#ensemble 1700

[sonyclasica]

DOROTHEE OBERLINGER Y ENSEMBLE 1700

ANDREA BERNASCONI: L'UOMO

Grabación en primicia mundial de una brillante ópera barroca a cargo de la premiada Dorothee Oberlinger con su Ensemble 1700 y un excelente elenco de solistas.

La ópera L'Huomo se estrenó en la Markgräfliche Opernhaus de Bayreuth en 1754 con motivo de la visita de Federico II; en 2023 volvió al escenario de Bayreuth. Wilhelmine de Bayreuth, hermana de Federico II de Prusia, fue la libretista de L'Huomo (ambiguamente: Hombre y el Hombre) y la tradujo al italiano para el compositor Andrea Bernasconi  (1706-1784), que trabajaba en Múnich en la corte real y a quien ella encargó la composición de la música. Más de doscientos años después y tras años de exhaustiva investigación, Dorothee Oberlinger con su Ensemble 1700 y un excelente elenco de solistas grabó la obra en estreno mundial en la Markgräfliche Opernhaus de Bayreuth. Su música versátil contrasta maravillosamente elementos trágicos y humorísticos, todo ello en el estilo conmovedor y cautivador de la ópera barroca italiana.

SOBRE LOS ARTISTAS

ENSEMBLE 1700

Fundado en 2002 por Dorothee Oberlinger, el conjunto se dedica a la música de cámara europea de los siglos XVII y XVIII. Basándose en el conocimiento musicológico y la práctica interpretativa, junto con el más alto nivel de capacidad técnica, el conjunto produce variados programas de conciertos que son recibidos con entusiasmo por la prensa y el público. Actuaciones como invitado en importantes salas y festivales de música de Europa y EE.UU. han dado a conocer internacionalmente al conjunto. Para proyectos individuales, el conjunto cuenta con colaboradores destacados como Reinhard Goebel como director, el virtuoso de la flauta travesera y la musette François Lazarevitch, el gambista Vittorio Ghielmi, el contratenor Andreas Scholl y el violinista y contratenor Dmitry Sinkovsky. Como orquesta de ópera, el Ensemble 1700, bajo la dirección de Dorothee Oberlinger, ha interpretado hasta ahora Lucio Cornelio Silla de Haendel, Polifemo de Bonincini (¡OPUS Klassik 2021!) y Pastorelle en musique de Telemann.

DOROTHEE OBERLINGER

Como flautista de pico, directora de conjunto, directora de festival y profesora, Dorothee Oberlinger es una de las personalidades más influyentes de la música antigua: celebrada en todo el mundo con premios como el ECHO Klassik, el Diapason d'Or, el ICMA Award, el OPUS Klassik (Instrumentista del Año 2020) y el Premio Telemann de la Ciudad de Magdeburgo 2020. Como solista ha trabajado desde 2002 con su Ensemble 1700, así como con conjuntos barrocos como los Sonatori de la Gioiosa Marca, Musica Antiqua Köln, l'arte del mondo, B'Rock, Akademie für Alte Musik Berlin, Academy of Ancient Music, Al Ayre Españnol, L'Arte dei Suonatori, Zefiro o Concerto Köln. Desde 2004 es profesora en la Universidad Mozarteum de Salzburgo (2008-18 directora del Instituto de Música Antigua, actualmente subdirectora del Instituto de Música Nueva). Es directora artística del Festival Barroco de Bad Arolsen y, desde 2018, del Festival de Música de Potsdam Sanssouci. Ha publicado numerosas grabaciones de gran éxito y muy elogiadas como solista para Deutsche Harmonia Mundi, su álbum navideño "Pastorale" se convirtió en uno de los álbumes clásicos más vendidos en 2022 e incluso entró en las listas de los 100 mejores álbumes. Desde 2016 realiza aclamadas grabaciones de óperas barrocas poco comunes: Pastorelle en musique" de Telemann, "Polifemo" de Bonincini y en 2023 la grabación del estreno mundial de la ópera "I Portentosi Effetti Della Madre Natura" de Giuseppe Scarlatti que recibió fantásticas críticas como todos sus álbumes para DHM. "Delicadamente fundida... sorprendente e inteligente", escribió el FAZ, y “¡fulminante! Oberlinger da en la diana con este hallazgo. ¡Tres horas de éxtasis operístico! Todos los puestos del reparto son fuertes en este bello conjunto en el escenario y en la orquesta, pero juntos son irresistibles en esta velada de verano", dijo el Neue Musikzeitung.

Contenido Del Set

CD 1

1

Fanfare   

2

Trema, Spirto infernal (Recitativo accompagnato)   

3

Interludio Strumentale   

4

Pantomime- Menuet (Balli)   

5

Adorabil Deità (Recitativo)   

6

Allegro assai (Interludio Strumentale)   

7

Soffre talor del vento (Aria)   

8

Ad istruire i mortali (Recitativo)   

9

Caro padre (Aria)   

10

Musette-Ballet (Balli)   

11

Prelude-Largo assai-Presto-Gravement (Balli)   

12

Vincemmo amici (Recitativo)   

13

Presto-Presto (Balli)   

14

Vivace (Interludio Strumentale)   

15

Animia, ecco lo stral (Recitativo)   

16

Venite, venite (Coro)   

17

Dove son io! (Recitativo accompagnato)   

18

Per lei mi nacque amore (Aria)   

19

Da si dolci espressioni (Recitativo)   

20

Che bel piacere (Aria)   

21

Grazioso (Interludio Strumentale)   

22

Sotto l'impero mio (Recitativo)   

23

Cieli, che veggio! (Recitativo)   

24

Arresta il passo (Recitativo)   

25

Dar bando alla ragione (Aria)   

CD 2

1

Cieli! Qual' improvviso (Recitativo)   

2

Vani li sforzi miei (Recitativo)   

3

Genio eterno (Aria)   

4

D'aver resi al mio impero (Recitativo)   

5

Se un tardo avvento (Aria)   

6

Marcia I (Interludio Strumentale)   

7

Monarca invitto (Coro)   

8

Del vostro ardente zelo (Recitativo)   

9

Tergi quei vaghi rai (Aria)   

10

Mostro crudel (Recitativo)   

11

Cieli! Anemone èquesti! (Recitativo)   

12

Questi brevi momenti (Recitativo)   

13

Sino al respiro estremo (Aria)   

14

Ah traditor! (Recitativo)   

15

Per ingannar più facilmente (Recitativo)   

16

Fuggi da me t'invola (Aria)   

17

Dove corri in felice (Recitativo)   

18

La ragion gli affetti (Aria)   

19

Esiti ancor? (Recitativo)   

20

Del tuo malvagio impegno (Aria)   

21

Possenti numi! (Recitativo)   

22

Marcia II (Interludio Strumentale)   

CD 3

1

Gran nume fulgido I (Coro)   

2

Ah chiaro splendi intorrno (Cavatina)   

3

Tu de nostri emuli (Coro)   

4

Ecco, già manifesto (Recitativo)   

5

O sol che venero (Cavatina)   

6

Gran nume fulgido II (Coro)   

7

Genio possente (Recitativo)   

8

Prelude-Grazioso-Menuet-Allegro (Balli)   

9

Andiamo, e si prepari (Recitativo)   

10

Marcia III (Interludio Strumentale)   

11

Amabile Incosia (Recitativo)   

12

Della farfalla infida (Aria)   

13

Del suo labbro (Recitativo)   

14

Cieli, è qui Negiorea (Recitativo)   

15

Ti sembro austera (Aria)   

16

Il quale errore (Recitativo)   

17

Disperato (Interludio Strumentale)   

18

Cieli! M'avreste forse (Recitativo accompagnato)   

19

Ove, ove fuggo? (Cavatina)   

20

Si, che voglio appagarvi (Recitativo)   

21

Ah scigurato (Recitativo)   

22

E dunque ver (Recitativo)   

23

Le tenebre vinte (Coro)   

24

Allegro di molto-Presto assai (Balli)    

[paul-archibald]

Sicily

https://on.soundcloud.com/zsEoRr2fHVyXaunn7 Sicily is the largest and most populous island in the Mediterranean Sea. It has a picturesque coastline and historic towns, and offers beaches, mountains, active volcanoes, and even skiing in winter. It produces wine, almonds, pistachios, olives, citrus, and seafood but also has a rich culture in arts, music, literature, cuisine, and architecture. In…

[thecameronchronicles]

Baby Daddy: The Fundraiser

TW: public sexual actions. Smut. Language. Dom!Rafe. Toxic behaviors from both reader and Rafe. 

