bittersglory

[bittersglory]

‹     ♡     ›    kueyens​ .      /     KENTA . 

the world flickers in hues of blue, purple and NEON YELLOW; a million different signs before his eyes, inside his mind. tunes that pull him this way and that, that play tug-of-war with his long limbs and try to claim his attention. HIS ATTENTION — another flickering thing. here now, then gone, then here again. their universe is flooded with sights and sounds and sensations and kenta yokoyama has the focus of a F L Y. a characteristic that’s landed him in more trouble than he cares to count ( and, truly, who has the time and CONCENTRATION to actually sit down and…digest it all ? he certainly doesn’t ). he’s no stranger to see-through cells, filed reports or the disappointment on his father’s face. something about honor and morals and…and… THERE GOES ANOTHER SIGN, calling his name. a robotic whisper of the best drinks and GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS in a vibrant hot pink. he wonders how many functions that sign has, how long it’s been flickering, how long it’ll be there until another replaces…— HIS MIND IS A WHIRLWIND, always moving, never staying for long. just as one thing catches his eye another pulls him by the ear, only to be interrupted by a sly hand placing nameless substances on his palm. and see kenta…kenta was not made to LEAVE THINGS ALONE. he’s a tester, a taster, and while this city aches for GOOD PEOPLE and heroes and saints, it’ll find none in him. he takes the pills, or the drinks, or the whatever. he takes it and lets them drown out the rest. the lights, the sirens, the temptation. lets it all wash over and lays his eyes on the one place that never fails to ground him ( albeit, temporarily ). dark eyes focus on her. 

the accusation has always been the same: AIMLESS. even in school, for all the good it did him. a teacher prattling on about worlds far away, or discovery, or numbers, or languages, or…he wonders how long hilde quintan’s been chewing that purple bubble gum for, where she bought it. wonders if it tastes like grapes or lavender or WHAT ( later, in a tight school restroom stall he discovers the taste to be PINK LEMONADE, but by then he’s preoccupied with OTHER, more interesting things. the neon green of her bra, his fingers sliding up her thigh. ) the world moves fast and kenta moves faster, that has always been the issue. well, the ISSUE in other people’s minds, anyway. boy with no destination, boy made to CRASH & BURN. it doesn’t bother him; he craves the ever-changing, lusts for chaos and high speeds. his brother calls it attention seeking. his mother a cry for help. his father ? stupidity. and kenta is inclined to agree with the last diagnosis. it’s sheer STUPIDITY that drives him into trouble’s arm and stupidity that keeps him there. stupidity and kenta get along FAMOUSLY. why deny that ? and stupidity brought HER along, too. brought — brings — many things along. like laughter, and fun, and constant satisfaction to his deep well of curiosity. and, yes, it’s also STUPIDITY that has him mindlessly taking whatever is offered. the pale green powder crawls up his nose and the world CHANGES, spins, comes ALIVE. eyes find her. eyes always find her. he retreats to her, and though he intended to pay ( he thinks ), that thought is long gone. tsk, tsk, tsk — always trouble, around every corner. he slithers away, reappears at neelam’s side with a drunken wink and a half smile. in the distance someone shouts about THEFT, but her hair is shiny and so many different colors and scents that the shouting is drowned out. neelam’s words make him aware of the oncoming man, and subconsciously he seeks shelter at her side ( she’s far too small to HIDE him, he’s mildly aware, but at the moment she seems like the safest harbor in sight. ) kenta places his hands on the sticky table before them, drops his head and BREATHES IN before shaking his head with a grin directed her way.  he straightens. ❝ it’s all a bit…fuzzy, ❞ he explains, eyes darting to the man in question, ❝ though i suspect you’ll find out sooner or later. ❞ his grin is shameless, unfazed. his blood is singing and everything is double, sparkling, colorful. the man is coming but neelam is…there are so many of her, all colorful, and he wants to touch them all. kenta reaches out, lets his fingertips thread on a lock of her hair.  ❝ purple looks great on you. ❞

 she  remembers  everything  being  taller  ,  more  intimidating .  sometimes  the  girl  who  once  stood  in  her  place  thought  the  city’s  shadows  would  swallow  her  whole  ,  that  the  stars  above  her  were  much  too  far  away  to  ever  see  her  being  devoured  ,  and  she  would  simply  be  forgotten   ——   a  trembling  thing  that  flinched  at  every  creak  ,  covering  her  ears  as  tightly  as  she  could  to  block  out  the  way  the  streets  howled .   (   a  developed  habit  ,  she  thinks .  that  forgotten  child  she  has  never  outgrown  :  when  everything  reaches  it’s  limit  ,  when  everything  feels  too  much  ,  she  stills  feels  the  urge  to  block  out  the  world  and  fall  into  a  silence .  )   these  sorts  of  places  always  put  things  into  perspective  ,  leave  her  curious  &  WONDERING .  these  sorts  of  places  always  leave  her  temporarily  satisfied  :  laughter  that  builds  in  her  chest  ,  only  to  be  drowned  out  by  another  glass  of  liquid  blue  she  won’t  question  because  she  knows  the  momentary  warmth  will  be  worth  whatever  ache  she  wakes  up  to  the  following  morning .  it  will  NUMB  ,  and  it  will  feel  wonderful  ,  and  it  won’t  matter  if  they’re  chased  by  sirens  or  land  themselves  in  a  transparent  cell  until  morning  ,  because  in  the  moment  she  will  feel  as  free  as  the  clouds   —   the  girl  that  hid  in  the  shadows  below  is  no  longer  ,  and  the  one  that  takes  her  place  walks  the  edge  of  rooftops  without  the  fear  of  falling .  she  finds  the  adrenalin  rush  comforting  ,  because  it  means  she’s  real .  REAL  ,  and  not  an  apparition  ,  or  a  glitch  in  the  system  ,  or  a  mistake  on  the  streets  ——    fortune  favours  the  brave  ,  or  the  incredibly  stupid .  (  most  times .  )  you  just  have  to  close  your  eyes  &  flip  a  coin .

 fuzzy   —   it's  always  fuzzy .  kenta  is  like  driving  down  a  highway  at  three  hundred  miles  an  hour  and  not  being  able  to  focus  on  much  else  besides  the  way  it  feels  like  you’re  flying .  the  pavement  is  nothing  but  a  blur  of  grey  ,  and  the  streetlights  are  nothing  but  golden  fireflies  moving  too  fast  ,  and  you  are  nothing  but  thriving  in  a  world  that  is  dying  ,  and  the  only  thing  in  focus  is  the  way  your  heart  beats  so  loudly  ,  and  the  boy  at  your  side  who  never  fails  to  surprise  you  into  existing .  ❛  you're  impossible .  ❜   in  that  endearing  way  where  she’ll  forgive  him  for  it  nonetheless  ,  because  the  impossible  has  always  been  endearing  to  those  who  wish  only  to  reach  for  the  stars .   (  she  remembers  hugo  —  the  boy  who  taught  her  that  you  were  not  defined  by  those  who  left  you  behind  ,  but  by  the  person  you  forged  by  those  who  found  you .  he  said  neelam  bhasin  was  a  firebird  rising  from  the  ashes  of  her  own  inquisitiveness  :  destined  to  burn  and  burn ,  but  forever fly .  )  she  watches  kenta  ,  all  shameless  &  glazy  -  eyed  ,  and  as  much  as  she  wants  to  fight  it  :  her  smile  widens .  she  wants  to  ask  him  if  he  ever  wonders  when  his  dumb  luck  will  finally  run  out  ,  or  if  it  already  has  &  he’s  left  with  the  crumbs  of  what  once  was  ;  but  she  knows  where  the  answer  lies  :  oh  ,  but  won’t  she  always  be  there  to  have  his  back  either  way ?  her  eyes  dart  back  to  the  man  to  see  he’s  scanning  the  crowd  earnestly  ,  &  she  should  be  more  concerned  than  she  is .  she  likes  kenta’s  face  the  way  it  is  without  someone  deciding  to  rearrange  it  ,  and  she  really  doesn’t  feel  like  dragging  him  home  tonight  if  she  can  avoid  it .  (   play  with  fire  and  you’ll  get  burned  ,  or  so  they  say  —  dancing  around  the  flames  was  a  good  avoidant  from  experience .  she  had  seen  it  demonstrated  plenty of  times  by  kenta  yokoyama .   )  she  doesn’t  recoil  from  his  touch  -  doesn’t  find  herself  surprised  or  disoriented  by  the  sudden  shift  of  focus .  she  had  always  felt  entirely  comfortable  here  —  right  here  and  nowhere  else .  ❛  every  colour  looks  great  on  me .  ❜    not  vain  ,  just  a  light - hearted  attempt  at  banter   —   just  a  girl  who  knows  her  worth .  neelam  has  never  been  afraid  at  expressing  herself  ,  or  what  she  feels  ,  but  there  is  something  dangerous  about  the  way  the  whole  world  falls  away  when  he  does  that .  DANGEROUS  ,  and  thrilling  all  the  same  when  his  fingers  dance  closer .  she  could  so  easily  forget  about  the  flashing  lights  &  the  fuzziness  -  about  the  man  who  now  circles  them  somewhere  in  the  crowd .  (  she  doesn’t  know  whether  he  is  like  covering  your  ears  to  be  engulfed  in  the  silence  of  all  things  ,  or  yelling  so  loud  into  the  night  without  the  fear  of  being  heard  —  both .  .  .  both .  )   she  only  reaches  up  to  touch  a  finger  to  his  wrist  -  perhaps  an  attempt  to  ground  him  ,  perhaps  an  attempt  at  the  closeness  that  was  so  easily  shared  between  them   —   definitions  were  for  those  who  were  hostages  of  complicated  lives  anyway .  she’s  aware  of  the  happenings  behind  her  as  she  leans  closer  :  of  the  occasional  shout  ,  of  the  smash  of  a  glass  ,  of  the  way  she  has  already  mapped  out  the  quickest  escape  route  from  this  place  if  needed .  (  and  when  the  two  of  them  collided  in  nights  like  these  ?   it  was  always  needed .  )   ❛   but  thank  you   ——   i  really  think  we  should  be  leaving  now  though  ,  don’t  you  think ?   ❜   

