#Welsh terms

[llyfrenfys]

Welsh Gender Neutral Family Terms

We've come up with some gender neutral Welsh family terms in the LGBTQIA+ Welsh discord I run (dm for link) lately and so far people seem to like the terms. So, this is an introduction to some of the terms we've come up with so far.

I plan to make polls eventually with these terms and any other suggestions you might have and run a little tournament to see which terms are favoured most by Welsh speaking LGBTQIA+ people.

Without further ado, here are the terms:

(f. = feminine grammatical gender, m. = masculine grammatical gender)

Chwaed(ion) f. - Sibling(s)

[‘chwaer’ (sister) + ‘brawd’ (brother). Rhymes with ‘gwaed’ (blood), reminiscent of family ties]

Chwaerydd m. - Sibling

['chwaer' + '-ydd' (masculine suffix) ]

Chwaed fy mam / fy nhad - Aunt/Uncle (Literally, my mother’s/father’s sibling)

 [Literal translation (my mother’s / father’s sibling) ]

Naith f. - Niece/Nephew

[‘nith’ (niece) + ‘nai’ (nephew) ]

Dain (Deiniau) f. - Grandparent(s)

[‘taid’ (grandfather)+ t > d + ‘nain’ (grandmother) ]

Nam-gu f.- (Grandparent)

['fy nhad-cu' + 'fy mam-gu']

Of course, these are only suggestions. So far, chwaed has been very popular and dain has been preferred over nam-gu because it's less South Walian. But I'm interested to hear what you think or hear if you have any suggestions of your own!

Please share this post so we can get a larger sample size. Diolch!

NB:

These terms have come from multiple users, so bear that in mind with feedback. I can pass on suggestions to the users who coined them.

Grammatical gender is unavoidable in Welsh, but grammatical gender does not necessarily equal gender gender. E.g. the German word for girl 'maedchen' is grammatically neutral. In addition to this, certain suffixes in Welsh are gendered, which affects how words behave in certain sentences.

[iceman-soup]

amab masc!reader x top!soap

Getting fucked more intensely than you've been in years after a mission where you escaped death by a fraction of a centimetre, a close-range bullet with your name on missing by sheer luck alone - and it's all just too overwhelming for Soap, too scary and too real.

He drags you straight from medical to his barrack the second you both get the all-okay, pressing you against his wall once he's locked the door shut, his knee between your legs making you whine and grind against him. Your mouth is on his - desperate, messy kisses only broken to tear each other's clothes off, stumbling to the bed and letting him lie you down against it.

He's scrambling to find a halfway decent bottle of lube, one hand on your chest to keep you in place as he mutters about "m' pretty boy, almost gettin' hurt," not letting you reply, instead shushing you as he manages to undo the cap on a bottle.

"You're mine," his tone is insistent as he preps you as quickly as he can, far too much lube on his fingers making you whine at the cold, half-heartedly complaining that he's being too harsh. "Mine- my boy, mine," is all he repeats, stuttered between kisses whilst he works you open.

Once you're ready, Soap pushes his tip into you, breathing heavy as his head falls onto your chest. He presses open-mouthed kisses to the skin, one hand wrapping around your own cock and pumping at increasing speed as he moves his hips, groans falling from both your lips.

"Cannae have tha'- don't need you gettin' hurt-" rambling between pants and moans 'til you cum, then looking down at it on your stomach, "bonnie lad, m' hen.."

He slams into you, ignoring your whimpers as you start to become overstimulated, then grunting and resting his sweaty forehead on your collarbone, hips flush against yours and legs trembling as he cums, pulling out a few seconds later, slumping down next to you and pulling your tired body into a desperate embrace.

The room is quiet other than the sound of steadying breathing for a moment, before the Sergeant kisses your hair and squeezes you gently. "Bloody eejit, gettin' me all worked up."

[nadiajustbe]

I know people in HMC books speak English so there's not gonna be any kind of miscommunication between the characters, but sometimes I think about how it would be way more funny If there was some language diversity.

Howell Jenkins falls into the portal to an absolutely unknown, magical realm and... everyone speaks English. He was rather happy about it, finding it funny: it's a new, fantasy, fairy-tale based world with dragons and spells and seven-league boots and magic, and yet its habitants English. What are the odds?

However, it does not takes him long to realise (much to his own frustration) that, even though all of the locals native language is, in fact, English, it is pretty different from the English Howell himself is familiar with. He cant understand it quite well at fist, but it sounded like an odd mix of a modern language, specific dialects and an old tongue people was using around Victorian England/Middle Ages. It has so many words and unusual forms (Howell even called them "slang" once in a while), that it takes him a while to fully get every term and subtexts ms. Pentstemmon was referring to.