SUMMARY: You decide to get even against Rafe after he goes way too far…

WORD COUNT: 1700

*ORIGINAL CONCEPT*

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Standing before the mirror, skin luminescent with a glossy sheen from a rendezvous with someone other than Rafe and you could actually smile to the pleasure left in a buzz between your thighs. Better yet, it had been with someone close enough to him that he was certain to offer the mind-blowing details Rafe knew made the moment truly authentic. It had been a small step in distancing yourself from him. Even if it still failed to produce that same thoroughly fucked feeling you came to know with him, it would take time. 

At least that was what you'd hoped. 

Coming back into the minimalist bedroom decorated in slate hues and golden accents, you found Topper quickly adjusting something on his phone before returning his focus to you. 

"You seem like a pancake type of girl..." 

"With whipped cream..." His brows rose. 

"Maybe we should test it out now? Make sure it didn't go bad?" You nodded. 

"Ready when you are." Thrusting the sheets aside, you couldn't help but admire him. As if there was one thing he was better at than Rafe, it has been his reliability. The fact you knew you'd see him when he made original plans, call when he said he would. He was healthy for you. He was considerate both in and out of bed. He was-

Your eyes couldn't help but magnetize to the screen illuminating within the darkness. Peeking over to ensure it wasn't detrimental or time sensitive, you saw Rafe's contact. Aware you had only a second, you heard him return, which meant the contents would have to wait. 

"Do you think we can wait until tomorrow? I think you tired me out, champ." He beamed at the compliment, more susceptible to agree  to this, before falling asleep at your side. It took only a handful of minutes of feigned sleep and a light whisper of his name to validate that he had been asleep. Using his hand to unlock his phone with a thumbprint, you found the message in question. 

"I owe you, Top..." Your eyes narrowed as you scrolled upwards, finding a video file. Your heart sank as you watched yourself in technicolor, angles and positions only Rafe had set you in before. 

It was enough to leave that instant. You didn't care if he heard you dress or even slam his front door as you slipped into your car at rest in the parking garage in the complex. Not when you were a woman scorned and your fury contradicts even the hottest of hells.

Lucky for you, you would be able to enact vengeance this very night as Rafe happened to be downtown at an event for his company. With a quick touch up to your makeup and adjustment to your hair, you strolled into the fundraiser with a million dollar smile as eyes fell to you immediately. Without a chaperone or companion, you stood out even more, which allowed all eyes to address you, whether intentional or from a distracted note of peripheral inquiry. 

"That isn't what you told me last week, though..." You interrupted Rafe's conversation as he was split between anger, confusion, and arousal. The dress worn battled against the contradiction he had against you to use it as binds for your hands or as a trophy for everyone else to remind any who questioned that you were his. But it was your belittling of his character that threatened the glass in his hand to break. 

"You told me you were looking at telling "those assholes from corporate that they should focus on the properties around Charleston and get their heads out of their," You feigned embarrassment, "Oh shit...you're from..."

"Corporate..." One man offered his hand as the two others were too busy glaring at Rafe or basking in your ensemble to make note of the insult. 

"Sorry, a bit too much champagne-" Rafe pulled you against his side. 

"We're going home-" But to this, you slipped from his grasp. Because you knew Rafe was dominant through and through, but he would not risk the reputation of his surname, even if it meant putting you in your place. 

"Mister Cameron! It's been..."

"I was pestering Rafe to bring someone worth talking to. All these old guys are stiffs." You narrowed your eyes to Ward. As many found him to be intimidating, you always managed to have effortless conversations. This only aggravated his son further as he seemed to hollow whenever he was near his paternal figure. 

"The only thing you ever did right." Ward reminded his son, who clenched his jaw. 

"So tell me, how did we get so lucky to have you with us tonight? And where's my grandson?" 

You answered his question with the grace and eloquence expected from anyone connected to a demure family such as their own. All while throwing daggers at Rafe when possible. This continued through the night as Ward showed you off with pride until his offspring had enough. Somewhere between discussing how Rafe wasn't smart enough to keep you and how you'd be a better fit to the role of an employee than him as you shared ideas, you were dragged away to a more secluded corridor within the hotel. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing here in a dress like that wanting all this attention when you know all you have to do is ask..." 

"Who says I want your attention?" 

"The dress. The fact you're here..." He paused, eyes triangulating to your eyes and finally your lips as he took a step closer. 

"You are not leaving this room unfucked..."

"Maybe not. But not from you..." His brows arched in curiosity. 

"Oh?" 

"But you can watch, Rafe...I know how much you like to watch someone else fuck me..." His expression stilled and drained of all color. For the first time in the entirety you'd known him, you had not only made Rafe Cameron speechless, but also fearful. 

"What are you-"

You pushed Rafe up against the wall, nose nuzzling his jaw as you could feel it tense beneath your motivations. 

"Mmm..." You began softly, guiding his hands up your back. "Did you watch it yet? Did you see how he kissed me?"

"What are you-"

"Did you see how he was sweet and then nearly broke his bed with how hard he thrust into me? How he pointed me to the camera for you? But he was sweet...he felt so good...I can still feel how deep and hard he was...bigger than you-"

"Shut that slutty little mouth if you know what's good for you-" He threatened as you moved to his ear, capturing it between your teeth. Your entire body was close enough against his that you could feel every instead breath and repressed word. Even the strained cock expressed against you. Your favorite tattle you felt often.

"Mmm Rafe....oh....ahh..." You voiced a false orgasm, quiet enough to be concealed from the earshot of any other guests but directed at him.

"My car. Two minutes-"

"You have your little video, Rafe. Enough to watch as much as you want..." You teased the outline of his cock as you brushed your lips across his own. 

"You want to fuck me?" His jaw tightened as you retreated enough to read his expression. 

"Then watch how he did. Because you won't get to again." You pushed hard into his chest, using his torso as a means of stability to distance yourself before he clenched his jaw and watched you leave. 

This was the high you'd been searching for. Better than any release, even those given by Rafe. Having the last word, the look of shock and defeat across his expression, and you moved to your car to return home to your son. 

But you only managed to make it to the stone wall directly outside of the elevator before a hand forced you to a dimly lit alleyway. Before you could object or speak, your skirt was lifted and you were taken into a bend against the wall. 

"You will always be mine. I hope you got him out of your system because nobody else will ever get the chance to have you again. You're fucking mine." He thrust. The familiar cruelty making you arch immediately as he breathed heavily into your ear. Without a care of courtesy to be quiet or reserved, he unleashed himself into you as the animal he was. Unapologetic as fueled solely by his lust. 

"Look at me when I make you come-" He forced you to face him, teasing your sex with his cock as he kept another hand in your jaw. 

"That face. That one belongs to me." He lifted you over him, your body crashing down onto his rigid shaft as every nerve was left electrified by him. You stood corrected. Nothing had felt like this. He had never been this desperate. This focused. And it left you feeling manic. Your skin too hot, his breath too close, his thrusts too deep. And it has you howling like the bitch in heat he made you into for him. 

"All of you." He forced the top part of your dress to tear, groping you in possession, palming as you moaned and cried in pleasure beneath him. He was ecstasy and chaos. Pain and pleasure. And you were the unlucky recipient to both his kindness and selfish collection. 

"Anybody else pulled shit like that and they'd be fucked in an entirely different way...but you...you drive me fucking crazy!" He confessed as you scoffed. His body building into a climb that would certainly leave marks upon your back from the stone behind. But you accepted it as wounds of desire as you were pounded and raised in equal measure. 

"Yes! Fuck!" You belted as he rested his lips into your neck. An uncharacteristically silent pause as he took you in force to accept him. 

"M..." He began, his release promoting your own as he burst around him. 

"Marry me..." He exclaimed into your skin. No matter how muffled the words, you could have identified them anywhere. 

"It wasn't a question..." He explained as he set you back to your feet, your wide eyes and lips set in the same part. 

"You will…"

TAGLIST: @hopebaker @drewspisces @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4tangerine @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @camilynn @sweetestdesire @onmykneesforrafe @jjmaybanksangel @phildunphyisadilf @mashdan0916 @belcalis9503

MASTERLIST

RAFE CAMERON MASTERLIST

2ND RAFE CAMERON MASTERLIST

BABY DADDY MASTERLIST

MARCH MADNESS MASTERLIST

[detournementsmineurs]

"Ensemble" de la Manufacture de Saint-Cloud en porcelaine tendre (circa 1700-45) dans les collections permanentes du Musée des Avelines à Saint-Cloud, août 2024.

