human cello

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I have no context for this but it’s amazing.

do it (like my cello)
fyodor dostoevsky
do it (like my cello)

a couple days ago i wrote a rap about dostoevsky fucking his cello and i finally got around to recording it

lyrics in case you can’t tell what im saying with my terrible fake russian accent:

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (what)

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (ohh)

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (yeah)


Play that high note, drop it low

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello


The name is Dostoevsky

And i’m hot on this track

And baby once you go cello

You’re never going back


A cello don’t mind if

You never brush your hair

A human girl’s so picky

A cello? You touch her anywhere


I finger that D

And get my tongue up on that g-string

I got full-throttle vibrato

But ah, your bows might keep disappearing (up his ass)


Dostoevsky (да)

I get the ladies  (да)

But fuck these bitches! (aw)

My cello’s got it going on (and on)


Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (what)

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (ohh)

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (yeah)


Play that high note, drop it low

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello


Oh babe I’ll hurt you so good

It’ll make you cry out in astonishment

I hope your body is ready for a little

Crime and punishment


I thrust my butt up in that f-hole

Stay grinding day and night

I slap these bitches with my pimp hand

But don’t worry I don’t bite (hard)


Yes im a bad bitch (bad bitch)

I don’t do nothing nice

But they call my hoes the russian winter

Cuz I keep em decked ice (bling!)


Dostoevsky (да)

I make that money  (да)

Ain’t love no thotties (да)

They suck like pushkin (aw)


Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (what)

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (ohh)

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello (yeah)


Play that high note, drop it low

Ain’t no girl do it like my cello

Music Video/Storyboard Script: A Gorey Demise

This isn’t even the final draft and, like In the Backseat, you’ll see a much cleaner version down the road. For now bare witness to the bones of what became the highlight of my mini drama portfolio, ft. characters from The Nightmare Before Christmas and a song by Creature Feature.

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anonymous asked:

please tell your followers to stop joking about having sex with musical instruments. i myself a half human-half cello hybrid, and would think that you would be less cavalier about the struggles of my people

um

Watching American Gods  and recognizing a few familiar faces from Hannibal  is so amazing because in one instance you’re in love with Demore Barnes’  performance as Mr. ibis

Originally posted by stzamericangods

 and then you shudder in remembrance of him being the guy who made a human Cello.


Originally posted by thisismysafespot

Hannibal Rewatch: 1x08

Season 1, Episode 8: “Fromage”
Or, THERE’S NO TURNING BACK NOW, INCLUDING ON MY LOVE FOR THIS FRAJSKLFD SHOW

**Warning: rewatch blogging, written with knowledge of the full series

This is just gonna be a straight live-blog this time, with pauses for longer thoughts on occasion. There are… a lot of occasions. This is a lot of live-blog. SETTLE IN, FRIENDS. It’s “Fromage” time.

GAHH WHAT IS THIS FIELD & STREAM CENTERFOLD, oh my god warn me next time I almost choked on my Vert Chaud. He is literally stretched out in front of a bed with two buttons undone working on a boat motor surrounded by fluffsome dogs, I just…. *sips drink while cocking an eyebrow* Bryan….

Will you actually live in an Andrew Wyeth painting. I adore Wyeth’s beige bleakness so it’s like this is finely designed to rend my heart apart, and I sincerely appreciate it. Also the fact that Will is hallucinating animals in pain is bringing me a lot of pain. It’s almost like the animal’s voices are his own cries, but he has to frame it as others he can help, because god knows he’s not gonna help himself.

Cello Kid: “I should learn to play the easier strings first, then the harder ones.”
Tobias: “No you shouldn’t.”
Me: “Damn straight, that’s why you’re not allowed a saddle when you’re learning to ride.” *sips drink again, Westernly*

Keep reading

So, I was thinking about my poor sad anon wanting more of Somewhere Between (The Postshower Fic) and I thought maybe I would go ahead and dash off the next bit for you all, as additional apology for probably denying you a full Last Four Years chapter tonight. So here is Vignette #3 for you:

*******

Somewhere Between Part 3

The piano’s no harpsichord, or even as good a piano as one might wish, but Hannibal finds himself increasingly drawn to it as the days roll by. Words are dangerous. Eyes are dangerous. Music feels like a safe harbor; a language Will doesn’t speak except in the most casual way. Hannibal can be as emotive as he wants to at the piano.