Their languages were similar just enough to catch the full sense of the sentence, but not enough to undertand all the little details, not cultural nor linguistic. It would even worst If he wasn't a big fun of Shakespeare and old Arthurian Legends growing up, letting alone studying old English (and old Welsh) at the university.

The language also differs from the area. Michael, for example, uses so many words you can hear in Porthaven only, regarding it's unique aspects. Sophie uses a lot of Market Chipping proverbs, and even more old terms connected with hats. The language he heard the King using wheh he got his first chance to met him at the time of his apprenticeship was so long, confusing and vivid, as If it was taken straight out of old English Literature books. And yet, English.

To this day Howell — at this point long-knowing as Howl Pendragon — finds himself confusing new terms, forms of words, proverbs and sayings. Maybe, he thinks, you have to be truly born there to understand all of - although he did better than anyone else would. Sophie seems to catching up just well.

—

Abdullah ends up with a flying carpet and the magical genie, exited to give away his fist wish to find the love of his love... only to not understand a word of what the genie is saying. This is how, instead of searching for Flower-In-The-Night, he now searching through a whole Zanzib for a proper translator from English because, here's the problem, If he can't understand the genie, then genie can't understand him, and If genie can't understand him, it's pointless to even try making a wish. He knows it's English: there's plenty people all around the world visiting the market, and he had even learnt certain words, important for making a trade, but that's not nearly close to a full sentence on unrelated topic.

With a great effort and after hours of searching for a really proffecional master of languages (who charges Abdullah nearly all of his money for one single session), he finally gets to the point. Except, here's another moment. That's where Abdullah finds out the wish has to be spoken from his heart and not through the other person. Here comes another catch — Ingarian English, no matter how simple or structured is, to put is simply, badly different from Rapshutian Arabic. It's not even the same language group!

So, he sits in the small, hot room near the glamorous bottle and tries to pronounce a bunch of difficult, complex words written on a paper, the kind that translator couldn't cut or simplify to ones he's familiar with, for a whole ten (to fifteen) minutes. And, as If trying to make his task as difficult as possible, genie, when he shows up, starts randomly breaking into the language translator can't even recognise, with no talk about understanding. Abdullah assumes it may be a secret genie language only this creatures know and, annoyingly, gets along with it.

After successfully wishing to understand (and use) English, he also finds out he can't wish for anything more language-related, and he shouldn't even bother himself trying to ask for a foolish things like an ability to speak every language in the world. Language is a big part of human's essence and otherwise shouldn't be messing with, just as magic focusing on it is strictly limited.

Using this fact, the genie also finds a loophole - from now on he speaks his secret genie language half of the time, stopping only when it comes to important tasks, because Abdullah "wished to know only one of his languages" and he, apparently, knows more.

This whole puzzle takes new turns, when, while traveling with the carpet, Abdullah meets the solider. Despite claiming being from Strangia, this strange man from the forest starts speaking with them in English in first and then, noticing they're from different country, easily switches to Arabic.

As they wander together, the soliders explains that he is non less confused than they are: he didn't even noticed he could speak English before the passer-byes from Ingary noticed him, and now, being with genie and Abdullah, he also remembered he knows Arabic. He adds that he can't recall anything before his duty in the army, where he definitely used Stangian and nothing else, but it feels like an strong knowledge he has, even If he doesn't remember learning any of this. He decides to wave it off, focusing on the cats and schemes.

The solider becomes a great translator for them along the journey, up to the day the got the inn. He does not understand the secret genie language, though. Especially when from the jinnies and angels they found out there's, in fact, no such a thing as a "genie language"

The story finally clears itself when Midnight and Whippersnapper turn into humans, the Solider turns into a bewitched Prince and the Royal Wizard surprisingly seems to recognize all of the words the genie was — and still is — using.

—

Charmain runs after Sophie with a long, old dictionary she has found in the Great Uncle Norland's Library. The Royals, of course, gave their honored guest the translator, but the things quickly becomes pretty private, with the search for the gold and all this story with lubboks, so Sophie tells them she's gonna manage it by herself.

To say the Dictionary is heavy is to say nothing: it's huge and thick, containing thousands of words from Ingarian English alone, split by topics, marked with tons of colors an additional moments. Even carrying it around is a whole different type of task.

Half of the time Charmain and Sophie communicate with gestures, context clues and even sounds. When they need to say something really long and complex, they write, leaning on the Dictionary, as it's a bit faster than talking. Still, at some moments Charmain has to flip through the massive pages, searching for the right word with her finger, while Sophie has to do the same. Till the end of the day the both learn some basic words from each other's language, which makes it easier.

