#lei te night thoughts

[summersun4youforever]

happy birthday to the lamest blog of all, mine <3

#SIX YEARS #wild #lei te night thoughts #have not used that tag is so long

[sheerfreesia007]

Amore in Italia Pt. 1

Title: Amore in Italia Pt. 1

Fandom: Kingsman

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Italian!Reader

Author: @sheerfreesia007​​

Words: 1,423

Warnings: Fluff

Permanent Tag List: @paintballkid711​, @fioccodineveautunnale​, @phoenixhalliwell​

Author Notes: This was a fic request from the lovely @fioccodineveautunnale​! Her request was for a Whiskey x Italian!Reader who was younger and the two fools were in pining love for each other. I hope you enjoy it sweetheart! There will be a part two to these two fools. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Gif Credit: @pedroispunk​

         The steady beeping of the heart monitor was soothing to him. It meant she was alive. After such a mess of a mission he was thankful for that one fact. She was alive.

         As his eyes darted over to where she lay on the hospital bed. Her skin looked pale and clammy, there was a sheen of moisture all along her body. Her body was still in the healing process. Bruises littered her body like a patchwork quilt in various different colors. Her shoulder was still bandaged up with gauze and the white cling wrap fell across her chest to the other side hiding the gunshot wound that she suffered from while on the mission.

         Whiskey could still hear the loud gun fire in his ears as he sat silently in the hospital room. They all knew going in that things could go sideways but they hadn’t expected the situation to go this sideways. The mob ring that Whiskey has been tracking for the last six months with the Italian equivalent of Statesman had held a large meeting with multiple gangs in the area. Conveniently gathering them all in one location.

         When Agent Tartufo had been made by one of the gang members all hell had broken loose. Bullets pierced the air from both sides of the room. Whiskey had been crouched down behind a table he had overturned. When he looked to his left he had seen her crouching down behind her own table taking cover as she periodically fired back at the gang members. It was then as she was peering over the table to get a good shot that one of the bullets from the gang blasted through her left shoulder knocking her back onto the floor. All he remembers after that is him rushing towards her and shouting her name.

         Six months in Italy and Whiskey found himself enamored with the country. All of the sites of historical buildings like the Castel del Monte or the Grand Canal in Venice had entranced him to the historically rich country. And the food, goodness the food. Whiskey didn’t think he’d ever eaten anything so rich and fresh as the food here. But what had really made him fall in love with Italy was the young woman laying in the bed next to him.

         Agent Capricciosa had greeted him on his first day at the main facility in Rome. She had eagerly stuck her hand to him with a soft smile and bright eyes.

         “È un piacere conoscerla Agente Whisky, sono l'agente Capricciosa. Non vedo l'ora di lavorare con lei.” It is a pleasure to meet you Agent Whiskey, I am agent Capricciosa. I look forward to working with you. She had said while shaking his hand. He had been surprised by how young she looked and how small her hand was in his. Even after she had walked away from him and his guide she was still at the forefront of his mind.

         He had learned a few things about her that day as he slyly asked around about her. She wasn’t a relatively new agent having been with the agency for at least eight years by then but she was one of the youngest agents they had. Being only in her early twenties Whiskey had learned that her family was in the business and she had gotten her start early on because of all the generations in her family before her. He’d also learned that she used her looks and young age to her advantage, being able to sidle up to targets and seeming naive to them until it was too late and she struck.

         It was while at meetings and informal gatherings that he started to talk with her and got to know her better straight from the source. She was passionate about what she did and it was reflected in her work ethic and in the way that she talked. Oftentimes he would find himself daydreaming of her voice as she spoke to him in perfect lilting Italian about anything that came to mind. But now all he heard from her was the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

         Sighing softly he reached over and grasped her fragile looking hand in his. Six months with this woman wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted so much more with her. She had managed to weasel her way into his life fairly easily and with no resistance at all she had even managed to weasel her way into his heart. 

         It might’ve been during the training sessions where they would spar together or it might’ve been during the time that they spent together researching intel on the gangs. Or hell it could’ve been when she would convince him to go explore her country, always promising him a good time in that alluring Italian language. He didn’t know when it happened but he had fallen irrevocably in love with her.

         “Cosa ti rende così triste, agente Whiskey?” What is making you so sad Agent Whiskey? His eyes snap up to stare into her tired dazzling orbs.

         “Sei sveglio. Grazie a Dio.” You're awake. Thank goodness. He says in response as he rises from his chair and moves closer to her. She smiles softly at him before grimacing as she shifts her body. He hurriedly moves to her and helps her sit up in the bed. “Non muoverti troppo, aggraverai la tua ferita.” Don't move too much you'll aggravate your wound. He says as he gets her settled back in a comfortable position.

         “Non hai mai risposto alla mia domanda. Cosa ti ha turbato di tanto?” You never answered my question. What has you so upset? She asked again and his eyes darted over to her silently as he tried to muster up the courage to tell her how he feels. She’s looking at him soft tired confused eyes and he sits on the edge of her bed at her hip scooping up her hand in his.

         “Devo dirti qualcosa. E ho bisogno che tu ascolti prima di dire qualsiasi altra cosa. Tutto a posto?” I need to tell you something. And I need you to listen first before you say anything else. Alright? He almost pleads with her. He needs her to be patient with him as he tries to place words to his feelings and emotions he’s experiencing. She nods at her once as her eyebrows furrow softly in concern. “Pensavo di averti quasi perso l'altra notte in missione. Quando ho visto che ti hanno sparato, tutto il mio mondo è capovolto. Ci tengo a te Capricciosa. E non so come ti senti, ma se non te lo dico ora mi sento come se potessi perdere la mia occasione.” I thought I almost lost you the other night on the mission. When I saw that you were shot my whole world flipped on its head. I care about you Capricciosa. And I don't know how you feel but if I don't tell you now then I feel like I may lose my chance. He watches as her eyes begin to shine with unshed tears and his hand comes up to cup her face where she leans into his embrace. “Sono innamorato di te.” I'm in love with you. 

         He can feel the air in his lungs escaping rapidly as he watches the tears fall silently down her cheeks and some even catch on his hand where he holds her. She grins a watery smile and leans backwards into the bed sighing.

         “Agente Whiskey, sono innamorato di te da quando sei entrato nella struttura principale. Ero troppo spaventata per dirtelo perché temevo che mi avresti giudicato in base alla mia età.” Agent Whiskey I have been in love with you since you sauntered into the main facility. I was just too scared to tell you because I was worried you'd judge me by my age. She whispered softly as her eyes fell shut. 

         Whiskey grinned as he scooted higher up on the bed so that he could lean over her easily without hurting her being mindful of her injuries. Her eyes popped open when she felt his warm breath ghost over her lips and he watched as a knowing smile fell on her lips. Her hand came up to cup his own cheek and she leaned forward to press her lips to his softly.

         The two of them sighed into the kiss and Whiskey felt his heart begin to soar in his chest. He was definitely falling in love with Italy. 

#fic request #agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #kingsman the golden circle #my writing

[sciatu]

GIOIELLI DI LETIZIA CAVALLARO

Perché parlare ancora d’amore? di questa follia che vince ogni ragione, di questa debolezza che diventa forza quando la forza è l’ultima speranza e da tenerezza e passione, delicato furore, con respiri affannosi strisce rosse delle unghie sulla pelle, morsa dai desideri, arsa dal suo fuoco che tu hai acceso e in cui hai lasciato volare con il suo, anche il tuo corpo, suo pane, sua salvezza, suo respiro. Perché ancora amore ed amore e ancora amore se è una parola abusata e falsata, se è un orizzonte che mai raggiungeremo, un sogno che mai completeremo? Più facile invece solo sesso e carne su carne, che sia lava che tutto distrugge e ricrea, che sia pane che nutre con l’essenza dell’acqua del fuoco e della terra; che sia tutto questo senza dover riassumere in questa assurda parola, tutto il folle matematico divenire dell’universo ed il suo esplodere dentro di te a creare nuovi mondi ed una nuova vita in cui diverrai schiavo volontario. Cos’è quest’amore, questo mare oscuro in cui vivi dei suoi silenzi, questo inseguire un vento che mai supererai ma che sostiene nell’azzurro del cielo le tue ali fatte dalla dedizione e dall’abbandono in lei, questo vento che ti porta dove non sai, ti invola in alto come un aquilone, felice di osservare il mondo dall’alto di quello che provi, felice lei di averti donato più di quanto avrebbe mai pensato mentre nelle sue piccole mani trattiene il filo sottile che ormai ti lega ad un mondo che è tuo solo perché c’è lei. Perché essere succube e padrone, re e servo, tutto con lei e nulla senza di lei, vivere le notti cercandola, affrontare il giorno per incontrarla, crocifiggersi nei suoi occhi e sulle sue labbra di rubino riassumere una vita. Non è folle tutto questo? Non è inumano questo donare sé stesso ad un altro, questo essere luna e sole nello stesso momento. E’ vero, amando vinci la solitudine perché chi ama non è mai solo, vive perseguitato da fantasmi e ombre, ma la sua anima è persa, preda di immense e fragili gioie, persa in una dipendenza assoluta, in un provare gioie e dolori che non ritrova negli occhi degli altri, che non perdona a se stesso per la folle debolezza che diventa e che lo assale. E’ così folle questo donarsi, questo cercarla nei tuoi domani, desiderarla nei tuoi ricordi, viverla nei tuoi desideri con complice e necessaria oscenità, è cosi folle che tutti nella vita lo cercano perché chi non l’ha mai provato almeno una volta nella sua vita, non può dire di aver vissuto.

Why talk about love again? of this madness that overcomes every reason, of this weakness that becomes strenght when strength is the last hope and from tenderness and passion, delicate fury, with labored breaths red strips of nails on the skin, bitten by desires, burned by its fire that you lit and in which you let fly with her, even your body, her bread, her salvation, her breath. Why more love and love and more love again if it is an abused and distorted word, if it is a horizon that we will never reach, a dream that we will never complete? On the other hand, only naughty sex is easier, which is lava that destroys and re-creates everything, which is bread that nourishes with the essence of the water of the fire and the earth; that it is all this without having to summarize in this absurd word, all the crazy mathematical becoming of the universe and its exploding within you to create new worlds and a new life in which you will become a voluntary slave. What is this love, this dark sea in which you live of its silences, this chasing a wind that you will never overcome but which supports, in the blue of the sky, your wings made by dedication and abandonment in her, this wind that brings you where you don’t know, she let you flies up like a kite, happy to observe the world from the top of what you feel, happy she has given you more than she would have thought while in her small hands she holds the thin thread that now binds you to a world that is yours only because she is there. Because to be succubus and master, king and servant, all with her and nothing without her, live the nights looking for her, face the day to meet her, crucify yourself in her eyes and on her ruby ​​lips summarize a life. Isn’t all this crazy? It is not inhuman to give oneself to another, to be moon and sun at the same time. It is true, by loving you overcome loneliness because whoever loves is never alone, lives persecuted by ghosts and shadows, but your soul is lost, prey to immense and fragile joys, lost in absolute dependence, in experiencing joys and sorrows that you does not find in the eyes of others, who does not forgive himself for the mad weakness you becomes and which assails your soul. This self-giving is so crazy, this looking for her in your tomorrow, wanting her in your memories, living her in your desires with complicit and necessary obscenity, it is so crazy that everyone in life is looking for it because who has never tried it at least once in his life, can not say he lived.

#Sicilia #SIciliy #jewell #20 poems for solitude

[sciogli-lingua]

Eagles || Hotel California || English lyrics + Italian translation

[Translator’s note: the Tiffany-twisted and Mercedes bends puns couldn’t be translated literally, so I went for two periphrases that more or less left the original sense intact.]

On a dark desert highway Su un'autostrada buia e deserta Cool wind in my hair Col vento freddo tra i capelli Warm smell of colitas E un caldo profumo di colitas Rising up through the air Che saliva nell'aria Up ahead in the distance, In lontananza I saw a shimmering light Vidi una luce brillare My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim La testa mi si faceva pesante e la vista annebbiata I had to stop for the night Dovetti fermarmi per la notte

There she stood in the doorway; Lei stava in piedi sull'uscio; I heard the mission bell Sentivo la campana della missione And I was thinking to myself, E tra me e me pensavo: "This could be Heaven or this could be Hell" "Questo potrebbe essere il Paradiso o l'Inferno" Then she lit up a candle Allora accese una candela And she showed me the way E mi mostrò la strada There were voices down the corridor, Nel corridoio si sentivano voci, I thought I heard them say... Mi pareva dicessero...

Welcome to the Hotel California Benvenuto all'Hotel California Such a lovely place Un posto così bello Such a lovely face Un viso così bello Plenty of room at the Hotel California C'è tanto spazio all'Hotel California Any time of year, you can find it here In qualsiasi periodo dell'anno lo troverai qui

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted La sua mente ha catene firmate Tiffany She got the Mercedes bends E macina tornanti come una Mercedes Benz She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys Ci sono tanti bei ragazzi intorno a lei That she calls friends Che chiama amici How they dance in the courtyard E come ballano in cortile! Sweet summer sweat Dolce sudore d'estate Some dance to remember Alcuni ballano per ricordare Some dance to forget Altri per dimenticare So I called up the Captain: Chiamai il capitano: "Please bring me my wine!" "Portatemi il vino, per favore!" He said: "We haven't had that spirit here since 1969" E lui: "Qui non serviamo quello spirito dal 1969" And still those voices are calling from far away E quelle voci continuano a chiamare da lontano Wake you up in the middle of the night Ti svegliano nel cuore della notte Just to hear them say Solo per sentirle dire

Welcome to the Hotel California Benvenuto all'Hotel California Such a lovely place Un posto così bello Such a lovely face Un viso così bello They livin' it up at the Hotel California Si godono la vita, all'Hotel California What a nice surprise Ma che bella sorpresa Bring your alibis Porta con te i tuoi alibi

Mirrors on the ceiling, Specchi sul soffitto, The pink champagne on ice Champagne rosé con ghiaccio And she said: "We are all just prisoners here Lei mi disse: "Qui siamo tutti semplici prigionieri Of our own device" Del nostro stesso tranello" And in the Master's chambers E nelle stanze del Maestro They gathered for the feast Si riunivano per il banchetto They stab it with their steely knives Anche se la trafiggono con pugnali d'acciaio But they just can't kill the beast Non riescono proprio a uccidere la bestia Last thing I remember L'ultima cosa che ricordo I was running for the door È che correvo verso la porta I had to find the passage back Dovevo trovare il passaggio per tornare To the place I was before Nel posto dov'ero prima "Relax," said the night man "Calma," disse il portiere di notte "We are programmed to receive. "Siamo programmati per ricevere. You can check out any time you like Può fare il check out quando vuole But you can never leave!" Ma non potrà mai andarsene!"

