#boystark

[loveologie]

. 𐙚 ⭒ incorrect quotes : @boystark ♡

[dragaryen]

happy birthday @boystark  !!!  dearest sonny, you are so talented & hilarious. a great friend & an incredibly magnificent writer — thank you for blessing us all with your robb. today, for you, daenerys will pet grey wind willingly (and run screaming) but i hope you have the BEST day & i cannot wait to keep interacting with you & building up the wonderful stark/targ alliance that makes everyone on twitter wanna die. love you & happy birthday again!

[loveologie]

( ! ) ♡ [ @boystark: i don't want to seem impatient. ]

the    band    takes    it’s    time    to    warm    against    the    flush    of    her    skin    *    as    if    the    frost    from    winterfell    was    embedded    into    the    metal    itself.    all    the    weight    of    its    history    burdened    in    the    minute    grooves    &    ancient    details    of    its    jeweled    bearings.    gwen    cradles    her    own    hand    to    stop    the    shaking,    to    better    her    admiration    of    the    artifact.    the    week    of    fighting    seemed    to    wholly    lift    away    *    what    had    she    been    so    upset    about    ?    what    could    have    ever    bothered    her    when    life    was    capable    of    moments    like    these,    where    chapters    seemed    to    open    so    neatly    ?    robb,    his    proximity,     the    ring    on    her    finger    —    details    so    clear    that    the    rest    of    the    world    all    but    fell    away    into    the    soft,    distant    thrum    of    life    before.                   ❛❛  . . . ❜❜                 words  catch  !    all    avenues   for    expression    are    blocked    by    the    mist    of    tears    gathering    at    lower    lashes.    gwen   moves    trembling    hands    to    besotted    visage,    unable    to    manifest    the    full    bloom    of    adoring    verbiage.                  ❛❛  yes  !  ❜❜

[loveologie]

“i know it sounds childish, but i can't help believing some people are meant to find one another.”

( ! )         ♡          new  york  autumn  was  suited  too  perfectly  for  him,  gwen  sometimes   struggled  to  reconcile  that  he  was  winter  -  born  &  winter  -  fated.  golden  tinted  auburn,  the  chestnut  of  starling  freckles.  he  would  do  well  anywhere,  but  here  (  with  her  !  )  made  a  difference.  she  brushes  his  hair  back,  distracted  by  affection  &  tight  swell  of  love  seizing  her  chest.  robb’s  words  are  nearly  lost  *  muffled  beneath  skipping  heart.

                                                     ❛❛  hm  …  ?  ❜❜  

                       ❛❛  how  in  the  world  is  that  childish,  man  o’  mine  ?  that’s  plain  common  sense  in  my  world,  ❜❜                   the  breeze  picks  up  around  them,  scattering  fallen  leaves  &  dousing  gwendolyne  &  her  beau  in  a  surprising  dose  of  them.  a  laugh  &  she  ducks  pale  head  to  avoid  dried  foliage.                            ❛❛  if  you  never  came  to  new  york,  we  would’a  met  in  london,  handsome.  ❜❜

[sunwalks]

it's your first family heirloom. ― @boystark.

THE TWINE DANGLING BETWIXT HER FINGERS IS SOFT, a gentle but sturdy chord that sansa recognizes as personal handiwork. her own brother's craftsmanship, in this case. simple it may be, the pendant itself is not entirely of his meager skill: like a coin, one side is carved a lovely rose, and upon the other is the crouched form of a direwolf, the sigil of their house. the detail is fine enough to take her breath away, a brief wonderment of who amongst their trade workers has careful enough hands to mark metal so delicately. sansa brushes her thumb over the raised petals of the rose, feeling the grooves of the direwolf on the tip of her finger on the other side. a pretty thing, well enough for a lady to wear, and perhaps also --- to serve as a reminder. that however far across the seven kingdoms she goes, winterfell will always be in her blood. the act alone of having this made is a knowledge that carves a space for itself inside of her heart, and tully eyes are bright as a cloudless sky when they fall upon robb.

