one of her creations was powerfully confusing and thought-provoking. The absence of color did not render the feelings or the mind inept. Rather, the mind did what it did best: it filled in the subtext into glorious juxtaposition creating a sense of dissonance so delicate it was exactly was Lydia wanted the viewer to feel. Sickened and awe-inspired, in short. So the black and white baroque bathroom caused Lydia nothing short of divine ecstasy when she conceived of it, with your help. You pulled the towel up and put the comb down. You needed to pick out the perfect outfit to feel good in and to impress Deacy; you wanted to render him speechless.

Freddie Mercury was speechless. Jim had just come clean about his entire afternoon with you.

“Jim…” Freddie said, frowning into the runway mirrors. He was taking off his sweatshirt and picking out an outfit for tonight. He turned to the mirror so he could see Jim’s face better. Jim always came clean to Freddie; it was just what they did, especially if they felt guilty about something. They were each other’s confidants, each other’s shoulders to cry on, each other’s shelter from the storm. It was a guiding principle in their marriage: full disclosure, compassion, and caring understanding no matter what. It was a promise they made to each other since the day of the Jim’s white pants: if they couldn’t be transparent with their feelings, be truly vulnerable, then they needed to end it; if you don’t have vulnerability, you don’t have honesty, and if you don’t have honesty, you cannot have trust. They’ve never found it easier to keep a promise before in their lives. This was compatibility and reciprocity at its finest.

“I don’t regret it.” Jim’s Irish lilt was always more pronounced when he was angry.

Removing his undershirt, Freddie said, “I’m not asking you to regret it, darling.”

“She needed to know; I won’t be made to feel bad for protecting Johnny.”

“You’re right; I’m sorry, my love.” Freddie stopped undressing and walked over to Jim, who was sitting on one of the white patterned elaborate sofas. He took his husband’s hand. “You need to tell Deacy you told her.”

“I know.” Jim was no longer angrily defensive; he was resigned to having to make a fuzzy situation less complicated somehow.

“That’s all I’m asking; they deserve an equal playing field. And it is unfair,” he said, kissing Jim to make sure he was listening, “to ask her to bring it up to him, when it is privileged information she shouldn’t already have. I can’t even imagine the courage that would take.”

“Nor I.”

“And you don’t want to set them up to fail or distrust each other or doubt what they have, especially since you hold them both in such high esteem.”

Jim nodded, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder.

“Nice pants, by the way; exceptionally snug.” Freddie’s eyebrows bopped up and down suggestively.

“Oh, there will be none of that Mr. Mercury.” Jim said standing up and making his way towards the exit of this closet and towards his own. The teal satin pants were a tight statement piece Freddie was proud to see his love wearing.

“We don’t have the time.” Jim reasoned.

“There’s always time, darling.”

“Not for what I have planned there isn’t.” Jim winked at Freddie.

Freddie beamed up at his husband. “I guess I’ll just have to be patient, then.”

“Indeed.”

“One of the white ones, maybe?” Freddie suggested, starting to sift for the perfect ensemble himself.

“I think you’d like that a bit too much, Fred.”

“But that’s the point, love.”

Jim laughed.

Miami Beach pulled up to the restaurant in his cream Rolls-Royce.

Deacy ran a hand through his bouncy hair, checking his reflection one more time. The black and orange spoon-patterned tie clashed brilliantly with his fitted forest green button-down. The shirt was covered in mauve and sandy-colored bird silhouettes. He wore a baggy grey blazer over it, and a simple pair of tailored ivory-colored trousers. It was a twofold curiosity he felt: 1) what on earth would you think and say about his ungodly attire tonight 2) how angry would Roger be when he saw him, since it would be clear to them all, though especially Rog, that something was meant by this beyond just the typical utility clothing served. Roger would know it was a game crafted to make them furious. He slipped on a pair of grey loafers, and headed for the front door.

Brian had closed the shower’s glass door and was doing his best to hold it closed. Roger was taking turns switching between banging on it and tugging on the handle. His hands were slippery and he couldn’t get enough traction to open it.

“Open the door, you sod.” Roger yelled. “I’m soaked through to the bone. I’m dying. Let me out.”

“You’re not dying; you’re drunk and you need to sober up for this meeting.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Come off it! You can’t lie to me, Rog; we’ve known each other too long.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Yeah, and a sober person vomits all over their treasured sunglasses collection. Please; give me some credit here.”

