#Clara Butt

[opera-ghosts]

Clara Butt (contralto) - The Lost Chord (Procter & Sullivan) (1909)

In January, 1877 Sir Arthur Sullivan composed this famous ballad whilst keeping vigil at the bedside of his elder brother Frederic, who lay dying, aged only 39. It is set to words by Adelaide Procter (1825-1864), an author well-known in her own day for her output of sentimental verse. In spite of the circumstances of its composition, The Lost Chord became a great favourite, played and sung in parlours and ballad concerts, the epitome of popular Victorian song. It was dedicated to the memory of Frederic.

One of the first singers to perform it regularly was the beautiful American socialite Mrs Fanny Ronalds (1839-1916), pictured right, who was for many years Sullivan’s close companion. The composer often accompanied her on the piano when she sang the song at fashionable society soirées and her recording of it was one of the earliest phonograph cylinders ever made. King Edward VII remarked on one occasion that he would travel the length of his kingdom to hear her sing The Lost Chord.

He died of heart failure in London on 22 November 1900. In his will, Sullivan left the manuscript of The Lost Chord to Mrs Ronalds. It has been alleged that on her own death the score was buried with her, but the present evidence surely indicates that, if so, that must have been another copy as she, in turn, gave this one to the English contralto Dame Clara Butt (1872-1936) who had received the Musicians’ Company’s Silver Medal while a student at the Royal College of Music in 1894. Miss Butt's nomination for the award (by Sir George Grove, no less), as "...the most distinguished pupil in the College"

Sullivan himself heard Butt singing The Lost Chord early in her career and is quoted as telling her “That is how I always meant it to be sung”. Butt included the song in many recitals and it often featured in her concert performances for Queen Victoria and other European royalty.

She recorded it several times, perhaps most famously on 7 August 1930 in Westminster Central Hall, and for years her richly individual interpretation was the favourite version of her many admirers.

Clara Butt made her first recording - with husband Kennerley Rumford - on 26 January 1899. Ten years were to pass before she recorded again. A session for The Gramophone Company at City Road on 9 July 1909 produced no issued recordings, but her next session a week later (ie on 16 July) resulted in four published discs.

[singledigitsalary]

[cheriboms]

doctober day 13: photo album

'an assortment of mini drawings will be easy,' they said... 'it will be quick,' they said e_e; anyway unlucky 13 means a bit late post ig! heres hoping it was worth the wait :P

bonus, bc i think he would lol:

[theothervonkarmagirl]

🍭:

Another friendly reminder that Maria found that Rengoku is not the flame hashira but the flaming hot hashira and subtly tried to recruit him to clean their pool lmfao

Clara wanted to die lol

[aftonclaramommy]

"My Very special talent '

[opera-ghosts]

Clara Butt and Kennerley Rumford - Snowdrops (Lehmann) (1909)

The life of Liza Lehmann, by herself:

[...]

Among our young friends were also the three daughters of Alfred Hunt, the landscape painter, of whom the eldest, Violet, is now a well-known novelist.

After tea and lessons were done with | for the day, one of our joys was to go down to the drawing-room and improvise more or less poetic dances while mamma played dreamy music onthe piano. Later, dancing lessons were naturally included in our curriculum, but we never enjoyed these _ half as much.

Sometimes, too, I used to pose my sisters _ in fantastic tableaux, and, cailing papa and mamma in as the audience, would improvise incidental music with extempore words and phrases that suited the subjects.

My sister Amelia had genuine dramatic talent. Sir John Hare saw her act in some private theatricals when she was about fifteen, and promptly offered her the part of Lucy in Home. She never felt drawn to adopt the stage as a profession, but her gift is a delight to her many admiring friends to this day. Her imitations of Sarah Bernhardt and other stage stars, and her skits on private theatricals, etc., have given acute joy to many, whilst her Natural History lecture on the Ant, and a mock singing-lesson, given with a strong foreign accent to me (as a very stupid pupil who ended by having the music hurled at her head), were much in request.

Among the great events of our early years were the Christmas parties. Christmas-trees were not in my youth as generally seen in this country as they are to-day, but we always had one at home. In fact, so indispensable was it considered that one December, when my mother had taken me for a few days to Brighton, where I had promptly caught scarlet fever (I have had this three times !), thus laying me up during Christmas, my father brought down a little tree from London, all ready decorated, and in a case built specially to fit it !

It was at.Brighton, by the way, that I was taken to my first concert, at the Aquarium, and heard Madame Patey sing Smart’s Be thou patient.. I thought I was in heaven, ‘and registered a vow then and there that I too would be a singer !

Our summer holidays were generally spent at the seaside, where we were allowed to run wild. Biackberrying and shrimping were great joys, and I still remember the feel of the frisky little shrimps slipping in and out among my bare toes in the shallow, warm pools, and the excitement of trying to:reach almost inaccessible blackberries, regardless of thorns.

Talking of thorns brings to my mind the deep impression made upon me by Gustave Doré’s illustrations for La belle au bois dormant (The Sleeping Beauty). I only saw the book—a very big volume—once, and I am not sure where, nor have I ever been able to trace it; but the vision of the fantastic tangle of overgrowth depicted in its pages haunts me still. I can only compare the hold it took upon my imagination to a similar cowp de foudre which I experienced years ago on first seeing Atkinson Grimshaw’s exquisite painting, Dame Autumn hath a Mournful Face, representing a semi-transparent fairy figure, mistily draped and with gossamer wings, floating like a mirage against russet-brown foliage. It has ever remained one of my favourite pictures. It belonged to my uncle, Frederic Lehmann, a great art-lover and art-collector in his day ; and is now in the possession of his son, R. C. Lehmann, the wellknown authority on rowing, and member of the Punch staff. By the way, his sister, my dear cousin Nina (Lady Campbell), has done much to assist the movement for promoting the welfare of children in connection with the Parents’ National Educational Union. Ss The only school-room lessons that we really loved were the lessons in mythology,and so fired were we with the old myths that I remember, one summer at Folkestone, devising an altar to Venus under the muslin draperies of a lodging-house toilet-table. Our rites were very poetic ; but unfortunately a Scotch friend of my mother’s discovered them, andwas so shocked that they were at once interdicted. As a wind-up to Paganism, we covered a large flat stone with hieroglyphics and buried it in the back garden, where no doubt it reposes to this day, unless somebody has dug it up and presented it to the local Museum !

