Jon Snow ;

🪐 — jon snow​ ;

once  upon  a  time,  he  believed  fate  was  his  to  seize  and  to  steer.  just  like  daeron  the  young  dragon,  who  conquered  dorne  at  fourteen,  so  too  would  jon  conquer  his  fears  and  lead  men.  but  now,  he  starts  to  wonder  if  the  red  woman  isn’t  right.  had  it  always  been  his  fate  to  wind  up  at  the  wall,  just  as  it  had  it  been  robb’s  fate  to  die  ?  could  a  man  truly  steer  his  own  course,  or  was  he  simply  a  pawn  in  the  gods’  games  ?    he  inhales  deeply,  eyes  falling  closed.  such  questions  are  beyond  him;  despite  his  glimpse  beyond  this  world.   ❝  my  lady,    ❞    he  begins  carefully,  index  finger  tapping  on  the  wood  of  the  table.      ❝  if  .  .  .  it  was  the  will  of  your  lord  that  i  return,  surely  you  can  tell  me  what  need  he  has  of  me.    ❞    grey  eyes  bore  into  her.    from  this  distance  he  can  smell  her  heat,  as  red-hot  as  the  iron  from  mikken’s  forge.    part  of  him  suspects  that  r’hllor’s  will  shall  line  up  with  melisandre’s  in  a  .  .  .  suspiciously  convenient  way    (  as  often  kings  and  lords  and  priests  appeal  to  the  power  of  their  gods,  when  it  is,  in  fact,  their  own  own  human  power  they  wish  to  wield  ).     ❝  i  should  hope  it  involves  war,  because  i  still  mean  to  ride.  ❞

         SHE KNOWS WHAT HE WILL ASK  before he speaks, though this particular prediction required no blessed vision from the flames. they all wanted to know the path ahead. melisandre herself was no exception; it was that longing to see the way forward that kept her awake night after night staring into her hearth for a glimpse of her god’s will.                                                             but it is the determination in his voice that does surprise her, red lips curling into a smile as he speaks his intentions. it pleases her to hear. jon snow is r’hllor’s chosen; that much cannot be in question any longer.  &  her god required a warrior’s heart of his champion.

                       ❝ i cannot tell you how this will end for you. r’hllor only shows me what i need to see in order to to serve him. ❞  melisandre weighs each word cautiously, sensing he will be disappointed with her answer, yet unable to give a better one.  ❝ but please understand, his light is a gift as much as it is a duty. ❞  her body turns away from the table, eyes drawn to a torch alight on the wall. it seems to pulse under her gaze, a fourth heart alive  &  beating in perfect synchronization with the three of flesh  &  blood that were present in the room.

                                    melisandre had been so certain that the wall was the place the darkness would descend, but then, she’d been certain of stannis, too. she may not see the path, but she would never doubt her god’s will again. &  with her resolve steeled, the priestess straightens her spine  &  turns back toward jon in a graceful sweep of crimson silks. ❝ you cannot escape it, but nor will you be held prisoner by it. if it is your will to ride south, then go  —  as soon as your wounds allow  —  &  the light will follow you. ❞

“(..) psychologists say that shame ruins your capacity for reverie by making cracks in the mind where it is dangerous for thought to wander.”

— Anne Carson, Float; “Shame stack”

🪐 — jack sparrow ;

      Jack didn’t spend this much time in taverns across both civilised and non-civilised ports alike not to know when there was some sort of disturbance in the usual behaviour of the crowd, and certainly with every brief glance upwards from the logbook on his table, the source of whatever ruckus this was yet appeared to be getting ever closer to his table. He didn’t notice the cause at first, not until one quick survey of the room drew his eye to a sudden flash of white — and even then he was content to dismiss whatever he’d seen as a trick of the light. It was unfortunate, then, that the next time he glanced up that so-called trick of the light had become a fully fledged, peculiarly dressed human-looking man, scrambling through the throng of patrons towards his table with a look of what could only be described as astonishment, as if he had suddenly become the most interesting person in the room. Jack could concede that in this moment right here, he was not. “ I… would happen to be, yes. ” Mouth open, Jack blinked a few times, before dragging his gaze slowly across the bloke’s entire visage, just to be sure. Nothing changed. He was still standing there. Dressed in that. “ But… I do not recall accruing any significant tailoring debts and, even if I did, those debts are, ” he made a show of poking his thumb through a hole in his shirt sleeve, “ not mine. ”