Roger gave up fighting then. He knew what this looked like. He understood why Bri thought he was drunk. He also knew he’d sound like a lunatic if he tried to explain to his friend what was really wrong with him. This bizarre water torture wasn’t helping him calm down, however; sure, he wasn’t having a panic attack any longer, but he was growing angrier and angrier wet second by wet second. He was angry at himself, angry at Brian, and angry at Lydia. Angry at Lydia for fucking up his life, angry at Lydia whom he loved. Whom he loved. No, Roger thought, stop that; you don’t love her. You don’t know her. She’s not important. It isn’t like she’s thinking of you, wanting you; you’re nothing. She’s better off without you, mate. Roger let the water hit him, and he breathed in and out, trying to slow his breath, trying to mask his anger and self-loathing. If he ever wanted to get out of his shower, he’d had to make Brian believe he was fine. To do that, he’d have to conceal his rage and sorrow, and put on a happy face, or at least an apologetic one; in short, he’d have to lie.

“You’re right.” Roger sounded contrite, but wasn’t.

“I’m sorry! I can’t hear you.” Brian was deliberately plugging his ears.

“You can hear me, you bugger.”

“Try again, then.”

“You’re right, Bri. I had a drink to steady myself before the meeting and over did it.” Roger had his lips up against the glass door, dramatically screaming into it.

“And you’re a bit too drunk now to see you could have turned the water off on your own, hey?”

Roger spun around and growled at full volume in his shower before turning off the faucets. He had been distracted, yes, but not drunk. All the same, he hadn’t noticed when Brian locked him in here he had full control over the water. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he was going to break the glass door with his fists.

Brian, perhaps sensing this, opened the door. He reached a hand in and turned off the faucets for Rog.

“I hate you,” Roger said.

“I hate you, too.” Brian said.

It was how they said I love you, and always had been. They laughed together, and Brian felt his concern melt away and become a thing of the past.

“Pass me a towel, mate?” Roger was shaking. Brian thought it was from the cold, but it was from Roger’s barely controlled fury.

Brian passed Roger a canary yellow towel; Roger took the grey towel and began patting himself down.

“I’ll get you something to put on.” Brian left the bathroom.

Roger’s tears were mixing with the moisture on his face. His grey eyes sparkled back at him. He wanted to die. And since he couldn’t die, he settle for hurting someone or something.

You were in your bedroom, throwing clothing options on your bed, and rejects to the floor.

You found yourself unable to settle on one style over another, maybe it was leftovers from the impromptu costume party you and Jim had, but for the life of you, you had never had so many problems picking out what to wear. Lydia would say it was because you suddenly cared so much about what you had on because it would be taken off of you by someone else. And whereas she might not have been wrong, there was also the direct notion someone else you liked very much would be at a dinner with you, and his closest friends, and you’d have the opportunity to stare at each other all night. It had very little to do with touching for you. You felt compelled to have a visual impact that would draw attention.

Lydia was so much better at this than you; you wished she was home. You had a few outstanding pieces chosen, and even though Deacy had said it was a casual event, you had suspicions these men never dressed to not kill. You put on the top first. It was a golden brocade long-sleeved peplum. The raised pattern was adorned with pastel flowers, very small, very delicate. You paired the spectacular top with a pair of sky blue fitted velvet pants. You knew the shoes you needed, but they were Lydia’s. You both had an open door for fashion policy. You squeaked out of your bedroom and headed for Lydia’s room. You knocked on the door again, just to be sure, just to be polite--you knew she wasn’t home though. You opened the red crystal door knob and entered your best friend’s room.

The skylight was hexagonal and raised as if to kiss the sun itself. The bed was four poster with gauzy black hangings that did little much to obscure the view of whatever would happen in her bed. Unlike your room, where the walls were visible at certain points, Lydia’s walls were entirely covered by her artworks. Her black and white art screamed softly and sang loudly to you as you went for her closet. The canvases were all types of sizes, tetris-ed into perfect fits on her large walls (she had the largest bedroom). Though most of her pieces were at least four feet tall and wider when possible; she liked everything to be larger than life in all aspects of her life. In her closet you found them fast. You had your heart set on a pair of bright orange patent leather pumps. You threw them on, and ran to the bathroom to check your hair quick. Large and fluffy was as close to taming it as you could get. It would have to do. You put your large black plastic frames on, but still felt your outfit was missing something. Earrings, maybe? You went back into Lydia’s room and took her extra large golden hoop earrings and put them on; instinctually, you reached for her emerald bird-shaped ring, and slipped it on your finger. You looked at yourself in the mirror again, breathed in and out, and felt right. There was a knock at the door. You picked up the balloon string, you had removed it to shower, and went to answer the door.