When we grew a little older, we were often taken to the Continent to improve our languages. The Channel crossing was always my béte noire, as I am quite the worst sailor in the world—worse even, I am sure, than the lady who vowed that she required a stewardess she saw a sailor in the street.

[...]

During the winter in Rome I had my first lessons in composition from Raunkilde, a charming old Dane; and the following year, when we werein Wiesbaden, _ where I had to undergo a somewhat drastic Y treatment for catarrh, compelling me to é abandon my singing studies for a time, I did quite a lot of hard ground-work at musical theory with a rather pompous Professor, Herr Freudenberg. I covered several reams of manuscript paper with every variety of bothering inversions, etc., and also, by way of contrast, wrote the Ns first song that I ever published—a deplorable i; setting of some stanzas by Tom Moore. I am so ashamed of it that I will not even ia mention its title. It still occasionally rears its disagreeable little head in its publisher’s royalty accounts, and brings a blush of shame to my cheek. My only excuse’ for it is—youth !

When we returned to London, my mother’s health having improved sufficiently to make wintering abroad no longer an imperative necessity, my father took a house in Cromwell Road—that never-ending and drearily respectable Kensington — thoroughfare; but, in spite of its excellent music-room, we did not like it very much, and soon moved to 28, Abercorn Place, St. John’s Wood, a charming house with a fine studio, where I lived until I abandoned my career as a singer, became human, and married.

It was at Abercorn Place that we saw a good deal of Bret Harte,.who lived in the same neighbourhood, and who formed the habit of dropping in to tea on Sundays. I remember that he affected very tight patent leather shoes, but they in no way interfered with the brilliant banter he exchanged with my mother, who never failed in. repartee.

An incident occurred while we were still in Cromwell Road, by which I shall always remember that house. My parents gave one of their celebrated music parties, of which Rubinstein, an old friend of theirs, was to be the bright particular star. Stanley, of Darkest Africa, was also present, rather smileless, but paying much attention to a pretty widow; and the ill-starred Oscar Wilde, then at the height of his popularity, was among the guests.

After dinner Rubinstein played divinely, and several distinguished singers of the day sang. Then, by a kindly meant, but evil inspiration, Rubinstein, who knew I had been studying, asked me to sing! Knowing perfectly well, as I did, that I was still far from being ready for such an ordeal before the cream of artistic London, and prompted by my mother, who, seized with panic, whispered something to the effect of, ‘‘ Refuse—and don’t give way!’ I did refuse, with such grace as I could muster. Poor Papa! It was too much for him! I suppose he thought it was going to be a case of my mother’s lack of courage all over again with me—all study and no results—and instantly he made up his mind to make a firm stand. Inan ominous undertone he declared: “‘ Unless you sing, I go to bed.”” This was, of course, in an aside to me, and it never entered our heads that he would dream of carrying out his threat and leave his guests. But as I, quite limp by now, still hung back I suppose he thought that, having threatened me, he. must act up to it; so he left the room and walked upstairs! The bulk of our guests knew nothing, happily, of the tragi-comedy being enacted, and the buzz of a successful soirée went on without intermission in the big drawing-room. Our dear old friend, the Russian singer, Raimond Von zur Miihlen, offered to act as intermediary, and, with characteristic enthusiasm, rushed upstairs in the hope of inducing the head of the house to relent. He was followed as far as the hall by myself and a small coterie of intimates who had got an inkling of what was in the wind; and who, at the foot of the staircase, awaited Von zur Miihlen’s breathless bulletins from the upper region.

[frombookstoretobookstore]

Cat Dad Abbot

A/n: Because I have a cat and I love Abbot Masterlist

Abbot x Reader

“Y/n, it’s staring at me again.”

“Y/n, it’s touching me.”

“Y/n, there’s cat fur on my scrubs again!”

Jack Abbot is not a cat person, and he barely tolerates his girlfriend’s cat. The thing is always tripping him up, getting fur all over his things, and worst of all, he can’t tell if the thing likes him, despises him, or both.

Sure, the thing has fur and big round eyes, so he’s sure it falls in the classification of ‘cute’, but pets aren’t his thing. He doesn’t understand why people keep cats around. A dog? Sure, they usually like to go for walks, run around, be outside. But cats? They shit in a box for Christ’s sake.

To make matters worse, he’s almost positive the cat only sleeps when Y/n is sleeping at night. Meaning the thing decides to terrorize him when he’s trying to sleep after a night shift. She’s constantly pawing at his face while dropping a toy near his hand.

On the weekends, when he and Y/n can sleep on a relatively similar schedule, he gets to sleep deeper, the cat is less likely to be tearing down the walls when his partner is sleeping next to him. But tonight? The cat’s really testing his patience.

“Y/n, get it off.” He huffs. He’s lying on his back waiting for her to come to bed. Her cat, Clara, has decided he’s the perfect victim for her pursuits. She’s immediately jumping onto his chest, tail swishing, as she proceeds to curl up on him. Even him sneezing from the few loose strands of cat fur in his nose can’t disturb her.

“She likes you!” He hears his girlfriend coo from their connected bathroom. He turns his head and shoots a glare her way. The movement causing the cat to stir, turn towards him, and start using his stubble as her own personal brush. 

Clara is headbutting his chin aggressively as she scratches her face, chin, and cheeks against his rough stubble. He again hears his girlfriend continue cooing and the unmistakable sound of her taking pictures.

Every time he tries to remove the cat from his chest and face, she slinks right back onto him to continue her onslaught against his beard. Moving quickly, he pushes the cat off his chest and sits up.

“That’s not going to stop her!” His girlfriend laughs as her cat quickly stands on its hind legs to bat at his face. He glares down at the cat as it starts furiously purring. He looks to his girlfriend for help.

“Stop being so grumpy! She clearly likes you! With my past boyfriends she’d just sit in the corner and glare at them. She once even peed in one of their shoes.” His girlfriend is applying moisturizer as he grumbles with the cat touching him.

