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yanderejustforyou · 4 months ago

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Day 10 - Winter Market || Murmuring Crowds, Rows of Stalls, and the Smell of Food

Pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader Genre: Dark Romance with Food Kink

Short and Sweet

The bustling winter market was alive with a vibrant energy that danced in the frosty air, enveloping all who wandered its paths. Sounds collided in a chaotic symphony—murmuring crowds filled with laughter and jovial chatter, the melodic clinking of coins exchanged for goods, and the mouthwatering sizzle of food being prepared at the myriad of stalls. Each bite-sized morsel showcased the culinary delights of the season, and the air was tinged with a concerto of enchanting aromas. The crispness of the winter atmosphere carried the tantalizing scents of roasted chestnuts crackling over open flames, spiced cider simmering to perfection, and freshly baked pastries, their golden-brown crusts glistening under soft lighting like a warm embrace amidst the cold.

You clutched your ceramic mug filled with steaming cider, the warmth radiating through your fingers, providing a small but welcome comfort against the chill that nipped at your cheeks. The market was a sensory overload, but despite the excitement all around you, there was an anchoring presence right behind you—Kuroo. His proximity brought an unusual mix of comfort and nervous energy that sent delightful shivers racing down your spine.

His hand rested lightly on the small of your back, an intimate gesture that guided you effortlessly through the throngs of people. Each step seemed intentional as he maneuvered you toward a stall decorated with an enticing array of candied fruits, their vibrant colors sparkling like jewels in the twilight. “You’ve got to try this one,” he said softly, his voice wrapping around you like a warm scarf. He plucked a sugar-coated strawberry from the display, its crimson flesh gleaming seductively in the golden lights, and raised it to your lips. His amber eyes glinted with mischief and something deeper, catching the soft glow of the fairy lights that adorned the stalls like a canopy of stars. “Come on, open up,” he coaxed gently.

An uncertain flutter of nerves thrummed through you, making you hesitate. The intensity of his gaze was potent, almost magnetic, compelling you to lean in closer. When the moment finally came, you leaned forward, and his fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, brushing your lips as he fed you the succulent strawberry. The sweetness exploded on your tongue, a luscious burst of flavor that momentarily took your breath away. Yet, it wasn’t just the delicious taste that made your knees weak; it was the way he watched you—his eyes devouring the sight of you enjoying something so simple, yet so intimate.

“Good, right?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, laced with an undercurrent of something tantalizingly dangerous. He leaned in even closer, the warm breath spilling against your ear despite the pervasive cold around you. “I want to see that look on your face again.” The request hung in the air, charged with unspoken promises and heated implications.

You peeled away from the candied fruit stall and moved towards the next one, a charming little booth that was buzzing with the scent of savory dumplings being steamed to perfection. Kuroo’s playful persistence was relentless. Each delectable bite he offered you came with a cleverly laced comment, his fingers brushing against your lips or your cheek, creating sparks that danced on your skin. His possessive streak was unmistakable, manifesting in the way he stood so close, his arm pressing against yours, a tacit reminder of his claim.

“You taste better when you’re happy,” he teased, his grin transforming into something sharp, almost predatory. “But I wonder how you’d look if I made you blush like this somewhere... less public.” The implications of his words ricocheted in your mind, igniting heat in your cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold air or the bustling crowds.

The murmuring crowds faded into a distant hum as Kuroo’s words settled deep within you, a tantalizing promise that made your heart race. His hand slid down your arm, fingers lacing through yours—a warm, secure hold amidst the chaos of the market. The mingling scents of food, laughter, and winter warmth no longer held sway over your senses; instead, it was Kuroo, and the way he seemed to consume you with every lingering glance. The world around you dimmed in significance, narrowing down to the electrifying connection between you two, turning a simple outing into something far more intoxicating.

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midnight-fables · 4 months ago

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S2 Entry 3: One Thousand Short Lives

Photo Credit: Pinterest

Summary: Christmas trees don’t sit well with Carmy (679 Words).

Warnings: Swearing, panic attack, vomiting (not graphic), hurt, fem reader/lass who is a trauma surgeon, she/her pronouns, mentions of Syd, mentions of Richie, mentions of Donna Berzatto, mentions of Mikey Berzatto.

Notes: Thank you for reading and sharing! This is a work in CB Journals Season 2 and will be tagged with #cb journals s2.

Sideblog for commentary and social stuff: @m-z-shoroi

Prompt: Pine needles

Richie was trying to kill me, I’m sure of it.

Why the fuck else would he have secured a dwarf fucking Christmas tree to put in the dining hall? Here, I thought I was getting to the kitchen extra early to take a stab at the 3 recipes that Syd left a thousand notes on—the second of which was just a “no” without any elaboration. Very helpful—and instead, I get assaulted by a barrage of memories, wraiths from my history, from the one thousand short lives I’ve endured. All the chill of that morning (it’s frozen hell season) was annihilated by a surge of red-hot… I don’t even know, was it rage? Was it hurt? Was it frustration? Some amalgam of fiery emotions, all furled together into this tangled mess of heat. Boiling. I was boiling. I had flames pouring down my throat.

The fucking pine needles were strewn all over the fucking floor around the tree, some cursed confetti that’d fallen off the branches while it sat overnight in the miserable fucking corner where there used to be a two-top, lurking for me to find while it familiarized itself with its deathbed. Dressed to the nines in garland, sparkly tinsel, ornaments in blues, silvers, golds, reds, greens, string lights—off at the moment—adorned with a star on top, leaning precariously to one side. Carmy, fix the star. Ma, ask Mikey to do it, he’s tall enough. He never fucking does anything right, now fix the fucking star; we need to take photos.

I could almost feel the ghost of a glass bulb crunching under my heel, exploding with a pop, grinding into my shoe tread as I took a step back. Then the flash of a camera—in my mind? A car going by? How am I supposed to know—the smell of ma’s perfume, so sickly sweet, so saturated in florals and mixed with stale cigarette smoke, that they might as well have been her fucking funeral sprays, invaded my sinuses, damn near crawled down my throat and seized my stomach in a vice grip. My feet carried me on autopilot to the bathroom, where I collapsed next to the toilet, vision blurred, breaths caught in my throat, chest and stomach twisting in pain, are you motherfuckers okay? Some awful, foul beast, an eldritch abomination, swelled under my ribs, but nothing would move past my larynx—not air, not sound, not bile. Warmth trailed down my cheeks.

The light makes a buzzing sound. It’s faint, inaudible any time other than early morning or late night, drowned out by even the traffic outside. I could hear Darling’s voice in my head, almost see her crouched on the floor in front of me. Breathe, baby. Breathe. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I hunted for the sound through the twisting of my insides and eventually found myself drawing in and blowing out shaky breaths. That’s it, pretty boy. There you go. My head still spun. Everything still hurt. Tears still welled up and spilled down my face. But I was breathing.

I fumbled my phone out of my jacket, intending to call Darling. It was early. She was probably headed out the door or was already on the road headed to the hospital. She didn’t need me to worry her, did she? No, but I needed her. I needed Darling like I needed air. I couldn’t fucking do this, not alone, not today. Especially not today. Fuck you, Richie. Fuck, I felt so fucking alone. I just wanted to hide in her sweater, inhale her scent, hear her coo and hum at me while she rubbed my back. Darling, baby, I had a bad one. I really just need to hear your voice right now. Please. Tell me it’s okay. Tell me I’m okay. Tell me you love me. Tell me another story of Cookie the dog.

I caught sight of a pine needle on the floor that I’d tracked in.

I hurled bile into the toilet bowl.

Okay. Fine.

Dish two is a no.

Tags: @carmenberzattosgf @jess248 @catharticconsolation @persymons @morgthemagpie @glitch0o0 @nox-is-thename @forgechildofheph @leminjelly @fridavacado @lumoslemon @cyarskj1899

#cb journals s2 #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto fanfiction #carmy x reader #the bear

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runningmiller · 8 months ago

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Blooms

Summary:

You try to help Grillby appreciate the ocean.