Freddie and Jim were examining themselves in the runway mirror. Jim had on a pair of his white trousers with a bright red basic tee shirt tucked into them. He was combing his mustache and considering the white derbys Freddie had insisted he wear. This fashion stuff meant more to his husband than it did to him; he wasn’t used to it. He would never get used to having money; he just didn’t know what to do with it, and felt guilty every time he spent money on something nice for himself. It was perhaps nonsensical, but the principles we are taught as children never really leave us, and Jim was raised to be frugal and not spend money on himself--not that he ever really had any extra to spend on himself anyway.

“You look wonderful,” Freddie said, sensing Jim’s discomfort. “You are allowed to look wonderful, and to not feel like you’re neglecting anyone because of it.”

“I know.” Jim said sheepishly. “Learned behavior is hard to ignore.”

“Wait--what is that?” Freddie said dramatically, as if straining to hear an invisible caller, “It’s your mother’s siren call, darling!”

“Oh, give it a rest, angel.” Jim said, a laugh in his heart.

“You first.” Freddie had his hands on Jim’s shoulders, smiling at him, willing him to relax about money; when you grew up always worrying about money, it was impossible to never worry about it, even when you had it, it was always in the back of your mind like itch you couldn’t scratch, or a breath on the back of your neck you can’t find the source for, or the feeling when your shoes always come untied: it is the perpetual feeling of never being able to do enough to take care of yourself. And Freddie, since the white pants incident, had taken care of Jim, without even asking; it was like breathing for him, meaning, it was just what he did to live: he looked after others because he could.

Jim exhaled, “I love you.”

“I love you.” Freddie kissed Jim, then examined himself in the mirror. “What do you think?”

Freddie had on a yellow muscle shirt, tight acid-washed jeans, and a pair of red adidas boxing shoes: in few words, his current favorite look.

“Very sporty,” Jim said, smiling.

“Sporty?” Freddie said, mock-insulted, “This is fashion, darling!”

“I don’t understand why you get to wear that and I’m stuck wearing this.”

“Well, because all night, whenever I see you in those white trousers, I’ll get the immense pleasure of reliving the most important night of my life.”

Jim looked at Freddie, then. And what he saw was love.

“Reservation?” The maitre d’ asked.

“The reservation is under Beach.”

“For seven of you?”

“Yes; one chair for each of their massive egos.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes, seven.”

You opened the door and saw John Deacon. And you were rendered momentarily speechless, though not for the usual reason he had that effect on you.

“Wonderful!” He said excitedly leaning in for a kiss. “That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

“Were you robbed?” You asked, returning the kiss.

“Not one bit.” John saw you then, really saw you, and a bewildered smile grew large on his face. He took in your outfit, the bird-shaped ring, almost the same color as his bird-patterned shirt, and breathed slowly. You were glorious, and you both were gloriously synchronized.

“Ah, that’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.” You said, copying his exact delivery.

“Do you usually dress like this?” He was searching for something in your face, keenly; the gears in his mind were working fast.

“I think I was just insulted.” You muttered to yourself.

“Not at all.” Deacy said, taking your hand. “Honest answer?”

“I don’t, no. But I followed my intuition--which is never wrong.”

“Ditto; it is why I asked.” Deacy started leading you down the stairs. “You see, this is all for a specific purpose.”

“To make your friends vomit at the table when they see you?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want them to be off their game.” He said, trying to explain years of psychology only he could know about his friends. “It is the only way to win.”

“This is that kind of dinner, then?”

“Yes, and I’ll make it up to you forever if you’ll let me?”

You stopped on the stairs thinking of Veronica. You understood why he was able to make promises like this, even last night so close after meeting. It all suddenly and loudly made sense. Now you understood perfectly why those kinds of vainglorious-seeming vows could escape his lips and sound believable and were believable because they were the honest truth, his honest truth: he could say them and mean them because he had before; he had made those promises before to someone before, and he had meant them entirely, and was able to keep them. You steadied your breath before he could notice your epiphany, and said, “I will let you, Deacy.”