“Change the subject.” He huffs, over protectiveness flaring in his chest at the mention of her previous (and unqualified) flings.

“Hey, just saying. None of them ever got the approval of her nor were they able to make me cum as quick as you are.” He huffs out a laugh, pushing the cat away from his face again. Clara sits down and begins to groom herself aggressively.

“Your breath stinks.” He mumbles to the cat, causing her to look up at him with her leg still in the air. 

“And you’re a grumpy old man who is scared of sharing his girlfriend with a damn cat.” Y/n says with a laugh as she sits down on her side of the bed, the cat immediately walking over to her for attention.

He sighs at the sight, the two enjoying each other’s company, as he starts pulling his prosthetic off, a spare sneaker still attached to it. He feels relief as he pulls it off, setting it against the nightstand. The cat immediately coming over to investigate.

He looks down at the feline tiredly, the cat’s tail swishing as she sits next to him as he pulls his legs up and over onto the bed, swinging the covers over him. He holds a hand out and the cat head butts him with such force, she almost knocks herself over. He scratches the space between her ears and the cat erupts into vibrations. His girlfriend chuckles softly, her most recent romance novel pick already open and in her hands.

Abbot lays back and lets the cat fall into his side, the vibrations reverberating into his own chest. The slight static of the police scanner faint in the background grounding him as he settles in, enjoying the quiet night.

He turns his head slightly, hands behind his head, as he watches his partner read, her lip between her teeth.

“Let me know when you need me to act out a scene.” He smiles as she laughs and looks over to him, their hands intertwining. 

“I’ll let you know.” She hums, tracing the back of his hand with her thumb.

Clara jumps down to the hardwood floor next to Abbot, her tiny six-pound body making a large ‘thud’ as she lands. Abbot groans, knowing what’s coming next.

They both hear the familiar scratching as Clara grabs his prosthetic by the laces of the sneaker and drags it under the bed. He can hear her kicking it with her back legs, the sound of titanium meeting cat claws evident from under the bed.

Y/n groans. “You do this every time Jack, you put it there on purpose knowing she’ll do this.” She’s up and trying to shove herself under the bed, fingers a mere inch from the cat.

He laughs slightly, hearing his girlfriend swear at her cat as she tries to wrestle the prosthetic from her.

“At least we can agree on one thing,” he says, tilting his head up to watch his girlfriend hold the prosthetic in triumph, “she hates that damn thing as much as I do.” He laughs when his girlfriend groans, placing the prosthetic on top of his nightstand as he continues to cackle.

“When your prosthetist calls, asking why there are so many scratches on that thing, I’m telling him you bait the cat nightly to let her destroy it.” She huffs, pushing his hands away in mock anger as she crawls back into bed.

“At least it has battle scars to match me.” He laughs, his girlfriend hitting him in the chest lightly as he pulls her into him, settling in for the night.

---- I'm sick and I'm writing self indulgent fics for my pleasure, hope y'all like it!

[regressionschool]

Big Girl Rebellion

I used to be potty-trained.

I mean, really trained. I had sparkle undies with cartoon kittens, knew when I had to go, and even wiped all by myself. I used to feel proud of that—smug, even. Big girl Sophie, the girl who didn’t need help. The girl who didn’t wear diapers like the other littles.

But that was before.

Before they decided I needed to be “reminded” of my place. Before the charts and the baby bottles and the locking potty lid. Before the first thick diaper was taped onto me while I screamed and kicked and swore I’d never use it.

Spoiler: I did.

And now? Now I’m sitting in the middle of the playroom, legs spread wide by the swollen padding between them, surrounded by plushies I didn’t choose and building blocks I’m expected to play with. I’m wearing a pastel onesie that snaps between my legs, stretched tight over a very obvious, very used diaper.

And I’m not letting Nanny Clara change me.

“You’re stinky again, Sophie,” she says gently, kneeling in front of me with the calm, patronizing tone they all use. Like I’m some baby who doesn’t know better. “Come on, sweetie. Time to get you cleaned up.”

“No,” I snap. I turn my face away like the toddlers do when they’re being bratty. “I like it.”

She blinks, but only for a moment. She’s trained for this. “Sophie,” she tries again, more firmly this time. “You’ve been sitting in that diaper for almost an hour. I can see it hanging between your knees.”

I spread my legs wider on purpose, grabbing one of the blocks and banging it on the floor.

“So?”

“So,” she says, biting back her sigh, “you need to be changed.”

“No, I don’t.”

She pauses. “You used to be such a big girl…”

I round on her. “Exactly. Used to. But you took that away. You put me in these. You made me sit in the corner until I messed myself. You’re the one who clapped when I did it. So now? Now this is you getting what you wanted.”

I shift deliberately, the mush shifting with me, and watch her flinch just the tiniest bit.

Deep down, some part of me loves it.

Nanny Clara puts the wipes and clean diaper back in the basket, standing slowly. “Fine,” she says, her tone still syrupy sweet. “You can come find me when you’re ready for a change, okay, sugarplum?”

I ignore her. She walks off.

Good.

I hate her. I hate all of them. I hate that they took away my panties, made me ask permission for everything, from snacks to TV time. But mostly, I hate that I stopped fighting.

Because now? I’m… getting used to it.

The padding between my legs feels natural. The squish doesn’t bother me anymore. The smell makes people wrinkle their noses and call me names “stinky butt,” “messy miss,” “diaper girl” but I’ve started to like those names.

When people talk down to me, coo at me, lift my skirt to check if I’m wet—I feel small. Powerless.

But safe.

That’s the worst part.

“Hey, diaper girl,” a voice calls.

I glance up. It's Brandon, one of the caretakers. Young, tall, broad shoulders and sleeves rolled up to show his arms. He’s smiling, crouching to my level, and he’s got that teasing twinkle in his eye.

I shift a little, letting the weight of my messy diaper tug at my hips.

He wrinkles his nose. “Yup, that’s what I thought.”

“What?”

“You filled your pants again, huh?” he says. He’s not mad. He’s amused. Like I’m a toddler who just finger painted on the walls.

I look down at the blocks, pretending not to care, but my cheeks go pink anyway.

“Did you already tell Clara no?”

I nod, sulking.

