#& aesthetics.
lucien victor guirand de scévola, head of a lady in medieval costume, details (1900)
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bellas artes, santiago de chile.
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din, aesthetics.
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FANFICTION ALERT ▴━━ introducing creature agendas !
Hermione’s startled gasp draws his attention, and Harry turns to find her standing frozen with fear, metal clenched tightly in shaking hands, as the shackled beast opens its great maw and an orange glow starts from within, growing brighter and brighter until, with one hoarse roar, it unleashes a jet of fire at them.
Harry’s mind goes blank, his body moving before his brain has the chance to process what is happening. He wastes no time at all in throwing himself at Hermione who hasn’t budged from her spot, Ron’s frantic, “‘Mione!” sounding in the background. But in his haste to reach her, Harry stumbles over a loose rock in the ground and lands hard on his knee, ripping a hole into the knee of his pants and scraping the skin, even as his hands unerringly find Hermione’s shoulders to push her out of the way of the flames.
She hits the ground with a groan, her fearful gaze locked on Harry just as the flames reach him, swallowing him whole, her piercing scream echoing off the rocky walls, matching Ron’s cry of shock.
Orangish red fills Harry’s vision, the stifling wave of heat settling around him like a cloak set aflame, blurring the edges of his vision until it finally whites out. He blinks rapidly, trying to relieve the stinging in his eyes. (It hurts.) Merlin does it hurt, the feel of the flames licking at his skin a blistering sensation teasing his nerve endings into a frenzy of tingles and itches and stings, a hint of the pain and destruction to come—pain that soon turns excruciating.
It radiates through him, not unlike the Cruciatus he was once subjected to, threatening to cripple him as a shroud of inky blackness lurks at the edges of his mind, so thick he can barely tell his up from his down.
Until, between breaths, the black spots flickering in his eyes finally dissolve, and he’s suddenly met with the awe-inspiring sight of a gargantuan skeletal dragon looming over him like some great, insurmountable mountain, with thick, bony wings stretched as far as the eye can see, pitch-black and tipped with a pair of sickles, from whence coils of shadows writhe around them, beckoning him forward.
“Greetings, Harry James Potter,” says the being, several voices overlapping Their unearthly, whispery-soft tone as They lower Their head until They are at eye-level with him.
Harry stares in stupefied astonishment at the sheer size of the thing, hardly able to hold Their opaque gaze without flinching. Their eyesockets are twice the size of dinner plates, as black as the skeletal frame They don proudly—and just as unnerving, the ancient intelligence in Their gaze as unfathomable as the deepest, most unexplored parts of space humankind yearns to touch but never will. Shadows lovingly cling to Them, all but sinking into Their bones with every minute shift of Their body as They continue to regard him with some foreign emotion akin to familiarity, an aura of fondness surrounding Them that is as surprising as it is compelling.
TO READ MORE about harry’s adventures in westeros, click here.
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remicore . 🫶
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𝗧𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗦𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗛 : 𝗮𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰𝘀 / 𝟬𝟬𝟭.
personals do not interact ; mutuals may interact. ©
you are a born saviour. the daughter of the once most feared and hated man in the whole of alexandria, but you are also the daughter of the woman that he loved more than anyone. you are strong and fearless, brave and a little bit reckless. you’re father’s daughter through and through. everyone always tells you how much you look like your mom, but you’ve got your dad’s eyes and his temperament. you grew up in a world that was ruled by the survivors of the dead, the dead that continue to walk the earth in search for their next meal. raised to fight and survive, and yet you dislike killing, you find it difficult and don’t want to be seen as the monster. you know what some people used to say about your dad, you know that he was once viewed as the monster that haunted nightmares. you don’t want to be seen like that. you want to be someone useful, someone who could be relied on and someone who would do anything to protect what they have in alexandria. you are a natural born leader, someone who knows how to take charge and get yourself and others out of situations. you may be a weapon, but you always think before you act. you are a survivor and you are proud to be your father’s daughter, no matter what anyone says.