#langblr #english #italian #music #translation #hotel california #mine #music: english #music in english

[merrowloghain]

«Sai, avevi ragione.» Avevi ragione. Tu. Quindi io avevo torto, no? «Mi interessi» il tono caldo, la voce bassa e roca, come al solito «probabilmente più di quanto io interessi a te.» e non c`è nessuna inflessione particolare nel tono, semplice constatazione, senza mai abbandonare i suoi occhi, in un leggerissimo inclinarsi verso di lui, appena percettibile «E vorrei baciarti.» solo qui, un leggero crollare di visuale verso le sue labbra, prima di tornare a sostenere il suo sguardo, con una calma fiera ed imperante, e quel sorrisetto crudo a fare da contorno.

-

Do I wanna know? If this feeling flows both ways? Sad to see you go Was sort of hoping that you'd stay Baby, we both know That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day

-

« Okay. » è un permesso. Le ha dato il permesso di farlo. Per qualche ragione di calma, si placa. Le ha dato il permesso di rimanere lì. Di usufruire quel tempo in una maniera differente. Può baciarlo. Ma con l’unico impiccio di torno. Perché quando faciliterà il movimento in avanti, per avvicinarsi un minimo al suo volto, è veloce il proprio catalizzatore a trovare luogo appena sopra al cravattino di lei, puntando la punta di quest’ultimo in contatto con la sua pelle. Può baciarlo, sì, ma con l’impiccio del proprio catalizzatore.

-

Crawling back to you

-

Lo guarda, lo guarda veramente, come se seguisse tutto quel suo agitarsi irrequieto, quel suo dimenarsi forte contro la calma che lei mantiene senza nemmeno troppa fatica. E` come se si fossero invertiti i ruoli: perchè lei non afferra, non prende e non impone, anzi, scorre appena in sua direzione, i capelli che si arricciano un poco di più contro il legno in quel movimento strascinato, lasciando che lui le punti il catalizzatore sopra quel povero cravattino allentato e sgualcito, verso l`inizio di quei due bottoni lasciati aperti. Solleva appena il mento, come se lui non avesse messo in realtà quel grosso freno che sa di minaccia, avvicinandosi fino a metà strada, a socchiudere appena le palpebre. Lei non bacia ad occhi aperti, e lui in realtà, troppo scemo ci è: perchè non c`è niente nella Loghain che faccia presupporre qualcosa di nascosto, qualcosa che non gli abbia già offerto, con quella sincerità cruda e disarmante. Mantiene la stessa posizione senza muovere un muscolo in più che non sia propedeutico alla sua intenzione, e non le serve sapere che le ha permesso niente, non le serve quell`unica parola pronunciata dall`altro, perchè le basta quel leggero inclinarsi da parte sua per capire, e se lui la raggiungesse per quella distanza brevissima che li separa, lei andrebbe con un leggero colpetto con la punta del naso a ricercare il suo, come ad avvertirlo, a ricordargli che si sta avvicinando e che può scostarsi ora, prima che tutto il resto avvenga. E se lui fosse ancora li, a respirare il suo profumo di pepe nero e cannella mentre si fa più vicino e presente, le labbra arriverebbero a sfiorare leggere le sue, in una sorta di memoria labiale che cerca di risvegliare in lui. Sono le sue labbra, non quelle di qualcun` altra. Ti ricordi di me? Lasciandogli tutto il tempo del mondo per capirsi, saggiarla pianissimo, mentre lei torna a ricordarsi l`odore della pelle di lui, prima che quel contatto s`intensifichi, pur rimanendo sempre e solo a stampo, muovendosi delicatamente sul contorno che separa le sue labbra, donandogli una scelta semplice. Lo vuoi?

-

So have you got the guts? Been wondering if your heart's still open and if so I wanna know what time it shuts Simmer down and pucker up I'm sorry to interrupt. It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you

-

La punta della propria bacchetta continua orgogliosamente a sfiorare la pelle di lei, rimanendo ferma e immobile, a toccarla come a farle presente quella minaccia fatta di gesti e non di parole. Una minaccia non verbale. Una minaccia che può sentire sulla sua pelle. Che può farle intendere di non commettere un solo passo falso. Quell’avvicinarsi a lei è cauto a differenza del gesto della propria bacchetta. Ma lei si pone diversamente. Lei è tranquilla. Lei non è impaurita da niente. Lei è semplicemente pacata, come se sapesse alla perfezione a cosa stia andando incontro. Come se già sapesse come muoversi. Mostrandosi come gli opposti, in questo momento. Lui agitato, sull’attenti, pronto a commettere qualche torto. Lei calma, pacata, a scegliere di volere quel bacio. A rivelare con una naturalezza che disarma una verità nascosta. O forse che ha sempre saputo. Non sa quanto stia mentendo. Non capisce la sua sincerità. Capisce solo che si sta avvicinando alle sue labbra, che sta sentendo quel profumo che riconduce alla cannella, inebriando nella miglior maniera le proprie narici permettendosi un respiro sulle sue labbra prima che la punta del proprio naso sfiori quella di lei. Le palpebre pigre, leggermente abbassate, pronte a chiudersi – o forse no – ad un eventuale tocco di labbra. Labbra che si inumidiscono appena prima che quelle di lei finiscano in un morbido contatto. Un contatto semplice, che risveglia ricordi, che porta alla memoria quel suo primo bacio con lei sulle scale. Labbra che vengono ammorbidite sulle sue, assaporate lentamente, senza alcun movimento di troppo. Non muove il capo, ma chiude gli occhi. Respira su di lei, traendone il suo profumo. Un bacio a stampo che viene intensificato con il movimento delle labbra che inumidiscono quelle di lei, che si prendono il suo sapore, la sua saliva, ma nulla di più. Non ricerca la sua lingua, ma appena gli viene donato più spazio è la punta della propria bacchetta a sospingersi contro la pelle di lei, premendo più del dovuto, come a volerla allontanare. « Che vuoi, Loghain? » staccandosi un minimo, ma rimanendo lo stesso a pochi centimetri dal suo viso, mentre gli occhi non fanno altro che ricercare quelli di lei, rimanendo fissi nelle sue iridi grigio-verdi come le acque del lago sotto la luce invernale.

-

I don't know if you feel the same as I do But we could be together if you wanted to

-

Non c`è un solo granello di lei che spinge di più. Non c`è fretta, non c`è gioco di forza, non c`è ironia nè quella sottile vittoria che potrebbe appartenere a qualcuno che sta ottenendo quello che vuole. Perchè è quello che vuole. Gliel`ha detto, glielo dimostra, e con calma lascia che sia anche lui ad avvicinarsi, a ricordarsi perchè gli sia così necessario mettere una bacchetta tra di loro, a spingerle appena sulla pelle tanto quanto le sue labbra entrano a contatto con le proprie. E` morbida, con profumi e sapori che raccontano di lei in quella maniera impossibile da ignorare, e che forse potrebbero risultare difficili da dimenticare davvero. Rimane ferma con il viso, con quel mento un po` verso l`alto, sporto in sua direzione, per regalargli una libertà di movimento ma soprattutto di scelta, mentre gli occhi di entrambi si chiudono, per lasciare che quel sipario accentui tutte le sensazioni che al buio vengono percepite. Lui, così vicino, così aggressivo da vedere in lei un pericolo, che nemmeno ha sfiorato un solo momento la bacchetta, e che non gli ha ringhiato dietro nemmeno un secondo. Sente la bacchetta premere per allontanarla, ed è con un leggerissimo strascinare di labbra, che si prende l`ultima sfumatura di sapore che appartiene a quella bocca appena saggiata, andando ad umettarsi le proprie per catturare ciò che le ha lasciato in ultima. Si scosta senza opporre resistenza, le lunghe ciglia nere che rialzano le palpebre e che incontrano quegli occhi glaciali in un`aspettativa soddisfatta immediatamente «Te.» semplice, un sussurro carico e talmente tanto naturale da risultare un disinnesco ed un innesco al contempo «Se e come questo sarà possibile, spetta a te capirlo.» anche qui, piena libertà di scelta, mentre lo sguardo per un solo attimo, torna a guardargli le labbra ad un soffio dalle sue, prima di tornare ai suoi occhi, impossibili da ignorare.

-

Ever thought of calling darling? Do I wanna know? Do you want me crawling back to you? 

#IIIAnno #Xavier #Slytherin #Gryffindor #PonteSospeso #Kiss

[broadwaycantdie]

L'ho Fatto Per Te - Sprace

a/n: two things; 1) i only know very basic italian so i’m sorry if some of this is wrong , 2) i picture giuseppe bausilio‘s racer for this more than anyone else’s cause it goes best for the storyline but that’s just me, picture whoever ya want

warnings: some n.s.f.w parts included // translations will be in parentheses

————————————————————————

“I literally see no difference between when I’m suppose to use la and when I’m suppose to use una.”

“This is basics 1; ain’t this supposed to be easy?”

“Damnit, outta health again.”

Spot sat on the couch of his apartment, waiting for his boyfriend to come home.

Spot and Race have been dating for a while. But something big was coming up. Race’s parents were coming—luckily not anytime soon, but they’d still have to meet him.

Race’s parents lived in Italy. They sent Race away when he was young to have a better life. Unfortunately, they had to make a sacrifice and stay behind. Race visited when he could but money was tight. He hadn’t seen them in a long time.

He was over the moon when he got the call that his parents would be flying into town before the year ended. As soon as he found out, he told Spot—hell, he told everyone.

Spot was nervous. He wanted to impress his boyfriend’s parents. He had to make a good impression.

As soon as Race explained the situation, Spot got an idea. He was going to learn Italian.

He didn’t want to tell Race. He had to wait. So he kept his lessons secret.

He started with teaching himself. Using Duolingo as his main tool, as well as attempting to read Italian works. Race had no idea.

They lived together. Making hiding Spot’s lessons harder. He often stayed up later than Race just to get in his daily lesson, forcing him to sleepily decipher between “lei è la donna” and “lei è una donna”.

Spot set daily reminders to do his lessons. Race noticed and asked him about it.

“Hey babe, what this duolingo notification?”

Spot’s heart dropped and without skipping a beat replied.

“Oh yeah, JoJo wanted me to learn Spanish so we could talk about people without getting caught.”

Sounded believable enough. Race put it past him and moved on.

Spot’s boyfriend was fluent in Italian. He spoke it his whole life and only learned English after arriving in New York many years back. He still had a touch of an accent and fumbled on some words when he couldn’t remember.

When he and Race got intimate, Race loved to talk. Spot could tell he was doing good when Racer started spewing Italian as oppose to English. He let out all his emotions in his native language and Spot loved that about him.

Everytime he spoke Italian, Spot fell more and more in love.

A few months into his lessons, Spot started trying to put what he knew into practice. Not around Race, but wherever he could. He’d go down to the Italian deli and test his skills. Usually doing pretty okay with the occasional slip up or miss-pronunciation.

Their anniversary came up and Spot took Race to a very nice dinner; later being followed by Racer’s favorite type of dessert.

They got back to their apartment and things turned hot and heavy.

As soon as they walked in Spot wrapped his arms around Race’s waist; kissing and pushing him against the wall. They quickly went to the bedroom. Spot dropped Race down on the bed and began undressing until Race stopped him.

He sat up and unbuttoned Spot’s shirt, slowly pushing it down his arms, running his fingers across his muscles. Race took off Spot’s pants just as slowly, this time running his fingers over Spot’s perked up boxers.

Spot took off Racer’s shirt and admired his beauty.

His hair was already messy, but it was about to get worse. His eyes matched Spot’s—dark and inviting. His skin always had a glow on it, as if he just came back from a nice day at the beach. Spot loved him.

Things picked up and Spot pulled out a lot of things he’d been holding back.

He grabbed Racer’s long hair and pulled it back, causing a moan. Spot loved that sound. He kissed down Race’s body and heard him utter a few words.

“Cazzo, per favore non fermarti” ( fuck, please don’t stop )

Spot went harder. He finally understood some of the things Race said when they went at it.

Race flipped the switch. He liked to show Spot what he could do. He moved his lips up and down his boyfriend’s body, landing on his underwear. He guided his fingers around his waistband and pulled slowly—too slowly for Spot’s liking. Race was a tease, but everything came to a good ending, so the wait was worth it.

Race’s head bobbed up and down as Spot kept a hand in his boyfriend’s hair; tugging and pulling as he got closer and closer.

Without realizing, Spot mumbled out a breathy word.

“Fanculo” ( fuck )

Race stopped. He knew that word. Spot tugged on his hair, ushering him to keep going.

After they finished, Race couldn’t help but think about what happened.

Why would he say “fuck” in Italian rather than English? He never spoke Italian before?

Race pushed away the thoughts and just chose to believe Spot picked it up from listening to him.

Another few months passed and all Race could talk about was his parents visit. Spot knew he was running out of time, so he did something he didn’t want to do.

He got a tutor. And actual lessons with a teacher.

He seemed to know a lot of words but having a conversation proved tough. If he was going to pull this off, he needed a lot more help and fast.

He went to lessons every day. Easily using the excuse that he just took up more hours at work.