The poor nanny has even harder times with Twinkle and Morgan, because she has no idea about what they actually want, except they both whining and crying, one louder than another.

Translator does not come in handy that much, as it looks like these children mix languages everytime when speaking to each other. She has to guess things all over the room to finally get what they need, and usually it's the most useless things ever, like striped pants and a bunch of toy horses falling from the sky.

They see Sophie and Twinkle arguing about something, but no one gets the topic of their screaming, let alone the reason why Sophie is so mad at this angelic child. Charmain asks Sophie about it, because she heard an unusual name along the lines of their quarrels, but Sophie looks too annoyed to explain, mumbling something in her native language with some sort of anger.

The only positive side of it all is that, If Chairman can't understand English, then the lubbocks can't either. Wich means that they didn't have to be as cautious when using Dictionary as they would have to If they understood each other perfectly.

Then she has to climb on the roof, where Twinkle is sitting. Charmain tries to dismiss all his attempts to start a dialogue till she's there, huffing and suffocating as she tries to get the Dictionary with her, trying not to fall.

Twinkle seems to be really proud of himself, saying he knows twice more languages that anyone else in this magical House. Charmain flips through the pages, asking either one of is the one she knows (Norlandian, I assume).

Twinkle says no. For a second Charmaine starts to really understand Sophie's feeling, fighting the urge to hit him on the head with this massive book.

Peter does not communicate with this new guest as much and, luckily, he knows the language Charmain speaks, so they don't have to struggle with a language barrier. The way speaks might be a bit different because of the area he grew up and the amount of hiding and spells he encountered, but there's nothing they can't handle. Luckily.

Calcifer knows the Saucepan song, but other than that his linguistic knowledge is far from perfect, certainly not as good as you'd expect from a fire demon. He also cannot use a Dictionary, because it will burn the second he'll come to close to it, and If this happens their main way of communication is basically gone. He makes up for it, talking with Twinkle, Morgan and Sophie, as well as being expressive enough to understand the basics or what he feels and plans. Sometimes someone (aka Sophie) has to translate what he is saying when she's near, wich is a bit longer than Charmain would wish, but still pretty plausible. She got that he desperately needs his logs, after all.

Twinkle could have used some kind of magical bubble to get them finally understand each other fully, but, again, magic connected with languages is pretty difficult and has its important limits, so it wouldn't last long. Little 30 years old boy is enjoying his childhood, running up the stairs and beating these huge bugs, not as much caring about Charmain all this huge book in her hands.

In the end, (as he turnds out to be) the Royal Wizard Howl is right - the only languages lubbocks can understand is punching.

(Many thanks to my rly good friend @your-queen-shuri for being co-author of this concept. A bunch of ideas here are from her!)

[ingravinoveritas]

susanwhynow replied to your post:

how they lean into each others space … like they're drawn to one another … 😩

@susanwhynow

Always.

It's one of the things I have loved the most about Michael and David for the last five years. You could see that pull between them and how drawn they were to each other even in 2019...

There's a sort of tentativeness to the leaning in 2019, that hesitation that comes with a newfound and unexpectedly powerful connection, trying to feel each other out ("Is this okay?" "Do you feel the same way I do?"). Then when lockdown happened, Michael and David were still leaning toward each other even over Zoom, as if they'd never realized how much they enjoyed being together until they couldn't.

But four years later, it just seems like that pull has only gotten stronger, as their friendship/relationship has deepened. Now they are completely open with each other. Michael and David know exactly how they feel, and what is between them has blossomed so beautifully, to where we can see it even when they are in the middle of a film set, or a theater full of people...

And what is between them is so powerful that it makes you ache. Someplace deep inside where you wondered if it was possible for two people to be this connected--consciously and unconsciously--and to find each other at just the right moment in their lives. And to then look back and see that there was a thread, however invisible, tying them together long before now.

I love that Michael and David have seemingly always been comfortable in each other's spaces, and how that's led to them creating a space that is just theirs...

[that-cunning-witch]

Ancient Celtic religion (Irish, Scottish, Welsh, etc.) has been and is continuing to be culturally appropriated to absolute filth, but idk if y'all are ready to have that conversation yet

[majorshatterandhare]

Maybe the demonym for New Texas shouldn’t be “New Texan” but “New Texaser.”

[schar-aac]

"cariad"

Image: A simple Welsh love spoon in front of a light mauve heart.

[j-crow]

stalking peoples blogs is soooo entertaining

[historyartthings]

This just filled me with such rage. Like 2011??!! 2011?

Anyone who wasn’t English was just an uncouth, uncultured munter apparently. The people were more ‘shaggy looking’? what do you even base that on? What research has resulted in that conclusion?

