#mozart (answered asks)

[lost-soul-in-time]

Target acquired. Marcille already knew that this was supposed to be long game, trying to seduce and extract information from the daughter of the agency’s target family. Organized crime at its highest, living out a life on luxury on an isolated patch of land just off the coast. A haven of vices, the hub an enormous casino and hotel that cleans all the money flowing in illegally. To take them down, she’s tasked with befriending the daughter of the family. A sweet woman named Olive, who lived lavishly and fully in this palace of sin.

Pulling at the stiffly ironed cuffs of the ivory suit, she glides through the crowds to find her. Crowds of socialites, tourists, and various members of multiple watch lists cruise past her. Enough crooks to make her nervous over the various pieces of jewelry, the rings wrapped around most of her fingers and the wristwatch catching on the fabric of her suit.

Eventually, there she is. Sat at one of the poker tables, idly picking up cards and throwing chips into the betting circles. Marcy can already feel the stress turning a few more hairs grey, sliding into the seat beside her target. “Mind if I join the next round?”

@snakedifferentskin

Olive is not much for gambling herself. She never understood the stressful situations some of these players put themselves in, trying to perhaps take control of something in their lives. If she comes to the casino, it's to do a bit of people-watching by the bar with a nice glass of wine, maybe stroll by a table or two to see what all the fuss is about. But her attention had been drawn, and when she'd noticed they'd stopped glancing over their cards in favor of looking at her instead, she'd let herself be drawn in.

Why not? One game wouldn't hurt.

She wasn't a good player. If she won something, it was out of pure luck, and when she'd lose, she'd take the fall with no more than a shrug and a bit of a smile. it doesn't hurt her financially the same way it may hurt the men and women at the table. Waiting for them to make their next moves, she pulls out a tube of lightly tinted pink lip gloss, spreading some over her lips before she's looking over upon being addressed by–

Oh.

A stranger, but a handsome one at that. Suddenly a bit warm, she wills herself to nod and stuff the tube away, smile widening just the tiniest bit. "Of course. I'm no good anyway." Olive doesn't ask the others at the table if they mind. They just seem to accept her words as final. Glancing between her cards and the newcomer sheepishly, it takes her a moment to speak up again. "I'm, um- I'm not sure I've seen you here before."

[livelaughlovelams]

Look man, I KNOW classical composer Tumblr exists because those classical composer memes have to be coming from somewhere. But how on earth do I hop on it!? Is it like one of those moving elevators, where you have to step on quickly and hope you come out!? To me it's like the backrooms or something. Do you have to type in some sorta key, is it going to ask me to match these concertos by key signature to delve inside the secret catacombs of classical composer-blr? Will there be a 7 dwarves mining cart roller coaster waiting there except instead of the dwarves its the ducking CLASSICAL COMPOSERS!? What, do I gotta send pictures of my violin-ridden hands as proof, do I gotta submit cat boy Mozart fanart/fics,

CLASSICAL COMPOSER BLR WHERE ARE YOU HIDING!?

(I'm currently on amrev/frevblr seriously send help)

[mozarteffect]

First of all:what an honor having you like my take,i used to love your fic back in the day! Second,onto the "Sayan are the japane discourse":i think people really underestimate how political Toriyama was capable of being, the only difference is that instead of presenting the situation as an analytical critique as in Revolutionary Girl Utena (to name one) he used satire. But if you read works like Sandland or Pink! you immediately notice the strong tone of criticism especially towards the Japanese industry. Your observation about the Ainu is quite fascinating, (and if you like I would be happy to hear you analyze it, both here on the main and in the dm). If I had to tell you mine, I think that the analogy works at best if it's taken in a larger sense: This fandom as a problem with west-centrism and every time the Sayan/Vegeta discourse shows up it's always treated as if we are talking about USA problems the german-thing- we-can't-talk-about-because-Tumblr-will-take-it-down. However the all story became much easyer to underground once you put the japanese lens on:and here "Sayans were ferocious conquerors but they are still victims of an extermination that they did not deserve by an evil emperor,and both reality are true at the same times" becomes "Japan committed atrocious crimes during WW2 and in any case they did not deserve the atomic bomb by the USA,and both reality are true at the same times". Same goes for out favorite prince,who's both part of the system AND a victim of It. Idk,this are just some thought of mine . Hope you enjoy It! (And have a nice day/evening)

Thank you for liking my writing!

As to the fandom view of Saiyans, you're very much correct that it's an extremely US-centric attitude that goes on. Although I've also observed a very...how do I want to put this, uh, weirdly xenophobic view too, since people will say with no irony "Saiyans are naturally/born evil" and decry canon showing Saiyans that AREN'T like that at all (even if Toriyama is the one doing it) and claim it's a retcon.

Yeah! Not really the greatest thing to say that a race is "naturally evil"! I think that goes against the nature of the series itself plus, well, duh, Goku himself? He was raised by a good person and he turned out good, he was not raised like a Saiyan, what about the math is not mathing?

I've never been subject to the not-see comparison, though I can imagine that may be an issue.

I think ultimately the Japanese perspective is forgotten since Saiyans are projected onto by many, many people of different cultural backgrounds and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I love seeing peoples' interpretations of how Saiyan culture and history (even the dark, tragic, or ugly parts) reflect their own experiences with their own cultures. Most (though not all) tend to ignore or not know that Japan is its own country with its own history and culture outside of what they see in anime, including dark, tragic, and ugly bits. The same (though not all) would claim that all anime is apolitical and that Toriyama never got into anything similar to that at all in his works because "he just wrote funny comics."