The lessons were a success and with help from proper teachers—on top of his duolingo work, reading Italian literature, and on the street practice—he was almost fluent in a little under a year. Of course it wasn’t perfect, but he could hold a proper conversation, and that’s what mattered.

“Today is the day, babe!” Race called out from their shared bedroom.

“I know, it’s been on the calendar for almost a year.”

They made their way to the airport and waited. Race was beaming with light and energy. He was so excited. Spot was still nervous.

Race noticed Spot’s nervousness and tried to reassure him, assuming his nerves were from meeting his parents as well as not knowing if they spoke English. That would be a proper reason for nerves.

“Don’t worry, I’m certain they’ll love you. And incase you’re wonder, which I know you are, they do speak English. Not the best, but enough. I’ll be right here to help with anything they can’t get”, Race said to Spot sweetly.

That’s not why Spot was nervous. He was nervous because he worked all this time for this moment. He didn’t know when or how he wanted to do it. Would he come out the gate speaking Italian? Would he wait until they did it first? Or would he just save it for a special moment?

Race saw his parents coming down the escalator and grabbed Spot’s hand, dragging him to the crowd of people. He ran so fast he though Spot’s arm would come off.

“Mamma! Papà!” ( Mom! Dad! )

“Antonio! Mio figlio!” ( Antonio! My child! )

He hugged his parents so tightly. Spot could feel the warmth of Race’s happiness. His smile showed pure goodness and made his eyes crinkle into almost nothing.

“Com'è stato il viaggio?” ( How was the trip? )

“Lungo. Hanno bisogno di più spazio su queste cose” ( Long. They need more space on these things )

Spot noticed Race seemed to get his talkative nature and liveliness from his mother. His father stood, searching the area for what they needed to do and what was coming next. Then his eyes landed on Spot.

“Chi è questo, Antonio?” ( Who is this, Antonio? )

“Papà, questo è il mio ragazzo, Sean” ( Dad, this is my boyfriend, Sean )

Spot felt his heart jump to his throat. He knew everything they were saying and was nervous for their responses.

His father was silent. It was agonizing.

“Lo ami?” ( You love him? )

“Molto. Più di chiunque altro prima. Voglio sposarlo, papà” ( Very much. More than anyone before. I want to marry him, dad )

Race paused and looked at Spot, then back at his parents and spoke again.

“Questa è una delle ragioni per cui ero così entusiasta che tu venissi, voglio la tua benedizione. Ho intenzione di proporre molto presto e volevo che tu fossi qui per quello.” ( That's one of the reasons I was so excited for you to come, I want your blessing. I plan on proposing very soon and I wanted you to be here for that. )

Race spoke very fast, it was hard for Spot to keep up. But he picked out the majority of the sentence. He couldn’t believe it. But honestly, it took them long enough. It’s been too many years to count.

“Lui sa?” ( He knows? ), Race’s mother spoke up.

“No. E anche lui non parla Italiano, quindi per favore prova il tuo meglio con l'inglese, ti aiuterò se ne hai bisogno” ( No. And he doesn't speak Italian either, so please try your best with English, I'll help you if you need it )

Race’s mom looked at Spot and smiled.

“Sean! My boy! Welcome to the family!” She said, her accent thick.

Spot finally decided to save what he knew.

Race’s family was very friendly. Spot saw where Race got it from. Before Spot could even answer he was being pulled into a hug.

They went back to their apartment to show his parents. They had a hotel room right down the block, but they still wanted to catch up with Race and see how he was doing.

Racer’s mom went straight for the kitchen, checking if they kept proper ingredients and spices around.

“Non preoccuparti mamma, Sean è un ottimo cuoco” ( Don’t worry mom, Sean’s a great cook )

They both laughed and Spot tried to hold it in, making sure to pretend like he didn’t know what they said.

A few nights later they planned a very nice dinner. Spot still hadn’t spoke any Italian but he had a plan. He was told to dress fancy and that they were going to a very important dinner.

Spot knew what this was. He put on one of Racer’s favorite outfits; a black suit with gold accents, a white button up, a small gold chain under the collar of his shirt, and a red pocket square.

He walked out of the bathroom looking incredibly handsome. He got to the living room and saw Race waiting for him.

Race wore Spot’s favorite suit outfit; a navy blue suit, a baby pink button up left unbuttoned at the top, and his hair tied back very sleek and clean.

They locked arms and walked out the door, picking up Race’s parents on their way to the restaurant.

Everyone was dressed to the nines. Race’s father in a nice black suit and his mother in a lovely pink gown. Unintentional matching never hurt anyone.

“You both look very good!” Race’s mother said upon seeing them.

At the restaurant they talked and ate and got to know each other more. Spot talked to Race’s parents, showing he was interested, cause he genuinely was.

Near the end, Race got nervous. He hid it well, but Spot knew him. Under the table Spot softly put his hand on Race’s thigh and gently rubbed it. Not sexually, just kindly. It always helped Racer calm down.

Race looked at his parents and softly said, “sono pronto” ( I’m ready )

Race stood up and looked at Spot.

He pulled a box out of his pocket and got on one knee. Even though Spot already knew this was coming, he was still in shock that it was actually happening.

“Spot. I love you so much. You know that. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t let you know in some way or another. I want the whole world to know that you mean everything to me. You are my everything. I’m sorry for waiting, but I wanted this to be special. I wanted my parents to see that they didn’t sacrifice for nothing. I found the most important thing I could find...love. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. So...Sean Conlon...will you marry me?”

Race looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Sì, lo farò” ( Yes, I will )

Before Race could even react, Spot was pulling him into a kiss.

After all the celebrations, they sat back down at the table and toasted to champagne.

“So, how long have you known Italian?” Race asked, still very confused.

“About a year now...” Spot then explained the whole situation to Racer and his parents. They were all in shock and amazement.

“Sean Conlon, ti amo sempre di più ogni giorno” ( Sean Conlon, I love you more every day ) Race said, lovingly looking at his new fiancé.

“E non potrei essere più felice con nessun altro se non tu, Antonio Higgins...Voglio dire, guarda, ho imparato l'italiano! L'ho fatto per te, amore” ( And I could not be happier with anyone but you, Antonio Higgins...I mean, look, I learned Italian! I did it for you, my love ).

#newsies #sprace fanfiction #intimate #modern era #italian #language #broadway #newsies fanfiction #fansies #toursies #newsies broadway #newsies on broadway #newsies on tour #newsies bway #race newsies #spot newsies #sprace newsies #newsies fandom #italy #newsies modern au

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

🎨🎧🛁

CHARLIE! MY LOVE! I HOPE YOU LIKE IT! (also on ao3!)

There was music coming from Cas' room. Again.

A more accurate word would be still. He had been playing the same playlist on repeat for the past three days in a row. No breaks, no pauses, no deviation in the pattern of songs.

The only thing that changed was the volume. It fluctuated as the day went on, barely audible in the mornings and at night, sometimes almost deafening loud in the interim.

It was a small mercy for the humans who also called the Bunker their home, the ones who actually needed to sleep and shower and shit.

The playlist started with classical music. Strictly instrumental songs. Concertos and arias, haunting melodies and romantic ballets.

Dean thought it was rather fitting. Leave it to an angel to be naturally attracted to music heavily featuring harps and heavenly choirs of violins and cellos.

Sam found it pretty ironic entertaining, too. He had joked a few times about the piano they had found in one of the larger storage rooms, suggesting they move it into the library.

Knowing Cas, he would probably be both bemused and charmed, more than willing to learn how exactly to navigate the black and white keys. And if Dean knew Cas as well as he thought he did, the angel would ramble for hours about the history of the instrument.

The mere thought made him smile. Cas would probably be a wonderful musician with his long fingers and sometimes unnerving eye, or rather ear, for detail.

Who knew, maybe Cas could become the first angelic composer. He might even be famous, and wasn't that a hilarious thought.

Dean could just imagine awkward, dorky Cas in a sea of adoring fans fawning all over him. Poor guy would probably be traumatized.

But until then, until he even learned how to play an instrument himself, he would have to make do with his playlist.

The classical section of the playlist started slowly with Nina Miller's Plié Slow and Rinaldi's Spanish Waltz. Both of which were soft and soothing, perfect for greeting the pale sunlight of the morning.

Christine Prato's the Prayer was up next, immediately followed by Elger's Serenade for Strings and a lovely harp solo that's name constantly escaped Dean. They were just as sweet as the first songs, flanked by more of the same.

From the serene, tranquil songs, the tone quickly turned rather melancholic. Samuel Barber's Adagio For Strings was tailed by Bach's Come, Sweet Death.

The latter of which a bit too morbid in Dean's opinion, especially for a song in the morning. Fortunately, the clinically depressed portion of the playlist did not last very long.

Opera was next up on the set list.

There were some classics that Dean recognized, Don Giovanni, Ave Maria, Andrea Bocelli's Con Te Partirò. But it was mostly composed of a plethora of songs that he couldn't have been able to name if someone had a gun to his head.

Sam, the nerd, was a bit better at identifying the miscellaneous songs. He pointed out a few names here and there. Vivo Per Lei, Vide Cor Meum, Die Zauberflöte.

Around ten o'clock, the era of the music changed, shifting into contemporary instrumentals. They ranged from slow and ethereal sounding, like the first snowfall of winter, to fast and blood pumping, like a shot of adrenaline.

Both Sam and Dean had been surprised when they heard the first chords of a contemporary song echoing through the Bunker from Cas' room. They had never had an inkling whatsoever that Cas might actually enjoy modern music.

Their surprise continued when the contemporary instrumentals bled into modern ballads and softer pop songs. There was an interesting mix of songs in foreign languages, French and German and Korean if they weren't mistaken, blended together with songs from American artists.

Another intriguing change occurred mid-afternoon when the upbeat pop songs and, yes, even rap music faded away to be replaced by nothing other than classic rock.

Electric guitars and loud drums replaced autotuned voices and synths, filling the Bunker with tunes from the seventies and eighties. The songs were familiar, full of nostalgia and memories of days spent on the road.

Dean had nearly choked on his beer the first time he had heard Ramble On coming from Cas' room at full volume. Sam had been equally surprised.

Neither of them would have ever guessed that Cas would be a Led Zeppelin fan. Yet, the angel wound up going through nearly their entire discography.

He also worked his way through several albums from Queen, Kansas, the Beatles, and Aerosmith, keeping the volume almost as high as Dean did in the Impala. Apparently, Dean's taste in music had rubbed off on the angel.

After a few hours of classic, the era of music shifted once again and modern rock began pouring out of Cas' room. The songs varied between punk rock, pop rock, and hard rock but it was all raucous and loud and full of angst.

Neither Sam nor Dean could name any of the songs, raising the question of where exactly Cas had heard them in the first place. He seemed to enjoy them, listening to them throughout the night, volume turned down until the music was a mere whisper is the quiet of the night.

Usually Sam and Dean didn't mind. They were more than happy to let Cas listen to his music all day, to let him get lost in his own playlist when he wasn't busy tracking down the last of the rogue angels or helping the Winchesters hunt.

Hell, they were just glad he wasn't off somewhere in the middle of yet another suicide mission. And if music was what kept him at the Bunker, then so be it.

But after three days of the angel locking himself away in his room, music playing non-stop, not even venturing out for some pancakes, his favorite, Dean had had enough. So, while Sam was out on a grocery run, the nearest grocery store an hour away, Dean decided to pay Cas a little visit.

Hotel California was reverberating through the Bunker as Dean marched down the hallway to Cas' room. The music grew subtly louder as he approached the angel's room, Don Henley's voice growing more clear.

He didn't bother knocking, it wasn't likely that Cas would be able to hear him over the guitar solo anyway, regardless of angelic hearing. Pushing open the door, Dean found Cas in the same spot he left him four days ago.

Sitting cross-legged on the polished concrete floor in a pair of gray threadbare sweatpants and an old black AC/DC t-shirt, covered nearly head to toe in splotches of dried paint, Cas was staring at a large canvas.

He was using his right hand to smear dark blue paint on the canvas, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The tip of his tongue was sticking out, a habit he had picked up from Dean himself.

His hair was messy and if he wasn't an angel, it would probably be greasy. There was a spot of lilac paint on his left cheek, flaking and peeling off.

His borrowed t-shirt was splattered with strokes of paint that varied in color from a stark white to a vibrant spring green to a delicate blush pink. His sweatpants were similarly messy, stained with dark red stripes and globs of bright yellow.

Dean took a glance around the room, whistling at the changes Cas had made.

The angel had shoved the bed, dresser, and nightstand against a far wall, filling the rest of the room with dozens of canvases and poster boards. Art supplies littered the floor, mostly paints and paint brushes, ranging from watercolors to acrylic to tempera.

Finished paintings hung on the walls and the shelf that ran along the wall above the bed. There was a watercolor scene of green trees surrounding a crystal clear lake on one wall, a nebula of deep purples and blues done in oil paint hung on another.

Since moving into the Bunker, Cas had taken up painting. Dean had no clue where Cas had gotten the idea from but he wasn't going to begrudge him his new pastime.

Sam had been just as supportive when Cas announced his interest in taking up the hobby, driving him to the nearest craft store to help him pick out some supplies. He had returned to the Bunker two hours later with his arms full of canvas and paint sets and a beaming angel in tow.

Cas had taken to painting like a fish to water, or some other simile more befitting to an angel, using it like a form of meditation. Which wasn't a problem until the angel holed up in his room for half a week painting.

"Hello, Dean," Cas greeted, his voice a monotonous drone, absentminded and automatic. He was clearly distracted, too preoccupied with his finger painting to even glance in Dean's direction.

"Hey, Cas," Dean replied, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door jamb. Scanning his eyes over the room again, he quipped, "What's it been, man? Few weeks?"

Cas just hummed, stretching his arm up to add a smudge of blue near the top of the canvas. Dean couldn't tell what exactly it was that Cas was painting but it was pretty nonetheless, a smattering of various colors smashed together to make something breathtakingly beautiful.