#kueyens. #‹ ♡ › 𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂 & 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒎. ៹ 001. #neelam in the mirror : ugh . . u sexy creature .

[bittersglory]

‹     ♡     ›    birdsvng​ .      /     ELVIRA . 

𝐟𝐨𝐫  @bittersglory​   .

       ─────     𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓   𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐆   𝐈𝐒   𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓   ,   𝐈𝐓   is   set   alight   with   the   glittering   promise   of   everything   that   has   been   at   her   fingertips   for   so   many   years   .   the   fog   of   the   unknown   settled   within   young   elvira   as   another   girl   in   an   orphanage   longing   for   a   past   that   was   never   her   own   ───   a   story   unfinished   in   its   beginning   and   end   ,   question   marks   where   the   most   basic   answers   ought   to   be   ,   her   identity   has   been   built   on   pillars   that   crumble   with   uncertainty   and   she   longs   to   lift   the   veil   and   come   face   to   face   with   herself   .   the   past   is   there   ,   she   steps   foot   into   a   city   of   people   wrapped   in   furs   who   look   curiously   upon   the   girl   who   follows   a   stray   pup   while   exchanging   hushed   whispers   ───   the   icy   air   turns   them   visible   ,   and   a   breeze   causes   the   face   of   the   lost   princess   elizaveta   to   take   form   in   a   single   puff   of   white   before   fading   back   into   unspoken   mystery   ,   urban   myth   .   a   rumor   fueled   by   a   tendency   to   gossip   and   an   old   woman’s   reckless   (   perhaps   baseless   )   hope   ,   that   has   made   its   way   to   an   orphanage   on   the   outskirts   of   the   city   where   the   royal   family   once   lived   ───   discarded   even   by   someone   as   desperate   for   clues   as   elvira   herself   ,   who   tucked   a   necklace   back   into   her   blouse   and   let   it   warm   her   chest   with   the   promise   of   a   family   awaiting   her   in   paris   .

       ─────     𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘   𝐈𝐍   𝐀   𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍   traded   away   at   the   first   sign   ,   elvira   followed   fate   in   the   form   of   a   stray   dog   that   has   already   been   adopted   as   her   own   (   named   pooka   ,   taken   as   a   sign   from   above   )   and   chased   after   reckless   and   perhaps   baseless   hope   herself   ───   a   golden   necklace   around   her   neck   is   her   only   clue   ,   the   word   paris   engraved   upon   it   has   led   her   to   a   train   station   ,   and   now   to   a   boarded   up   palace   in   search   of   a   forger   to   get   her   there   on   a   stranger’s   tip   .   inside   ,   it   is   eerie   ───   faces   upon   a   painting   haunt   her   with   the   knowledge   that   they   met   an   early   fate   in   these   very   halls   and   have   been   laid   to   rest   uneasily   under   thick   layers   of   snow   and   ice   .   is   it   the   death   that   makes   her   stomach   turn   with   unease   ,   or   is   it   the   way   that   it   all   feels   strangely   familiar   ?   fingertips   trace   dust   -   coated   furniture   ,   feet   fall   into   a   path   on   their   own   accord   as   elvira   steps   into   a   grand   ballroom   ,   the   ghosts   on   faded   paintings   invite   her   to   waltz     ───   things   she   almost   remembers   ,   in   a   strange   place   where   the   walls   have   borne   witness   to   death   and   flame   and   where   the   floor   carries   the   memory   of   panicked   flight   inscribed   within   its   surface   .   she   stands   at   the   top   of   a   grand   staircase   ,   taking   in   the   haunting   view   ,   wondering   why   something   in   the   back   of   her   mind   seems   to   try   to   push   past   the   hazy   veil   that   keeps   her   past   from   reach   ,    and   into   the   sunlight   streaming   in   through   a   broken   window     ───   until   sound   alerts   elvira   of   another’s   presence   ,   and   she   turns   to   see   the   stranger   on   the   opposite   end   of   the   ballroom   .   ❝   oh   ,   hello   !   ❞   smile   toys   upon   her   lips   as   elvira   picks   up   her   tattered   gloves   from   where   they’d   been   discarded   on   a   crimson   carpet   ,   pooka   barks   at   the   newfound   company   and   starts   running   over   .   ❝   are   you   valery   ?   i   was   told   i   could   find   you   here   .   ❞

                                                      THE   NIGHTS   ARE   GETTING  COLDER  ,  he  thinks  ,  and  valery  kovalev  wonders  if  it  is  the  winter  seeping  in  through  the  cracks  or  if  hope  is  burning  out  the  way  it  always  has  ,  always  will   ——   the  flickering  embers  of  a  fire  he  has  tended  to  for  years  -  fed  with  withered  up  newspaper  articles  of  a  LOST  PRINCESS  ,  with  promises  of  heavy  gratitude  from  a  dowager  empress  ,  with  that  ornate  music  box  he  has  carried  with  him  since  he  was  a  boy  .  (   useless  thing    ——   but  the  weight  of  it  within  his  palms  when  the  nights  were  darkest  was  always  comforting .  )   a  flame  ,  such  a  hungry  thing  ,  that  he  watched  slowly  burn  out   ——   day  after  day  ,  night  after  night  ,  girl  after  girl  who  swore  they  were  the  lost  elizaveta  romanova  returned  from  her  mysterious  grave .   they  were  all  wrong  ,  they  were  all  not  her   -  or  ,  more  so  ,  they  could  not  pass  for  her  if  they  tried .  he  watches  them  with  scrutiny  as  they  play  their  parts  ,  and  finds  some  fault  with  each  one  that  approaches  the  stage   —   he  has  wondered  if  he  is  looking  for  a  duplicate  or  if  he  was  looking  for  the  real  thing .   for  answers .  for  a  curiosity  to  rest  after  so  many  years  of  wonder .  for  a  hopefulness  that  does  not  fade  as  quickly  as  it  is  ignited .  for  the  honor  of  being  the  one  to  solve  the  myth  of  the  girl  who  vanished  into  the  st.  petersberg  night  ,  her  tracks  fading  into  the  snows   &   the  train  tracks .  for  knowing    ——   that  restlessness  brings  him  back  ,  to  a  place  of  haunting  that  calls  out  for  those  they  lost .  for  home   —   a  place  that  once  nurtured  him  with  security  and  warmth  for  the  briefest  of  time  ,  before  that  was  torn  from  him  too .   the  GRANDEUR  in  the  gold  trimmings  ,  the  familiarity  in  the  painted  faces  that  only  serve  to  remind  him  of  a  tragic  night .   he  wonders  if  this  is  what  it  means  to  be  exiled  :  a  haunted  house  left  to  it’s  dust  and  ruin  ,  where  sorrow  still  runs  as  freely  as  the  ghosts  of  those  who  were  cast  aside  so  eagerly .  a  place  where  those  beyond  the  fallen  iron  gates  don’t  dare  to  look  upon  ,  for  it  be  best  to  leave  it  forgotten  than  to  risk  the  curse  that  was  left  to  sink  into  the  earth  all  those  years  ago .  