“Figures,” he chuckles. “You’re always so stubborn. Used to be the big bossy girl, remember? Telling everyone you were too old for naps and that only babies wore diapers.”

“I was right,” I mutter.

He leans in. “You still think you’re not a baby?”

I glare at him.

His eyes flick down to the bulging seat of my diaper.

“Coulda fooled me.”

I should hate that.

But I don’t.

I like the way he looks at me now. Not like an equal. Not like a girl with control. But like a helpless little thing who can’t even keep her pants clean.

And maybe I am that now. Not because they forced it on me but because I let them. Because it’s easier to lean into it than to keep fighting. Because it’s soft and warm and oddly comforting to give up the grown-up fight and just be… soggy.

“Come on,” he says, scooping me up like I weigh nothing.

I squeal in surprise, my arms going around his neck on instinct. “I didn’t say yes!”

He smirks. “You didn’t say no either.”

He carries me easily, one arm under my bottom, not even flinching at the squish he’s got his hand pressed against. The air shifts as he walks, and I catch a whiff of myself, sharp, thick, unmistakable.

He definitely notices. But he doesn’t stop holding me.

“Bet you’re proud of yourself, huh?” he murmurs, bouncing me slightly. “Filling your diapers like a good little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl,” I whisper, but it’s weak.

“Coulda fooled me,” he repeats, echoing himself.

He lays me down on the changing mat in the nursery, the crinkle of the plastic loud under my onesie. I stare at the ceiling as he un-snaps me, exposing the bulging diaper underneath. His hand hovers.

“Still want to say no?”

I glance down at the disaster I made in my pants, and I actually smile.

“Maybe just five more minutes,” I say softly. “I like how it feels.”

He raises a brow, but he doesn’t argue. Just gently re-snaps my onesie and sits beside me on the mat, tousling my hair.

“Guess you’re really one of the littles now, huh?”

I nod.

No shame. No fight left.

Just a warm, squishy diaper and the soft hand of someone who treats me like the messy little girl I’ve become.

And for the first time, I don’t want to be anything else.

[singledigitsalary]

[russellsppttemplates]

Dad Carlos anything

"Bath time, cariño", Carlos said, picking Clara up and resting her on his hip, "With bubbles, papa? Mama always puts bubbles", she mused shyly, wrapping her little arms around his neck.

"Of course, Clara", he chuckled, kissing her cheek and holding her close to him and they went upstairs, "I bet papa will make better bubbles than mama", he whispered in her ear as if he was telling her a big secret.

She gasped, big brown eyes wide and her mouth in the shape of a little "o" before she giggled, wiggling on his hip in celebration.

Carlos stepped inside the bathroom, sitting down on the floor and quickly undressing his little girl, "cold, cold, cold", Clara jumped from one feet to the other at the sudden feeling before her father lifted her up and put her inside the bath, warm water soothing her.

She squealed happily and sat down on her butt, "Bubbles, papa!", she giggled and splashed the water around.

Carlos chuckled at her reactions, allowing her to have fun in the water. There were towells and mops to soak up the water that went on the floor and the bathroom would be good as. "Let's wash your hair, princesa?" he asked, grabbing the bowl to get some water and pouring it gently over her head, making sure her eyes wouldn't catch any. Clara smiled and looked up at him, "Miel?", she asked, pointing at the yellow bottle with honey scented baby shampoo on the edge of the bath.

He nodded and reached out, putting a small amount into his large hand, lathering it a little before rubbing it on her scalp and hair, her big brown eyes watching his movements.

"Papa needs a wash too," she giggled and knelt up, balancing with the help of her hands on the edge of the bath. She got a little handful of bubbles and water and wiped it on her father's bearded cheeks, giggling as his beard tickled her hands, "are you saying papa is stinky?", Carlos gasped playfully.

"Papa, it tickles", she squealed and earning a big smile on Carlos' lips, "I'm sure it does", he said, blowing a raspberry on her soapy palm just to hear her loud giggles again, "let's take this off now", he urged, Clara throwing her head back slightly so the suds wouldn't get on her eyes, "That's good", Carlos smiled, kissing her forehead.

(Thank you for sending this in ✨️)

[thebladeblaster]

WTDSIK Chapter 386 Reaction: I am not afraid to say I was completely wrong Nishi was absolutely cooking here!

This here is great. That hit me like a freight train. I’ve felt like this before and it isn’t great. I don’t know if I’m talking out of my butt here but I think everyone has had the concern of if someone is only your friend because someone else is there.

This beratement from Azz made me feel…🥺. Honestly I really wish I could have heard this back when I was feeling the same thing. This does really show how these two’s relationship has involved. She would probably be right about Azz of the past but he has changed a lot throughout their time together. Their bonds are too strong now to easily sever. Awww yes, pure wholesomeness is being injected into my veins! Clara needed that bluntness from Azz. Sometimes you just need to be hard with people to reach them.

And of course in the end Evil Clara is a part of Clara. She allows herself to be happy and not linger on her fears. I wish I could be more descriptive but my thoughts on this are mostly vibes and personal.

I love these three so much 🥺!!!

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

XD @flurraz that's brilliant- clothing montage at the Carmine Compound!!!!

but it’s just Clara and Odette holding various weapons up next to Vaggie while their new adopted little sister scowls at her reflection and repeatedly says “NO” to the even more scowling reflection of their mom behind her

Vaggie: “Yeah no. I’m not wielding that.”

Clara: “It has spikes!”

Odette: “And hand protection.”

Clara: “And SPIKES.”

Vaggie: “Great, I could stab myself while swinging it around.”

Carmilla: “Only if you are terrible at it.”

Vaggie: (glaring) “Well I already know I’m not terrible with my spear, so I’m sticking with that.”

Carmilla: (Glowers) (goes back to pretending to check weapon schematics)

Odette: (ticks off failure on clipboard) “Sticking... or skewering?”

Vaggie: “Ha ha, very funny.”

Odette: (ticks off another point for herself on a little odette vs sisters score board)  

Clara: (rummaging in crate) “This isn’t funny and you guys shouldn’t be laughing.” (holds up new weapon) “Now THIS goes with your hair.”

Vaggie: “You’re kidding.”

