#also the solo violinist

[loverboybrightsideghost]

i saw anastasiaaaaa 🥰🥰🥰👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼🗣️🗣️🗣️🥳🥳🥳🥳

[orcelito]

God, this is fucking crazy

So i only have 3 more classes to take, but it'll cost the same to take 3 classes as 4 classes. So I've been thinking about taking a 4th class just for the hell of it. Something fun and/or easy.

Out of curiosity, I looked up orchestras. I was in it in my first year, but I haven't consistently played since 2016. But I still dream about being in an orchestra again. I *miss it*. So I was like. Well, what if *that* was my 4th class next semester? What If?

I looked it up. This week is the last week they're doing auditions for it. There was only one more spot free after today. And that's *tomorrow evening*.

I haven't really played my violin much in YEARS. I'm so out of practice. But apparently they don't reject anyone outright. Auditions are just for placement. So worst case scenario, I get placed in an orchestra at a lower skill level than I was at my prime. It'd still be an orchestra.

It's crazy short notice, but I don't think I'd forgive myself if I passed it up. Bc I have just one more semester before I graduate. One last opportunity to be in a school orchestra. And if I didn't do this, I'd be left with that What If forever.

So. Crazy short notice, but I have a violin audition tomorrow!!! Hahahaha

[6ebe]

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

[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,”

[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!! 🥰💗

[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

[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:

[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.

[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!

[only10th]

Been thinking about Pianist!wwx and violinist!lwj playing together at a mall. Wei Wuxian likes to go to the mall to play for people, he loves taking requests, or plays some well known musical pieces and sometimes he’ll play one of this original compositions.

One day he’s playing “Rain” by Ed Carlsen, which is one of his favorite pieces to play when he's out and about. He’s just so caught up in the moment that he doesn’t notice a man standing next to him, pulling out his violin and just joining him on the piece with so much ease. His eyes grow wide but soon that sparkle he has shines brighter at how easy and harmonic both of them sound. He laughs, he smiles, he shows off while the mysterious violinist stays focused and composed, yet the passion drips into every note they play.

Their duet attracts a lot of attention, multiple people taking videos and pictures (plus wwx is recording the whole thing himself since he sometimes uploads the videos of himself playing online) this is the first time anyone has joined him in a duet. After they’re done, they look at each other breathless, a bright smile on wwx’s face while there’s the smallest curve on the mysterious violinist’s lip. Before Wei Wuxian could even ask for his name, he had already put away his violin and walked away. Wei Wuxian groans, annoyed he didn’t even get to know the handsome violinist’s name. Maybe they’ll meet up again.

He hopes they do. He had never felt such a connection with another musician before.

A few weeks later, Wei Wuxian is playing at a restaurant. This time he’s getting paid to do so, which is great! He can’t just let opportunities like that pass by!

So, he’s playing something classical to fit the mood. It is rather fancy, your food, of the size of a quarter, costing you an arm and a leg type of place. Wei Wuxian will never understand why people want to spend their money like that, but it’s because of places like this that he has a place to work. Well, if playing here during the weekends is even considered work. He enjoys it nonetheless.

Once he’s done with a piece there’s scattered claps through the restaurant. This won’t do, the people need to be entertained! Wei Wuxian sets his phone against the piano, already recording. There’s a smirk on his face, cause he already has the perfect piece in mind. Fingers hovered giddily over the ivory keys, an exhale leaving his lips and soon began to play.

The melody startles some of the clients, which makes Wei Wuxian chuckle under his breath. The tune is fun, like a little dance around the calm waters of the lotus lakes of his old home. It’s one of his original compositions, but he’s played it a few times before, so he wouldn’t be surprised if people knew it. Wei Wuxian lets himself get lost in the song, silver eyes fluttering close. A sense of pride fills his chest, noticing how the restaurant had become quiet. He could sense all eyes on him, which sent a chill up his spine. What he didn’t expect was to hear a violin joining his now gentle melody.

His eyes snap open with a gasp, and right next to him he sees the same violinist from a few weeks back. His mouth hangs slightly agape, and for a moment he loses his focus which causes him to play a few sour notes. Yet, he smiles brightly, impressed that, despite this not being composed as a duet, the mysterious violinist was even able to join and keep up. Wei Wuxian can’t help but huff a laugh, and just as he does he is met with a piercing golden gaze. His breath stutters, he had never seen such beautiful eyes, especially ones that looked at him with such intensity.