"Alright, c'mon," he urged, pushing himself away from the wall and taking a few steps towards Cas. Making a quick come hither gesture with his hand, he continued, "Get up. You need a shower. Then we're gonna get you something to eat."

"I don't require sustenance, Dean. You're aware of that," Cas retorted, a little bit of emotion bleeding into his voice. Of course, that emotion was irritation but beggars couldn't be choosers and Dean was content to take whatever he could.

"Yeah, well, it'll make me feel better, okay?" Dean shot back, gesturing a bit more urgently. He knew he had won when Cas sighed and reached over with his clean hand to pause his playlist, cutting Robert Plant off mid-lyric.

He rose to his feet without any discernible effort, turning to Dean for further instruction. Dean wasn't shy about providing it, hooking a thumb over his shoulder and directing, "Bathroom."

Cas bobbed his head in acknowledgement before slipping past Dean to pad down the hallway to the bathroom. Dean flicked the lights off in Cas' room and turned to follow Cas to the bathroom.

When he got there, to the room of white tiles and multiple showerheads that ran parallel to a row of lockers, he changed his mind. Instead, he laid a hand on Cas' back and led him over to the clawfoot tub in the corner of the bathroom.

"Take a quick shower then come back over here, alright?" Dean suggested as he took a seat on the lip of the tub. He leaned over to turn on the faucet.

Cas nodded and disappeared around the corner of the lockers. Dean could hear the soft sound of his clothes landing on the floor before one of the showerheads turned on, a rush of water drowning everything else out.

While Cas scrubbed off the worst of the paint, Dean fussed with the bathtub knobs, occasionally dipping his hand under the faucet to check the temperature. Once he deemed it affordable, he plugged the tub, sitting up to wait for it to fill.

On a whim, he stood and crossed to one of the lockers facing the tub. He rifled around in it until he found the bottle of fancy bubble bath that Charlie had given him for his birthday.

He squirted some into the tub, figuring that Cas would appreciate the bubbles. The angel was a sucker for any sort of luxury like plush throw pillows or fuzzy slippers, so a bubble bath wouldn't be too outlandish for him.

Cas shut off the shower just as Dean was turning off the bathtub taps, rounding the corner a few seconds later. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his face pink where he had scrubbed off the blotch of light purple paint.

Dean waved him over to the tub, noting with great pride the wide smile that stretched across Cas' face at the sight of the bubbles in the tub. Grabbing his elbow, Dean helped Cas climb into the tub.

The angel let out a low groan of contentment as he laid down in the warm water, his eyes falling closed. Dean reclaimed his seat on the lip of the tub, reaching a hand down to tangle his fingers in Cas' wet hair.

"Feel better?" He asked, scratching his nails along Cas' scalp. Cas just nodded, another low hum thundering out of him.

"Much," he responded softly, sounding peaceful and tired. Sniffling a bit, he announced, "Perhaps I should do this when I'm stressed. Rather than spending all my time painting."

"Yeah, sounds like a plan," Dean agreed, smiling down at his angel. "We can even make you a new playlist."

#destiel #destiel fic #my fic #established relationship #fluff #music #painting #bathing #bubble baths #dean is a good boyfriend #halerogers

[theskymahtin]

Keeper of Words, Keeper of Worlds

Pairing: Solangelo

Summary:  Nico has a divine gift and uses it to search feverishly for a sister whose death is his fault. Will might be his answer.

Word Count: 2,265

Warnings: it’s ?? 

A journal made of paper scraps and scrambled words.

It is a heavy leather thing, nearly bursting with all of the fragments that have been pasted in. Sticky notes and odd corners erupting from the edges. A bookmark made from a red ribbon that is much too long; spilling from the center pages, trailing across the table, pooling against the floor like blood. A rubber band holding it all together, stretched nearly to the point of snapping.

Nico’s fingers tremble– quake– falter– twitch, twitch, twitch against the cover. Snag against the rubber band. It finally gives, biting angrily against his skin. Nico hisses between his teeth as its covers thud against the table, pages spilling open.

Mouth trembling, eyes flicking, searching, diving across the arrows and symbols and diagrams and pictures. A twisting, hideous road map with no end in sight. He snarls angrily at the sight of it.

Surely, by now, it should all make sense.

“A god? A monster? A fable? Ley lines cross here… too much iron. No, no no… I can’t go there. I do not want to be a man of war. Not again. Ares does not favor one man twice. That is why… after all…” Images flash across his vision, he shakes his head to rid himself of them.

Teeth chattering together, scarred hands painted with swaths of color flicking through pages. Fists slamming against the table again and again and again.

His palms skid across the wooden surface, eyes clenched shut in agony. “Athena, have mercy. I seek revelation. A spear of divine epiphany. Just a bit of hope… I seek…”

Stacks and stacks of tombs scattered around the room, spilling open, pages marked by anything that happened to be nearby–spoons, pencils, smaller books. Gutted pages are tacked onto the walls haphazardly, random sentences highlighted in glaring color. On the far wall, a mural born of divine inspiration is being overtaken by it.

“Mercy, Hades. Thanatos. I pray, I ask… Oh, gods. You have been so quiet. I don’t…” His breathing is coming in rough and ragged gasps. “Why now? When I was so close? So… So…”

Slowly, he crumples down as if being pressed by an invisible hand, fingers clawing across the table, struggling helplessly to keep him up. His knees find the ground and his whole body tips forward, fingers still seized against the ledge, the only thing keeping his forehead from meeting the tile.

“Who are you?” It’s hardly a breath, a broken, helpless breath. Tears press against the back of his eyelids, building gradually. His fortification will not be enough to fend them off, not this time. (He supposes, not every battle can be won.)

Dandelion fluff brushes against his cheeks and falls onto his shirt. No doors or windows are open.

Several minutes pass and then, like a blessing, a flower blooming, his trembling lips slowly part. “Ah. I see… I see.”

Head nodding, body flowing to the tides of unheard music. Fingers lurching from the table and palms cracking down against the cold floor. His arm lurches upward as if pulled by the wrist by a string and his hand clasps the ribbon dangling down in front of him, glinting.

“A chain, yes. To reality. I won’t let go. I won’t. You can trust me… Yes.”

All of the air rushes from his lungs at once and then slams back against him, leaving him reeling.

“Thank you,” he gasps, and unfolds himself, body stretching upward and head tipping back, tears slipping through his defenses. “Thank you.”

-

He clutches the journal tight against his chest, rushing wind from the trains blowing past, buffeting his clothes and stinging his cheeks. The red ribbon is snapping and thrashing, tied so tight around his wrist it’s almost suffocating. His hair flails wildly around him.

“Just breathe deeply,” he chokes, his words snatched away just as quickly as they’re uttered.

“Just one last time,” the voice agrees, so quiet he hardly hears it.

Standing there between two tracks, the freights wailing past in opposite directions, it’s like being the eye of a storm.

When they finally come to an end, the wind cuts away so sharply that he gasps and almost folds downward. The same hand that had forced him down now holds him ups. Barely, by the collar of his shirt.

It lets go and he stumbles forward, eyes wild.

“Go.”

White fluff brushes his nose, dances in the air in front of him, carried by the wind, taunting him. It floats ahead of him, bobbing up and down.

His nails bite into the cover of his journal. “Yes.”

Nico presses on until his bones are aching. And finally, finally, he is here. Among the hollowed-out and lifeless forms of metal monsters put to sleep. In the dead of night, it truly feels like a grave yard.

Spray paint clouds the frames of metal queues, slowly wrapping around him with its fumes. He coughs and hacks and shakes up another can until it’s finished. Just as promised: a door.

But not for him. There is another. He is thanked, and he trudges on. Follows the dandelion seed sprinkled on the wind.

Exhaustion makes his vision swim and dwindle, his eyelids feel like heavy drop curtains whose ropes are failing. Still, one foot in front of the other, even if it is only inches at a time.

Driven by an unseen force, he scratches symbols into the dirt with a stray stick, his breath shaking and his mindless murmuring coming in irregular spurts, filling the air with their presence.

He drops forward in the middle of nowhere, his mind has finally given in where his body had hours ago.

-

Light stabs in against his eyes. He’s lying on his back now and the sun is bright up above him, an unforgiving assailant.

It’s as if sand has been poured down his throat and soaked up all of the moisture. He is now filled with it, weighed down against the dirt and grass. Unused to the load, his muscles cannot lift him.

“Spirit.” His voice rasps roughly against his tongue. “Why have you brought me here?”

A dandelion sways in the wind and, impossibly, the corner of his lip lifts in a smile.

“Ah. I see…” His eyes drift closed. “I see.”

The wind sighs against his skin.

“Until nightfall, then.”

Somehow, he manages to haul himself to his feet as the moon climbs the steep ridge of the sky. Knees wobbling underneath him, hands shaking at his sides, jaw quivering helplessly. The ribbon snakes down from his wrist through the grass, pools against the journal.

He plucks the dandelion and holds it out in front of him, twisting it back and forth in his fingers. Tilts his head to the side like a quietly interested cat.

“O, genus spiritus. Ostende te quaeso ad me.”

His life is made of fervent, hopeful prayers as he blows away the seeds and watches them float off in the breeze.

For a long moment, it’s completely silent, and Nico wants to collapse into the dirt, his last hope snatched away that easily.

All of this.

For nothing.

But then the wind picks up. At first, a change so slight it’s hardly noticeable. Over time, the force behind it shifts until it’s plowing into him from behind, until he feels as if he’s trapped between the two trains again; the eye of a storm.

Every dandelion seed for miles is snatched away, thrown into the wind. They come together in a swirling, massive cloud ten feet in front of him.

Slowly, slowly, the air stills again and the seeds start clearing away, revealing a man who is so achingly beautiful he may very well be a god.

Nico drops to his knees.

The man’s head slowly circles to the side and then tips back up at the sky, welcoming the cool moonlight upon his features.

His hair is spun gold and his skin is a map of the sky, charted with freckles like stars. His Adam’s apple bobs and his ribs lift and retract, his lips parting, drawing in the crisp air.

“It has been so long,” he breathes, and this is not the voice that has been speaking to him. Not the ugly, confounded grate of a long-dead thing, but as gentle and sweet as birdsong.

Nico stares at him in shock, his wrist is throbbing where the ribbon is cinched around it. “You are not the thing I have been talking to.”

The man smiles and lets his chin dip downward, his eyes flutter open. Looking into them, Nico feels as if he’s gazing upon the entire universe. He feels like he’s sinking further and further into the ocean and when he reaches the bottom, he’ll fall through into the crushing vastness of space.

“You wouldn’t think so, would you?” he muses, lips twitching. “I was imprisoned. You have set me free. Come, allow me to show you my gratitude.” He holds out his hand and Nico drags himself to his feet and stumbles toward him.

As soon as he touches him, the strength rushes back into his limbs, his thoughts feel more clear than they have in decades. The man lets out a soft noise, “You… have a beautiful mind.”

“I’ve been told that it’s a bit chaotic.” Nico’s voice is clenched and dry, his eyes blown open wide in wonder. “I’ve never met a god before.”

The man throws his head back and laughs, his grip tightening fractionally on Nico’s hand. Something inside Nico’s chest is unraveling.

“I am no god.” He lifts his other hand and slides his fingers across Nico’s wrist, over the ribbon. It falls away and coils into the grass, a sleeping snake; Nico feels like he can breathe again. “Though people have worshiped me as one.” His head tilts, his expression is so open, so guileless. It makes Nico’s heart ache. “Why is that? That humans flock to power?”

“We are broken creatures. All we want is for someone to repair us.”

The man nods. “My name is Will. I know that yours is Nico.”

Will holds out a thick scroll to Nico and he wonders where it came from. He didn’t see it appear, it feels as if it was always there and he just could not see it.

Nico takes it from him gingerly and starts unrolling it, eyes flicking across its inscription. “What is this?”

“A list of things human beings are afraid of. Which would you be saved from?”

Really, his asking: which do you fear the most? that you would have me take that blight away from you?

Nico’s fingers skip down the endless scrawl. Youth seeping through fingers. They falter. He sees his sister’s head lolling against his arm, blood pooling around her like a ribbon. Finding loneliness buried deep inside. They tremble sideways against the letters.

“This, here. I cannot be by myself any longer.”

Will smiles and touches his chin. “And you won’t be. I shall stay.”

Nico’s heart plummets. “No. No… I need my sister. Bianca. You must have known that… that’s…”

Shaking his head, strands of sunlight spilling down his forehead. “Death is the one thing I will not tamper with. It is definite, final, and reversing it only causes grief and pain and chaos. You do not want to see your sister reborn.” The way he says it makes a sick chill go down Nico’s spine.

He stares sightlessly at Will’s chest, his expression hollow. Dreams seen through eyes clouded with grief, slipping past his fingers. His chest feels like it’s caving in. “My sister. My baby sister. I thought that I could make it up to her, that I could bring her back.”

“She would not thank you.” His words are soft, meant to be an assurance, but they slice through Nico’s skin. “She is at peace. The dead do not want to be awoken… Pain… is such a human thing.”

Tears flee down Nico’s cheeks. “I’ve wasted so many years of my life.”

Distantly, he feels Will’s rough fingertips wiping them away. “I can give them back. Nico, come with me. I can give you purpose.”

How did he know? How could he have known what I need so desperately?

He nods, feeling numb, and feels wind swirling wildly around them, sweeping them away.

-

Hundreds of thousands of years pass in a whorl.

Years of Will by his side, Will holding his hand, Will spinning him in dances, Will asking him for help, Will teaching him how to heal.

Letting go of his sister was not easy, but Will made the task possible. Gave him something to hold onto, to hope for, to focus on instead of his unhealthy obsession.

They rule together, fair and just. Nico is his voice of reason, his mediator.

They lay side-by-side in a large bed made of branches that have been wound together. Flowering vines hang down over their heads and sunlight streams in from the glass ceiling, casting them in patterned shadows.

Nico stares at the man in front of him; his husband, his stronghold, his foundation. Will’s hair fans out around his head and his chest rises and falls just the slightest bit, his arm is thrown above his head.