Clara: “No kiddo, you’re kidding yourself if you think the long-ass shaft of a spear makes sense with a do that lovely and flowing.”

Vaggie: “What the fuck does that-”

Odette: “She’s right.” (makes new score board clara vs vaggie with one point to clara)

Clara: “No wonder you had trouble sparring with mom. Like, more that you would’ve had normally.”

Vaggie: “I haven’t been in a real fight in years okay!”

Carmilla: “It shows.”

Vaggie: “I’m. Working on it. I was one of that asshole’s best Exorcists once, I can-”

Carmilla: “Be better than that, hopefully.”

Vaggie: “Thanks.” (GLARES)

Clara: “All I’m saying is- no point fighting against yourself too, right? How hard did you have to focus to keep the stupid butt end from tangling in your hair?”

Vaggie: “I’m NOT cutting it.”

Clara: “Who’s asking?” (dangles weapon enticingly) “Look! Your new best friend!”

Vaggie: “A gun.”

Clara: “I know I know- you like sharp things and staby stuff, but look!”

Clara: (twirls gun dramatically)

Clara: “It has a knife on iiiiiit~”

Odette: “It would also not interfere with your hair.”

Vaggie: “I don’t know shit about guns.”

Clara: “What’s to know? Point and shoot. AND it’s got more reach than a spear! Which is good ‘cause you’re hair might be long, but the rest of you?” (rests elbow on vaggie’s shoulder) “Rest of you kinda comes up short.”

Vaggie: (grinding her teeth) “THANKS.”

Odette: (ticks another point for clara)

Clara: “Wait- You’ll take it!?”

Vaggie: “No.”

Odette: (ticks another failure) “Why not.”

Vaggie: "Oh wow I don't know maybe because-"

Vaggie: (ticks off reason on hand) “With a spear I have to choose every skewering I do and it’s a lot harder to miss and stick the wrong person. Even if I throw it it's only gonna go so far or through so many people. A bullet can go anywhere once it’s loose. If your aim is off by a centimeter that little thing goes wide. Maybe don't give the gun to the woman with a missing eye??? Definitely not when there are moving targets and things around she ISN'T supposed to shoot?"

Clara: "Oh riiiiight." (looks from gun to vaggie's eyepatch) "Huh."

Carmilla: (not looking up) "You were very accurate during our little play fight."

Odette: "I confirm. I've watched the security footage. I'm sure you could compensate."

Vaggie: "Well I'm not. I’m trying to protect my girlfriend and our friends and kill angels. I'm not not in this fight to ACCIDENTALLY kill someone.”

Carmilla: (smiles)

Clara: “Uh-huh. You like being close enough to catch all that blood splatter, don’t you.”

Vaggie: “…it’s just a perk.”

Carmilla: (smiles wider)

Clara: “Ew.”

Odette: “Impractical.” (adds ‘deranged’ to list of new sister’s traits, right under ‘gay’) “Mother, tell her she’s being weird.”

Carmilla: “I fight people with ballet, I’m afraid the toe of judgement I’m balanced upon is rather precarious.”

Vaggie: (SMIRKS) “Pretty badass though.”

Carmilla: “I know.”

Clara: “OH-!”

Clara: (disassembles gun) (chucks it) (claps hands) “I GOT IT!”

Vaggie: “What now.”

Odette: “Nothing good, statistically.”

Clara: “MOM! Mom- maybe she needs- You know!” (GRINNING EVILLY) “If the shoe fits….?”

Carmilla: “….Hmm.”

Vaggie: “What.”

Carmilla: (standing up and prowling around vaggie thoughtfully)

Vaggie: “…seriously, what?”

Carmilla: “Would you spin, please.”

Vaggie: (gracefully turns) “You know what I look like, miss Carmine.” (glares at clara) “There’s not much of me to look at anyway.”

Clara: “There’s enough, don’t worry~”

Vaggie: (rolls eye) “Wow. Such praise.”

Carmilla: “Can you stand on one leg without falling, or does the loss of your eye-”

Vaggie: “That’s more distance and depth and stuff.” (tucks one leg) “I’ve figured it out, kinda.”

Odette: “Yes? Constant assessment of changes in size and angle of objects?”

Vaggie: “You got it.”

Odette: “Seems rather strenuous for daily life.”

Clara: “Aww you get headaches or shit?”

Vaggie: “More like just tired. Keeping things in the same place when I can manage it helps a lot. Or it does when no one’s moving the lobby chairs around and then LEAVING them messed up like that anyway, for ME to clean up…”

Clara: “Or stumble into?”

Vaggie: “Whichever comes first.”

Clara: "Ow."

Odette: “So tidiness helps.”

Vaggie: “Yep.”

Odette: “Noted.” (notes it)

Carmilla: “Well you certainly are steady. Excellent posture.”

Carmilla: (leans in)

Vaggie: (leans back to maintain distance) (still on one leg)“Don’t forget confused and slowly losing patience, ma’am.”

Carmilla: “Mm? What? Oh sorry.” (leans back)

Carmilla: “You are a dancer, aren’t you.”

Odette: “...Oh no.”

Clara: “Oh YESSSSS.”

Vaggie: “Yes? Why the- why the fuck is she hiding behind her clip board-”

Odette: “I don’t want to relive my trauma.”

Clara: “I DO!”

Vaggie: “What the fuck does that have to do with me!?”

Clara: “Everything~”

Odette: “It’s about to be YOUR trauma.”

Vaggie: “What does THAT m-”

Clara: “Welcome to the family!”

Vaggie: “I- wh- why’re you making it sound like a THREAT!?”

Carmilla: “Our family is a threat. Now.” (taps heavenly steel ballet slippers together so they chime) “Can you stand en pointe?”

Vaggie: “….”

Vaggie: “….oh HELL no-”

Carmilla: “You already use your training as a dancer in battle. Weaponizing it fully is merely the next step.”

Clara: “Heheh. Step.”

Odette: (marks a point for mom)

Vaggie: “En pointe?” (clutching her spear) “THIS IS THE ONLY POINT I NEED!”

Carmilla: “Clara, fetch the practice slippers.”

Clara: (salutes) “Yes mom!”

Vaggie: “CLARA WAIT!”