                                                        valery  isn’t  afraid  of  curses  ,  or  unruly  ghosts  that  have  never  settled .  such  things  are  lost  on  him  ,  faded  in  comparison  to  what  could  be   :   a  fortune  golden  &  glimmering  being  offered  just  beyond  his  fingertips   —   a  north  star  for  a  lonely  traveller  ,  lighting  a  path  for  everything  he  has  ,  or  could  ever  ,  possibly  desire   ——   but  the  apparition  of  a  girl  appearing  so  suddenly  here  makes  him  falter  in  his  steps .  he’s  mid  - stride  ,  preparing  to  demand  how  she  possibly  managed  to  get  in  here  ,  before  the  words  fall  silent  against  his  tongue .   she  turns  ,  she  speaks  ,  and  suddenly  there  is  a  familiarity  in  his  chest  that  startles  even  him .  or  perhaps  it  is  simply  more  ignited  hope .  fortuity  has  never  been  on  his  side .  fortuity  is  a  coin  that  never  flips  to  his  favour  -  just  spins  and  spins   ,  so  why  stop  now ?     ❛   depends   ——   on  who  is  asking .  ❜   dalv  is  somewhere  beyond  him  now  ,  and  valery  can  already  hear  his  excessive  cooing  as  he  is  greeted  by  a  fuzzy  companion  that  val  has  already  marked  as  a  potential  nuisance   ——   cute  ,  but  a  nuisance .  the  girl  ?  he  is  still  deciding .  his  steps  are  wary  as  he  departs  down  one  of  many  grand  staircases  of  torn  crimson  &  marble  ,  where  empress  and  emperor  once  stood  ,  and  kitchen  boys  were  never  permitted .  valery  pauses  in  his  advance  -  dark  hues  drifting  to  the  painting  just  beyond  her   ——    pushing  aside  recognition  for  uncanniness  ,  and  how  eerily  she  compares  to  the  young  girl  who  once  roamed  these  halls  ,  who  once  waltz  this  very  ballroom  with  her  father ,  who  he  once  remembers  so  vividly  urging  into  a  hidden  compartment  to  escape  a  cruel  fate  ,  only  for  her  to  slip  into  unknown .   EERILY  COMPARABLE ,  and  eerily  comparable  was  more  than  enough  for  him  ,  even  with  his  doubts  that  perhaps  myth  was  simply  myth  afterall .  a  thought  is  already  forming  as  he  speaks  again  ,  not  as  a  demand  but  as  a  curiosity .    ❛   ——   and  why .  ❜  

#birdsvng. #‹ ♡ › 𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒊𝒓𝒂 & 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒚. ៹ threads. #‹ ♡ › 𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒊𝒓𝒂 & 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒚. ៹ 001. #oh !!!!!!! im !!!!!!!

[bittersglory]

                                                                    – B. E. Barnes

#‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒐𝒄. ៹ wanted plots. #ok im done i SWEAR — #but god i rlly could Never get enough of apocalypse / twd inspired plots . . .

[bittersglory]

#‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒐𝒄. ៹ wanted plots. #a plot . . . inspired by the old guard . . give me a HELL YEA !

[bittersglory]

𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫  𝐟𝐨𝐫  @kueyens​​    /    FT.  KENTA  YOKOYAMA  !    a.ka.  neelam’s  main  bitch  <3

                                                         CITY  OF  ENDLESS  CREATURES  ,  OF  ENDLESS  BOUNDS .  neelam  thinks  the  streets  look  less  ominous  from  up  above  ;  with  the  boom  ,  boom  ,  boom  of  music  pounding  in  her  ears  and  the  buzz  of  a  few  drinks  in  her  system  -  the  streets  she’s  been  ruling  since  she  was  a  small  child  stumbling  over  her  feet  as  they  pounded  the  pavement  are  less  obscure  than  she  knows  it  to  be .  the  shadows  that  linger  in  the  inbetween  less  menacing  ,  the  wounds  less  red  ——   less  and  less  and  less  and  MORE  BEAUTIFUL .  a  city  on  fire  from  the  inside  ,  the  ash  hidden  from  those  in  their  neon  towers  &  those  who  do  not  care  to  dwell  in  the  ruin  of  their  own  creation   ——   neelam  knows  ,  neelam  sees  ,  neelam  understands  the  truth  ;  in  the  haziness  of  the  vivid  purples  and  blues  that  flash  across  her  skin  now  ,  colours  that  dance  from  the  rooftop’s  edge  and  fall  into  the  darkness  below  to  be  swallowed  long  before  such  joy  could  ever  reach  what  was  waiting  for  it  at  the  bottom   ——   this  city  has  chewed  her  up  and  spat  her  out  so  many  times  she’s  forgotten  where  young  girl  ended  and  survivor  began .  (  she  stands  here  now  ,  only  because  she  was  barely  stronger  than  everything  that  hunted  her   -  she  was  quicker  ,  and  cleverer  ,  and  a  smudge  than  many  disregarded  as  weak .  )   neelam  thinks  the  city  looks  less  like  the  home  she  knows  so  cruelly  from  up  here  ,  less  belly  of  the  beast  ready  to  digest  it’s  next  unsuspecting  victim   ——   it’s  a  beautiful  trap  if  she’s  ever  known  one .  (  sometimes  she’s  wished  she  could  find  her  wings  ,  BUILD  THEM  EVEN  ,  to  fly  on  to  other  places    ——    places  where  she  hasn’t  crawled  or  suffocated  or  been  drained  dry .  )  

but  then  there  was  kenta   -   and  kenta  makes  it  all  more  bearable .  she’s  not  sure  if  it’s  this  rooftop  that  makes  everything  seem  less  scary  ,  or  if  it’s  the  feeling  of  him  in  the  atmosphere  ,  knowing  he’s  somewhere  in  one  of  the  booths  throwing  back  his  head  in  utterly  contagious  laughter .   with  him  by  her  side  she  could  draw  her  sword  and  fight  every  scribbled  TERROR  she  drew  from  imagination   ——   that  was  the  effect  of  kenta  yokoyama  ,  she  supposed .  he  made  you  think  you  could  conquer  worlds  in  a  single  night  ,  when  you  could  feel  the  adrenaline  pumping  through  your  veins  ,  and  the  weight  of  your  breath  in  your  chest  ,  and  every  minuscule  thing  that  was  just  within  reach   -  for  the  taking    ——   or  maybe  he  had  just  turned  her  into  a  ballsy  idiot ,  either   /   or .   ❛  there  is  a  man  over  there  looking  for  you .  ❜   she’s  purposely  standing  on  an  angle  that  blocks  most  of  him  from  view  ,  although   —   for  kenta  that  would  be  like  being  sheltered  by  a  leaf .  she  leans  forward  ,  to  where  he’s  seated  though  ,  and  anyone  would  simply  mistake  it  as  two  people  looking  for  a  quiet  corner  of  the  world   ——   she’s  very  much  aware  of  every  person  here  ,  those  that  bump  into  her  accidentally  or  glance  in  her  direction  curiously .  she  presumed  most  recognised  the  duo  -  had  seen  them  here  once  or  twice  only  because  it  was  a  favourite  for  neelam .  (  AND  .  .  .  also  that  kenta  knew  a  man  of  a  man  of  a  man  that  fancied  neelam  ,  and  he  would  offer  them  free  drinks  all  night  long  if  she  offered  a  few  ‘  oh  grady  ,  have  you  been  working  out ?  you  look  like . . .  soooo  buff !  ’ )   ❛   hideous  checked  shirt  ,  bad  posture  ,  pensive  face   ——   friend  of  yours ?  ❜   a  funny  question  -  not  a  single  soul  here  were  ever  really  friends -  this  city  was  built  on  greed  ,  on  cutting  others  down  in  pursuit  of  your  own  pleasures .  you  don’t  give  your  trust  to  these  people  ,  you  don’t  even  trust  GUT  INSTINCTS  when  it  comes  to  these  people   —   the  only  person  she  could  ever  count  on  ,  could  ever  intertwine  her  fingers  between  &  pray  they  would  never  let  go  ,  was  kenta   ——   and  where  one  was  ,  the  other  generally  followed   :   attached  at  the  hip  by  their  magnet  for  trouble  &  mayhem  that  never  lingered  too  far  from  their  heels   ,  and  a  loyalty  that  was  limitless .  she  tilts  her  head  now  ,  a  smile  of  equal  parts  concern  and thrill  interest  tugging  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth .   ❛   do  i  want  to  know  what  you  did  this  time ?  ❜

#kueyens. #‹ ♡ › 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒎. ៹ threads. #‹ ♡ › 𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂 & 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒎. ៹ 001. #not me taking 32 yrs to do this haha ... ha ... we're not gonna talk abt That <3 #what we WILL talk abt is how i wrote this entire starter to ..... #' if the world ' by josh levi . . . whew !