Wei Wuxian has to stop playing, knowing there’s a solo coming up. He’d usually play it through, but he wanted to see if this violinist had also come up with his own solo, and he delivers as expected. He lets his eyes close and he plays his piece, swaying with the music he produces with much passion and Wei Wuxian can’t help but be completely mesmerized by such beauty. Not just him, but the crowd around him! At some point he has to join back, continue their little dance as both their melodies become one.

A round of applause erupts once they’re done, both of them looking at each other as if nothing else mattered in the world other than this moment. For the first time since their first encounter, Wei Wuxian could take a better look at the violinist. He was only a few inches taller, dark, ebony hair like the keys of a piano cascaded over his shoulder, a white ribbon braided and intertwined in it. A wide smile paints on Wei Wuxian’s face as he stand from the small bench to offer a small bow.

“We finally meet again, mysterious violinist.” Wei Wuxian says, quirking an eyebrow upward, “You know my song.” It was more a statement than a question.

The man nods in response, “Wei Wuxian is very talented.” Oh, his voice. The low timber sends a shiver down his spine. Wait, how does he know his name?

“How do you…?” Wei Wuxian starts, narrowing his eyes if trying to recall someone or something. “You follow my page. You’ve seen my videos.” He says with realization, which is followed by a laugh.

The man nods again before offering a courtly bow. He doesn’t say anything else as he turns to leave. No, not this time. Wei Wuxian manages to grab his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “Hey, hey, don’t leave like that! Will you at least tell me your name?”

The violinist seems to consider shaking the grip off or telling Wei Wuxian his name. Golden gaze seems to stay glued on the other’s hand for quite some time before exhaling softly. “Lan Zhan.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Lan Zhan. Though, I’ll miss calling you my mysterious violinist.” Wei Wuxian chuckles. His fingers slip from the other’s wrist, now tucking them into his inner coat pocket to take out a piece of paper and scribbling a series of numbers. “I really, really like playing with you. Maybe… maybe we could…?”

“Yes.” Lan Zhan is quick to answer before Wei Wuxian can even finish his sentence, as if he’s been waiting for him to ask all evening. “I would like to play with you, Wei Wuxian.”

“Wei Ying. Call me Wei Ying.” Handing him the piece of paper with his phone number, a broad smile on his face. “Maybe we can grab some coffee? You took my song and modified it into a duet, I’ll forgive you only if we can play it again.”

There’s the tiniest curve at the corner of Lan Zhan’s lips. Golden eyes melting like honey as they gaze at silver ones. “Mn” he agrees. After that, you’d see them playing anywhere they could: malls, airports, restaurants, out in the streets when it was warm enough. They’d perform the most beautiful duets anyone has ever heard.

[kerizaret]

Keep in mind it's just the opinions of the people I've been exposed to haha. The Generic Elitist type™, there's definitely more classical people who like or at least neutral at pop music and are more open-minded in general. But being in the industry does inevitably come with biases and thought he is not fully in that black and white mentality I do believe Harumichi is a rather severe case.

Does he consider Saki's career choice as better than Toya's and set her as an example?

In the terms of her hanging out with more "straight-laced" people, maybe. Musically, probably not by much, if any. I think Harumichi is more preoccupied with the kind if music Touya played rather than if he was successful, so a lot of it ties in into classical being superior to other genres. Leo/need is (irrc) a pop-rock group which isn't that much better that street (a mix of freestyle, rap, and seemingly pop - keep in mind that street music is either only a genre in-universe or isn't meant to be a genre as much as the style of performance, so it's kinda hard to tell what they mean by Harumichi hating street music. Kohane's solo from KIUAN is pretty much just pure pop).

Does he value the keyboard and think of it as a worthy instrument like a classical piano or would he think she should've sticked to the latter?

Synth/keyboard isn't even considered a "piano" in classical circles, per se. Which does have it's reasoning, as the key weighs, spacing, and the technique is very different from "acoustic" piano and a lot of finely-tuned skills from piano playing won't transfer to keyboard and vice versa. It's kind of how classical violinist don't usually consider electric violinists worth their salt because acoustic anything is much more unforgiving in terms of technique than the respective electric option (but also provides additional challenges that acoustic instrument don't have, especially depending on the genre. Not one option is inherently better or worse unless we're going into specific situation at hand in which a preference might be discussed). So, we can safely say Harumichi doesn't respect keyboard, either at all or at least as much as he would a piano.

