kryetar - Tumblr blog

[kryetar]

love you lot and feel you deserve something a bit solid to work with from me so i’m gonna leave this here. as you can see, i’m not really active at the moment, and with how things are going in my life i suspect that inactivity is going to last for a while. my new role at work is amazing, is so much better suited for me, and actually draws on a lot of my creativity and my energy to communicate, which is so great to have an actual outlet for that i could build a career on. but unfortunately results in me being really mentally and socially drained outside of it. i come home feeling very exercised creatively, but i feel so often now like i haven’t got the space for more avenues of it, if that makes sense - i’m also ‘performing’ so much during the day, and putting so much effort in, that i’m finding it hard to strike that balance of giving more to things outside of work. i’m also still adjusting to life with my mum and being a lot more involved in family stuff on weekends, to pursuing a serious relationship, and going through so many personal changes that it feels like i’m no where near the person i was 6 months ago let alone a year ago ... all really great things, and i’m really happy!! but it just means that my presence here suffers, and my ability to explore the world of ira dunham suffers. i’ve never been one to put half effort into something. very go big or go home. so ... i think for tumblr, i’ve definitely gone home lol. i fully intend to try and write here and there on discord with the incredible people i have on there. much love. heaps of gratitude. especially to nat, who has been a rock to me in a lot of ways, and who has really played a part in me now getting to experience this happiness in life aided by her wisdom and drive to go above and beyond for me. she sent me GERMAN CAKES IN THE POST FOR CHRISTMAS for goodness sake. literally a legend. but anyway. thanks guys. be good. el x

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Oliver Jackson-Cohen as James in Surface (2022) episode eight “See You on the Other Side”  

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something is wrong with him (lovingly)

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perdefinitio​.

crimewrought.

𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚂𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙽 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝙰 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚂𝙼?   how has this tectonic shift happened,  in months which feel millennia?   the questions singe her skull,  threatening to leak from her ears in a demonic black lacquer.   the only certainty she feels is in what is happening now;  not a widening of plates,  but a collision of them.   that certainty laps at her heels,  molten lava erupted.   is there any combating such apocalypse,  such rapture?   in search of an answer,  she glances to severin;  beloved ally,  bemoaned conspirator.   she’s searching solace in sev,  as much as she’s searching refuge from ira.   in the former’s stillness,  maria prepares to draw her blade.   in the latter’s waiting,  maria prepares to use it.   ( can she? )

   “ you know what we did.   you know we went. ”   her caution erodes slowly,  as though lapped at by a thrashing shoreline;  beaten by the elements.   that pressure surrounds her,  chokes her,  a monoxide poisoning seeping from ira’s walls.   can severin propel her?   armour her?   maria looks to him again,  a phantom figure coated in the dust of ira’s volcano fury.   she begs the cinders to fall,  to reveal some guiding principle that will act as lighthouse to her simmering venom.   the ashes remain.   

   “ and you know why.   you should know why.   going down there,  going to him,  everything we did was because of you. ”   not for him–––because of him.   the distinction acts as a final earth tremor,  and maria feels some of her own dust fall.   “ if you’re not going to protect yourself,  don’t hate us for trying. ”

Next  to  Maria,  he  sits  not  only  unarmed,  but  tenuous:  an  embarrassingly  sheepish  version  of  himself,  a  diffident  boy  half-hiding  behind  the  mother.  None  of  the  anger  he  arrived  with  remains,  instantly  combusted  by  Ira’s  rage;  all  protest,  all  righteous  dissent  ground  to  dust  beneath  his  disapproval.  Useless  boy,  cowered  in  anticipation  of  punishments  to  come,  nothing  but  disappointment,  a  disgrace.  All  the  world’s  cyclical  and  what  remains  at  the  centre  is  only  him  –  the  reliable  constant  that  makes  people  turn  away.  Even  Ira  he’s  turned  harsh  and  unforgiving,  even  Ira  has  been  depleted  of  his  calm.