[bittersglory]

‹     ♡     ›     kueyens​ .      /     CERION BLACKTYDE .

as a child, he never gave much thought to what happens beyond the isles. WHY WOULD HE ? a low born boy destined to inherit a decrepit boat and some nets for fishing — perhaps a pearl or two, if fortune smiled down on them  — has little room in his mind for dreams of TALL TALES and knights in shining armor. all that was real consisted of scabbed skin, blisters on his palms and the sting of salt water on rope-burnt flesh. the uncertainty of a next meal or of the waters of an unexpected pirate attack. stories from the mainland died in frigid, stormy waters and the only taste he had of them came through third party accounts. the stories never seemed to fit right, never seemed to sound right. but what would he know ? just a fisherman’s boy, sharpening his knife and walking with fish blood staining the wool of his tunic. shoes too big, sole-less. what possible use would he have for tales of lands beyond the sea ? why would he want them, anyway ? the wondrous intricacies of their culture were woven into his sister’s hair by his mother’s expert hands as he prepared the boat. laughter in a house that was little more than four walls and a roof to keep them safe from the merciless, cutting wind. it didn’t matter. not the violent gusts or the uncomfortable shoes or the never-ending struggle: THEY WERE HAPPY. they were blood. his childhood had no room for mainland fantasy: he didn’t want it or need it. and as adulthood took hold and his innocence was ripped away, along with the family he’d held so dear, the sentiment remained the same. tales from westeros would not cure his mother’s grief or heal his sister’s body or return his father’s breath. they would not erase the thirty-two angry markings across his abdomen or recoup the blood he’d spilled at sea. the only thing that mattered became this: his story, the legend. a beaten, broken, abandoned fisherman’s son, reborn from the sea.

which is to say: HE KNOWS LITTLE ABOUT HER CULTURE, alike as they may be. and he’s taken no time to learn it before her. the rumors that reach his ears make her kin seem pompous and entitled: fat lords with grease dripping from their hands as the once proud, once feared ironmen starve to death on distant shores. there’s little care thrown their way and cerion would be lying if he said he didn’t suspect alyse shared those thoughts. was that what she saw when she looked at them ? a group of uncultured, uncivilized, unwanted folk ? did she crave to be their SAVIOR  — queen nymeria back from the dead, reincarnated ? did she expect to set foot on their land and be adored for her fine jewels and upturned chin ? he’s unsure and he’s not inclined to ask. curious and tenacious as he may be…he’s hesitant when it comes to her. when it comes to any form of closeness to outsiders, really. the outside world hardly did anything good for the isles, so why should any of them bother ? let them — let her  — keep their stories. let those stories nurture their children and water their crops. and let those stories turn their already green soldiers into frail beings, as they always have been. the ironborn have no need for pretty little tales and pretty little jewels paid for in gold. the iron isles will pay the iron price, will pillage the earth and regain their splendor. he runs an absentminded thumb over his silver-covered fingers: the collection of rings he took from corpses making the trail uneven, textured. mainland stories can stay in the mainland: he’s got enough tales tucked under his skin for years to come, enough to sustain and gorge himself. 

no, he does not TRUST her wholly. far from it. he has a hard time with strangers and loyalty is more precious than gold in his eyes. LOYALTY he isn’t sure she possesses ( her mother is a rumored master of manipulation, and who’s to say the daughter is not the same ? ). but his distrust does not hinder his kindness, what little there may be in stock. maybe it sparks from admiration, or consideration, or maybe it stems from being a witness to horrible crimes: to seeing his own sister surrounded by dirty, frightening men and having no escape. to having watched and done nothing helpful. to not saving her. or perhaps it’s the lost girl he sees behind her rigid stance, hidden beneath the harsh blue of her eyes, that sparked his notable WARMTH toward her. the iron that no doubt sings beneath her skin: dormant but ready to spark to life. the way it calls to him. whatever it may be…INTEREST & TRUST are two separate things, and though he often wonders about her, wants to inquire about her, he holds his tongue. marriage or no marriage, blood right or no blood right, the bottom line remains the same: the esteem he hold for her has little influence over his trust, and though he believes her capable of HOLDING HER OWN and standing tall & unwavering, he wouldn’t put his life — any of their lives  — in her hands quite yet. trust is earned, not won, and he may be a low born, inadequate suitor  — inadequate man — for her, he will not hand over the keys to the kingdom, will not throw his trust at her feet and call her his ruler. she has his esteem, but confidence lies further down the road.

that does not mean her elegantly curled lips do NOTHING to him; a warmth licking his belly at the sight. a smile for him, he knows, or at the very least a smile ENCOURAGED by him. some kind of relief comes with the knowledge that he can at the very least give her that: a glimmer of joy, bearable company ( though he can certainly make it far more than bearable, if her honor wasn’t hanging over both their heads: a cruel reminder of all she is and all he isn’t. to share their bodies out of wedlock would be relatively harmless had they been the same, but they’re not, and any physical advances on his part leave him feeling dirty and UNWORTHY: a mutt standing beside a dire wolf ). her smile in combination with the simple yet charged sound she emits has his own lips quirking. oh, she knows. knows there’s an unspoken agreement between them all and she’s not included. perceptive girl. she plunges a knife somewhere in his chest, and though he’s no stranger to being stabbed this sting is no different. it shouldn’t surprise him that she DOESN’T CARE, or claims not to. it shouldn’t surprise him that she plays the card of an accepting, unbothered bride-to-be. IT SHOULDN’T, BUT IT DOES. a cocksure grin spreads across his lips ( the kind he sports to hide his discomfort at something, the kind he shows when he feels anything other that confident ). his words are directed to the men, but his eyes never stray from hers, ❝ then perhaps i’ll join you all on your next endeavor, since my lady insists. ❞ he has no right to be IRKED by her dismissal, her show of distance: he’s already shared his bed with other women after their betrothal. he’s already done her a disservice. he has no right, no grounds to stand on with all the distaste that takes root in him: YET HIS HANDS ARE FULL OF IT, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. ❝ first time we took the boy to a brothel, he turned pale as a ghost, ❞ gilbar supplies to alyse in some form of temporary companionship: no doubt trying to ease the ridiculing off his own shoulders, ❝ looked more like one of your green knights than blacktyde, he did. terrified of women. ❞ a tease, and cerion takes it as such. ❝ what can i say ? ❞ cerion counters with a dismissive shrug, ❝ women can be quite terrifying. ❞  the men continue to poke fun at him, at each other. some defending, others inciting. meanwhile cerion maintains his laughter, his grins, his own string of teases. there was truth to what gilbar said, about his discomfort in such places. he’d barely been a man at the time when they first took him, already climbing ranks and yet some of the men took his apprehension and tried to turn it against him. called him a weak boy, feeble stomached, likely not even a man. despite the queasiness in his belly, cerion directed a fist to the accusing man’s face once, twice, thrice. again and again until the man fell to the floor. again and again until he felt nose break and his rings tore open his opponent’s flesh. over the years the man’s flesh healed ( though his nose never set right again and his left eye had lost all sight and his flesh remained scarred and disfigured: unrecognizable ), but his pride never did. the next time cerion walked into a brothel with his men and refused service, no one said a word. no one dared.

an arrow flies from alyse’s lips, meant to plunge, meant to maim. instead it falls far from the target, onto muddy ground that no one wishes to walk on. like school of flesh-eating fish, they swim to her. they smell the blood. they find the body. they bite down. ❝ so you agree then, little wolf  — the ironborn need not a woman’s counsel. ❞ what little camaraderie had existed between all of them now dissipated, not because of anything wrong she had said, but because alyse had unknowingly armed them. reminded them of what she is and what she wants to do, to accomplish here. her attempt to divert the conversation away from herself manages to turn a crude conversation into a politically charged one. GUILT lines cerion’s stomach: this is partially his doing for pushing her, anyway, but he has no control over her tongue and despite the current circumstance, he wouldn’t desire it either. no one mentions that yara is, in fact, a woman: a woman they all follow blindly. but this is different. yara is one of them, born and bred. yara drinks and eats and fucks on par with them. yara’s gender is something none of them seem to consider, and though it’s unfair to not do the same for alyse the truth is that the half-stark girl is still OTHER. ❝ you agree that there is no need of you here, ❞ another man presses. others join. others call her things, ugly things. others cast her away. blood in the water, indeed. he wants to argue her case, but he doesn’t, not in that way, because he would only devour her claim. he has no interest in dethroning her. he won’t argue her case but he’ll throw her a raft: give her something. his expression is wholly bored, relaxed ( though he is not: the sharks may be his friends but they are always hungry ), his gaze meets that of the first man that spoke out to her as cerion’s elbow rests on the table, his cheek leans into his ring-covered hand: the spitting image of indifference, ❝ you seem to forget, barrish, ❞ he says to the man, who stiffens at the drop of tone, and gazes all around the table come to rest on the young captain, ❝ that my lady is a she-wolf. ❞ and the title is no mockery now, no show of RIDICULING HER. it’s not a joke. it’s a threat. the possessive adjective purposeful: a claim, and a show of mild trust. and all eyes turn to her, expectant. a she-wolf, she’s but a child, they all seem to think. a she-wolf ? they’re all just as curious to see. 