Work Text:

He couldn’t enjoy the ocean. Many monsters couldn’t, not after living in an enclosed space for so long. Especially those from Underground cities, overpopulated, drowning with people. Unless they were marine incline, the view of the horizon meeting the sky, all that open space, it was overwhelming for many. For a few, even the open sky on its own was almost too much for the first few weeks of monsters surfacing, only feeling more confident with an overcast sky, or at night, when the stars give an illusion of a twinkling blanket. The night only made the ocean worse for most, emphasizing its vastness.

None of this is why Grillby can’t appreciate the ocean.

While he may enjoy the sun and sand as much as anyone else, he never bothered as much as a glance at the water. As a monster made of fire, he wasn’t fond of water. You’d found out the hard way that it wasn’t a threat to his well being after spilling a good buckets worth on him, sure it steamed and he sizzled, but it wasn’t going to kill him. After you’d calmed down, yelling apologies, and choking back tears thinking you had hurt him, it turned out he was fine. Being made of magic and not actual fire, water could do very little damage to him but felt very uncomfortable against his flames. You figure something like when you can feel your skin crawl, but on a much larger scale.

Mostly he seemed to ignore the ocean, after all there was nothing there for him. As far as he was concerned it was by far the least interesting part of the world. If he wanted to stare at water and feel his flames shudder, he’d do dishes the human way.

All this you could understand, you’re sure anyone could but it seemed such a shame for him to miss out entirely on such a massive, diverse, and beautiful part of the world. There had to be something that he could get out of it.

Which is why you’ve dragged him out to a small patch of beach in the middle of the night.

“All right, now we just pick a place to sit, and wait.”

A little excited you carry on a bit closer to the waters edge, staring in the pitch, black sea, eyes searching. Your shadow moves in front of you, from one side to the other. You hadn’t brought your own light. Or you did, but he was alive. Grillby unfolded two seats and sat back. He watches your silhouette against the dark sea.

You know when it happens you won’t be able to miss it. Reminding yourself of this, you return to Grillby, his head turned up to the sky and you can’t blame him. Sure, you came here for the water and what’s to come, but you picked a good spot with no light pollution. You might as well both take advantage of that.

You keep your eyes on the stars as you thank you him, “Thanks for coming out here with me.”

He didn’t respond verbally, but the light from his body flickered in a way you knew meant he was acknowledging what you said, like most people humming or nodding. A lot of your communication is like this, him responding with body language, some similar to humans, other’s you had to figure out along the way, but you never minded his lack of words. He indulged you more than most, like following you somewhere he doesn’t particularly enjoy in the middle of the night with only ‘I want to show you something,’ as an explanation.

Staring at the galaxy above, you shiver, noticing how chilly it really is out here. Knowing it gets colder by the water, and colder at night you’d worn a thicker sweater tonight, but hadn’t considered that it would be 4 times, not just twice as cold as usual in the later summer season, as it gets closer to autumn.

You rub your arms before being draped in warmth. Not a coat or scarf, but Grillby’s arm around your shoulders, blanketing you faintly in his magic to keep you warm. In your startled state you don’t notice yourself slightly leaning towards him, quickly darting your eyes away to the water, not really seeing it. You hope he dismisses the blood in your face as just being warm. Or being chilly moments before. Whatever convinces him you’re not blushing from the gesture.

“…Beautiful.”

You did not squeak, the only witness would never tell a soul any different, so it didn’t happen. You glance at him from the corner of your eye only to see him staring at the sea. Whipping your head around, it’s happening.

The waves lapping on the sand are glowing blue, not solidly, but shimmering, moving, and flowing with the water.

“Hoped it would be. It’s not magic though, it’s just algae. Still, it manages to be almost as bright as you.”

The fire flickers lightly on the back of his neck, the colour tinting a bit darker across his face. He’s been doing that more often lately, you hope it’s a good sign.

You don’t know how long you sit there together, watching the glowing waves. You’re proud you’re the one who managed to make him look twice at the water, the ocean has so much to offer.

“Waterfall glows like that.”

You turn your entire focus on him. he doesn’t speak freely often, so you listen the best you can when he does.

“It was a local favourite Underground. I only saw it a few times, the air was too damp for me.”

He looks to face you and you blame his magic for how you feel a few degrees warmer. The layers of flame shift to what you’ve come to know as him smiling, his eyes focused on you just as much you are on him.

You can’t help but smile, relived this turned out so well.

The first rays of light are bleeding over the horizon, barely any evidence of the algae left in the water, neither of you wanting to be the one to break the moment. You’re dozing off in your seat, surely the one to lose, you’ll have to admit defeat eventually and pack up before you fall asleep out here. He has more experience in patience than you, sure, but you got exactly what you were looking for tonight, so you can take this loss.

#undertale #grillby x reader #reader insert #fluff

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opera-ghosts · 2 months ago

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Geraldine Farrar "Star of Love" from the operetta "Apple Blossoms" (January 20, 1920)

There were famous prima donnas before Geraldine Farrar. Maria Malibran, Jenny Lind, and Adelina Patti all achieved world fame. But none—not even Nellie Melba or Luisa Tetrazzini—reached a wider audience than the American soprano. Farrar was not only an international opera star, she made more than 200 recordings and appeared in 14 silent films. The first media diva claimed headlines in newspapers, graced countless covers of magazines, and shared her life story in two autobiographies. During her 16-season reign at the Metropolitan Opera, Farrar commanded higher fees and appeared in more new productions than any other leading soprano. She sang 671 performances of 34 roles in 29 operas, a record matched by no soprano in the eight decades since Farrar’s retirement. Before arriving at the Met on the opening night of the 1906 season, Farrar made headlines in Berlin, Monte Carlo, Munich, Stockholm, Salzburg, Paris, and Warsaw. Physical glamour, vocal appeal, and star temperament guaranteed Farrar acclaim few prima donnas have enjoyed.

Giulio Gatti-Casazza divided sopranos on the Metropolitan Opera’s roster between “magnificent voices” and “women of outstanding personalities.” In the former category, the Met’s general director placed Olive Fremstad, Lillian Nordica, Emma Eames, and Rosa Ponselle. In the latter, he cited only Geraldine Farrar. In his memoirs, Gatti-Casazza dubbed Farrar the Met’s “beniamina” or “pet child.” He also claimed, “She was not the possessor of a voice that was particularly flowing and free, a thing which she admitted herself. But she had a will of iron and succeeded always in triumphing over all obstacles.”

An “iron will,” asserted Farrar to Frederick Mertens in The Art of the Prima Donna, was a prerequisite for an operatic career.The diva also advised young singers to “work like a galley slave.” Farrar precisely plotted each of the 42 roles she sang. “When I go on stage,” she explained to Henry T. Finck, “everything is mathematically placed in my mind. I have diagrammed every bit of the opera, the work of the other roles, the orchestra’s part, my own business; there is nothing left to chance.” Farrar told another critic, “The real artist will have an organized mental strategy just as minute and reliable as any intricate machinery.”

Farrar insisted on total preparation to achieve spontaneity and freedom on stage. “At every performance,” she explained to Carl Van Vechten, “I cut myself open with a knife and give myself to the audience.” American soprano Mary Mellish witnessed that knife slash when she sang with Farrar in Zaza. In her memoirs, Mellish recalled the stunning impact Farrar made after Zaza discovers her lover has been unfaithful. “When Farrar unleashed her emotions and cried real tears, I cried with her. I felt her intensity like a burning flame. She grabbed my wrist and squeezed it until I was sure she had broken some bones. This was acting such as I had never seen.”

