いらっしゃい

One summer's eve

watercolour on arches paper cold pressed

I've started taking inspiration from III from Sleep Token like CRAZY istg. he's got this gothic streetwear, avant-garde, elegant alt aesthetic and ugh it's insane. like. the red shoes era hello??

fashion icon I feel like

when I get dressed to go out I stand there and question to myself "would III Token approve..."

The goddess who views warfare as a fascinating exercise in abstract problem-solving, a chance for strategists to display their genius or cunning, whose followers are always seeking the opportunity to offer up another Cannae as sacrifice to her? To whom war is figures being moved across maps in generals tents, and the fact that actual people suffer and die in it is just irrelevant?

There's not much opportunity for fine wine, comfortable bedding, or the beauties of art in war. There is the opportunity for the battle-lust of killing the enemy, which often comes with the bonus of not being killed by that enemy.

and just like the rain

you cast the dust into nothing

Hello tumblr I am home for good after two years….erm…

Sleep token yeah

Patroclus peered into the eyes of Achilles, such a beautiful shade of blue, the likes of the vast sky above or the waves of the sounding sea. His hair so golden like the sun casting its gentle rays unto mortal flesh and skin smooth as the motions of the wind. His youth made him not look any less remarkable, if anything it only adorns his beauty so greatly it pains the heart of Patroclus.

“Why cast you your eyes upon me so?” Asks Achilles, he who is both of remarkable intellect and looks rivalling the divine.

“I ask you to elaborate,” says Patroclus, eyes now downcast in embarrassment. He feels the gentle and warm hand of Achilles softly cradle his face and lead him to once more gaze upward into those vivid cerulean eyes. A faint flush dusts Patroclus’ cheeks like the finest of powders as he finds himself stood much closer to Achilles than previously.

“I hardly believe that I need to,” says he, thumb slowly caressing the skin of Patroclus, the man who had never once done so much as imagine he might ever find himself in such a moment with the proud Achilles. Words fail Patroclus as he stands there, much alike with a statue, enchanted by the man holding him so dearly, like something fragile and prized.

“I ask not of you words, just that you allow me to hold you like my lover and to do so again the next time we meet,” Achilles’ voice, warm as a hearth, rich as the earth and as genuine as the certainty of the death that in time embraces all. In a moment of bravery Patroclus had not foreseen he lifts his hands and places one to the back of the neck of the man offering him his affections and the other threading into his golden hair. Taking this as a sign to move forth Achilles closes the little distance that had remained and connected their lips in a kiss so full of love, promise and predictions of a future filled with dawns as beautiful as this one that both men are filled with joy, one with skin the hue of bronze and the other with skin the gentle tone of a morning aether.