#also the solo violinist

[6ebe]

Hate the tiktokification of le cygne by Saint-saëns like do you guys even know that’s the goat 😞

[yerimbrit]

overture : k. haerin

synopsis: even in doubt, you'll always have haerin.

# : pairing ! nonidol!kang haerin x fem!reader

# : tags ! classical music!au, haerin is a pianist, reader is a violinist, fluff, childhood friends to potentially something more, i might actually make this into a series but who knows, this could also technically be read as a 5+1 style fic but idk, domesticity

# : wordcount ! 1.6k

# : warnings ! none

"let's play."

those were the very first words that you've spoken to kang haerin, ever.

the girl had just moved into your neighborhood, to the house next door, and her mom had brought her over to your door for introductions. she was shy, even six year old you could tell, the way she hid behind her mom. once she peeked out in curiosity, that's when you uttered those two words.

her mouth hung agape, and hesitantly, she nodded. while your moms were chatting away, you decided to continue the conversation.

"i'm y/n, what's your name?" you held your hand out, smiling and proudly showing off the top row that was missing a tooth.

she didn't take your hand—only stared at it—but she quietly mumbled a, "haerin," before pointing at your mouth. "what happened to your tooth?"

you held your mouth open, pointing at it with your own finger, "this?" she nodded. "oh, i tripped and it fell out!"

it took more than a few moments for haerin to process your words, but after it clicked, tears started welling up in her eyes. panicked, you looked up to your mom for help, but she was too busy getting to know haerin's mom to notice. suddenly, a lightbulb lit up above your head, and your eyes sparkled.

the girl would soon feel an enveloping warmth around her, a hug, and her eyes widened.

"there, there, don't cry! my dad always hugs me when i cry, so maybe this'll help... wait!" you pulled away, another panicked look overtaking your childish features, "sorry! mom says i shouldn't touch others without asking first!"

once again, haerin took a few moments to process what had just happened, and you really thought you were done for, because this was taking longer than the last time.

that was until a noise made its way out of her lips. then another, and then she was giggling, and laughing, and the cat-eyed girl was now smiling, and you just knew that you had to cherish this bond and keep it safe for the rest of your life.

a few months passed and you started school together, managing to get placed in the same homeroom class. you were stuck by the hip, glued together—no one could tear you apart. even when you were out socializing, you always made sure to introduce your friends to haerin, although she would stay quiet for most of the conversations.

it was during the talent show the following year when both you and haerin found a shared dream. an older kid, maybe three or so years above, was playing a solo of a riedling piece, but what stood out the most to you was the addition of another older kid on the piano.

you wanted to play the violin with haerin at your side. and it was a good thing you knew that she felt the same way, you could see it in the way her eyes glimmered while watching the performance, because you would've begged and begged for her to take piano lessons so you could play together.

and so upon returning home, you tugged on your mother's sleeve with pleading eyes and asked for a violin.

"let's play."

you approached haerin, who was sitting at the upright piano that her father had enthusiastically bought a few months prior, when his daughter timidly asked for something out loud for the first time. she had never asked with her words, but she asked with her eyes, and her father had never been so relieved that his daughter was able to voice her wants.

it had only been four months since you and haerin started learning how to play, and you were impatient. you wanted to play with haerin.

"okay."

of course, the first few tries were a sad jumble of notes, creating dissonance and harmonies out of sync. this wouldn't discourage you. you were determined to play.

and after an hour of nonstop playing and readjusting, you and haerin's heart and soul emerged in an almost perfect ring.

you turned around to face the cat-eyed girl, a big grin on your face as you lowered your quarter size violin by the neck. she turned to you, a small smile also stretched across her lips, and while her expression was mild compared to yours, her eyes told you everything.

let's play again.

"let's play," you huffed, your voice less childish than it was six years ago, when you were seven and too innocent. "we have to get it right!"

"i-" haerin started, but paused. she was never one to say no to you—a blessing and a curse, at least for her. "okay."

you resumed playing, only to slide your pinky too far down and play a screeching high note, piercing your left ear and haerin's right one. she rested her hands on her thighs, taking a deep breath and glancing over to you. "y/n, i really think that-"

"again!" you raised your voice, and haerin slightly flinched. you weren't one to raise your voice. in this realization, you widened your eyes, gently set your violin back down in its case, and sat down next to your best friend. "i'm sorry. i've been so stressed lately."

she didn't say anything, only reaching over to push your head down. it wasn't harsh, but only just—and your head would be resting on her shoulder where it belonged.

"i'm sorry, 'rinnie," you mumbled.

she shook her head. "it's okay. let's take a break."

"mhm."

"let's play," you mouthed to haerin, both of you adorning stylish and elegant black concert dresses. now sixteen, years of experience tacked onto your belts, it was the final round of the national violin competition that you'd worked tirelessly to reach.

rachimaninoff's morceaux de salon, op 6. 2: danse hongroise.

nine years of hard work led you to this moment, where you would play and haerin would be your accompaniment. you believed in you and haerin's capabilities, for you had long surpassed the upperclassmen's level that had once inspired your dreams.

the notes you played, the ones you breathed life into, danced around the stage, entwining with the ones haerin set free before running off towards the audience for a chance to show the people your bond.

and yes, they danced, and danced, and danced. just like how you and haerin did when you were younger, when the tv was on and a i got a boy stage was playing. like how you and haerin did when it was pouring rain and haerin pretended she didn't have a collapsible umbrella in her bag because you loved to dance in the rain.

it was beautiful, both the harmony and the melody, and your relationship with haerin. you knew that you loved haerin. there was nothing you were more sure of. not even the mistakes that stuck out to everyone but you, and not even the fact that you loved the rain. and you knew that haerin loved you too. there was no need for words when it came to her.

sweat trailed down your brow as you switched between bowing and pizzicato, and with a glance to your left you saw haerin's brows furrowing in concentration, keeping up with your rapid notes. there was something in the way she played, there always was; she played the piano like she was a magician. there was something so alluring about her movements that you got surprised when she pulled something out of her sleeve. her hands were fluid, like they were one with the black and white keys, and once you got a taste of her magic? there was no going back.

in your own movements, there was emotion. joy, sorrow, anything that you could pull out of the piece. it was as if you entered the mindscape of the centuries old composers, and brought their feelings out in warm strokes of your bow. it immersed the audience, like you were bringing your hand out in an introduction and waiting for them to take it.

these two styles contrasted and complemented each other, and that was what made your performance so good.

the final notes of the piece rang out, and the crowd became silent. the only thing you could hear was the sound of you and your partner's heavy breaths on the stage and the final reverberations of your instruments.

the audience stood, and a deafening ovation was awarded for your combined efforts.

you smiled. you didn't have to turn around to know that haerin was smiling too.