He smiled up at you, and noticed your wrist. A small frown appeared on his face.

“Oh! I removed it to shower.” You said, fast. “I was hoping you’d help me tie back on.” You held out the string to him. “Lydia wasn’t here to help.”

He took the string from you, and tied it perfectly on your wrist once more. It wasn’t full of diamonds or even anything remotely valuable conventionally, but its intrinsic worth was more than anything else you owned.

On the street, he led you to a different car than before.

“I thought your Mercedes was green?”

“Didn’t I mention the blue one, too?” He couldn’t recall completely.

“I thought you were joking.” You said.

And you realized this was her car.

It was a light blue Mercedes-Benz.

You didn’t know how you knew it, but it was what your gut was telling you, and you always trusted your gut, because it was always right.

“Roger fixed this one for me.”

“Fixed it for you?” You questioned. You felt bad, because you had a very good idea why it had to be fixed, but you didn’t want to pressure him before he was ready to tell you, or hint that you knew more than you should.

“It was out of commission for a spell.” Deacy said hesitantly. “Technically, this one is my car. My main car, I mean.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” There was something sad in Deacy’s voice, and you wanted more than anything to take that sadness away. He opened the door for you, and closed it once you had gotten inside.

He walked around to the driver’s side and entered.

“Thank you for coming to this dinner with me.” He said, suddenly very serious.

You took his hand, hoping he’d hear you. You made sure he was looking you in the eyes. Your olive eyes shone and his grey ones were slightly cold. “It is my pleasure to help in anyway I can.”

He smiled at you, and nodded. He put the key in the ignition and began heading towards the restaurant.

Roger Taylor’s hair was dry. He was in a white and grey fitted plaid blazer, at least that’s what he saw. It’s actual colors, because he knew his wardrobe, were a pale blue and grey. But color wasn’t a thing anymore, and all he saw was the grey. He was wearing a grey tee shirt, which should have been the same pale blue, but wasn’t. He was in a pair of actual dark grey trousers with a full break, and a pair of purple-colored oxfords that looked only black to him. Brian had handed him his baby blue aviators, which looked only light grey to him, and turned him to the mirror.

“It’s not as good as anything you could put together, but it’ll suffice.” Brian sounded impatient; he was in no mood to humor Roger anymore tonight.

“You’re right on both accounts.” Roger said, trying to lighten the mood. He felt like vomiting again; he missed color. He missed it dearly.

“Can we please go now?”

“Ready when you are, Bri.” Roger tried to smile enough to fool his lifelong friend.

“Let’s motor.”

Freddie and Jim arrived at the restaurant, surprised to find they had beaten everyone else when they were led to a table in the back and only saw their manager sitting there waiting alone.

“Miami, darling!” Freddie embraced Beach with a full-on hug compete with loud cheek air kisses that made everyone in the dining room turn and stare. This is what the public expected, and it was what Freddie would deliver with panache.

“Hello, Freddie. Jim! How are you?” Miami shook Jim’s hand, happy to see someone normal here for the night’s entertainment.

“Hello, Jim.” Jim Hutton said, smiling widely at his same-named friend.

“Listen, I’ll be at the head of the table for mediation, and I was thinking the band would be here in these four chairs, and the guests at the end.”

“Thank god,” Hutton said, happily sitting at the other end of the table; he knew what was coming. At least he thought he did. They all thought they did.

Roger was trying to shake Brian off him. “Stop fixing my lapel; leave me alone!” His mood had not improved during the ride to the restaurant. He was seething. He could make ice boil just by looking at it. They were walking up to the maitre d’, who wasn’t pleased at Roger’s outburst.

“Reservation?”

“Beach, please.” Brian responded as congenial as possible; next to him Roger kept taking off his sunglasses and polishing them compulsively. “Would you please stop it.” Brain said opening his mouth as little as possible and attempting to still smile at the host.

“Me stop it? You stop it!” Roger said way too loudly to be considered even the neighbor to polite behavior.