[gasparodasalo]

Nicola Fiorenza (ca. 1700-64) - Concerto for Cello, Strings and Basso continuo in a-minor, II. Allegro. Performed by Gaetano Nasillo, cello, and Chiara Banchini/Ensemble 415 on period instruments.

[crookedfivefingers]

Of Great Consequence

Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones; Martha Jones/Giacomo Casanova Rating: Explicit Chapters: 2/5 Tags: Romance, jealousy, friends to lovers, smut, angst with a happy ending

Co-written with @pax-in-paradoxo 💜

Note: AU where the Master arc never took place and Martha has continued traveling with the Doctor for over a year post-1969. This is just one take on how their dynamic might have evolved, given time+bonding+healing!

Read our first chapter below (or on Ao3)

In mid-1700s Italy, the Doctor and Martha arrive in Venice for the Feast of the Ascension. During their trip, they temporarily wind up separated, which is how Martha eventually finds herself in the company of an irresistible, if hauntingly familiar stranger… One who can't seem to take his eyes off of her.

"Feeling that I was born for the sex opposite of mine, I have always loved it and done all that I could to make myself loved by it."

-ɢɪᴀᴄᴏᴍᴏ ᴄᴀꜱᴀɴᴏᴠᴀ

22nd of May, 1755

As the sun rises over Venice, the city awakens, its buildings in shades of eggshell and rust bathed in the gentle warmth of late spring. Dozens of charming, arched bridges connect the narrow streets, their graceful curves casting shadows on the rippling waters of the canals beneath.

In an alley as old as Venice itself, the TARDIS materializes early, settling between a weathered brick wall and one of smooth stone. With a creak, the door swings open, and the Doctor and his companion step out into the cool Venetian morning, matching grins spreading across their faces as a gust of salty air greets them.

They’ve timed their arrival perfectly—forty days after Easter, just in time for the Feast of the Ascension. The morning promises plenty of pomp and ceremony, but the solemn rituals will soon give way to a lively afternoon as the streets fill with people ready to drink, dine, and dance.

Martha knows she and the Doctor will spend hours slipping in and out of crowds, perusing countless open-air markets, and laughing as they feast from one square to the next—blending seamlessly with the locals. 

Which is precisely why they’ve dressed up.

(And they look brilliant, if she should say so.)

Predictably, finding costumes for their trip had been her idea, as it almost always was. What was unexpected, however, was how the Doctor hadn’t put up a lick of fuss, enthusiastically tagging along to the wardrobe while declaring his intent to track down something ‘tastefully lavish, with an appropriate amount of aristocratic flair’.

After fifteen minutes, he’d finally emerged from behind the paper-paneled screen dressed in a long, silken frock coat in forest green, complete with tails, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp white linen shirt. His scandalously tight breeches, made from the same Chinese silk, clung to his knees, where polished black boots hugged his slender calves.

Once Martha had taken a moment to ogle the Doctor’s (frankly bloody gorgeous) ensemble, she’d helped straighten the tails of his coat with shaking hands, her eyes lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary on his bum before hastily averting her gaze to the floor. 

Eager for a distraction from her pulse thundering in her ears, she’d moved on to rifle aimlessly through the racks of clothes, shuffling past poodle skirts and flapper dresses (amongst other more questionable things) before finally settling on an extravagant gown in a complementary shade of sage green. While soft waves of frilly lace drifted from her bust to waist, the snug, corseted bodice highlighted her natural hourglass figure, further accentuated by a fluffy petticoat that had seemed easier to slip on than a bulky crinoline cage.

A pair of wedge sandals, way more comfortable than they had any right to be, gave her a bit of extra height, stopping her dress from dragging on the ground. Even with the boost, she wasn’t quite eye-level with the Doctor, but she was definitely closer to his face than usual when he pulled her in for a hug (one he offered right after helping her with the lace ties crisscrossing down her back).

She hates to admit it, but moments like that—the dressing up together, color coordinating, the simple intimacy of helping each other with the trickier bits—always get to her. Despite her struggle to suppress those feelings, things often felt juuuust dangerously close enough to the edge of that line to give her faint, fleeting little flickers of hope (however deluded they may be).

Martha’s a bright girl, though. Too smart, if she’s being honest, to be so swept up by a bloke with a smart haircut and a well-fitting kit.

(And a bloody time and space machine with the means to show her the vast wonders of the universe, but that's [mostly] beside the point.)

She’s painfully aware that, no matter what she may feel in the moment, the air between them remains at its same static constant: perhaps a shade or two shy of ‘questionably’ platonic at times; but ultimately safe, and—more importantly—consistent enough to adhere to the boundaries of just-friendship.

The Doctor is merely her mate–and nothing more.

Her mate who, on the first day they met, provoked such an undercurrent of sexual tension that his eventual rejection was akin to a polar plunge. 

Her mate who, even now, occasionally seems to let his fingers hover too long over buttons and fastens as he helps her dress.

But all the same, still only her mate.

To give herself some credit, she’s long since learned to extinguish any hope as soon as it sparks up, as the Doctor is nothing if not masterful at sidestepping anything that could be misconstrued for ambiguity. The man’s gotten so good at that particular dance that such faux pas and slip-ups rarely happen at all anymore.

Well… Save for those fleeting moments when she catches a glimpse of… something— something dark, raw, and unmistakably hungry—that she almost doesn’t dare to name. It’s usually in the aftermath of a day when her intellect’s really had the opportunity to shine, or right after they’ve both cheated death once again. It’s subtle, almost too subtle, but it lingers just long enough to leave her wondering if she’s imagining things or not.

Back when they first started traveling together, there had been a good stretch where any time the Doctor caught her eyes on him, he’d glance away wistfully—back when she was certain his real thoughts were almost always trained on another woman; rather, a woman’s ghost.

Martha would have even put money on it, were she pressed.

That feels like a lifetime ago now. She knows those wounds haven’t simply disappeared, but they don’t hang over them like a dark cloud anymore. Getting to this point had been no small effort, but now, he could talk about his former companion without it bringing up that familiar awkward tension between them.

Over time, Martha’s learned to keep her jealousy to herself (she’s gotten much better at suppressing it in general), the Doctor’s learned to stop comparing the two of them, and lo and behold, the whole Rose thing gradually became less taboo—leaving a mutual understanding that once felt impossible. 

Those ‘glimpses’ of his have changed shape, as well. 

These days when she catches him looking, instead of breaking off to stare into the middle distance like he once did, he won’t even look away… More often than not, he’ll just smile at her.

But that’s all it is, of course—a smile. 

She’s come to accept that the Doctor’s fond looks are probably nothing more than signs of friendly affection. After all, in the more than two years they’ve been best mates, they’ve been practically inseparable, traveling and living together nearly the entire time. It would be odd—and maybe even more confusing or frustrating—if the Doctor didn’t have some level of admiration for her.

But that certainly doesn’t mean he fancies her.

By way of petty illustration, at no point has he seemed to notice the fact that her tits look bloody fantastic, the fitted bodice of the gown doing absolute wonders to lift and separate her breasts. The rounded beauties are pressed up and together just so–and she’s already contemplating buying a push-up bra the next time she stops home.

But it’s fine that the Doctor is, for all intents and purposes, blind to this part of her. She’s had enough time to learn to expect as much, so she embraces her look privately, enjoying the little self-esteem boost. ‘No use in pining for approval’, she thinks as they stand together in their little alleyway—she knows she looks absolutely shaggable.

Within seconds of stepping outside the TARDIS, almost as soon as they’ve registered the smell of the sea, something else becomes apparent: the song of distant church bells.

The Doctor’s smile immediately downshifts into a grimace.

“Late?” Martha asks with a playful smirk, knowing it’s rare for them to be on time for anything (and certain she can’t remember the last occasion they were).

“Wellll…” Reaching back, he ruffles his hair with his free hand, looking from one end of the alley to the next—undoubtedly trying to puzzle out which route might be quicker. “I’d say we’re not so much ‘late’ as ‘fashionably behind schedule’. Could’ve used more time to get dressed before landing, but”—he grins with a hint of mischief, squeezing her hand— “no matter. Allons-y!”

Then it’s all weaving through alleys, dodging broken carts, and hopping over a series of quaint little bridges as they move at a brisk pace (the best Martha can manage in her shoes) as the Doctor leads the way.