But obviously, I disagree! You can see a strong environmentalist slant in his works, it's very prominent in Sandland! He may have not made it obvious or spoke openly about it, but that doesn't mean his opinions weren't present, he was just private (although saying he made Frieza like a real estate speculator because he thought they were the most evil people in existence was sure blatant!)

In my view, the Saiyans have a strong imperial Japan influence (Frieza Force armor is extremely similar to samurai armor) with modernization from "outsiders" coming in and flipping things around. My view of Sadala Saiyans being similar to the Ainu isn't as fully developed and leans more on the indigenous being killed in order to install a greater power with very few (possibly the good/neutral Saiyans that don't agree with or like the king's rule or obeying Frieza?) being left.

It's true that they did horrible things and it's also true that horrible things happened to them. Both concepts can exist and I think the Saiyans that are left have very complicated feelings about their people (well, Vegeta does for certain especially with what was supposed to be his role in Saiyan society, and I think Goku was definitely turned on his head finding out what his parents were really like even if that was never fully addressed. Ideally I would believe he would rethink his view on Raditz too and wonder if he was just angry and insulted that he forgot their parents, whom Raditz seemed to respect/love a great deal. Not to say he would think "gee maybe things were okay after all!" rather "wow this is actually more nuanced than I previously believed.").

Honestly I have complicated thoughts about Vegeta too, contrary to how people think he would act if the planet remained intact, I personally think he just liked the idea of being king but wasn't equipped or interested in the actual aspects of being the king. Plus, though people want to deny he exists, Vegeta does have a counterpart in Tarble who is everything he's not, you can't say his little brother didn't influence him at least a little bit.

I know people get sick of how Vegeta ends up being the mouthpiece/exposition on Saiyan Things but, well, that's kind of the nature of storytelling considering he's the only Saiyan left that was actually raised on the planet. I believe that knowledge is very heavy on him, like how what he's actually done in his past is weighing on him too and he's trying to make up for it even if he knows he's not entitled to forgiveness.

Sorry this ended up rambly and also talking about Vegeta but I have strong feelings about Vegeta lskfjlk I hope that made sense!

PS: Sometimes people believe that Saiyans have a strong Spartan influence as well and point to the aesthetics of Sadala's armor, and I can see that as well!

[ghostinthegallery]

I'm sorry to bother you and I also apologize if I don't make myself understood well, I am using the translator because it is difficult for me to write messages in English because English is not my first language. Well, a while ago I saw that you had knowledge about opera, and I wanted to ask if you could recommend operas if it's not too much trouble, I'm trying to start a little with these but I don't know where to start, also if it's not too much trouble, I would like to know about recommendations on songs sung by villains, I always liked singing villains in general. Thank you for taking the time to read and feel free to ignore my message if it's a bother.

Absolutely don't worry about using a translator! And thank you for the excuse to ramble about opera, one of my greatest loves in the world.

I adore opera! It exists in such an interesting space of music and theater and art and the emotional storytelling is second to none. The music becomes just as much a vector for feeling and story as the words (often more so). I think this can be a stumbling block for some people. They see someone yelling "I am sad" to music for 5-10 minutes while the "plot" grinds to a halt, but the "plot" is rarely the point. The events of an opera's narrative are really just an excuse to get to the emotional bombshell moments. And music bypasses the rational parts of your brain to get straight to the Feels.

That said, there are some I'd definitely recommend starting with.

Carmen, by Georges Bizet is a masterpiece. It's performed all the time, so there are amazing recordings all over the place as well as live performances. It has a ton of recognizable tunes, not overly long, great characters. One of my faves.

If you want villains, Tosca by Puccini has Scarpia, one of the all time classics (with his villainous aria about threatening to have a woman's fiance executed if she doesn't sleep with him. Classy guy). Don Giovanni has some great revelry from the titular terrible Don (as well as from his more sympathetic but still enabling servant). It is my favorite opera by Mozart. For another Mozart with a great villain, there's The Magic Flute. A fantasy/fairy tale epic, definitely not the standard opera plot (just note that there is some misogynistic stuff in the text and while modern stagings usually take out the racism, older ones do not). Speaking of fairy tales, Hansel and Gretel by Engelbert Humperdinck is a wonderful show with a fantastic aria for the witch.

Here's a few of the villain songs noted above:

I hope you enjoy some of these!! I'm always eager to recommend operas.

[lecomtesmansion]

{Hello, admin. Hope you're okay. I am very interested in your page, and perhaps I will write often and ask questions. I hope... You won't get bored with me... : ") }

{Question for everyone}Hello, gentlemen. I hope you are doing well.^^

I'd like to ask you some rather boring questions:

1. What type of women do you like best?

2. What attracts you first in women?

3. Have you ever been denied se*...ahem-ahem...by women?*trying her best to keep a calm face, but a smile involuntarily spreads across her red  face .* (/ / / /)