some  could  say  she’s  had  it  easy  ,  and  she  would  not  deny  that  truth  ——  born  fortunate  in  comparison  to  some  ,  born  golden  in  comparison  to  many  ,  born  nobility  the  way  so  few  were  &  so  many  aspired  to  taste .  a  princess  with  her  silver  spoon  and  velvet  gloves  and  naivety  (  and  vanity  ,  pig-headedness  ,  ostentation  —  most  are  not  kind  in  their  envy  ,  but  she  does  not  blame  them  ;  she  has  walked  where  others  have  scratched  and  clawed  and  begged .  what  she  is  given  ,  most  have  to  fight  for .  )  raised  to  curtesy  ,  and  to  stitch  floral  embroidery  ,   and  to  memorise  the  names  of  great  houses  for  one  day  she  might  look  to  them  for  loyalty .  she  has  not  gone  hungry  ,  nor  cold  ,  nor  lonely .  if  you  stripped  her  of  her  namesake  ,  and  drained  the  ichor  from  her  veins  ,  alyse  would  be  nothing  —  nothing  admirable  ,  nothing  remarkable .  a  crack  in  the  cobblestone  that  many  would  step  over  rather  than  risk  falling  down  between .  she  was  born  brave  ,  but  not  courageous  (  although  they  say  conquerors  are  born  with  restlessness  in  their  hearts  ,  and  alyse  greyjoy  was  nothing  but  as  a  child  —  the  walls  of  winterfell  were  never  enough  ,  neither  were  the  woodlands  that  surrounded  it .  there  was  always  more  ,  something  else  she  needed  to  know  ,  see  ,  learn  ,  discover .  )   SHE  HAS  HAD  IT  EASY ,   and  they  all  know  it .  but  that  makes  it  easy  for  her  to  look  beyond  the  horizons  she  knows  &  expect  security  to  follow  her  ,  for  such  fortune  to  fall  into  her  lap  the  same  way  it  always  has .  for  WANT  to  overpower  everything  else  ,  because  she  has  never  wanted  for  anything  —  can’t  she  have  this  one  thing ?  her  own  thing  -  something  carved  in  her  own  name  -  she  doesn’t  mind  if  she  has  to  scratch  and  claw  and  even  beg  (  although  ,  that  would  be  tough  for  a  woman  like  her .  )   if  it  means  carving  her  name  into  the  stone  of  her  ancestral  home .  she  just  wants  that  one  thing  ,   CAN’T  SHE  HAVE  THIS  ONE  THING ?  

she  know  how  it  sounds  ,  how  it  looks  :  some  high  born  lady  who  thinks  she  can  conqueror  the  world  with  a  stamp  of  her  feet  and  a  shrilling  tone .  how  her  mother  preened  her  until  daughter  thought  she  was  the  strongest  in  the  world  ,  and  her  father  pampered  her  until  she  thought  she  could  be  admired  for  it   ——  she  thought  she  could  conqueror  a  place  of  wild  creatures  the  very  second  she  walked  up  the  steps  of  pyke  for  the  first  time  ,  only  to  learn  of  the  sharpness  in  their  bite  if  she  thought  to  wander  too  close  ,  to  take  something  that  she  has  not  fought  for .  sometimes  she  felt  as  if  even  the  stronghold  knew  -  that  the  ancient  stone  laced  with  her  own  blood  did  not  want  her  here  neither .  as  if  the  ghosts  of  her  ancestors  whispered  down  the  halls  where  she  walked  ,  voices  like  howling  winds  brushing  against  her  skin   -  as  if  it  was  too  cold  ,  as  if  it  was  too  brutal  ,  as  if  it  was  trying  to  urge  her  away  rather  than  embrace  her  in  the  way  you  would  someone  who  was  gone  far  too  long  but  somehow  found  their  way  home  ——   an  imposter  ,  not  an  old  friend .  it  takes  all  her  effort  not  to  falter  -  not  to  stumble  or  tremble  or  bow  her  head  in  defeat .  she  can  feel  her  muscles  ache  at  times  ,  begin  to  weaken  beneath  the  weight  of  every  man  and  woman  here  -  the  way  her  entire  body  threatens  to  collapse  in  on  itself .   BUT  THAT’S  WHAT  THEY  WANT  ,  to  watch  the  girl  with  her  rigid  stance  begin  to  crumble  the  way  they  think  she  will .  they  would  strip  her  of  everything  -  if  it  meant  watching  her  knees  buckle  beneath  her  ,  to  watch  her  her  body  heave  &  her  throat  choke  on  her  own  incompetence .  the  ultimate  test  :  of  faith  ,  of  courage  ,  of  we  all  knew  you  would  not  survive  here   ——   but  she  is  not  a  weak  girl .  her  bones  are  carved  from  ivory  and  stone  ,  they  will  not  break  so  easily .   she  is  her  MOTHER’S  UNDYING  FLAME   —  the  nights  when  she  held  her  child’s  chin  between  fingers  &  looked  upon  her  with  eyes  that  have  seen  too  much  ,  and  told  her  all  the  ways  she  will  never  be  broken .  alyse  greyjoy  will  rise  ,  and  burn   ——   and  she  will  look  upon  all  these  faces  here  and  say  :  you  have  not  seen  me  yet   ,  you  have  not  watched  me  burn .  

teeth  graze  her  tongue  in  the  hopes  it  will  distract  herself  from  the  way  that  pinches  —  the  way  she  doesn’t  like  the scrutiny  of  his  eyes  so  firmly  fixed  on  hers  ,  her  own  dropping  to  flit  off  elsewhere  ,  coolly  despite  the  heat  that  flicks  in  her  chest .  of  envy  ,  of  regret  ,  of  —  no ,  she  wouldn’t  think  about  that . cerion  blacktyde  could  do  as  he  liked  ,  it  would  have  no  effect  on  her  ——  he  could  parade  himself  with  every  woman  in  this  city  and  she  wouldn’t  so  much  as  flinch .  (  wouldn’t  you ?  )  she  will  not  degrade  herself  into  handing  him  her  honor  and  hoping  he  will  do  well  by  her  ,  hope  that  he  won’t  tarnish  her  trust .  she  won’t  be  disappointed  by  him .  HOPE  GETS  WOMEN  LIKE  HER  NOWHERE  IN  THIS  WORLD  ,  hope  gets  no  one  anything .  she  won’t  hope  for  anything  of  him  ,  she  won’t    ——   she’s  still  listening  ,  to  these  men  she’s  surprised  haven’t  turned  on  her  already .  she  can  sense  the  way  some  scowl  just  at  her  being  here  ,  just  by  her  sitting  among  them .  she’s  trying  not  to  let  it  scratch  at  her  skin  ,  but  it’s  hard  to  ignore   —   like  sitting  among  knives  and  knowing  they  have  the  power  to  draw  blood  if  you  move  too  quickly .  she  finds  temporary  salvation  in  him  ,  again  —  she  feels  as  if  this  is  turning  into  a  habit  she  can’t  break .  he  is  an  island  she  seeks  rest  from  wherever  possible  ,  no  matter  how  much  she  fights  to  keep  her  head  above  water  ,  it  is  him  that  she  looks  for  in  moments  of  discomfort .    ❛  raging  seas  ,  and  endless  battles  ,  and  the  unknown   ——   but  women  are  the  terrifying  things ?  ❜    quite  terrifying .  the  words  make  her  laugh  ,  a  soft  sound  barely  audible  above  everything  else .  the  thought  that  a  woman  in  all  her  feminine  glory  could  have  bested  cerion  blacktyde  ,  spark  fear  in  his  heart  ,  would  be  a  sight  to  behold .  perhaps  he  is  one  of  the  clever  ones   —   women  were  capable  of  terrifying  things .  

