#(UNADORNED SINCERITY)

[castielmacleod]

The way he IMMEDIATELY changes his tune as soon as Cas is at risk

#MAKE IT FOUR. #Crowstiel #My posts #Can we talk about “reluctant but committed” the way heIIers talk about unadorned sincerity or whatever the fuck #I think that would be funny

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

Virginia Woolf’s Handwritten Suicide Note: A Painful and Poignant Farewell (1941)

[Dearest,

I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.]

Her suicide note, written to her husband Leonard, is a haunting and beautiful document, in all its unadorned sincerity behind which much turmoil and anguish lie. you can hear a dramatic reading of Woolf’s note, such a wrenching missive because it is not a farewell to the world at large, but rather to a trusted friend and lover.

#virgina woolf #dark acadamia quotes #dark acadamia aesthetic #english literature #classic literature #literature quotes #literature #lit #handwritten #writing #poem #poetry #light academia #light acadamia aesthetic #chaotic acadmeia quotes #chaotic academia #chaotic academic aesthetic #poets and writers #books and libraries #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #dark academia #classic academia #grey academia #academia #dead poets society #words #book quotes #text post #web weaving

[dark-and-kawaii]

The Pet Names

╰› Raphael carries himself with a supreme level of self esteem, and should you be the one who captures his attention, be prepared for endearments as rich as his most exquisite wines. You are not merely his "little mouse" anymore, no you’ve become something much more significant now.

Little Mouse <- Still his favorite

My Dearest

Love

Eternal Bloom Of My Soul <- When he’s in his poetic mood

My Queen

My Duchess

As Raphael leads you onto his grand floor, the lost soul in the corner playing the violin ever so diligently. With a graceful step, your devil draws you close moving in rhythm to the music, his voice a tender whisper, his breath warm against your ear. He murmurs one of these cherished names he’s given you, and oh how it makes the rest of the world fade away in your mind, leaving nothing but the two of you, swaying in a moment meant only for you.

╰› Haarlep is a demon, an incubus, hence it's unrealistic to anticipate endearing pet names at every moment. Nevertheless, it's evident how much Haarlep has developed an attachment to you, and that shows when they slip with something sincere.

Little Dove

Delectable Delight/Treat

Pet

Darling <- Always says it with a smirk and a chime to it.

Play Thing

Brat <- Haarlep loves when you call them a brat as well

Pretty Little Fuck Toy

Bitch In Heat

Bunny <- Haarlep finds it cute because they could devour you whole if they pleased. You’re the perfect little prey for them.

Regardless of the array of belittling names bestowed upon you daily/nightly, you consistently find Haarlep at your side, some form of him always touching you as if to show others you are indeed theirs- a silent declaration of possession. And when Haarlep can’t be around you they wait impatiently on your bed, their tail flickering about restlessly. And once you show yourself, the incubus always strides over towards you seductively, their tail snaking around your thigh to bring you into his chest so that his wings can envelop you.

“Oh, come now, my little dove, must you always wander away for so long?” They lament with a playful pout, “You know every second you’re gone, I’m here wasting away in a sea of sheets without my favorite delectable treat.” They draw you closer, their embrace tightening ever so slightly. “Consider a poor incubus’s heart, won't you? It’s quite cold without you here warming me, afterall.” Haarlep coaxes, their plea wrapped in a cheeky yet sincere veneer of need as he nuzzles against your cheek tenderly.

╰› Zevlor is a grown man, not a mere boy. He holds you in the highest regard, adores you, treasures you, and is prepared to go to any lengths for your sake. His nicknames for you may seem straightforward and unadorned, yet they are laden with affection and are so endearing that they leave you wanting more.

Darling

Sweetheart

My Dear

Beloved

Beautiful

Each night, just before you drift off to sleep, Zevlor tenderly cradles your face and gently presses his forehead to yours, whispering one of these cherished names. As he draws back, he reassures you with a reminder not to fret over him while he's out safeguarding the city. He promises that, regardless of what happens, he will return to you, ready to envelop you in his embrace as the day concludes.

╰› Rolan is new to pet names, so he’s not necessarily used to this. You’re his first serious relationship/first person he’s ever taken real interest in. But believe me when I say, it doesn’t take long for Rolan to get used to calling you special names. With a voice dripping in self assuredness, Rolan would call you:

Dear

Sweetheart

Pest <- It’s never malicious though

Angel <- always says it with a smirk

Fiesty Little Flirt

Cheeky Brat

Troublemaker/ Trouble

As you entered his dimly lit study, you could smell the scent of old books and melting candles within the room. Rolan feels a shiver of delight as you wrap your arms around him from behind. You could feel how his tail encircles around your waist, pulling you firmly against his back, anchoring you to the warmth of his body. Before you could rest against him he spun within your embrace to cradle your face, “Has my troublemaker come here to lure me away from my duties?” Your cheeks flushed deeply as you simply nod. "How greedy of you," he whispers just as he claims your mouth with his.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #raphael bg3 #haarlep #Raphael #bg3 raphael #tav #zevlor #zevlor bg3 #rolan #rolan bg3 #haarlep bg3 #rolan x tav #zevlor x tav #haarlep x tav #raphael x tav

[agwitow]

Describing Voices

Inspired by this old post

Words (and definitions) as text below cut.