Nico leans forward and kisses the soft skin of his wrist and smiles against it when he feels the tendons there twitch along with Will’s fingers; his hand pulls downward and cups Nico’s cheek, so he leans into it, a sigh breaking free from his lips.

And Will was right; he has found purpose.

#????¿¿¿??¿ #i found a list of useless word vomit that i'd gradually compiled and i #well this was born so #enjoy ?? #i have no fucking clue #i started it at 1 am #it's not???????? #not my best #anyway whatever it's chill have it #ashes writes #ashes writes solangelo #this is some type of au #faerie!will #???????? #angst #there's a prompt that i should be finishing and i wrote this weird-ass shit instead #get it together ashley #fluff

[summersun4youforever]

@pearonthegas tagged me in this guy and tbh haven’t done this template in multiple years ??? crazy how time goes! anyways here’s my deeply odd girl summer line up

albums:

in this together - math and physics club

fearless (taylor’s version) - taylor swift

midnight memories - one direction

further joy - the regrettes

#mentions #mutuals #lei-te night thoughts #friendship!!!!

[illustir]

Reading 2018

I grabbed the code I had lying around for last year and without too much trouble ran the same analysis for the books. The graph is not that dramatic this time though for some reason I did not read much during summer.

Pages read per month in 2018

Page-wise this year with 13398 pages was a bit weaker than last year (15049 pages).

By some miracle, I managed to post my top ten recommendations to twitter on the 31st.

I've read some 71 books in 2018 and here are ten that I would like to recommend. Goodreads has a lot more on my year: https://t.co/WaVBlGDiPJ Format inspired by @dvdwinden's end of year list.

— Alper Çuğun

(@alper) December 31, 2018

Now as to the categories in which I read books and what I thought stood out.

Leadership

Not as many books as last year, but some very good ones and an area where I will read more. Rumelt has written one of the best books on strategy I’ve seen. Marquet’s highly recommended book I think will bear fruit on future re-reading. Scott’s book contains a fairly complete operating system for a modern tech company.

The cracking books are ok and did helped me crack a PM interview but still had nothing to do with the job I started working at last month.

Good Strategy / Bad Strategy, Richard Rumelt

Turn the Ship Around, David Marquet

Radical Candor, Kim Malone Scott

Cracking the Tech Career

The First 90 Days

Cracking the PM Interview

Diversity (non-white/non-male): 3/6

I don’t have an Engineering category this year (I abandoned The Rust Book and consulted but did not finish the App Architecture book). I am reading topical things for my new job so this year will be better.

Non-Fiction

I’m pleasantly surprised how much I’ve managed to read. Mishra’s book is one of the few really mainstream non-white perspectives on a very important part of our history and I keep enjoying seeing him take names in the LRB and the Guardian. Bluets is a beautiful introspective trip just like The Argonauts was. Sandifer is a critical tour de force of with ideology and temperament I don’t see anywhere else. I’ve always been fond of Machiavelli but with Erica Benner’s rehabilitation of him I don’t have to be embarrassed about that anymore. Runciman’s book about the alternatives to democracy is like a protracted and focused episode of the podcast.

I don’t have a Fiction category or Sapiens would be there instead of here.

From the Ruins of Empire, Pankaj Mishra

Sapiens, Yuval Noah Harari

Ecology without Nature, Timothy Morton

A Contest of Ideas, Nelson Lichtenstein

Bluets, Maggie Nelson

Neoreaction a Basilisk, Elizabeth Sandifer

No Name in the Street, James Baldwin

Why We Sleep, Matthew Walker

Be Like the Fox, Erica Benner

The Chapo Guide to Revolution

The Hall of Uselessness, Simon Leys

Surveillance Valley, Yasha Levine

How Democracy Ends, David Runciman

Diversity (non-white/non-male): 5/13

Genre Fiction

I have been very light on genre fiction and I’m not sure whether SF will continue to be a thing I read much of in the future. The genre is bigger than ever but there is so little serious stuff coming out.

I am glad to have re-read Le Guin this year. Majestic.

Akata Witch, Nnedi Okorafor

Altered Carbon, Richard Morgan

The Fifth Season, N.K. Jemisin

The Obelisk Gate, N.K. Jemisin

The Stone Sky, N.K. Jemisin

Broken Angels, Richard Morgan

Woken Furies, Richard Morgan

The Planet on the Table, Kim Stanley Robinson

The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula Le Guin

Diversity (non-white/non-male): 5/9

Literature

I find it easier to read non-fiction because I can’t parallelize literature very well and whenever I read a dud (here’s looking at you Elif) they block the queue for everything else. Makumbi’s Ugandan family saga has opened up my perspective on the country like a good local novel can do. Hamid’s rumination on refugees is short and sharp like a blade. Shanbhag’s book is a quick family tale of rags to riches where everything becomes entangled.

Terug naar Oegstgeest, Jan Wolkers

Kintu, Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

Dorsvloer vol confetti, Franca Treur

Voyage to the End of the Night, Louis-Ferdinand Céline

Exit West, Mohsin Hamid

Ghachar Ghochar, Vivek Shanbhag

The Idiot, Elif Batuman

Diversity (non-white/non-male): 5/7

Kids

I read so many (34!) kids books this year and this number will probably only increase since we have only just started visiting the library. We live close to the Amerika Gedenkbibilothek which has a fairly sized kids department.

Franchises that did well with us this year were Kikker and the newly discovered Pip & Posy. We finished the seasonal Wimmelbücher (of which Fall was the highlight and Winter a disappointment). Let’s see whether these see renewed play next year.

The kids books do inflate my reading number a lot but that is not taking into account that I have had to read most of these books dozens of times. So there’s that.

So Müde und Hellwach

Welcher Po passt auf dieses Klo?

Mama kwijt

De dieren van Fiep

Kikker en Eend

Kikker is jarig, Max Velthuijs

Was willst du Baby?

Piep piep met Fiep

Brown Bear, Brown Bear

So leicht so schwer

Der kleine Hase

Das kleine Lamm

Badetag für Hasekind

Sommer-Wimmelbuch

Frühlings-Wimmelbuch

Kaatje zegt nee

Pip en Posy en het nieuwe vriendje, Axel Scheffler

Das kleine Schwein

The Pony Twins

Sommer

Het vrolijke voorleesboek van Kikker

Winter-Wimmelbuch

Beestje, kom je op mijn feestje?

Hörst du die klassische Musik?

Het carnaval der dieren

Ssst! De tijger slaapt

Ik zou wel een kindje lusten

No Bad Kids

Oh Crap! Potty Training

Ein kleines Krokodil mit ziemlich viel Gefühl

Pip en Posy en de kerstboom

Herbst-Wimmelbuch, Rotraut Susanne Berner

Aki und Kon, der Fuchs

Die Wildnis ist unser Zuhause

Spirituality

Two solid books on this slow but steady path.

The Parent’s Tao te Ching

Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior

Previously in 2017 & 2016

via English – alper.nl http://bit.ly/2LPEdbN

#IFTTT #English – alper.nl

[sciatu]

TEOREMA DEL DESIDERIO - L’INSOSTENIBILE FORZA DEL DESIDERARE.

Ora vedi questi gelati e in te la memoria li associa ai ricordi del gusto alla crema, o alla nocciola, e se sei stato in Sicilia ed hai preso il gelato in qualche bar di quelli famosi per la loro produzione, sentirai subito il palato vibrare per il ricordo, per quel miraggio delle nocciole spezzettate distribuite nel gusto cremoso alla nocciola che ti ritorna improvviso, inatteso e gradito, per quel sentore di ciliegie candite immerse nel gusto zuppa inglese così ricco, denso e avvolgente, per il pistacchio versato con generosa abbondanza sul gelato omonimo. Ed ecco che lentamente il desiderio nasce, sottile, nascosto e come una serpe sotto le felci, striscia lentamente dietro i tuoi pensieri fino a improvvisamente divorarli restando lui, questo supremo desiderio di gelato, questa voglia casuale che si è trasformata in una voglia dominante, immensa e inarrestabile, invincibile padrona e signora di ogni tuo altro minuto che ti resta da vivere. Se tentenni, se la scacci indietro o la ripudi con amara testardaggine ecco che lei torna indietro come una marea che non si ferma, come il fuoco che cova nei grossi alberi dopo che tu pensi di averlo spento tra i cespugli e i piccoli alberelli e che invece al primo soffio di vento di un ricordo, al primo sospiro di una effimera voglia ecco che avvampa d’improvviso, alzando le sue fiamme verso il cielo e bruciando nella tua testa come se fosse una foresta ad agosto, e così facendo ti schiavizza, ti soggioga, ti controlla e guida. Ed il desiderio torna nel ricordo che ti assale della dolcezza del gelato alla mandorla (con granella di mandorla) o il gusto al Bacio, quel cioccolato denso e cremoso più di un gianduiotto in cui sono immerse le nocciole tostate e dentro cui la tua lingua scivola ammaliata, soggiogata, perduta. Per non parlare dei gelati alla frutta, quelli al melone intenso ed esotico, alla fragola, o con i frutti rossi (lamponi, more, mirtilli…) o le varianti sadomaso come il tiramisù con quel suo gusto di cacao e mascarpone, o la semplice la meringa, fino alla cassata piena di sapori solari e travolgenti. Insomma a questo punto ti alzi e vai a prenderti il gelato perché dentro di te questa mancanza è diventata una forza, una necessità da soddisfare ad ogni costo, e quella che era una voglia passeggera, una piccola lucciola in una notte di Luglio, ora brilla nel tuo animo più di un sole dell’estate mentre non trovi ombra che ti protegga dai suoi squillanti e brucianti comandamenti.

DESIRE’S THEOREM - THE UNSUSTAINABLE STRENGTH OF DESIRE.

Now you see these ice creams and in you the memory recall the taste associates with the flavors of the cream, or hazelnut, and if you’ve been in Sicily and you’ve got ice cream in some bars of those famous for their production, you’ll immediately feel the palate to vibrate the memory, for that mirage of the fragrant hazelnuts distributed in the creamy hazelnut taste that returns unexpectedly, unexpected and welcome, for that scent of candied cherries immersed in the taste so rich, thick and enveloping English soup, for the pistachio poured with generous abundance on the ice cream of the same name. And here that slowly desire is born, thin, hidden and like a snake under the ferns, slowly crawling behind your thoughts until it suddenly devour them remaining only him, this supreme desire for ice cream, this casual desire that has turned into a dominant desire, immense and unstoppable, invincible owner and lady of your every other minute that you have left to live. If I try, if you drive it back or leave it with bitter stubbornness, slowly it comes back like a tide that does not stop, like the fire that hatches in the big trees after you think you’ve turned it off in the bushes and small saplings at the first gust of wind of a memory, at the first sigh of an ephemeral desire here it suddenly blows, raising its flames towards the sky and burning in your head as if it were a forest in August, and in doing so it enslaves you, you are subjugate, controlled and guided by it. And the desire returns to the memory that assails you of the sweetness of almond ice-cream (with almond grains) or the taste of Bacio, that thick and creamy chocolate more than a gianduiotto in which the toasted hazelnuts are immersed and inside which your tongue slips bewitched, subdued, lost. Not to mention fruit ice creams, those with intense and exotic melon, strawberry, or with red fruits (raspberries, blackberries, blueberries …) or sadomasochistic variants such as tiramisu with its cocoa and mascarpone taste, or the simple meringue, up to the cassata full of sunny and overwhelming flavors. So at this point you get up and go to get ice cream because inside you this lack has become a force, a need to be met at any cost, and what was a passing desire, a little firefly on a July night, now shines in your soul more than a summer sun while you do not find a shadow that protects you from its blazing and burning commandments.

#sICILIA #sICILY #sicilian food

[misstinapie]

T&J Travels #4: Hongkong-Macau 2016 (Part 3)

+ Macau Museum +

As to why the Museum was free for the day is a surprise to us (we never bothered asking) and took the chance to roam around. We always enjoy museums and I loved the presentation of the exhibits. It did look like the best way to enjoy it is coming from the top to bottom, where the history of Macau was "narrated". I most especially loved the miniatures and the food spread! Those wax dishes looks tasty!

When we got out of the museum we had snacks near the Ruins. We got egg tarts and those beef and fish balls. Quite expensive.

In our second day in another country it was such a novelty to me hearing so many people who are openly speaking in our language, one was even yelling over someone the phone. For the entire time we were at Macau for some reason every Filipino is at the Senado Square!

We then set out to find this egg tart shop which was hard to find (our GPS is stupidly pointing us nowhere) and found it in area we thought weren't there.

+ Margaret's Cafe e Nata +

A really small shop but with a long queue, we were adamant in taking the line as well. But when we saw how quick the turnaround was, we tried our luck.

We didn't stay since the tables are fully packed, so we ate them instead while we were walking. It was tons better than the one we had at the Square, the ratio of the tart and the filling is much better on this one.

+ The Venetian +

It seems like the GPS is a fail again. Our apps no matter how we checked it had stops that weren't in any way called over the prompter that we ended on a bus terminal. It was sort of a good mistake, because it had pointed us to another terminal of free shuttles for casinos, one of which was the Venetian that came a few minutes when we reached the queue.

It was really cute, they even had the sky painted you would forget the cloudy weather outside. We didn't get gondolas but we did get there to get egg tarts at Lord Stows. It's funny how Reagan seemed to have liked this the best I bet if we eat another egg tart from somewhere it would be his favorite again. I would have loved to shop but I was holding myself back. There are tons of shops with prices that I'm comfortable with! Again, something I would love to do someday when we're back.

For very late lunch we tried porkchop buns from Tai Lei Loi Kei, a popular brand for porkchop buns. I'm not a fan of the bread, it was quite hard but the porkchop I would have loved to be paired with rice. For a sandwich I can't understand why the bone was kept though.