“Right this way, please.” The maitre d’ was doing his best to ignore Roger Meddows Taylor. The hard thing about that was, he was so gorgeous, especially when angry, that it was hard to look away. That unique charm Roger had to stop people in their tracks occurred the entire way to the table. People turned to look at the Blond God, and they loved every second of it. Roger, who usually loved the attention, just found himself getting more viciously furious by the second. What kind of black and white film hell had he stepped into? He enjoyed a good film noir like the rest of everyone else, but this was too fucking much; he didn't want to live in one.

Hutton was hugging Brian and Freddie came over to embrace Roger, who distractedly hugged him back.

“Hello, Miami. How’s the family?” Brian asked.

“Wonderful, thank you. Wife is pregnant again, actually.”

“Congratulations!” Brian smiled warmly. “That calls for champagne, I think.”

“Absolutely!” Freddie agreed.

Roger and Brian sat across from Freddie.

Shortly thereafter, you and Deacy arrived at the restaurant.

“Miami Beach, please.” Deacy said to the flustered-looking maitre d’.

“Miami?” You asked bemusedly.

“It’s a long story.” Deacy said, “I’ll tell you later.”

The maitre d’, whose night was about to get a million times worse than he could ever have imagined, led you and Deacy to a table in the back. You had never been to a place this fancy before. It was the kind of place with more than one type of fork and spoon.

“Here is your table, Mr. Deacon.”

Deacy hadn’t given his name, and blushed instantly; he’d never get used to be recognized in public. “Thank you.” He said graciously.

The table was full, except for two sets, belonging to you and Deacy. You saw they were apart from each other, but that was okay, and, if anything, facilitated the odds of being able to steal glances at each other, which was all part of the game.

You both stood at the back of the table near what would be your chair, when Roger looked up and noticed you both.

The look on his face shifted from casual, un-targeted annoyance to a direct venomous glare of absolute detestation.

Looking at you, he shouted loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, “What in bloody hell is she doing here?!”

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

Tag List:  @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @groupiie-love@partydulce@richiethotzierz@sophierobisonartfoundationblr@psychostarkid@teathymewithben@smittyjaws@just-ladyme@botinstqueen @mydogisthebest@little-welsh-wonder@maxjesty@deakysdiscos@yourealegendroger@marvellouspengwing@molethemollie@deakysgirl@arrowswithwifi@tardisgrump

[ps-nippets]

Entry #1: Night at the Concert

It was cold in the baroque church. The dim lighting falling on the white marble cherubs with gold ornaments, the giant oil paintings of saints, the Christmas trees covered in silver rain and fairy lights, gave the atmosphere of a magical dream during this time of twilight. And my butt was burning because the benches were heated way too strongly... still it helped us survive until the end.

The clatter and chatter of excited tourists, the shuffle of large coats and the stomping of the winter boots echoed. The anticipation and excitement weighing on my senses like a blanket. Behind me, on a balcony just below the painted ceiling stood an old wooden organ, stretching across the whole side of the church. From my seat I had to crane my neck to see it. After a while my friends refused to speak to me because the amount of times I have said “that’s what she said” whenever anyone referred to the organ has become excessive to say the least.

A hush. Applause. The musicians settled at their spots on the podium in front of their audience. Four violins and a cello, and somewhere above our heads, the organ. They tuned their instruments, shared a smile that held a secret us the audience could only guess at, nodded and...

Oh the music... 

The music! It was spectacular! Mozart, Vivaldi, Bach, Schubert. I could see them smiling down on us from a secluded balcony in the corner by the altar.

The lead violinist was a stout woman, wearing a fur headband which kept the thick reddish brown hair away from her round face. Thin and dark arching eyebrows, silver earrings, red lipstick on thin lips and a straight nose, reminded me of a magpie.  Her sharp yet confident movements, so dramatic to their very core, made me think of a gypsy performing in a medieval fair. Every trill of the violin and her thread poncho flared. Leaning into the music like a tree in a storm, her purple dress swayed at her ankles.  She never once looked at her notes. Truly a force of nature. She played with a haughty countenance, with a slight upturn of her lips when she woke from the trance to see a sincere applauding audience. I could imagine her being a teacher, or someone who could read a person like a book, a mother who decorated her house in baubles and trinkets that glittered when the curtains were flung open to great the sun.