That burning flame flickers faintly in most of Farrar’s recordings. She must have found the recording horn inhibiting, if not intimidating. Without sets, costumes and other singers to react against, Farrar could not duplicate the impact she created on stage. If she spills little blood in her recordings, Farrar does display steely determination. The “Je veux vivre” she recorded in Berlin shortly before her Met debut sounds rather efficient and businesslike. Farrar attacks the notes precisely, takes the intervals cleanly and displays a decent trill and good scale work. Although the brief high D falls below the pitch, the top B flat shines brightly and a sustained high C—boldly attacked—caps the waltz. But this Juliette projects willpower rather than girlish innocence or rapture. Farrar sings confidently, but without the dynamic shading or rhythmic élan achieved by Amelita Galli-Curci and Lucrezia Bori.

Farrar fará — “Farrar will do it” — was the motto that graced the diva’s stationery and appeared on the cover of her first book of memoirs. Those words reveal Farrar’s determination as well as the confidence she displayed throughout her career. But talent and luck played roles, too. Few singers have progressed so quickly or enjoyed the crucial support of so many important musicians and singers.

Farrar triumphed in an age of vocal titans. She sang with—and held her own against—Caruso, Chaliapin, Lehmann, Plançon, Fremstad, Stracciari, Eames, Martinelli, and Amato. Karl Muck, Richard Strauss, Gustav Mahler, and Arturo Toscanini coached her and conducted her performances. Theatrical artists like Sarah Bernhardt and David Belasco encouraged and counseled her.

Born in Melrose, Massachusetts, 28 February 1882, Farrar resolved at an early age to become an opera star. A child full of “temper and temperament,” Farrar confessed, “At times I walked on air, and always my head was filled with dreams and hopes of this marvelous career.” Henrietta Barnes Farrar provided the impetus. Marriage to Sidney Farrar, a shopkeeper who played professional baseball, cut short her hopes for a singing career. Henrietta must have instilled her dreams in the heart of her only child. “My mother tells me that before I was five I had already shown strong musical tendencies,” relates Farrar in The Story of an American Singer by Herself. “By the time I was ten I had visions of studying abroad. At the age of twelve I had heard the music of almost the entire grand opera repertoire. By the time I was sixteen I was studying in Paris.” In 1884, at the age of 12, Farrar impersonated Jenny Lind in the Melrose May Carnival. Within two years, she made her Boston recital debut. An admirer introduced her to Jean de Reszke. Although she did not sing well in an impromptu audition, the Polish tenor encouraged her to go to New York and pursue her vocal studies. Farrar and her mother moved to Manhattan, where she became of pupil of Emma Thursby, an American soprano who had studied with Lamperti in Milan.

Thursby invited Nellie Melba and Lillian Nordica to hear her prize pupil. Excited, Melba asked Farrar to sing for Walter Damrosch and her manager, C.A. Ellis. Damrosch gave the young singer encouragement. Ellis offered her a contract, wisely refused by Farrar’s mother. More than an ambitious stage mother, Henrietta Farrar knew what was best for her talented daughter. A meeting with the wife of Maurice Grau led to an audition with the manager of the Metropolitan Opera. Grau immediately offered the 16-year-old soprano a debut in one of the Met’s Sunday night concerts. Following her mother’s advice, Farrar turned down that offer and also rejected the title role in a performance of Mignon with Melba. Supported by a $30,000 loan from a wealthy Boston arts patron, Farrar and her parents sailed from New York in 1898 on a cattle ship bound for France.

Melba’s letter of introduction brought the young singer to Mathilde Marchesi. But Farrar, as she recalled in Such Sweet Compulsion, refused to submit “to a dazzling treatment whereby all voices were taught to shame the flute in impossible skyrocket cadenzas or fall by the wayside when unable to do so.” Farrar also balked at the stylized gestures and artificial poses taught by a disciple of Delsarte. Realism - in both song and drama - was her goal.

Unhappy with her studies in the French capital, Farrar decided to secure Nordica’s help. Pursuing the American diva to the Bois de Boulogne, Farrar boldly approached her idol in an open carriage. Nordica recommended Berlin and Lilli Lehmann. The Farrars promptly resettled in Germany. A letter of introduction brought Farrar to the attention of Frau von Rath, the wife of a wealthy German banker. Farrar’s German patroness arranged for an audition with the indendant of the Royal Opera, Count von Hochberg. She was immediately offered a contract.

On 15 October 1901, at the age of 19, Farrar made her Berlin debut as Marguerite in Faust. Singing in Italian by special dispensation, Farrar earned favorable reviews but quickly inspired envy and criticism for the special treatment she received. Her name disappeared from the billboards for six weeks until she interceded with von Hochberg. After triumphing in La Traviata—and being forced to pay a 25-pfennig fine for smashing her champagne glass - Farrar was accorded star treatment. In the next five seasons, she appeared in new productions of Roméo et Juliette, Manon, Der Schwarze Domino, Tannhäuser, Rigoletto, and Faust and also added Nedda, Mignon, and Leonora in Il Trovatore to her repertory.

During her second season in Berlin, Farrar met Kaiser Wilhelm. Invited to sing at the palace while the court was still in mourning, Farrar was told to appear without jewels and wear a lavender or black dress and gloves. Accustomed to dress as she chose when she sang, Farrar appeared in white and wore no gloves. Dazzling the court with her audacity, she became a royal favorite and often sang command performances. Her friendship with the Crown Prince generated headlines and scandalous rumors. Outraged by a lurid newspaper article, Farrar’s father pursued the editor and assaulted him. To stifle the growing gossip, the American Women’s Club of Berlin intervened to defend Farrar’s honor.

In 1903, Lehmann accepted Farrar as a pupil. In grueling daily lessons, she worked hard to perfect Farrar’s vocal technique and rein in her pupil’s exuberant physical movements. Lehmann tied Farrar’s hands behind her back and forced her to express emotions through her eyes and face. Although she called Farrar “an obstinate and willful little wretch,” the strong-willed Lehmann enjoyed working with such an ambitious and headstrong student.

Under her tutelage, Farrar painstakingly acquired the “repose, economy of gesture, eloquence of attitude, and clean singing” she admired in her teacher. But she never completely mastered her voice. A German critic claimed Farrar’s “faults interest us more than the merits of ordinary singers. She remains a vocal personality who has moments of the highest transport.” Farrar later admitted her limitations to Henry T. Finck. “I do not long to—nor do I believe I can—climb frozen heights like the great Lilli Lehmann.”

Farrar used Berlin as the springboard for a European career. During her third season, she made her debut in Monte Carlo where she sang Mimi in La Boheme with Caruso. The tenor’s “shrieking checks. . . grey fedora (and) yellow gloves” shocked Farrar, but the moment Caruso poured out his golden voice, she succumbed. They formed an artistic partnership that blossomed in Monte Carlo, and Berlin and flowered at the Metropolitan, where they sang together 105 times. Returning to Monte Carlo in 1905, Farrar sang Marguerite in La Damnation de Faust and, on five-day’s notice, replaced Calvé in the world premiere of Mascagni’s Amica. In her third and final Monte Carlo season, Farrar appeared in Massenet’s Le roi de Lahore, Saint-Saëns’ L’Ancêtre, and Verdi’s Don Carlos with Chaliapin.

Farrar’s success in Monte Carlo led to an engagement in Stockholm, where she added King Oscar to her list of royal admirers. A devoted fan, the Swedish king awarded Farrar the Gold Cross of the Order of Merit, previously given to only two sopranos, Christine Nilsson and Melba. Paris, Munich, and Warsaw came next. In Munich, Richard Strauss invited Farrar to portray Salome. After she voiced concern about the taxing vocal demands, Strauss told her to “act and dance half-naked so no one will worry if you sing or not.” She refused. But in Warsaw she added Andrea Chenier to her repertory.