"we're so little in this picture," you giggle, setting the framed photo near the windowsill that sheds light on the grand piano that haerin will play.

the girl hums, bringing a box full of old trinkets and memories to place near the couch. the apartment you now share is more than enough space for you and your partner to reside in. "you looked cuter with that missing tooth."

"oh yeah?" you feign an eye twitch, "why don't i give you one to match?"

"aw, you want to match with me?" she teases, eyes crinkling up in mischief. you playfully raise a fist and then lower it.

bending down to open the box she had just placed, you reach your hand inside and feel your fingertips brushing against a few pieces of paper stapled together, two sets of them. grabbing the sets, you read over the titles and your eyes light up along with your smile. "'rin, look! heart and soul."

haerin walks over, plucks her own set from your hands, and sets it onto the desk above the covered keyboard. she lifts the cover, motions to your encased violin. "y/n," she calls out, softly, warmly.

your smile widens, and you take the violin out of its case, naturally starting to tune it. once you're done, you walk to haerin's right side, and position the bottom edge of the instrument under the left side of your chin and onto your shoulder.

haerin says it before you can. you beam.

"let's play."

a/n : here is the haerin fic as promised, hope you enjoyed! i personally really like this one so i hope you guys feel the same :-)

[dalliancekay]

Singing

I feel, we as a fandom, don’t talk enough about Aziraphale's singing.

Maybe he's not much into whatever pop/rock sensation is currently in most humans earphones*, but we know that he used to be a music tutor and therefore surely knows many great tunes.

On top of that, his music taste isn't as ancient as some might think... yes he likes classical music, but contrary to some opinions of it, not all of it is from 18th century. The symphony (number 5) he buys from Maggie at the beginning of S2 was written in 1937 by Dimitri Shostakovich who had a turbulent life (it being the 1930s AND trying to survive in Stalin's cruel regime).

The piece the Bentley plays for Azi when he asks for music on his way to Edinburgh is one of my favourite pieces of music called Danse Macbre by Saint-Saëns, the opening of which Wikipedia describes thus:

The piece opens with a harp playing a single note, D, twelve times (the twelve strokes of midnight) which is accompanied by soft chords from the string section. The solo violin enters playing the tritone, which was known as the diabolus in musica ("the Devil in music") during the Medieval and Baroque eras, consisting of an A and an E♭—in an example of scordatura tuning, the violinist's E string has actually been tuned down to an E♭ to create the dissonant tritone.

Aziraphale is also clearly aware of the film and the music + songs from The Sound of Music (1965) and Aziraphale, living in Soho as he does, I bet is a great lover of not just drama in theatre, but also musicals.

Therefore it is not a huge reach to conclude he would knows some fabulous songs to sing while making himself a pot of tea and a cup of coffee for Crowley on one the countless idyllic mornings in their cottage. Nor is it a stretch to assume that he loves to sing Crowley to sleep, playing with his hair as he does so, much like we all love to see in art and fics that this wonderful fandom provides.

So my question is, what does Aziraphale love to sing? Is it Maria from West Side Story? Singing in the Rain?

Does he love Jesus Christ Superstar (much like he loves his collection of misprinted Bibles)? Did he and Crowley go see Hamilton?

I also think they would have a huge collection of instruments in their cottage, perhaps even a beautiful grand piano... that, of course, they both can play. *but neither is the Bentley, who plays Queen to Crowley basically indiscriminately, even though he tries to play other things when driving. Whether he tried to play music in his car before the 70s, I'm not sure we know?

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived. 

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: Wounded and traumatized by the Afghan War, John Watson falls in love with a detective who is also a remarkable violinist.

Author: Katie Forsythe

[whencyclopedia]

Antonio Vivaldi

Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741) was an Italian violin virtuoso and composer of baroque music (c. 1600-1750). Best known for his violin concertos, notably The Four Seasons, Vivaldi made a significant contribution to the evolution of instrumental music, influencing Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) amongst many others, particularly in the concerto form.

Early Life

Antonio Lucio Vivaldi was born in Venice on 4 March 1678. His father was a professional violinist (but had been a baker before that) who was a member of the orchestra of St. Mark's in Venice. Antonio, the eldest of six children, was taught by his father to play the same instrument. The family home still stands today on the Fondamenta del Dose canal. Antonio also studied to become a priest from 1693 and was ordained in 1703. Vivaldi had red hair which led to his nickname il prete rosso (‘the Red Priest'). The decision to join the priesthood did no harm to his musical career as, from 1709, Vivaldi also worked as a violin teacher in a Venetian orphanage for girls, the Conservatorio Pio Ospedale della Pietà. The Conservatorio attracted talented solo musicians to its regular orchestra and choir for which Vivaldi composed pieces for performance in special services like Lent. Vivaldi gained more time for composing when he was exempted from joining Mass on medical grounds; he had what he called stretezza di petto ('a tightness of the chest'), an ailment that never went away. Vivaldi returned frequently to the Conservatorio throughout his career and was appointed its concert director in 1735.

Continue reading...

[rudnitskaia]

Rocky and Mau could possibly have two kids.