What does he think of the music she plays, since it's not classical?

A wide spread opinion is that all pop music sounds the same, basically. Pop music, including rock, rarely diverts form 4/4 time and common chord progressions. It doesn't need to, because what it can't express through complicated music, it compensates for lyrically. However people heavily immersed in classical lyrics, which typically doesn't have lyrics and voice, find music with lyrics redundant in a way. Which is also among the reasons why so many classical musicians are actually not fans of opera. So there's both no appreciation for the instrumental which is likely not impressive to them and no desire to dig into the lyrics. This is something that is held against the genre overall rather than individual artists. There's some nuance for this in (pop)rock and I think some classical elitists are actually willing to give rock music a pass, especially one that's innovative and creative with their instrumental part, but Leo/need probably wouldn't be one of them all things considered.

Has he actually ever listened to leo/need?

Unlikely. He doesn't even take the time to listen to Touya's work until he literally begs to. This is somewhat explained in-universe, but I do think his prejudice goes deep enough that he'd not willingly engage with Leo/need, if he was even aware if their activity, except maybe out of politeness.

I'd be pleasantly surprised to be proven wrong though. Like I said, I think there's more to him than his character archetype of overly strict classical musician dad.

Harumichi forced to listen to leoni by having tenpapa play the leoni soda advertisement 15 times in a row during a joint dinner sobbing his eyes out about how proud he is of his daughter /silly

But thank you!!! This is very insightful and really cool :0 all that is to say though it's moreso unlikely he'd be very enthusiastic about Saki's music. Tenma-Aoyagi dinners must be so funny what does this man even see in the Tenmas I need to know. Is it only tenmama and harumichi talking about classical 2 hours straight

Poor guy saw three kids with so much classical potential and one went to sing in the streets, the second switched to an electric counterpart and changed to pop and the last one decided being a clown is a better career choice. I'd be bitter too /silly /j

[nuclearplutonium]

Dividers

Ello! I’m Robin.. buuut you can also call me Elliot, Orion, Rory, or Moth :D

more info about me: https://en.pronouns.page/@CH4R71Z4VRVZ

Check out my new and totally awesome strawpage!

Alterhuman therian and fictionkin, my theriotypes are black wolf, snow husky, and a T-Rex <33

I’m an artist and a little bit of a violinist (I mainly speak English but I also speak Russian!)

I am a MINOR!!! I am ok if adults (NOT THE SEX BOTS) interact with my blog or me in general just don’t be creepy or kinky about it please..

My blog is not meant for younger audiences, therefore I am telling you all that this is a 13+ BLOG. mainly because I’ll post art with mildly suggestive themes in it or reblog something weird.. whatever it may be, I just want to protect the little itty bitty babies that happen to stumble upon this beautiful yet horrifying tumblr blog .-.

currently locked in @thesillygoober7’s basement (GO FOLLOW HIM PLEASE THAT MIGHT MAKE HIM FINALLY LET ME OUT OF HERE)

taken by Thomas MWEEEHHEHEHEHEHEHEH

old acc is @charlibugg T_T

Here’s most of the stuff I like ! Purple = ION💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

Blue = VERY VEEERY VERY VERY VERY VERY VEEERRYRYYY HYPERFIXATED

Green = LOVE ITTT

Orange = Cool cool I like it

Red = Eh… I mean it’s fine.. II/III, I.O.N/И.О.Н, TNM, BFDI/BFB/BFDIA & TPOT, EEE/THREEEE, BURNER, 5SOS, ONE, CFMOT/ИНМТ, Objectified, TDOS, LoTS, Animatic Battle, Bugbo, Dreamophrenia, Sprunki, Max Design Pro, Warrior Cats, Smiling Friends, ATHF, Gravity Falls, Villainous, Countryhumans, DHMIS, Electric Dreams (1984), Ride the Cyclone, Pink Corruption, Homestar Runner, Regretevator, Great God Grove, Mouthwashing, Homestuck

besides fandoms I hyperfixate on time to time… I also LOVE nuclear reactors, dinosaurs, cats, epic guitar solos in music, whatever the hell plutonium jazz is, and I just genuinely love learning ANYTHING about nuclear physics and energy :3 (oh and lollipops, I love lollipops)