Words to Describe a Voice

Adenoidal: pinched and nasal in tone

Alto: a low female voice, or a high male voice

Appealing: evoking interest, desire, or curiosity; attractive

Austere: severe, uncompromising, or strict; sober, or serious

Baritone: an intermediate male voice, between tenor and bass

Booming: a deep, resonant sound; prolonged or echoing

Breathy: audible, or excessive, emission of breath

Coarse: harsh, or grating; vulgar, obscene, or crude

Croaky: low-pitched and hoarse; croaking

Deep: low in pitch; sonorous tone

Ethereal: light, airy, or tenuous; extremely delicate or refined

Falsetto: an unnaturally, or artificially, high-pitched voice

Frail: delicate, weak, or fragile

Grating: irritating, unpleasant, harsh, discordant, or rasping

Gravelly: harsh and grating

Guttural: harsh, or throaty; sounds formed in back of mouth

High-Pitched: high in volume and/or tone

Hoarse: a low, harsh sound; husky; weak intensity and excessive breathiness

Honeyed: pleasantly soft; dulcet, or mellifluous; flattering, or ingratiating

Husky: a somewhat hoarse, semi-whispered vocal tone

Hypnotic: inducing, or tending to induce, sleep; soporific

Lilting: rhythmic; light and tripping

Lofty: elevated; arrogant or condescending

Low: quiet or deep

Luscious: sweet to excess; highly pleasing; satisfying; cloying

Lyrical: enthusiastic; effusive; melodious; musical

Majestic: lofty, imposing, stately, or grand

Mellow: mild and pleasant; relaxed; soft and rich

Melodic: sweet-sounding; musical

Mesmerizing: completely engrossing, captivating, or fascinating

Musical: resembling music; melodious; harmonious

Nasal: sounds, either partly or entirely, form the noise

Orotund: strong, full, rich, or clear; pompous or bombastic

Plaintive: sorrowful; melancholic; mournful

Plummy: rich, or mellowly, resonant

Raspy: harsh, grating, rasping, or irritating

Resonant: deep and full of resonance; reverberating

Rich: full, strong, deep, or vivid

Ringing: clear, resonant; reminiscent of bells

Scratchy: uneven, irritating, or grating

Shrill: high-pitched and piercing

Silvery: having a clear, ringing sound

Small: humble, weak, soft, or of little strength or force

Smoky: hazy, hoarse, husky, or raspy

Soft-Spoken: soft, gentle, or mild; persuasive

Soporific: causing, or tending to cause, sleep

Squeaky: sharp, shrill, high-pitched

Strong: robust; powerful; intense in quality

Sweet: pleasing to the ear; delicate, or agreeable

Tenor: an intermediate male voice between bass and alto

Thick: husky, or hoarse; not distinctly articulated

Thin: lacking fullness or volume; weak, or shrill

Throaty: guttural, husky, or hoarse

Tight: drawn, tense, or taut

Weak: lacking in force; soft, deficient, or quiet

Wheezy: with a whistling sound, and difficulty breathing

Words to Describe Tone of Voice

Affected: false, or feigned; pretending to possess

Arrogant: overbearing, assuming, insolently proud

Authoritative: positive, peremptory, or dictatorial

Bloodcurdling: arousing terror; horrifying

Boisterous: rough and noisy, rowdy, unrestrained; noisily jolly

Breaking: changing, or collapsing, suddenly

Bright: animated, lively, cheerful, clever, or witty

Brittle: fragile, frail, lacking warmth; having a sharp, tense quality

Cacophonous: having a harsh, or discordant sound

Caterwauling: long and wailing; a howl, or screech

Cheery: in good spirits; cheerful, or happy

Delicate: soft, or faint; subtle; tactful, or cautious

Dry: plain, unadorned, indifferent, or matter-of-fact

Dulcet: pleasant to the ear; melodious

Ear-Splitting: extremely harsh and irritating; loud

Enthusiastic: lively, ardent, eager, or passionate

Faint: soft, weak, feeble, or slight; lacking clearness or volume

Feeble: lacking in force, strength, volume, and distinctness

Flat: without modification or variation; without vitality

Forceful: powerful, vigorous, or effective

Frank: direct and unreserved; straightforward; sincere

Gruff: low and harsh; hoarse; rough, brusque, or surly

Hesitant: wavering, irresolute, timid, or unpersuasive

Insincere: lacking sincerity; sarcastic; hypocritical

Irreverent: lacking respect; flippant

Monotone: single tone, without harmony or variation

Patronizing: offensive and condescending

Pedantic: overly concerned with details and rules

Petulant: impatient irritation; annoyed

Piercing: loud, or shrill; sarcastic, or caustic

Pompous: ostentatious display of self-importance

Pontificating: to speak in a pompous or dogmatic manner

Pretentious: making an exaggerated outward show; ostentatious

Raised: increased in volume

Raucous: harsh, strident, or grating; rowdy, or disorderly

Respectful: showing deference; politeness

Rough: harsh to the ear; grating, or jarring

Sarcastic: using harsh or bitter derision or irony

Screeching: harshly shrill

Serious: grave, somber, earnest, or sincere

Singsong: rhythmically monotonous cadence or tone

Smug: contentedly confident in superiority or correctness

Snarky: testy or irritable; having a rudely critical tone

Snobby: condescending, patronizing; snobbish

Soft: low, or subdued; gentle and melodious

Sotto Voce: in a low, soft voice, so as not to be overheard

Stilted: stiffly dignified or formal; pompous

Strangled: choking, or stifled; gradually cut off

Sullen: gloomy, irritated, morose, or malignant

Trembling: shaking, as from fear, excitement, or weakness

Unapologetic: bold, and showing no regret

Upbeat: optimistic, happy, or cheerful

Warbling: with trills, quavers, or melodic embellishments

Wavering: unsteady, shaky, or fluctuating; begin to fail

Whiny: complaining, fretful, or cranky

Whisper: to speak with soft, hushed sounds

#writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing tips #word choice #description words

[hisui-dreamer]

ode to the enigmatic hunter

Pairing: Rook Hunt x gn!reader

Synopsis: you loved him, loved the way he saw the world

Tags: drabble, fluff, slightly poetic hehe, reader is a simp for rook

Word count: 609

Notes: happy birthday rook!! thank you for being very nice comedic relief while also being stalkerly creepy 👍

Masterlist

Your lover is an enigma wrapped in beauty, a captivating soul with an insatiable passion for all things aesthetically pleasing. With his flamboyance and sociable demeanour, he is a whirlwind of fascination, a tempest of curiosity that sweeps you off your feet. Much like a skilled hunter meticulously studying his prey, he applies the same precision to whatever captures his fancy in the moment. His infectious fixation on beauty becomes a shared journey, and you discover yourself falling profoundly in love with his unique perspective—an outlook that transforms the world into a canvas of endless wonders waiting to be explored.

Your lover’s observant nature is a finely tuned instrument, playing the silent notes of the world around him with unparalleled precision. It's as if he possesses a unique set of lenses, each crafted to capture the nuances and subtleties that elude the casual observer. Whether he's navigating a crowded room or engaging in a one-on-one conversation, his perceptive gaze seems to penetrate beyond the surface, unravelling the intricacies of human behaviour and emotion. His ability to discern the unspoken, to read between the lines, is an art form, turning every interaction into a canvas where he paints the silent stories that others may overlook. In his world, every detail holds significance, and his keen awareness transforms the mundane into a tapestry of meaning and connection.

Your lover is a man who finds joy in illuminating others but shies away from the spotlight cast upon himself. He possesses an extraordinary gift for lavishing praise upon others with an ease that seems second nature. His words flow like a cascade of admiration, painting those around him with compliments that reflect his genuine appreciation for their unique qualities. However, when the spotlight turns towards him, he endearingly transforms into a master of deflection. He becomes a humble curator of compliments, skilfully redirecting the conversation back to others. It's as if the artistry of his own being, though deserving of admiration, is a canvas he'd rather leave unadorned, allowing others to bask in the glow of his compliments while he remains comfortably in the shadows. Nevertheless, in the quiet moments shared between you two, engaging in a delightful exchange of compliments, both trying to out-compliment the other, there's an undeniable bliss on his face that warms your heart.