Behind her stood the second violinist, tall and wearing a dark woolen suit. Thinning dark blond hair parted exactly down the middle, round glasses with a thick black frame perched atop his nose, he tucked the violin in a way that folded the skin into a double chin and a smug smile. It was a smart move for him to wear finger-less gloves, and I think he knew that. At the end of each piece he did not huff at his hands to warm them up unlike the others. If his day job would be a self-important librarian who only chugs the blackest coffee I wouldn’t be surprised. 

To his left, at the very center sat the cellist. A graying dark goatee and a round beer belly in a washed our green sweater with a blue collar of a button up shirt brushing the edges of his jaw. Slow and clumsy in his normal life, I can see him sitting behind a clerical desk in some government office or bank clattering away on an old computer. But when he sat down and took the cello in his hands, when his bow has touched the string, it was almost like there was a completely new man. A concentration that almost burned through the paper, flowed as he stretched into the sound of music like a turtle coming out of his shell.

The other two violinists who stood to his left were hidden from my sight by the rows of hats in front of me. I only caught a glimpse or two of them but whenever I would, they would be staring at each other and smiling. My attention was focused on the main trio. But not to leave them out completely from my narrative I will spare a few words. They were young, younger than the other three. A man and a woman, both in dark and both wearing glasses. The man’s fringe kept falling over his eyes, while her long brown hair swished to the movements of the bow.

We did not see the organist until the end of the concert, not until our applause thundered through the church just like the overwhelming music of the organ. We stood up and turned around. There he was. Standing by the balustrade, the last thing I imagined him to look like... Gru from Despicable Me.  I looked over to my friends and I knew that they saw it too. He was tall, bald, wearing a black coat with padded shoulders and a striped grey black scarf wound around his neck. He stretched out his hand and bowed, the other musicians followed suit. 

Gathering our things we stood in the crowd, trying to leave the church, our cheeks red from excitement and laughter. But something weighed down on me. the concert felt too short, too intense but mesmerizing. With one last “that’s what she said” joke I was dragged out of the church.

The concert was over.

Tag list: @odessawrites, @theforgottencoolkid  (if anyone would like to be added to or removed from the “Unfortunate Series of Character Studies” tag list, please let me know)

P.S: sorry this was so long, I got a little carried away. Nevertheless I hoped you enjoyed the very first character study(if i can even loosely call it a character study) but YES, thank you for reading! 

[slavicviking]

26 for the writing prompt? :D

I hope you enjoy!

“The diamond in your engagement ring is fake.” from this.

Ffnet version          ao3 version

Engagedin a dangerous kind of business

The dress was too long.

She had filed a complaint toher boss but what she was met with in response was a slap on a back and a condensinglaugh. Lesson learned - apparently being attractive meant more than beingeffective because there was no way in the world she would be able to throw adecent kick in a dress as long as this one.

She huffed as she stared at her reflection in the mirror wall.

“It’s almost time, Astrid,” Hiccup announced as he entered the room. Hefixed his cuffs absently, mind miles away as it always was at moments likethese. His left hand dove into the expensive jacket’s pocket and he fished outa small box, handing it to her with a strained smile.

The ring was…okay, nothing too attention-grabbing, nor tacky-looking.

Enough for them to sell the lie.

“M’lady?” Hiccup inquired as he raised his arm, his smile more genuinethis time. Astrid felt herself relaxing as she hooked their arms together. As planned,there was a black limousine waiting for them outside, their usual driver,Snotlout, already waiting for them to get in. As they sat down, her hand wentto fix her hair, noting that at a certain angle her earpiece remained visible.

Gods, this plan was destined to fail. Not that anyone wanted to listento her. Except for one person.

“You look, eh, you look beautiful,” Hiccup’s nervous voice sounded toher left and she allowed herself to smile, just a little. There was somethingheart-warming in the fact that she was not the only one that had their doubtswhen it came to their mission; she knew he had her back, he always did.  

Having been thoroughly checked at the entrance, they entered the GreatHall hand in hand, immediately blown away by the richness of the room – thediamond chandeliers, marble floors and highest-quality furniture, where asingle piece was worth more than her monthly wage. The dance floor in themiddle was filled with couples dancing a waltz as Johann Strauss II’s ‘WienerBlut’ filled the enormous Hall.

“Care for a dance?” Hiccup quirked an eyebrow her way.

“You know I don’t dance,” she answered with half-hearted shake of herhead though her lips stretched into a tired smile.

“I know Astrid Hofferson does not,” he laughed quietly when she hushedhim. “but perhaps Lady Fowler does?”