And then “Celtic peoples”, “Celtic neighbours”, as if that makes those three countries uniform and inherently the same

[llyfrenfys]

On Cadi as the Welsh equivalent of Queer

(image: screenshot of the entry for Cadi in Geiriadur Prifysgol Cymru)

Some of you may already know this, but for those who don't, Cadi is a Welsh word which is analogous to the word Queer in English. I say analogous, since their meanings aren't quite a 1:1 match. But for shorthand, Welsh equivalent of Queer sums 90% of it up.

It has been suggested tentatively by some to use Cadi as the Welsh translation of Queer. I'm going to explore arguments for and against, but ultimately the choice to use/not use Cadi as a 1:1 with Queer is entirely up to you. Warning that this post is quite long, but I do hope you'll stick with it- please let me know what you think in the notes!

Without further ado, let's get into it:

Definition of Cadi:

Cadi is a term which has existed in Welsh since the 17th Century (roughly) and generally refers to effeminacy in men (real or perceived). Over time, the meaning of the term has expanded to refer to other (Queer) things as well. But the term itself largely has been applied to Queer men and queer masculinities through time.

The term itself derives from the girl's name Catrin and you will come across women who call themselves Cadi as a shortening of their name (like Liz from Elizabeth and so on). In this way, there is a strong point of comparison to be had with the English queer pejorative Nancy, which also derives from a girl's name.

Can Cadi be considered the Welsh equivalent of Queer?

So now to the real meat of the post. Can Cadi be considered the Welsh equivalent of Queer? The answer to that is, unsurprisingly, complicated.

As described above, Cadi is a term which has had strong associations with male effeminacy (real or perceived) and has close parallels to the English term Nancy, which is also nearly exclusively applied to Queer men and masculinities. What this presents is a quandary and I'll explain what I mean by that. But first, we need to outline the history of LGBTQIA+ terminology in general (in the West).

LGBTQIA+ Terminology and the inclination towards cis gay language:

This is a huge huge topic which I cannot possibly do justice to here alone, so I'd highly recommend reading up on these topics when you have time, but for the sake of brevity, here is a tldr on the history of LGBTQIA+ terminology (slightly UK-centric but similar events also happened in the US and Canada, as well as other parts of Europe).

Campaign for Homosexual Equality (CHE) is a British Lesbian and Gay rights organisation founded in the 1960s, during a time of great social and political change. The organisation's membership grew and grew well into the 70s before declining in the 80s. It was during this time that some lesbian members of the organisation left citing erasure of lesbian issues and misogyny in the movement. CHE and similar gay and lesbian rights movements in this period had been inclined to centre gay men's issues in their activism, which understandably led to many lesbians feeling alienated. Some lesbians left in the late 70s and early 80s and began to form their own advocacy groups. This indirectly fed into a wider feminist upheaval at the time and led to the rise of lesbian feminism, which aimed to centre lesbian issues within feminism, but unfortunately (for complex historical reasons) did then contribute to the proliferation of rad\ical femi\nism within the Queer community, which then unfortunately contributed to the rise of tra\ns exclu\sionary rad\ical fem\inism. Regardless of the unfortunate rise of transphobia within the lesbian feminist movement, the original catalyst for the formation of these groups was a sense of alienation from the rest of the Queer community because gay men's issues had been prioritised over lesbian issues, when both could have been tackled together, with each other. This alienation was echoed in the names of organisations and events- many early homosexual rights groups only had homosexual or gay in their group names. It took many years before advocacy groups started adding 'and lesbian' to their names and events.

(For further reading, I would suggest watching this video by Verilybitchie about the history of lesbian erasure in homosexual advocacy and how that led to (some) lesbian groups excluding bi and trans people in the same way they were excluded by gay men)

What does that history mean for Cadi?:

Because of a history of lesbian (and by extension, women's) exclusion from homosexual advocacy groups, is Cadi the best term to use as a catch-all given its strong associations with men's expressions of Queerness? (namely, that as a pejorative it is largely aimed at femininity in men and subsequent assumed homosexuality). It is important to consider if using Cadi as an equivalent of Queer would centre a (typically cis) gay experience/expression of Queerness and if that would alienate other members of the LGBTQIA+ community.

However, a counterpoint to this would be that there are variations of the term Cadi which do include other experiences of Queerness:

Cadi ffan (similar to just 'Cadi')- typically used to describe femininity in men and boys [N. Wales]

Cadi genod/ Cadi merched (similar to above) - effeminate man/boy [N. Wales]

Cadi bechgyn - Romping girl, tomboy [N. Wales]

Cati fachgen - (similar to above)- Romping girl, tomboy [S. Wales]

Cadi Haf - Male maypole dancer dressed as a girl

They are, however, somewhat limited for use in reclamation and have to be qualified by another noun to indicate diversion from the original term's meaning.