Your lover stands as a pillar of reliability in the tumultuous tapestry of life. Behind the flamboyant exterior and enigmatic allure lies a steadfast commitment to those he holds dear. His reliability is not just a matter of punctuality or dependability in mundane tasks, but a deeper, more profound assurance that he is unwavering in his support. When challenges arise, he is the anchor that provides stability, his genuine intentions shining through in every action. Whether it's the subtle observations that showcase his attentiveness or the sincere inquiries that reflect his genuine concern, his reliability stems from an authenticity that forms the foundation of his character. In a world filled with uncertainties, your lover emerges as a constant, a reliable force that you can always count on.

You love the unwavering intensity of his life's pursuits, a fervour that remains undiminished even in the face of others labelling his eccentricities as peculiar. Despite the judgments cast by those who perceive his uniqueness as unconventional, he steadfastly follows the path his heart dictates. It's in the way he observes the world, the way he engages with it, and the secrets he holds close. As you explore the depths of his character, you find yourself enchanted by the mystery and captivated by the genuine intentions that lie beneath.

Your lover, is none other than Rook Hunt.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

#twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland rook #rook hunt #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt x mc #twst rook

[gaysie]

this is my favorite website in the world nothing is better than looking for a gifset and finding works of unadorned sincerity

[tj-dragonblade]

FLUFFBRUARY 2023: Feb 6 & 7

Feb 6 Prompts: butterfly trust copper Feb 7 Prompts: routine colorful energy Bonus prompts: wrist, lick

On AO3 - wordcount ~1300

Okay so. Day six took me two days to write. Day seven sparked no joy. So I found a spot to pop a day seven prompt word into my day six offering et voilá, this fic's a two-fer. Couple of the bonus prompts made their way in too, so. It's a smorgasbord.

===== "You're just in time! Here, try this."

Dream eyes the forkful of egg being offered to him, takes in the state of Hob's kitchen around them. Clearly he has interrupted a grand undertaking, but Hob is. As ever. Delighted by his presence.

"You would...ply me, with your culinary endeavors." He hears, as he speaks, how the mild curiosity he intends sounds very like a lack of confidence instead, is not surprised by the faint squaring of Hob's shoulders in response.

"Centuries of practice, I've got, and nary a complaint of it in the last two." Hob's rebuttal is light-hearted, easy, but there is a fretful sincerity in his eyes that is very compelling. "I promise I won't poison you. Try it? Please." He holds up the forkful of fluffy omelette again.

Dream eyes it, considering; it does in fact look very appealing, and. He had not meant to offer insult in the first place.

He has trusted Hob with many things, in this new era of their acquaintance. He can. Trust the man's cooking, surely.

"Very well." He leans a little forward, opens his mouth.

He is uncertain, what has prompted him to accept Hob's offer thus; Hob clearly intended to hand him the fork, that he might feed himself, but he is. Pleased, all the same, by the way Hob falters, the color that rises in the tips of his ears.

"Oh. 'Kay then—" Hob is nothing if not adaptable, rallying, sliding his offering between Dream's waiting lips with ease.

Dream closes around the fork, slides the warm fluffy egg onto his tongue, intent on the flavor of it. It is simple, unadorned, shining for its lack of embellishment; Dream must concede. He is impressed.

"It is good," he pronounces, and Hob's expectantly-hopeful expression blossoms into a bright, pleased smile.

"Brilliant. That's the plain'n simple, just a touch of salt and pepper. Now. The next one—"

"The next?"

"Well yeah, see." Hob is unfazed by the interruption, is gathering another forkful of fluffy egg from another pan. "You've got a clear preference for omelettes, haven't you? So I figure with a little testing I can whip up a 'Dreamlord Special' that'll knock your socks off, and then I can make it for you whenever you come 'round."

Dream is. Floored, at this simple admission, that Hob would offer such singular—such domestic—effort, to him. The heart-shaped approximation in his breast lurches, touched, and Dream accepts the second bite that Hob feeds him, without hesitation.

This one is bursting with subtle flavors, spices and vegetables that he does not bother to name for themselves, savoring instead the way they blend, the colorful interplay between them.

"Exquisite," he names it, and Hob grins, pleased.

"Alright. One more."

Hob brings him a forkful of the third omelette, hand cupped beneath it as it passes Dream's lips.

This one is meatier, with sausage and mushroom, flavorful and robust. It is delicious; they have all been delicious, and Dream is. Awash in feelings, to be presented with this choice, to comprehend the care behind it.

Long has he known Hob's regard for him; long has he refrained from acknowledging it. It is not for lack of regard in return; it is in fact the opposite. His love is a fearsome thing, a greedy and ravenous thing, and he has told himself he would not. Inflict that, upon Hob.

But.

Hob is glorious in his ease, and generous, offering whatever Dream would willingly accept, but just as greedy in his own right. He takes anything that Dream might give him, however small, however grand; he does not press for more than is offered, but Dream suspects Hob would. Consume him whole, if he allowed it.

As would Dream in turn, should Hob but let him.

Of course Hob would let him, would thank him for it, no less. Hob is. A contradiction who would take everything he was given and still seek for more, would turn around and give just as much freely back again. He is a creature of wants, his own and others' both, and Dream. Finds. That he wants, from Hob; wants more, and more, and more, and.

He has trusted Hob, with the foreboding truth of himself after centuries, and found only easy acceptance, unwavering friendship. He has trusted Hob, with the truth of his imprisonment, the humiliation of it, and found only kindness and care in return.

He would trust Hob, with the truth of his want, as well, and. See. What he might find, in return.

"So? What do you think?" Hob's face is openly hopeful, guileless, sincere; Dream lets his clamoring want take hold, in his chest, warm in his belly, where it is most easily acted upon.

"I would. Taste them again," he declares; and Hob brandishes the fork with a smile. But Dream reaches over, delicately plucks a chunk of egg with his fingers from the first pan, places it. Slowly, into his mouth, holding Hob's eyes all the while.

Hob goes. Very still.

Dream swallows his bite—the Plain'n Simple, still quite satisfactory—and lifts his eyebrows. "The next?" There is challenge in his voice, his gaze, willing Hob to understand.

Hob does not move for a long instant, but. Then. He carefully picks a morsel from the third omelette. The meaty one. He uses his fingers.

The questions are plain in his face, as he lifts his hand, but he does not voice them.

Dream closes his eyes and opens his mouth.

He nearly moans, when the egg touches his tongue; the absence of sight with the nearness of Hob's skin to his lips is quite suddenly maddening, and he wants. Fiercely.

His tongue flicks against Hob's fingers as they withdraw, and Dream. Does not miss, as he opens his eyes, the way that Hob shivers.

"And...the last?" Hob's voice is low. Husky. Warm, in the cozy brightness of the kitchen. He picks up the final sample, proffers it to Dream like a sacrament, held not quite steady between thumb and forefinger.

Dream does not close his eyes, this time. He lifts them instead to meet Hob's gaze, holds it, as the offering is placed on his tongue, where it veritably melts.