First one is their son Niccolò, who was born in the middle of 1930. After the shootout in Casa di Rondine in November of 1929 Maura and Augusto survive and manage to flee from St. Louis to some backwoods. And soon Mau finds out she expects a child, but she can't contact Rocky, because this was extremely dangerous in their situation. The threat of the New York's crime syndicate that pursued the Venza family since 1926 vanishes in early 1931, since the syndicate was practically exterminated both by rival gangs and law enforcement authorities. This allows Maura to go to find Rocky. If he's still alive and has no other partner by that point, she'd find him through Calvin and they'd start to live together. Otherwise, if Rocky's alive, but has a new life and a new partner/family, Mau won't interrupt - she'd ask Calvin not to tell Rocky about her, and Rocky most probably never knows Niccolò exists, while Mau stays a solo mom. Technically, in both cases Rocky and Maura would still be married by that point, but if Rocky is with someone else in 1931 and Mau decides not to interfere in his life, she would be considered dead/MIA after a while and Rocky could easily claim and achieve the annulment of their spontaneous marriage. Mau usually calls Nic nocciolino mio (my little nut), and it's easy to think she actually named her kid like that because he was a little bean with hazelnut fur (or hair in human version). But the real reason why she called her son Niccolò is because she's an awful punster and his dad is a violinist, and she desperately wanted to joke that the mix would be Niccolò Punganini. Thankfully, the boy will never know the origins of his name. x')) And I also assume that if Mau stayed a solo mother, Nic would've carried the Venza surname, not Rickaby. Nic took more after Maura in his appearance, but his physique is more like Rocky's. He's a smart and lively kiddo, who will grow into a vibrant young man. His highest dream is to become an aviator (pun intended) and to see the world, and one day he'd pave his way to civil aviation, achieving both of his dreams.

The second kid of Rocky and Mau is their daughter Lily, who was born in the end of 1932. As I stated above, the birth of Lily happens only in case Rocky manages both to stay alive and stay single until 1931. Lily was conceived in even hungrier years of the Great Depression, and therefore was born prematurely and had a huge chance of not surviving. Lily's name was also undoubtfully predestined by it. When Rocky saw her for the first time, so weak and small, he was a crying mess, constantly repeating something like "these little fingers", "these little ears" etc., and the sound of this word, "little", was so similar to the name "Lily" that it was decided to keep it. Was her appearance also a result of it or rather her genetics, is a mystery unsolved, since her granddad Augusto is rather short. She's small and short (i prefer to call that elegantly petite :D), and even when she grows up, her older brother could effortlessly put both of his elbows onto her head and would often badger her with jokes about her height (not in an evil way, just in a sibling way). Her facial features are more like Rocky's, but smoothed with Maura's subtlety, and I honestly think that in her human form she'd very much look like Audrey Hepburn. She definitely joins the beatniks movement in her young age and will find herself in journalism, starting simply from stenography. One day she could also possibly meet a nice young man, who happens to be the son of her dad's old acquaintance, Mordecai Heller, and her life journey will continue with a loving and caring partner who holds her hand.

[musette22]

Aahh I've had such a great weekend, guys!! Lots of great food and fun, lots of cool cultural stuff, including an amazing play a friend surprised me as a belated birthday present (starring a songer/actor I used to be obsessed with when I was 15 lmao). And then last night, I went to a brilliant classical concert for another friend's birthday and got to dress up all fancy and drink champagne and all that, which was grrreat 💫

BUT most importantly, while I was enjoying this concert I couldn't help but notice the conductor was seriously hot (like look at this guy 👇🏼 what the hell?) and he also gave off major Steve vibes, so when he shared a really intense hug with the solo cellist at some point I was like hmmm..... 💡 And of course I immediately started thinking about a potential enemies to lovers fic with gifted young conductor Steve Rogers and virtuoso violinist Bucky Barnes who start off on the wrong foot when they start working together, each of them thinking the other is arrogant and cold (even though they do admire each other professionally). But then they get to know each other better and they start to realize that their first impressions may have been wrong, and they slowly but surely warm to each other and have lots of deliciously tense moments during practice with intense eye contact and emotional revelations fuelled by dramatic music and all that 👀 And of course the whole thing would culminate in a spectacular end of season concert in which their chemistry blows everyone away and they realize they've fallen in love with each other and then kiss on stage and live happily ever after 💘

Although I do feel like this fic probably already exists? Which actually would also be amazing, so if anyone happens to know of a fic like this, do let me know!! 🙏🏻

Anyway, I'll stop rambling now! I'll hopefully be able to reply to some messages later before I have to work again tonight! Hope everyone is having a wonderful weekend, mwah!! 🥰💗

[wintersoulwitch]

Stage/Fright changes and tweaks to Act 1

Following on from my initial Stage/Fright report after my first viewing and the post on changes/things I noticed the second time around, here are some things I picked up on my last visit on 01/03/25 where I watched both the matinee and the evening show because: A. I was able to get some cheap tickets B. I am insane

So, now I'm more familiar with the cast I realised that the violinists are Becky Bainbridge (Bloody Belle - also Anna Francolini's understudy) and Christina Tedders (the "stage hand" who gives flowers to the celebrity guest and helps deconstruct the set during La Terreur de L'Asile rehearsal - also Miranda Hennessy's understudy). Damnnnn what a talented bunch!

Theatre Sketch

More special effects have been added since I last went - when Reece smashes the woman’s head in he now gets sprayed with blood in the face. He was absolutely covered from nose to chin (fanservice for the Varney lovers).

And his voice is more exaggerated - it was a posh sounding southern accent before, now it’s a lot deeper and theatrical and a bit reminiscent of Edward Tattsyrup.

Audience Address

The very first time I saw the show Reece introduced it as "Stage-slash-Fright" and did an air chop to show the slash. They ditched that pretty early - but it's stuck in my brain and when I tell people about the play I often go "It's Stage-slash-Fright because the first act is Stage and the second act is Fright"

Steve leans more into the "Chekhov's Pun" gag: SP: A firearm will be discharged and there will be liberal use of wordplay throughout... so that's Chekhov's Pun... Oh, come on!

Doing that Patented Pemberton Playing to the Crowd 😁

(BTW On both shows on 01/03/25 Steve kinda slurred the word "firearm" and it sounded a bit like "fire alarm." I don't know if that was deliberate or not, but it reminded me that there was a fire alarm at the end of the show on 20/02/25 and another during the interval 21/02/25. Both were false alarms but the theatre was evacuated on 20/02/25 as it happened after the lights when up at the end and lots of people in the audience thought it must be part of the show!)

(Which reminds me of another thing... At the start of the matinee on 01/03/25 the show started the usual way - with a loud scream and jumpscare noise as the lights are cut. But then nothing happened. And the nothing dragged out a bit too long... and people started laughing nervously... and eventually one of the crew [I don't know her name or role in the show but she's one of the people who supervises R&S at the Stage Door] popped her head out of the curtains to say there was a technical fault and they needed to restart the show. And of course everyone started laughing and saying they didn't believe her and this must be R&S fucking with us)

Now I know the cast more I can see that as well as Gaby French, Mark Extance is also there in usher's uniform to hold up a 'No Masturbating' sign. I was in the Stalls during the matinee, and saw him pop through a side curtain. I was in the Grand Circle for the evening show, and the signs were almost impossible to see from up there - which was a shame because it gets a big laugh!