But when talking about the term Cadi, we often speak in the abstract- without the context in which the term is used. So here are a few extracts from texts which use the term Cadi (or variants). Since this is a mostly spoken slang term, it doesn't turn up in print often, but there are a few examples to draw on.

Examples of Cadi in texts:

Page 164- Cwm Eithin by Hugh Evans (1931):

"DAWNSIO HAF Ceir darnodiad o'r ddefod hynafol dawnsio haf yn Y Gwyl- fedydd, 1823, tudal. 306, gan un a'i geilw ei hun “ Callestrwr,” fel yr arferid hi yn Callestr (Fflint, mae'n debyg). Ym mis Ebrill arferai o ddwsin i ugain o bobl ieuainc ymuno i baratoi ar gyfer y ddawns. Gwisgai'r dawnswyr eu crysau yn uchaf wedi eu haddurno ag ysnodennau a blodau. Cariai'r arweinydd fforch bren ar lun y llythyren Y. Gwnïid lliain o'r naill fraich i'r llall, ac addurnid y fforch ag amryw lestri arian, tebotiau, llwyau, cigweiniau, efc. Byddai gyda hwy grythor yn ei ddillad ei hun, “cadi” mewn gwisg merch, ac ynfytyn mewn gwisg ryfedd â phlu yn ei ben"

[emphasis mine]

This extract is the author's account of Dawnsio Haf- a Summer dance held on May Day and his investigations into it. At his time of writing (1931) the practice has died out, but later in this chapter he interviews an old woman from the Conwy Valley who participated in the dances as a child. Evans draws upon a source from 1823 for his description of Dawnsio Haf. In it, he mentions that 20 young dancers meet up for the dance wearing shirts decorated with ribbons and flowers. A leader carries a fork in the shape of the letter "Y"- between each point on the "Y" a cloth was strung with silverware dangling from it to make noise. With the 20 dancers would be a crwth-player (crythor), a Cadi in women's clothes and a fool with a feather on his cap and odd clothes.

This usage is quite archaic and refers to a folk dance- much like mumming or morris-dancing. There is however, a picture in the People's Collection Wales titled 'Cadi'r Big' taken by the prolific photographer John Tomas c. 1875, near Y Ro-wen:

Which is very interesting as Cadi'r Big has dried flowers and ribbons attached to their clothes, much like in the description in Cwm Eithin. This is very likely a picture of a "Cadi" from a Dawnsio Haf.

Page 4- Y Ddraig Binc Issue 4 (1994):

Y Ddraig Binc was a Welsh-language Queer magazine published by CYLCH, a gay and lesbian rights organisation based in Aberystwyth. The term Cadi-ffan is included in an article about the commercialisation of Queer identity in the magazine's fourth edition.

"...Nawr te, medd wrtho’i hun, be’ gymera’ i’r mis hwn, copi o GQ ynte Arena neu ydw i, efallai, yn teimlo’n ddigon ifanc a trendi am Sky? Ond aros funud, beth yw hyn? Dau gylchgrawn steil newydd a gwynt digamsyniol cadi-ffan arnyn nhw?

Ydy, mae’r hyn a oedd y tu hwnt i ddychymyg wedi digwydd. Mae grymoedd y farchnad rydd a chystadleuaeth wedi cyrraedd y byd cyhoeddi hoyw - rhaid bod Lêdi T wrth ei bodd. Nawr fe gaiff llanc hoyw ddewis o ddeunydd darllen sgleiniog, llawn erthyglau a hysbysebion yn arbennig ar ei gyfer ef a’i rywioldeb. Hwrê! Fedr hynny ddim bod yn beth drwg. Neu a fedr o?..."

[emphasis mine]

This humorous article (dealing with an important topic, mind) pokes fun at the arrival of Queer commercialisation. The article opens by explaining that there's a ruckus in the gay world (and not two old queens getting into fisticuffs)- but that this ruckus is taking place at WHSmith (UK stationery shop and newsagents)- apparent winner of this year's most vulgar uniform award. The author goes on to describe a hypothetical situation in which a gay man walks into a WHSmith to buy a magazine. He wonders whether to get a copy of GQ or Arena (men's style magazines- remember this was published in Section 28 Era so explicitly gay magazines were not common) or is he trendy enough to read Sky? (film and tv magazine). But wait- what's this? Two new style magazines with a whiff of Cadi-ffan about them? The author explains that yes, the unimaginable has happened. The forces of the free market and competition have reached the world of gay publishing.