Wherever the hell they’re going.

Panting, Martha calls out, “Couldn’t we just have, y’know… gotten back in the TARDIS? Landed a bit… closer?”

The Doctor scoffs. “And what, miss all these lovely little spots? What sort of Venetian spirit is that?” Turning a corner, they come face to face with another bridge—this one made of red bricks and wrought iron. “This way, you’re getting the proper tour, Martha Jones. The alleys, the bridges”—they both look down to see a long, black boat being rowed beneath them by a man in tight trousers—”the gondolas; this is what Venice is all about!”

“Sure, yep.” Martha’s almost certain he’s just too proud to admit he’s once again screwed up the landing. “Just saying, you’d better remember where we parked,” she adds as they step off the other side of the bridge, turning down the path to their left to slip into a space so narrow, they’ve got to shuffle through it sideways. “Don’t fancy getting lost in all this once it’s dark out.”

Another scoff as the Doctor looks back with a halfhearted glare. “C’mon, Martha. Give us some credit—I know exactly where we are.” His expression twists into a crooked grin. “Got a built-in GPS, me.”

“Riiight, ‘course you do.” They finally pop out the other side—and thank god, it’s a fairly wide street they step onto this time; she can even see the Grand Canal through an arch over the path in the distance—bless. “Suppose I’ll just pretend I can’t remember the ‘Forest of Dreams’ turning out to be the ‘River of Leg-Sucking Frogs’.”

“Oiii, it’s not my fault the TARDIS landed us on the wrong side of the continent!” He clears his throat, reaching (presumably) to straighten a tie that isn’t there, then (presumably) pretending he’d meant to touch his waistcoat. “She was feeling fickle, is all.”

“And the night you timey-wimey-detected us straight into the worst part of London?”

“I had a hunch!”

“That ‘hunch’ nearly lost me my good coat!”

“‘Nearly’ being the operative word.” 

“Or breakfast at Tiffany’s?” She meets his gaze pointedly, an eyebrow arched high. “Suppose that was due to a ‘fickle TARDIS’ as well?”

The Doctor’s face falls. “Erm—”

“‘It’s about intuition and imagination, Martha,” she gives her best impression, pressing her hand into the center of her chest. “It’s about feeling your way through the Vortex— oh, wait, hold on—sorry, you’re at the bottom of a swamp!”

With a heavy sigh, the Doctor scrubs all five fingers down his face, head tipping back dramatically. “How many more apologies before you stop dragging that one up? And, must I remind you—we did make it to Tiffany’s eventually. Softest, flakiest croissants in the universe, remember?” He catches her eyes with a pleased smirk. “And your lovely yellow frock?”

Martha cuts her gaze away from him as her cheeks grow hot, pretending to be entranced by a stone archway leading into another footpath marked Ponte de la Guerra. 

She hardly expected him to acknowledge it, but yes, of course, she remembers what happened after she’d recovered from the swamp incident.

As if she could ever forget.

The Doctor had ambushed her early that morning (Afternoon? Evening? What even was time on the TARDIS?), interrupting her slow shuffle to the galley to search for caffeine by thrusting a canary-yellow halter dress (the ‘color of nobility’) into her hands, confidently declaring that he’d promised her a date.

Frock didn’t do it justice, though. In Martha’s mind, a frock was one of Matron Redfern’s crisply starched pinafores, a young schoolgirl’s uniform, maybe the frumpy sort of thing a grandmother would wear to faff about the house. The elegant, tea-length cocktail dress the Doctor had hand-chosen for her was slinky and sexy–nothing of the sort. 

She’d stood in her bedroom, letting the fabric slip between her fingers as she stared in disbelief at the mirror. The shimmering yellow silk garment fit like a glove, accentuating every dip and swell of her figure. The halter neckline showcased plenty of bare skin, exposing her arms and the graceful curve of her spine, while the bodice cinched just right, emphasizing her waist before flowing sensually to mid-calf.

She’d turned slightly, admiring how the fabric clung to her hips before flaring out just enough to allow for movement. Tied snugly at the neck, the dress uplifted her bust, offering more than a glimpse of décolletage. The yellow hue was bold; vibrant; a color that demanded attention—exactly the sort of thing she wouldn’t normally pick for herself. 

But… it worked. It worked so bloody well that she couldn’t help but wonder if the Doctor had pictured exactly what she’d look like in it when he’d made his choice.

Had he anticipated how the soft sheen of the silk would highlight the warm undertones of her skin? Or the fitted cups of the bodice would perfectly cradle her breasts? Martha had bit her lip, trying to push those thoughts aside, but the question lingered in her mind like an itch in the brain. 

Had the Doctor imagined her like this, standing in the place where she undressed, feeling both vulnerable and powerful, the dress skimming her thighs as she shifted from foot to foot?

Maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t. But as she’d stood there, the dress fitting her like a second skin, she’d felt that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a reason he’d picked it. 

And then, she’d had an existential crisis wondering if he’d tolerate her absence long enough for her to nip into the ensuite and slather her legs in depilatory cream. You didn’t present someone with a sexy cocktail dress and invite them on a breakfast date if pillowy-soft pastries were the only thing on your mind.

No, she hadn’t forgotten the overly decadent and posh meal they’d had on Arkon, where the days were only three hours long and they ate a single sumptuous meal (breakfast) a day.

Or the stroll they took along the pier to watch the two suns set over a glittering sea, the Doctor’s hand finding hers as the last flicker of light disappeared over the horizon.

By the time they’d made their way back to the TARDIS, she would have nearly convinced herself she’d dreamt it all, if not for the effervescent rush of endorphins that had flooded her bloodstream, accompanied by an anticipatory giddiness she couldn’t even try to suppress. And why would she? After all, the Doctor had looked at her—at Martha Jones, the woman who had recently confessed her love to his human self—and handed her a dress he’d picked himself by hand, telling her they had a date. She’d been so certain something was about to happen between them that her bones had nearly burned with it.

And yet, there had been no long, lingering embrace at the end of the night; no handsy walk back to her bedroom. No giggles between soft, shy kisses against a door jamb as eager mouths became acquainted. Certainly, there’d been no trail of discarded clothing leading to where they’d stumbled into bed, his lips at her neck, his breath hot and shuddering beneath her ear as he moved inside of her.

God, how bloody embarrassing that she’d even dared to imagine 1/10th of that.

No—when they returned, all the Doctor had done was throw them into the Vortex, stare at his monitor, and bid her adieu with little more than a flick of his wrist–like they hadn’t spent the entire day doing stuff that would qualify as romantic couple’s stuff were they, in fact, a couple.

And that had been the night Martha stopped hoping.

“I’m just saying,” she adds, forcing some lightness and mirth into her tone, wanting to move past any further discussion of Arkon or Tiffany’s or nearly dying in a swamp. “Would be a nice change of pace to be able to find the TARDIS sometime this century–”

Quite abruptly, an arm is shoved in front of her, the Doctor forcing both of them to a stop when the melodic strains of a softly sung hymn travel through the open calle.

Two cream-colored buildings towered directly ahead, divided by a wide alley and connected by a stone arch. Through this space, flanked by ceremonial guards, a procession of men dressed in their finest red, white, and golden robes solemnly marches past. The soft glow of candles illuminates their path; the rich scent of incense wafts from smoking silver censers carried by two men trailing the end of the line. 

Not far behind, a sea of well-dressed Venetians follows, their voices lifted in joyful harmony. Some carry their own candles, flames flickering gently in the breeze; others bear golden-tasseled banners that sway elegantly with the rhythm of their steps, adding to the grandeur of the spectacle.

“Guessing that’s it, then?” Martha glances up to stare at his profile. “The procession?”

“Indeed,” the Doctor murmurs, moving his arm from in front of her to tug at his ear instead. “Erm. Martha?”

“Yes?”

“I, erm. Hadn’t realized you were still cross about that.”

“Cross?” Tilting her head slowly, she wrinkles her brow, puzzling through their conversation. “About what?”

“The swamp.”

Affection swells in her chest as she notes the sincerity in his eyes, and almost as quickly, her heart sinks with shame.

…Why had she felt the need to bring it up again? 

Plenty of times since then, he’s mucked up the landing—any number of which were far less serious… Those examples would’ve been far more fitting for the light, playful nature of the conversation they’ve been having.