Le Comte: *chuckles* Let's see if a few of the residents are willing to answer these. Let's combine number one and two together, shall we? What type of women do you like? And what attracts you first in a woman? Sorry Theo and Arthur are out right now but I think Vincent wouldn't mind answering? Vincent: Oh sure! Let's see the type of women I like? I think women with an inner beauty that just really draws you to them. I find that so attractive. Their heart is just so good you can't seem to look away. Dazai: *smirking* I think I need a woman who can cook lots of tofu for me and maybe some apple pie for Isaac-kun. Isaac: I said nothing about apple pie! Or anything to do with apples! Napoleon: So what kind of woman would you like then, Isaac? Isaac: I g-guess.... someone intelligent that I can talk to. Hopefully she is nice. Napoleon: I think that's a great answer. I'd have to say someone adventurous whom I can laugh with. Jean? What about you? Jean: I prefer that a woman stay as far away from me as possible for the sake of her own happiness. Napoleon: Come on Jean. It's not a commitment. I'm sure there are women out there that you find attractive? Jean: Well, yes but... Napoleon: So what are they like? Jean: Kind and thoughtful. I also like when they wear their hair down. *blushes* Leonardo: Well since Jean gave an answer you can't get out of giving one Mozart. What do you think about the question. Mozart: I can too get out of it by refusing to participate. Leonardo: If you refuse I'll go rearrange your room for you. Mozart: *glares* Mozart: Fine, I like women with great taste in music but they aren't too chatty. Leanardo: And I like women who are curious and spontaneous. Le Comte: Is that everyone? Leonardo: Except for you? Le Comte: Good, so on to question three- *mike drops and there is some shuffling* Le Comte: *clears his throat* We needed to have a few residents leave the room for this one. The question is 'have you ever been denied se* by a woman?' Mozart: Now why exactly did I need to stay in the room for this one? Dazai: *giggles* Mozart: Fine. No. Leonardo: Yes. Napoleon: Yes. Le Comte: And Isaac, Jean, and Vincent have been excused from this discussion. The end. Leonardo: You're sneaking out of this one too? Le Comte: I'm not sneaking out. Leonardo: Then answer the question. Mozart: Technically Dazai didn't answer either. Leonardo: We know the answer is yes. Dazai: Hey... How did you know? Le Comte: The answer will just make you jealous. Leonardo: And? Le Comte: Fine, no. *awkward silence* (mod: you are welcome to ask Theo and Arthur these questions as well. Thank you for the entertaining ask. It was hardly boring)

[meirimerens]

have you ever watched Mozart, l'opéra rock? I feel like its something you might enjoy maybe

oh god okay i have a #funny history with Ml'OR which is i'm Very Aware of it it was Everywhere when i grew up, one of my friends was obsessssssed with it she had learned how to play Tatoue-Moi on the piano. i've never really been interested in the thing because while i'm a theatre kid i'm not a Theatre Kid iykwim i'm not particularly into musicals HOWEVER. so many of Ml'OR songs slap so hard it's not even fucking funny. i have multiple saved on my phone that i listen to unironically and regularly.

for everyone who doesn't know Mozart l'Opéra Rock here are the bangers of the list

"Cette nuit, intenable insomnie / La folie me guette / Je suis ce que je fuis. Je subis cette cacophonie / Qui me scie la tête / Assommante harmonie. Elle me dit, tu paieras tes délits / Quoi qu'il advienne / On traîne ses chaînes / Ses peines.

Je voue mes nuits / À l'Assasymphonie / Au requiem / Tuant par dépit ce que je sème Je voue mes nuits / À l'Assasymphonie / Et au blasphème / J'avoue je maudis tout ceux qui s'aiment

L'ennemi tapi dans mon esprit / Fête mes défaites / Sans répit, me défie. Je renie la fatale hérésie / Qui ronge mon être / Je veux renaître / Renaître"

^ what if i told you this was a peter stamatin song. mmh? what if i told you this.

"Encore / Nos idées que l'on tord / Étranglées dès l'aurore Et nos rêves / Que l'on crève / Sans un remord

Toujours (de défaite) / Leurs valeurs qui encourent (courbé la tête) . Les gardiens de leurs tours (tours d'ivoire) / Indécents (sans nous voir) / Ils sont devenus sourds

Penser l'impossible avant tout / Brûler nos prisons dorées / Oser l'utopie jusqu'au bout / Seuls les fous nous ont fait avancer

Encore (à genoux) / La censure pour des corps (cordes à nos cous) / Nos esprits qu'ils essorent (sortilèges) / Ils nous piègent (privilèges) / Au nom des carnivores

Penser l'impossible avant tout / Brûler nos prisons dorées / Oser l'utopie jusqu'au bout / Seuls les fous nous ont fait avancer"

^ what if i told you this was an andrey stamatin song. what would you do.

^ what if i told you it was yulieva

^ literally pathologic. lilich coded first and foremost.

tldr: won't watch the whole thing because i'm not a musicals girl but the songs slap everyone go listen to the songs

[diazsdimples]

did you listen to the new mozart piece??? cuz i cant stop listening since i found out about it yesterday. my brother wont stop laughing that mozart released new music before gta6 came out either lmfao

I did! Sounds pretty standard Mozart-y 🤣 super cool that they managed to find it though! It sounds quite similar to a lot of his early stuff, but I like it!

And yeah, rip to Rockstar games who didn't manage to release something before a man who's been dead for hundreds of years 😬

Ask me stuff about classical music!

[arda-ancalima]

i hope you have a nice Easter!!!! :D

Ahh thank you!!! You too if you celebrate!! :D

[megamozartx]

Zero's such a dramatic fucking bitch it's killing me.

Mother: X is getting the shit kicked out of him there's no point Zero: [pointing his buster directly at her] [presumably mumbling something well give him a hint, then!] Mother: A...all right. Mother: Okay now get your fucking buster away from me Zero: Sorry [dramatically turns away] Mother: literally why don't you just reveal yourself to X Zero: I ~can't~ I have ~the curse I must break in me~ Mother: ...Aight

[ethanhuntfemmefatale]

Lestat being Mozart coded is something that can be so fucking funny

[lost-soul-in-time]

Long lounging days in the sun, selling off the occasional painting and channeling the murderous urges into more productive means. Murdock slowly stalks down the hall, footsteps heavy against the hardwood. The idea had been passed around before between them, of one of them being surprised by the other and dragging them into bed. He couldn’t deny Oliver his fantasies, ones that promised him an even greater escape.

