am i alllowed to come back here..
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Claire Keane
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Three Goblin Art
todays bird

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
will byers stan first human second
Misplaced Lens Cap
AnasAbdin
noise dept.
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
d e v o n

Kiana Khansmith
i don't do bad sauce passes
Mike Driver

"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Cosimo Galluzzi
DEAR READER
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@snowlord
am i alllowed to come back here..

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jon snow
Tetsuo: The Iron Man (1989)
sanctify, years and years / the martyrdom of saint agatha, giambattista tiepolo / the ecstasy of saint theresa, gian lorenzo bernini / martyrs, pascal laugier / saint sebastian, il sodoma / joan of arc
* ( 𝓲 . 𝑲𝒀𝑨𝑺𝑪𝑨, 【 ACOK 】: [ 𝗮 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁'𝘀 𝗼𝗮𝘁𝗵. ]
frigid winds of the farthest north ravaged her body, finding solace in hidden lands beyond gleaming edges of the sun’s reach. ill-fated luck awaits her path, yet she traipsed forth through the winterland. feet sodden to the marrow; numb beneath her stride : carrying a wandering body to a void of hope, peeking through a cloak of ivory clad seas, erected a black structure amassing something far more unfathomable than what stories spread across the narrow sea could tell about the infamous wall.
CASTLE BLACK WAS AN UMBRAL ENIGMA. something to gaze upon awe worthy ( yet strikes you with fear ! ) A FORTRESS OF DESOLATION. where the hardened are buried by snow, accustomed to death and would sooner find warmth in any of the seven hells than up in the heavens above. PERMAFROST commanded beyond view. a place where the very epitome of winter derives.
her cheeks are barren of any warmth … lashes harboring a thin layer of rime. IT HURTS TO BREATHE; lungs encapsulating the brisk rage of northern anguish : yet wrapped in a mound of garments consisting of wool and worn leather. HER HAIR IS SCRUFFY AND SHORT. just barely tickling atop the highest point of her ear. a boyish figure coveted beneath fabric was her only solace. EYES AS DARK AS THE NIGHT’S WATCH ETERNAL OATH. skin a deep tawny hue. her name is casca, but she dares not speak that aloud. just ‘ boy ‘ or simply cas. A LORD’S SQUIRE WHO WAS SENT TO THE WALL UPON THEFT [ at least that’s the story given ]
❝ where my family comes from, the sun kisses you awake. so much so … you beg it to stop. i used to think death by burning was the most cruel punishment. but after being here, i find myself dreaming to be set ablaze … ❞
@snowlord
A BRUMAL WELCOMING, he remembers, rime with teeth whetting on pimpled flesh with gluttonous lovebites. jon’s hiemal time in feathered black changed him — a sloe dark metamorphosis, an irrevocable numbing down to the purpled bruise strings of his bulging nerves. a dead - winter renaissance, he’d harbored regrets that stung deeper than cold, had brought curdled dreams of winterfell’s glacial wraiths. steadily, he revels in the immaculacy of this selfish aching, and the tainted memories bloom like sapphire roses in a garden for a world he left behind. i am the watcher on the wall, and i have no family. the lie creeps and festers like a breadth of burning treachery, ( an altar for crows, tautingly croaking, in the devil of his throat, ) his voice is a wolf’s howl, the hollow strung tune of a bard’s lute. ❛❛ do well remembering this cold then, for some it’s just punishment. but this isn’t real cold, winter is coming; my lord father would say— this is just a chill. ❜❜
his smile is a bite, a visceral crunch on the brawn of cracked lip brittle in frost, and here, his eyes drop like a guillotine cleaving the earth. the sound of lord eddard’s words ( nursed by fervent emotion, & made strong by a swelling pride ) cradled jon into the bitter daydream of a man’s head entrenched in a foul rot, the tender glaze of rolled eyes robbed in necrosed relief, ❛❛ ... forget your family as well, you only have brothers now. ❜❜ the tendrils of his gloved hand begin to corkscrew and twist like a morning smoke, they stretch and flex, rapidly. jon’s eye falls on the boy, finally with a heartful regard. he seemed a red - running saga of readiness, a competent display in the blighted sinews of the hemorrhaging humane heart, he may just survive the winter.
