Nowy Sącz
ul. Jagiellońska 69
kamienica z 1910 r.
foto z 6 maja 2018 i 14 czerwca 2020
Dom Samuela i Lei Rosnerów, później należący do rodziny Einzigerów. W czasie okupacji niemieckiej był tutaj jeden z tajnych punktów kontaktowych Związku Walki Zbrojnej.
Reklama warsztatu introligatorsko-kaletniczego z 1927 r. Czerwone litery naklejone na szybie nadświetla bramy również ogłaszają usługi kaletnika, współczesnego następcy zakładu sprzed stulecia.
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Nowy Sącz, Poland
69 Jagiellońska St.
built in 1910
taken on 6 May 2018 and 14 June 2020
House of Samuel and Lea Rosner, later owned by the Einziger family. The Polish resistance in WWII had one of its secret meeting points here.
[announcement of a bookbinding and leathercraft workshop from 1927; red letters on the glass above the door's lintel announce a leather craftman's services same as his predecessor a century ago]
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No thoughts, just Punk!Simon.
Punk!Simon who dresses like he shops exclusively at Hot Topic. We're talking band t-shirts, combat boots, leather anything he can get his hands on. His style is bold, accessories maximized, and his entire wardrobe can be condensed into one of three colors: black, gray, and dark gray.
Punk!Simon who likes to wear lots of jewelry. Thick chains, bulky rings, decorative pins pressed into his jackets. His pieces are mostly silver and always real, none of that fake, turn your skin green shit. Keep him far away from metal detectors because he will set them off.
Punk!Simon who listens to only the grungiest of grunge rock music. Ask him for recommendations and he's spouting off six or seven bands that are so underground they may as well reside in the Earth's mantle. Don't leave him in charge of the playlist when driving together unless you want a bad case of tinnitus for the next four hours.
Punk!Simon who’s tatted up to high heaven. You thought he only had his left sleeve done, until you saw him working out without his shirt on one day. Turns out it doesn't just stop at his shoulder, but continues downward, wrapping around his trunk like vines of black and gray ivy.
Punk!Simon who's sporting more than one set of piercings. You ask him how many he has and (with a smirk) he tells you six, and you try to take a mental tally of the ones you've seen. 1) eyebrow 2) industrial 3) nostril 4) snake bites 5) areolas 6) . . . 6) . . . . . Huh. Where's the sixth?
Punk!Simon who experiments with a little body modification. Not just the normal piercings and tattoos, but things many people would consider to be on the more extreme side. Stretched lobes, sharpened canines, . . . bifurcated tongue? 👀
Punk!Simon who, on an uncharacteristically unmasked day, grabs your attention as you enjoy a round of drinks with friends. One minute you were sitting there, chatting, just minding your business, and the next your gaze was locked onto Simon's tongue as it darted out from in between his plump lips. You tried not to let your eyes linger, but you couldn't help it. You'd never seen something like that before in person. A tongue split right down the center, cut with surgical precision from the looks of it. It had clearly been done on purpose, not an accident or deformity, but you hadn't expected to see it as you watched him lick away a bourbon droplet from the corner of his mouth. As you stare, said mouth then curves slyly, impish, into a grin just shy of wicked. The movement makes your eyes dart upwards, where they meet Simon's, and he's giving you a look that says one thing: Caught you.
With that taunting expression, Simon turns in his seat, plants his elbows on the table, and blocks out the rest of your group as he asks lowly, “Somethin’ the matter, sweet’eart?”
His tone makes you startle, eyes rounding in surprise, mouth fluttering open and closed like a flailing fish. “N-No, I was– I– You– I–”
“Wha's wrong?” His brow furrows, teasing. “Cat got your tongue?”
Oh, the bastard.
But the reminder has your gaze dropping back to his lips unthinkingly, almost like you secretly wish he'll grant you another peek for your sick fascination.
He doesn't, keeps that serpentine tongue tucked within the confines of his jaw, but it's like he can read your mind because his smile curves further, drawing even closer to you as he says, “Curious?”
It's like the rattling of a deadly snake's tail, the way he hisses out the question. It means to warn you of danger ahead, of expert predation, of total and utter annihilation should you let him take a bite.
You drag your eyes back up to his smoky ones, half expecting to find slitted pupils that speak of poison. There isn't, just a mirthful quirk to his brow, and a solitary nod is all you can offer him in return.
“‘S alright.” He tips his chin in encouragement. “Go on, then. Ask.”
Another glance to his lips as you rummage through the dense brush that entangles your brain. Plucking one of the first you find, you ask, “Does it hurt?” eyes moving back to his.
That earns a little chuckle from Simon, an even smaller shake of the head. “Not now that it's healed,” he tells you truthfully, cheek dimpled in amusement. A beat passes, him waiting for another of your questions, and when you don't conjure one up, he jokes, “That it?” Clearly, he expected a barrage.
You take a second, searching for another, then simply, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why'd you do it?”
Simon raises his shoulder in a shrug. “Dunno. Wanted to do somethin’ fun; different I s’pose,” his reasoning is as carefree as his voice sounds. He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Plus, ‘s more useful than you think,” he tacks on at the end, something mischievous glinting in his eye. Deception maybe. Bait definitely.
Useful, he says? You doubt it. Having a second tongue sounds like a burden honestly. You'd have to learn how to talk, eat, and drink all over again, just like when you were a small child. But if he said so, and with such confidence, then it begs the question: “How?”
How is having a second tongue useful?
Throughout your entire conversation, Simon's maintained steady eye contact with you, his focus never faltering from yours. But now, as your brow creases in confusion, Simon breaks away, lids lowering as he gazes down at the floor. He rolls a thought around his head for a moment, that cheeky look still etched into his face. When he huffs an amused breath through his nose, it only deepens his smirk that much more, and then slowly, painfully unrushed, his eyes rake up, up, up your body, until settling on yours once again.
The look he gives you now is dark, a grin like the devil’s as he peers up at you. The tip of his forked tongue pokes out as it makes another swipe across his bottom lip.
No thoughts, except for Punk!Simon who takes you back to his place and shows you just how useful two tongues can be.
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