Hob moves to withdraw; Dream seizes his wrist, holds him fast, swallows the heavenly-soft egg, and then. Dream laves his tongue over the pad of Hob's thumb.

Hob makes a tiny choked-off noise.

Dream. Would like to hear more.

He bestows a lick to Hob's forefinger then; curls his tongue around the tip, draws it. Fully back into his mouth, eyes still holding fast to Hob's.

Hob whimpers, barely audible, clear as a bell.

Dream lavishes his attentions on Hob's captive finger, draws the second in as well; bathes them both in the heat of his mouth, the wet of his tongue. Hob tastes of. Scallions, green peppers, the salt of his cooking, the salt of his skin, and the want in Dream's belly grows insistent, hungry.

"That one," he pronounces, drawing Hob's fingers out of his mouth at last, "is my favorite." He does not release Hob's wrist.

"O-okay." Hob's voice is wound tight, trembling. Breathless. "Noted. But—Dream." He lists forward, marginally. "I'd like—can I—?"

The plea is clear in the dark of his eyes, in their helpless travel between Dream's eyes, his still-parted lips.

Dream lowers his gaze, brings Hob's captive wrist to his mouth; slowly, he touches the tip of his tongue to the fluttering beat of Hob's pulse, presses a languid, open kiss tenderly against it, before raising his eyes once more. "I should be. Very disappointed, if you did not," he breathes.

Hob's mouth tastes even better than his omelettes had.

===== So the fluff sort of got overtaken by the steam here but uh, at least the eggs are still fluffy? That counts right? ^_^;

Special thanks to everyone on the Dreamling Nation server having foodie conversations and turning my brain in this direction. (The. The Hob-cooks-for-Dream direction, not the Dream-flirts-via-food direction. Bastard did that all on his own). Thanks in addition to @staroftheendless for pointing me back to That Gif™️ when I couldn't find it. Much appreciated.

EDIT: Now with a brief epilogue

#Dreamling #Fluffbruary 2023 #TJs Fluffbruary #TJs Fics #Sandman

[schraubd]

Biden Admin Releases Ambitious Strategy To Fight Antisemitism

The Biden Administration has released its long-awaited document outlining an ambitious national strategy to combat antisemitism. "This strategy," the document concludes, "represents the most comprehensive and ambitious effort to counter antisemitism in American history."

Mostly, I want to give immense praise to the Biden administration for putting this document together -- not just talking the talk, but walking the walk. It is no revelation to say that many Jews sometimes feel like the fight against antisemitism is an afterthought -- a fact that document acknowledges expressly ("One  report found that 91% of Americans believe antisemitism is a problem for everyone, and yet, in  many instances, Jews feel as though antisemitism is ignored, discounted, or not taken as  seriously as other forms of hate and bigotry."). With this strategy plan, the Biden administration is taking Jewish concerns seriously in a way that no other administration has. It has my thanks for that.

Given the discourse of the past few days, one might expect that I'd want to focus on the inclusion of the "Nexus" antisemitism definition in the document text. Several commentators, insisting on a fundamentalist version of sola IHRA scriptura, tried to curtail this inclusion by insisting that any discussion on antisemitism that goes beyond IHRA will necessarily be diluted or "confusing".

The snarky part of me wants to extend my sincere condolences to these critics, given that final document is 60 pages long, virtually all of which comprising of words other than "IHRA". Turns out, there were more things to say. More to the point, here is the sum total of the document's treatment of this roiling controversy:

There are several definitions of antisemitism, which serve as valuable tools to raise awareness and increase understanding of antisemitism. The most prominent is the non-legally binding “working definition” of antisemitism adopted in 2016 by the 31-member states of the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA), which the United States has embraced. In addition, the Administration welcomes and appreciates the Nexus Document and notes other such efforts.

That's what we've been obsessing over? Seriously? An unadorned mention, following the document's "embrace" of the IHRA definition, that it also "welcomes and appreciates" Nexus?

I will say that, in the veiled language of diplomacy, this is quite the swipe against JDA. The document "embraces" IHRA. It "welcomes and appreciates" Nexus. And as for other, unnamed definitions? Yes, we note their existence. It's kind of like how I described the 2020 Democratic primary: "There are many great candidates running for the Democratic nomination, and also Tulsi Gabbard."

But that's me being petty again. I'll just one of other thing here. In the paragraph before the one I just quoted, the document describes antisemitism as follows:

Antisemitism is a stereotypical and negative perception of Jews, which may be expressed as hatred of Jews. It is prejudice, bias, hostility, discrimination, or violence against Jews for being Jews or Jewish institutions or property for being Jewish or perceived as Jewish. Antisemitism can manifest as a form of racial, religious, national origin, and/or ethnic discrimination, bias, or hatred; or, a combination thereof. However, antisemitism is not simply a form of prejudice or hate. It is also a pernicious conspiracy theory that often features myths about Jewish power and control.

The first sentence of this is clearly adopted from IHRA, albeit modified -- IHRA says that "Antisemitism is a certain perception of Jews, which may be expressed as hatred toward Jews." The Biden administration's formulation is clearly better (what is a "certain perception"), which already demonstrates that blind adherence to IHRA's text is neither necessary nor desirable.

But the following sentences go beyond anything in IHRA. Discussing antisemitism as not just a perception, but also discrimination and other actions, is closer to the language one finds in the Nexus definition: "Antisemitism consists of anti-Jewish beliefs, attitudes, actions or systemic conditions."

When you look at the above paragraph, and the portions that go beyond that first sentence, are you "confused"? Does it feel "diluted" or "counterfeit"? No. The inclusion of those iterations of antisemitism make the document stronger, not weaker.

IHRA is an important and valuable component of the national antisemitism strategy. But it couldn't shoulder the burden alone. Fortunately, it didn't need to. IHRA and Nexus are strogner together. And while I sincerely hope that this "debate" fades into the far, far periphery of future discussion over this document, for now the Biden administration deserves tremendous praise for understanding that the fight against antisemitism is too important to leave tools on the table. 

via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/9pV7xCZ

#anti-semitism #Biden administration #discrimination #Hate Crimes #Jews

[blessed-by-umbral]

The Return

Ondrea was seated gracefully in a chair positioned in front of a high risen window, offering a panoramic view of the expansive ocean enveloping the city of Limsa. Resting against her was a cello, from which emanated a profound and resonant melody. Ondrea possessed a multitude of talents, yet it was with this particular instrument that she truly excelled. The notes she produced were not merely read from a written score, but rather a harmonious composition crafted within the depths of her own mind.

The impending storm far off in the distance was sure to cast a pall over the city. Ondrea's contemplation was abruptly interrupted by a gentle knock at her door, capturing her immediate attention. She gracefully disengaged the bow of her instrument and set it to rest, then with the utmost decorum, she proceeded to welcome the individual concealed beyond the sturdy oak door of her chamber.