                                "Only  way  to  see  you’s  by  pissing  you  off  these  days",  his  attempt  at  backing  up  Maria  but  an  ineffective  mutter,  quietly  stroppy  without  denying  his  own  guilt.  His  gaze  seems  glued  to  Maria’s  knee,  his  own  bouncing  nervously,  because  what  –  not  who  –  sits  before  him  cannot  be  faced  without  it  all  coming  apart.  On  a  path  as  ill-fated  as  his,  the  inevitable  cannot  be  changed,  only  forcibly  ignored.  If  you  cannot  see  his  fury  then  perhaps  it  isn’t  real.  Her  conviction,  remarkably  brave,  paradoxically  only  makes  him  want  to  retreat  more;  bent  uncomfortably  forward  with  both  hands  stuck  in  the  pockets  of  his  jeans,  he  leans  further  into  her,  restless  chest  against  the  back  of  her  shoulder.  At  her  he  directs  a  whisper  that  admits  defeat  before  he’s  so  much  as  given  it  a  try:  "Maybe  we  should  go.“   

what a wasted shepherd you are,       if your flock is so truly as blind as this.       gall - faced and nauseous in the face of the apex,       but still so zealous,        still so loyal that they’d follow you regardless.        i didn’t ask for this,        ira thinks,       and while he’s usually fairly adept at cauterizing himself before a match - turns - blaze,        it’s like the rational section of his synapses seems ...    dormant.        like it had fallen asleep without his realizing,        and simply didn’t wake up.        in some sick and gangrenous way,       ira’s grateful for it.        he will saturate his words later over the inevitable dissection but right now demands of him his amassed severity.        it’s just a shame it comes by the side of a mauled temper.

“ is this a joke? ”           ira asks,       but the query is complete rhetoric,      as he’s simply electing to highlight the fact that none of them are laughing.       maria’s words are flightless warfare,       something ira’s come to expect of her,        but it’s severin’s childishness that’s inspiring the crusade.       a hand rises to swat the air with gestures while he speaks,       so fit to bust it’s almost uncharacteristic of him to become so animated.         “ so you both ...   what,   exactly?        what did you set out to actually achieve by doing this?      do you have some kind of grand plan to explain why you’re both so fucking stupid or did you seriously think it was a good idea?    i’d actually really  ...   like to know if you had a plan,    beyond just turning up like a pair of fucking ...   i don’t even know what! ”           he’ll turn at last,       abdomen clenched with muscle taut,      and run fingers through his hair so tight it leaves white streaks on his available skin.        the same will dig into his eye sockets,      push until he sees spots of colour.      “ for fucks sake, ”          muttered,       telling of frustration so finely wound that it’s a wonder he’s not burst a vein.      turns again fast.       “ what were you gonna do? ”        unsure where to look,      both severin and maria get equal fashions of his glare.        “ have another crack at one of them?    or something?    since it went so well the first fucking time?! ”

suddenly,      ira sets on severin.        a painful assault to watch for sure.       “ ...   - was this your idea? ”        not exactly like sev doesn’t have a track record for showing up ‘unannounced’.       “ so what  ...    didn’t work the first time you did it so now you think bringing her will help?     as if it didn’t end bad enough? ”    he can’t displace those memories sometimes.       can’t sleep sound with those images in his head.      sev’s blood,      the blooming red and purple,       sev’s blood,      all that swallowing guilt,      severin’s blood all over you.        “ you fucking, ”       ira spits,       but the recipient is clearly open ended.      a desperate breath,     his lip curls upward and his neck stiffens.     “ what the fuck,   guys?! ”         -       “ what happens if they catch you and decide you’re up to no good?    what fucking happens then?    protect me ...    fucking protect me!!    what about protecting yourselves?!    what about acting like normal fucking human beings!! ”

[kryetar]

SURFACE | 1x04 Psychogenic Oliver Jackson-Cohen & François Arnaud as James and Harrison

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i’ve seen rats in the hold.         rats that will spread famine.        RATS,    IRA.      DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS?           no,      of course i didn’t.      of course i didn’t know.        how could i?        an expression deplorable,      one discerning into the heavy atmosphere like a stone-faced golem sweltering in the heating of the seasons;       of course i didn’t know.        she did,       though,        and did she tell you about the impending hurricane waiting patiently on your doorstep?        similarly;        how is he supposed to navigate yet another storm with so many glossy lies already spun?       i don’t know who fucked kel up.         i don’t know why they’re out there.       i don’t know,     murrat,      and wipe that look off your face.      i have a lot of things to do.         how long will it be exactly before they decide to start looking for fractures among their own?        ARE YOU KEEPING THE SHIP AFLOAT,        IRA,        OR ARE YOU THE ONE SPROUTING LEAKS?

“go on then,”            ira begins,       weighted as a soliloquy,        deep as the rage of the sea.       he’s beyond even frustration,      now;       shackled somewhere blind with rage without even the indication he might abandon it one day.        motionless,       and emboldened like zeus while his stare holds it’s granite against    @crimewrought​    and    @perdefinitio.        there isn’t a scrap of warmth on him.      no more shivers of doubt.       only certainty of fury.          “i think you both have something to tell me.”