❛❛ you have a name? jon snow. ❜❜

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boystark.
⠀⠀⠀⠀…⠀⠀⠀⠀@snowlord, memes.
⠀⠀⠀⠀there are red leaves in the snow, they seem to catch afire when lordling’s beacon erects shadows to the labyrinth of forestry. winter has eroded all color from the world, leaving only stark and snow, and robb trembles { the trees are whispering, laughing, praying }, lost in the emeralds and firs, his copper head bowed to the wind - chill. ❛❛ JON, where are you ? ❜❜ torch’s light flickers and dances, AS HE SETS DEEPER INTO THE GODSWOOD, spindling limbs uncertain ‘mong the treacherous tree - roots and ice, he stalks after his bastard born brother’s tracks — SER RODRIK WOULD SAY : there is generosity in hunting, bones for tools and handles, buckskin for clothes and bedding, hair for stuffing and ropes, you must be patient for such rewards. ⠀⠀⠀⠀—— and the young wolf is rewarded, as he bursts from the evergreen, pouncing onto jon as if the two of them are packmates, the snow welcomes them in a flurry of blinding white and cushions the fall. FEARLESS, breathless, brushes of flakes cling to robb’s lashes, bright - cheeked and stirred from their brotherly embrace. ❛❛ are you sulking — ❜❜ a fist squeezes ‘round his lungs, he catches his breath with a grin, ❛❛ you are, aren’t you ? ❜❜ { ⁱ’ᵐ ᵖʳᵒᵇᵃᵇˡʸ ᵃ ᵇᵃᵈ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ, says the white wolf } and it sinks just as quickly as its rise. mirth has been replaced by a quiet solemnity, as he lays ‘side jon, rose - tipped numbness left to his now empty hands, the illuminant hasn’t burn’t out just yet, despite the spill. HE STANDS TO RETRIEVE IT ⠀⠀⠀⠀… ⠀⠀⠀⠀❛❛ what troubles you ? did father say something ? ❜❜
without stop, these oakwood corpses bleed tears — necrosed, a ensanguined forever sorrow. jon imagines his seeping melancholy to appear a ridiculous blight to these gaping timber sentinels yawning charcoal sap, trickling like a spring dew, still indomitable even in this numbingly pale assault. he’d desire the unconquerable nature in their surreal garden of carnal reds, (to stay silent in suffering— for a lifetime or a second, it would matter little) in his mind, the words are knife-edged shrapnel, splintered quiet with a deep sadness, striking his head. a bastard has nothing to inherit; and there’s enough snow to drown in, now. a ghastly purpled blotch, all bruise - like, on lord eddard’s honor would be his apocryphal end; a guillotine suspended over his limp neck in emotional catharsis. this time, he understood. everything stutters in tempo, white slurring together against the harsh vivisection of red petals smearing his abdomen, jon can see all that he is, all that he will ever be in the mottling pallid blanket, (winter is coming, and snow is a ill omen.)
he laughed a mistful cloud the color of knight’s steel, bleak sort of laughter. shreds of pride in his breast— flinting as they may be, kindled a liminal margin in his heart when he’d heard a familiar galloping herald... of fiery, wild hair blotted with the soft flakings of this forest in frost. jon swiveled, a crow whimpers in wooden limbs, and attempts to feign ignorance by absently sympathizing with the mosaic foundation of sleet, crashing into his trueborn brother, and presenting powdered angels in their wake. (for a time, nothing moves) ❛❛ i’m probably a bad person. ❜❜ he felt himself become sequentially unwound, as if through another pair of eyes. in the convulsing silence, robb’s hoarse utterance is met with a stunning decline of snowfall, jon could laugh again at how bright his brother would be in combat to his steep dark. (a man and his brother; it’s always the same story, just a different ending…) he’d wonder if the black dragon, or the bastards of blackfyre had ever felt the pull and tug of love, desire, and pride. ❛❛ winterfell will be yours, you’ll be a great lord, robb. ❜❜ jon stretches a pause between them, wings on a butterfly, rolls the words against his tongue like honeydew, and swallows hard. ❛❛ and i’ll... join the night’s watch, like uncle benjen. ❜❜
daenyre.
𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗢𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗗 in centuried walls of soot-blackened stone 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦 colours her cheek with fevered eagerness ––– the carnal flush [𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚎] a welcomed respite from the winter etching 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬 of her bones. this is no place for a dragon. –– –– what place was, in 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁? not braavos, not meereen, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 where she’d first learned the price of life with a 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 bald cry. 𝙣𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 down these long, damp hallways, no matter how well daenerys outran the cold exaltation of death’s rattle.
generously lit torch fires spark 𝙖 𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬 in the violet edge of her gaze, but the 𝑭𝑰𝑻𝑭𝑼𝑳 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑴𝑻𝑯 of its dancing fails to soften her countenance. the northern were decidedly more brazen than those bejewelled court-bound swarms, 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗇 &. 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌. she’d overheard mutterings in the great echoic fortitude, some 𝘽𝙊𝙇𝘿𝙀𝙍 𝙈𝙀𝙉 neglecting to whisper as her shadow encroached. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞,
here walks the mad king’s daughter, hell-flame rendered flesh. blazing her path in𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 ⅋̳ 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃on the back of her dreadful mount, 𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙛𝙪𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙥𝙮𝙧𝙚, her impish kinslayer conspiring at her shoulder.
❛❛ 𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔰 𝔖𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫, the Unburnt, Princess of Dragonstone, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, the Stallion Who Mounts the World, and 𝘔𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘖𝘍 𝘋𝘙𝘈𝘎𝘖𝘕𝘚. ❜❜ even her sweet scribe, 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗳𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲-𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗲, cannot allay the blade of frigid witness. [@snowlord] I am at war even now.
❛❛ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐲. ❜❜ : ᵀᴴᴼᵁᴳᴴ ᴴᴱᴿ lips ʷᵉʳᵉ 𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙣𝙩 ᴬᴺᴰ 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗮𝗹 ⁻⁻⁻ ᴰᴬᴿᴷ ᵃˢ 𝗿𝗼𝘀𝗲 ᵖᵉᵗᵃˡˢ ... ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ʷᵒʳᵈ 𝘴̲𝘦̲𝘢̲𝘳̲𝘦̲𝘥̲ ᵗʰᵉ frost ᵒᶠᶠ ʰᶦˢ ᵍʰᵒˢᵗˡʸ heart, 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 ᴷᴵᴺᴰᴸᴵᴺᴳ 𝘀𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗱 ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ 𝙍𝙀𝘿 ᵂᴼᴹᴬᴺ ’ s ᵇˡᵃᶜᵏ ᵒ̲ᶦ̲ˡ 𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒂. 〝 ʸᵒᵘʳ 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗦 have ᴮᴱᴱᴺ 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ... ❛❛ ˢᵒʳᶜᵉʳʸ 𝗂𝗌 ᵃ sword ᵂᴵᵀᴴ no ᴴᴵᴸᵀ . ❜❜ ⁻⁻⁻ ᵃʸᵉ , my ˡᵃᵈʸ , 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗘 ᵐᵃʸ ˢᵃᵛᵉ ᵘˢ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᴸᴼᴺᴳ 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧, ᵇᵘᵗ ... ᴮᴸᴼᴼᴰ will ᵖʳᵉˢᵉʳᵛᵉ ᵘˢ against ᵗʰᵉ ᵂᴵᴳᴴᵀ ’ s 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇. 〟 𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙙 ᶠʳᵒˡᶦᶜ ᴬᴺᴰ d͟a͟n͟c͟e ᵂᴵᵀᴴ 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 ᴮᴸᴱᴱᴰᴵᴺᴳ ᴸᴵᴷᴱ 𝘀𝘄𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻 ᶜʰᵉʳʳʸ ᵖᶦᵗˢ , ᵗʰᵉ ᴿᴱᴰ 𝗠𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗥𝗘 ʰᵃˢ ᵃ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ ʷʳᵒᵘᵍʰᵗ ᶠʳᵒᵐ 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨 ᵒᶠ ᴾᵁᴿᴱ marble; ᴺᴼᵀ ᵃ 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 ᵒᶠ 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, ᴬᴺ ᵉᵐᵖᵗʸ 𝗩𝗢𝗜𝗗 ᵒᶠ 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 ᴴᴱᴬᵀ ᵂᴬᴸᴷᴵᴺᴳ ᵗʰᵉ ᴸᴵᴺᴱ between ᵂᴼᴹᴬᴺ ᴬᴺᴰ 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 ᵐᵒʳᵉ ... 𝚆𝙸𝚂𝙿𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚂𝙲𝙰𝙿𝙴 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳𝚁𝙸𝙻𝚂. 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄.