calm  seas  are  deceiving  ,  and  the  change  in  winds  is  as  quick  as  a  whip .  one  second  the  waves  are  caressing  your  feet  and  the  next  they  are  trying  to  drag  you  deeper  ,  trying  to  squeeze  every  essence  of  life  from  the  cavern  in  your  chest .    ❛  that’s  not  what  i  meant  —  ❜   but  any  defence  falls  short  as  voices  raise  higher  with  animosity .  everything  is  suddenly  too  loud  —  like  being  in  the  centre  of  a  raging  storm  ,  and  it’s  a  losing  battle  simply  trying  to  scream  louder  than  the  thunderclouds .  she  stiffens  with  every  word  ,  and  she  begins  to  think  eventually  she  will  simply  turn  to  stone  &  her  skin  will  be  like  armour  ,  impenetrable  -  not  by  arrows  ,  not  by  swords  ,  not  by  men  ,  not   by  their  words .  she’s  aware  of  every  single  utterance  ,  every  shouted  attack  or  muttered  offense  ,  they  all  pierce  the  same  wound  :  YOU  WON’T  LAST  HERE .  they  are  out  for  blood  and  they  will  devour  you  whole .  (   unless  ,  of  course  ,  you  bare  your  teeth  and  devour  them  first .  )   she’s  not  expecting  cerion  to  speak  ,  much  less  come  to  her  rescue  -  in  his  own  way .  she  suspects  he  may  agree  with  some  of  what  they’re  saying  ,  but  obligation  tells  him  he  should  say  something .  she  reminds  herself  that  it  is  simply  honor  ,  not  corroboration  or  truth  ,  and  that  if  it  weren’t  for  the  engagement  he  would  be  among  these  same  men  shouting  the  same  thing .  she  reminds  herself  not  to  find  companionship  in  enemy  waters  ,  because  she  can’t  trust  anyone  here .  but  still  ,  she  doesn’t  know  what  would  be  worse  ,  hearing  the  truth  from  every  ironborn  in  westeros  or  to  hear  the  truth  from  only  him .  cerion’s  voice  was  made  for  commanding  ,  to  be  heard  above  the  rain  and  the  winds  and  the  crashing  waves  ;  to  be  respected  by  those  here  ,  and  feared  by  those  opposing  them .  she  watches  him  curiously  at  times  ,  as  if  she’s  trying  to  figure  out  how  he  does  it .  (   she  thinks  he  might  be  the  moon  ,  he  could  command  the  pull  of  the  tides  if  he  wanted  to .  )  but  she  doesn’t  know  if  it’s  irritation  or  pride  that  swirls  in  her  chest  now  -  salt  water  that  spills  from  her  ribcage  and  into  the  sharpness  of  her  words  ,  breaking  the  silence  that  cerion  commanded .   ❛  i  am  not  here  because  you  need  me  ,  i  am  not  here  because  you  asked  for  me   —   you  didn’t .  ❜    no  ,  they  didn’t  -  they  asked  for  him .  CERION  BLACKTYDE  ,  both  a  blessing  and  a  curse  ,  that  man .  she  struggles  to  keep  the  shakiness  from  her  tone  ,  to  keep  those  words  short  and  even - tempered .  unfortunately  ,   she  has  never  quite  been  an  even - tempered  girl .   

 ❛  i  am  here  because  this  is  my  home .  ❜   she  already  knows  that  is  going  to  ignite  a  thousand  more  insults  ,  a  thousand  more  arrows  to  pierce  her  back  while  she  is  bleeding  out .   (  she  can  already  hear  it  :  this  is  not  your  home  ,  this  never  was  your  home  ,  you  are  nothing  to  us . )   and  she’s  right .  several  of  them  scoff  ,  more  of  them  open  their  mouths  to  wound  her  -  bite  down  and  rip  her  apart  like  they  always  do .  the  first  one  ,  BARRISH  ,  leans  forward  in  that  condescending  way  she  despises  -  and  alyse  narrows  her  eyes  ,  teeth  gritted .   ❛  mine .  ❜   they  fall  quieter  now  at  least  ,  and  she  thinks  that  is  partly  to  do  with  him   —   the  way  he  makes  it  known  in  that  silent  way  that  he  is  offering  some  form  of  trust  ,  that  she  will  be  lawfully  his   ,  so  perhaps  he  must .   but  she  despises  that  too  :  the  way  she  is  only  worthy  of  respect  when  she  is  attached  to  a  man’s  arm .  marry  him  ,  stand  by  his  side  ,  and  maybe  she  might  be  smiled  upon  one  day ?  that  won’t  do .  THAT’S  NOT  ENOUGH  ,  nothing  is  ever  enough  —  not  for  her .  ❛  i  may  have  been  raised  with  wolves  but  that  is  not  entirely  who  i  am .  ❜   no  ,  she  thinks  ,  i  will  be  worse .   she  admits  she  has  much  to  learn .  she  is  not  her  aunt  yara  ,  she  is  not  cerion  blacktyde  ,  she  is  not  someone  she  would  follow  into  the  midst  of  a  battle  ,  YET .  she  does  not  know  how  to  wield  their  blades  ,  or  set  their  sails  ,  or  know  their  customs  by  heart  —  she  is  a  winter  girl  from  winter  places  ,  stepping  out  into  a  world  she  has  only  seen  in  her  dreams  -  in  stories  her  father  told  her  or  pictures  in  those  dusty  old  books  she  used  to  secretly  stash  under  her  pillow .  she  has  a  lot  to  learn  ,  but  she  will  learn  it .  her  palms  settle  on  the  timber  wood  of  the  table  ,  in  an  eerily  calm  way  that  surprises  even  her  -  but  she  can  still  feel  the  way  her  fingers  tremble  when  she  talks .  she  has  never  spoken  this  way  ,  from  a  place  inside  her  that  has  laid  dormant  in  those  winter  places  &  has  just  discovered  the  sun .   ❛  and  if  you  think  i  will  bow  to  men  who  aim  to  belittle  me  at  every  corner  ,  than  i  ask  you  to  think  of  who  you’re  speaking  to .  ❜  darkened  hues  slowly  circle  the  men  who  shared  their  venomous  opinions  only  moments  prior  ,  before  they  settle  on  cerion  once  more   —   she  finds  the  heaviness  in  her  chest  lifting  ,  as  if  the  air  is  clearer  to  breathe .  he  soothes  the  storm  brewing  there  ,  and  she  doesn’t  know  what  that  means   ,  only  that  her  words  come  softer  —  but  no  less  significant  ,  no  less  powerful .   ❛  not  little  wolf  ,  not  stark  ,  not  girl  ——  greyjoy . ❜   

#kueyens. #‹ ♡ › 𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒔𝒆 & 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏. ៹ 001. #‹ ♡ › 𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒔𝒆. ៹ threads. #this reply is so dramatic but im ignoring That <3

[bittersglory]

plot!  i held her body close and our faces were even closer. i could feel her breathing against my skin. ‘then prove me that you don’t feel anything for me,’ i whispered. she leaned in and kissed me. i could feel myself melting in to her kiss, but then she pulled away. ‘nothing,’ she said. ‘nothing.’ 

#‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒐𝒄. ៹ wanted plots. #oh my .

[bittersglory]

‹     ♡     ›     kueyens​ .      /     ILARIA  WYNEWORTH .

she doesn’t allow herself to WISH FOR THINGS anymore; for a sliver of hope or yearning or any other sentiment akin to those to slip past her clenched fists. everything the girl in her would’ve once desired lays trapped in the cage of her curled fingers. nails digging into soft skin, leaving red half moons upon flesh — she hardly feels them. those that don’t reach her hands stay buried in her mouth, under the graveyard of her tongue. over time THE BITTERNESS of deceased wishes becomes part of her; every word laced with poison, pronounced in hisses. see, she’s learned the trick by now: those who want for nothing, lose nothing. she’s lost too much, given up more than she bargained for, and SHE’S TIRED. truly, completely, utterly exhausted. drained of all she ever had to offer, which she doesn’t believe was much to begin with. ilaria doesn’t think there’s anything left in her but the fight, if even that is still there at all. perhaps her bitterness is no more than a force of habit. maybe the burning rage inside her is a phantom brushing her insides, her nerves. her perfectly stacked pillar-like spine just a delicate string barely keeping her together. who knows ? who could ever truly know ? no one has ever bothered to uncurl her hands and trace the half moon scars, to explore the inside of her mouth and find all the dead things she keeps locked in there. she doesn’t think she remembers how to unclench her fists, how to relax her jaw, how to ease her spine into the curve of someone else’s body. she doesn’t remember if she ever knew how to do any of that in the first place. as if the fire is all she’s ever felt, ever had. as if the fire took whatever was there before she was sold off for some wine and gold. as if it burnt any semblance of respect she ever held for those that surround her. replaced any earnest smiles and passion for her scabbing palms and resentful eyes. she’s hollowed out, vacant. but he… SPARKS SOMETHING IN HER — kol stone. or perhaps not spark but sizzle. a drop of water evaporating against the eternal flame inside her. a thumb brushing seductively against her wrist, not FORCING her to open those fists but tempting her to. his voice coaxing her jaw to loosen and words to slip past. a dare in his eyes, a wicked game. come out — come play with me, he seems to urge.