He takes to playing in the mornings after breakfast, day after day until his fingers regain most of the muscle memory lost in the years he waited behind institutional walls. Alana had been, he will freely admit, reasonably generous with his accommodations under the circumstances, if only to placate him. But a piano was never on the table for him, other than in his memories.

Slowly it comes back, though. He plays Bach. He plays Schubert. (The Ständchen, and if he has a particular face in his mind’s eye as he pours out the yearning in it, well. That’s between Hannibal and the piano.) He thinks about writing something new, but he’s too unsettled for composition.

The first few days, Will stays away. Perhaps it’s a courtesy, as Hannibal relearns the feel of the keys, and the unused small muscles in his hands that need to be reminded how to stretch and dance the way they must for this. He hits more wrong notes than he’d like and he’s grateful that Will at least pretends not to be listening.

The fourth day, Will sits on the staircase out of sight and listens. As if Hannibal wouldn’t know. As if he’s not always entirely, uncomfortably aware of where Will is. Not to mention, Will’s just come in from a run and he can smell sweat and sunlight and warm skin. But if Will wants to hide, then let him hide. Hannibal plays some Chopin for his hidden audience and manages to hold him for several minutes until Will finally goes to take a shower.

Hannibal continues playing alone and does not think about Will in the shower. Or after the shower. Or, for that matter, bent over the piano.

He gives up for the day after striking several wrong notes in a row.

On the sixth day, Will emerges from hiding to lean against the door frame and listen. He’s taken his post-run shower first this time and his hair is still wet. Hannibal plays him some Debussy, the Arabesques and the Valse romantique. Will closes his eyes and listens carefully, and Hannibal would like to know just what he’s hearing. He doesn’t get any hint; when the music ends, Will just opens those too-piercing-by-half eyes again and looks at Hannibal for a long moment before saying “Thank you for the concert,” and slipping away out of the room.

The day after that, Hannibal comes into the living room to find Will’s skipped or at least postponed his morning run in favor of curling up in the heavy armchair with their tablet. Hannibal assumes he’s catching up with the latest lurid Tattle Crime headlines. He pauses in the doorway to ask, “Will it disturb you if I play?”

Will has the sweetest smile when he chooses to deploy it; it pierces Hannibal through that heart he’s still surprised to find is human. For an answer, he asks, “Do you mind if I stay?”

“Not at all.” Please. Please stay.

Hannibal takes a moment to reconsider his selections for the morning. Bach, mostly. He plays, and Will listens, a quiet but attentive audience. He ends up playing longer than he’d intended to for the pleasure of keeping Will there with him, but he can’t keep playing forever and eventually his fingers trail to a halt.

He hasn’t let himself turn to see if Will is still there, but now he does, and Will is watching him again, still and thoughtful, tablet forgotten. He says, “Thank you. Again.”

Hannibal grasps for a conversational topic to keep Will in the room and comes up with, “Did you ever play any instruments?”

“I thought I might, someday, but I never did. There never seemed to be time.” A flicker of distress, or perhaps just distaste, crosses Will’s features as he adds, “Other than my brief experience of playing a human cello.”

Hannibal still regrets not seeing that crime scene in person; he’d have liked to hear the sounds. Although when he says, “I would have liked to witness that,” he’s thinking more about the sight of Will playing the cello. Will’s hands. Will’s fevered eyes, all those years ago.

Maybe he lets too much of that slip through, because Will smiles an oddly knowing smile at him then. “Yes, I’m sure you would have.” He gets up to leave the room then, but pauses in the doorway and looks back at Hannibal, the piano, his armchair. Hannibal thinks he detects a note of something softer in his voice, something hesitant or perhaps questioning as he offers, “You know, usually I’m on the other side of this.”

Hannibal frowns, not entirely sure where this is going. “I’m not sure what you mean.“

Will doesn’t make things any clearer when he says, “I was thinking about the night I met Winston. Did I ever tell you I met the two of you in the same week?”

Hannibal’s still not entirely following, but he manages to say, “It must have been quite a week.”

“It was. Will you play for me again tomorrow?”

“Whenever you like.” Hannibal stays at the piano for a long time after Will leaves, ghosting fingers over keys he doesn’t actually press, considering what he’ll play for Will tomorrow and trying to understand what he meant about his dog.