Upon opening the door, she was taken aback to find her brother, Argrin, standing before her, adorned in a complete ensemble of ebony and gold plate armor. He was further embellished with a gold velvet cloak, fastened by an intricate pin crafted in the likeness of a raven.

Argrin was a man who possessed the physical and mental attributes necessary for warfare. He was a contemplative individual who upheld the principles of diplomacy that were associated with his name. Argrin bore a striking resemblance to his late father though his eyes carried a mockery of the brilliant gold of his sisters. Instead, his were deep pools of bottle green waters.

Argrin's countenance softened, revealing a side of him that Ondrea had only witnessed in solitary company. "I had anticipated a modicum of delight from you upon reuniting with your brother after such a prolonged absence," he remarked. Indeed, Argrin had been dispatched by their Uncle to undergo an extended period of training.

His appearance had altered slightly, with his hair grown out and his facial hair appearing coarser and longer. It was apparent that he had only recently arrived at the harbor, as he had not yet had the opportunity to groom or refresh himself. “May I come in?”

Ondrea stepped aside, allowing her brother to enter. Argrin's footsteps echoed in perfect rhythm with the faint clinking of his steel against his dark armor. Argrin's eyes swiftly scanned Ondrea's chambers as he spoke;

"I have been informed that the shipwrights have an immense amount of work ahead of them." Argrin paused by Ondrea's resting cello, gently caressing the strings with a leather-clad finger, while his other hand rested on the pommel of his weapon. "Why is that?" Ondrea's voice carried across the room.

From her vantage point, she could see why he was known as The Bulwark of Limsa. Argrin was formidable in battle, yet there was always a kindness in his eyes—though their sincerity was uncertain, he had always shown Ondrea kindness. The atmosphere around Argrin shifted, the colors aloft about his body was swirling and merging until they transformed from a deep red to a troubling forest green. Something was amiss.

 "The winds carry whispers. It would be unwise to speak of their accuracy, but to ensure our preparedness, we must increase our fleet and recruit more soldiers."  "—And what about The Fallen Hook?" Argrin's mismatched eyes turned towards his sister, his once confident expression now somber. "Your magical abilities are sharp, dear sister." Argrin released his finger from the strings and approached Ondrea, placing his hand on her unadorned mantle he spoke down to her. "Strengthen your security. Perhaps sever new connections to ensure our survival."

Ondrea's golden honey-colored eyes swiftly rose to meet Argrin's gaze. She experienced a sense of unease settling in the pit of her stomach, as such a look was not one to be ignored.

"There are certain individuals whose absence would be detrimental to our cause, while others would prove advantageous. If you suspect any of our workers of treason, I will personally ensure that they are dealt with severely and with great predacious." she stated firmly.

 Argrin's countenance twisted with mild amusement, which was accompanied by a soft chuckle emanating from his throat. "I acknowledge your inclination towards violence, but such rash actions need not be taken at this time."  "Why wait?" Ondrea hissed at her kin. "We have already lost many of our family members to the enemy. Why continue to follow the same pattern when we can eliminate them ourselves?" Argrin's hand lifted from Ondrea's shoulder and moved to her chin, where he slowly lifted it to gain her attention. This gesture troubled Ondrea, as it was one that their father had employed on her numerous occasions, not to gain her attention, but rather to belittle her.  Argrin was not Hadriel, but his eyes were reminiscent of their father's. "Wait for the opportune moment, Ondrea. Save your violent tendencies for when they are necessary. I require you to be of sound mind and able body. Allow me to handle the pressures of the court."

Ondrea turned her head, freeing herself from Argrin's grasp. Without hesitation, Argrin withdrew his hand and took a step back before circling around her and making his way towards the door. "There is a banquet this evening to celebrate my return. Our uncle expects your presence," Argrin said, a familiar smile appearing on his face. "Invite our cousins. I am certain they would be delighted to experience our cuisine."

Ondrea glanced briefly over her shoulder, exchanging a look with Argrin that only siblings would exchange. "I will attend your dinner." "I would not expect anything less, Ondrea."

With that, the door creaked open and closed gently as Argrin departed. In the distance, the sound of thunder rumbled over the turbulent sea. Something was stirring. The sea winds rarely lied.

#house cress #ffxvi #rp #ffxiv roleplay #ffxiv balmung #midlander hyur #ffxiv hyur #midlander

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For the @ainursecretsanta side event, and inspired by these prompts created by @cilil

Pairing: Non-bestial! Thû x Non-bestial! Tevildo

Themes: Soft/Fluffy/ Pining

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 700+ words

Summary: The lord of werewolves and the prince of cats work together to decorate the great hall for a feast

Minors DNI

Divider by @estrelinha-s

“You fret too much.” Thû stood by the door and watched, with growing amusement, as Tevildo went from one end of the great feasting hall to the other, and all in a frantic attempt to complete decorating it in time for the feast. “Besides, the master will not pay much attention to all of this finery. All that matters to him is the great victory he achieved over those accursed elves.”

Tevildo halted mid-stride and turned to face him. Thû was unadorned, as always, and garbed in simple but well-made black robes. A flush crept up his throat, for Thû cut a striking figure despite the simplicity of his raiment.

“He may not care for the finery,” he agreed, albeit rather reluctantly, and looked away. Thû must not see him so, all flustered and trapped in the midst of a growing infatuation. Why, he would not hear the end of it if he did. “But the others will. At any rate, I have too much to do in here to amuse you, so you could either help me with my tasks or grant me the greatest of boons by getting out of my way.”

Such words would have been answered with a sharp retort or a cutting insult, but for reasons unbeknownst to him, Thû was all rather fond of Tevildo, and he tolerated his ways.

“Far be it from me to stand by the side and do nothing,” he replied, and he stepped into the great hall. Tevildo stopped, hesitated. He was uncertain if Thû was being derisive or not. Still, when he came near and their hands brushed against each other, Thû turned to him and smiled. “Now tell me. How may I aid you in your task?”

Tevildo guided him, and Thû did as he was bid. And Thû did more than just aid him. More than once, he studied his fellow lord while he went about his tasks, discretely as always, of course. He drank in the pale skin, the hair that fell as black and thick as his own, the elegant hands that wielded a sword with lethal skill, and the red-green eyes that rested above finely formed cheekbones. Much to his growing amazement, Thû found himself approving of what he saw.  

Pretty little thing, he thought. I wonder if he would ever consider me as a companion.

“So tell me, Tevildo,” he inquired with feigned indifference, “are you escorting a companion to the feast?”

“I am not,” Tevildo confessed, much to his shame. “The others have all been spoken for. I will be escorting myself to the feast.”

“Intriguing,” Thû eased himself into the question he had been hoping to ask for some time now. “For I am escorting no one but myself to the feast as well. What do you say to us accompanying each other instead of walking into this hall on our own?”

Crimson and black baubles fell to the stone floor with a clangor and rolled under tables and benches and chairs.