Now a gay youth has the choice of glossy reading material, full of articles and advertisements especially for him and his sexuality. Hooray! That can't be a bad thing. Or can it? Writes the author. The article is very witty and I recommend a read (find a pdf copy here). But the usage of Cadi-ffan here is very much in a reclaimed sense. Though it must be noted that the story is told through a stereotypical cis gay lens.

Conclusions:

As I said at the start of this post, you are free to claim or not claim Cadi as you wish. However, as awareness of Welsh LGBTQIA+ terminology increases, I wanted to raise important questions and start a conversation about the words we have, what we want them to be and how they have been used against us. I hope in any case that this post has been interesting to you. If it has, please reblog this or add any comments/thoughts in the notes, tags or in my asks.

Beth yw eich barn chi? I'd love to hear other's thoughts on this and start a conversation about it! Diolch am ddarllen

[worldsfromhoney]

My Dear Thief

Masterlist

cw: obsession

Valpjorf hated going to sleep. Hate was a strong word but what else could capture this burning feeling tormenting him in the darkness he’d grown to hate? Darkness, too, was a strong word to use. He liked to think he didn’t dream. That there was nothing when he slept and everything when he woke.

…Valpjorf dreamt and he hated how he loved every minute of it. There was only ever just the one thing that ruled him in sleep just as it threatened to rule him in his waking hours.

Bones. He would always dream of bones. Of its unblemished white colour which the brightest of gems or the purest of ivory could never rival. Valpjorf dreamt of touching it, his fingers wrapping around this precious treasure and shivering with delight. He dreamt of how his body would shake in the moments before the touch and how it would sag in bliss—in relief once he has it in his grasp.

Then Valpjorf wakes up and Rhun is there beside him, full of bones beneath that flesh, those precious treasures just waiting to be taken—

These days, when Rhun wakes up, it’s to Valpjorf curled up at a far corner of the room, crying. He didn’t want his partner (his love, life, saviour) to keep waking up to an empty bed. He didn’t want Rhun to have to take him in his arms first thing in the morning and comfort him from something he could never understand. Not ever.

Rhun didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve a partner who would like nothing more than dig their fingers in the witch’s flesh till it penetrated skin and muscle and finally reach that glorious trove of bones—

“I won’t,” Valpjorf would say, again and again. “I won’t. I won’t. I wouldn’t, elskan. You know I wouldn’t.”

Not to you. Not to anyone else ever again.

And Rhun wouldn’t understand, not really, what had been going on in Valpjorf’s head. He wouldn’t understand just how close his ‘reformed’ partner had been to breaking the promise he made himself. No. Rhun wouldn’t understand but he would stay. He would gather Valpjorf as close as they could possibly be as if that would be enough.

“You won’t,” Rhun would answer, all the same as always. “You won’t, annwyl. I know you won’t. You promised, so you won’t.”

Valpjorf did promise. The day he burned all the bones he’d stolen into ash and watched the wind carry away his life’s work (his sins) away, he had promised never to come back onto that path. Rhun was the path he’d chosen and he would never stray from that.

Never.

Never.

Never.

…never?

He would never again cast that spell? The one he’d honed for decades before he even met Rhun? The one which made it all so easy to wrench out bones from others with them being none the wiser?

Never?

Valpjorf would never experience the never-ending wonder of feeling someone’s soul thrum in this stolen treasure? He’d never know the forbidden taste of souls which made him shiver and his eyes roll back as he clutched the reward of his thievery?

Never?

He… hadn’t known what never meant.

The dreams didn’t stop coming and Valpjorf doesn’t know how long he can take them. He doesn’t know when but knew his days were numbered. He began counting them.

Day One was the night after he burned all the bones he’d stolen and woke up a screaming, sobbing mess in Rhun’s arms. That’d been before Valpjorf proposed to tie their souls together.

Day Thirty was one of the worst ones. The threads holding his skin together had snapped and he had watched, unmoving, as his own bones tore from its fleshy confines. The memory joined his dreams soon enough till the line between it and reality blurred and Rhun had a tight grip on him.

He’d prevented Valpjorf from tearing apart his skin to see more and more of those bones—of that precious treasure that’d been in him all along and it was his body dammit!

Rhun had a look Valpjorf hadn’t understood. He didn’t understand how such fury which threatened to burn his very soul was quenched by quiet, whispered words against the scratches he’d made on his skin. Of lips repeating the words till it overturned everything—even Valpjorf’s want for bones.

And your soul is mine.

It was a long time before the dreams came and shattered the blissful calm that’d settled over them. The war was over. Valpjorf had stopped stealing. He was no longer leaving suffering and an aching sense of loss in his wake. He’d found his soulmate and partner in Rhun who’d coaxed him from anything unsavoury and bad.