We didn't have time to explore Macau better unfortunately so we simply headed back to HK via another shuttle which luckily brought us to the same port we came out earlier. We had another meal at Mcdonalds when we were back to finally taste those Gudetama burgers with rice in replacement of bread. It wasn't as delicious as it was on the photo though :-(

The entire night later on was another moment of getting lost. We failed to watch the light show and were going around in circles a few more when we looked for our hostel as well. We found it eventually but decided to walk a little bit more. We got in on the mall right in front of Chungking Mansions (can't remember the name) and got ourselves a proper dinner at Te.

[sciogli-lingua]

Barcarolo romano (Roman Boatman) || Lando Fiorini || Lyrics + Translation

[The song is actually sung in Romanesco, so I thought it better to add Italian lyrics for non-native Italian speakers, as, while I’m pretty sure most Italian people would understand it anyway, foreigners not familiar with the language might fail to grasp the changes and dialectal forms]

Quanta pena stasera Quanto dolore stasera How much pain there is tonight

C'è sur fiume che fiotta così C'è sul fiume che fiotta così On the river that flows so

Disgrazziato chi sogna e chi spera, Disgraziato chi sogna e chi spera, Wretched he who dreams and hopes,

Tutti ar mónno dovemo soffri' Tutti al mondo dobbiamo soffrire Everybody must suffer in this world

Ma si n'anima cerca la pace Ma se qualcuno cerca la pace But if a soul goes looking for peace

Può trovalla sortanto che qui Può trovarla soltanto qui They can find it nowhere else but here

Er barcarolo va controcorente Il barcaiolo va controcorrente The boatman goes against the tide

E quanno canta, l'eco s'arisente E quando canta, l'eco risuona And when he sings, there's a resounding echo

Si è vero, fiume, che tu dai la pace, Se è vero, fiume, che tu dai la pace, River, if it's true that you can give peace,

Fiume affatato, nun me la nega' Fiume fatato, non me la negare Enchanted river, don't deprive me of it

Più d'un mese è passato È passato più di un mese More than a month has gone by

Che na sera je dissi "A Nine', Dalla sera in cui dissi "Ninetta, Since the night I said "Hey, Ninetta,

Quest'amore è ormai tramontato" This love has already faded"

Lei rispose "Lo vedo da me" She answered "I can see it for myself"

Sospirò, poi me disse "Addio, amore, Sospirò, poi mi disse "Addio, amore, She sighed, then she told me "Farewell, my love,

Io però nun me scordo de te" Io però non mi scordo di te" I won't forget you, though"

E da quer giorno che l'abbandonai, E da quel giorno in cui l'abbandonai, And ever since that day when I left her,

La cerco ancora e nun la trovo mai La cerco ancora e non la trovo mai I've been looking for her, but I can never find her

Si è vero, fiume, che tu dai la pace, Se è vero, fiume, che tu dai la pace, River, if it's true that you can give peace,

Me so' pentito, fammela trova' Mi sono pentito, fammela trovare I have changed my mind, let me find her

Proprio incontro ar battello Proprio davanti al battello Right in front of the boat

Vedo 'n'ombra sull'acqua, vie' 'n qua, Vedo un'ombra sull'acqua, viene da questa parte I see a shadow, it's coming my way

S'ariggira, - "Che d'è?"- Un mulinello, Si rigira, - "Cos'è?" - Un mulinello, It turns, - "What's that?" - A whirlpool,

Poi va sotto e riaffiora più in là Then it's once again underwater and emerges a little futher

Fate presto, è 'na donna affogata! Fate presto, è una donna affogata! Make it quick, it's a drowned woman!

Poveraccia, penava, chissà! Poveretta, soffriva, chissà! Poor wretch, she was hurting, who knows!

La luna, da lassù, fa capoccella, La luna, da lassù, fa capolino, The moon, from up above, peeks out,

Rischiara er viso de Ninetta bella Rischiara il viso della mia bella Ninetta Shining on sweet Ninetta's face

Me chiese pace e io je l'ho negata, Mi chiese pace e io gliel'ho negata, She asked me for peace and I refused to give it to her,

Fiume, perché me l'hai rubata tu! River, why did you rob me of her?

Me vojo sperde' solo giù pe' fiume, Voglio perdermi da solo lungo il fiume, I want to get lost in the river alone,

Così chi t'ama more assieme a te! Così chi ti ama morirà insieme a te! So that your lover will die with you!

#i couldn't listen to it when I was younger because it was too sad #italian #roman #rome #barcarolo romano #music #translation #langblr #langblr community #music in italian

[diegoricol]

Diego Ricol Freyre recomienda: Diego Ricol recomienda: 30 Fotos Inspiradoras que Podrías Hacer Tan Sólo Poniendo un Pie en la Calle

Da igual si no vives en París, en Praga o en Venecia. Puede que no tengas la suerte de viajar a menudo a otras ciudades como Granada o Berlín. Incluso es posible que tu ciudad o tu pueblo no se encuentren en la lista de los más bonitos del mundo.

Pero de lo que no cabe ninguna duda, es que vivas donde vivas, ya sea una localidad con más historia o más moderna, más elegante o más rural, existen infinidad de fotos increíbles esperando a que las descubras.

En este artículo vamos a recopilar una serie de fotografías callejeras que podrás conseguir con solo salir a la calle con tu cámara. Nada más vas a tener que fijarte en cosas cotidianas que de normal se te pasan por alto para darles un enfoque interesante y atractivo visualmente ¿Aceptas el reto? ¡Pues empieza a inspirarte!

#1. Break Dancer

FUJIFILM X100F · 23mm · f/3.2 · 1/250s · ISO 200

Una de las primeras escenas que probablemente te encuentres en una plaza o calle importante de una ciudad será la de un artista callejero. Aprovecha entonces para fotografiar a esa persona. Si consigues un buen retrato callejero trata de entablar conversación con él/ella y pedirle permiso para divulgar su imagen junto con su nombre o su web.

<![CDATA[.dzsense img.dz-dzsense-vert { display:none; } @media only screen and (max-width: 600px) { .dzsense img.dz-dzsense-hor { display:none; } .dzsense img.dz-dzsense-vert { display:block; } }]]>

#2. The Retro Booth

FUJIFILM X-T10 · 50 mm · f/1.0 · 0.4s · ISO 200

La ciudad está llena de mobiliario urbano antiguo y curioso. Busca elementos interesantes como un fotomatón retro, una cabina de teléfono o incluso un coche antiguo. Todos ellos pueden ser los protagonistas de tu composición y contar una historia llena de nostalgia.

#3. Rainy Night

Si eres de los que piensan que cuando llueve la cámara se debe quedar en casa, te estás perdiendo fotos muy especiales. Los charcos donde caen gotas de lluvia y se reflejan luces de la noche o siluetas de personas con y sin paraguas son muy atractivas visualmente.

#4. Woman Walk Through Pathway

Canon EOS DIGITAL REBEL XT · 18.0 mm · f/3.5 · ISO 100

¿Las casualidades existen? Por supuesto. Si tu acompañante lleva una prenda de ropa o un complemento del mismo color que puedas ver en la calle, aprovecha esa coincidencia. Podrás integrar al sujeto dentro de la composición para potenciar la imagen con esos colores y conseguir buenos resultados.

#5. I Thought That The World Had Lost Its Sway, And Then I Fell in Love With You

Canon EOS 5D · 24 mm · f/3.2 · 1/160s · ISO 200 foto por Thomas Hawk (licencia CC)

Solo el título que el autor de la foto le puso a esta captura ya nos lo dice todo. ¿Hacia dónde nos lleva el enamoramiento? Podemos ver las baldosas amarillas de un camino que no sabemos a dónde nos conduce y la silueta de una persona. Jugar con la escasa profundidad de campo y darle importancia a un suelo bonito ha sido la clave para esta captura.

#6. Thinking about Greggs

FUJIFILM X10 · 7.1mm · f/2.8 · 1/800s · ISO 200

Los escaparates de tiendas y restaurantes también pueden darte mucho juego a la hora de captar imágenes originales. Podrás captar el reflejo de otros edificios en ellos e incluso alguna persona con la mirada perdida en el infinito. Tu objetivo es el de fotografiar la esencia de la cotidianidad de la vida.

#7. Cheeky Nandos Anyone?

FUJIFILM X-T2 · 35.0mm · ƒ/2.0 · 1/2000s · ISO 200

Otros reflejos que resultan interesantes para fotografiar edificios son los charcos de la calle. Cuanto más grande sea la masa de agua en el suelo, mayor será el reflejo. Así que no dudes en salir a hacer fotos con tu cámara el día después de una buena tormenta.

#8. Cathedral of Stockholm

Nikon D5500 · 18mm · f/10 · 1/400s · ISO 200

La arquitectura de una ciudad puede ser realmente encantadora y mágica. Si tienes la oportunidad de salir temprano a fotografiar un lugar turístico valdrá la pena. Las calles no estarán concurridas y será más sencillo obtener capturas sin gente, para que nada distraiga nuestra mirada.

#9. Colorful Design Bench

Canon EOS 6D · 85.0 mm · f/1.4 · 1/800s · ISO 100

Fíjate en los pequeños detalles, están ahí aunque siempre hayan pasado desapercibidos. Algo tan sencillo como las formas y los colores de un banco de la calle, pueden ser los protagonistas de tu captura. Escoge un ángulo atractivo y juega con la profundidad de campo para lograr enfatizar lo que más llame tu atención.

#10. Alone

Nikon D3S · 50.0 mm · ƒ/1.8 · 1/100 · ISO 3200 foto por Chris JL (licencia CC)

Observa a la gente. Muchas veces una personas abstraída o pensativa mirando por la ventana puede contarnos muchas cosas. Al ver esta fotografía ¿qué sientes? ¿Está esa mujer triste? ¿Estará pensando en alguien o en algo? Deja que sea el propio espectador el que cree la historia en su mente sin necesidad de contarla.

#11. Galeria

Olympus E-M5 · 20.0 mm · ƒ/1.7 · 1/125 · ISO 320 foto por Reiner Girsch (licencia CC)

Las líneas tienen mucho potencial visual. Nos pueden servir como elementos para guiar la mirada del espectador que observa la imagen. Cada tipo de línea evoca unas u otras sensaciones y serán distintas ya seas verticales, horizontales, diagonales o convergentes. Si quieres saber más acerca de ellas no te pierdas este artículo.

#12. Portrait of a Woman

Canon EOS 650D · 16.0 mm · ƒ/11.0 · 1/320 · ISO 200 foto por Maureen Barlin (licencia CC)

Los grafitis son auténticas obras de arte callejeras al alcance de todos. A la hora de fotografiar paisajes urbanos pueden formar parte de tu composición o incluso llevarse todo el protagonismo de tu captura. Busca el mensaje oculto que puede haber detrás del mural y no olvides pedir permiso al artista (investigando su firma) antes de publicar tus fotos.

#13. La Dessinatrice

Canon EOS 40D · 44.0 mm · ƒ/4.0 · 1/500 · ISO 100 foto por Sylv (licencia CC)

La perspectiva forzada o la yuxtaposición son técnicas muy utilizada en street photography. Esta última consiste en superponer elementos independientes dentro del mismo encuadre. La idea es crear un contraste elegante con esa unión, mezclando elementos completamente diferentes o contradictorios con algún tipo de relación. En este caso un rostro real y otro de un cartel publicitario miran en direcciones opuestas.

#14. Night Cat

Un animal de la calle también puede ser el protagonista de tu captura. Este gato callejero de color blanco destaca mucho en una estampa nocturna y llena de oscuridad. Si logras encontrar un animal quieto y sin que te vea, podrás captar una imagen muy cruda y real de la vida en la calle.

#15. Illuminated City at Night

Si tienes la suerte de poder fotografiar una ciudad llena de neones y luces llamativas como es Tokio, no dudes en hacer un retrato urbano nocturno o entrar en un callejón oscuro para captar ese contraste tan marcado entre luz y oscuridad. En este caso, la lluvia crea también un reflejo en el suelo que enfatiza esas luces y colores al máximo.

#16. Someone Left These

Fujifilm X-T2 · 35.0 mm · ƒ/5.0 · 1/1800 · ISO 400 foto por Jack Wallsten (licencia CC)

Los objetos olvidados en la calle tienen un aura especial. El autor de la fotografía se imaginó que alguien se dejó sus gafas apoyadas sobre el alféizar. Son objetos muy personales de valor que difícilmente se dejan abandonados sin más. El hecho de que el objeto esté recubierto de agua cristalizada le da un toque aún más misterioso.

#17. Animal Art

Canon EOS 40D · 43.0 mm · f/5.6 · 1/250s · ISO 100

Si ves un grafiti interesante que es muy grande y no sabes si se apreciará su escala en tu captura, puedes utilizar el truco de incluir un elemento dentro de la composición. En este caso es un perro de color oscuro que contraste muy bien con los colores pastel del mural. Sin embargo, también podría haberse incluido un viandante, una bicicleta o una botella.

#18. A L O

Canon EOS 5D Mark IV · 200.0mm · ƒ/2.8 · 1/640s · ISO 100

Sin duda, la perspectiva es una gran aliada de nuestras composiciones fotográficas. Fíjate en este pasillo con columnas. Está repleto de ritmo compositivo, líneas, luces, sombras y textura. Sin el elemento humano, la imagen ya es atractiva en sí misma, pero si además le añadimos ese punto de interés justo en el punto de fuga, la dotamos de mayor valor.

#19. Business Dog

foto por Dominic Meily (licencia CC)

Un perro callejero atado a algún lugar reposa sobre su improvisada cama. Se trata de un objeto abandonado, concretamente, el asiento de un sillón de oficina. Como si de un perro ejecutivo se tratase, la fotografía nos produce una mezcla entre simpatía y pena. En cuanto a la composición, vemos cómo peso visual recae en el lado derecho y se respeta la ley de la mirada del animal.

