#Carlos Lara

[6v-theblog]

Carlos Lara

[diyeipetea]

Madeleine Cazenave Trio Rouge (JazzMadrid 2022) Por Carlos Lara y Enrique Farelo [Concierto de jazz]

Madeleine Cazenave Trio Rouge (JazzMadrid 2022) Por Carlos Lara y Enrique Farelo [Concierto de jazz]

Festival Internacional Jazzmadrid 2022 Fecha: Jueves, 24 de noviembre de 2022 Lugar: Instituto Francés (Madrid) Grupo: Madeleine Cazenave Trio Rouge Madeleine Cazenave : piano y composición Sylvain Didou : contrabajo Boris Louvet : batería La pianista y compositora Madeleine Cazenave lidera el trío Rouge. Bajo una apariencia de sencillez, en su música se esconde una profunda inclinación a crear…

[shopaholixs]

Shearling coat, McQueen by Seán McGirr.

Photograph by Gabriel Moses. Styling by Carlos Nazario. Model Lara Menezes.

Harper’s Bazaar September 2024

[phantomchristinesuk]

Christines of the Broadway Italia/LetsGo Company productions

Trieste/Milan/Monte Carlo

Amelia Milo (Principale)

Margherita Toso (Prima Sostituta)

Martina Cenere (Seconda Sostituta)

Madrid

Talía del Val (Principal)

Judith Tobella (Alternante)

Laura Enrech (Alternante/Primera Suplente)

Naiomi Weiler Lara (Segunda Suplente)

Marina Brisa (Reemplaza a la Segunda Suplente)

Pictures from performers and productions instagrams

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

A Rainha Diaba (Antonio Carlos da Fontoura, 1974)  

[landinrris]

In which Lando's an infantryman and Carlos is a medic who practices self-destruction in the form of isolation. Tags: Vague un-named character death, vague depictions of violence, 2k word drabble

The medics of Lando’s company are a sort of enigma all their own. Stand-offish, isolated, avoidant—not wanting to get too close to the rest of the men. On the one hand, Lando understands. Treating fallen men is hard enough as it is, let alone the issues should that man be a friend.

And there are so many casualties—of course, the medics aren’t going to enmesh themselves in the pockets of camaraderie that form within the platoons like the rest of them.

Some of the medics are friendlier than others. Of the two medics in Lando’s company, one is slightly warmer than the other—more willing to joke around a bit. The other one though… the one with thick dark hair and permanently wide eyes… the one who sits on the outskirts of every group and stuffs his hands as far into his jacket pockets as he can get them to protect them from the cold... Lando wants to know him.

Carlos Sainz, Medic, 2nd Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 101st Airborne Division.

Carlos is one of the original men from the company who has somehow never been injured. He’s someone Lando has looked up to as if he were a god—as if he were invincible, made possible by the fact that he’d trained for two years before ever stepping foot back in Europe.

In the six months since being with the company, Lando’s only spoken to him a handful of times. Even when they were back in England awaiting their next set of orders, he’d kept to himself, only exchanging full sentences with the other medics.

Now, ever since they’ve been holed up in the snowy hellscape outside Bastogne, Carlos has taken his solitude to a new level.

Lando still watches Carlos in awe as he flits around the snowy ground between their foxholes, cheeks red from the cold and nose rubbed raw, like a deer—every footstep as light as the last. He practically blends into the environment with his light green-grey fatigues and helmet covered in a steady layer of snow and frost. His back might as well be permanently hunched from trying to keep a low profile. He must be what the army had in mind when they thought of their boys out here fighting the good fight.

As the weeks wear on though, Lando watches Carlos’ temper grow thinner like everyone else’s. He loses his scissors and spends an hour jumping between foxholes trying to filch some off another guy. He asks Lando for his and any spare morphine he has twice, not remembering he’d already done so.

Lando blows up on him for that—for the audacity to not remember such a recent conversation when there are so few of them. Is he that forgettable that Carlos can’t tell him apart from someone else? As if Lando is a brand-new replacement and not someone who’s been around through advances and retreats alike.

When Lando’s holed up in his own foxhole with an actual new replacement, a young kid who’s still wet behind the ears, his resentment toward Carlos dissipates. They’re undersupplied out here, barely any food or ammunition, let alone medical supplies. They’re quite literally surrounded by the enemy on all sides—remembering who he last asked for supplies is probably the last thing on Carlos’ mind.