BCDR Part 1 

After my first viewing I wrote that Tommy didn’t see Len drink from his hip flask - I think that was just a timing slip up during previews, he does definitely sees Len drink.

In the first preview I saw they'd extended the "Shelby and Drake / Drake and Shelby bit" but they've cut it back to the TV show version.

During the vent sketch, Tommy moves his lips while Len/Vincent Vomit is speaking, as if he's a bad ventriloquist.

On one of the 01/03/25 shows, Steve swallowed the beer after the vent sketch instead of doing the spit take. He still did the joke about wanting to get the front row and it still got a laugh.

Len's solo mime bit with the coat on the hatstand has been extended. The "hand" is a lot more aggressive with Len - squeezing his face and pulling him in for a kiss, tickling him under the armpits, and grabbing at his crotch. Oh and now when Len points to his (imaginary) wedding ring, he mouths "I'm married."

Kidnappers 

This is the scene with the celebrity guest so it changes every time, of course, but here are the beats in more detail:

Len fiddles with the double doors for a long time, some lovely physical comedy with Steve trying to open them, running to and fro past the window, getting a ladder and then Tommy just strolling up and opening them easily

When Len goes to retrieve the hostage, a figure in dressing gown with their head covered runs past the window. They're then hit with a spade "off screen" with accompanying sound effect while Reece is on the phone with their boss ("Spengler" who I think is voiced by Mark Extance) saying that they know how important it is that the hostage isn't harmed (BTW I don't think I mentioned this before but Tommy refers to the hostage as "the commodity" - lil Psychoville nod 🖤)

When they get the hostage on stage they are sat on a chair with their hands "tied" and a pillow case over their head. When they realise they've got the wrong house (Spengler tells them they should be at a bungalow) and therefore the wrong hostage, Len peeks under the pillow case, pretending to look, and covers his face and gasps.

They've previously established "no names!" which is why Len has to do charades to act out their name (running list of celebrity guests and charades here) which is obviously just an excuse for Steve to do some filthy mimes (let me see, so far we've had boner... dick... cum... wee... ass... knob... lesbian tennis... dominatrix... and on the first night I saw he mimed "In" by making a circle with one hand and repeatedly jabbing into it with two fingers and Tommy went "UUURGH WHAT ARE YOU DOING, LEN??" which was hilarious)

Once the celebrity's identity is revealed there's a running joke of them listing off parts of their CV and Len will introduce his running gag of getting a name wrong - usually a show the celeb has been in, sometimes a character name or catchphrase, or in the case of Gary "Spandau Ballet" Kemp, getting the lyrics to a song wrong. The celebs seem to enjoy using this section as an opportunity to mention stuff that R&S have been in and have Reece go "Never heard of it." This section finishes with Tommy saying "You're not on Graham Norton now!"

Spengler rings them and Tommy holds the phone in one hand, trying to unlock it, while holding the gun in the other hand. The guest says "Are you going to get that?" and he snaps "I know how to answer a phone!" On the matinee show on 01/03/25 the phone was left ringing for ages and Reece was doing lots of camp arm movements and lip purses while he was fiddling with the prop. Then on the evening show that day he did a full on Ollie Plimsolls style triple hop across the stage which made Matt Lucas crease up.

Then the celeb has to pretend to be the Live In Lover of Lady Linda Lockwood (who I think is voiced by Anna Francolini) and this is where the improv section kicks off. The celeb will respond with varying degrees of annoyance/laughter as the pimping escalates

They're asked to read from notes written on a sketchbook. Starts of simple enough "Yes, it's me, how are you my love?"

"He’s Spanish!" Len remembers. so the celeb attempts a Spanish accent... Then "I've just remembered - he grew up in Newcastle!" (or Liverpool or Swansea) and after the (usually terrible) accent Tommy says "No, no... He grew up in Newcastle"

Lady Linda Lockwood asks what his pet name for her is... The celeb reads "sweaty pig" off the sketchbook, then Tommy grabs it and flips it over and the celeb tries again - "sweetie pie."

The celeb then has to read a Wikipedia page that mentions Philip loves flamenco... Lady Linda Lockwood says she wants to hear him dance flamenco down the phone.

After that, she says "If only you had your trumpet..." WELL GUESS WHAT there just so happens to be a trumpet. "Darling, you have been practising!"

Final bit of pimping, Lady Linda Lockwood asks the celeb to sing their special song... the one that starts "I love you, you love me..." and the celeb has to improvise the rest of the song

By this point Reece is probably corpsing badly

It's all for nothing because Philip the Live In Lover of Lady Linda Lockwood turns up safe and well. Spengler says they'll ransom the celeb hostage (even though he's never heard of him either) and he'll be there in 15 minutes. Tommy goes to "move the van" and leaves Len and the hostage together.

Len (cough cough Barry Baggs) says he's hungry and tells the celeb to stay there while he goes to find food in the kitchen. Len pats the knee of the hostage and says "I love you, Mr [insert celeb's name]"

The hostage then has to find somewhere to hide. They open the big wardrobe at the back of the room and it's full of people in a lovely Sardines callback. Honestly delightful. Gaby French is even wearing an outfit that looks like Katherine Parkinson's red ensemble from the ep, Mark Extance is in a grey suit and steps out and says "Sorry, we're a bit too full"

After a bit more dithering with various degrees of panic and running across the stage depending on the celeb (Martin Freeman - absolutely manic, opening the prop hamper, trying to hide behind the sofa. Matt Lucas - couldn't be arsed. Closed the wardrobe. Stood there for a few seconds. Went back to the wardrobe) they will return to the wardrobe which is now empty of people and only contains a single black man's shoe.

Len will return with some celery (which was possibly a leek when Michael Sheen guested? Not sure if it was an actual leek, or he just questioned it - reports differ) and OH NO the hostage has gone!