Odette: “May mother have mercy on you.” (follows clara towards door)

Vaggie: “NO HEY- pendejo- WHY ARE YOU LEAVING TOO???”

Odette: “I will oversee the rest of the weapon loading. Also, I do not want to witness this, and am escaping.”

Carmilla: (sighs) “Dancing is a passion that is not always passed down from mother to child…”

Odette: “Not willingly anyway. Much like trauma.”

Clara: (out of sight) “I liked my trauma!”

Vaggie: “I’ve already got some, I don’t need more!”

Carmilla: “But you do not have your order of weapons yet. It will take half an hour to finish bringing out stock, checking each weapon for readiness, and crating them up again. Plenty of time for a little… assessment.”

Vaggie: (folds wings around herself) (backs away) “I’ve- dancing’s just a hobby, I’m, not even that good-”

Carmilla: “Your lies are terrible. Your form is perfect.”

Vaggie: “I’ve only danced for FUN!”

Carmilla: “And is not battle fun for you? The rush, the deadly interplay of partners you know so briefly and so intimately, to move in response and shape their own movements with yours?”

Vaggie: “…. I also like stabbing people!”

Carmilla: “Choreography for a spear. An interesting challenge.”

Vaggie: “Is this part of the deal for getting weapons from you, or-”

Carmilla: “Yes.”

Vaggie: “-en la madre…. fiiiiine.”

Carmilla: “You will submit to a small rehearsal?”

Vaggie: “Whatever.”

Carmilla: “Good. Now tuck those wings away.”

Vaggie: “Won’t I do better with-”

Carmilla: “You are more used to moving without them now, they're very nearly throwing off your balance. That, on top of your long hair, we do not have time to contend with.”

Vaggie: “But-”

Carmilla: “Fight without wings and keep them in reserve or cut your hair. Your choice.”

Vaggie: “…I guess.. keeping them as a surprise makes sense…”

Carmilla: “And you like having long hair, I know.”

Vaggie: “It’s whooshy.”

Carmilla: “Regardless, you will also at least be tying it back.”

Vaggie: (glowering) “Yes mom.”

Carmilla: “….”

Vaggie: “…”

Vaggie: “Ma’am I said ma’am.”

Carmilla: “I’m sure you did.” (turning away) (hiding smile) "Now. What always comes first?"

Vaggie: (sighing) (resigned) "Stretches..."

[idkfandoms-b8o]

Doctor Who incorrect quotes

Amy: I love being right. It’s one of my favorite personality traits.

Yaz: Donna, I beg of you. Please, PLEASE go to the doctor.  Donna: Hey, I'm sorry. Is this OUR stab wound?

Eleven: How do you tell someone that you wanna have sex with them in a polite way?  Thirteen : Excuse me Mx. Would you give me the honours of indulging in sexual activities with you?  Twelve: What the fuck is wrong with you two?

Jack: Woah dude, premarital handholding? That’s just not cool or groovy.

Thirteen : You have an impressive pain tolerance.  Martha: Thanks, it's the trauma.

Donna: That's not funny.  Ten: I thought it was funny.  Donna: You don't count. You started laughing in the middle of a funeral because you started thinking of a meme you saw on Facebook.

*Yaz is considering cancelling plans, and Rose and Clara are advising them on what to do*  Rose: Just don't go.  Clara: Say you’re ill!  Rose: Pretend to break your leg.  Clara: Really break your leg!

Martha: You’re alive.  Rose: No need to sound so disappointed.

*out grocery shopping*  Eleven: *takes a free sample twice*  Eleven: Robbery and Fraud. I am a Rebel.

Yaz: Look, Doctor! It's the good Kush!  Thirteen : It's the dollar store, how good can it be?

Amy: Good news!  Clara: You found where I hid the Doctor?  Amy: ...  Clara: You found the Doctor?

Clara: Synonyms are weird because if you invite someone to your cottage in the forest, that just sounds nice and cozy. But if I invite you to my cabin in the woods you’re going to die.  Twelve: My favorite is explaining the difference between a butt dial and a booty call.  Rory: It’s called connotations.  Ten: Try this one on for size, “Forgive me, Father, I have sinned” vs “Sorry, Daddy, I’ve been naughty."  Nine: Great news! Language is now banned!

Ten: School appropriate questions.  Donna: What was the lowest point in your life?

Ten: I dare you to kiss the next person who walks into this room.  Nine: Screw that, I’m not kissing any of you.  *Rose walks in*  Nine: Fine, I’ll do it. Rules are rules you know.

Eleven: I know what a prism is! It's where you put bad people.

Nine: Rose, I want Jack gone ASAP!  Rose: If you say so… wait, shouldn’t we get someone to help us?  Nine: The only person that could help us is Twelve and I don’t really trust them… *Looks over to Twelve*  Twelve: If you’re gonna hide a body, clap your hands! *clap clap* If you’re gonna hide a body, clap your hands! *clap clap*

Thirteen : What are you doing here?  Jack: I could ask you the same question.  Thirteen : I live here. This is my house.  Jack: I should probably ask you a different question.

Ten: What’s up with you?  Twelve: What do you mean?  Ten: You’ve been nice and helpful and considerate all day. What’s your game?

Thirteen : You made Ten cry!  Donna: The Doctor always cries!  Ten: That's not true! *cries*

River: If I punch myself and it hurts, am I weak or strong?  Thirteen : Strong.  Twelve: Weak.  Missy: An idiot, is what your are.

Twelve: If I didn't know better, Clara, I'd say you were scared.  Clara: Heh, scared?  *absolute silence*  Clara: DID YOU HEAR THAT?!

River: Get in loser, we're going shopping.  Twleve: This is a McDonald's drive thru.

Master: So... what’s goin’ on?  Thirteen : You want the long version or the short version?  Master, hesitantly: The short one, I guess?  Thirteen : Shit’s fucked.  Master: Oh. Well, yeah, that’s definitely not an optimal situation.

Nine: Rose? I mixed redbull with coffee and now I can see sounds, should I worry?  Rose: Doctor, I swear to god-

Missy: I was just diagnosed with deez.  Nine: Good, I hope it’s lethal.

Donna: I’m going to kill Jack!  Nine, completely monotone: Oh no. Don’t.