Five years after her Berlin debut, Farrar returned to America, ready to conquer New York and claim the Metropolitan Opera as the center of her operatic career. In her debut as Juliette, Farrar won the audience but divided the critics. W.J. Henderson astutely observed “largeness, power, brilliance are what this young woman has sought instead of mellowness, liquidity and perfect poise.” “Not a wholly finished vocalist,” huffed Richard Aldrich in the Times. But Farrar aspired to become a singing actress like Calvé, not a vocal technician like Patti or Melba. “Today,” she argued, “people want something more than a voice.” Farrar called herself “an actress who happens to be appearing in opera” and added, “I leave mere singing to the warblers. I am more interested in acting.”

Farrar may have divided the critics. but her independence and brash self-confidence—she fearlessly stood up to managers and conductors—won her a legion of loyal fans who stood by her during vocal difficulties. Farrar pushed her voice to its limits as Tosca and Madama Butterfly and suffered from the exertion. Within a few years, she was regularly experiencing vocal difficulties. Colds and bronchitis, stomach ailments and nervous tension—exacerbated by exhausting recital tours and frequent performances at the Met—undermined Farrar’s health and vocal control. In 1913, she lost her voice in the middle of Faust and was forced to cease singing for a month. In 1919, Farrar retired for six months after an operation to remove a polyp on her vocal cord.

Farrar left a bold imprint on a whole range of roles, from Carmen and Mignon to Manon, Violetta, and Mimi. She was one of the last prima donnas to champion contemporary composers. The operas of Puccini, Mascagni, Massenet, Leoncavallo, Dukas, Charpentier, and Giordano—all living—formed the core of her repertory. She specialized in parts that played to her interpretive gifts—the Goose Girl in Die Königskinder, Caterina in Madam Sans-Gêne, Rosaura in Le Donne Curiose, and the title part in Zaza.

Farrar gained notoriety as much for her unconventional acting as for her vibrant, if flawed, singing. As Zaza, she scandalized the critics when she hoisted her skirt and sprayed perfume on her undergarments. As Thaïs, she wore a costume one critic described as “two small groups of jewels, inconspicuous but essentially located.” In comparison, he wrote, Mary Garden looked like “a modest missionary.”

Refusing to cling to her throne, Farrar ended her operatic career at the age of 40 in the most tumultuous farewell in Met history. Crowding the theater, Farrar’s fans — dubbed Gerryflappers by Henderson — unfurled banners and handed her a crown and scepter. They cheered and wept before accompanying Farrar’s flower-laden, open limousine up Broadway. After a pause, she embarked on lucrative concert and recital tours that kept her before the grateful public for another decade. In one season, she sang an adaptation of Carmen 123 times in 125 nights.

Farrar excited adulation wherever she appeared. In Berlin, the young Frida Leider collected and colorized postcards of her favorite singer. “She seemed to me the most elegant and bewitching figure,” recalled the German soprano. A young American destined to achieve greatness in dance was entranced by Farrar at a Hollywood party when she entertained guests after dinner. “She took off her black pearl rings, large as robins eggs, her diamond and pearl bracelets and tossed them on top of the piano, then sat down and played like a man—music and song and laughter reverberated throughout the house,” reminisced Agnes DeMille in her autobiography.

Anyone who knows Farrar’s voice only from her Victor acoustics will find this Marston release a revelation. The Victors too often find Farrar sounding routine, if not ordinary. There are exceptions, of course, but most of the Victors prove Farrar was a singer to be seen as well as heard. The Berlin acoustics capture Farrar in fresh and vibrant voice. The electrics, made decades later, reveal a different singer. In the years following her operatic farewell, she has clearly reworked her technique and made vocal adjustments that allow her to sing—in a more limited range, to be sure—with more imagination and nuance. The 1934 Bell Labs discs are even more interesting. They provide a moving valedictory to a long career in the recording studio.

Few vocal critics rank Farrar among the great singers on record. Compared to virtuosas like Patti, Melba, Nordica, or Eames, she lacks complete technical schooling. The scales and passagework are fluent but not flawless. Her trill is good but not always reliable. The voice itself is full and firm in the middle, but when the vocal range widens problems appear. The top—up to sustained high C—can sound pushed and emerges only in full cry. The bottom lacks color and fullness of tone. “A pleasing, straightforward singer of a healthy voice and an assured manner,” sums up John Steane in his analysis of Farrar in The Grand Tradition. Steane also notes that her singing lacks “subtlety of individual inflections” and “any great musical imagination.” The recordings, more or less, sustain this judgment.

But Farrar, especially in her Berlin recordings, could surprise and delight. In “L’altra notte” [CD 1, Track 14] she does both. Farrar catches the anguish of the music in a voice suffused with intense feeling. She tosses off the crazed melismas rapidly and precisely and descends into a full chest voice with vigorous attack. This is one of Farrar’s great recordings. She suggests feverish abandon in both versions of “Sempre libera.” [ CD 1, Track 1] There is spirit and energy in her singing but also technical polish in the scales and divisions. She attacks the high Cs confidently and sustains them with ease. There is light but not much shade in her singing. But the vocal fireworks blaze brightly.

A poised “Caro mio ben” [CD 1, Track 15] shows the classical virtues of Farrar’s singing although the trills are missing. The tone is limpid, the attack pure. There is repose in the vocal line even if not much tonal variety or subtle rhythmic shading. A clean, unaffected piece of singing. Those virtues can also be heard in arias from Massenet’s Manon and Flotow’s Martha. Both lie in the firmest and finest part of Farrar’s voice. The Gavotte [CD 1, Track 5], although sung in German, sounds stylish in Farrar’s natural, unaffected performance. Even better is “Die Letzte Rose.” [CD 1, Track 22] Farrar ennobles this simple Volkslied through the delicacy and restraint of her interpretation. Singing artlessly but artfully, Farrar traces the unadorned melodic line with touching honesty, adding intensity to the top notes and some delicate shading to sustained tones.

Farrar labored with Lehmann to polish her only Wagnerian role, Elisabeth in Tannhäuser. [CD 1, Track 23] The duet with Carl Jörn shows the results. Despite the scratchy orchestral accompaniment, both singers suggest the joyous abandon in Wagner’s music. Farrar takes the intervals decisively and negotiates the turns with precision. At her first performance of Elisabeth at the Hofoper, Farrar won accolades from her teacher. This recording shows why.

Two decades later, Farrar made several series of electrical recordings. They show she commanded diminished but still dependable vocal resources. The tone may no longer be so firm and taut, but the voice has acquired more expressive possibilities. She sings with delicacy and imagination in an English version of Strauss’s Ständchen. [CD 2, Track 4] Pur Dicesti [CD 2, Track 1] is not perfectly smooth but shows her vocal schooling and her careful verbal pointing of the Italian text. An aria from Lehar’s Frasquita [CD 2, Track 6] proves Farrar still can bring off sustained singing. The Mozart arias are even better. Cherubino [CD 2, Track 5] was one the roles Farrar mastered under Lehmann’s tutelage. A bubbling account of Non so piu [CD 1, Track 5] is matched by a bravely sung E Susanna non vien. . . Dove sono” [CD 2, Track 2] that breaks off just before the concluding allegro.

The Bell Laboratories discs from 1934 provide moving documents of Farrar’s art. After three decades of strenuous singing, the voice has lost luster but has gained expressive colors. Singing within a reduced range, the soprano gives touching and sincere accounts of these songs. Farrar finds the right tone of wistful charm in Love’s old sweet song. [CD 2, Track 16] She catches—and sustains—a mood of quiet sentiment in Old folks at home. [CD 2, Track 15] These discs show us another side of Geraldine Farrar’s artistry.

Farrar retired without apparent regret. In 1931, she sang her final Carnegie Hall recital and withdrew from further public performance. She traveled widely and proved a gracious hostess and a loyal friend. Although her dark hair turned white, her blue eyes still flashed with piercing intelligence and sparkling gaiety. During the 1934-35 season, she hosted intermissions of broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera. Farrar illustrated her talks by playing the piano and singing in one octave only, since “the vibrations in this range were easily handled by the engineers without blasts and gurgles.” She was a fine pianist, as private recordings made in 1942 with Marion Telva show. Playing accompaniments for songs adapted from Tchaikovsky’s orchestral scores, she performs with accuracy and flair. One would expect nothing less from an iron-willed musician determined to make operatic history.