And still, Lando can’t help but complain to some of the others about it. They let him, probably because it helps to take everyone’s mind off the borderline inhumane conditions. Besides, it isn’t like there’s much else to do while they wait for another assault to begin.

And then the kid from Lando’s foxhole takes a shot to the neck on a patrol he insists on taking the lead on.

It happens so fast. One second, the only noise is their boots crunching in the snow and the next, the air around them is filled with the cracking of bullets and splintering tree bark. Everyone around him drops to the ground and behind the nearby trees. They’re pinned for several seconds before the sergeant they’re following gathers his thoughts and throws out commands.

Lando tries to get to the kid, to get a bandage on him to stop the bleeding, but the constant barrage of bullets fired in their direction prevents him. The other soldiers attempt to lay down cover fire for Lando to get to him, but even that doesn’t work. He tries and he tries—yells himself hoarse for the kid to stop moving so the enemy soldiers will stop shooting long enough to save him.

Nameless hands hold Lando back by the shoulders and eventually pull him up and away when it’s clear they’re not going to win this.

Lando continues to scream until he has to put his feet under him and move himself back towards their line. And then, through it all is a figure perched on the ground against the trunk of a tree watching in the direction they’re running from.

It’s Carlos, looking like the angel of death himself—dark clothes against the white expanse of their world. The church was wrong when they said Hell was hot. Hell is frozen ground and six inches of packed snow. Hell is tree bursts and bullets. Hell is the kid from his foxhole lying in the snow and turning it red.

It’s not even like Lando was overly close to the kid. He was a replacement, someone who had no idea what he was getting into and whose first foray was the Ardennes Forest in winter. He’d only been here for a few weeks, Lando and him only having a few meaningful conversations that didn’t amount to much in the end. And now he’s gone, and Lando can’t even do the one thing he promised by getting his things from him.

Lando keeps going because he has to, but the weight hangs heavy on his mind for the rest of the day. This isn’t his first casualty. Hell, he didn’t expect the kid to last very long anyway given what they were currently up against, but they were supposed to have at least a bit more room to move.

The other medic, Max, lets Lando huddle up in his foxhole and not talk about it later that night. He can’t bear to be alone right now much less go back to his own hole. Max lets him crawl under the tarp and raises the thin army-issued blanket so Lando can get closer. It’s not much, but it’s a warm body—another living person who understands the horrors of what they’re going through.

If Lando were in a better mood and capable of coherent thought, he’d remark upon Carlos sliding his way into the foxhole an hour or two later, a relieved sigh on his lips. The thought that he’d been looking for Lando of all people is surprising. Carlos doesn’t talk to anyone but the other medic. Why is he looking for him?

Carlos doesn’t leave though, nor does he say anything to Max. Instead, he proceeds to hold a thinly wrapped chocolate bar out to him with hands shaking from the cold, a thick and low, “For you. Please eat it, Lando,” that leaves Lando speechless.

Lando looks at Carlos wearily, the gesture unexpected. The words seep into Lando’s bones and fill him with an unsettling warmth for how simple they are. His mother would be appalled to know he doesn’t say thank you, but his voice doesn’t work. All he can do is reach out and bite off a chunk, letting the sweetness melt over his tongue.

Carlos gives him this gift, shifts closer to him whether out of desire or coldness, and Lando can’t help but think this is some sort of new leaf they’re turning over.

Nothing truly changes around them after that night. The enemy still shells their location every day or so, the snow keeps falling, they remain surrounded. And yet, Lando lets himself gravitate to Carlos where he hadn’t before. What’s more—Carlos doesn’t try to stop him.

It’s unsettling how easily Carlos lets him in.

More and more men Lando had once thought were invincible start to fall, some from minor wounds and others from more serious ones. He can see the way Carlos’ hands start to shake more and more—the way Carlos loses some of the lightness in his steps. Lando has to pull him out of his foxhole once when someone’s yelling for a medic and Carlos is sitting there frozen while the sky explodes above them.

In the quiet aftermath, once everyone has calmed down and the silence is so thick it threatens to suffocate Lando, he finds and sits with Carlos. The sheer presence of the other man is enough to settle Lando’s nerves, the wordless presence Carlos offers acting like a balm to his soul. Maybe it helps to be next to the one person he’d trust to save his life.