“Is this a trick?” Tevildo cried. His eyes flashed—with hope, with confusion, with fear. Thû saw it all. He understood the confusion and even the fear, but those slivers of hope piqued his curiosity.

“There is no trickery here, I assure you.” He raised his hands as a gesture of peace. He was now determined to learn what Tevildo secretly hoped for. “My offer is a sincere one. Accompany me, Tevildo. Eat with me. Drink with me. What do you say?”

Tevildo looked away a second time. Goosebumps prickled all over him when Thû cupped his chin and forced him to meet his gaze. Shrewd golden eyes studied crimson and green ones intensely.

“What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Thû echoed. “I see. Well, my offer still stands. I will be waiting by the steps if you ever change your mind. Now, let us go back to making this place more festive, shall we?”

They returned to their tasks, and with one of them nearly coming undone by the touch of the other. Tevildo considered Thû’s offer, his mind a roil.

He insists his offer is a sincere one, he thought to himself. He wants to eat with me. Drink with me. It is a risk, but is it a risk I am willing to take?

He pondered and dithered, and then he came to a decision. If Thû was indeed playing him false, he would pay him back in kind. But until then…

“Very well,” Tevildo said, making his decision known. “I will accompany you to the feast.”

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @3dragonstar @stormchaser819

#whimsy's winter fics #twelve days of ficsmas #tevildo #Thû #Tevildo x Thû #Thûvildo #the valar #the ainur #the sprites #the silm

[twiststreet]

Kevin O’Neill has passed away. The best Mad Magazine artist who never worked prominently for Mad Magazine (at least as far as I know?)-- perhaps best known for the fact that when he and Alan Moore teamed up, O’Neill just simply drew the Entirety of Human Pop Culture as a fun goof.  A cartoonist seemingly incapable of being boring-- there’s that old saw that “some people draw funny things, other people draw funny.”  O’Neill drew funny-- his drawings are just funny to look at, even when what’s happening in them is basically horrible, an effect that he wielded intentionally and purposefully his entire career.  He had that Mad Magazine snicker to his drawings, but found meaner, more subversive writers to put that snicker to greater effect than just parody.   

I was always particularly fond of his 1987 comic Marshal Law: Fear & Loathing, the final book in the trilogy of Watchmen and Dark Knight, though not one embraced by fans of those books since Marshal Law told them they were dumb-shits in such an unadorned and sincere way.  And Watchmen never had a sequel (yet) where the Watchmen fought Pinhead-- Marshal Law did; advantage: O’Neill. I think the last work I saw from him was the comic strip Cinema Purgatorio with Alan Moore, the first episode of which is this silent Keystone Cops movie crossed with Thomas Ligotti’s “The Glamour.” I was quite fond of it. With Moore, he was sort of a horror universe’s Jack Davis.  

The one people are going to want to remember above everything else-- the “respectable” one is the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.  I wrote about O’Neill’s contribution here when thinking over the final issue of Tempest (condensed for I-write-badly reasons) and how O’Neill should sort of be seen as an auteur himself (or a reason that concept is undermined in comics discourse, whatever your preference):

The thing that fascinates with O’Neill is how he ended up a co-storyteller on two of the more notable satirical “fiction will fuck you up, it’s not good for you” stories in comics.  Because that’s Marshal Law, too!  Was that a story he was attracted to? Is that a story he himself pushed League towards?  Is he even more of a co-author of the comic than given credit for because of Moore’s prominence? How did he end up doing that twice?  Plus: Nemesis, which I haven’t read much of but understand to be its own subversion of things. What an interesting goddamn career, for it to have a thematic heft or thematic glue? How many comic artists have that?  Jesus, how many have that when they’re NOT WRITER-ARTISTS???

Anyways, gone sooner than we’d have preferred.  Condolences to his family and his friends.  I hope he enjoyed his time here.    

#rip

[snow-system-wol]

Fray is just a little too on edge for everyone's good, and the Exarch accidentally sets them into attack dog mode.

(Cross-posting, but this chapter was written very very long ago.)

Ao3

[tw: choking]

Fray really was a creature of protective impulsive violence – their joining with that fragment of S'ria had created someone that melded their best and worst qualities. And now, Fray – that may as well remain their name – was a presence that S'ria could near tangibly feel now that he knew where to look, his heart beating faster as anger began to scorch away fear. That's usually how it felt. It was very rare, really only if someone made a truly wrong move around him, that S'ria was so suddenly gone. Which made it notable here – he remembered the Crystal Exarch praising his progress and then… nothing for several minutes in which something clearly had happened. 

 ----------

Fray had been paranoid and quick to anger ever since this had all begun – S'ria's friends damn near killed by error-prone summoning, the person responsible being the most secretive bastard they'd met all year, and Emet-Selch just… prowling about. Not to mention, most damningly... Eulmore. They don't even want to dislike the Crystal Exarch, but they can't make themself trust him either. It's unfortunate how nice he was, but the other shoe had been dangling for some time, and Fray was going to snap when it finally fell.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to hang behind with the Exarch while the other Scions left to go rest.

S'ria had been listening to him excitedly ramble on about their success with the Lightwarden in Il Mheg, commenting that he'd been terrified at the idea that he could've actually been drowned by the Fuath. S'ria cocked his head to the side in confusion.

"How do you know that part?"

"This", he gestured behind him, "acts as a viewfinder of sorts. While I hardly have the time to check in constantly –" (Lyna politely cleared her throat at that) "– I nonetheless cannot help myself from wanting to be sure of your continued survival."

Fray was already striding towards him by the end of the second sentence. In a matter of moments, they'd pinned the Exarch against the unforgiving crystalline wall, exerting enough force on his throat that he scrambled to keep his feet on the ground.

The claws of his flesh hand sprung out and dug into Fray's arm and it almost made them smile at the display of unadorned self-preservation, involuntary as it was. He may act like he wants for nothing of his own, but his body wants to live, enough to break through the hero worship and draw S'ria's blood. Good.

However, it was that selfsame hero worship that made them press closer with a snarl, ignoring the steel-on-steel sound of Lyna drawing her weapons.

"The room you gave S'ria."

The Exarch swallowed harshly under their hand, replying with a wheeze. "I don't…follow?"

"The room, have you been watching?"

"Wh-". Fray saw him grimace as it clicked. "No! No, I would… never…"

He sounded so sincere, but godsdamnit, they needed to actually look at this man to know if he was lying. Fray leaned in, looking at where his eyes would be if not for the darkness they can now see to be artificial, and pulled at the edges of the enchantment – just enough for them to catch a glimpse.

Well, he wasn't lying, right now, about this at least. (But certainly, the Exarch was a liar.)

Fray released him with a frustrated sigh and addressed him in an awkwardly formal tone. "I apologize. For the accusation." They failed to apologize for nearly strangling him.