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noblesknightsandswords · 4 months ago

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Listening Through Imperfection

My eyes hurt. Why do they hurt? Was I blinking or had I stopped again?

I feel stymied, I want to write, to see my words on a page again like they used to always be.

To hear my voice echo out into the white void that is a screen or paper in front of me.

It’s cold outside and I can’t help but constantly think of Christmas Eve church services with the family. Why do I think of that before Christmas when it’s cold? Why does that mean more, feel more magical than even the best of Christmas days? Because I love the night so much? Because that specific night is full of song, candle, family, and freezing air? When I think of Christmas Magic that is what I think of, not Santa or gifts or Christmas feasts. It’s the quiet of the night walking out of a Church we only ever go to on that night, flushed and joyful, met with ice cold air filling my lungs.

I am human, that can not be changed or conquered in some silly way by some unimagined foe. Imperfection is all I will ever be able to strive for and that’s more beautiful than any perfection possible. What are the angels for if not to whisper well wishes upon the airs of their feathers. Is that not why they fly? Why they see with their so many eyes? Is it not to spot the every imperfection of the human in humanity and still yet whisper “it’s okay”? Is it not what they were put here for, to watch and to guide, they are Hera’s Hundred Eyed Warrior, they are the love of Aphrodite’s Eros.

The evening has always been my favorite, when it’s dark and light coexisting. I can walk out and breathe in a fresh air better than midday in any season, a perfection in an imperfect world (it is still imperfect, just not to me). A contradiction that makes me a hypocrite. Oh how I hate hypocrites and the act of hating a hypocrite makes me a hypocrite myself. How a wonder continues to travel. Do you understand that the best voices are the ones that play without artificial smoothness? That people cry and acclaim the raspy voice over the smooth clarity because we do not live for perfection, we do not crave perfection. We crave for someone to tell us that there is beauty in our imperfection, and we strive to show others how wondrous imperfectability is.

Sometimes I am tired, sometimes as I write my throat begins to ache as if I was saying this all, as if I was singing this all non stop and continuously. I can feel it crawl up and out from my lips like an internal smoke to match the eternal flame that burns deep within my cavity, begging to be seen. Not to show, but to provide light, to burn and be fed. The smoke floats higher than I will ever walk, the smoke floats and flies as I lay back in the grass and stare into the sky. Is it day, is it night? Am I staring into endless blue, or the magic of sunset or the mystic beauty of the stars beaming?

I feel lighter each time I do something like this, it’s like arguing a point, debating a right and my legs don’t shake and I hurt nobody. It’s perfect in the way it will never be perfect because I remain unheard when this remains on a paper rather than screamed through a hall, debated sitting at a table, to be told through tales at a fire. It’s burning that star I’m made of brighter without burning anything around.

Is this what it feels like to fall in love again, with the words I can put on a page and the ability to read it and feel passion? To see the imagery and understand myself again? To love life and see how bright the grass is, how deep the brown of bark? Am I seeing the world in it’s bright colors the same way I did when I sang annoying little tunes non stop? Before I knew what it was like for my throat to hurt?

Annoying. Annoying little tunes. I do not think that. They were passion and joy and the love of a child for the life they had. Others told me it was annoying and so I silenced myself for a constant noise is unkind to others. A fraction of my words and thoughts were spilling from between my lips and dripping between my teeth but others could not handle the quantity and consistency I was constantly swallowing. Do they think the thickness thinned just because I was able to prevent it from spilling between my lips as I grew?

I must remarry myself with the child I was and understand the cruelty of the world ruined me, and I must bury my corpse and pray upon the altar of my headstone and tip my face to the stars when it begins to rain. I will live again, I will continue to grow as the roots of my skeleton continue to spread to others. I will continue to live and I will allow my words and songs to seep from my skin to those around me and share myself with them. I will never be silent as a grave again.

This is a death. This is a death that will never spread and no one else ever remembered the story to. I am here again and I will sing in the eerie silences and at the festival grounds. It will not matter because I rose from the dirt singing and I will never go silent again, I cannot be made to do so. This is my child with the ability to destroy, this is the me that others were so afraid was right. I will continue and as my bone-roots spread, so will my wish, and every word will mean something as the dark of night spreads through and peace is allowed in love. It is not a war to be yourself and fall in love with life. My smoke will rise and coat the sky and its smog will pollute the earth with Joy. My fire will burn and keep my chest alight to guide others in the shadowed night.

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tkachuktkaching · 2 years ago

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A year ago today, the Florida Panthers shocked the hockey world by pulling off a late-night blockbuster deal — one which brought Matthew Tkachuk to town in a trade which sent two of their top players to the Calgary Flames.

And they have never looked back.

In his first year in South Florida, Tkachuk has been everything the Panthers hoped he would — and, perhaps, more.

Not only did Tkachuk exceeded his scoring total from the season before, but he became one of the biggest names in South Florida sports as he helped lead the Panthers to the Stanley Cup Final with playoff heroics.

In his first season here, not only was Tkachuk the MVP of the All-Star Game held in Sunrise, but he was a finalist for the Hart Memorial Trophy as league MVP.

Around 11 p.m. on a Friday night, phones started buzzing as news of the trade unfolded.

Everyone knew Tkachuk wanted out of Calgary, that had been public for about a week before the trade went down.

But Florida going all-in to get him was a calculated effort in which neither the Panthers, Flames nor Tkachuk’s camp leaked information until the deal was done.

“There was a very short window and the timeframe was very quick,” general manager Bill Zito said. “When you have an opportunity like this, you need to pursue it. The cost was very high and we decided it was something we needed to pursue. We are thrilled to be where we are right now.”

Tkachuk, in fact, was asked by his agent (and uncle) Craig Oster to say nothing about the eight-year contract extension he was getting with Calgary which would pave his way to the Panthers in the first sign-and-trade in NHL history.

Only he was on a family vacation to celebrate his brother Brady’s engagement.

Matthew Tkachuk ended up spilling the beans to his happy parents.

“I was the happiest person ever,’’ Tkachuk said. “(Oster) said ‘don’t tell anyone’ so I went to my parents’ room and told them. I was thinking about everything — but we couldn’t say anything.”

Still, the news did not leave the Jersey Shore until it hit the NHL offices which led to the leak to the national media.

The Panthers were not trying to bury the trade that night. They were just trying to keep things under wraps as much as possible as other teams — reportedly Tkachuk’s hometown St. Louis Blues and Carolina Hurricanes — were also in talks with Calgary about a trade.

Zito made sure by throwing in two great players, a top prospect and first-round pick that he would not get outbid by anyone for Tkachuk.

“Situations, like this, when you can add a player like Matthew to your organization, the price is steep,” Zito said. “That’s how things worked out.”

Now a year in, Tkachuk is embedded in South Florida with a house in Fort Lauderdale he compares to a hotel because so many family members stop in to visit during the season.

At 25, he remains one of the top young players in the NHL — and has seven years remaining on his contract.

The future is bright for both Tkachuk and the Panthers.

While they were all disappointed with the way the season ended in a 5-game loss to Vegas in the Cup Final, the road to the championship is something which will not be soon forgotten.

Tkachuk’s overtime winners against Carolina and trying to play through a fractured sternum will not be, either.

“It just shows how badly we wanted it, which makes it that much harder now,” Tkachuk said a few days after the season ended.

“There are so many things throughout the season that it’s just such a grind to get to where we are are. … It was such an unbelievable season to be a part of for my first one down here.’’

Yeah it was.