this is why she’s inclined to ask him things, sometimes. wants to hear of where he’s been, what he’s done. ABOUT THE BLOOD ON HIS HANDS. a coquetry to lure her out of the shell, his words laced with easy tease and wit. he makes her curious, makes her want to KNOW and LEARN about all the things that happen beyond her cage. want to taste the open air and tread through uncharted land. want to explore, want to pack a few essentials and flee as far as her legs will carry her: not out of FLEEING but just because. want to swim in every sea, taste every drop of salt water. want to walk barefoot on every surface and commit every sensation to her faulty memory. want to know — truly — what it would feel like to have his body pressed against hers, his hands on her skin. WANT, WANT, WANT — that’s the root of the problem, because want is something and that something can be ripped from her hands far too easily. ilaria is not a stranger to the feeling: she’s wanted plenty of things over the years ( her freedom, comfort, affection, claws to rip everyone to shreds ), but over time sterlan picked those little desires out of her. stomped them down and swallowed them up. he ate them, devoured them in the same way he gorged himself on her innocence and stole her life. claimed it as his own. made pretty rings for his fingers and necklaces for the foolish girls he takes to his bed. and that’s the thing with sterlan: HE WILL ALWAYS FIND THE THINGS INSIDE HER SHE THOUGHT SHE’D LONG SINCE LOST. find them and murder them, bury them in her garden. make her watch. this is why her inclinations to make any form of inquiry die in her throat. why all the things kol makes her want to say are swallowed down and digested. why she keeps her spine more poised, her jaw harshly clenched, her fists hidden behind her skirts. why she stops herself from wandering to him in the few moments when he’s not around, barefoot and eager. all those things that flutter in the outer regions of her mind…she shoves them away.

but temptation is a fierce, jealous opponent. it stands before her with a challenge and makes unholy offerings, drops them at her feet. shows her glimpses of wondrous instances. promises so many wonderful, wicked things her ears have never even heard of, her eyes never even seen, her skin has never felt. temptation urges her to lean into his voice, to loosen her limbs and turn pliant. tells her that perhaps there’s more to the man than bloody hands, a practiced sword and the promise of trouble. temptation has the dark eyes of a bastard from the vale and the grin of a demon ( a demon who’s far better at this little game than she is, a fact she hates to admit ). and temptation circles her, VULTURE WAITING FOR HER TO DROP DEAD. never mind his theatrical expressions of grief, his nonexistent offense at her words. she makes no mistake: there is nothing soft, nothing innocent, about kol stone. his feigned hurt is nothing short of IMMORAL, the hand pressed against his heart a ruse. ilaria is curious, certainly, but she can smell the danger on him from leagues away. his eyes gleam: no piety to be found. HE’D BRING DEVASTATION. she knows this and yet… and yet she hears that little voice, that urging cry: come out, come play. no, she has no control. has never had any control over anything. her perfect stance and indifference are a falsity, a trick. CONTROL has long since left her armaments and all she can hope to do is land a few scratches as she falls. she has no control but she is no coward, no maiden with a sense of dignity to uphold ( sterlan took that too, didn’t he ? so long ago she isn’t even sure what it felt like ). the corner of her lips quirk, only slightly and amusement taints her dark eyes. ❝ it seems i’ve become quite untethered as of late, ❞  she muses in a similar tone of mockery as his own. her eyes face forward but she can feel him moving around her — a vulture of a man, indeed. ❝ you seem to be under the impression that i was admiring you. i assure you, i was not. i was merely stating a fact, ❞ her eyes slide to his now, face slightly turning but not quite, her chin tilted up in clear conceit,  ❝ since you allow your cock to do most of your thinking, i mean. ❞ 

    what  is  the  most  valuable  thing  in  this  world ?  he  thinks  that  is  the  age  long  ,  existential  at  times  ,  question  that  many  still  seek  the  answers  for .  kol  ,  in  his  wisdom  ,  has  had  a  long  time  to  ponder  that  very  thing  ——  in  ditches  of  ruined  cities  when  he  had  nothing  but  the  ragged  cloth  on  his  back .  hidden  in  the  below  decks  as  a  stowaway  when  he  had  nothing  but  the  shine  of  a  blade  between  his  nimble  fingers .  in  foreign  lands  when  he  had  nothing  but  the  allure  of  a  smile  and  a  wandering  hand  seeking  full  pockets  of  greedy  merchants  who  quickly  reminded  him  he  wasn’t  the  smartest  man  in  the  world .   SILVER  ,  GOLD  ,  COIN  ,  ANTIQUITIES  :  material  things  that  would  fill  the  physical  void  -  a  shining  coin  beneath  the  candlelight  would  make  you  the  most  attractive  person  in  the  room  ,  could  turn  you  from  the  forgotten  into  a  target  ,  for  sure .  to  a  man  like  himself  ,  who  has  been  bought  over  and  over  ,  gold  could  buy  you  life  or  death   -   prosperity  or  the  edge  of  a  sword .  could  turn  enemies  to  their  graves  with  a  clink  of  a  few  coins .  gold  could  buy  you  ships  that  sail  across  the  westerosi  seas  towards  lands  filled  with  rich  earth   ;  it  could  buy  you  soldiers  to  command  beneath  your  sword  ,  fancy  castles  where  fancy  lords  from  legends  once  upon  a  time  once  sat  ,  filled  with  age  old  secrecies  and  gallantry  bled  into  the  stone .  gold  thrones  and  golder  crowns   ,  THAT  WAS  VALUABLE   —  or  that  was  comfortable .  kol  didn’t  see  much  of  a  difference  between  opulence  and  being  stuck  in  ivory  towers  ——  those  that  could  buy  their  way  through  life  could  afford  the  most  luscious  of  luxuries  that  few  could  ever  obtain  :  protection  ,  shelter  ,  food  ,  health  , COMPANIONSHIP .   they  need  not  ask  for  much  ,  and  they  need  not  go  seeking  for  it  either  ,  and  THAT  WAS  VALUABLE .  to  a  man  like  himself  ,  comfort  is  worth  more  than  anything  he  has  ever  been  given  ,  ever  been  offered .  but  not  at  the  cost  of  everything  else .  he  was  a  greedy  man  -  driven  purely  by  the  glimmer  of  prize  and  payment  -  but  he  was  not  a  stupid  one .  

kol  stone  may  not  be  much  ,  in  truth  he  is  nothing  :   a  shadow  creeping  among  the  darkened  alleyways  ,  or  a  ghost  in  the  night   -  a  transparent  thing .  nobody  cares  for  transparent  things  ,  least  of  all  indispensable  ones .  he  very  well  may  never  advance  further  than  where  he  is  now  ,  a  bastard  at  the  bottom  of  the  barrel  drowning  like  every  other  soul  in  these  lands .  but  at  the  very  least  ,  he  has  his  wings  ,  and  his  song  ,  and  his  name .  (  STONE  was  like  it’s  very  own  house  name  in  westeros .  the  same  way  SNOW  ,  PYKE  ,  RIVERS  ,  STORM   was  ,  and  the  same  way  they  all  were  sneered  at  the  second  the  sound  braced  their  ears .  he  could  have  been a  stone  ,  or  he  could  have  been  whatever  he  carved  for  himself   ——   he  choice  the  former .  a  forged  armour  of  his  every  weakness  bearded  witness  for  everyone  :  forgotten  ,  lost  ,  bastard  with  nothing  to  lose .   )    he  thinks  you  can  fall  so  easily  into  the  traps  this  world  sets  for  your  every  pace  ,  and  if  you  don’t  keep  your  eyes  on  the  ground  and  on  the  skies  and  on  everywhere  around  you  ,  you  will  fall  victim  to  the  cruellest  of  tricks .  he  thinks  some  times  even  he  has  barely  escaped  the  clutches  of  every  STARVED  monster  that  lurks  within  this  world  ,  snapping  it’s  teeth  seeking  innocent  flesh  &  hoping  to  bite  down  for  all  eternity .  ALL  ETERNITY  ISN’T  FOR  HER  —  the  thought  of  ilaria  wyneworth  being  digested  by  this  place  -  the  most  minuscule  corner  of  the  world  ,  but  the  stomach  of  the  beast  -  is  a  thought  he  won’t  entertain .  clench  his  jaw  and  avert  his  eyes  when  he  sees  the  way  she  stands  pretty  at  her  husband’s  side  ,  when  she  sits  here  and  looks  out  on  a  horizon  that  is  there  for  her  taking .  what  is  the  most  valuable  thing  in  this  world ?  GOLD  OR  HONOR ?  honor  he  has  never  considered  among  valuable  things  ,  but  ever  since  he  met  her  he’s  found  himself  weighing  it  between  his  palms  ;  judging  ,  and  contemplating  ,  and  wanting .  greed  could  swallow  a  man  entirely  ,  but  desire  was  something  far  more  dangerous  ——   kol  stone  has  desired  plenty ,  in  brief  doses  that  barely  leave  a  lingering  taste . temptation  was  a  man’s  greatest  enemy  ,  the  itch  to  make  the  first  step  ,  to  take  the  first  bite  ,  to  touch  the  woman  who  is  far  beyond  your  worthiness .