              THE GLEE STEDE FEELS  when his suspicions of the man’s identity are confirmed spreads across his face with no attempt made to stifle it. he breaks into a grin, his hands even clapping once together in delight. it wasn’t every day that one got to meet a pirate of such legend, after all  —  &  entirely by chance no less !  truly, this was his lucky day. but the next words confuse him, stede’s brow furrowing in bewilderment.  ❝ tailoring debts ? ❞  he repeats, eyeing the tatty edges of jack’s sleeves. even so, it takes him another moment to understand. but when he does, stede releases a chuckle, his hands smoothing the lapels of his elegant brocade overcoat.  ❝ oh no, my good captain. i’m no tailor — though i shall happily take your guess as a compliment. ❞  &  though jack didn’t seem to have any malice in his tone  — more abject astonishment  —  stede is still reminded once again that he stands out among these kinds of men. but he refuses to allow the thought to take hold of him, drawing himself up until his spine is straight  &  his jaw is set before he speaks again. ❝ i’m actually a pirate very much like yourself  — though i haven’t yet got half as many adventures under my belt as you do. ❞ his smile comes more gradually than before,  &  the lace trim of his sleeve flutters as he places his hand on the back of the chair opposite of jack’s seat in a clear request. to seat himself at a table without permission would be horribly impolite,  &  stede was still a gentleman, in spite of everything. ❝ in fact, i had wondered if you might be willing to recount some of your most daring tales for me ?  i should very much like to hear about your travels from a primary source, as it were. ❞ a moment’s pause, stede patient as he waits to see if jack will acquiesce to his presence. ❝  &  i’ll gladly see to it that you don’t go thirsty while you’re speaking, of course. ❞

STEDE’S OUTFITS ⤷ requested by anon

🪐 — edward teach​ ;

it still disorients him a little to have such an unyielding presence at his side.   someone he can trust to watch his back without fear of being thrown to the sharks for a coin or two.  there had never been someone like that in his life before,  and yet he found him while bound and bleeding on a british vessel,  headed for the gallows  —  life is funny like that sometimes,  he supposes.  edward hadn’t hesitated then,  back on his ship,  once the haze of pain released him enough to let him be conscious for more than a few minutes at a time:  izzy was to be made part of the crew from the get go,  and no one had better dare raise a single protest on the matter.  then harris died not long after that and the choice to replace his first mate had been so damn easy,  as easy as breathing.  who else other than the man who had freed him from the english and abandoned his post to follow him?  israel hands,  former british navy officer turned pirate,  now acting as his first mate.  

both the memory and izzy’s words bring a smile to his lips,  but edward is a little distracted  —  fingers tapping idly against his knee,  thoughts racing away from the recent event.   ❛  what?  uh,  yeah.  sure.  ❜   he seems to be miles away.  he agrees that they need to tell the men it had been their captain to kill the fellow,  but distantly,  like his ears are full of water.  an idea,  half formed and so sudden his head nearly spins with it:  they need something to mark their first raid together by.  and they need it now.   ❛  actually,  yes.  i need you to come with me quick.  ❜   grinning widely,  edward springs to his feet and reaches out to wrap a hand around his first mate’s wrist,  feeling half mad with anticipation as he heads towards his cabin.

( … )

❛  stay still for me,  mh?  captain’s orders.  ❜   he is holding a big needle close to his face,  after all,  grin replaced by a rather serious expression as he makes some experimental moves with his wrist,  still well above the skin.  edward straightens his back again,  balancing his weight on the mattress while his knees are positioned on either side of izzy’s hips,  effectively pinning him between himself and the bed.   ❛  this your first tattoo,  mr hands?  ❜

         I NEED YOU  edward says, grin dazzling as strong fingers curl around his wrist,  &  izzy’s world goes hazy. all doubts vanish from his mind as he follows edward into his cabin, a little flip in his stomach. there’s a chaotic energy to his captain that he only gets when his blood is up, adrenaline still buzzing through his body.  &  izzy revels in it, drinks in every moment. he always does as edward tells him without complaint or question, but at the order to get on the bed  &  lie back, his head spins. he almost passes out, but still he scrambles to comply, graceless as he stretches himself out on his back.  &  then a moment later edward is straddling his hips, tools clattering beside them,  &  izzy stops breathing.                                                                   whether he’s in heaven or hell, he can’t say. izzy has survived this long only by keeping a vice-tight control on his both body  &  his mind, but edward’s heat  &  weight pressing him flat back against the bed threatens to shatter his resolve to pieces. but he says stay still  &  izzy complies instantly, his thoughts going foggy  &  his body calming unconsciously under the commanding tone. the needle is large  &  menacing, ink welling darkly at its tip,  &  izzy can see that he means to place his mark just below his eye, just where the tears would fall if he ever were to let them.                               this will hurt, he knows,  &  the pain is a promise. to wear edward’s mark so plainly for all to see was a gift,  &  he would accept it as such. he will not flinch; he will make his captain proud.  izzy steels himself, swallowing around the thick lump in his throat. &  his hands need to take ahold of something, so they fist in the sheets below him, gripping tight enough for his knuckles to go white. ❝ yes, captain, ❞ he breathes, his voice hoarse  &  scarcely above a whisper.  ❝ my first. ❞  &  god is he grateful that edward is the first man who’s gotten beneath his skin; hopes he is the only one who ever does.  ❝ thank you. ❞

Anya Taylor-Joy » Saturday Night Live 46x20