“Fine then,” she pulled on his hand, “Mr. Danaher. I suppose a dance it is.”

Hiccup grinned cheekily at her as she tugged him by the sleeve towardsthe dancefloor. They swerved across it with surprising grace and finesse as thefinest Vienna orchestra played their soft tunes in the background. The secretjoy of doing something as simple as dancing was brutally interrupted when, fromthe corner of her eye, she saw her target. She had gone through Castel’s fileand it had been long since she had felt so disgruntled, so disgusted whiledoing so. She would have taken him down if it were up to her but it was not thefocus of her mission here and she was not going to be the one to go againsttheir boss’s wishes.

The task was simple; make sure Hiccup had enough time to do what he wassupposed to – hack into the system, destroy Castel from the inside.

She was a distraction, as much as she did not like it.

Once the piece finished, Astrid felt Hiccup’s arms around her loosen andshe knew it was time to do what they came here to do. She saw Castel meetingher eye for a split moment, a strange expression gracing his quite handsomeface. He was young, so terrifyingly young – his gentle manner did not match thebrutal reports, it was almost too easy to doubt.

She made sure Castel was occupied before pulling Hiccup away from thedancefloor. He noticed the man, their target, and frowned. Castel being here,so close, was not part of the plan, but perhaps they could use it to theiradvantage.

“I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be back soon,” he squeezed her hand ashe said it, a signal between them both. She used it to hug him shortly.

“Be careful,” she quickly whispered.

“Aren’t I always?” Hiccup mustered a smile she knew was just a cover-upfor how nervous he was, understandably so; Hiccup was never supposed to haveleft his office back at their base. But he did, and she would what she could tokeep him safe. Her heart jolted sharply in her chest as she saw him leave.

He would be safe, there was no other way.

Astrid took her place by one of the tables, beautifully set up and almostbuckling under all the exquisite foods placed on top. She took a moment toremind herself of Castel’s file, thinking of a good way to approach anddistract him. Her stomach twisted as she thought of the folder, swollen withabuse, violence and manipulation. A glass of surely very expensive red wine temptedher from across the table.

“Lady Fowler, is it?” A voice cut through her thoughts like awell-sharpened knife. Castel appeared to her right, his hands in the pants’pockets.

“Yes?” she inquired with a slight nod of her head, surprised that he wasthe one to approach her. It wasn’t right. She quickly stood up, fixing thefolds on her dress. “Is there something I can help you with, Sir?”

“I wanted to ask if you have seen the art exhibition yet?” he didn’tlook at her as he spoke. There was some roughness, some rawness hidden underthe perfect smile, perfect hair and perfect clothes. She swallowed.

“Oh, I fear I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Astrid shruggedhalf-heartedly, her eyes shifting towards the direction in which Hiccup left.He caught that and she cursed inwardly.

“Let me show you then,” Castel held out his arm for her, a charmingsmile accompanying his gentleman-like manners.

“I should wait for my fiancé-“

“Mr. Bailey here will inform him to join us,” he quickly jumped in witha nonchalant wave of his hand. Mr. Bailey, a man that had to be in his oldfifties at the least, smiled warmly her way. His gentle blue eyes and longblond moustache fancily done gave away a trustworthy impression. He lookedalmost…familiar, or so it seemed to her. “Now, if I may-?”

She linked her arm with his, keeping as much distance between them aspossible. It was awkward, painfully so, but she was not willing to disrespecther personal space any more than she had done already this evening.

The art gallery, as it turned out, was truly a sight to behold.Awe-inspiring baroque and romantic paintings graced walls on both sides of thecorridor. She and Castel walked down the red carpet that her legs sunk intowith each step, with the man himself presenting each landscape and portrait witha detailed and personalized description. Her eyelids felt heavier as moreinformation was shared and the hall didn’t seem to get any shorter, quite theopposite really.

Art was never her domain; it was Hiccup’s more than anyone else’s out ofpeople she knew.

Gods, she hoped he was safe. She remained unsettled as the earpiece keptsilent on his end.

It was then that she realized – the Hall was empty. Gone were the lonecouples wondering around and young artists fawning over the masterpieces fromcenturies ago. A shiver ran down her back as she realized how dangerous of asituation she was currently in.