#20. The Yellow Entrance

FUJIFILM X100T · 23.0 mm · f/11.0 · 1/30 s

La búsqueda del contraste debe ser otro de tus objetivos al salir a la calle a cazar buenas fotografías. Este es un buen ejemplo de contraste entre colores y texturas. Parece que la puerta no pertenezca a esa pared porque el color amarillo limón y la textura lisa de la puerta contrasta mucho con la madera rugosa y azul marino que le rodea. Si te fijas, de nuevo las líneas tienen cierto protagonismo en la composición.

#21. Cross Over

Canon EOS 70D · 26.0mm · ƒ/4.0 · 1/640s · ISO 200

Los cruces y pasos de cebra son también elementos muy fotogénicos en la escena urbana. Si tienes la oportunidad de fotografiarlos desde las alturas y conseguir planos picados o cenitales, lograrás muy buenos resultados. Solo tendrás que practicar la ‘técnica de la pesca’, es decir, esperar a que los viandantes pasen justo por los puntos del encuadre que a ti te interesan y disparar tu foto.

#22. Through a Hole

Sony ILCE-7RM2 · 19 mm · f/11 · 20s · ISO 50 foto por Ronnie Milline (licencia CC)

Como también hemos visto en la portada de este artículo, las verjas son elementos que nos sirven para enmarcar nuestras imágenes. Por supuesto, no se trata de que tengas que romperlas. Tendrás que ir recorriendo la valla hasta encontrar el hueco y crear tu marco natural. Recuerda que como es un elemento estático, puedes probar a hacer fotografías de larga exposición.

#23. Summer Selfie

¿Cuántas veces has visto esta escena? Cada vez más a menudo ¿verdad? Es increíble la cantidad de gente que se hace selfies por la calle frente a un monumento o lugar importante. Aprovecha ese momento para captar un bello retrato. En el ejemplo, como al autor le interesaba el rostro y no el móvil, ha decidido dejar este último elemento fuera de foco para centrar el interés en la chica.

#24. Art Background

Canon EOS REBEL T3 · 24.0 mm · f/3.5 · 1/320 s

Hemos hablado del mobiliario urbano pero no hemos nombrado otro elemento muy interesante con el que podemos jugar: las señales y carteles. Son objetos con mensajes universales que suelen tener colores llamativos. Si sacamos de contexto el significado de la señal de arriba, podríamos decir que esas flechas pueden representar también que hay más de un camino que puedes tomar en tu vida y que solo tú puedes escoger cuál.

#25. City of Shadows

Nikon D5000 · 50.0 mm · ƒ/13.0 · 1/250 · ISO 200 foto por Ines Njers (licencia CC)

¿Y si además de fotografiar lo evidente nos pasamos también a lo más abstracto? En esta fotografía se ha jugado con el contraste entre el color rojo y el negro, que suelen funcionar muy bien. Pero, además se ha incluido la silueta de un sujeto y de un semáforo cuyo equilibrio visual en la composición es muy atractivo. Además el fotógrafo ha cortado la imagen del viandante para que quede claro que la sombra es lo relevante.

#26. Bogotá

Canon EOS REBEL T3 · 50.0 mm · ƒ/1.8 · 1/500 · ISO 100 foto por Claudia Reyes Prieto (licencia CC)

Captar las emociones. Ese suele ser el mayor reto para el fotógrafo callejero. Si tienes la suerte de poder encontrarte con una escena como la de arriba no puedes dejarla escapar. Una imagen de dos niños jugando al escondite bajo la lluvia nos recuerda que nosotros también fuimos niños una vez. En cuanto a la técnica, no olvides usar una velocidad de obturación alta para congelar el movimiento y el modo ráfaga para captar más fotos y no perderte el momento clave.

#27. Fear?

Sony ILCE-7 · 55.0 mm · ƒ/2.5 · 1/640 · ISO 800 foto por Giuseppe Milo (licencia CC)

Esta captura está cargada de significado. El autor escogió el encuadre que vemos que incluye el grafiti de FEAR (Temor, en inglés) y un aviso de peligro de paso del tranvía para mirar a ambos lados. Seguidamente, esperó a que pasara una persona que llevara una o varias prendas de ropa del mismo color que el mensaje. Disparó su fotografía para congelarlo dentro de la composición y dejarlo justo en el centro ¿Será una persona que avanza sin temor a nada?

#28. Dronningegården Housing, 1943-1958

foto por seier+seier (licencia CC)

Un truco que puedes utilizar para sacarle partido al ritmo consiste en incluir tres elementos iguales en tu composición. Desde la antigüedad, la trinidad ha formado parte de nuestra cultura, mitos, leyendas e historia del arte. Lo cierto es que no tiene porqué ser siempre así, pero los números impares en general suelen dar muchas veces mejor resultado que los pares. Haz la prueba y descúbrelo tú mismo.

#29. Adult Architecture Blur

SONY ILCE-6300 · 50.0 mm · f/4.5 · 1/10 s · ISO 1250

Si quieres hacer fotos en una calle muy transitada puedes probar a usar velocidades de obturación más bajas. Las personas o vehículos que estén detenidos aparecerán nítidos, mientras que los que se están movimiento rápidamente saldrán movidos o trepidados. Utiliza esta técnica cuando pretendas transmitir una sensación de movimiento, agobio, ajetreo y caos urbano. 

#30. Underground Motion

NIKON D810 · 50 mm · f/5.0 · 1/30s · ISO 1100

Finalmente, no podemos olvidarnos de un elemento esencial que forma parte del conjunto urbano de muchas ciudades: el transporte público. Todos los medios de transporte públicos de una ciudad te van a dar mucho juego: un autobús, un tren, un metro o un tranvía. Dedícale tiempo a practicar tus fotos urbanas en estaciones públicas y podrás captar la esencia misma de la cotidianidad y la humanidad en sí misma.

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#DiegoRicolFreyre

[fliyann-blog]

Ci sono donne che camminano controvento da una vita…. Ci sono donne che hanno occhi profondi e sconosciuti come oceani… Ci sono donne che cambiano pelle per amore…. Ci sono donne che donano il loro cuore ...per poi ritrovarsi a raccattarne i cocci da sole… Ci sono donne che in silenzio fanno ballare la propria anima su una spiaggia al tramonto… …se ti fermi un istante le puoi sorprendere… …mentre lottano contro il proprio istinto… …mentre fanno passeggiare il proprio dolore a piedi nudi… …affrontando onde che ad ogni mareggiata sono sempre più minacciose... Ci sono donne che chiudono gli occhi…ascoltando una musica lenta... …che rende ancora più salate le loro lacrime... Ci sono donne che con orgoglio ma con il nodo in gola….rinunciano alla felicità... Ci sono donne che con i loro occhi fotografano quegli splendidi ma così fugaci attimi in cui si sentono abbracciate dall'amore… …sperando di mantenerli vivi e colorati per sempre….. …se apri gli occhi un istante le puoi osservare… ...mentre disseminano briciole di se stesse lungo il percorso verso quel treno che le porterà via... ...mentre urlano la loro rabbia contro vetri tremolanti di una casa diventata prigione... ...mentre sorridono di disperazione a chi le vorrebbe far tornare alla vita di sempre… Ci sono donne che non si fermano davanti a nulla… ...perché non troveranno mai la fine di quel filo… Ci sono donne che hanno fatto un nodo per ogni loro lacrima… ...sperando che arrivi qualcuno a scioglierli…. …non fermare il cuore di una donna….niente vale di più …non far piangere una donna….ogni lacrima è un po' di lei stessa che se ne va… ...non farla aspettare da sola ed impaurita seduta sul confine della pazzia... ...e se la vuoi amare...fallo davvero...con tutto te stesso…. stringila e proteggila….lotta per lei…uccidi per lei….piangi con lei... …donale il più bel raggio di sole….ogni giorno… ...tieni sempre accesa quella luce nei suoi occhi… ...quella luce è speranza…è amore…è puro spirito…è vento… ...è la più bella stella di qualsiasi notte… #thoughts #night #life #quotes #italy #woman #poetry #fromtheweb (presso Peschiera del Garda)

#thoughts #fromtheweb #night #quotes #life #woman #poetry #italy

[propheticgeneration]