Wrapping his arm around his waist, he quickly pulls Oliver away from the kitchen counter and starts carrying him to bed. Thrown over his shoulder, hands reaching down his pants already. “God…pretty boy, I’ve gotta get you.” Murdock growls, smacking his ass and finally dropping him on the bed.

@murdersinthemaking

For the first time in what's felt like a century, everything feels normal. With no demons to conquer and no victims to kill, Oliver doesn't believe he's ever felt more domestic. He spends most of his days either spending time with his love or happily cleaning around the house, which is just what he was doing upon Murdock's entry into the kitchen. Looking up from the floor with the broom in his hand, he smiles the moment he sees him, halting his movements.

"There you are, darling. How did your–" Oliver's sentence is cut off the moment he's hoisted up and over Murdock's shoulder with a yelp, the broom smacking the floor when he has to let go and holding onto the clothing beneath his hands as if that'll stop himself from being dropped, watching the world shift. "Murdock–!"

Oh.

Well... suddenly his shock is being replaced with the feeling of heat beneath his own sweater, shivering as he feels hands touch him eagerly along with the sound of Murdock's voice. He'd never get tired of it, of him. As he feels the slap come down and forces his mouth closed to suppress the sound it pulls from him, he stares up at his love expectantly as he's dropped onto the bed, warm skin sending a barely red flush to his face.

"I'm... how do you– need me?"

[cjbolan]

Reverse Unpopular Opinion Meme: The Magic Flute

Love the arias and the costumes!!! Love the plot twists. My two favorite characters are Papageno and the Queen of the Night, mainly because they have the most memorable songs. Love all the many different ways it’s been staged. Love this being one of the few operas with a happy ending, and knowing this was Mozart’s last opera right before his death gives it a bittersweet touch.

ASK TEMPLATE HERE

[symbiomancy]

scientific curiosity —frankenstein's monster

—summary: You created him. You patched him together from pieces of humans and beasts - lost your license to practice medicine and your PhD for that. He should not look at you and lust. But he does. | 1.8k | AO3 | monster masterlist

—warnings: monster x human, monsterfucking, handjob, implied mating cycle/heat, thigh fucking, rutting.

The creature has an affinity for music. That fact is not even near the most fascinating thing you’ve discovered about him, but it is a very pleasant one. He taps the keys of the piano with grace, despite his size. Mozart today, huh?

“Your motor skills are improving at an incredible rate,” you say more to yourself as you scribble furiously into your notebook. The creature voices a grunt of approval as he stares at the sheet music propped up in front of him. Mentally, you pat yourself on the back for selecting such a fine brain.

You cannot deny his improvement at everything, really. He’d graduated from picture books to children’s books within two days, to classical novels and medical books within a week. Getting him acclimated to his size had been a challenge at first but it has been leaps and bounds from those days. Writing, string instruments, key instruments, all of it, a truly incredible progress. There’s only a handful of things you’ve yet to ask.

“Any sexual desire?”

His fingers stumble on the keys.

You whip around, one arm slung over the back of the chair and push so the legs screech loudly against the wooden floor. There’s a grin on your face, pen in a death grip in your hand. “Care to elaborate?” You blindly reach for the notebook still on the table, eyes fixed on his large frame, at the way he hunches over, staring firmly at the sheet music.

“No.”

“Well, it is fall,” you muse, raise your elbow to lean it against the chair backrest, pen tapping against your bottom lip. “And I did have to supplement some parts for beast parts.”

“Hadn’t even noticed.” He thumps a foot against the ground. Griffin’s hind legs. Could’ve used the wings but taking too much from one body would’ve created too much suspicion.

“I really thought a vampire’s hand would, y’know react to warm blood — a mistake on my part, I’ll admit it. But,” your grin widens even further, “fascinating how a werewolf’s knot is still a knot even if you cut it off. Does the full moon affect it in any way?”

Your creation glares at you from across the room.

“What? Scientific curiosity.”

“You had your PhD and medical license revoked for…” he takes a deep breath and takes his hands from the piano keys to motion to himself, “me.” There’s a hint of something in his tone, something that borders on disgust. You file that away to discuss at a later time. “It’s why we’re out here. Hiding.”

“There are worse reasons to lose a doctorate for. And I was a scientist while creating you. So, scientist. Now, answer my question, please?”

The creature gently pulls down the key lid on the piano, stands, and wordlessly leaves the room.

He doesn’t come down for dinner.

You stare at the vacant seat on the other side of the dinner table with a frown. His plating is untouched, steam rising from the potato stew where he usually sits. There is no creaking in the house, nothing to signal he’s coming down. You eat alone and place his meal into the still-warm oven.

His door is closed. You stand there for a while, mulling over your words, trying to string together an apology. Should you wax something long together? An explanation? Run-on sentences to try to justify your innate curiosity at your creation’s physiological state? Nothing sounds right. Nothing sounds like enough.

“I’m sorry… for asking like that. I got carried away. It wasn’t proper of me. There’s um,” you clear your throat, “I left your plate in the oven. Heat it up if you get hungry. Good night.”

You stand at the door for another prolonged moment, trying to catch any sound on the other side of the door. It’s faint, barely there, but you can make out his breathing, slow and steady. At least he’s still here. But you decide not to test your luck any further tonight and retreat to your own room, leaving the door slightly ajar. It doesn’t fit into the frame quite correctly, anyway.

Maybe he’ll at least go downstairs for dinner later.

He stands in front of your door, staring at the small sliver of moonlight that pours into the dark hallway. There are too many loud thoughts in his head, racing and colliding. His skin feels ill-fitting, a heat simmering underneath it. You ask too many questions, he thinks — has thought since he left you in the study alone to hide away in his room with the blinds drawn and his cock in hand — too many questions that prod all the right places.