“ to pass onto my children, you mean? ” the smile arcing her lips lends its lightness to her words, though there is something it nearly hitches over --- a hesitation, like the stutter-skip of her heart. her and joffrey's children, one day. wolf and lion. she wants to take the low, sickly feeling in her stomach and bury it deep. “ if this is to be my parting gift, i fear i'd grow to like it too much and request it be buried with me in the crypts. ” the bow of her mouth bends, a teasing lilt in her voice that sighs away a moment later. the longer she looks at robb, as if trying to memorize a face she may not see for a very, very long time. she hates this ache in her chest.

sudden, sansa turns the necklace in her fingers and pivots in the light dusting of snow, lifting it over one of her shoulders. “ help me put it on, robb? ” at least this way, he won't see her strain against the sob that threatens to climb up the column of her throat. she wants this, doesn't she? has begged and preened for it since the moment she learned of the king's coming. “ ... you will visit, will you not? when mother is . . . when bran is awake and he, mother, and perhaps maester luwin can watch over winterfell. you will visit us in king's landing? ”

[darzyr]

@boystark . it's not your fault you didn't see it coming.

it’s good, he thinks, to fight someone that does not know him.    as good as it is humiliating.    ( but they do know each other.    they have.    they did. )    woe!    indignity!    the young lord lets up and steps away, face fallen as though he'd been hit and sent reeling, his blunt sword bobbing as he adjusts his grip on the pommel ;    and a̳e̳m̳o̳n̳d̳ ̳w̳i̳s̳h̳e̳s̳, viciously, he’d changed more in the interim, like he himself has.    or that, at least, he wouldn’t treat him as though he were still the same. 

ser criston does not coddle him when they spar  —  not in any way 𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞.    doesn’t soften his blows or consciously account for the blind spot of his missing eye, because a murderer, an enemy would not.    𝚊𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔 ;    works twice as hard to cover his flanks and compensate for the drunken vertigo that impairs him when he slips off balance.    but coIe, though he may not even know it to change anything about how he teaches, has danced around his injury for years. coIe is predictable and, crucially, bound by oath not to hurt him.    unlike robb.

it’s not your fault.    you didn’t see it coming.    as if robb should have pulled the strike, should have led his blade with mercy.    as if he could.    as if consideration factored into this  —  as if a̳e̳m̳o̳n̳d̳, no longer a whole and worthy opponent, relied on it to hold his own.    his teeth grit against the searing fury in him.    no pleasant, empty word could override the knowledge  —  intrinsic  —  that he should have seen it coming.    that the difference could mean his life, or worse yet, someone else’s triumph over him. 

         ❛❛  again,  ❜❜         he says, decisive, quiet.    curt.    if he begins to speak to robb now, he might not stop, and then, the discrepancy will become clear and uncomfortable in the light of day.    he wants    ( has wanted )    to pretend some part of him came out alongside the eye, replaced by stone.    letters unanswered, memories neglected, forgotten.    he is no longer the toothless boy in need of kindness and warmth amidst unfamiliar winter storms.    r̳o̳b̳b̳ ̳s̳t̳a̳r̳k̳, called wolf in the north, is nothing but a reminder sent to mock him for who he was before 𝐯𝐡𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐫'𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 whispered against sand  —  a quiet, thrumming song only he could hear  —  and her massive eyelid rippled in a blink, accepting him, choosing him.    he plants his feet, leaves a drag path in the wake of his movement.         ❛❛  again, i said.  ❜❜

[altarcup]

better a mouse than some louder beast. / for sophie

fist pressed against her hammering, rushing, fluttering bird-heart, sophie can’t even catch a breath before she darts to the ground where the hat she’d been working on lays, silk flowers crumpled, on the floorboards.    not ruined, but . . . dusty, scuffed by her boot.    a powerful sigh ruffles decorative spruces of rosemary.         ❛❛  you’re right.    it just startled me.  ❜❜         sophie has no great disdain for mice.    in fact, she hopes, sincerely, that . . .         ❛❛  oh, don’t tell me i hit it.    did you see where it went?  ❜❜

[saintsdawn-a]

↬  @boystark says, “ it’s as easy as breathing. one foot and then the other. and don’t overthink it. ”

it stings. barely noticeable at first, until it builds, builds, and builds. suddenly it feels like hot coal, and florence wants to toss herself into the deep snow. burying yourself in snow and ice must be better than facing embarrassment. 

“ that is your advice ? do not think, and to put one foot in front of the other ? ” her sword made an impressive indent in the snow. following robb’s advice, florence moves a foot and ruins the shape. “ i know how to swing a sword. ”

pouting. childish. yes, yes – both are terrible, and she has enough sense to try to bottle them. “ how can i not overthink when i am trying to find the best way to push you into the snow ? ”