Rory: Christmas lights?  Eleven: Check.  Nine: Thermos of hot cocoa?  Eleven: Check.  River: Santa suits?  Eleven: Check.  Donna: Shovel?  Eleven: Check.  Master: Alibi and bail money?  Eleven: Check- wait, WHAT?!

Missy: Please say words of encouragement to me so I don’t murder someone right now.  Twelve: There are no books in prison.  Missy: *sighs* Thank you.

Eleven: ....Thou shalt not marry each other, for thy art both sinful...  Amy: I just wanna fucking marry Rory!!

Mickey: What are you writing?  Nine: The government wants to know what kind of weapons we have in the house. I'm letting them know it's private information.  Rose, looking over Nine's shoulder: This just says 'fuck around and find out' in calligraphy.

*At a bank teller window*  Eleven, in a bad Italian accent: I'd like-a to make-a da deposit!  Dalek: Greetings sir-, wait, I REMEMBER YOU!  Eleven: *Frantically pours marinara sauce into the vacuum tube*  Dalek: GODDAMMIT, IT'S THEM AGAIN! EXTERMINATE!

Amy: Here are two pictures. One of them is your TARDIS, and the other is a garbage dumpster. Can you tell which is which?  Eleven:  Eleven: This one is the dumpster.  Amy: They’re both your TARDIS.

Ten: Time for plan G.  Missy: Don’t you mean plan B?  Ten: No, we tried plan B a long time ago. I had to skip over plan C due to technical difficulties.  Donna: What about plan D?  Ten: Plan D was that desperate disguise attempt half an hour ago.  Rory: What about plan E?  Ten: I’m hoping not to use it. Jack dies in plan E.  Nine: I like plan E.

Ten: Hey.  Donna: Hey?  Ten: I can't sleep. :/  Donna: I can. Goodnight.

Twelve: Bitch.  Missy: Blocked.  Twelve: Wait unblock me I need to tell you something.  Missy: Unblocked.  Twelve: Bitch.

Ten: Do you want to play 20 Questions?  Donna: Sure!  Donna: Whats your favorite color?  Ten, laser fucking focused: Triangle. Do you like men?

River: Assert your dominance over your friends by kicking them in the face, and then giving them a little smooch on the forehead!

Donna: I left instructions for everyone while I'm gone.  Ten: Mine just says "Ten no."  Donna: I want you to apply it to every possible situation.

River: Would you like something to drink? *They open the fridge* We have water, milk, juice, spiders, Dr. Pepper-  Eleven: Spiders?  River: Spiders it is then.  Eleven: No, I wasn’t-  *But the Doctor was too late, as River was already pouring him a brimming glass of spiders…* Eleven: OH MY GALIFREY WHY ARE THERE SO MANY SPIDERS!?

Twelve: It's called cauliflower, not ghost broccoli.  Missy, eyes wide: I know what I saw.

Shapeshifter: *transforms to look like Donna*  Donna: Okay, are you like BLIND? You look nothing like me. First off, I'm way taller. Secondly, I DO NOT look so sleep deprived and lastly, if you could drag comb through that hair you're like a 7 on a good day and I've been told I'm a constant 10.

Donna: I prevented a murder today.  Ten: Really? That’s amazing! How did you do that?  Donna: Self-control.

[stradakiev]

My thoughts and theories for doctor who so far including spoilers:

I don’t think any of the episodes in season one or two are meant to be seen as standalone adventures. (Which RTD has said) To me this is one long story told over the course of two seasons (kinda like the flux) and that’s why so many of the episodes like 73 yards, Lucky Day, The Legend of Ruby Sunday, and The Interstellar Song Contest feel like they’re missing pieces of the story. Hopefully those pieces, which are mostly repercussions for the doctors and UNITs actions, will be tied up in the next two episodes. Though I believe UNIT will get more of its comeuppance in The War Between the Land and the Sea (especially bc it was mentioned in 73 yards trying to tie it in more). Also SO MANY episodes are written in conversation with each other; think The Story and the Engine as a response to Dot and Bubble. Therefore I believe and I hope that Lucky day and The Interstellar Song Contest feel like lazy metaphors because their response has yet to be seen.

Sooo what do I think is happening? The doctor is running from the emotional backlog caused by not dealing with their trauma and trying to remain afloat by pushing harder into the adventure as they always do. They cause so much damage and then waltz away from the wreckage never seeing the consequences. The season one finale highlighted this by having the doctor show remorse for traveling to so many places and never thinking, which allowed Sutekh bring death to the universe. BIG unintended consequences to their actions. Season two ramps this up by weaving in themes of PTSD. We have Ruby outright say that she has PTSD doctor is clearly suffering from it. We see the doctor experience mood swings, impulsivity and reckless behavior, anxiety, flashbacks, and even difficulty with memory and their “old head.” But what happens to the universe when a “god” has PTSD? They are reckless and impulsive and the people around them are too scared to stop them because they’re demanding and intimidating. Just like we see in The Interstellar Song Contest; no one stops the doctor because they’re scared and they do not know them or what they are capable of. Look at Gary and his husband. They are practically shaking in fear of the doctor and are relieved when he said that he likes them because they feared for their lives and the doctor didn’t even notice. I don’t think Belinda saying the doctor scared her was a weak reprimand, but was instead telling the audience why she stood there until she said stop (or no I don’t remember). Belinda is not Donna or Rose or Clara. She isn’t his friend she just got stuck there and he is her ticket home so she must stay in their good graces to see her family again. She doesn’t know this isn’t how he normally acts, she doesn’t have enough experience with him, and her #1 motivation is to get home.

A big theme of the interstellar song contest was that your trauma and pain does not excuse your harm against others. Two moments that are definitely going to bite them in the butt are: the scene scolding Conrad, and telling Kid he used his trauma to justify hurting others and then going on to harm him. He was sooo impulsive and irritable in these moments and made a decision without considering the consequences, just like when they cast the salt at the edge of the universe that started this all.