Some games I really like (not Roblox games) are In Stars and Time, JSAB/Just Shapes and Beats, Fallout 4/Fallout: New Vegas (IM SORRY FALLOUT 76 IS SO BORING AND BUGGY AAAAA), Omori, Mouthwashing, Sims 2-4, Tomodachi Life, Miitopia, Cardpocalypse, Wobbledogs, Pikuniku, Ooblets, Great God Grove, Splatoon 2-3, Dragon Quest: Builders 1-2, Minecraft, Wandersong, JSAB, and AC:NH :3

and most of the bands/artists I listen to (current hyperfix band will be written in bold) are MSI, sElf, Will Wood/Will Wood and The Tapeworms, Human Zoo, The Scary Jokes, Sodikken, Machinery of The Human Heart, Lemon Demon, Tally Hall, And One, Nine Inch Nails, STOMACH BOOK, Ken Ashcorp, KSB Muzic, LiteralHat, YFM, Limp Bizkit, Insane Clown Posse, Gorillaz, Tyler the Creator, System Of A Down, Foo Fighters, That Handsome Devil, Sacri, They Might Be Giants, Oingo Boingo, Weird Al, Jhariah, MAMA RUSSIA, Lenin Was A Zombie, and Drive45!

I have Autism, ADHD, (I have some sort of Anxiety disorder too, forgot what it was called though) and Depression.. so sorry if I don’t talk/respond to asks or dms quick enough or I don’t answer them properly… I’m a very shy person. So please text me first if you want to dm me, if you’re a mutual I’d love to talk to you! ^_^

ask box will close down sometimes, it is not a mistake usually, I just don’t feel like taking asks (or I’m being swarmed by donation asks and I feel overwhelmed) :3

I do not have a set DNI, but I will block who I choose to block without warning (I don’t normally block though, I find it kind of rude 0n0)

Places I inhabit:

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(Created: 1/15/24)

(Last updated: 1/6/25)

I reblog WAYY too many posts so if you’re willing to find my art search #bugs goof art

#Charlizard’s rabble ransoms - for random posts that are just filler or me going on a whole rant (will also be tagged for long posts too sometimes)

[shiraishi--kanade]

If any writer here wants to torture Touya with new and inventive ways classical background/Harumuchi specifically could limit him in performing, or otherwise possible scenarios, here's some fun ideas under the cut for you.

1) Memory slips. Harumichi method of teaching was (bad) to start the piece from the very beginning the moment Touya made a mistake. While that probably reflected poorly on Touya's ability to roll with mistakes in general, I think it would be most prominent with memory slips.

With performing, especially solo, the moment your next movement slips your mind, recovering is very difficult. The stress response from your brain actually stops you from thinking rationally, so you begin to panic more and more the more you hesitate. Because of this, many classical and all sorts of performers practice getting "unstuck". There are different methods, but most agree that you should have a check-point in a piece that you know you can come back to if you mess up. More advanced players usually think that "your checkpoint should be everywhere", i.e you should be able to start playing from literally any place in the music on a whim - so if you make a mistake, you can recover easier.

Im general, only learning to play the whole piece and re-starting if you make a mistake will damage that precious skill critically. If Touya is so used to drilling everything to perfection, he's not used to the idea that you should just keep going. He probably didn't need to, either.

Imagine Touya just. Forgets his lyrics and instead of ad-libbing them he just. Stares blankly, freaking out.

2) Loud audience. Double for autistic/neurodivergent Touya and the possibility of sensory overload. The audience during classical concerts/recitals is very quiet. You're not supposed to clap, cough, much less talk or yell, until the piece is over.

Adjusting from that to how loud the livehouse is, and the fact that that loud is a good thing that he should enjoy, could potentially be a rough ride for early Bad Dogs Touya.

3) In a similar vein: actually having to move during performing. Canonically, Touya isn't the most athletic person, but I don't even mean that in that way. More of a... Touya is a pianist. He's also a violinist, but primarily, he is a pianist. All he does there is sit. His position is clearly defined, he knows his role. Even with violin, you don't really move much while playing.

Singing at a livehouse is different. Where is he supposed to go? When should he dance? When to call out to the audience? How mindful he should be around equipment? Touya and measuring the size of the stage by pacing back and forth so he doesn't run into a wall on accident while still getting used to the fact that just standing on stage is no longer acceptable.

These are just something from the top of my head! I think it would be interesting to see those details, but I don't think Sega would show us, haha.