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Oliver Jackson-Cohen as James in Surface (2022) episode three “New Person, Same Old Mistakes”

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Kaveh Akbar, from "Calling a Wolf a Wolf (Inpatient)", Calling a Wolf a Wolf

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what  an  effort  to  keep  alive  !      erecting  a  monument  does  not  require  the  expenditure  of  so  much  strength.

a  low  activity  crime  oc,    based  on  an  original  novel.    18+.    by  aj.

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SURFACE 1.03

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when tame impala said ‘whatever i’ve done, i did it for love, i did it for fun, couldn’t get enough, i did it for fame, but never for money’

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he's the bad guy

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Marble portrait of the co-emperor Lucius Verus (161-169 AD), detail.  Metropolitan Museum of Art.

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ARE YOU STRUGGLING TO FIND THE ANSWER ?   /    ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE LOOKING IN THE RIGHT PLACES ?

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wowzers trouzers its a life update under the cut what is this tumblr 2012?

so i thought i’d just explain a little bit about my current situation and how i’m going to be here indefinitely. come the start of 2022 my life has got a little intense - january i decided to go to university after a bit of an -oh fuck what am i doing with my life- moment, february i broke up with my partner of almost four years and moved back in with my mum, march i started seeing someone else and it got serious pretty quickly, april i decided to go for a different job in my current place of work potentially instead of going to uni, all along struggling with work getting really difficult and emotionally/mentally distressing for me bc of a toxic environment (i mean .. work right) ... and may .... who tf knows!!!! i’m going to find out tomorrow if i was successful or not in the interview so potentially even more things will be changing for me. the nub and gist of all this ... is that essentially i’m just in such a period of change right now that i’m struggling to focus on really anything except ... my life, i suppose. so as a result i’m just going to mark this as a disclaimer to say while i will be posting every now and then here, i won’t be ‘present’ as much so to speak. i’m overwhelmed a lot at the moment so i’m just tryna find stuff that helps me feel .. less overwhelmed. i’m fortunate to have my pc, i’ve just got photoshop on it again and i have lots of thoughts for ira, so i am absolutely still alive and kicking, just a bit more in the bg.

needless to say, seeing you all posting makes me feel happy, because the stability of watching you lot do your thing is super calming for me to come back to every now and then, so i’ll be in and out essentially. i wanted to put this here because i’m a bit removed from the dash at the best of times, and i want you guys to know ...... i care. i care u

anyway!!! tl;dr .... life is intense so i’ll be here but not *here* here if u get me ??

[kryetar]

the mercian,   severin​.

After  so  many  lives,  there’s  something  to  be  said  for  predictability.  A  true  revolutionary,  certainly  one  with  endless  years  ahead  of  him,  will  dread  stagnancy  in  everything  but  this:  the  comfort  of  bone-deep  familiarity,  of  foreseeing  understanding.  Ira  cannot  feasibly  lash  out  without  Severin  expecting  it  –  watching  the  roll  of  the  tide  and  unhesitatingly  leaning  into  it.  "No,  you’re  right",  he  concedes  without  surrendering  a  single  inch,  "there  is  no  certainty  until  you’ve  spoken  to  her  yourself",  knowing  not  to  heed  his  bite  but  rather  redirect  it.  The  scorned  pride  of  a  royal’s  a  jeopardous  thing,  but  perhaps  even  stronger  than  that  is  his  honour.  Ira,  no  matter  how  disgraced,  will  not  run  from  a  challenge  –  even  if  it  is  a  joust  waged  with  truths  rather  than  swords.

                                They’d  lost  their  way,  collectively,  many  years  ago.  Unbeknownst  to  her,  Maria  soothes  that  still-tender  wound  as  much  as  she  keeps  scraping  it:  as  though  intent  on  mending  it  by  first  scraping  out  all  that’s  festering  and  foul.  Impossible  to  deny  a  face  like  hers,  inconceivable  to  accept  failing  her.  Their  second  chance,  their  restitution.  Ira’s  insecurity  mirrors  Severin’s  own,  and  it  touches  him  to  see  him  rendered  so  worldly  and  small:  humbled  flesh,  profane  vexation.  It  touches  Severin  to  witness  Ira’s  regret.  Paradoxically,  Ira’s  outward  pettiness  softens  Severin  with  fondness  –  knowing  the  weight  behind  it,  offering  to  shoulder  the  brunt  of  it.