It’s in your nature. You were a scientist. And a doctor with an intricate web of knowledge about the human (and creature) body. He shouldn’t fault you for asking.

While you were downstairs eating dinner alone, he had his cock in hand — not a wholly new experience but a new-ish one — stroking it over the low bathroom sink. He’d tried, tried thinking of other things but nearly all of his experiences are tied to you and your presence. So he keeps coming back to you. Your pretty face, your smile, the light in your eyes when you ask him about his body, his psyche to scribble into your umpteenth notebook all about him.

Even now with his pants undone, cock hanging out, already (or still) hard, he thinks of you. He stares at you through the crack in the door, soundly asleep in your bed. The covers are tucked tightly over your body but legs exposed to the fall chill. It’s not right, he thinks, he should at least tuck you in before you get a cold.

He pushes the door open slowly. It creaks a short, aborted squeak and you shift in bed, pull the blanket tighter against yourself. The creature steps forward, carefully placed footfalls dancing around the one creaking floorboard right at the entrance, long slow strides taking him to the foot of your bed. You shuffle again, and for a moment he thinks this is it, you’re awake, but you turn onto your back, kick at the blanket with one foot.

You are… enticing like this, he finds. He thinks that’s what this feeling is. All he has to compare it to is the novels he’s read over and over and over again.

He grabs onto your ankles with his warm hand, touch featherlight, and gently, slowly, pulls you forward. The end of your nightgown catches against the sheets, drags further up the closer you get to him. He has the anatomical knowledge of the human body — he’s read every book in the house several times over no matter if fiction or an anatomy book, he’s effectively memorized all the illustrations, if not the texts themselves.

His fingers trace the expanse of your skin, gently knead into the flesh. He can name the muscles and the tendons, the nerves at the crook of your knee. He’s spent countless hours staring at the illustrations, even the more… explicit ones. He’s curious — you’ve rubbed off on him — but it’s dark. Instead, he stares at the gap between your thighs. It’s inviting, just perfect for him to slip his cock through. It jerks at the thought, precum dribbling from the tip.

You blink slowly. The room is dark, save for the moonlight filtering in through the window above your head. In front of you, right at the foot of the bed stands a tall figure, hand wrapped around your ankles, resting against his shoulder. Your brain jogs the existence of your creation before you startle involuntarily. He startles too, nearly dropping his grip on your ankles.

“Everything alright?” You ask. The fall chill bites at your thighs and oh.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pressing his body against the back of your legs. Something hot and heavy, wet presses between your thighs. The tip of his cock presses between your thighs, forward and backward. Slowly, like he’s testing the waters. You stare at it for a moment, then press your thighs together.

The creature groans and thrusts forward, hips assuming a sloppy pace. He’s tall and wide and big and that’s how you built him. The bed rocks with his thrusts, the headboard banging against the wall, scraping at the paint. His cock plunges between your things, smears precum onto your skin, slick and wet and loud. The sound of his cock plunging between your slick thighs is nearly deafening in the silent house. Your own arousal curls under your skin but you file it away to stare at him.

This… this is not what you had in mind when you first came up with this (quite possibly very stupid, very illegal, medically and scientifically (not to mention ethically) dubious) idea. It cost you your license and your reputation, sent you into exile. You don’t regret it on the worst of days but especially not right now.

His cold hand wraps nearly wholly around your thigh and you clench around his cock involuntarily. Your muscles jerk from the sudden chill. He groans and his hips stutter for a moment, stumble in their sloppy rhythm before he regains whatever shred of his composure is left and continues thrusting. The bulb at the bottom of his shaft is engorged, knocking against your clit with every thrust. You can’t even focus on that, just on the beads of precum dribbling from the tip of his cock, smearing against your thighs as he pulls nearly all the way back. When he thrusts towards you, pearly droplets fly, splatter against your wrinkled nightgown.

He pulls you into him, hips slamming against your thighs. The metal bed frame screeches at something, you can’t even react as he thrusts forward one last time. He cums with a guttural growl that reverberates in your own chest, thighs pressing against yours, hips jerking forward. Ropes of hot cum shoot from his cock, land on your torso. You reach out, wrap a hand around the enormous cock to jerk him off, prolong his orgasm, milk him for everything he has to offer. There’s a hiss from the back of his throat as you work him empty, splattering onto your stomach and chest, even your chin. It’s warm and sticky and it sinks into your cotton nightgown, clings to your skin.

His breathing is erratic once his large frame stops shaking. His chest expands and constricts against your legs, nails digging small crescents into your ankles. Your toes are cold from the forced position.

You reach down to the puddle of cum pooling on your stomach and draw a heart into it with a small giggle.

The creature looks up from his mess tentatively, brow furrowed and lips jutted into a hopeful smile.

“You’re not mad?”

“I’ll have you know I picked out every part of you according to my personal preferences.”

banners/dividers by @/cafekitsune

[sexynetra]

13 for boxer au <3 wanna commit to the vibe hehe

13. What music did I listen to while writing/what do I recommend people listen to

Okay here’s the thing. I made a playlist for rawnsyf a long time ago. That became basically the only thing I listen to anymore? So more likely than not I listened to that. But I also do a lot of my writing at work which means that I’m listening to bad workout remixes of pop songs that were big in like 2019 😭 do NOT recommend listening to that it’s annoying as shit. But I should make a boxer au playlist. The universe is big enough to deserve that 😂

For now here is the rawnsyf playlist which absolutely has songs on it that have informed boxer au scenes, but keep your eyes peeled for a boxer au playlist sometime soon now that the idea has entered my brain!