Then it was Day 300 and Valpjorf woke to Rhun’s strangled cry of his name. He thought he was still dreaming. Everything felt… right. In dreams he could feed into desires his partner had never snuffed from him. Nothing could. Not even himself.

It was a dream because he was over Rhun, a hand squeezing his partner’s throat and the other in the middle of casting his oh so favourite spell. Rhun was calling for him and Valpjorf shushed him back oh so gently. He wanted to do this right. If not in reality, then in dreams where he could do anything.

Then Rhun was crying and he knew this wasn’t a dream.

The pleasant haze that’d been over him snapped, pulled as it was from one end of reality and the other of dreams. The sinews of muscle and skin under his hold crackled with magic, more pleading than it was attempting to fight back. Rhun wouldn’t. Not even now even when tears had unwittingly fallen and his partner’s eyes were glazing over.

Rhun wouldn’t because that had been the promise between them, wasn’t it? To love as I hold. Your health and heart I shall never break. Our souls now of the same mould. These vows I make under the gaze of Fate.

A promise Valpjorf just broke. A strangled sound cracked like a whip against the stragglers—the thoughts that no, this is a dream and he can keep going. His fingers spasmed around that throat he’d worshiped with kisses from night to day and wondered if the sound had come from Rhun again. It came again, softer, and… from him. It was from him. The strangled whine, cries, and sobs were from him and so was the burning scratches on his face and the pull on his hair.

It was from him and not Rhun and he wished to the gods it’d been Rhun. Maybe it would stick more. Maybe it would truly stop the ache he still had—that urge to reach out and finish what he’d started.

Valpjorf gets away with sleeping on the couch, magic bindings wrapped around him as he sleeps, till Day 366. It’s one of the rare days when he’s home first before Rhun is, it being a slow day at the occult shop. He had wanted to stay longer so he could go home late but his boss had taken one look at him, sighed, and kicked his sorry arse out.

Go home and hug your partner before I find you wanting to go back to the grave had been her parting words before shutting the door on him. Valpjorf would feel offended at the jab at his will to live if he wasn’t so tired.

He didn’t even notice it’s been a year and a day since these dreams started haunting him. He just shuffled off to the couch and began redoing the bindings; knots here and punishing spells there if he ever resisted or broke free. It’s in the middle of doing his castings that Rhun came home.

“No,” He said, slapping Valpjorf’s hands and dispersing his hours’ worth of spellwork just like that. “No, annwyl. You hear me? No. Not this time. Not tonight.”

Not ever again went unspoken but it was there, hanging over Valpjorf like a mockery of all his efforts at restraint and normality. It was the ghost of a saving anchor, looking too real to be true for him to hold onto.

It was Day 366 when he snapped.

“What do you know? What would you know?” Valpjorf hissed, hands fisting at his sides. “What would you fucking know, Rhun, the oh so great and venerable witch?”

He looked up at that pitying gaze full of so much hurt it shouldn’t have. His eyes traced the planes of this man—no, this witch’s face and wondered how much of it was real. How much hid behind permanent glamours as all of their kind tended to do?

And Valpjorf didn’t want to think about it but he had to because these dreams couldn’t’ve all been him, could it? He couldn’t be the only broken one between them, could he?

Could he? Was he?

“Oh, annwyl,” Rhun said, sinking to his knees and cupping Valpjorf’s face. “Oh, annwyl, why don’t you just ask?”

Valpjorf would’ve reeled back from his partner’s touch. He would’ve retreated further into the couch, far, far away from this tempting collection of bones he’s been obsessed with for longer than a year and a day. He would’ve gone back to his grave if Rhun hadn’t grabbed his hands and placed them around his throat.

Valpjorf froze. Rhun smiled at him.

“Annwyl, annwyl,” He murmured like a soothing lullaby. It did nothing to ease the tension drawing Valpjorf tight like a string about to snap again. “You know you only need ask, don’t you?”

No. He didn’t. Rhun still had his hands around his throat. He felt the vibration of every word, how sound travelled through sinews of muscle and skin, right to his hands.

This was his. This throat was being offered and it was his. It was his and so was the man on his knees, telling him his dreams were right and okay.

Valpjorf let out a shaky breath and squeezed. Rhun’s eyes fluttered. He smiled and let out a breathy exhale of annwyl.

Valpjorf choked out a sob, called Rhun elskan, and shuddered as he cast the bone stealing spell.

[edwardseymour]

Thoughts on Aneurin Bernard as Henry VII?

i feel like i am the only person who wasn’t thrilled with him as richard iii — but i do like him as an actor and i think a welshman playing the role would be fab!

also i just know it would annoy those ‘brides of gloucester’ freaks who get weirdly sexual about richard in twq.