With a growing sense of horror, she realizes what she’s done. She might not have been outright nasty, but it’s the same pattern that haunted their first year of traveling together—the same insecurity disguised as something else. This time, she’d just buried it deeper.

Sure, she hadn’t meant to do it—and it’d been tossed up in words that, on the surface, had nothing to do with jealousy or Rose or anything resembling rejection—but reflecting on it now, Martha knows better.

And the Doctor had misinterpreted that bitterness as resentment for having nearly cost her her life.

Of course she knew he hadn’t meant to land them on the wrong planet that morning! She can’t begin to imagine the guilt he must have felt when his casual misstep nearly got her killed, landing her unconscious and in hospital. 

Even worse: it hadn’t been the only near-death experience during that particular trip; it was just the only one that’d involved her and her alone.

When all was said and done, their breakfast ‘date’ had merely been his way of making it up to her in style, and while she thought she’d come to terms with that by now, somehow she still dared to feel a private tinge of annoyance more than a year later.

Moreover, brilliant as the Doctor is, he must’ve realized on some level that he’d gone a bit further than intended with the blurring of lines that day. That was probably why he was so closed off when they’d returned home that night; probably why he never used the ‘D’ word to describe an outing ever again, even in the aftermath of any of their subsequent near-death experiences (of which they’d had several). 

Bringing up that trip again—knowing how traumatic it was for him as well—feels cheap and uncouth, especially when she’d only done it to poke fun at his piloting skills. As much as she’d like to pretend it was all in good humor, the slight flicker of anxiety in his eyes tells her it came out more honestly than she intended.

What sort of a mate does that make her?

Excluding family, the Doctor is the most important person in her life. They don’t need to be anything more than friends—really, they don’t. His platonic love carries a weight and warmth that puts any of the fleeting, half-cocked romances she’s had back on Earth to shame. 

But still, there’s something about the way he holds her after a near miss that feels more intimate than sex ever could. Arms tight around her, like he’s afraid he’ll drift away if he lets go. She doesn’t care how cliche it sounds–it feels like their souls are tangled together in those moments, a connection far deeper than physical attraction. That has to count for something.

And God, does it ever. Of course it does.

Besides, she knows she’s the most important person in his life, too—at least for now. And that’s been true for a long time. They’re best mates, absolutely brilliant together. What matters is that they’ve got each other, and that’s more than enough.

(If the cost to see the universe at the Doctor’s side is a bit of hopeless pining with a dollop of unrequited love, she figures it’s well worth the price of admission.)

So, desperate to call upon some levity, Martha grins, giving his shoulder a light shove. “Oh, don’t be daft—‘course I’m not. I’m only pulling your leg!”

The Doctor pauses, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Right,” he says in a tone that makes it painfully obvious he doesn’t quite believe her. He glances away for a moment before looking back at her, his smile now more deliberate. “Okay, then.” Reaching into a hidden pocket in his coat, he points towards the crowd with his chin, his eyes searching her face for reassurance. “Off we go?”

Once equipped with red candles set in fancy silver holders—courtesy of the Doctor’s ever-handy, if baffling, trans-dimensional pockets—they quietly slip around a corner and fall into step with the procession. Their entrance goes largely unnoticed, a testament to the Doctor’s knack for blending in when it happens to suit him.

Strangely enough, although no words are spoken, she notices several men sizing the Doctor up as they merge into the crowd. One grins, another glares with a deliberate intensity, and an elderly woman even blows him a little kiss. Witnessing all of it straight away, a nagging suspicion grows in Martha’s mind that some of these people have met him before. It stirs a different kind of jealousy within her—a quiet, unsettling thought that maybe the Doctor has spent many Ascension Days walking these same steps, perhaps even with the same familiar faces by his side. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken her somewhere he’d gone before ( with Rose, a nagging voice helpfully adds), and she shoves that thought back down deep before it has a chance to get its hooks into her. She’s come too far, putting her jealousy of the other woman to bed, to backslide now.

It’s also worth noting that the Doctor’s a tragically handsome bloke whose presence radiates power and confidence, so it’s only natural that he’d draw such reactions (just as he has countless times before). As usual, he seems blissfully unaware, his eyes fixed on their gorgeous surroundings as if no one else exists.

Martha decides she’s overthinking it.

For the next twenty-five minutes, she makes a valiant effort to mouth along to unfamiliar Latin hymns as the Doctor, ever the show-off, sings every word perfectly (of course). The path winds around some of the most attractive architecture and quaint little canals she’s ever had the privilege of laying her eyes upon, and her attention admittedly strays a bit from the religious procession to the many balconies, alleys, and storefronts, peeking surreptitiously into windows and alcoves to try and imagine the sort of life one might have in 1700’s Venice.

Nothing compares to the site that awaits them, however, as they soon round a corner to find themselves in a massive open square, gazing in awe at the main facade of St. Mark’s Basilica.

From every angle, the building offers a breathtaking display of paintings, statues, and shimmering glass mosaics, every nook and cranny packed with religious art and iconography. Intricate carvings, hand-crafted from patterned marble, showcase colorful imaginings of the lives of Jesus, Mary, and the namesake of the holy church.

Five towering white domes crown the structure, their elegant curves adorned with lines of elaborate gold filigree that climb toward the lanterns nested above. Massive grand entryways— ’portals’, the Doctor calls them—usher the crowd into the cathedral’s stunning interior, and Martha finds herself dizzy as she tips her head back, staring in awe at the impossibly tall, hand-painted ceilings. 

Her heart soars. 

She’s seen so much with the Doctor, but this? This is something else entirely. It’s breathtaking. The basilica’s intricate details, the vibrant colors—it’s all so beautifully human; all crafted by hand right here on Earth. It’s a masterpiece come to life around her, and she can’t help but feel awed by it; she’s never been particularly religious, but it’s easy to see how people might come here to feel closer to whatever universal threads connect all humans—be that God or nature or whatever.

A hand pressed between her shoulder blades guides her back to the present, and there’s a flicker of embarrassment as Martha realizes she’s wandered away from the main procession. With a sheepish smile, she looks over, fully prepared to be quietly reprimanded—but…

To her surprise, when she meets the Doctor’s deep, brown stare, she sees only fondness there; perhaps a touch of pride. It sends warmth through her chest in a slow surge, and she smiles, the warmth only spreading further as he beams right back at her.

It occurs to her then: it must bring him immense joy to do this; to see human marvels like St. Mark’s through the eyes of another. For all she knows, he’s been to Venice a thousand times, but this is her very first. She can’t really blame him for wanting to relive it all, vicariously experiencing the first time wonder of seeing it through her eyes.

This time, when they slip back into the procession, Martha doesn’t even pay attention to anyone else in the crowd.

In the nave, Mass commences as soon as every pew is filled, hundreds of soft prayers echoing through the cathedral. Amid wishes for health, prosperity, and joy, blessings are bestowed upon Venice and the sea, creating an atmosphere so rich with unity that Martha finds herself overcome with emotion. As the next round of hymns swells around them, tears well up in her eyes.

Sometime later, after following the throng out to a large pier on the Grand Canal, the Doctor and Martha watch as Francesco Loredan—the Doge, or highest-ranking official of Venice—and his clergymen board an elaborate spectacle known as the Bucentaur. It’s a glorified barge, really; a long, flashy vessel with gilded walls and a red, curved roof; one practically sinking beneath the weight of opulent finery affixed from bow to stern.

Propelled by the strength of over a hundred oarsmen, the ship sails off surrounded by dozens of black gondolas and a hodgepodge of private vessels of varying sizes. The crowds cheer in celebration from the harbor, thousands of spectators waving their scarves and ascots as the Doctor tells Martha about the final event of the ceremony: the Marriage of the Sea.

“It’s meant to symbolize the significance of the Adriatic Sea to the city Venice,” he says quietly, his voice warm and close with intoxicating proximity. “They’ll have their rituals out there”—he lifts an arm to point east, his voice growing even smoother, deeper—“in those deep, aquamarine waters near the island of Lido. Then, as they hold a golden ring over the sea, they’ll say a few words to honor their tradition.”

“W-What,” Martha lifts a fist to her mouth, coughing to cover up the evidence of little sparks shivering through her, “what words are those, then?”

“Desponsamus te, mare, in signum veri perpetuique dominii.”

Good god. The Doctor murmuring Latin into her ear is the last thing she needs right now, and she pins her lips together, eyes focused on the departing ship as its shape grows smaller and smaller.

“Well?”