Castel released her arm and she knew.As he threw a fist her way, she was ready and blocked it with her forearm, herother hand going to unsheathe a small knife. She choked as Castel managed tograb her by the throat and press against the wall, in-between two paintings.She hid her hand grasping the knife under her back – a foolish and amateurmistake on his part.

He pressed his forearm onto her neck and she gasped for air.

“You think you had me fooled?” he hissed, his irritation growing by thesecond. Astrid saw an insane glint in his eyes.

“The diamond in your engagement ring is fake,” he sneered as he roughlypulled off the piece of cheap jewelry, thrusting it down the hall. It rolleddown on the floor, falling into a small ventilation opening. Astrid used the briefmoment of distraction as she bit into his arm, hard.

Castel ripped his arm away and clutched it, with a low growl under his breath.Taking the brief moment of distraction to her advantage, she cut through theside of her dress with the knife and threw a kick into his stomach. The manstumbled backwards. She pressed the earpiece into her ear.

“Hiccup, it’s over, get out of there – now!” she quickly said as she felt herself being thrown sideways. Witha groan, Astrid tried to throw a punch his way but he caught her fist andtwisted her arm, her back now pressed tightly against his front. She elbowedhim in the stomach, setting herself free.

Until she heard a clung of a gun.

She turned around slowly to see him point it her way, his face radiatingfrom insane rage and glistening with sweat. He wouldn’t fire. He wouldn’t darewith so many people in the room right next to them, not with so many witnesses.

He loaded the gun.

She felt a beat of sweat roll down her forehead as she cursed herselffor not taking her glock pre-emptively. Her boss had forbid her from doing so,but she should have anyway.

“Astrid? Where are you?” Hiccup’s nasally voice sounded in her ear. Hewas safe, he had to be, right?

“Go without me,” she whispered back as the gun stared at her from acrossthe corridor, framed with a confident smirk on Castel’s face.

“Astrid, what-?” she heard his confusion and panic as she turned off theearpiece. It’s me and you, Castel.

“You think I won’t shoot you?” his voice quivered, his shaky fingerghosting over the trigger. No, she had no doubt that she would. Her eyes roamedover the room in a weak attempt to find a way out. She saw a bulky shadow andher heart stopped.

“I wouldnae do that if I were ye.”

She released a shaky breath as Castel lowered the gun. Mr. Bailey pressedhis own glock to the young man’s skull.

“This is the FBI,” the man said through gritted teeth. Castel, all of asudden, appeared stupidly vulnerable as he dropped his gun and fell to hisknees, his arms falling limp by his sides.

“You betrayed me, Mr. Bailey,” he murmured surprised with a child-likeinnocence to it, and she found it hard to believe it was the same guy that wasready to blast her brains out just a minute ago. “You betrayed me.”

He kept repeating that as Mr. Bailey handcuffed him and as he waspositioned safely by the wall, his gun out of his reach.

“Gobber,” the older man informed as he went in to shake hands with her.Noting Astrid’s obvious hesitation, he fished out an ID. “I worked undercoverfer Castel fer a year now.”

“No such information was forwarded-“

“Those muttonheads are as organized as-“ Gobber waved his hand as shelooked at him skeptically. “Never mind. Point is, I was informed, agent Hofferson.”

She heard sirens outside. Her heart leapt and she jumped to reach thedoors to the Great Hall. People must have been evacuated as the ballroomremained empty, untouched food filling the tables still. She saw Hiccup, safe,talking to their boss by the main entrance, worry prominent on his face. Theireyes met. It took all her will power to not ran his way. But he was safe. Shesmiled, adrenaline wearing off.  

“Good thing it was a fake one,” Astrid huffed, taking out a small velvetbox from her safe in their office. She unlocked the lid and took out a smallsilver ring before sliding it onto one of her fingers. Hiccup barked a short laugh.

“Gods, I don’t know what I would have done,” he shook his head. “I can’tafford another one.”

She snorted, a lazy smile making its way on her face.

“Well, it’s more about the person than the ring, don’t you think?” sheinquired teasingly as she leaned forward to peck him on the lips.

“True,” her fiancé agreed thoughtfully. With a smile of his own, hehanded her his arm, for the second time this evening. “Ready to go home, LadyHofferson?”

Her laugh was truly something that could brighten up anyone’s day, hisespecially.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Mr. Haddock.”

 The End

The rest of my writing.

If you want to request a drabble.