Of course this is when Tommy comes back. Len says "Don't hurt me!" and Tommy says "Why would I hurt you?" realises the hostage has gone and jabs Len in the eyes with an accompanying comedy sound effect (like "sproink!")

Tommy harangues Len about leaving to stuff his face and Len shouts "It's only a stick of celery!" On the 25/02/25 show Steve really hammed up the delivery "Issonlehastickasellaireh!" which was the first time I saw him make Reece corpse 😁 He corpses every show now but I think they were still taking things seriously at that point so it was a delight

Then Tommy and Len have a bit of an argument, Tommy saying that Len is a liability ("no I'm not, I'm a pisces!") and that he's put up with him for years and would be better off on his own, and points a gun in Len's face. Len is saved by mispronouncing the celeb's show/character name and the celeb bursts out of the wardrobe to angrily correct him

The celeb then gets sent upstairs and has an opportunity to say one last thing (The Actor Kevin Eldon did "spaghetti bolognese" and triggered Reece to do the hokey cokey, Julian Clary called them "a pair of heterosexual cunts," Michael Sheen said "I've never been so humiliated in my life... And I've worked with David Tennant!", Matt Berry said "As Gino D'Acampo once said - get me a cornetto or I'll fuck your girlfriend")

BCDR Part 2

In Brown Bottles now the fake legs have neon green high heels and fishnets.

The ending has extended a bit - the ‘Len?’ section at the end is more drawn out, it feels like Tommy is really hoping/expecting for Len’s ghost to respond. The first time I saw it the ghost lamp flickered and Tommy said "Len...?" then the lights cut out and there was the Bloody Belle jumpscare scream as she appeared in one of the boxes.

Now the lights cut out and Tommy looks around and says "Len...?" He goes to turn on the ghost lamp and calls out again: "Len? Is that you?" a pause "I'll leave this here for you. So you're not lonely."

And once Tommy leaves the stage the 9 hamper starts wobbling and wiggling, the lid of the hamper opens up and then Bloody Belle appears on stage and screams!

Christ this has got longggg so I'll do Act 2 in a separate post

[gyernon]

SYMPHONIC INSANITY || INANIMATE INSANITY AU

(actual deets below the read more)

hi guys I have no idea how to format this shit, I'm not new to tumblr but I've never actually thrown out my ideas for AUs into the wild. i'm a violinist and i'm using my experience being in some form of orchestra for half my life to write this yippee. alot of this au also draws from my experience being in my current community orchestra :]

inanimate insanity, except they're all in an symphony orchestra!

i literally came up with this yesterday, so things will probably change as time goes on. check back on this post for edits. however, i'm mostly confident with the assignments i've given everyone. deets below the cutoff.

SOME THINGS TO NOTE:

I like ships. I will tag them accordingly but just be aware that Toipad and Knifecase will probably be talked about when I post about this au

Everyone is fully humanized (including Meeple devices and bot)! There are no fantastical elements to this au.

I am confident on the assignment of instruments, minus the brass section lol. I saw a lot of people that played brass instruments respond to my post so if you guys have better suggestions, feel free to give your input on that. However, I am unlikely to change the string instrument assignments. I'm not even religious, but god came down and told me that Lightbulb is a violist.

With that, anything is bound to change because this au is still pretty new.

The events of Symphonic Insanity are not a one-to-one match with the events of II! However, there are parts of the au that do line up with events or character roles/arcs in the show.

I'm not sure yet what I'll do with this au, I'll probably draw art here and there and maybe put some writing on AO3.

ALSO I AM NOT A BAND KID. If I get anything wrong, please let me know!!

Also if you have questions, feel free to ask me! I love yapping about this au. Plus, it'd help me continue to flesh things out.

All posts about this au will be under the hashtag #Symphonic Insanity

MePhone is a conductor familiar with the music scene. He becomes the director of a small orchestra, finding local musicians willing to join. This initial group consists of the season 1 contestants.

They have a concert which draws more attention to the orchestra, and the new group of people that join are the season 2 contestants. Along with that, MePad and Toilet join in as conductors.

After another performance, more people are drawn to the orchestra and this last group of newcomers are the season 3 contestants.

In the beginning, MePhone's orchestra is tiny and he's kinda just handling everything by himself. After their first concert and the addition of Toilet and MePad (along with some others), Mephone now has a team to help him run everything. The orchestra gains attention and popularity overtime, which gets the attention of Steve Cobs.

Steve Cobs is Mephone's estranged father, for good reason (I also imagine Mephone is adopted in this au?). Cobs originally was a solo violinist when he was younger. In the present, he is an influential figure in the music world. Maybe a professor at some school or the head of a music association? A distinguished composer? Who knows, but he's definitely highly regarded.

The growing popularity of Mephone's orchestra would put him on Cobs' radar, chaos ensues... but that's for later.

The story I want to go for with Symphonic Insanity is that of growth. I think quite a few characters would have arcs as musicians that would match/relate to their arcs in the show. I realize writing this that the nice thing about this au is that nobody is competing against each other. At least, they shouldn't be. Instead, they are all working towards the same goal--to put on a good show and improve as musicians.

Everything I laid out above is the general idea of the au. Everything will probably get fleshed out with art or writing as time goes on. With that being said, here are the assigned instruments/roles for everybody:

NON-MUSICIANS

Conductors:

Mephone

Mepad

Toilet

Staff:

Cabby (Logistics)

The Floor (Finances)

Bow (Social Media Management)

Dough (Sound Tech, handles getting recordings and helps out with misc tasks. Also Dough does play the piano, but he just doesn't perform with the orchestra.)

MUSICIANS

Strings

Violin:

Silver Spoon

OJ

Test Tube

Pepper

Salt

Viola:

Clover

Paper

Lightbulb

Bot

Cello:

Soap

Paintbrush

Baseball (can also play Bass)

Bass:

Pickle

Woodwinds

Piccolo:

Balloon

Flute:

Suitcase

Marshmellow

Apple

Clarinet:

Taco

Tea Kettle

Oboe:

Goo

Bassoon:

Nickel

Brass

Trumpet:

Trophy

Knife (for some reason, I am tempted to give Knife Bass Clarinet)

Tuba:

Tissues

Bomb

Trombone:

Cheesy

French Horn:

Blueberry

Percussion

I usually see percussionists being able to play multiple instruments so the ones outside of Piano and Harp aren't strict assignments.