                              "We  both  know  this  is  less  about  protecting  her  than  protecting  her  image  of  you“,  an  observation  unyielding  and  sharp,  yet  delivered  not  as  a  knife  but  an  open  palm.  It’s  a  reminder:  with  me  there  is  no  need  to  pretend.  It’s  an  offer:  with  me  you  can  focus  on  what’s  at  the  core.  As  easy  as  it  would  be  to  take  a  turn  towards  defending  Ilias  (the  same  old  argument,  the  tired  back  and  forth),  Severin  decides  not  to  take  Ira’s  bait  and  rather  point  him  to  what  really  matters,  with  gentle  stubbornness.  This,  despite  appearances,  turns  out  to  not  be  about  Ilias  at  all.  "You  want  to  know  everything  about  her,  as  do  I.  It  makes  sense  for  that  desire  to  go  both  ways.”  Forceful  as  it  may  be,  Ira  seeking  reassurance  by  touch  is  a  relief;  is  tangible,  undeniable,  a  point  of  action  Severin  can  use.  "She  said  she  would  like  to  hear  your  perspective,  Ira.  Shouldn’t  that  be  enough?“  He  accepts  his  grasp  unflinchingly,  meets  his  grip  with  equal  force.  Don’t  you  slip  away  from  me,  pulling  him  in  just  enough  for  steady  shoulders  to  meet.  If  it  is  absolution  Ira  is  pleading  for,  Severin  will  not  hesitate  to  deliver.  Quietly  he  speaks,  with  utmost  conviction,  as  his  free  hand  comes  to  rest  securely  on  the  back  of  Ira’s  neck:  "She  will  not  love  you  any  less,  or  think  any  lesser  of  you.  I  know  I  don’t.”

                    rising fog;      the air shrinks,      but severin splits through it,      mere atoms whirring in his wake.      those are sharp words,      ira thinks,     lodged deep in old english long since forgotten;       much as it flickers the kindling of battle in him ever still,      the bloom of it’s inevitable warmth renders him almost speechless,       and so thus he submits himself to simply studying his lovers’ eyes.       resigns some of the hackles along his spine to a sanguine,      as oppose to a violent colour.      ira will listen to severin speak with as much fervency and as much conviction as has always.       therein the threads is something holy.        which of them,       prince or pauper,      is the most pious in their belief in one another?

a predictable zealot,       ira sunders no abrasion to severin’s guidance,      and lets the broad slope of his shoulder combine itself to the others’ with a sense of now forming gratitude.       much as they’re lovers,       they are as much soldiers,       bonded together by all centuries of fastenings;      perhaps this is simply just another field of battle then.        while ira supposes it’s unwise to see anything as warfare nowadays,       he similarly suspects the enemy to be a little less obvious;        as if he reads the mercian’s thoughts,      he knows ilias isn’t the foray this time.         (   are you brave enough to admit it’s yourself?   )         a deep breath wells,       looms and furls,       shallow in aftermath.       the endlessness of his gaze lingers elsewhere on severin’s body again,      seeking respite.

“  ...   fine, ”            the skin beneath your hand;        were i a beast,       you’d feel the steadfast dander.      too,    you would feel the way it tempers for you.             “ fine. ”          embarrassment begins poking holes in his organs,       slowly leaking through his body like sepsis,       and ira swears he has felt shame before,      knows he’s felt remorse,       but sidelines this experience as something else entirely.       all he can bear to think is the pictures ilias might have painted for her;       the winchester wight,      cruel and cold,      to whom love is possession,       and you are his,      you will always be his,      even if it smothers you.       knee jumping in place impatiently where he sits,       ira’s head drops;        index fingers rubbing callously at his eye sockets.        “ ...  did she say when she would be home? ”         calmer,       but troubled,     now;      the great unending tome of his life flicks to a page of burning chagrin.

[kryetar]

severin of mercia.

Reliably,  the  storm  hits  as  forecast:  Severin  comes  well  prepared,  footing  steady,  bearings  fastened.  Ira  may  well  risk  getting  swept  up  in  it,  but  Severin  will  not.  "Ira",  an  anchor  offered  amid  the  biblical  downpour  of  Ira’s  anger,  the  only  mainstay  mooring  him  to  the  here  and  now.  "Ira",  firm  once  more,  striving  to  drown  out  what’s  raging  within;  and  yet  gentle  enough  to  find  the  soft  comfort  of  the  mother  tongue  they  share,  "please  look  at  me.“  Still  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  he  will  respect  Ira’s  need  for  space.  He  will  not,  however,  allow  him  to  break  adrift.  He  will  not  accept  a  quiet  retreat.

