Sagres, Portugal by Luca Severin
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art blog(derogatory)
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
we're not kids anymore.

Discoholic 🪩


if i look back, i am lost
almost home
Not today Justin
The Stonewall Inn
Cosmic Funnies

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YOU ARE THE REASON
$LAYYYTER
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

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@undeniablespice
Sagres, Portugal by Luca Severin

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☕ the other thing Ramsay took (From Reek II:"He has only taken toes and fingers and that other thing, when he might have had my tongue, or peeled the skin off my legs from heel to thigh.")
ty for asking!!! i know the most common interpretation of this line is that it proves theon's castration. "that other thing" being his penis or his testes or both.
i think it is deliberately left vague here to give us, the reader, a moment to pause and wonder what the other thing may be. his manhood? that would be the most obvious thing for theon to be shy about. he lists everything else, what is there left to take that he wouldn't want to mention outright? it must be especially embarrassing.
i don't read the line that way. i'm not saying that if you do you are Wrong or that you're reading the line incorrectly. the very point of leaving a line like this ambiguous is for readers to ask questions and to draw their own conclusions.
i think "the other thing" that ramsay took from theon that he is too scared to name, even in the privacy of his own mind's narration, is his former identity as theon greyjoy. he has not, at this point, gone back to thinking of himself as theon. though it has at this point in the text become obvious who "reek" is, theon refers to himself only as this pseudonym. he isn't ready to refer to himself as anything else, yet, and only vaguely alludes to "the time before he learned his name".
since we're playing schrodinger's peen again i will also talk about this line from the prince of winterfell chapter:
Ramsay rose, the firelight shining on his face. "Reek, get over here. Get her ready for me."
For a moment he did not understand. "I … do you mean … m'lord, I have no … I …"
"With your mouth," Lord Ramsay said. "And be quick about it. If she's not wet by the time I'm done disrobing, I will cut off that tongue of yours and nail it to the wall."
this line seems far more direct and explicit. theon cannot "get jeyne ready" for ramsay to use because he has no penis
but that doesn't make sense to me. you wouldn't get jeyne wet and ready to take her husband's dick. with your dick. like the point of ramsay's rape by proxy, here, of both theon and jeyne, is that taking the time to arouse a woman you are going to fuck, for the purpose of her vagina feeling better for your dick to go into, is beneath him. making the wife you are going to rape "comfortable" before doing so is a demeaning task to be delegated. ramsay is going to do the "real fucking" and theon gets to do the lowly foreplay stuff. (i hope i have used enough scare quotes here to indicate that i do not agree with the thought process that i am explaining)
i think it makes much more sense that theon was about to say "fingers". he has 7 left, of course, but it is easier to finger someone when you have five on each hand and are used to, in your prior sexual experience, having all five to use.
there was also a post by nosafeanchorage where they said that theon was about to say "i have no right" which is an interpretation i also really like
is it possible that theon interpreted ramsay's instruction as "fuck jeyne first for me and i'll go after" and was responding by telling him he lacked the body part to do so? yes, it is possible. i just don't read the line that way.
i'm not sure how to end this post but this is always a topic i like chatting about, so thank you for your question 🍆🔪💦
daenerys targaryen
Description
art @maratycznie
found here
Worm King's Lullaby
read on ao3 here!
Fandom: House of the Dragon
Type: One-shot
Summary:
King, princess, queen, Hand. Such love makes a family. Such hate makes a family.
Viserys, First of His Name, with his kin, his sins, and his Hightowers.
Words: 9863
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Viserys/Otto, Viserys/Alicent, Viserys and the Classic Targaryen Tradition of emotional incest with all his living relatives
Tags: Character Study, POV Second Person, Canon Compliant, Unreliable Narrator, Grooming
the show devastatingly failed to explore the potential for suborned gay obsession between viserys, daemon, and otto, as expressed chiefly through adult men marrying each other's daughters. i have made it my life's mission to fix this
By anmenmai on X

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finally done with theon's POV characters from ACOK 💤
Arya's, Tyrion's and Catelyn's are over here
Catelyn's POV characters from ACOK 🍂 had a lot of fun with this one, currently very influenced by Sheilah Beckett's illustrations
I've already made Arya's, Tyrion's and Theon's versions!
Attributed to Ferdinand van Kessel, The Dance of Rats, 17th century
I'm not threatened by llms as a writer because it's not actually artificial intelligence, it's not sapient, like, it has never experienced anything, which is why its writing is always dogshit.
like, how do I explain this.
I recently wrote a scene that takes place in a barn. I took the descriptive sentences and carefully chose the words that, when pronounced, sound the most like crunching or rustling hay. When I wrote a description of rain I used words that had rounder letters. My most recent edit was replacing the word "exasperated" with "frayed" because it made me feel more frustrated. Chatgpt doesn't think like that.
It doesn't get creative with form or structure or symbolism, it doesn't play, it just mimics. If it uses a weird word choice, you can't discuss what the intention was behind it, because there was no intention, it doesn't think that deep. There's nothing it wants to say and nothing it wants to evoke. That's why its prose is always vapid as fuck
Dennis Miller Bunker (American, 1861-1890), Wild Asters, 1889. Oil on canvas, 64.14 x 76.83 cm.