She jumps slightly, looking up at him with both eyebrows raised, as though he’s only just materialized at an inconvenient moment for her to be observed. “Mm?”

“I said, ‘Don’t you want to know what it means’?” He smirks then, and while Martha would have once thought it was a flirtatious gesture, she knows him well enough by now to recognize when he’s just being a smug git.

“Isn’t the, erm, TARDIS supposed to translate all that?” she asks, sounding slightly more breathless than she’d have liked. Certain the sun is highlighting the flush to her cheeks, she turns her head towards the water again, breaking off eye contact to focus on the excitement of the crowd.

“Wellll.” For some ungodly reason, the Doctor leans in even closer. “Not if I’m trying to be very, very impressive.”

Swallowing thickly, she takes a subtle (but no less deliberate) step in the opposite direction. “Never thought I’d see the day you admitted to having to ‘try’,” she quips, crossing her arms, her eyes once again pinned to the gilded barge. “But since you’re dying to tell me—”

“We wed thee, sea, as a sign of true and everlasting dominion.”

Martha scrunches her nose as she finally turns her eyes up to his, then she’s the one to smirk. “Gotta say, that sounded a lot prettier in Latin.”

“As most things do,” the Doctor sighs almost wistfully. Standing up straight, he offers his arm, smiling brightly. “So, Martha Jones—over and onward?”

Feeling the balance has been restored between them, she grins, slipping her arm through his as they turn towards the steady retreat of the crowd. “Lead the way.”

[high-in-the-tower]

Personally if I was Lestat I'd make that 1700's clown ensemble my default vampire outfit for the camp of it all

[gentlyepigrams]

This full length coat style is referred to as a wentke. It comes from the Netherlands and was created in the mid 18th century. Originating in the province of Friesland, and in particular in the town of Hindeloopen, it was a type of closely fitted long coat worn over full length skirts with a blouse and stays. The fashion began in the 1600s and continued through the 1700s into the early 1800s. Due to the huge amount of trade with the Eastern world that came through Amsterdam, a large number of these wentke were made up in imported printed Indian cotton fabrics like the example here. This sample, now in the care of the MET is a brilliantly colored and complex pattern that is well matched at the center back. The coat cuffs and opening are edged with a red and cream linen trimming, and the wentke is lined in linen as well. I’m including an image of a complete ensemble for reference.

[catohphm]

I HAVE A QUESTION

How would Danny act at a ball ? See Yule ball, reception, fancy dinner... Any kind of fancy situation that requires using several sets of cutlery and wearing fine stuff ?

Hi @thriftstorebabayaga! I've actually written about this before when Danny attended a masquerade ball with friends. He wore a 1700s era ensemble inspired by Robin Hood. I could see him wearing something colorful but not too extravagant. Danny likes something practical from which he can use it as a base to make something nice for the occasion.

He'd be in awe at the time and attention put into outfitting the venue. I don't think he'd be there to put on an impression for people. Rather, it's a time for him to celebrate and take in the festivity with his friends. Danny would ask them for help if he was unsure about something. In all honesty, he'd be honored and very grateful to have such an opportunity to attend a ball!

[fleetwood-cheese]

Phantom Thief outfit breakdown: pt 7

This is a continuation of my previous post and series regarding my opinions on the phantom thieves' metaverse costumes, prompted by a poll by @waywardsalt. I will link all of these together as they're finished.

Akechi - Ann - Makoto - Sumire - Futaba - Yusuke

Next Up: Detective Prince Akechi! It's time for the marching band prince outfit. This one is much more break down than changes tbh.

For some reason he doesn't have a piece from the set of official art I've been including, so he gets this (does let us see the back though). I'm starting to see more and more people say they think this one is hideous, but I actually don't agree! From a design and character perspective, this outfit is striking, very coherent, and richly detailed without feeling overly cluttered. I think part of the reason it's so jarring is because its so on the nose for the prince personal and thus comes across as sort of childish and impulsive, like it was chosen on a whim, but I do think that's intentional. The purpose of this outfit is to contrast directly with Joker's, the white counterpoint to his black ensemble, lure the thieves into a false sense of security, and to make the black mask outfit more of a shock, and it accomplishes this in my opinion.

I also like that's its a subtle form of rebellion that's very specific to Akechi's situation; he's a bastard child being used by his powerful father with little recognition, so the idea of being a prince, someone powerful and important because of his birth and his familial connections, IS a form of rebellion for him. The rest of the thieves (besides Futaba and Joker, who're there for the 8/28 trauma dump) don't know this though, so it flies over their heads. It's the pristine, white prince to the black mask's dark knight.

The most obvious inspiration here is the fairy tale prince aesthetic, playing off his media moniker, but it also incorporates a significant amount of formal military regalia. I'm not super familiar with this particular branch of history and fashion, but it seems very European 1700s and 1800s to me, very Napoleonic. The white color seems very Napoleon's Grande Armee to me, but the cut, double row of buttons, and shoulder epulettes scream 1912 American Navy full dress uniform. Ironically, this mix of military gravitas and fairy tale stylization means that the outfit ends up looking startlingly similar to the duelist uniforms of Revolutionary Girl Utena in my eyes, which is probably not the exact vibe they were going for.

The red and gold accents help break up the monotony of the white very well, and the piping on the arms and legs provide a nice lengthening effect. The mask is very interesting, because while it follows the European vibe, its distinctly not military; instead, it pulls on two different types of masks: the zanni and the plague doctor mask. The zanni mask is Italian, named for the character it denoted in commedia dell'arte plays; this character was a servant from the countryside and often a trickster character, which nicely alludes to how Akechi is the rival trickster to Joker in Yaldaoboath's game, as well as the way he's intentionally tricking both Shido and the thieves. The plague doctor mask is, obviously, the mask worn to prevent the spread of the black plague during medical examinations and treatment during its outbreak in the Renaissance, and I presume it relates to Akechi in the way he's been treated as a pest his whole life and is trying to maintain distance with the thieves during Sae's Palace.

There's no real changes I'd make here; I think this outfit does its job wonderfully, with a wealth of attention to detail and well used motifs. Most distaste with the costume is probably personal preference and the shock it gives you the first time you see it. It's definitely not something I'd ever wear but it gets the job done well. I place it 4th out of 10, with a solid score of 7/10.

[sonyclasica]

DOROTHEE OBERLINGER & ENSEMBLE 1700

GIUSEPPE SCARLATTI: I PORTENTOSI EFFETTI DELLA MADRE NATURA

Dorothee Oberlinger y su Ensemble 1700 publican Giuseppe Scarlatti: I portensosi effetti della madre natura el 9 de junio.

Consíguelo AQUÍ

Para Dorothee Oberlinger y su Ensemble 1700, los descubrimientos, las rarezas y obras apenas escuchadas siempre han estado en el programa. Este doble álbum no es la excepción: los nombres de los compositores Alessandro y Domenico Scarlatti pueden sonar familiares, pero el nombre del compositor que protagoniza esta ópera bufa es prácticamente desconocido. Guiseppe Scarlatti, que a menudo afirmaba ser pariente directo de los otros dos Scarlatti, dejó varias óperas que gozaron de gran popularidad entre el público de la época. Las óperas cómicas estaban de moda en la Europa amante de la diversión en torno a 1750, sobre todo las creaciones venecianas con los ingeniosos libretos de Carlo Goldoni, que también escribió el de esta ópera.

Así que Friedrich II acertó de pleno cuando llevó la exitosa obra de Giuseppe Scarlatti "I portentosi effetti della Madre Natura" ("Los portentosos efectos de la Madre Naturaleza") a Berlín y al entonces nuevo Schlosstheater: donde celebró su resurrección 250 años después, en junio de 2022, cuando Dorothee Oberlinger la puso en escena. Tras su popularidad, la ópera de Scarlatti desapareció de los escenarios, se perdieron partes, y Dorothee Oberlinger la completó con otros manuscritos relacionados de Viena y Wolfenbüttel, también con notables interludios, incluida música de Pergolesi, en los que pueden brillar los instrumentistas del Ensemble 1700.

Y la historia de esta ópera bufa "I portentosi effetti della madre natura" también es conmovedora: Desde el aislamiento total, Celidoro tropieza de repente con la libertad. Todo es nuevo para él: el mundo, la gente, la confusa presencia de las mujeres, y sus instintos naturales chocan constantemente con reglas misteriosas. Esta desenfadada ópera bufa muestra divertidamente cómo encuentra su lugar en la sociedad a través de la espesura de los juegos de poder y amor. Giuseppe Scarlatti brilla con su espíritu cómico, su suavidad melódica, su brillo de coloratura y sus animadas escenas de conjunto. ¡Todo un descubrimiento!