                                He  does  not  miss  how  much  easier  he  finds  it,  to  focus  on  Ira’s  explosive  response  rather  than  his  own  smouldering  one;  how  readily  he  jumps  to  discussing  Maria,  discarding  the  topic  of  Ilias  altogether.  Later,  he  tells  himself,  there  will  always  be  time  later.  Now,  he  needs  to  seize  the  moment  and  hold  on  fast,  regardless  of  Ira’s  thrashing  protest.

                                "I  don’t  think  there’s  any  ill  intent”,  he  indulges  not  in  a  placating  tone  for  fear  of  Ira  reading  it  as  condescension,  instead  sounds  impartial  and  calm,  "nor  did  she  seem  upset  or  angry.  They  were  just…  telling  their  life  stories  to  each  other,  that’s  all.“  And  she  deserves  to  know,  he  wants  to  say,  she  deserves  our  entire  history.  But,  among  the  echoes  of  so  many  conversations  they've  had  on  this  exact  point  of  contention,  he  does  not  need  to  point  it  out.  He  does  not  need  to  stoop  so  low  and  say  I  told  you  so,  he  does  not  need  nor  want  the  vindication.  What  he  does  need,  and  rather  more  despairingly  than  he  thought  still  possible,  is  for  Ira  to  find  his  peace.  "I  know  she  would  have  preferred  to  hear  it  from  you,  but  this  does  not  need  to  be  a  bad  thing:  it’s  out  in  the  open  now.”  She’s  so  strong,  our  Maria.  He  finds  a  smile  that  seems  to  say:  she  is  stronger  than  you  sometimes  give  her  credit  for,  my  love.  "This  is  your  chance  to  confide  in  her,  Ira,  and  I  really  think  you  should.  She  can  take  it.“

“ you cannot be completely certain of what you know. ”         perhaps there’s an inkling more intended malice in the snap of his words;       they are a composite knee-jerk,      and while clearly clad themselves in a distinct layer of defensive vigour,      it isn’t aimed at severin.      parallel to the dulled blade he resides himself to still infrequently treads that fervent,      patriotic wolf,     howling for recompense and for glorious bloodshed.       ira cannot make severin’s eyes,       for he feels approaching disgust at the way his expression curdles like soured milk;        therein builds the tempestuous rage,      ugly lines on his marble face,       that carve back to the centuries of hatred,       the violence that had felt unending.      (  all accessible again,  now,  all just gazing up at him under the placating surface.  )       though,     perhaps,      time has forced him to learn better.        love has coaxed him into softer fields.

eyelids blink closed,       torn apart from the world around them.      maybe there’s some sanctity in a lack of light.       there certainly exists enough sanctity to satiate him eternally in the tender words of his lover,      and uncharacteristic for the infamed prince,     ira feels himself retreat,      seat himself by severin’s side once more,       and rub the weathered pads of his index fingers along the bridge of a sharp nose.       embarrassment wells in him like foetid water,       almost as drowning as the amassing emasculation.      while he wishes outwardly not to be touched,     he simultaneously will force his knee against the others’,       a grounding technique,       practiced strenuously. 

“ i didn’t want her to have to. ”          when he admits his words,       he lets the enormity of his gaze settle haphazardly on the wooden floor before him,     and counts the nooks in the aging grain.       “ ...  i liked her not knowing. ”        (  i preferred her not knowing.  )       is it indulgent of him to warrant her ignorance?     a deep,    somewhat pitiful sigh.       sickness bores a hole in his abdomen.      “ she doesn’t need to know.  ...   though i’m sure it gave him great satisfaction to share it. ”       spoken on a flickering lip,      akin to territorial dogs;       ira’s regret musters for maria,       but his warfare lurks for ilias.        (  speak to fides soon.  )        all too suddenly,     his hand rises to grip severin’s,     tightly on the palm as he digs holes in his skin;       give me guidance,     give me something to aid my self control,     heals-gebbeda.     “ he might not have give me much chance for defence.  ”          severe brown eyes lock onto those troubled blues.       prince ira of wessex and rebel severin of mercia they are once more.      shakespearen is the love ira burns into him;        his grip tightens,      their proximity shrinks.     “ did she say anything about what he told her? ”