[streetlamp-amber]

bad time to be claustrophobic

bruce wayne x gn!reader

word count: 2k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: claustrophobia, panic attack NOTES: reader is gender neutral but it is mentioned they wear high heels

It had been two weeks since you started working for Wayne Enterprises and you were finally getting the hang of the job. At first, you felt like some sort of imposter, to be part of the famous company that overlooked the city and felt almost out of reach from every normal Gothamite. You had worked hard to get to where you were now and you deserved the stability this job brought to your life, as your roommate never failed to remind you every time you voiced out your doubts in the last weeks.

Your boss had needed you to bring some documents up to the top floor, where the CEO’s office was, and it was as you waited for an elevator to bring you down that you finally met Bruce Wayne. Of course you knew who he was – who lives in Gotham and doesn't know who Bruce Wayne is? – and you also knew of the playboy reputation he had that the gossip magazines could never get tired of. Although you had never really been interested in him before, one quick glance of the eye up and down his six feet two inches tall body was enough to determine that the media failed to describe how truly mesmerising Bruce Wayne was.

The two of you shared a brief eye contact when he came to a stop next to you in front of the elevator doors. He sent you a polite, tight lipped smile with a shy nod of his head as a form of greeting and you replicated his actions before turning your head forward again, hoping Mr. Wayne hadn’t noticed the beginning of a blush on your cheeks. You were no better than anyone after all, few could resist the natural charm that emanated from him.

The ding! of the elevator broke the silence floating in the air and Mr. Wayne, ever the gentleman, motioned with his right hand for you to step in first. He pressed the button for one of the basement floors as he entered before turning to you.

“Which floor?” He asked, and the sound of his voice caught you by surprise for a second.

“Oh! Um, sixteen,” you answered in what you hoped was a nonchalant way but was probably leaning more towards timid.

Mr. Wayne pressed on the button for your floor and the doors closed, the only noise that could be heard was the faint music of Mozart’s Horn Concerto no. 4 in E-Flat Major playing through the elevator speakers.

You watched with an anxious eye the floor numbers go down as you fiddled with the rings on your fingers, trying all your might to keep your hands down instead of divulging your embarrassing habit of biting off the skin around your nails to Bruce Wayne upon your first meeting. You hated elevators, or any kind of small closed space really, but your claustrophobia was just something you had learned (and still were learning) to live with. You usually avoided elevators, but Wayne Tower had more than thirty floors and you simply were not going to climb up all of those stairs in high heels for a bunch of documents. You could survive a minute long ride in an elevator, what’s the worst that could happen?

Well, the worst that could happen, happened.

The elevator was plunged into darkness as it shook to a stop, making you and Mr. Wayne almost lose your balance. It didn’t take more than five seconds for the lights to turn back on but the elevator wasn’t moving.

“No,” you whispered to yourself when you realised what was happening.

Mr. Wayne didn’t hear you, preoccupied with trying to get in contact with someone on his phone.

“Lucius, tell me what happened,” he spoke in an urgent tone, fearing that he was trapped in an elevator while Gotham needed his alter ego.

You were too busy trying to focus on keeping your breathing at a steady rhythm to listen to what the man on your left was saying. Everything suddenly felt hot and as you pulled on your white dress shirt in quick movements to air your torso, you started to feel like the walls were closing in on you.

“City workers were cutting a dead branch off a tree and it fell on the power lines,” Mr. Wayne explained as he closed his phone and put it back in the pocket of his suit, his eyes yet to see the state you were in. “Apparently there was some problem with the elevator when the generator turned on but a team is already wor–”

Bruce didn’t finish his sentence when he finally noticed that you weren’t listening to a single word he was saying. “Are you okay?” He asked, taking one small step closer to you.

“Yes,” you murmured, trying to sound as normal as possible. How embarrassing was it that the first time you meet the Bruce Wayne, you end up having a panic attack in front of him because of some ridiculous phobia that involves elevators.

“You’re not okay, you’re shaking,” he pointed out the obvious.

“‘S nothing,” you dismissed, clutching your shaking hands to your chest. You had your head hanging down and your eyes closed, unable to see the concerned look on Mr. Wayne’s face.

“Is there any way I can help?”

If your mind wasn't in such a frenzy, you would've heard the almost pleading tone in his voice.

“Not really,” you answered and your breathing quickened.

“Okay, okay,” he passed a hand through his hair as he tried to think about what to do. You were clearly in a state of panic and there was nothing he could do stuck in the elevator. He had to try to distract you while you waited for the team to fix the elevator.

You reached with your right hand to support yourself against the wall, the numbness in your legs making it hard for you to stand upright. Mr. Wayne was at your side in a second, holding your arms to keep you from falling.

“Let’s, let’s sit down, alright?” He suggested and you nodded your head.

He lowered the two of you to the floor and once you were sat up against the wall, he moved to sit in front of you, trying to catch your gaze.

“Hey, hey, there’s a team working on fixing the elevator as we speak, we’ll be out of here soon,” he tried to reassure you but you still wouldn’t meet his eyes. He observed the way your chest kept rising up and down rapidly and clocked that he needed to help you calm down.

“Okay, there’s this thing my… Alfred taught me when I was young. Just cross your arms over your chest and put your hands on your shoulders, can you do that?” He calmly asked you.

You nodded your head and did as he told you.

“Now I’m gonna put my hands on your knees, is that alright?”

You nodded your head once again and his large hands covered your bent knees over your charcoal dress pants.

“Alright, I’m gonna tap my hands to a rhythm, you’ll do the same with your shoulders and try to breathe along with the rhythm. Understood?”