And then, of course, S'ria was left with bleeding claw marks on his arm, Lyna fussing over the Exarch while looking towards him with actual rage, and no more than the vaguest idea of what had happened.

"Oh no, whatever I've just done, I'm – "

"No, it's quite alright." The Exarch's voice sounded rough. "If Fray existed in your future, I should've known they existed in your present."

S'ria froze. "I… what?"

"Some accounts, of the calamity and events leading up to…well," the Exarch inelegantly sidestepped the matter of S'ria's potential death, "they mentioned the increasing activity of… some protective spirit bound to your own soul, mayhap?"

Fray became known, in that future? What a bizarre thought. S'ria sighed in relief. However this version of the story came to be, it wasn't one where the Crystal Exarch thought him insane.

"Still, let me apologize to you. I'm sure whatever perceived threat was a misunderstanding."

The Exarch smiled, far too gently in the moment for S'ria's liking. "A misunderstanding, yes, but mayhap not an unwarranted one. Full glad am I to see Fray defend you, even if I was briefly inconvenienced by it."

S'ria felt completely off-balance with this conversation. Even if the Exarch only half knew the situation, it was still… more acknowledgment that was allowed to exist, nevertheless spoken about so plainly.

"The others dont…". S'ria swallowed. "They don't quite know this much."

"Then they shan't know it from me. Nor Lyna?"

The woman in question nodded cautiously. Her hostility towards S'ria had mellowed to something more like confusion with a hint of resentment. He half wanted to suggest she punch him in the face and get it out of her system. They'd both probably feel better about this if she did.

----------

A messy note left on the dresser: Exarch is G'raha Tia

S'ria: wh. What?? What????

#snow-system #ffxiv-oc #ffxiv-reactions #s'ria 🌸❄️ #'briefly inconvenienced' Exarch please shut your mouth #this is more than a slight inconvenience you are ALLOWED to be bothered by this #anyway yes S'ria knows his identity from now on #does the Exarch know that Fray saw? probably #does the Exarch know if S'ria would know? mmmm #does S'ria know if the Exarch knows the he knows? #.....look they're playing 4D chess at this point #it's a nightmare #writings

[casscowboyhat]

idk but there is something about dean who filters everything he says through 17 layers of pop culture references and silly jokes and castiel “unadorned sincerity”

#supernatural #spn

[talkbackyak]

@geniusdonkey

The kitchen was an intense environment normally, but the entire restaurant seemed to be silently on edge. The bussers made sure each wine glass was polished to perfection, each cloth napkin folded with elegance- While the head chef patrolled the back of house much like a drill sergeant inspecting his platoon of recruits. Sauces were tasted and re-seasoned, edible flower garnishes prepared with the utmost care.

For Ushio, it was business as usual, but the added stress of everything needing to be 'perfect' was beginning to wear on his concentration. His knife rocked back and forth above his cutting board, deftly creating a fine chiffonade of herbs that would be delicately tweezered onto the main entree for their mysterious VIP guest. The name was never spoken, only shared between hushed whispers where fact became convoluted by idle gossip. A celebrity, someone incredibly influential and wealthy that his peers desperately wanted to please and be acknowledged by.

He would be lying if he said he didn't also want to be recognized for his hard work and skill, but in his current position on the kitchen brigade, he wasn't exactly in a position to display his hand in any of the dishes. Ushio was a mere cog in the working machinery of the fine dining establishment, integral to the restaurants day-to-day success, but easily replaceable due to his low rank.

Sumiko was the sous chef functioning as the second in command, a snow leopardess with heavy eyeshadow and a sharp tongue. Nothing pleased nor impressed her, so Ushio tried not to take her strict demeanor and harsh critiques on a personal level... It proved increasingly difficult when she was currently staring him down from across the pass as he worked on his duties. Thoroughly distracted and sweating from the abject pressure of Sumiko's scrutiny, he quickly threw his finished bouquet garni into the waiting stock pot of vegetable demi-glace.

Once the liquid had reduced, it was slowly added in increments to the eggplant risotto. The unctuous rice dish was carefully ladled onto a shallow bowl and allowed to 'rest' (spread out) for a few moments, before shaved petals of chanterelle mushrooms were lightly sprinkled onto the otherwise simple and unadorned plating. Sumiko added delicate fronds of vibrant green fennel to the dish and expertly wiped any misplaced stains of sauce from the ceramic dishware, sending the finished side out with the main entree of the tasting menu.

The wine sommelier came rushing in not moments later, frantically asking Sumiko about the ingredients to the risotto- Apparently fennel was not listed on the menu in the description of the side dish.

"How could you make such a careless mistake?! What is he's ALLERGIC-" the sommelier hissed, worrying his silk tie in agitation.

Suddenly, Sumiko's narrowed pupils landed upon Ushio, sending a chill down his spine.

"Ushio's the one who prepared the garnishes, so the responsibility is his."

The yak stared in abject, dumbfounded silence.

"But... Chef Sumiko added the fennel-" he tried to defend himself, before the hulking form of the monstrously imposing shadow of their head chef fell over him.

The chef de cuisine was a lion, part of the 'old guard' who'd been leading the direction of the restaurant for over thirty years. Anything he said, they merely answered with a resounding 'Yes, Chef!' and scuttled away to make his demands a reality.

There was no way he was going to get out of taking the blame for the mishap.

His palms were sweaty as he clasped them before his waist, hurrying out to the secluded and private dining area in the most scenic and luxuriously decorated room of the building, complete with a small pond of koi and miniature bonsai maple trees.

"I must humbly and sincerely apologize, sir- The inclusion of a new ingredient in the eggplant risotto was my mistake..." he began to stammer, hiding behind his thick curtain of bangs as he began to bow profusely.

Maybe if he crawled on his hands and knees and pressed his forehead into the floor, he'd only get fired tonight and his entire reputation within the culinary industry wouldn't be in complete tatters.

#geniusdonkey #✧ RP THREADS. #hOPE THIS IS OKAY it got kinda long sorry #Ushio is having a very bad day

[faithofgods]

flor; birthday snippet 01 || (romantic) day in dira

"Staring isn't going to make the skies clear any quicker."

A pattering of raindrops roll across the roof tiles, quiet, hollow taps calling out and competing to be heard against the occasional crack of thunder. Damp earth—rising from the garden beds below, the tilled fields in the far distance—clings to the heavy air, overpowering all else.

Your voice, its own call, stirs them, a turn from the window and their drawn attention settling on where you stand, waiting patiently in the doorway. Their mild surprise warms, Flor's expression softening and a smile pulling at their lips.

"It won't, no." Thread of a sighed unfortunately twisting around their response, but their smile remains, bright against the gloom at their back.

They lean in at your approach, a light kiss to the high of your cheek and their hand sliding into your offered one; your fingers lace together, your own kiss to the joined sides of your hands, their smile softening further. Barely a wisp, now, tenderness overtaking as their hand briefly tightens in yours.