Piano:

Fan

Microphone

Harp:

Candle

Marimba:

Cherries

Timpani:

Lifering

Misc/Plays multiple instruments:

Yin Yang

Aaaand that's everything you need to know about Symphonic Insanity! At least for now. Like I said, art and writing will come in the future if I don't lose steam lol. I do have some posts planned already but I think this is a good start. I hope y'all like it :D

[orcelito]

There are audition videos due in a week for orchestra chair placements. It's not required, but if I want a competitive chair, then I'll have to submit one. And see, I do NOT want to be in first chair. And I probably wouldn't be, tbh. Not with how out of practice I got

...... but there's still that competitive soul in me. I wanna be at least 2nd or 3rd stand. That's my favorite place to be. Not Too much pressure, but still one of the shining stars.

And yknow, I think I could do it. I just need to practice.

[starca5ter]

these are old headcanons from my previous account, so maybe you have seen these before. i still stand by them though.

i have no reason not to believe that kirby's friends/found family play music together, and so here's what i think they play. this kind of ties in with my post about what music they listen to.

*i primarily listen to rock so these HCs kinda pander to that. this post is also gonna be long as shit lol

kirby: since he is canonically tone deaf, while he enjoys listening to music with his friends, it's hard for him to play. of course, tone deafness is the inability to differentiate pitch, so this is why he plays bass! when his amplifier is cranked up and his headphones are on, he feels the notes of his playing instead of traditionally hearing them. this allows him to play, although he relies on muscle memory most of the time. i used to HC he owned just a rickenbacker 4003 and a hofner 500/1 violin bass, but now i also HC him owning a fender starcaster bass. i'm sure it's obvious why from the name.

dedede: is there any answer other than drums? he literally has a game about it. his immaculate sense of time is almost scary, and his friends will say he's a machine. he got onto them pretty young, he decided he liked playing them, and it only spiraled from there. jazz? punk? metal even? he can do it.

meta knight: he sings. his voice is gritty and deep, perfect for what the music he's into. now, i HC he likes heavy metal, so maybe it's not a surprise i also HC he's a mean guitarist. he's an incredible lead player, and his solos can rip your face off. however, he's quite sloppy due to his aggressive nature of playing, and sometimes it can be a setback - sometimes it can be an addition! he plays a gibson SG that has a maestro vibrola on it, which is pretty beat up because, once in a blue moon, he'll slam it on the ground in frustration. however, in major contrast to this, he's a great violinist. he has a unique touch that brings out all the rich harmonics of his instrument, but there's also some sloppiness in his playing just due to improper technique. still rocks though.

bandana dee: he's a guitarist too, but he doesn't take it too seriously, just being a fun addition to the rest of his hobbies. he's objectively the weakest player out of all of them, but when he shines, he shines, being able to best meta knight in some solos on occassion. i used to HC his guitar being a hofner galaxie, but now i HC him playing a heavily modified fender meteora. he's also a lefty so he has to play it upside down, but that just adds style points. on top of this, he's the main tech for everyone, so if someone needs an instrument's strings swapped, fixing a broken headstock courtesy of meta knight, electronics repaired etc., he's more than happy to do so.

adeleine: sorry. but she too is a guitarist...her weapon of choice is a modified rickenbacker 330, with a custom paint job on it because of course. her forte is rhythm playing - she's just about on par with dedede's timing, being able to vigorously strum while seamlessly changing chords. she can even talk while strumming if she wanted to (fellow musicians will know how difficult this is), which makes her the perfect lead singer when meta knight's playing. but her ability to solo is incredibly weak compared to this. she can do it, but she just has to focus.

ribbon: if you've seen a certain video, she's a saxophone player. i will not elaborate any further.

[meddwlyngymraeg]

helo! dwi'n dysgu cymraeg a dwi isio gwrando ar fwy o bandiau sy'n canu yn gymraeg. oes gen ti hoff bandiau neu albymau? dwi'n licio yws gwynedd a gwilym yn fawr ond dwi ddim yn siwr os mae 'na bandiau eraill fel nhw, felly mae steiliau gwahanol yn iawn hefyd. diolch yn fawr!

Helo! Gobeithio ti’n iawn! 😄 Mae llawer o hoff fandiau gyda fi, mawr a newydd. Mae sîn cerddoriaeth Cymraeg yn wych ar hyn o bryd!

Super Furry Animals yw fy hoff band yn y byd (ces i gyfle i ddwued hyn i’w canwr nhw Gruff Rhys, moment o fy mywyd!) Gwenno yw un mwy o fy ffefrynau! Mae hi’n canu yn Gymraeg a Cernyweg, synthpop musician yw hi, a does dim neb yn gwneud miwsig fel hi nawr! Os ces i roi dim ond un rec i bobl, mae’n Datblygu. Genre-wise mae nhw’n post punk, ond oedd y llais, geiriau a sylwebaeth David R Edwards a cerddoriaeth Patricia Morgan yn singular. Does dim neb yn debyg iddyn nhw!

I do have a few recommendations for you os ti’n hoffi Gwilym ac Yws Gwynedd!

If you like Gwylim I think you’ll also enjoy Fleur de Lys, they’re an indie rock band from North Wales in the mid-2010s. They’ve just released a new single called Gad Ni Fod that reminds me a little of Gwilym! You might also like Sŵnami, though they’re a bit more of a pop band. I like their song Gwenwyn. If you’re into heavier music though, there’s another song called Gwenwyn by a band called Alffa. They’re just two lads but they make a ginormous sound, and they’re all-independent and also amongst the most lovely people I’ve spent 3 hours with, so check them out! Gwenwyn also became the first Welsh language song on Spotify to cross a million streams, which is a great achievement. My favourite song of theirs is Babi Mam, a song on men’s mental health, and crucially the lyrics are also available online.

Another rec bouncing off of Gwylim would be Ynys from Aberystwyth. They make harmonic pop/psychedelic rock, I can’t recommend them enough! They’re a newer band, but they’re formed by Dylan Hughes, who used to be in a lovely 2010s indie band called Race Horses (another Cymraeg fav of mine tbh), and some of that band play with him in Ynys too. Helpfully, Dylan is also particular about making sure all his lyrics are available, which is great as a learner! It’s in the lyric booklets but also on their Bandcamp.