#matthew tkachuk #florida panthers #calgary flames #the trade #one year ago #throwback #how it happened #nhl

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everystephoftheway · 2 years ago

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Good morning! I would like to ask for 5. defending them in front of others from the trust prompt list with Vaxleth. Is that okay? :D

~ TRUST-BUILDING ~ FOUND FAMILY PROMPTS

i finally got it!! and yes, i did take inspiration from season 1 of the west wing with the bar and zoe's panic button

“Come on, little gingersnap. Come play with us.”

The sun had set hours ago, and as certain as it was for the moons to rise with the stars it was just as certain for the rowdy crew of Vox Machina to be in a tavern. It had been a stressful couple of weeks with the Whitestone revolution, defeating the Briarwoods, and getting a freaking demon out of Percy, so the team certainly deserved the respite.

Keyleth had gone up to get the group another round when she was approached by two half-orcs, both with dark green skin and lower fangs that curled over their lips. They both wore weathered leather vests adorned with studs at the shoulders, and they leaned on the bar in an attempt to close Keyleth in.

Vax noticed immediately, and it only took a moment longer for Vex to as well. Vax stood from his seat, but Vex raised a hand to pause.

“Give her a moment.”

Keyleth, with each hand curled through three stein handles, looked over these two guys and gave a polite smile.

“Sorry, guys. My group’s over there and they’re waiting.” She raised the glasses, offered the smile again, and tried to slip between them. As she arched her back in an attempt to not touch them, one of them extended their arm and blocked her path while the other slapped a hand against her ass, causing her to stumble forward, ale sloshing over the rims of the steins and the blocking arm.

Now Vex stood, gave a nod to her brother, and the two made their way over.

“Who are these idiots?” Vex approached first, with all her confidence and swagger in the swing of her hips.

The two turned around, chuckling at the sight of Vex and Vax coming forward, towering over the twins.

“We’re the idiots? She just spilled her ale all over me. I deserve an apology.”

“Keyleth,” Vax looked over his sister and past the two half-orcs as if they weren’t even there. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” she said, though her voice was clearly strained. “I’ve got your ale.”

“Fuck the ale,” he murrmured.

Keyleth, cheeks flushed–though more in annoyance than embarrassment–tried once again to get past them, but this time the one to her right used his extended arm to pull her against his chest, knocking all the ale down her front.

“Hey!” The twins jumped forward, Vax immediately stabbing a dagger into the guy’s arm, using it as a handle to pull his arm off of Keyleth.

Vex went to grab Keyleth’s hand as the half-orc howled, but Keyleth pulled away. With a flash, her hands were engulfed in flames and she pressed them against the two idiots’ faces. The smell of burning flesh quickly joined the smell of ale, and now both offenders were screaming.

“I am so not drunk enough for this.” Happy with her work and their screams, Keyleth took Vex’s hand who quickly pulled her away. Vax followed swiftly after them, his back to his girls until the half-orcs ran out of the bar, off to find some sort of salve for their new injuries. His dagger magically jumped into his hand, now sticky with blood and ale; right now, that didn’t matter. With the threat neutralized, he turned toward Keyleth and Vex; the rest of Vox Machina were huddling to the table too.

“What the fuck happened?” Percy came over, standing behind Vex but was quick to take off his jacket and place it on the now soaking wet Keyleth.

“Are you alright? Does anyone need anything healed?” Pike climbed up onto the bench, her brows furrowed into a hard line.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Keyleth tried her best to reassure her friends, but the way her voice wavered and her eyes never lifted from the table did not help her sell the lie.

“Where’d they go? Grog and I can go kick their fucking faces in.” “Don’t worry,” Vex said, “Keyleth did their faces plenty of damage already.”

Vax came over and stood behind her, hands running down the ends of her hair to land on her shoulders over Percy’s jacket. He spoke softly, just enough so she could hear.

“Let’s get out of here. I’ll draw you a bath back at the Keep.”

She nodded and stood, the group fanning out to give her space to move.

“We’re going to head home,” Vax informed them, offering her a hand, which she happily took. Her skin was sticky and cold, and he pulled her into his side. “We’ll see you there.”

“I’ll put your coat on your bed, Percy,” she said, and Percy was quick to offer a thumbs up, sitting down next to Vex.

“We’ll be home soon.” Vex made sure to make eye contact with her brother, and he nodded. It was sweet how the group wanted to rally for Keyleth, go find the half-orcs and turn them into mince meat, but she swayed them away with more ale.

“Thanks for coming to rescue me,” Keyleth said as her and Vax walked through the quiet streets of Emon, Percy’s jacket pulled across her body.

“Oh, we were there just in case. You handled those morons with grace.”

That made Keyleth smile. Good.

“Still. Thank you.”

He squeezed her hand. “Anything for you.”

#ravendruid #vaxleth #vaxleth fic #critical role #critical role fic #tlovm fic #my fic #tlovm #cr ask

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oh-no-another-idea · 2 years ago

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find the word tag

Tagged by the lovely @nopoodles -- thank you, friend! Right now, I can mostly be found crying about Good Omens season 2 and not writing, but here's some older stuff from Stars and Ships 🌌

Star (or other celestial body), Small/Little, Bright, Loud

Star:

“Jump gate now!” Jax said, leaning over and pointing, and Quin glared so hard one the final shots grazed their other engine. “Damn you and every star that aligned to bring about your birth,” he said, and steered the dying ship through the jump gate.

Small:

Where—where might that be?” Quin gave in, jumping slightly as something sparked angrily near his knee. Aakov ignored him in favor of the sparking going on, which was probably the smart thing to do. Quin crossed his arms. A small flame flickered to life and Aakov launched himself backwards, cursing and frantically searching for something to smother it. Quin tried to help—it was his prosthetic on fire, after all—but only succeeded in knocking over the motor oil, which Aakov made a miraculous dive to catch before it could spill and start a raging inferno.

Bright:

Aaliyah looked up a few minutes later to find the boy with the paper staring right at Jax. Jax looked up too, and winked back, causing the boy’s cheeks to flood bright red instantly. “Good luck playing cards with that face,” Quin muttered. The boy looked down at his paper again, then back at Jax. His cheeks cooled just a little, but he still looked flustered and determined as ever. “What, is he working up the courage to propose to me?” Jax whispered. “Too bad for him, I’m already spoken for.” Here he winked at Aaliyah, who couldn’t help but smile back.

Loud:

“I love you,” Aaliyah said out loud, because she knew next to nothing about love, except that it was best administered daily. It took Quin a moment, but he eventually muttered, “I love you too,” back. Aaliyah could almost picture his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Man I should work on this WIP some more...anyways! Tags for @reneesbooks @chayscribbles @mariahwritesstuff @winglesswriter @dontjudgemeimawriter @jasmineinthenight @winterandwords and anyone else who'd like to look for the words talk, favor, rare, rain, and haunt 🚀

#tag games #find the word tag #wip: stars and ships

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iliketrainmen · 1 year ago

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Short late night drabble I found on my Google Drive of Roark being terrible at cooking

CW for Alcohol and Alcohol consumption

Roark leaned over the countertop to peek at his phone, narrowly avoiding burning his half undone apron on the stove. He squinted at the rather small text on screen, the overcrowding ads of various nonsensical cooking products doing anything but helping him in his endeavors. Faintly, he could hear the bubbling of pasta sauce turn to burning.

Was... was that a half a cup of wine? That seemed like an egregious amount, but he was the LAST person to doubt the 4.5 star recipe he found on Wahoo.

He reached for the bottle of wine hidden in the top cabinet (listen, he needs something for after Cynthia's gym evaluations); he could only hope red wine worked just as good as white. He poured the half cup, accidentally spilling some onto the already stained apron. Fuck. Shit. Godsdammit. He'll worry about that later. He could smell something in the air and could also see that something rising from the boiling sauce in grey, wispy clouds.