Your distressed, teary eyes finally met his reassuring ones and in this moment, through all of the panic and the fear clouding your head, you were able to see that Bruce Wayne was a caring man under the playboy persona.

After you shook your head ‘yes’, Mr. Wayne started tapping his hands to a relaxed, steady rhythm like he told you he would. It took a minute for you to ground yourself in his eyes that never left yours and you followed his movements, tapping your hands on your shoulders to his tempo. He made a show of exaggerating the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, for you to eventually fall in step with.

“You know, when I was a kid, I was playing in the garden with my friend and I fell in an old well,” he started telling you when a few minutes passed and your breathing had calmed down a little. The both of you were still continuing tapping a steady rhythm on your knees and shoulders. “I was stuck down there with a broken arm and then a colony of bats flew out of the darkness. Been scared of those creatures ever since.”

“Is that why you’re not Batman’s biggest fan?” You asked in a small voice and Bruce faintly smiled both at the secret he was keeping from all of Gotham and because he was finally hearing your voice not in a panicked state. He always made sure to make his displeasure with the caped crusader known to deter the press from making a connection between the two.

“Amongst other reasons,” he answered, one corner of his lip curling up to show you his tiny crooked grin.

The two of you stared at each other and it surprised you how easy it was to feel safe and comfortable while looking in Bruce Wayne’s eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure to meet you before,” he spoke up after a short moment of comfortable silence.

“I assure you I would’ve made a better first impression in any other circumstance,” you quickly said, eyes going wide like saucers when it sunk in that you almost had a panic attack the first time you met Bruce Wayne.

“I can tell you, this isn't even in the top twenty of the worst first impressions I’ve had,” Mr. Wayne tried to reassure you with a joke. The shy smile on your lips indicated he succeeded. “I’m Bruce, by the way.”

“I know,” you said, a little more at ease. You told him your name, to which he couldn’t help but compliment.

“How long have you been working here? I don't remember ever seeing you, and I try to say hi to all my employees at least once a month,” he asked you.

“A little more than two weeks,” you answered. “I’m in the PR department, specifically overseeing the funding of your charities.”

“You have the most important job in the company then,” Bruce grinned.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” you rolled your eyes and this time there was no way he didn’t catch the beginning of the blush on your cheeks. You could only wish your face was still flushed from your almost panic attack so it wasn’t too noticeable.

The doors of the elevator were finally pulled open, Bruce and you turning your heads in that direction at the new noise. You sighed in relief that you could finally escape this cage of nightmare and both Mr. Wayne and the maintenance guy helped you slide out of the elevator, which only offered a thirty centimetres tall opening since it got stuck before it could reach the floor below.

Once Bruce had also gotten out, he ignored the assistant who had been assigned by her superior to catch him up on what he missed while being stuck in the elevator to instead talk to you.

“You know, if you want to take the rest of the day off, it’ll be no problem,” he told you, lowering his voice so only the two of you could hear. “I’ll vouch for you, make sure you don’t get in any trouble.”

“That’s very kind of you Mr. Wayne–”

“Bruce,” he interrupted you, though his tone was warm and friendly. “Please, call me Bruce.”

“Thank you, Bruce, I really appreciate the concern.” You were still a little unsettled by the events and when you usually would push through whatever sickness or weakness to make it to work, this time you didn’t fight off the chance to relax and recover.

“Gotta make sure my most important employee is well rested and of sound mind to do the job,” he smiled at you and you smiled back at him. “I have to go back to my duties, but I’ll be seeing you around.” Bruce said goodbye to you and you waved at him until his back was turned on you.

The first thing you did when you got back home to your apartment was search for a good pair of affordable running shoes to help you climb the stairs of Wayne Tower comfortably until you were ready to get in an elevator again.

And ever since that day, Bruce made sure that the elevators were inspected once every week.

[princesssarisa]

The Different Portrayals of Papageno in "The Magic Flute" (Die Zauberflöte)

Of all the characters in Mozart's The Magic Flute, Papageno is probably the one most open to interpretation by the singer and the stage director. As I've watched different performances of the opera, the funny bird-catcher seems almost like a different character in each version.

Every singer brings unique qualities to the role, but I've narrowed the most common portrayals down to four – which can be combined with each other too. I've seen baritones give excellent performances in every one of these portrayals, as well as in blends of them.

The Innocent

This is the sweetest portrayal of Papageno and the most endearingly simple-minded. He’s most often portrayed by younger baritones: the more baby-faced, the better. This uneducated, naïve young creature of the woods and mountains is almost a Peter Pan figure (without Peter Pan’s brashness or ruthlessness, though with a little of his boyish cockiness), who has never quite grown up. His childlike qualities include total earnestness as he asks questions with obvious answers, childlike quaking and whimpering in the face of danger, and childlike sobbing in moments of despair. Yet while his failure to “be a man” sometimes tries other people’s patience, no one except Monostatos can really dislike him. His friendly, cheerful, exuberant yet gentle demeanor is filled with natural charm, and the broad, sunny comedy of nearly all his scenes keeps the audience laughing, yet his boyish vulnerability is touching too, even when it’s played for laughs. Most endearing of all is his lively, wide-eyed, unabashed joy in all of life’s most simple pleasures. He might be an unsophisticated man-child, but whatever he lacks in maturity or wisdom he makes up for in zest for life and in warmth of heart.