You should also definitely check out Adwaith, who are one of the best new bands in Wales! They’re from Carmarthen, so you’ll also hear in their lyrics that they use bits of South Walian Welsh, and the thing I admire about them is they’re learners too. They said they deliberately try and write their lyrics to be true to how they really speak, and so it’s meant to be less formal and more casual. They’re also one of the voices singing about life as girls growing up in Welsh-speaking Wales, and they’re the only musicians ever to win the Welsh music prize twice! Icons. There’s a spinoff band 2/3 of them started in lockdown called Tacsidermi, and if you like Gwilym’s song Cwin you’ll love their song Ble Pierre.

Like Yws Gwynedd - there’s a Candelas song called Brenin Calonnau you’ll like. HMS Morris are another really good band, try their song Ceredigion. Chroma wrote a fantastic album called Asking For Angela this year. Check out Sai’n Moyn Mynd Mas! They released this song in English and in Welsh.

I’ll give you a few more alternative and rock bands I really like, I’ll put them in a playlist for you! It’ll have some Welsh language music from rock bands like Super Furry Animals and Gruff Rhys solo, Datblygu, Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, big leaves, Y Reu (and their guitarist Lloyd Steele’s work, who wrote some fantastic tunes in lockdown reflecting on identity — specifically about being a mixed race gay man in Welsh speaking Wales), Ysgol Sul, Hyll.

There’s a Gorky’s song that’s not on Spotify that I love, so I’ll give you a YouTube link. It’s an older song though, written before violinist Megan Childs joined the band - Merched Yn Neud Gwallt Eu Gilydd, from the Introducing Gorky’s CD.

Dyma rhestr-chwarae i chi:

[germanpostwarmodern]

After 95(!) years and a solo exhibition at Alfred Flechtheim’s gallery in Düsseldorf Maurice de Vlaminck (1876-1958) finally receives a retrospective in Germany: with „Maurice de Vlaminck. Rebell der Moderne“ the Museum Barberini until January 12, 2025 presents a comprehensive overview of the painter’s oeuvre that comprises a total of 76 paintings.

The exhibition is accompanied by the present handsome catalogue published by Prestel that is warmly recommended to all those who can’t make it to Potsdam in time. Of course it contains all of the paintings included in the exhibition but also provides substantial information about de Vlaminck: in five essays experts and curators discuss the painter’s relationship with the Fauves as well as his Fauvist paintings, elucidate his reception of Vincent van Gogh’s art, his connection with Cézanne and Picasso and also shed light on Vlaminck’s use of pure colors straight from the tube.

What emerges from these essays is an artist as colorful as his paintings: a former bicycle racer, violinist, boxer and anarchist Vlaminck prided himself on never having attended an art academy and cultivated his image as a real „fauve“, a wild beast. The latter term dates back to the 1905 Salon d’Automne where Vlamincks paintings were exhibited alongside Henri Matisse’s, André Derain’s and Kees van Dongen’s: their powerful colors and focus on expression and emotion provoked the critic Louis Vauxcelles to call them „fauves“ and eventually made them examples also for the German expressionists. Vlaminck came to the use of pure color together with André Derain whom he met by chance in 1900 and with whom he explored the landscapes along the river Seine. Of course, and despite his own assertions, he was were well aware of the Impressionists/Neo-impressionists but transferred their motifs into the 20th century. Around 1908 Vlaminck gradually put behind Fauvism and began experimenting with cubist forms in a number of landscape paintings, portraits and seascapes, although in retrospect he dismissed Cubism. In parallel Cézanne became an important reference, especially in still lifes and landscapes. The latter also dominates Vlaminck’s late work, this time in the form of snowy forests and villages. To this day this late work has received only little attention, probably due to Vlaminck’s outspoken support of the Nazi art doctrines. The Potsdam exhibition and catalogue thus offer the rare chance to forge an opinion about these disputed works.

In view of the few German language publications on Vlaminck and the insightful essays as well as the countless illustrations the present catalogue is a highly recommended read and a great substitute for an exhibition visit!

[xinfinityl0ve17]

MALICE MIZER LIVE merveilles The End and Fate in NIPPON BUDOKAN 1998.4.1

Photograph: Hiroyuki Yoshihama

Report: Aya Yokomori

I had heard that Malice Mizer’s live performances were amazing. I had also seen the video recording of their live show at Ikenoya Public Hall on April 1, 1997.

But still, nothing could have prepared me for what I witnessed at their Budokan live show. It far exceeded anything I had imagined based on prior knowledge.

The moment I stepped into Budokan, my eyes widened in shock. The stage set was like a vast, two-story palace chamber, painted in pristine white. And to top it off, classical music was playing throughout the venue.

Where am I?!

That’s how I felt.

Everywhere I looked, fans were dressed in Malice Mizer cosplay, their faces painted with elaborate makeup. At exactly 7:18 PM, the lights dimmed, and the palace set was illuminated, making it look even more like a real mansion.

That alone was enough to make my heart race—but then, the way they made their entrance took it to another level. They rose dramatically onto the stage.

So cool!!

The extravagant, theatrical entrance sent a rush of adrenaline through me. As if that weren’t enough, the performance opened with real violinists playing live on stage. The pure sound of the strings filled the air, and the audience gasped in admiration.

Throughout the show, the visuals were breathtaking—images of Malice Mizer’s aesthetic world were projected onto the white walls of the stage, red and blue lights flashed, confetti flew through the air…

In "Kioku to Kage", the lighting shifted to a serene turquoise blue, transforming the atmosphere from one moment to the next. The power of the stage, the elaborate set, and the overall production were overwhelming.

Gackt’s performance was mesmerizing. At times, he contorted his face in anguish, clutching his head. Other times, he seemed to pray, as if offering his soul to the divine. He poured his entire being into his vocals, drawing the audience into his world. I was completely captivated.

And then, Gackt treated the audience to his signature piano solo, filling the vast Budokan with his hauntingly beautiful sound… At one point, the sound of Gackt’s piano filled the air with a heartbreaking melody.

That sound… it felt as if I were gazing out of a window into a deep, endless ocean. I don’t know why, but a scene from the movie Titanic suddenly came to mind— the image of a beautiful noblewoman’s lifeless body drifting underwater.