〝 ᵂᴴᴬᵀ ᵃʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᴾᴸᴬᴺᴺᴵᴺᴳ ? 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 ᵈᵒ ʸ͟ᵒ͟ᵘ s̸̺̾̐̊̓̾ẽ̶͕͖̪͚͋̋̈́͒͑e̶̮̠̹͑̎ —— 〟
ᵗʰᵉ shadow ᵖʳᵉˢˢᵉˢ ᵀᴴᴿᴼᵁᴳᴴ ⁻⁻⁻ ᵃ ᴳᴵᴿᴸ ᴺᴼᵀ ʸᵉᵗ 𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟 ⁻ grown, ᵒᶠ ᴹᴵᴰᴰᴸᴵᴺᴳ height, 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 ᴴ̲ᴬ̲ᴵ̲ᴿ̲ ᵀᴬᴺᴳᴸᴱᴰ ᴵᴺᵀᴼ ᵃ ᵈʳʸ , ᶜᵘʳˡᵉᵈ 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐨 : ˢʰᵉ is 𝐏̲𝐑̲𝐈̲𝐃̲𝐄̲, ᵃ 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 ᵒᶠ 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘺 ᵂᴼᴺᴰᴱᴿ ᵈʳᵒᵛᵉ ᵀᴴᴱ hall ᴬᴸᴵᴳᴴᵀ ᵂᴵᵀᴴ ᵀᴴᴱ religious ᶠᵉʳᵛᵒʳ ᵒᶠ ᵃ 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ᵖʸʳᵉ consuming ʰᵉʳ ᴹᴬᴺᵀᴿᴬ ᵃˢ fuel. 𝙼𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙵 𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙾𝙽𝚂 ᴬᴺᴰ my ᴴᴱᴬᴰ erupts. 〝 ʸᵒᵘ 𝙨𝙖𝙬 ᴴᴱᴿ. 〟 ʰᵉ stares ᵃ ʰᵒˡʸ ᵂᴬᴿᴹᵀᴴ ᴰᴼᵂᴺ ʰᵉʳ ᴸᴵᴳᴴᵀ ᵃ 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭, sketching ᵃ 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗍 ᵇˡᵃᶻᵉ.
𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄: ❝ ᴮᴿᴱᴬᴷᴱᴿ ᵒᶠ chains, 𝚀𝚄𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝘿𝘼𝙀𝙉𝙀𝙍𝙔𝙎 ... ❞ ˢʰᵉ ˢᵖᵉᵃᵏˢ ᵂᴵᵀᴴ ᵃ ʷᵃʳ ᵈʳᵘᵐ ’ s beat, ᴵᴺ 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝 VALYRIAN. ❝ ᴵᵀ 𝗂𝗌 ᴬᴺ ᴴᴼᴺᴼᴿ, ❞ ᴬᴺᴰ ˡᶦᵖˢ ᵖᵘˡˡ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ ᴸᴵᴷᴱ 𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗱𝘀 ᴼᴺ a ᵖᶦᵉᶜᵉ 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗿𝘂𝗶𝘁. ❝ i ᵍᶦᵛᵉ ʸᵒᵘ : ᴸᴼᴿᴰ 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ᴶᴼᴺ snow. ᴺᴼᵂ ... 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅 ᵂᴱ ᵈᶦˢᶜᵘˢˢ how ᵗᵒ ˢᵃᵛᵉ 𝘁𝗵𝗲 ʳᵉᵃˡᵐ ? ❞
" i know what i am. "
〝 ᴮᴿᴬᴺ ? is ᵗʰᵃᵗ ... ʸᵒᵘ ? 〟 𝘁𝗵𝗲 ᴰᴬᴿᴷ ˢᵖᶦˡˡˢ ᴬᴿᴼᵁᴺᴰ ʰᶦᵐ , ᵃ ᵇᵒʸ ᵀᵁᴿᴺᴱᴰ ᴳᴼᴰ ᴵᴺ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜˡᵒˢᵉᵗᵉᵈ ᵇʳᵒᵒᵏ ᵒᶠ ᴮᴸᴱᴱᴰᴵᴺᴳ 𝗼𝗮𝗸: ᵃ 𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥 ᴸᴵᴹᴮ embracing ʰᶦᵐ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵃ ᴸᴱᴳᴵᴼᴺ ᵒᶠ 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 ᴷᴺᴼᵀᵀᴱᴰ about ᴸᴵᴷᴱ 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ᴼᴺ ᵃ ᵖᵘᵖᵖᵉᵗ , ʰᵉ 𝗶𝘀 ᴿᴱᴱᴸᴵᴺᴳ ᴼᴺ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵃˡᶠ 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 ᵐᵉᵃᵗ ᵒᶠ 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, ᵀᴱᴱᵀᴱᴿᴵᴺᴳ ᴸᴵᴷᴱ ᵃ ᵐᵒᵗˡᵉʸ fool’s ᵃᶜᵗ ᴼᴺ ᵗʰᵉ 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 ʳᵒᵖᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᵖᵃˡᵉ YARN. —— ... 〝 ᴺᴼ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ARE ᵈᵉᵃᵈ — 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘆𝗷𝗼𝘆 ᴷᴵᴸᴸᴱᴰ ʸᵒᵘ ᴬᴺᴰ 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐎𝐍 ... ᵀᴴᴱᴺ ᴴᴼᵂ ? 〟 jon’s ʰᵉᵃʳᵗ 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀 ᶠᵒʳ ᴿ͟ᴱ͟ᴳ͟ᴿ͟ᴱ͟ᵀ͟ ᴬᴺᴰ 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ᶜˡᵃʳᶦᵗʸ ˢʷᵉˡˡˢ ʳᵉᵈ 𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒔 ᴬᴸᴼᴺᴳ his ᴴᴱᴬᴰ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ 𝙬𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙬𝙤𝙤𝙙 ᴮᴱᴳᴬᴺ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ᴵᴺ ᴸᴵᴮᴱᴿᴬᵀᴱᴰ 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴, ᶠᵘˡˡ ᵀᴵᴸᵀ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵃ ᴴᴼᴿᴰᴱ ᵒᶠ 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝚁𝚈, ᴮᴵᵀᴵᴺᴳ 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 ᵗᵒ ᴳᴸᴬᴿᴱ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ 𝘁𝗼𝘁𝗮𝗹, pure ᵇˡᵃᶜᵏ ᵁᴺᴰᴱᴿ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ᴴᴵᴸᴸ. 𝙱𝚁𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝚂 𝚆𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴, ᵗʰᵉ 𝘀𝗮𝗽 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴 ᵂᴵᵀᴴ ᵃ honey ᴰᴿᴬᵂᴸ ˢᵒ ˢ̲ʷ̲ᵉ̲ᵉ̲ᵗ , ᵂᴵᵀᴴᴵᴺ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʳᵏ ᵗʰᵉ 𝗥𝗢𝗢𝗞 ᴾ͟ᴿ͟ᴼ͟ᵂ͟ᴸ ᵁᴾᴼᴺ ᴮᴿᴼᴷᴱᴺ 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, ᴸᴵᴷᴱ 𝗙𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗭𝗜𝗡𝗚 ᵍᵒᵒˢᵉᶠˡᵉˢʰ ʳᶦˢᶦⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ frenzy. ᵗʰᵉʸ ˢᵖᵉᵃᵏ ᴬᴳᴬᴵᴺ , ( ᵀᴼᴳᴱᵀᴴᴱᴿ ) ᴵᴺ ᵃ 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 ᵒʳᵍʸ ᵒᶠ ᵀᴱᴱᵀᴴ and 𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 .