 ilaria  is  one  of  the  clever  ones  -  with  an  iron  spine  that  isn’t  so  easily  shattered  -  one  of  the  few  that  have  looked  at  him  and  seen  him  for  what  he  is   :   devastator  ,  destructor ,  dangerous .   he  has  only  ever  known  chaos  ,  and  unwant ,  and  blood  ——  he  would  stain  her  too .  he  would  ruin  her .  he  could  save  her  -  part  of  him  may  even  want  to  ,  but  he  fears  the  affects  of  his  touch  would  blacken  her  skin  &  slowly  turn  her  to  obsidian .  as  statuesque  as  those  he  stands  among  now  ,  and  she’s  far  too  beautiful  to  be  a  statue  ,  to  be  cursed  that  way .   (  OH  ,  but  isn’t  that  what  she  is  already ?  )   ❛  as  of  late .  ❜   he  repeats  the  words  ,  testing  the  amusement  hidden  in  her  tone .  ❛   is  that  because  of  my  being  here  ,  always  so  close  by  ?  ❜   always  hovering  just  over  your  shoulder  ,  always lurking  everytime  you  turn  a  corner .  he  knows  she  finds  it  IRKSOME  ,  but  this  is  part  of  the  task .  he  is  a  man  of  his  word  ,  mostly  -  at  the  very  least  when  payment  is  involved .  but  he’ll  admit  ,  she  is  a  curiosity .  where  she  pushes  back  ,  he  can’t  help  but  push  back .   he  pauses  in  his  steps  once  more  ,  long  enough  to  take  note  of  any  little  birds  perching  waiting  to  run  back  to  the  lord  with  titbits  of  potential  scandal .  places  like  this  were  riddled  with  eyes  and  ears  wanting  nothing  more  than  praise .  he  supposes  value  is  in  the  eye  of  the  beholder  -  to  some  the  most  valuable  thing  was  gold  ,  to  others  it  was  a  pat  on  the  back  and  a  ‘  good  boy  ’ .   ❛  do  you  not  think  me  charming ?  handsome ?  good  company ?  one  of  the  three  will  suffice . ❜   the  teasing  flows  so  easily  for  him  -  like  water  flowing  through  currents  -  that  sometimes  he  forgets  the  danger  in  the  words  he  speaks  —  for  himself  and  others .  she  is  the  forbidden  fruit  here  ,  too  out  of  reach  ,   too  fragile  —  he’d  bruise  the  flesh  long  before  he  had  the  chance  to  savour  her .  he  laughs  at  her  next  words  ,   a  sound  low  &  hollow  in  his  chest   —   he  opens  his  mouth  ,  closes  it  ,  the  edge  of  a  smirk  still  fighting  it’s  way  across  his  lips .  kol  stone  has  never  quite  been  at  a  loss  for  words  ,  but  he’s  also  never  met  a  woman  like  her .   ❛   most  .  ❜    a  word  he  settles  on  slowly  —  temptation  was  a  man’s  greatest  enemy  ,  he  does  not  have  to  admit  he  was  not  innocent   -  it  would  be  an  obvious  statement .   he  has  indulged  as  any  man  had  ,  perhaps  even  more  so .   he  has  wondered  what  she  would  be  like  too   ,  with  his  hand  snaking  up  her  thigh  and  his  mouth  pressed  against  her  neck .   ❛   the  world  is  far  too  vast  ,  the  time  far  too  short  ,  and  the  lords  far  too  wealthy  for  their  own  good  ,   if  i  allowed  my  cock  to  do  all  of  my  thinking  i  would  simply  get  nothing  done   ——   but  it  is  a  good  way  to  pass  the  time .  ❜    he  bends  down  before  her  now  ,  an  arm  draping  across  his  knee  as  dark  hues  settle  firmly  on  hers  —  all  humor  aside  ,  there  is  a  question  that  itches  at  him  now  -  begs  relief  in  form  of  clarification .  he  wants  to  see  through  her  eyes .  silence  fills  the  air  only  briefly  before  he  speaks  again  ,  voice  steady  and  curious .     ❛   tell  me  something  ,   ❜   what  were  you  running  from ?  he  already  knows  the  answer  to  that .  in  his  brief  time  here  he  has  already  found  the  answers  etched  into  the  cobblestone  &  in  the  forlorn  faces  that  watch  upon  them  now .  he  should  know  better  than  to  ask  ,  but  those  words  have  followed  him  everywhere  :  HE  SHOULD  KNOW  BETTER .   ❛   where  were  you  going ?  ❜   he  feels  like  he  needn’t  clarify  entirely   :  when  you  left  ,  before  they  dragged  you  back  to  this  godforsaken  place  ,  when  you  were  free  to  choose   ——   if  you  could  go  anywhere  in  the  world , where  would  you  go ?

#kueyens. #‹ ♡ › 𝒌𝒐𝒍. ៹ threads. #‹ ♡ › 𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂 & 𝒌𝒐𝒍. ៹ 001. #nsfw text tw #( for like . . . a sentence in TOTAL but i feel like i . . gotta tag it shdfjhhjf . ) #ANYWAYS this isn't good !!!!!!!! i know !!!!!! i have BETTER stuff coming for u ok ! #also ok im making the Switch to gifs instead but am i too lazy rn to colour this one Properly ? yes ma'am !

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#‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒐𝒄. ៹ wanted plots. #no i do not think abt having an anastasia inspired plot every day of my life <3 yes i — no i dont #and i do NOT ! picture me playing rege jean page or theo james or mena massoud . . most definitely do Not ever do that ! haha .... #haha . . hoo

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Olivia Holt  &  Aubrey Joseph of ’ Cloak & Dagger ’ Answer Your Burning Season 2 Questions.

#‹ ♡ › 𝒆𝒖𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆. ៹ visage. #not me reblogging my Own gifset <3 no i'm not <3 #q.

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I LOVE. having multiple threads with my rp partners !! it’s like on some days i feel like writing long stuff, on others i feel more like writing short stuff, sometimes i’d rather write some intense situations, and other times i’m more in the mood for lighthearted topics. having several different types of threads with a person enables me to keep rping with them even if i’m stuck @ a reply for another thread we’re having !! it’s great, honestly !? if you wanna have 1 more thread or 20 more threads /w me that’s 10/10 👌👌👌👌 just write that starter or send an ic ask & we’ll go from there or hmu for plotting k man i love threads i love writing all the things

#‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒐𝒄. ៹ about. #!! YES #give me 232 threads u Cowards . #q.

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#‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒂. ៹ visage. #q.

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#‹ ♡ › 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒍. ៹ introspection. #‹ ♡ › 𝒚𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒛. ៹ introspection. #‹ ♡ › 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓. ៹ introspection. #q.

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Melis Sezen as Yasemin Adivar in Leke

#‹ ♡ › 𝒚𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒛. ៹ visage. #OH MA'AM ! #q.

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#‹ ♡ › 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒓. ៹ introspection. #‹ ♡ › 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒂. ៹ introspection. #q.

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for   the   heart  ,  both   𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐀𝐑   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 .  for   the   heart  ,  both   𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅 .

it’s  another  indie  1x1  ,  semi  -  selective  ,  low  activity ??? ,  discord  /  tumblr  based  ,  original  character  mumu  ,  babey !   (  as  written  by  nae .  )    ——   please  be  sure  to  read  my  guidelines  before  interacting !  

#indie rp #indie mumu #indie oc rp #‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒐𝒄. ៹ self promo. #me finally posting this after it's been sitting in my drafts for 32 yrs ? absolutely !

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𝓝𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓱 𝓒𝓸𝓱𝓮𝓷

#‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒐𝒄. ៹ wanted fc. #‹ ♡ › 𝒐𝒐𝒄. ៹ wanted opposite. #she is SO CUTE .