ENSEMBLE 1700

Fundado en 2002 por Dorothee Oberlinger, el conjunto se dedica a la música de cámara europea de los siglos XVII y XVIII. Basándose en el conocimiento musicológico y la práctica interpretativa, junto con el más alto nivel de capacidad técnica, el conjunto produce variados programas de conciertos que son recibidos con entusiasmo por la prensa y el público. Actuaciones como invitado en importantes salas y festivales de música de Europa y EE.UU. han dado a conocer internacionalmente al conjunto. Para proyectos individuales, el conjunto cuenta con colaboradores destacados como Reinhard Goebel como director, el virtuoso de la flauta travesera y la musette François Lazarevitch, el gambista Vittorio Ghielmi, el contratenor Andreas Scholl y el violinista y contratenor Dmitry Sinkovsky. Como orquesta de ópera, el Ensemble 1700, bajo la dirección de Dorothee Oberlinger, ha interpretado hasta ahora Lucio Cornelio Silla de Haendel, Polifemo de Bonincini (¡OPUS Klassik 2021!) y Pastorelle en musique de Telemann.

DOROTHEE OBERLINGER

Directora musical

Como flautista de pico, directora de conjunto, directora de festival y profesora, Dorothee Oberlinger es una de las personalidades más influyentes de la música antigua: celebrada en todo el mundo con premios como el ECHO Klassik, el Diapason d'Or, el ICMA Award, el OPUS Klassik (Instrumentista del Año 2020) y el Premio Telemann de la Ciudad de Magdeburgo 2020. Como solista ha trabajado desde 2002 con su Ensemble 1700, así como con conjuntos barrocos como los Sonatori de la Gioiosa Marca, Musica Antiqua Köln, l'arte del mondo, B'Rock, Akademie für Alte Musik Berlin, Academy of Ancient Music, Al Ayre Españnol, L'Arte dei Suonatori, Zefiro o Concerto Köln. Desde 2004 es profesora en la Universidad Mozarteum de Salzburgo (2008-18 directora del Instituto de Música Antigua, actualmente subdirectora del Instituto de Música Nueva). Es directora artística del Festival Barroco de Bad Arolsen y, desde 2018, del Festival de Música de Potsdam Sanssouci. Desde 2016 lleva a cabo proyectos de ópera muy aclamados con su Ensemble 1700.

[orlissa]

with all your historical fashion which outfit do you see alina were

Oh, Nonnie, did you just open Pandora's box...

So: back in 2021 (for a total of 4 months) I did curate a sideblog titled "Ravkan Fashion" speicifically for garments (mostly historical, but modern too) that had the "vibe" of certain characters.

...Mostly Alina. Because I'm in the Darklina trashbin and, honestly, women's fashions are more interesting.

Back to your question: when? This is an important question :D That being said, generally I date SaB (fantasy) 1880ish, based on the court dresses, which look *kinda* Natural Form era. Not that it means anything, really, because the costuming is all over the place: of course you can't daate keftas, Jesper's plaid suits are kinda 1840s, Nikolai's wide-cuffed captain outfit is 1700-something, and we don't talk about Alina's gown from the s2 finale.

But yeah, in my canon fics I place the events of S1 in 1879-1880. (And In some of my fics Alina actually wears stuff based on existing garments.)

Without further ado, here are some examples Alina could be wearing:

Mantle, 1885

Ballgown from the House of Worth, 1882 (Alina actually wears this in one of my fics)

Black velvet jacke, 1890

Afternoon ensemble, 1878-1882

Corsetry! Super important. This one is from 1889

Gown, c. 1880

Russian court dress, c. 1900

And to end with something modern:

[thecameronchronicles]

December 1st

TW: Smut. Language. Mentions of Masturbation. 

SUMMARY: The trials of No Nut November begin to get the best of you and your boyfriend, Rafe. 

WORD COUNT: 1700

REQUESTED

*TOO MANY COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS SENT IN TO LIST. HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY!

December 1st

He didn’t do it for the money, because God knows he didn’t need it. He did it strictly for bragging rights. The fact he could hold some title aside from the heavy weight of his surname pressuring to crush him at one misstep or one crossword. And yet his decision to partake in ‘No Nut November’ along with Topper, Kelce, and the remaining band of Kooks you had become acquainted with since you’d been dating him, would affect not only him but you. And this was because he demanded the same from you as well. 

‘If I can’t come, you can’t either. Not like you can go anywhere else…’ He teased you as you retaliated in verbiage against him in claiming it wasn’t fair you’d be denied as this was his choice to try and prove some form of masculinity by being able to withdraw his gluttonous need and transcend to some new plane of sel-restriction. But it wasn’t just about him. You were being denied. And because of that, you were more repressed, and even more bratty, than usual. 

The first week was actually rather easy as you almost had fun teasing one another. Flirty glances across the table and further desperations of clawing fingers as you would stand before the floor length mirror fixing any ensemble and feel him wrap around you. But as the first seven days would leave teases in the air and satiations unquelled, they were now crossing into a new line of desperation at the end of that second week as those touches needed more. It showed in each kiss and every touch, lust and love mixing and blurring beneath this need as you were turned against the mirror of the bedroom. 

“I’m gonna fucking explode-” He groaned into you as yoru teeth captured his ear, nibbling on his earlobe just enough to make him feel that tease of pain that sent his eyes into a roll. 

“Nobody has to know, Rafe…” You whined as he took his hands to your waist to stop the grinding motions you were making against him. 

“I will.” He shot back. 

“You don’t even need the money, baby…But we need this…” You ran your hand down his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath your palm until he captured your wrist. 

“It’s about exercising self control-”

You groaned. 

“But Rafe-”

“Don’t be a brat, baby…We’re halfway there.” You were left with this discomfort of needing this release, only to be denied once again. And yet, as you would find the beginning of the third week to pass excruciatingly slowly, you gained somewhat of an idea to try and push his buttons. You did this by veiling yor seductions towards his friends. 

Complimenting them and finding any excuse to touch their arms or thighs, knowing he wouldn’t do anything about it and you could get away with truly anything in this moment. You continued this before slipping away into the shadows of Tannyhill, his steps quick to follow. 

“You trying to make us all lose at once?” He asked with a narrowing of his eyes. 

“I have nothing to lose, Rafe…And I’m getting VERY impatient. If YOU won’t give it to me all for ‘bragging rights’, I’m sure someone else would-”

He caught your arm in the attempt you made to leave. 

“You let anyone else even dance with you tonight and you’ll be sorry.”

“So you keep saying…But you won’t do anything about it for at least another two weeks. So that means two more weeks of you realizing what you’re without… In fact…” As brazen as it was, you pulled your fingers between your lips before setting them between your thighs, taking hold of his shirt until he acted as a cover for your fingering. 

“Oh God…I could come so fast…” You moaned as he apprehended your wrist. 

“I swear TO God if you do anything without me, you’re gonna spend all of December tied to my bed overstimulated and trembling-”

“I don’t believe in -” He kissed you quiet, fingers replacing your own as your hand gripped desperately around his own. 

“Yes, please…Fuck…yes-yes-yes…” You whimpered as he took no prisoners, bending his fingers into that perfect angle to hit THAT spot as you rode his hand. His second came to the back of your neck, kissing your skin, before he came to your lips once again, speaking against them. 

“Feel how good that is baby?”

“Mmmhmm…mmm…”

“You want to feel it ever again and you’re gonna behave-Don’t test me, baby…” He retracted, licking his fingers clean, before returning to his friends, your desperations reaching a fever pitch. And yet, you knew he would make you pay for any disrespect and disobedience. For that, you obliged his request and returned to his side, but doing so with a pout. 

Thanksgiving was a game of traces and teasing as you would be the one to finally retract as he had pulled you into his father’s office between entree and dessert. 

“I don’t fucking care anymore…” He groaned into you, leading your hand to his pants, before you pulled away. 

“I have had to wait three weeks…You can wait another one, can’t you, Rafe? Wasn’t it what you said about self control-” Hh silenced you with a hand to your jaw. 

“The second that fucking clock hits December, you’re gonna get it…”He leaned closer. “And there’s no fucking safe word that can stop what I’m gonna do to you.” You swallowed hard with excitement. 