... [ BRAN IS̷̱̠͓̃̅̇̈̌́̽̓̔̚ Ą̷̖͓̙̇͋̔͊̈ ̵͈̂ ̵͉̺͓̾͒͗̐͋̀ ̴͎̭̱̆̋ ̸̙̯̽̅͝͝͠ ̶̻̗̀̀ ̸̲̻̘̄G̷̞̪͚͋͛̔̓̀͊O̵͔̿͋D̵̮͉̤̖̬̥̎. ]
EXCALIBUR (John Boorman, 1981)
in times like these, self-control has no meaning.
ᴴᴱᴿ VOICE ˢᶜᵒᵘʳᵍᵉˢ jon’s 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 ᵀᴼᴺᴳᵁᴱ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵃ ᵂᴱᴵᴳᴴᵀ ᶠʳᵃᵘᵍʰᵗ ᵂᴵᵀᴴ ᵗʰᵉ 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 climax ᵒᶠ ᴱᴺᴰᵁᴿᴵᴺᴳ ᴿᴱᴰ 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔, ᶦᵐᵖᵒˢˢᶦᵇˡᵉ ᴾ͟ᴬ͟ᴵ͟ᴺ͟ ᴮᴿᴱᴬᴷᴵᴺᴳ ʰᵉʳ 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 into 𝗩𝗜𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗧 ˡᶦᵗᵗˡᵉ ᶜʳᵃᶜᵏˢ ᴵᴺ 𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 ᴸᵁᴹᴮᴱᴿ .
〝 ᴰᴼᴺ'ᵀ ˢᵃʸ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ... you’re ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᴸᴵᵀᵀᴸᴱ —— 〟
❛❛ 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀 ᴳᴿᴼᵂ 𝒖𝒑 ᶠᵃˢᵗᵉʳ ᴼ̲ᴺ̲ ᵗʰᵉ ᵂᴬᴸᴸ . ❜❜ : ᵂᴴᴬᵀ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ˢᶜʳᵃʷⁿʸ 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 ᴵᴺ ᵃ 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗟𝗗 ˢᵒʳᵉᵈ ᵂᴵᵀᴴ 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒕 ᶠˡᵉᶜᵏᵉᵈ ᵇʳᵘᶦˢᵉˢ —— ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ men ʷᵃˡᵏ ᴵᴺ ˢᵉᵃ’ˢ ᵒᶠ ᴮᴸᵁᴱ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 ᵗʰᵉ ᵍʳᵉᵃᵗ 𝘸̲𝘰̲𝘭̲𝘧 ᶦˢ ᴳᵁᵀᵀᴱᴰ ʰᵒˡˡᵒʷ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᶜʰᵉᵃᵖ ᴳᴬᴹᴱ / 𝗵͟𝗲͟𝗺͟𝗼͟𝗿͟𝗿͟𝗵͟𝗮͟𝗴͟𝗶͟𝗻͟𝗴 ᵐᵘᵗᵗˢ ᵂᴵᵀᴴ 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗱 fur ᴬᴺᴰ ᵗᵃˣᶦᵈᵉʳᵐʸ 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀. 〝 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙰 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻 ... my 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 ˢᶦˢᵗᵉʳ , gods... ᵂᴴᴱᴺ ᵈᶦᵈ ʸᵒᵘ 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄 ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᴵᴺ ˢᵘᶜʰ ˢʰᵒʳᵗ ᵀᴵᴹᴱ —-- ᴺᴼᵀ ʰᵃˡᶠ ᵃ 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 ᵇᵘᵗ a ʷᵒˡᶠ ᴳᴿᴼᵂᴺ ... 𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐚 ? 〟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 ᴬᴸᴸ ᴵᴺ ᵇˡᵃᶜᵏ 𝘪𝘴 ᵃ ᵇᵒʸ ᴬᴳᴬᴵᴺ ⁻⁻⁻ ˡᵒˢᵗ ᴵᴺ ˢᶦᵐᵖˡᵉ smiles: ᴬ 𝘀𝗲𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗᵉʳʳᵒʳˢ ᵒᶠ ᴺᵁᴹᴮᴵᴺᴳ 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 , ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵘᵖᶦᵈ ᵇᵃˢᵗᵃʳᵈ 𝘽𝙊𝙔 ᶠʳᵒᵐ 𝗪𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗙𝗘𝗟𝗟 —— ˢᵒ 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 , 𝗶𝘀 ᴳᴿᴵᴺᴺᴵᴺᴳ ᵃ 𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗺𝗻 blister ᵒᶠ ᵃ 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗿𝘆 ˢᵐᶦˡᵉ. ᵀᴴᴱ ˢᵗᵉᵃᵐ 𝙤𝙛 ʰᶦˢ ᴮᴿᴱᴬᵀᴴ embraces ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵖᵃᶜᵉ 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 ʰᶦˢ ᴹᴼᵁᵀᴴ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 ᵗʰᵉ 𝚃̲𝙰̲𝙽̲𝙶̲𝙻̲𝙴̲𝙳̲ ⁿᵉˢᵗ ᵒᶠ ʰᵉʳ 𝗛𝗔𝗜𝗥, ᴬᴺᴰ ᵇˡᵉᵉᵈˢ ᴵᴺᵀᴼ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠˡᵉˢʰ. 𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚈 𝙴𝙽𝙳.
( ➤ ) —— ... 〝 𝐨𝐡 , ᵃʳʸᵃ ᴵ’ᴹ ˢᵒ 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚. 〟

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Tre Samuels at Diesel Black Gold F/W 2016 (via)
VAMPYR (1932) | dir. Carl Theodor Dreyer
there’s smoke and steam, —— SNOW FALLS LIKE COMETS, ( CASTLE BLACK ) the bittersweet numbing swells dead skin on his bruised fingertips, [GRIT YOUR TEETH] this frigid morning breeze seizes his lips like a spurned paramour, the rasp of a blunted blade forged through scalding blooms of steel cuts through a sea of pure white, bared like teeth against it’s fleshy suitor. THE COURTYARD RANG & RANG, until wool blacker than night sweltered into thread and icily sweat, ❛❛ ENOUGH! moment longer and skywalker would have CRATERED YOUR SKULL, aurochs. how any of you hope to DEFEND THE REALM when you can’t match swords with a slave is a wonder. ❜❜ THE DARK MIST SPILLS FROM THORNE’S MOUTH, like a festering blight exhumed from a pungent corpse; his jet leathers whisper like a shy maid in the aftermath of a swift turn, directing that black ruin of a grin to [ LORD SNOW. ]
❛❛ THE BASTARD, — now he looks right & ready, doesn’t he? i wager this little savage might just tip your crown, lord snow. ❜❜ he nurses each word of contempt like a ragged wineskin — JON SNOW DREW HIS LONGSWORD, the blade becoming a callous extension of hardened flesh cauterized into a black metal; HE WOULD GO TO SLEEP BRUISED & BLOODY. [ @jediance ] IF IT MEANT CLEANSING THE CURVE LIPPED DELIGHT FROM SER ALLISER THORNE’S MOUTH. the explosion of white continued over them, a hurtling mass the shade of the moon that braced starkly in the careening sunlight: ...
— he lunged.
Aydin Aghdashloo — The Years of Fire and Snow (from the series Memories of Destruction) [gouache on board, 1978]
ᵛ̲ᵃ̲ᵍ̲ᵘ̲ᵉ 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋.

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- Françoise Pétrovitch, Saint Sébastien.