Still, Carlos continues to pull back from chiming in on the group around him. He sits farther away, as if his very presence is a curse against the company, destined to bring violence and death upon them. Lando takes extra helpings of their meals and watery coffee over to him and sits perched on his own helmet. He half thinks he’s hallucinating, but Lando swears he sees Carlos’ shoulders relax a few inches when he’s nearby.

Not everything is downhill though. Sometimes, Lando can see remnants of the Carlos from the early days of this campaign. One afternoon, he jogs up to where Lando’s huddled at the edge of the line with two other guys in his characteristic little half-hunch. He asks some inane question with the authority of someone who’s on a mission—one that all three of them answer negatively, and then he’s gone again. The exchange leaves Lando with a fond smile on his face while the other two men seem lost.

“What?” Lando asks when he notices them looking at him.

“You don’t think it’s odd that you’re the only person he talks to, it seems like? Apart from Verstappen.”

Lando shrugs, unsure of how to respond even if it’s true. It’s not like he’s done anything significant to break Carlos from his shell. They’ve still barely talked. And really, the only thing Lando can think of is that he’s no longer letting Carlos use the demons in his head as a means to drive people away. Despite how hard he tries, Lando’s going to be there, and Carlos seems to have accepted that.

He gets a step further on a miraculously sunny afternoon seated in a foxhole at the edge of their line. Carlos crawls from the edge of the tree line and practically pours himself in next to Lando, shoving their shoulders together in unspoken fondness. They have to be quiet out here so close to the enemy, but Lando doesn’t mind.

He looks over just as a sunbeam is catching Carlos’ face and lighting up his eyes for the first time in weeks. The low-hanging clouds full of snow are gone, and in their place is the most beautiful shade of amber Lando thinks he’s ever seen. He swears he stops breathing, embarrassingly obvious even when he should be twice as discreet as he normally would be.

Carlos doesn’t look away though. “What are you looking at?” he asks instead.

Lando should deflect, maybe turn it into some sort of jibe, but he’s so caught off guard that all his normal excuses dry up. It takes more energy than it should to utter out the barely-there, “Nothing, I just… nothing.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at Carlos’ lips before it’s gone. “Maybe you should watch the line then.” His hand brushes against Lando’s where he’s gripping his rifle and doesn’t move away.

Lando’s stomach lurches but he finds it in himself to roll his eyes anyway. “God, you’re annoying.”

The quiet laughter is enough to sustain Lando for weeks.

[ahlore]

↳ previous tomb raider works:

[headcanons] lara’s journal.

[fic] cooking with lara.

↳ previous the last of us II works:

[fic] my hero.

↳ previous resident evil 3 works:

[song fic] black hair.

[headcanons] being friends with jill valentine.

↳ previous arcane works:

[headcanons] 10 things i love about you.

[headcanons] her reason for living

౨ৎ — works in progress.

anything arcane-related or more resident evil characters.

[black-is-no-colour]

Anok Yai, Lara Stone, Mona Tougaard, Malgosia Bela & Karen Elson, photographed by Alasdair McLellan and styled by Carlos Nazario for Vogue UK April 2023

[almanoolho]

Da esquerda para a direita: Walter Alfaiate, Dona Ivone Lara, Moacyr Luz, Beth Carvalho, Luiz Carlos da Vila e João Nogueira. Fotografia tirada para a capa do disco “Pirajá Esquina Carioca: Uma Noite com a Raiz do Samba”, de 1999.

[6v-theblog]

Carlos Lara

[diyeipetea]

Erik Friedlander Quartet The Throw (JazzMadrid 2022) [Concierto de jazz] Por Carlos Lara y Enrique Farelo

Erik Friedlander Quartet The Throw (JazzMadrid 2022) [Concierto de jazz] Por Carlos Lara y Enrique Farelo

Festival Internacional Jazzmadrid 2022 Fecha: Martes, 17 de noviembre de 2022 Lugar: Fernán Gómez. Centro Cultural de la Villa (Madrid) Grupo: Erik Friedlander Quartet The Throw Erik Friedlander: violonchelo Uri Caine: piano Mark Helias: contrabajo Ches Smith: batería El violonchelista Erik Friedlander encabezando su nuevo cuarteto, The Throw, con el pianista Uri Caine, el bajista Mark Helias y…

[shopaholixs]

One-piece by Araks. Skirt by Bottega Veneta. Bracelet cuffs by Schiaparelli. Ballet flats by Lafayette 148 New York.