Okay, here goes nothing. He haphazardly tosses the wine into the mix— HOLY FUCK FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE— Roark yelped as he patted himself down, the singular flame that caught onto his apron immediately dying out. He stared in horror as the flames retreated into the cursed mixture of various forgotten seasonings and hissing wine. Beneath the sounds of sizzling bubbles, he could faintly hear the growling of a beast he'd been sent to kill with only a wooden spoon and a frilly, half-undone apron.

Blinking twice, he poured a second half cup of red wine and slammed it down the hatch. Seeing where this was going, he was going to need that.

#pokemon #gym leader roark #roark #hi the five roark fans on tumblr!!!#drabble #Train posting actual written work on Tumblr instead of clogging Roark's ao3 tag? Preposterous #almost as nonsensical as me writing something that isnt the horrors #cw alcohol #cw Roark being god awful at cooking and nearly setting himself on fire

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coffeecupandcorgi · 2 years ago

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on repeat

i'm not great at doing tag games ahhh, but @dirigibleplumbing tagged me, so i'll give this a go -

Rules: shuffle yr "on repeat" playlist from spotify or etc. and post the first 10 tracks.

Manilla Road, "Necropolis" - the Seek & Destroy DJ Tanner must really dig this one because I've head him play it a few times now. K says the vocals sound like a sports announcer calling the Kentucky Derby lolol BUT i think they're cool. i mean, c'mon, they're absolutely giving severian in nessus in gene wolfe's shadow of the torturer-

Entombed in time without decay Never thought it would be like this It feels like I'm living inside a dream But my mind tells me I'm Lost in Necropolis, lost in Necropolis

-but also giving that couple making out in the pit of skulls, lost in an endless cemetery going slowly insane in the iron rose (1973)?? plus this album is from '83 & i feel like eddie munson definitely liked it.

2. Dio, "Holy Diver" - yeah, classic, guess this one is pretty self-explanatory... I did just read what's currently my all time fav ST fic, this time loop fic star of the masquerade by glorious_spoon, and eddie's fav track there is holy diver.

3. Steely & Clevie, Righteous Flames, "I Was Born To Be Loved" - idk I just freaking love this dancehall track from 92, heard it on the radio a while back and put it on my 'seattle wip' playlist, which I was listening to while noodling around with a post-u mich kj/owen story that alas has not materialized beyond a set up and a few scenes. it's always gonna be a kj and owen mood for me. :')

4. Kate Bush, "Running Up That Hill" - for a while in college @dirigibleplumbing played "wuthering heights" like everyday BUT somehow i never heard/took in "running up that hill" until i started watching Pose last year - when it plays at the end of the pilot !!! while that man is picking up angel !!! I just !!!! stay away from her, get a job !!!! anyway, also, max gender, is there a more gender-y song?

5. Afsky, "Tyende Sang" - more metal. first track i heard on Seek & Destroy that gave me a fanfiction oh. moment. like, we are no longer just doing fic research, we go here now.

6. HAAi, "Baby, We're Ascending" - this song is fine/fun, i threw it on a recent playlist so i'm hearing it a lot, but i loved loved loved HAAi's recent Resident Advisor mix & listened to it a bunch. tried to put it on during a philly wedding afterparty last spring but then it was TOO LOUD and we had to leave to the hotel. :(

7. Built to Spill, "Car" - I think this is my favorite track from their early 90s album There's Nothing Wrong With Love, an all time album which i also loved as a teen. good to sing along to.

I want specifics on the general idea I want to think what I should know Want you to do me what you show

gotta just absolutely belt it out. those lyrics are all caps in my head.

8. Sevana, "Lowe Mi" - this has been playing all the time on KEXP's saturday morning reggae show. it's super catchy.

9. Leonard Cohen, "The Partisan" - as previously discussed i love a good time loop story - it's maybe one of my favorite tropes?? the melancholy and bittersweet yearning can be so exquisite, it fully KOs me - anyway, this track is used so well in Palm Springs, under that slow-mo close up on Sarah while Nyles realizes he is big time in love and needs to get his shit together -

10. Florence + The Machine, "Morning Elvis" - this is my Grey's end of season 2 song for Izzy and Denny :((((( I guess 'cause "we are trying to make it through the devastation" vibes + Denny is from Memphis.

idk idk @katiewont, @rostovs, @zombiesassy, if u wanna-

#music #tag game #long post #text post #my stuff

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bonefall · 2 years ago

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DOES FIRESTAR KILL TIGERSTAR FOR GOOD????? SPILL PLEASE ELDER BONE. (Also, in sweet Nothings, where Firestar has flaming chains of retribution, can he use those on Tigerstar in the Great Battle?!?)

Of course he does!! I can't end off OotS without having Firestar axe the guy who caused his death in this rewrite! I can't just NOT have something cool as shit!

Grappling and twirling, Tigerstar snaps and bites air, Firestar slashes and catches solid muscle, a paw collides with his face like a stone and he tumbles over and back onto his feet, Tigerstar pounces like a panther

Burying his teeth into his scruff, shreiks of pain, echoing like the death rattle of a star, and Firestar... fades! Orange smoke dissapates in thick plumes, a firey haze surrounds the tyrant king.

At first, he's in disbelief. A silence settles over the crowd... his laugh breaks it. Wild eyed and cheshire grinned, he cackles maniacally, lashing his tail as the fog clears, licking his lips and bathing in his glory

Only to be joined by the incredulous chuckle of Graystripe. It snaps Tigerstar back, suddenly. He whips around at him, "What do YOU have to laugh about?"

And the old cat coos and shakes his head, "For someone who spent so many seasons thinking about fighting Firestar, you're sure quick to forget his favorite trick..."

The mist thickens like a cloud in the sky above. The crowd yowls in shock as it swirls and puffs, forming fur and whiskers and glowing green eyes. Like an arrow, sharp claws plunge straight towards their target, slicing clean through Tigerstar's neck.

The last thing he hears is Graystripe's excited cry, "He plays dead!"

#Bonefall Rewrite #Bonefall OotS #This scene is actually the reason why I needed to have Oots close out with a Firestar Tigerstar match lmaoo #I've been thinking of that line for MONTHS #He plays dead!!!

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ao3feed-piltovers-finest · 2 years ago

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i'm only a fool for you (and maybe you're too good for me)

by notsomagicath

Time stops when the rocket shatters the window of the council’s meeting room.

Vi’s eyes widen, tugging at a cut above her eyebrow, only able to stare as the glow of the rocket fuel sends glass shards spilling across the sky like stars. Caitlyn screams beside her, knees buckling, tugging them both to the ground with Vi’s arm around her waist. The sound delay is less than a second, but it feels like an eternity between the burst of flames and the deafening roar of the building’s collapse.

Powder. Vi tears her eyes from the wreckage to spot a girl standing just on the outskirts of Zaun. What have you done?

Words: 2636, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English

Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F

Characters: Caitlyn (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends), Tobias Kiramman

Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)

Additional Tags: picks up immediately after the events of the season finale, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Unresolved Tension, Mutual Pining, Banter, Canon Compliant, Episode: s01e09 The Monster You Created

from AO3 works tagged 'Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)'

#ao3feed-piltovers-finest #a03feed-piltovers-finest #caitvi #arcane (league of legends) fanfiction

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hnychn · 4 years ago

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𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 [𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍]

summary : it was painful to watch eren become the very person he swore to protect you from

warnings : gender neutral reader, angst (when is it not), season 4 anime spoilers, a bit of jean x reader but nothing is specified,

word count : 2k+

a/n : i kinda don't like this cause idk if the feeling came out as i wanted it to, but i also don't know how to fix it and make it better. i kinda played around with eren's titan abilities and the memories he inherited, but anyways lmk what you thought.

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Philtatos.

That’s what Achilles was said to have called his love, Patroclus.

Most Beloved.