Elina Garanca Latvian Lyic Mezzo sopran & Sir Simon Rattle German Conductor: orchestra Berliner Philharmoniker (Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra) Baden-Baden Sunday 25-March-2018 Seven early songs (Sieben frühe Lieder) (. 1905 – 1908),By Alban Berg, 1. Night Carl Hauptmann (1858-1921) Clouds gather over night and valley, Mists hover, waters ripple softly; Now, 0 look! Look! - A broad wonderland is opened up: Silver mountains loom wondrous large With, between them, silent paths Shining silver from earth's secret womb; - And the noble world, I know well in dream. By the way to beech-tree stands mute, A black shadow; a single breath Drifts gently from a distant grove. - And from the gloom of the low ground Twinkle lights in the silent night. 0 drink up solitude, my sSept chansons anciennes Une nuit--Siete canciones tempranas 1 noche Carl Hauptmann (1858-1921) Las nubes se juntan durante la noche y el valle, Las nieblas flotan, las aguas se ondulan suavemente; Ahora, de repente, el velo se levanta: 0 mira! ¡Mira! - Un amplio país de las maravillas se abre: Las montañas de plata se alzan maravillosamente Con, entre ellos, caminos silenciosos Plata brillante del útero secreto de la tierra; - Y el mundo noble, tan puro en el sueño. Por el camino, un árbol de hayas se queda mudo, Una sombra negra; una sola respiración Se desplaza suavemente desde un bosquecillo distante. - Y desde la penumbra de la tierra baja Brilla las luces en la noche Carl Hauptmann (1858-1921) Les nuages se rassemblent pendant la nuit et la vallée, Les brumes planent, les eaux ondulent doucement; Maintenant tout à la fois le voile est levé: 0 regarde! Regardez! - Un vaste pays des merveilles ouvert: Les montagnes argentées ils se lèvent merveilleusement Avec, entre eux, des chemins silencieux L'argent brillant de l'utérus secret de la terre; - Et le monde noble, si pur dans le rêve. Par le chemin, un hêtre reste muet, Une ombre noire; un seul souffle Dérive doucement d'un bosquet éloigné. - Et de la morosité du sol bas Lumières scintillantes dans la nuit silencieuse. 0 buvez la solitude, mon âme! 0 regarde! Regaroul! 0 look! Look!---Sette prime canzoni 1. Notte Carl Hauptmann (1858-1921) Le nuvole si accumulano durante la notte e la valle, Le foschie volteggiano, le acque si increspano dolcemente; Adesso, 0 guarda! Guarda! - Si apre un ampio paese delle meraviglie: Le montagne d'argento appaiono meravigliose Con, tra di loro, percorsi silenziosi Brillante argento dal ventre segreto della terra; - E il mondo nobile, lo so bene nei sogni. Tra l'altro, l'albero di faggio è muto, Un'ombra nera; un solo respiro Si allontana dolcemente da un boschetto distante. - E dall'oscurità della terra bassa Luci scintillanti nella notte silenziosa. 0 bevi la solitudine, anima mia! 0 guarda! Guarda!-Sete músicas antigas 1 noite Carl Hauptmann (1858-1921) As nuvens se juntam durante a noite e vale, As névoas pairam, as águas ondulam suavemente; Agora, 0 olha! Veja! - Uma maravilha País amplo é aberto: Montanhas de prata ´é levantam maravilhosamente Com, entre eles, caminhos silenciosos Prata brilhante do ventre secreto da terra; - E o mundo nobre, tão puro em sonho. Para a estrada, é uma árvore de lá está mudo, Uma sombra negra; um único suspiro Deriva gentilmente de um bosque distante. - E da escuridão do solo baixo Luzes cintilantes na noite silenciosa. 0 beba solidão, minha alma! 0 olha! Veja!tr Alban Berg Sieben frühe Lieder 1. Nacht Carl Hauptmann (1858-1921) Dämmern Wolken über Nacht und Tal, Nebel schweben, Wasser rauschen sacht. Nun entschleiert sich‘s mit einemmal: 0 gib acht! Gib acht! — Weites Wunderland ist aufgetan. Silbern ragen Berge, traumhaft groß, Stille Pfade silberlicht talan Aus verborg‘nem Schoß; — Und die hehre Welt so traumhaft rein. Stummer Buchenbaum am Wege steht Schattenschwarz, ein Hauch vom fernen Hain Einsam leise weht. —Eins Und aus tiefen Grundes Düsterheit Blinken Lichter auf in stummer Nacht. Trinke Seele! Trinke--2. Song amid the Reals Nikolaus Lenau (1802-1850) By secret forest paths I like to walk in the light of the night To the deserted reedy bank, Dear girl, and think of you. — When the thicket grows dark, The reeds rustle mysteriously, And there is whispered lament That I have to weep and weep. — And I seem to hear the sound Of your voice softly wafted, And your sweet song Sinking into the pond. 3. The Nightingale Theodor Storm (1817-1888) lt happens because the nightingale Has sung the whole night through: From its sweet notes Echo and the -echo The roses have burgeoned. She was once a beautiful and wild ; Now she walks deep in thought, Holding her sunhat in her hand, Quietly endures the sun‘s glow And knows not what to begin. — lt happens because the nightingale Has sung the whole night through: From its sweet notes Echo and the echo The roses have burgeoned.-- 2. Canción entre los Reales Nikolaus Lenau (1802-1850) Por caminos forestales secretos Me gusta caminar a la luz de la noche Al desértico banco de juncos, Querida niña, y piensa en ti. - Cuando el matorral se pone oscuro, Las cañas crujían misteriosamente Y hay un lamento susurrado Que tengo que llorar y llorar. - Y parece escuchar el sonido De tu voz suavemente flotando, Y tu dulce canción Hundirse en el estanque. 3. El ruiseñor Theodor Storm (1817-1888) Sucede porque el ruiseñor Ha cantado toda la noche a través de: De sus dulces notasE Eco y el eco Las rosas han florecido Ella fue una vez una bella y salvaje; Ahora ella camina profundamente en pensamiento, Sosteniendo su sombrero para el sol en la mano, Silenciosamente perdura el resplandor del sol Y no sabe qué comenzar. - Sucede porque el ruiseñor Ha cantado toda la noche a través de: De sus dulces notas Eco y el eco Las rosas han florecido..-- 2. Chanson au milieu des Réels Nikolaus Lenau (1802-1850) Par des sentiers forestiers secrets J'aime marcher dans la lumière de la nuit Pour la banque de roseaux déserte, Chère fille, et pense à toi. - Quand le fourré devient sombre, Les roseaux bruissent mystérieusement, Et il y a une plainte chuchotée Que je dois pleurer et pleurer. - Et j'ai l'impression d'entendre le son De ta voix doucement, Et ta douce chanson S'enfoncer dans l'étang. 3. Le rossignol Theodor Storm (1817-1888) Ça arrive parce que le rossignol A chanté toute la nuit à travers: De ses notes douces En écho et le écho Les roses ont fleuri. --- 2. Song in the Reals Nikolaus Lenau (1802-1850) Per sentieri forestali segreti Mi piace camminare alla luce della notte Verso la sponda deserta, Cara ragazza, e pensa a te. - Quando il boschetto diventa scuro, Le ance frusciano misteriosamente, E c'è un lamento sussurrato Che devo piangere e piangere. - E mi sembra di sentire il suono Della tua voce si diffondeva dolcemente, E la tua dolce canzone Affondare nello stagno. 3. L'usignolo Theodor Storm (1817-1888) Succede perché l'usignolo Ha cantato tutta la notte attraverso: Dalle sue note dolci Eco e i eco Le rose sono germogliate Elle était autrefois belle et sauvage; Maintenant, elle marche profondément dans ses pensées, Tenant son chapeau dans sa main, Tranquillement endure la lueur du soleil Et ne sait pas quoi commencer. - Ça arrive parce que le rossignol A chanté toute la nuit à travers: De ses notes douces Echo et l'écho Les roses ont fleuri. .- Era una volta bella e selvaggia; Ora, lei cammina nel profondo dei suoi pensieri, Tenendo il cappello in mano, Sopporta tranquillamente il bagliore del sole E non so cosa iniziare. - Succede perché l'usignolo Cantato tutta la notte attraverso: Dalle sue note dolci Eco ed eco Le rose sono fiorite. -2. Canção entre os reais Nikolaus Lenau (1802-1850) Por caminhos florestais secretos Eu gosto de andar na luz da noite Por o banco de desértico de juncos, Querida garota, e pense em você. - Quando o bosque escurece, Os juncos sussurram misteriosamente, E há lamento sussurrado Que tenho que chorar e chorar. - E eu pareço ouvir o som De sua voz suavemente soprada, E sua doce musica Afundando na lagoa. 3. O Rouxinol Tempestade de Theodor (1817-1888) Isso acontece porque o rouxinol Cantou a noite toda através de: De suas notas doces Eco e o Eco As rosas cresceram .Ela já foi uma bela e selvagem; Agora ela anda profundamente em pensamento, Segurando o chapéu de sol na mão, Silenciosamente suporta o brilho do sol E não sabe o que começar. - Isso acontece porque o rouxinol Cantou a noite toda através de: De suas notas doces Eco e o eco As rosas cresceram. --2. Schilflied Nikolaus Lenau (1802-1850) Auf geheimen Waldespfade Schleich‘ ich gern im Abendschein An das öde Schilfgestade, Mädchen, und gedenke dein! — Wenn sich dann der Busch verdüstert, Rauscht das Rohr geheimnisvoll, Und es klaget und es flüstert, Daß ich weinen, weinen soll. — Und ich mein´, ich höre wehen Leise deiner Stimme Klang, Und im Weiher untergehen Deinen lieblichen Gesang. 3. Die Nachtigall Theodor Storm (1817-1888) Das macht, es hat die Nachtigall Die ganze Nacht gesungen; Da sind von ihrem süßen Schall Die Rosen aufgesprungen. Sie war doch sonst ein wildes Blut, Nun geht sie tief in Sinnen, Trägt in der Hand den Sommerhut Und duldet still der Sonne Glut Und weiß nicht, was beginnen. — Das macht, es hat die Nachtigall Die ganze Nacht gesungen; Da sind von ihrem süßen Schall, Da sind in Hall und Widerhall Die Rosen aufgesprungen.-- 4 Dream-Crowned Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) That was the day of the white chrysanthemums; I was almost alarmed by their splendour... And then, then in the depths of night you came You touched my soul. I was so anxious, but you came sweetly and gently, Just as I had thought of you in dreams. You came, and softly as in a fairy tale The night resounded.--4 Sueño coronado Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) Ese fue el día de los crisantemos blancos; Casi me alarmó su esplendor ... Y luego, luego en las profundidades de la noche Tú viniste tocaste mi alma. Estaba tan ansioso, pero viniste dulcemente y suavemente, Tal como lo había pensado en sueños. Viniste, y suavemente como en un cuento de hadas La noche resonó. 4 Rêves de couronnes Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) C'était le jour des chrysanthèmes blancs; J'étais presque effrayé par leur splendeur ... Et puis, dans les profondeurs de la nuit Tu es venu tu as touché mon âme. J'étais si anxieux, mais tu es venu doucement et doucement, Tout comme j'avais pensé à toi dans les rêves. Vous êtes venu, et doucement comme dans un conte de fées La nuit retentit.- 4 Corona del sogno Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) Questo era il giorno dei crisantemi bianchi; Ero quasi allarmato dal loro splendore ... E poi, nelle profondità della notte Sei venuto per toccasti la mia anima. Ero così ansioso, ma sei venuto dolcemente e delicatamente Proprio come ho pensato a te nei sogni. Sei venuto, e dolcemente come in una fiaba La notte risuonò. --4 Coroa de Sonho Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) Esse foi o dia dos crisântemos brancos; Eu estava quase alarmado pelo esplendor deles ... E então, nas profundezas da noite você veio Você tocou minha alma. Eu estava tão ansioso, mas você veio docemente gentilmente, Apenas pensei em você em sonhos. Você veio, e suavemente como em um conto de fadas A noite ressoou. --4. Traumgekrönt Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) Das war der Tag der weißen Chrysanthemen, Mir bangte fast vor seiner Pracht... Und dann, dann kamst du mir die Seele nehmen Tief in der Nacht. Mir war so bang, und du kamst lieb und leise, Ich hatte grad im Traum an dich gedacht. Du kamst, und leis‘ wie eine Märchenweise Erklang die Nach--5. Indoors Johannes Schlaf (1862-1941) Autumn sunshine. The pleasant evening looks in so quietly. A small red fire Crackles and blazes in the stove. So! My head on your knee, I am happy; When my eyes dwell on yours, How gently the minutes pass. 6. Ode to Love Otto Erich Hartleben (1864-1905) In the arms of love we blissfully fell asleep. The summer breeze listened at the open window, And carried our peaceful breathing out into the bright moonlit night. And from the garden a scent of roses timidly felt its way to our bed of love And brought us wondrous dreams, Dreams of ecstasy, rich in longing.-- 5. En el interior Johannes Schlaf (1862-1941) Sol de otoño. La noche agradable se ve tan tranquilamente. Un pequeño fuego rojo Crepitaciones y llamas en la estufa. ¡Asi que! Mi cabeza en tu rodilla, Yo estoy feliz; Cuando mis ojos se concentran en los tuyos, Qué dulcemente pasan los minutos. 6. Oda al amor Otto Erich Hartleben (1864-1905) En los brazos del amor nos durmimos felizmente. La brisa de verano escuchaba en la ventana abierta, Y llevó nuestra respiración pacífica a la brillante noche iluminada por la luna. Y desde el jardín un aroma de rosas tímidamente sintió su camino a nuestro lecho de amor Y nos trajo sueños maravillosos, Sueños de éxtasis, ricos en anhelo.-- 5. Ambientazione interna Johannes Schlaf (1862-1941) Sole autunnale La piacevole serata sembra così tranquillamente. Un piccolo fuoco rosso Crepitio e fiamme nella stufa. Così! La mia testa sul tuo ginocchio, Sono felice; Quando i miei occhi si soffermano sui tuoi, Quanto delicatamente passano i minuti. 6. Ode to Love Otto Erich Hartleben (1864-1905) Tra le braccia dell'amore ci addormentiamo beatamente. La brezza estiva ascoltava dalla finestra aperta, E ha portato il nostro respiro pacifico dentro la luminosa notte di luna. E dal giardino un profumo di rose timidamente sentì la sua strada verso il nostro letto d'amore E ci ha portato sogni meravigliosi, Sogni d'estasi, ricchi di desiderio.-- 5. À l'intérieur Johannes Schlaf (1862-1941) Soleil d'automne. L'agréable soirée se passe si tranquillement. Un petit feu rouge Craquelures et flammes dans le poêle. Alors! Ma tête sur ton genou, Je suis content; Quand mes yeux s'attardent sur les tiens, Comme les minutes passent avec douceur. 6. Ode à l'amour Otto Erich Hartleben (1864-1905) Dans les bras de l'amour, nous nous sommes endormis avec bonheur. La brise d'été écoutait à la fenêtre ouverte, Et a porté notre respiration paisible dans la nuit lumineuse de pleine lune. Et du jardin un parfum de roses timidement senti son chemin vers notre lit d'amour Et nous a apporté des rêves merveilleux, Des rêves d'extase, riches en nostalgie. --5. dentro de casa Johannes Schlaf (1862-1941) Sol de outono. A noite agradável parece tão silenciosamente. Um pequeno fogo vermelho Crackles e chamas no fogão. Assim! Minha cabeça no seu joelho Eu estou feliz; Quando meus olhos ficam no seu, Quão gentilmente os minutos passam. 6. Ode ao Amor Otto Erich Hartleben (1864-1905) Nos braços do amor nós adormecemos alegremente. A brisa do verão escutou a janela aberta, E levou nossa respiração pacífica para fora a noite de luar brilhante. E do jardim um perfume de rosas timidamente senti o caminho para a nossa cama de amor E nos trouxe sonhos maravilhosos Sonhos de êxtase, ricos em saudade. --5. Im Zimmer Johannes Schlaf (1862-1941) Herbstsonnenschein. Der liebe Abend blickt so still herein. Ein Feuerlein rot Knistert im Ofenloch und loht. So! Mein Kopf auf deinen Knie‘n, So ist mir gut. Wenn mein Auge so in deinem ruht, Wie leise die Minuten zieh‘n. 6. Liebesode Otto Erich Hartleben (1864-1905) Im Arm der Liebe schliefen wir selig ein, Am offnen Fenster lauschte der Sommerwind, Und unsrer Atemzüge Frieden trug er hinaus in die helle Mondnacht. Und aus dem Garten tastete zagend sich ein Rosenduft an unserer Liebe Bett Und gab uns wundervolle Träume, Träume des Rausches, so reich an Sehnsucht-- 7. Summer Days Paul Hohenberg (1885-1956) Now days sent from blue eternity Stretch over the world; Time drifts by on the summer wind. Now at night the Lord weaves Wreaths of stars with His blessed hand Over the magic land we travel. — O heart, what in these days Can your gayest ramblers‘ song Express of your deep, deep delight? Before the meadows‘ song the heart falls silent: words fail, where image upon image greets you and inspires you.-- 7. Días de verano Paul Hohenberg (1885-1956) Ahora días enviados desde la eternidad azul Estirar sobre el mundo; El tiempo pasa volando en el viento de verano. Ahora en la noche el Señor teje Guirnaldas de estrellas con su bendita mano Sobre la tierra mágica en que viajamos. - Oh corazón, qué en estos días Puede la canción de sus paseantes más alegres ¿Expresas tu profunda y profunda delicia? Antes de la canción de los prados, el corazón se calla: las palabras fallan, donde la imagen sobre la imagen te saluda y te inspira.-- 7. Jours d'été Paul Hohenberg (1885-1956) Maintenant les jours envoyés de l'éternité bleue Étirez-vous sur le monde entier Le temps passe par le vent d'été. Maintenant, la nuit, le Seigneur tisse Couronnes d'étoiles avec sa main bénie Au cours de la terre magique, nous voyageons. - O cœur, quoi de ces jours Peut la chanson de votre plus joyeuses des randonneurs Express de votre profonde, profonde joie? Avant la chanson des prés, le cœur se tait: les mots échouent, où l'image sur l'image vous accueille et vous inspire.-- 7. Giorni estivi Paul Hohenberg (1885-1956) Ora giorni inviati dall'eternità blu Stendi il mondo; Il tempo scorre sul vento estivo. Ora di notte il Signore tesse Ghirlande di stelle con la sua mano benedetta Viaggiamo sulla terra magica. - O cuore, cosa in questi giorni Può la canzone dei tuoi rambler più allegri Esprimi la tua profonda, profonda delizia? Prima del canto dei prati, il cuore tace: le parole falliscono, dove l'immagine sull'immagine ti saluta e ti ispira. --7. dias de verão Paul Hohenberg (1885-1956) Agora dias enviados da eternidade azul Estique-se pelo mundo; O tempo flutua no vento do verão. Agora à noite o Senhor tece Grinaldas de estrelas com sua mão abençoada Sobre a terra mágica nós viajamos. - O coração, o que nestes dias Sua canção mais alegre dos caminhantes Expresse seu prazer profundo e profundo? Antes dos prados "canção o coração fica em silêncio: as palavras falham, onde imagem e imagem cumprimenta e inspira você.-- 7. Sommertage Paul Hohenberg (1885-1956) Nun ziehen Tage über die Welt, Gesandt aus blauer Ewigkeit, Im Sommerwind verweht die Zeit. Nun windet nächtens der Herr Sternenkränze mit seliger Hand Über Wander- und Wunderland. — 0 Herz, was kann in diesen Tagen Dein hellstes Wanderlied denn sagen Von deiner tiefen, tiefen Lust: Im Wiesensang verstummt die Brust, Nun schweigt das Wort, wo Bild um Bild Zu dir zieht und dich ganz erfüllt.

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