Photograph by Gabriel Moses. Styling by Carlos Nazario. Model Lara Menezes.

Harper’s Bazaar September 2024

[spottys-rathole]

J'essaie de trouver un autre nom que "compilation de trucs chelous de furry" mais appelons un chat "un chat", voici des chats- La majorité viens de personnes sur le Discord qui lâchent "oh cet animal correspond trop à ce perso" feat moi qui n'ai rien d'autre de mieux à faire visiblement sauf le premier dessin le premier dessin c'est juste bibi qui aime de façon non-ironique la comédie musicale "Cats" et je ne regrette rien

[cupcakes-and-contemplation]

my comfort characters

leo valdez, percy jackson, lara jean covey, erica sinclair, steve harrington, lucas sinclair, wylan van eck, sam wilson, wanda maximoff, jesper fahey, ricky bowen, jet ------, carlos rodriguez, robin buckley, starr carter, pip fitz-amobi, ravi singh, and eddie munson.

[rescuefield-a]

random tags because i give up on being organized honestly. i will add as i go

𝘿𝙄𝘿 𝙈𝙔 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝘼𝙄𝘿 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘼𝘽𝙀𝙏 𝙔𝙊𝙐? ⎯ LEON

𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝙂𝙊𝙇𝘿𝙀𝙉 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝘿𝘼𝙔𝙇𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 ⎯ LARA

𝘽𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙄𝙏 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝙈𝙀. 𝙀𝙔𝙀𝙎 𝙁𝙐𝙇𝙇 𝙊𝙁 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍𝙎 ⎯ CARLOS

𝙎𝙃𝙀'𝙇𝙇 𝙆𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙒𝘼𝙔. 𝙂𝙊𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝘼𝙋 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝙈𝙀 ⎯ SHERRY

𝙁𝙄𝙉𝘿 𝘼𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝙂𝙐𝙄𝘿𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙇𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 𝘽𝙐𝙏 𝙄 𝙎𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙀 𝙎𝙊 𝘽𝙍𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 ⎯ RANI

𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙏𝙊 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝙊𝙊𝙉 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙊 𝙎𝘼𝙏𝙐𝙍𝙉 ⎯ JUNIPER

[rescuefield-arch1]

going ahead and writing down some of my old relationship tags ( more will be added as i go )

𝙁𝙊𝙍 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙀'𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙄 𝙒𝙊𝙐𝙇𝘿𝙉'𝙏 𝘿𝙊 ⎯ chris

𝘿𝙄𝘿 𝙈𝙔 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝘼𝙄𝘿 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘼𝘽𝙀𝙏 𝙔𝙊𝙐? ⎯ leon

𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝙂𝙊𝙇𝘿𝙀𝙉 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝘿𝘼𝙔𝙇𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 ⎯ lara

𝘽𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙄𝙏 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝙈𝙀. 𝙀𝙔𝙀𝙎 𝙁𝙐𝙇𝙇 𝙊𝙁 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍𝙎 ⎯ carlos

𝙎𝙃𝙀'𝙇𝙇 𝙆𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙒𝘼𝙔. 𝙂𝙊𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝘼𝙋 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝙈𝙀 ⎯ sherry

𝙁𝙄𝙉𝘿 𝘼𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝙂𝙐𝙄𝘿𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙇𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 𝘽𝙐𝙏 𝙄 𝙎𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙀 𝙎𝙊 𝘽𝙍𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 ⎯ rani

𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙏𝙊 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝙊𝙊𝙉 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙊 𝙎𝘼𝙏𝙐𝙍𝙉 ⎯ juniper

𝘿𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙒𝙄𝙇𝙇 𝘽𝙐𝙍𝙔 𝙈𝙀 𝘽𝙀𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙀 𝙄 𝘽𝙐𝙍𝙔 𝙔𝙊𝙐 ⎯ micah

𝘿𝙄𝘿 𝙄 𝙎𝙋𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙊𝙉 𝘼 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙈𝙄𝙎𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙂𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙉 𝙈𝘼𝙉 ⎯ neil