"Are you ready to go?" they ask, letting go and shifting aside to make space for you at the window. Despite the heaviness in the air, the rain, the season still brings a chill with it. Wind whips at your face and the thinner sections of your robes through the cracked-open glass; through it all, Flor remains unaffected, cropped sleeves pushed up, a seeking of the cooler weather.

The sun at your side, undeterred and shining brightly.

Still, despite their smile, despite the crinkle near their eyes and the gentle way they move their hand until it rests against yours on the sill, there's a mood hanging over them. Barely tangible, flickers of it surfacing with each brilliant flash of light outside, downcast eyes shifting away from you to stare out the window.

"I am." Plans made to visit the market ahead of opening, to walk the quiet streets before the rest of the city awoke, disrupted now. "But something bothers you."

Return of before's subtle surprise, their smile tilting. "It's a silly worry."

"I'd still like to hear it." Plain and unadorned. Simple, as sweet as the heat of their hand against yours, thin current sparking along your arm. An effort made to match the same openness they greet you with, a return of the favor in whatever small ways you can manage.

"Nature," they answer after a moment, and their smile tilts again, sincere and embarrassed. "The birds. Whether they found shelter before the storm."

The birds, your familiar shadows. Watchful and close, a difficult thing to miss. A dark cloud that's never bothered Flor, never prompted any questions beyond silly, useless things like names, or whether you can recognize individuals of them. What their personalities are like, whether they bring you gifts, what would be best to leave out as gifts for them.

It shouldn't surprise you, their fretting. The worry over something outside their control, something they must think you're concerned over too. An undertone that layers inside each action and question of theirs, this willingness to be a part of every messy corner of your life; a marked difference from how you approach the rest of it, the edges of your past folded over time and time again to keep from fraying entirely.

"They did." You feel them even now, through the rainfall and crackle of the storm. Ever close, always watching, flocked along the ground. Tucked under branches, the brush, nestled in the tangle of shrubbery lining your estate's gardens. An imagined pinprick gleam of their eyes through the murk, reflections of the hidden stars, but they're there.

Odd, to see the relief that's in Flor, odd to share in it yourself. The mood, its heavy curtain, has fallen from them, brushed aside; their calloused palm settles over your knuckles, their beaming smile returning.

Odder, to feel so comforted by both presences, but it's one you'll sink into. Allow, for just this moment. Allow for longer, for as long as they smile at you as they do now.

#q #snippets #flor #happy birthday to my beloved. #(+these will all be posted a few hours apart !)

[jeyne-stark]

considering myself tagged by @owlsinathens

WIP WORD SEARCH GAME

My words are ship | frown | mother | black | ice

ship

the Harlaw AU: where Theon tells Sansa to go to Harlaw after she escapes from Ramsay

Sansa stumbled off of the ship, her legs weak. She was so glad to be back on solid ground. The baby hadn’t liked being on the ship anymore than she did, she thought, it was always kicking and shoving inside her like it was having a tantrum.

“We’re on land now,” she told it softly, a hand on her belly. The baby did not decide to stop its tantrum.

frown

pirates!: some pirates attack Joffrey's ship and their captain kidnaps his betrothed

Her cabin was just a touch smaller than Theon’s, and unadorned, aside from the carvings on the walls. There was a bed, an empty chest, and a hand mirror and a hair brush sitting on a low shelf. She wondered if it was Theon who thought to include them. Probably; he did mention that he prepared the cabin for her, and she didn’t think there were any other women on board.

She peeled off the too-tight gown, frowning at the angry red lines left on her skin, and lay in the bed, trying to fall asleep. It was far more comfortable than the floor of that cell would have been, especially with Joffery’s ravings in the background, and the rocking of the ship was oddly comforting, but she found herself staring at the ceiling nevertheless.

Usually her thoughts would turn to her family on nights like this, but instead they turned to Theon and his offer—his hand gentle around hers, his eyes sincere as he promised that no harm would come to her. She certainly couldn’t have said yes to him, but perhaps…if he had insisted…

mother

arranged: Jeyne is married off to Robb, who is a werewolf

Jeyne fidgeted with her embroidery, her needle never managing to come up in the right place. It was nerves. Mother had refused to tell her anything much, always claiming that she didn’t want Jeyne to worry, but Jeyne knew Father had debts and that Mother was trying to get them some more time to pay them off.

She didn’t want to think about how Mother would get them more time. Her dowry had already been used to try to pay back the loans, Eleyna’s too. They just didn’t have any more money. Even the family jewels—all their valuables, nearly everything that they had, and it was barely enough to keep their creditors at bay. What would they ask next?

The wheels of the carriage rattled on the cobblestones, and Mother swept into the foyer, looking pleased. Jeyne felt a careful bloom of hope. If they had been granted more time, they might be able to pay off the debts and avoid complete ruin.

“Jeyne, darling, you’re getting married!”

black

nostos: in which Theon and Sansa are lost in the woods

“What are you doing here?” someone roared. Sansa yelped and spun on her heel. A broad, stocky man stood in the doorway. His black, wide-brimmed hat hid his face, save for his cropped beard, shot with grey. The lantern on his belt was lit, shining through the early evening dark. He held an axe in one hand and a bundle of firewood in the other.

“My apologies, good ser,” Sansa said with a shallow curtsey. “The door opened when I knocked, and I was worried about the fire.”

His face softened. “These woods are no place for children,” he said, coming in to the mill-house. He set his axe and firewood on a table, and hung his wide hat on a hook. His grey eyes were gentle. “What are you two doing here?”

“We got lost. We’re trying to get home,” Sansa said, at the same time that Theon protested that he wasn’t a child.

“You’re more lost than you realize,” the miller said. “Come in. The night is dark here.”

ice

after many tempests, the quiet port: a season 7/8 au that desperately needs a rewrite to make the plot make sense (what else is new)

“Did I ever tell you how I got this scar?” He gestured to the large scar across his jaw, as though he had any other noticeable scars.

“Several times.” There was a song about it. Even Jeyne knew the song—Dagmer had sung it for them one night, at Jeyne’s request.

Dagmer clicked his tongue sharply. “Well, you’ll just have to hear it again. It was many years ago, when I was out on my first raid as a captain of my own ship. We were near the coast of the Stony Shore, about to raid a town, when we saw sails on the horizon.”

Theon hid his smile at the familiar turns of the story, the affection in Dagmer’s voice as he described the captain who buried her axe in his face.

“What a woman,” he said, “she must have been born in an ice-storm to have eyes that cold.”

Theon had always wondered if she was why he never married; if he had loved her so entirely that no other woman could compare.

Tagging @partialconstellations, @istaricelebelasse, @ladycatofwinterfell, @silentstep and anyone else who wants to participate with the words

rose | cloud | sleep | red | legacy

#theonsa #reyne #sansa stark #theon greyjoy #jeyne westerling #dagmer cleftjaw