Then, as Kami’s drumming kicked in, the intensity of the performance escalated. But what makes Malice Mizer truly incredible is that their appeal goes beyond just gothic aesthetics and dramatic beauty. As the band switched into silver-themed outfits, the mood shifted completely.

They performed upbeat songs like Je te veux and Shûto Uwuburu, bringing a playful, almost pop-like energy to the stage. Mana, of all things, was running around the stage clutching a white teddy bear.

And then, Gackt, who had been so serious just moments before, suddenly transformed into a comedic character! In the first half of the show, he had said something profound:

"This stage may become a place that connects with your hearts." Yet later, dressed in his silver outfit, he was joking around: "Man, this outfit is seriously hot! I'm sweating like crazy!"

Then he went off on a completely bizarre tangent, he started talking about a lonely cat that wouldn’t cuddle with him.

"I thought, 'Fine, be that way! I won’t pet you anymore!'"

But then, the cat suddenly climbed onto his stomach, and he couldn’t resist exclaiming, "Ahh, it’s so cute! I love it!!"

The audience was in hysterics. Then, the atmosphere shifted again. The next performance had a distinctly gypsy-inspired rhythm, and Mana and Kozi focused on an intense theatrical performance.

They captured women dressed in white and brown, forced them into chairs, and enacted a scene that was almost chilling. The sparks from the stage effects were flying everywhere—it was surreal to witness.

After that, the band members reappeared in black, creating a completely different mood. The dramatic, intense performance that followed was mind-blowing. The sound, the movements—it felt like the entire stage was engulfed in a frenzy.

By the final moments, the entire band had gone wild. Kami threw his cymbals into the air. The bassist swung his instrument around so wildly that you could hear it colliding with the stage. The guitarist sent his guitar flying. The stage was pure chaos.

Then, a wave of "Encore!" chants erupted from the audience. Some fans even began clapping in rhythm, trying to start an encore call, but their voices were drowned out by the sheer excitement and emotion filling the venue.

That’s the power of Malice Mizer.

They don’t just put on a show—they pull raw emotion from the audience. One moment, you’re mesmerized by breathtaking beauty. The next, you’re laughing. Then, you’re in tears.

Every single emotion is drawn out and experienced through their performance. By the end, my heart was shaken to its core. I can’t even begin to describe the final scene.

All I can say is… when it ended, it truly felt like my soul had been carried away.

[wesleysniperking]

Strawhats’ Band AU

- The Strawhats’ sound is akin to Beirut and Broken Social Scene.

Band Members and Instruments:

- Usopp: Bass guitar. (Engineer and Songwriter/Lyricist)

- Luffy: Lead singer.

- Nami: Keyboardist/pianist/synth player.

- Zoro: Drummer.

- Sanji: Trombonist. (Might play other hard-a** brass instruments). (Lyricist/SW)

- Chopper: Maracas, Tamborine, and instruments similar to those. (He can play the Kalimba and idiophone type).

- Robin: Harp. (Can play the Theremin too).

- Franky: Electric guitar. (Engineer)

- Jinbe: Percussion line.

- Brook: Violinist. (Composer)

Nami: Keyboard/piano prodigy exploited by corrupt talent scout Arlong. She tried to sue him for damages after her adopted mom passed away. She had a breakdown but returned to music with Luffy’s help.

Zoro: Dedicated and talented drummer with a slight drinking problem. His playing style is swift, intense, and controlled. Learned to play in the same style as a late friend.

Sanji: Talented trombonist who left a philharmonic orchestra due to politics and personal reasons.

Luffy: Former member of the marine band, sent there by his grandpa after attending military/marine school but managed to escape.

Usopp: Music college dropout who is haunted by his famous father, whom he never knew. His girlfriend passed away from cancer. He had posted YouTube covers and gained a following. His late mother was an indie artist who never achieved widespread success. It is uncertain whether she was a groupie.

(all EB5 were homeless or broke at one point before meeting).

Both Robin and Nami have had experiences similar to Kesha, involving exploitation in the music industry.

Usopp’s dad, Yasopp or “Chaser”, is a famous bassist, ranked as one of the best of all time by Rolling Stone.

Shanks or “Red Hair” is Luffy’s mentor. He is the famous lead singer of a Grammy award-winning band.

Red Hair Pirates - They are a famous Grammy award-winning band with a sound similar to War, King Harvest, Dire Straits, and Guns N’ Roses, depending on the era.

Usopp and the band have a falling out when they alter their sound and remove a fan-favorite song, "Merry," from the setlist.

Usopp leaves the band after a public feud with Franky and Luffy’s decision to remove "Merry" from the Water 7 music festival setlist, which is akin to Coachella or Lollapalooza.

Sabaody Groove Fest: This festival is similar to the controversial Warped Tour, with various allegations surrounding it.

Usopp modified Nami’s keyboard to have unique synth sounds, similar to the Climatact.

“Merry” was believed to be an ex of Usopp’s, but it’s revealed that the song personifies the band’s journey and dream towards success. The band is surprised by this revelation.

- Franky writes a successful song called “Sunny” that charts well, but fans believe "Merry" will become a classic.

Each bandmate will receive honorifics and titles in their 40s or 50s. Usopp will be ranked #1 or #2 on the best rock bassists of all time list, surpassing his dad.

Usopp also creates a musical collective with other Black artists, developing a following of 8,000+ fans.

The band’s (Strawhats) fandom name is Nakama or Sailors

- When not singing, Luffy plays the cymbals, fooling around when he’s not leading the vocals.

- Usopp returns at the Water 7 festival as Sogeking, playing a crucial bass solo riff, symbolizing his readiness to rejoin the band. Luffy pulls him on stage to finish the song with a cool bass riff.

The Strawhats might decide to make a political statement during a performance, similar to when Luffy told Usopp to shoot the flag in the show. This could involve revealing an anti-government poster or banner, which could then go viral. Alternatively, they might do something in support of Robin, who is in a dispute with her former record label.

I have a dirty little secret. I wrote a song about Merry to accompany the fic idea. It’s a little cringe but I recorded it and everything. I might share it one day. Lol!

This is what I mean by the band’s sound…

They’d pull something like this in public.

BSS lyrics are pretty raw and bombastic in a way I feel like the SHs would be.

Music video is basically about pirates (???) and it reminds me of one of Luffy’s moves.