[ingravinoveritas]

I think you are one who can truly understand this.

When that fuzzy, shite picture came out, for the first time since October 30th, I exhaled. ♥️

Oh, I very much get what you mean...

I think we knew, or at least hoped, that Michael was okay, despite taking such a long Twitter hiatus. I think we also knew, deep down, that Michael and David were still seeing each other--what with it being so much easier and more possible with Michael still in London--even if it wasn't something we got to witness. And while I continue to have mixed feelings about this picture (because I am still fairly certain Michael and David were not expecting it to be taken and likely did not want it to be taken), when I saw it, I felt that sense of exhalation that you described. Like, "Yes, everything is okay. Michael is okay. They're together and love each other and they're okay."

It also affirmed the feeling that whatever is between them is not and does not need to be for public consumption. That Michael can be there for David to support him and bolster his confidence in the face of all the trans/homophobic discourse that's kicked up following the first DW special, and David can be there for Michael to comfort him and make him feel loved in the aftermath of what happened last month, all without any of us knowing about it.

So yes, I do understand what you are saying, though I'm sure others do as well. Every fandom has its rough patches, but seeing that blurry picture was a small, hopeful reminder that we will get through it...

[ingravinoveritas]

This is still one of my favorite interview moments of theirs ever. I've always felt that Michael wasn't just talking about Aziraphale and Crowley, and you can so clearly see David's little moment of disbelief at Michael actually asking that question, though he recovers quickly--professional that he is--even though we can still see a lingering fluster. It really is extraordinary to think of how we've gone from "That would be far too demonstrative" five years ago to, "I'd love to make Good Omens every 2 years for the rest of my life" and "It's joyous mainly because I get to hang out with Michael every day" now. Oh, David...

@lifwae requested  ⁠— David Tennant and Michael Sheen being literal Aziraphale and Crowley in the interview

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

thing is "revolution" was originally "reactionary" in the most literal sense. it was about returning to an earlier state (from which the revolutionaries believed the current state had degenerated from).

it's literally in the name. revolution. revolving. rolling back. returning to the beginning.

[writers-potion]

Writing Character Accents in Fiction

Hey there, thanks for the question! I speak English as a second language; most English speakers I encounter aren’t native (yes, including fictional people); thus, this is a concern I’ve explored personally when I write. 

I think the core principle regarding accent writing is this: it shouldn’t be distracting. 

For the same reasons why Stephen King prescribes the basic dialogue tag “said” rather than fancier alternatives like “whispered”, “shouted” or “screeched”, dialogue must be first and foremost easy to read. It must flow like a real conversation – the pace and tone are a lot more important than how specific words are being pronounced by the character. 

Focus on what effect the accent has:

Using adjectives to describe their voice in general. Different types of English (American, British, Australian, etc.) will give off a different vibe, also partly dependent on how your character speaks in general:

Lilting: Having a smooth rise and falling quality; sing-song like. Welsh accent is often described as singing. 

Posh: from a high social class. This is the term generally used to describe the upper-class British accent.

Nasal: this happens when the sound goes through somebody’s nose when they’re speaking. North American accents are more nasal than, say, British pronunciations. 

Brash: harsh, loud, indicative of sounding a little rude. 

Slur: speaking indistinctly; words merging into one another.

Using metaphors.

Her voice was cotton and fluffy clouds. 

When he spoke, the ‘r’s scratched the insides of his throat. 

Mentioning their accent with a brief example(s). 

“Would you like to drink some wine?” she said, though her Indian accent gave extra vibration to her ‘w’s and ‘r’s, making the words sound more like ‘vould you like to drrrink some vine’.

“I want some chocolate.” His syllables were choppy and ‘l’s rather flat, saying ‘cho-ko-lit’. 

Some Tips:

Don’t phonically spell out everything. Perhaps give a few examples in the beginning, but stick to standard English spellings. 

Pay attention to word choice, slang, and colloquialisms. 

An Australian person would say “tram”, not “trolley; “runners” instead of “sneakers”

A Canadian may refer to a “fire hall” – what Americans call a firehouse or fire station

If your character comes from a non-Enligsh background:

Use vocabulary from other languages. 

“What time was the exam, ah? Two o’clock? Jiayou!” → putting “ah” or “la” at the end of sentences + Jiayou means “break a leg” in Singlish. 

“I can’t believe that 4-year-olds have their own SNS accounts now.” → “SNS” is short for “social networking service”, a term used to refer to social media in Korea. This would a subtle difference – even though it isn’t technically Korean at all!

Transpose grammar from different languages. 

For example, in French, plural nouns take plural adjectives (whereas in English, you would speak of ‘white cars’, not ‘whites cars’).

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