“Until then…” You teased a kiss and a brush across his cock, before returning to dinner. 

The final hours of November were grueling as you sat in the living room of Tannyhill, flipping through social media to distract yourself from anything but the pulsation between your legs. Meanwhile, Rafe sat across from you, paperwork set on the space before you both, his eyes following the lines made of your fingers as you teased him as they moved beyond your breasts and just at the seam of your panties, visible by wearing only his dress shirt left over from earlier that day, and eventually finalizing at your lips. His eyes flashed to the clock set just over your shoulder. 

Two more hours until he could make good on those threats. But he needed something before hand. And so as you would tease him by biting the pads of your fingers and closing your eyes, he pulled you over his shoulder, a smack to your ass, before leading you to the bedroom. 

“Rafe, it isn’t-”

“Shut the fuck up.” He commanded before tossing you onto your back, a slight bounce made against the mattress, before you were pulled at his hips. He licked his lips, cocking his head, before taking his fingers down between your breasts and teasing your panties. 

“God, they’ve been soaked all month, haven’t they sweetheart?”

“Please…It’s two hours, Rafe!”

“And you’re gonna spend the next two hours paying for the last two weeks specifically…” He would edge you continuously following these words. Pleasure now an echo to what he wouldn’t grant, all while torturing himself in the process by the way your moans hardened him to stone. 

“Rafe, please-” His eyes turned to the direction of the clock, his face stained with your slick as well as his own seat from having consumed you in every possible way, exercising every form of foreplay he could without granting either of you a release. 

“Five minutes-”

“FUCK!” You groaned as he chuckled, preparing himself between your thighs. 

“PLEASE!” You begged with tears in your eyes, your body already in tremors as your mind flashed to the recent moments. His tongue between your folds, his fingers spreading your slick between those same lips, only to suck off his reward from both his fingertips and your clit, and the brutal swipes to your ass as he would use his cock to edge you in further teasing, only penetrating as midnight finally came after the hellish wait. 

“One more time. Real pretty how I like…” He asked, cock at your sex, your hair pulled to where he could look into your eyes as you were angled this way on your stomach. 

“Please, Rafe…Please-” You were thrust forward, belting out in a banshee’s cry as he pulled you back into him. No kindness or caution came from his motions. Where love and passion usually existed became replaced and deafened by your mutual need. 

“I’m gonan come-I’m gonan come-” He groaned as you nodded, his finger to your clit having sent you close via your overstimulated clit as he bit into your shoulder before thrusting harshly into you. But before you could settle with the satisfaction, you were taken onto your back, your knees forced to yoru chest. 

“Rafe-”

“You wanted to play…so fucking play-” He groaned over you, ignoring his own overstimualion as he proceeded to come again. And again. The first hours of December spent chanting your name between curses and your pleas.

“Rafe, I can’t take it anymore-” But to this, you were pulled from the bed and taken to your knees on its edge. 

“I said no safe word. So you’re gonna take it until I’ve had enough. Punishment for your teasing.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Oh you will be. THAT isn’t an empty threat.” He forced his cock between your lips, your tears making his eyes roll into approval, before he had you gagging and gasping, yoru thighs soaked from a mix of your cum, until he pulled you to the edge of the bed at his side. 

“It may be bragging rights for me…but YOU get the trophy…” He took your hand to his shaft, slick and somehow still painfully hard before he took hold of the back of your neck. 

“And you’re gonna wear it proudly for me…” He explained while the final spurts of hot cum now painted your chest, his thumbs tracing it over your nipples and between their existence, before you would be left in the aftermath of repression and final satisfaction. 

“You have one hour. And then you’re making up for Thanksgiving…not to mention teasing my friends…One hour.” He warned before leaving you to bask in the ache he left behind and the thrill of what was still to come…

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @obxxrxfes @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @rafesbae @belcalis9503

[lesser-known-composers]

Nicolaus Adam Strungk (1640-1700) - Choral Cantata, Ich Ruf Zu Dir, Herr Jesu Christ

Artist: Andrea Hornung-Boesen

Ensemble: Freiburg Musica Poetica Ensemble

Conductor: Hans Bergmann

[aziraphales-library]

Hello mods! I'm not sure if I've already sent this ask. Found it in my notes but didn't cross it off, so I'm assuming I never sent it. If I did, you're free to ignore this :)

Hi mods!

Whenever I find a human au fic with queer themes, I go in hoping for something not set in modern era and try not to be disappointed every time I'm mistaken. So, do you know of any fic set in the past (could be 1700s, could be 1950s, hell could even be the 80s. Don't mind just as long as it's not set in the 21st century or ancient times) in which A&C are queer in some way and have to deal, at least a bit, with the consequences of being that in that time? Could be gay, trans, or whatever. I just really want to read about them being queer in a world against them and finding comfort in each other. So a happy or at least hopeful ending would be appreciated too.

Thanks in advance! The work you guys do is fantastic <3

Hello! Try the Historical AUmens Collection! There are also tags on AO3 for particular eras like Victorian, Regency, Medieval etc.

Here is an ask with long list of historical recs.

Some more:

Moonlight Serenade (Extended) by TawnyOwl95 [E]

That night the bombers flew out from Tadfield Airbase. They always woke Crowley up, set the dogs barking but tonight they disturbed him long after the night had fallen silent again.

He couldn't sleep until he heard them come back, until he knew if there was a chance Aziraphale was still alive.

Called Up by cassieoh, Liquid_Lyrium [T]

"Bit of a chilly day to go without a jacket," he points out stupidly. He tries not to stare openly at the braces that attractively frame the other man’s chest. Then he remembers his shades are in place, and he feels some tension leave his shoulders.

Fell (terribly ominous name for a pilot, that) goes a little pink in the cheeks, and isn't that something?

"Gave it away," he mumbles under his breath, and it's like a trap door drops out from under Crowley's feet.

Once More, With Feeling by saretton, TawnyOwl95 [E]

1950s. The research continues, but Aziraphale is determined to shake things up.

If only he can find the courage to let Crowley know.

The things one does for science.

All My Heart Is Yours by FeralTuxedo [E]

1847. Aziraphale Fell arrives at Eden Hall to take up his new position as tutor to the young heir. The house is enormous, remote, and its occupants rather strange — but none more so than its master, the ill-mannered but inconveniently handsome Mr Crowley.

Mr Crowley’s gaze lingered on him.

‘Now I see you in broad daylight, I can tell you’re no gentleman.’

Aziraphale bristled. He was wearing his best ensemble, and it was of fine enough quality, if a little rumpled from the luggage.

‘Whereas you certainly look the part, even if your manners suggest otherwise.’

A Victorian human AU loosely inspired by Jane Eyre, but with 50% less angst and 100% less spousal incarceration.

As Time Goes By by teatales [M]

Mr Anthony Crowley was fine with being alone. He had his car and his plants and his career as a travelling salesman, and it was fine. Even with his awful new bosses, he had no plans to quit selling watches anytime soon. What else would he do?

Mrs Aziraphale Ingels had been stuck in Tadfield ever since her husband passed away a year ago. She tried her best not to dwell on how lonely she felt as she filled her days with books and baking while waiting for the inheritance to be finalised. Only then could she consider what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

A chance meeting, a blossoming friendship, and Aziraphale and Crowley soon find themselves falling in love with the stranger they met only a few months ago. But neither believe the other could ever love them back, and both have things they're terrified to share.

As Time Goes By is a timeless romance set in the 1950s about acceptance, being less alone than you think, and watch-related puns.

~Mod N

[burlveneer-music]

Organic Pulse Ensemble - Zither Suite - after releasing two albums last year, one-man spiritual jazz band Gustav Hornej is back with another one already

Zither Suite is the fifth OPE album. It was recorded in my apartment in Kortedala, just outside of Gothenburg. No neighbours were harmed in the recording process. The title track opens with a bitter sweet bass melody that I first recorded some 10 years ago, but it's been fermenting ever since and finally reached maturity. The zither that gave name to the record (and the first track) was a find from the local charity shop. While it's not featured on every track of the album it's a crucial part of the feel of the album as a whole. It's the rug that ties the room together. The tracks on this album are all original compositions with the exception of Jämtland which is based on an old Swedish folk melody, reported to have been played by musicians in Jämtland as early as the late 1700s. The county of Jämtland is forever claiming a tounge in cheek sort of independence from the Swedish governing body (in spirit rather than in actual policies) and Jämtlandssången is it's unofficial national anthem. -Gustav Horneij