The Peasant

This is a more mature, down-to-earth Papageno, who clearly represents the common man. He comes across as an average, hardy 28-year-old peasant, lifted straight out of the 18th century Austrian countryside into an exotic fairy tale world. Although uneducated and unrefined compared to Tamino, he’s not particularly naïve, but conveys sound working-class intelligence and practicality, and he often delivers his funny lines with a knowing, snarky wit. This makes him a kindred spirit to classic earthy “comic servant” characters like Sancho Panza or Leporello. His lustiness is also pronounced as he craves good food, alcohol, and female companionship: it’s clear that his desire for a Papagena is carnal, not just emotional. And despite all his fears and foibles, there’s an underlying stolidness to him; a sense of resilience that suits a man whose spent his life working hard to earn a humble living. Ultimately, he fails Sarastro’s tests not because he’s silly or weak, but because he’s just too ordinary for the grandly idealistic world of the priests. This makes him less broadly funny than some other Papagenos are, but it makes him easy for the audience to personally relate to, and easy for them to view as a friend too.

The Odd Duck

This is the most eccentric Papageno. His costume tends to be more wildly feathery than other Papagenos’ and make him look less human and more birdlike. He often has more birdlike mannerisms too: for example, making chirping sounds when he sees a pretty girl, or literally screeching in terror. But even if he’s portrayed as fully human, he’s defined by adorable quirkiness. In contrast to the staid dignity of the upper-class characters who surround him, he has puckish, squirrely energy, with little thought for dull things like “manners” or “social rules,” and his emotions always run free and high, sometimes causing funny melodramatics when he’s especially scared or distraught. Yet his joy in living is equally strong and unabashed, and for the audience, it’s infectious. Nor is there any restraint on his love of food, wine, and pretty girls, or on his playful and mischievous sense of humor. This free spirit is a true “child of nature,” who, like a wild bird, lives by his animal instincts: he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of him, no matter how strange, silly, or inappropriate he seems by normal standards of society. He just does whatever he feels like doing, and the audience can’t help but love him for it.

The Sad Clown

This is the least comical Papageno, but no less endearing than the others. His costume tends to lack feathers and be drably colored, disheveled, and poor-looking. Nor is his demeanor as broadly cheerful as other Papagenos’, but more reserved, and as for his style of humor, he’s most akin to Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp. The audience laughs at his foibles and slapstick, but feels pity him as well, because he shows a full and realistic range of emotions, with a subtle yet distinct vein of melancholy. He makes us realize what an unlucky man Papageno really is, as he constantly fails other people’s expectations and is browbeaten by both the villains and the heroes alike (all except Pamina). The sense of loneliness he conveys is especially poignant: not only in his deep yearning for a Papagena, but because he grew up without parents, has no real friends (only social superiors, some kind, others less so), and has never known any form of love. This Papageno’s eventual suicide attempt seems much less ridiculous than usual: even though it’s still played partly for laughs, we can almost believe he might go through with it. When he finally finds his Papagena in the end, his happiness feels long overdue and well earned.

The Pecking Rooster

This Papageno portrayal is more of a subtype than an individual type: he can predominantly be either an Innocent, a Peasant, or a Sad Clown. But either way, he’s pricklier than other Papagenos, with more machismo and a little bit more of a temper. Like a rooster defending the henhouse, he feistily defends his own safety and comfort, and like the Cowardly Lion with his “Put ‘em up! Put ‘em up!” he tries (but fails) to mask his fears with “manly” pugnaciousness and pride. Expect this Papageno to posture exuberantly as he claims to have the strength of a giant, to puff himself up to scare Monostatos away, to be as stubborn as a mule in refusing to face each new danger, and to bicker with Tamino and the priests every step of the way. His anger at being constantly ordered around, dragged into unpleasant situations, and denied the reward he was promised (a bride) is loud and clear. Yet unlike his villainous counterpart Monostatos, he’s never consumed by his anger, but combines it with classic Papageno warmth and good humor. For that reason, audiences empathize with his frustration, and admire his proud efforts to stand up to the powers that frustrate him, even though he comically fails to thwart them.

Here are some examples of the different Papagenos from different filmed performances of the opera. (I'll add more as I see them.)

*William Workman (Hamburg, 1971): The Innocent.

*Håkan Hagegård (Ingmar Bergman film, 1975): The Innocent, with undertones of the Sad Clown.

*Benjamin Luxon (Glyndebourne, 1977): The Peasant, with traces of the Innocent and the Sad Clown.

*Christian Boesch (Salzburg, 1982): A blend of the Innocent, the Peasant, and the Pecking Rooster, with undertones of the Sad Clown.

*John Fulford (Sydney, 1986): The Peasant.

*Mikael Samuelson (Drottningholm, 1989): The Odd Duck, with the earthiness of the Peasant.

*Manfred Hemm (the Met, 1991): The Innocent.

*Detlef Roth (Paris, 2001): A blend of the Innocent, the Odd Duck, and the Pecking Rooster.

*Simon Keenlyside (Covent Garden, 2003): The Sad Clown.

*Christian Gehaher (Salzburg, 2006): A blend of the Peasant and the Pecking Rooster, with hints of the Odd Duck.

*Nathan Gunn (the Met, 2006): A blend of the Peasant and the Odd Duck, with traces of the Pecking Rooster.

*Markus Werba (the Met, 2017): A blend of the Innocent and the Peasant, with traces of the Pecking Rooster.

Meanwhile, in my gender-bent retelling, An Eternal Crown, I think Lorikeet is a cross between the Innocent and the Odd Duck, with a few undertones of the Sad Clown.

I'd be interested to learn which portrayal(s) @leporellian is using for the anthropomorphic cat Papageno in their Magic Flute-inspired novel Song of the Sky.

@ariel-seagull-wings, @tuttocenere, @vogelfanger1984, @thealmightyemprex, @thevampiricnihal, @cjbolan