A word often spoken between the two as the salty ocean breeze filtered through the open windows and Achilles held Patroclus as if he were the moon holding his tide and Patroclus held Achilles as if he were brightening his world like a thousand golden urns. A word spoken between gasps and puffy lips as the moon peeked through the curtains and guided the two lovers. A word so precious and valuable it was the only word Achilles could cry as he held his lover’s body in the aftermath of the Trojan War.

But words too often spoken, are meanings too often lost.

“If it ever came down to you or the world, I’d choose you over and over and over.”

Much like Patroclus, you cherished the words so rarely dripped from his lips like a drop of water spilling over the edge of a cup. You held Eren tighter, pressed more kisses to the curve of his lips, held his face closer to your own when he let those rare words slip from his lips. When he spoke those words, it was as if a million stars had suddenly been dropped into your dark abyss of a universe and guided your way through life; each sparkle capturing a piece of your breath and stealing your heart and soul with no intentions of giving it back.

Eren embodied the golden urns that spilled from the sun that guided Patroclus’ path to Achilles in the afterlife; he was bright, warm, home.

When Eren lit up your word as he did, when he lit up your path and guided you to him, it was easy to call him home. He was your person. Your person who waited for you with open arms and a cup overflowing with love waiting for you to take and cherish and keep. It was easy for you to mold yourself into his arms on harsher days when he pat your head and whispered, “It’s you over the world. Always” into your ears when you wanted to scream and cry and set fire to the world.

He promised you protection; a secure future filled with love and hope and freedom and forever. It was easy to believe him when he put his life on the line for you when he was on trial. Screaming and thrashing and struggling to get to you as members of the military brigade twisted your arms behind your back and threatened to end your life on suspicions of knowing Eren’s secret. It was easy to believe him when he held you close later, with the moon’s light filtering into the room and the cold breeze cradling both of your bodies. It was easy to believe him when he held you close, his hands fisting the back of your shirt as if someone would burst in and steal you from him at any moment, while his words tickled your ear and warmed your heart, “I will protect you. You are my world.”

But words too often spoken, are meanings too often lost.

You could remember the day his words started lacking their once bright luster. Not long after retaking Wall Maria, you felt the salty ocean breeze against the curves of your face and the cool ocean water against the heels of your ankle. You smiled as you watched Connie and Sasha play in the water and looked over to Eren to do the same; but the sparkle in his eyes, or rather the lack thereof, is when the warmth of his words started to burn out like a flame too long exposed to the harsh winter.

"The world is against us. . .and I won’t let them win.”

Your back was turned to him, pressing against his firm chest that once grounded you in reality and assured you of safety; but now it only frightened you and summoned a churn in your stomach you didn’t know was possible in Eren’s presence.

It was as if your mind recognized it sooner than your heart did. As if your brain could recognize the small changes in your lover, the way his eyes slowly dimmed and were no longer the same jade green that reminded you of the soft grass that tickled the pads of your feet outside of your childhood cottage but had turned into a stormy grey that reminded you of the storms that sunk ships and shattered the hearts and trust of many.

But your heart refused to acknowledge it. Eren had placed a veil of red in front of your heart that blurred all sense of rationale you had. You could see the way he seemed to withdraw into himself more, his words became more scarce, his affection became rarer and rarer as the days passed. Your eyes could register the lack of sparkle in his when he looked at you, but your heart was under his control and refused to acknowledge it.

It was painful watching the person you love most slowly fall out of love with you.

Your heart ached when you looked him in the eyes and were faced with the heartbreaking reality that the stars that once lit up your whole universe were now slowly dimming and simmering away.

And then he disappeared.

As if he were whispers of dandelions floating in the wind, he disappeared, leaving nothing but a stem of the flower he once was in his wake.

You cried and screamed and thrashed about when you first found out, and despite his arms wrapped around you in an effort of comfort, Jean wasn't Eren. You pounded against his chest and screamed at him to let you go, to let you leave and find eren. Because it had to be a mistake, Eren wouldn't just leave you behind . . . right?

The blinding veil had been ripped from your heart and left it shattered. You spent several days locked in your room with only a few shirts Eren left behind to comfort you, his natural scent fading away as time passed, just as his love did for you.

Though, just as Patroclus did, you soon found your peace (though it wasn’t as heartwarming as reuniting with your long-lost lover like Patroclus, peace was peace and you would accept it as it came). It took a while, but with the help of your friends and Jean, you were able to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart and tape them back together.

But the process of healing is not a simple task.

There were days where you wanted to scream at the stars at the top of your lungs, there were days where you wanted to lock yourself in your room again and cry until there were no more tears for you to give, and there were days where you wanted to shatter Eren’s nose as he did your heart. But you took those days with unwavering confidence and picked up your pieces when they fell again.

You picked them up until there was no more need to pick them up because time had healed you. And while it did hurt to accept it, it was a part of healing.

And so, you accepted that Eren had chosen a life without you.

Eren didn't know whether to be happy or not to see you.

Happy you were alive. Happy he was able to see your face one more time. Happy you had made it out alive from the problems he caused.

His soul ached for him to reach out to you, to hold you close and pepper kisses to your face, and never let you go from the protection of his arms. He ached to take your hand in his and feel the way they fit so perfectly together as if they were made of the same mold. Eren ached to feel the soft pads of your fingers against his cheeks and hear your reassurances that, yes, he was good.

But he stayed put.

And he allowed you to look at him with those beautiful eyes he once loved looking into during the darkest nights that were filled with a love words could not tie-down, but we're now filled with confusion and laced with anger and an array of emotions Eren couldn’t blame you for. Eren allowed you to walk out the door of the airship and into the back where he could hear screams of joy. He let you walk away from him; the echoing sounds of your footsteps getting quieter and quieter as you walked farther away from him.

That was the only time Eren questioned whether what he was doing was right. The more steps you took away from him, the more he had to restrain his body from grabbing you and chaining you to the front of the ship. His body screamed at him to yell, speak, kick, grab you, tackle you, do anything to stop you from leaving.

But he didn't, and he allowed you to walk away.

Eren stared blankly at the metal flooring of the airship as he heard the cheering abruptly stop, and his heart sank. He prayed and prayed to the gods he didn't believe in for someone else to have been hit, that it was someone else bleeding onto the cold floor; because Eren knew he wouldn't be able to go to you. Not with Levi in front of him.

His prayers went unanswered as Jean walked in with two kids, his eyes were red with unshed tears and his hands gripped their clothing as if it were the only thing grounding him to this reality. A reality where you had been shot. A reality that Eren had seen and could have prevented.

Everything seemed to go blank then. It was as if his body shut down, his lands going limp in his lap. The sounds of Mikasa and Armin running out of the room were only white noise, but the sound of your name falling in screams once they saw you were as clear as day.

It was then that Eren realized he was but a pawn in the grand scheme of the memories he held. There was no alternative for him, no way for him to save the people he loved; leaving him to experience loss not once, but twice.

Eren tried to soften the blow of your loss by convincing himself he didn't love you, that your love was nothing but puppy love he clung onto for a small sliver of a normal life, but seeing you again for the first time in years reminded him how much he loved you.

The way you stood with confidence and fought on foreign land made his heart beat with the remembrance of the nights he held you close in his arms and whispered promises of protection and love. Promises of a world of freedom and independence.

"It's you, you, you. Always you,” words once whispered with a love Eren could only dream and long for in the present where you would no longer be there to hear them.

There was no doubt in his mind, in another universe, one where titans didn't roam the earth and the world wasn't against them, Eren would have chosen you in a heartbeat, over and over and over. In a world where his only worries would be what to eat for dinner that night, Eren would hold you close and cherish you just like he wished could in this universe.

But as the memories he inherited played out just as he knew them to and the feeling of losing you weighed heavier on him than it had when he first saw the memory years ago, Eren knew there was nothing else keeping him from becoming the very thing he promised to protect you from.

A monster.

And when Connie walked into the room, his hands stained with your blood and his eyes dripping with the horror of losing someone close, Eren knew what he had done.

Eren chose the world over you.

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