With all of that in mind I don’t think our traditional hero’s of doctor who, the Doctor and UNIT (Kate), are supposed to be our moral compass in these seasons. The Doctor is TOXIC and the tardis told us in the second episode of the season. The people surrounding our protagonists are horrified by their decisions in dangerous and emotionally charged situations. We should be looking at the companions and the major side characters in the story for our sense of right and wrong and they are horrified by the brutality of Kate and the Doctor. I was uncomfortable watching Kate let the shreek go after Conrad and I was uncomfortable watching the doctor torture Kid and that was the purpose of those scenes. We weren’t meant to side with them because this season is a critique of when they go too far.

Now, coming to The Rani. She is an evil scientist who thrives on scientific understanding and exploiting the natural order of the world. She has always viewed the doctor as reckless and someone whose meddlesome behavior always ruins her plans. I FULLY believe that the rani was in retirement and that’s how she became Mrs flood. The timelords were dead and it was time for her to hide herself away in a quiet life until the doctor came in and changed the literal nature of the universe. Since she thrives on science and the natural order of the universe I bet she is PISSED that the universe is “in a state of play” and basically run by coincidence and gods. I think the rani would love nothing more than to be the consequences to the doctors actions. I don’t know who’s they’re going to use the rani to critique the doctor and UNITs actions but here are some outlandish theories:

- the baby that the unholy trinity is holding in the pictures of wish world is actually the Master brought back from the tooth but as an infant and the doctor is going to have to raise them as a sort of way for them to heal

- the baby is one of Susan’s parents

- the baby is the doctor when division forces them to regenerate into one and wipes their memory. Captain poppy is the doctor as the timeless child found outside the wormhole. The Rani is going to bring all different versions of the doctor together and we’re going to get more of that story which will allow the doctor to address that trauma head on but in a way where they still have to defeat the ranis evil scheme.

-the baby is ruby and they’re fucking with her timeline even more

[rabbitlegs]

That shopkeeper yuri art is so hot. They should absolutely continue seeing eachother. Love how one of them is grabbing the other's butt cheek and thigh.

Amelia knows where the goods are

Here's a more normal scene with them (as normal as it can get with the hawk there) because I wanted to highlight their height difference. Clara is very tall.

If you want to see more of these characters I recommend you check out Prototype N, and look forward to BELOW HEAVEN whenever that happens, haha

[opera-ghosts]

From Clara Butt : her life-story by Ponder, H. W:

Clara Butt was paid the supreme honour of the offer of St Paul’s Cathedral for her wedding—an honour almost unprecedented for a commoner ; but she refused it, in order to be married in Bristol, among her own people and the friends of her girlhood. The Dean of Bristol then came forward with the offer of Bristol] Cathedral (in which only one wedding had previously taken place within a century) for the ceremony. The offer was accepted, and the date fixed for Tuesday, June 26, 1900.

It was the signal for a demonstration that is probably unique. Certainly it must be the most remarkable commoner’s wedding on record. Not even Royalty could hope for more spectacular evidence of popularity, and here was none of the glamour that surrounds Royalty to account for it. Just a simple Bristol girl, with a lovely voice, and the whole city was turned upsidedown to do her honour ; factories, shops, and offices were given a half-holiday, all the church-bells set ringing, streets blocked, a cathedral crammed with duchesses, prima donnas, and what not, special trains to London, a citizens’ presentation, another from the Handel Festival Choir, and hundreds of presents, including one from the Queen! A historic wedding indeed !

The day before the marriage a deputation headed by Sir Robert Symes, ex-Mayor of the city, waited upon Clara, who was staying with her parents, and presented her with a wedding-gift which had been subscribed for by the citizens of Bristol, as a token of their pride and affection. ‘The gift was a large brooch formed by the initials ‘‘C.B.,” standing for her own name and for the City of Bristol, in diamonds, transfixed by a ruby arrow. It remains one of her favourite ornaments, and is familiar to all who know her upon the platform.

The hour of the wedding was 1.30, but before seven in the morning the beginning of a crowd (which later became so dense that the police had to clear a way for the trams to pass through it) began to collect, armed with campstools and sandwiches, outside the cathedral. It grew and grew until College Green became a solid _ mass of people, one of the densest crowds ever seen in Bristol ; and when at last, after the five hundred guests had been admitted, the cathedral doors were opened to the public, there was a rather disorderly scene. The excited crowd elbowed and swayed, women screamed, and of those that struggled into the building many were hatless and with clothes badly torn. The doors were closed when the cathedral was full to suffocation, and thousands were left outside, knocking vainly and clamouring for admission.

The ceremony was performed by the Dean of Bristol (Dr Pigou), Canon Griffith, and the Rev. S. W. Fischell. Sir Arthur Sullivan was to have played the organ, but was prevented at the last moment by illness. His place was taken by Dr Buck and Cyril Rootham, son of the _ bride’s first teacher, who played the wedding-march.

Sir Arthur Sullivan wrote a special anthem (O God, Thou art worthy to be praised) for the occasion, and it was sung by Madame Albani. The last hymn—the words of which were written by Vera Thompson, an Australian girl, one of two sisters who were the bride’s neighbours at Hyde Park Mansions—was sung to the same composer’s tune to Onward, Christian Soldiers.

The bridesmaids were the bride’s three sisters, Pauline, Ethel, and Hazel; the Hon. Dorothy Bligh ; Miss Lily Hanbury; and Miss Marjorie Allix. Two little boys, Ivor Novello and Bernard Green, were pages. Mr R. M. Castle was best man, and Messrs Cyril Streatfield and Leigh Ibbs, groomsmen.

Among the guests were Albani, Belle Cole, Melba, Clara Novello- Davies, Edward Lloyd, Ben Davies, Mr and Mrs Kendal, Forbes-Robertson, Andrew Black, and many other distinguished musicians and actors, and innumerable social celebrities, side by side with the humbler friends of the bride’s early days. Most of the famous singers present sat in the choir-stalls, and joined heartily in the hymns.

The wedding-presents included the one from the Queen already mentioned, two diamond ornaments from the Handel Festival Choir (with which Clara had sung on the Saturday before the wedding), and a portrait of Kennerley Rumford by Herkomer, from the artist.

Every newspaper in England gave prominence to the wedding. Not only was it a big social event, but it had disturbed the equilibrium of a great city; and as such it was ‘news’ of a kind that did not often come the way of the happy reporters!