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REPOST AND LIST 6 SONGS THAT INSPIRE YOU TO WRITE YOUR MUSE:
i. chapel, by nicole dollangager
i'm going to get married today / the chapel is full of crosses and bouquets / we pray to the wax bride and her violet varicose veins / kiss me with forever where only death remains / i can be good, I can be true / you know I don't love anyone, but i love you / i can be good, i can be true / you know I don't love anyone, but I love you
ii. he hit me (and it felt like a kiss), by the chordettes
yes, he hit me / and it felt like a kiss / he hit me / and i knew i loved him / and then he took me in his arms / with all the tenderness there is / and when he kissed me / he made me his
iii. i will wait for you, by connie francis
if it takes forever i will wait for you / for a thousand summers i will wait for you / 'till you're back beside me, 'till I'm holding you / 'till I hear you sigh here in my arms
iv. what's the use of wond'rin'?, from carousel
common sense may tell you / that the ending will be sad / and now's the time to break and run away / but whats the use of wondrin' / if the ending will be sad? / he's your fella and you love him / there's nothing more to say
v. me and my husband, by mitski
and i am the idiot with the painted face / in the corner, taking up space / but when he walks in, i am loved, i am loved / me and my husband / we're doing better / it's always been just him and me together
vi. cellophane, by fka twigs
and i, just want to feel you're there / and i don't want to have to share our love / i try, but i get overwhelmed / when you're gone I have no one to tell / and i, just want to feel you're there / and i don't want to have to share our love / i try but I get overwhelmed / all wrapped in cellophane, the feelings that we had
& LIST 6 QUOTES THAT INSPIRE YOU TO WRITE YOUR MUSE:
i. ghosts are real, this much I know. there are things that tie them to a place, very much like they do to us. some remain tethered to a patch of land, a time and date, the spilling of blood, a terrible crime ... there are others, others that hold onto an emotion, a drive, loss, revenge, or love. those, they never go away. / crimson peak, dir guillermo del toro
ii. as long as i can remember, i've wanted you. i've made a monument of this loving. / rumi
iii. another thing that she is thinking is this: she is going to die. antigone is young. she would much rather live than die. but there is no help for it. when your name is antigone, there is only one part you can play, and she will have to play hers through to the end. / jean anouilh (trans. lewis galantiere)
iv. i saw love disfigure me into something i am not recognizing. / song for zula, by phosphorescent
v. i want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love. / sylvia plath
vi. i'll tell you what real love is. it is blind devotion, unquestioning self humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter — as i did." / charles dickens, as in great expectations
TAGGED BY: @jokethur, thank you!! <3
TAGGING: @hiveruled, @cathydoll, @heygutlcss, @maskacre, @infernalrampage, @firstsorrow
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GWAREN + AESTHETICS. 1/?
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FANFICTION ALERT ▴━━ introducing fight for tomorrow !
( we can start today )
Harry taps his wand against his bottom lip, deliberating on what to tell them when sparks erupt from the still-lit tip in a rendition of a mini-firework display. He rolls his eyes at its theatrics. “Oh, hush you...Sorry about that.” He sends Eddie a cheeky wink. “She likes to show off sometimes. But to answer your question...that bloody clock of mine is off about fifteen years, so yeah, suppose you can say that...Or maybe there is no future, and we’re just lost in the sands of time, stuck between here and there.”
In the ensuing quiet between admiration and rumination, a lone tendril wiggles after them like a fish caught on a hook, just barely grazing the heels of their shoes before Harry is pointing his wand at the wannabe Devil’s Snare and casting silently, to the childlike awe and wonder of his captivated audience.
A small cluster of flames shoots from the wand tip, igniting the tendril and sending it into a quivering frenzy, a terrible, inhuman shriek renting the mildly toxic air. (Uh, nope. Not going to inhale any unidentifiable toxins today, thank you very much.) So without missing a beat, Harry swishes his wand in a downward, complicated spiral, an enormous bubble saturated in clean, breathable oxygen emerging to surround their heads.
“Whoa,” Eddie whispers and pokes at the bubble, his expression revealing just how startled he is to find it as effervescent and as soft as it looks. “Get a load of this, Henderson.” He exchanges a look with Dustin, evidently on the same wavelength because, in the next moment, they’re sporting the same kind of grin, a smug curl of a thing that might’ve rankled if Harry didn’t find it so damn adorable.
“We’re going to rock this campaign, dude,” Eddie declares, exuding confidence as he strums at the air like he’s in the middle of a guitar solo. (It’s actually kind of sexy.
Damnit. No.
Not again, brain.)
TO READ MORE about harry’s adventures in stranger things, click here.
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𝖉𝖚𝖓𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖊𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖆𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖙𝖎𝖈𝖘 / 𝟎𝟎𝟒. FT. NEVERMORE AU. ©
personals do not reblog / mutuals may interact.
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WHAT COLOR IS YOUR LOVE?
warm burnt orange
riding off into the sunset, the hope of a happy ending, the bitter after taste that still in it's own way smells kinda great. your love is all bitter hopefulness, all about a broken heart that refuses to quit, all about the unshakable knowledge that a burning fire has a great comforting warm and a soft glowing light, all about the way when the sun comes down there's a beautiful starry night. it's stubbornness, it's the refusal to give up, the clutching of broken shards despite the searing pain and being adamant that dammit you can still make a beautiful stained glass window out of it. yours is a screaming heart, a pleading love, a bitter and almost belligerent hopefulness that things will still work out even if you have to roll up your sleeves and make them. and god, aren't you tired? isn't your heart heavy? is all your hard work worth it? don't you just want to curl up and let it be? let the fire turn to ashes and the sky turn dark and let love die down and watch people leave? but you don't, do you? you're the bravest out of all of us, so you pick up the pieces and you keep going, you keep believing and you keep your heart full of hope because some day. some day you know you'll get it. you keep riding off into the sunset and you keep filling my heart with hope as you go because god, how do i wish you finally get it too.
tagged by: @xx--savemysoul, thank you!
tagging: you!
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