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“The Things I Do For Love” / Bran’s Dream
Based on A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin
Brienne of Tarth Fanart: A True Knight
“I think all literature has ideas. […] Ideas about the human condition, and love, and God, and sex, and all of these things are ideas, but the truth is fiction is not a good vehicle for presenting abstract ideas. I mean, non-fiction, journalism, my profession, in which I had my professional degrees, is actually a better way to explicate if you have an idea about some political or scientific method. That’s why scientific journals are full of research reports, they're not full of science fiction stories. What fiction is good about is presenting emotion. Fiction is good about replicating the human experience, and the human heart in conflict is central to all of that. If the story you're telling me doesn't have characters in it that I care about in a situation that's going to engage my emotions, I'm not gonna find it very interesting.”
- GRRM, via
Literature is one of the few spheres that try to keep us close to the hard facts of the world, because by its very nature it is always psychological, because it focuses on the internal reasoning and motives of the characters, reveals their otherwise inaccessible experience to another person, or simply provokes the reader into a psychological interpretation of their conduct. Only literature is capable of letting us go deep into the life of another being, understand their reasons, share their emotions and experience their fate.
Olga Tokarczuk's 2018 Nobel Prize lecture
Predictions are uttered by prophets (free of charge); by clairvoyants (who usually charge a fee, and are therefore more honored in their day than prophets); and by futurologists (salaried). Prediction is the business of prophets, clairvoyants, and futurologists. It is not the business of novelists. A novelist's business is lying. The weather bureau will tell you what next Tuesday will be like, and the Rand Corporation will tell you what the twenty-first century will be like. I don't recommend that you turn to the writers of fiction for such information. It's none of their business. All they're trying to do is tell you what they're like, and what you're like-what's going on-what the weather is now, today, this moment, the rain, the sunlight, look! Open your eyes; listen, listen. That is what the novelists say. But they don't tell you what you will see and hear. All they can tell you is what they have seen and heard, in their time in this world, a third of it spent in sleep and dreaming, another third of it spent in telling lies. "The truth against the world!"-Yes. Certainly. Fiction writers, at least in their braver moments, do desire the truth: to know it, speak it, serve it. But they go about it in a peculiar and devious way, which consists in inventing persons, places, and events which never did and never will exist or occur, and telling about these fictions in detail and at length and with a great deal of emotion, and then when they are done writing down this pack of lies, they say, There! That's the truth!
-Introduction to The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. Le Guin
young rodrik the reader and alannys harlaw
14th century Hungarian behemoth swords. The middle sword is about 270 cm long, or 8 foot 10 inches.

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vodun day, 2020 benin. julio sacristan
sneak peek at an upcoming wip ... my dreadful omegaverse addiction continues to be enabled, disastrously
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“Lyonel,” he heard someone say. The sound of it blurred into the echo of the music, which blurred into the distant smear of candlelight, which blurred into the sheer gloss of sweat on the long thick column of the hedge knight’s throat. There was dirt smeared under his jaw. Actual dirt, a dusty streak beneath his broad-cut chin down the shadow of his neck where the scent was so thick it made Lyonel feel his own pulse throbbing in his head, the whisper of blood running up the veins in his calves, the smallest blind flutter of muscle unthinking in his core. There was water in his mouth. There was wine in his mouth. There was wine hanging sharp in the air at the edges of that smell, and in the hot soft flesh between his tongue and teeth there was another smell that Lyonel did not quite recognize. It was sweeter and gamey and ripe, a tang like the sour burst of fruit at first bite, laced so thick with blood-need that it occurred to him to tell Gowen to find the poor fevre-dazed cunt slicking up Lyonel’s tent and see them out into the clear air of night.
“Lyonel,” the voice said again, definitely his brother, and that was the press of Gowen’s nails over his nape, and when had Lyonel started sweating enough to be so wet? His skin itched fiercely under his beard. It was even worse under his shirt, the cling of sleeve to wrist and the brush of collar at his throat suddenly the worst of any torment he’d ever known, and oh, how he had known torment, the whip and the rack and the thousand fiery needles of cloth against his skin. There was another sound. This, lower and more animal, a seeking thoughtless burr. It was the hedge knight’s sound. It was for Lyonel, as was the hot bloom of flush across his face, the sweat now dripping down the tendons in his neck that made his gums itch—
The nails at his nape became a hand, scruffing him, and Gowen said, “Begging your pardons for my brother, he’s really quite drunk.”
The antlered helm fell off when Gowen hauled him from his chair. Lyonel was glad for it. His head was light enough for him to make a lunge at the big man when they passed. The little brat tugged him back by his cloak until the chain dug into his windpipe, and Lyonel was led stumbling and nose-drunk from his own pavilion.