#infelicitous

[oh-dear-so-queer]

When referring specifically to animals and their behaviors, for example, gay is never employed, while lesbian is used only sparingly (it occurs in less than 3 percent of the more than 3,000 instances in the text where animal homosexuality is named). Even then, lesbian usually reserved only for cases of linguistic expedience, when alternate phrasings such as "female homosexual(ity)" or "same-sex ... among/between females" would become repetitive, cumbersome, or otherwise infelicitous.

"Biological Exuberance: Animal Homosexuality and Natural Diversity" - Bruce Bagemihl

[notnights]

I could have fit them in if I wanted to and I think it would’ve worked better for what this was, but I only remembered them after I drew everything and I didn’t want to redraw 6 panels.

What that reveal panel would've looked like, sorry my sketch/note method is only decipherable by me.

↓

I FORGOT HE HAD SHACKLES ON HIS ANKLES POST FUCKING CANCELLED!!!

[whitedarkmoonflower]

I loved your story with Sihtric. I wanted to ask if you have time if you could write Sihtrics wife being taken by Hestan in season 3, and she gives birth to twins while she is with them. Then Hestan sees Uthred and threatens that he has Sihtrics family, but of course, Sihtric gets his family back.

Kidnapped Part 1

Sihtric x reader

Authors note: dear Anon, sorry that it took me a while to start writing. As it happens so often with me the story just took hold on me and kept going. It was starting to get a bit long, so I decided to divide it and post at least the first part, that is completely ready, before I figure out how Sihtric will get his family back.

Warnings: nothing really serious, bit of angst to lose your dear ones, use of alcohol in distress

Word Count: 2,515

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

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“I am going to find my wife,” Sihtric's face lit up in a warm smile as he spoke to Finan, clutching some flowers in his hands. He hadn’t seen you for months. He could still vividly recall the day he left and how excited he was finally to be heading for a battle after years of peaceful living. He loved you with all his heart, but he was a warrior and had longed for some adventure. He had never expected it to turn into a nightmarish ordeal, with Skade emerging in Uhtred’s life and swiftly turning it upside down in the blink of an eye.

Now that the witch was dead and you all were back in Winchester life seemingly returning to its normal flow, he found himself consumed with anticipation. He couldn't wait to see you, to hold you in his arms, and to tenderly kiss your swollen belly, knowing that you carried his child. The sheer joy that had overwhelmed him when you had shared the news just before his departure was beyond words. He had kissed you passionately, spinning you around like a madman, laughter bubbling forth from his very core. In that moment, he had wished he could stay by your side, but there was no other choice. Now almost eight months later you were likely nearing the end of your pregnancy. You were carrying his child – the full weight and meaning of this still hadn't fully settled within Sihtric’s mind as he hadn't quite had a chance to fully comprehend it amidst the chaos and battles that had unfolded.

Finan’s infelicitous attempt to mock Sihtric, left him unfazed as he merely smirked at his friend, refusing to engage in further discussion. With a determined expression, Sihtric turned away, hastening his steps towards home. Home – it was a word that made Sihtric’s heart skip a beat and warm up each time he thought about it, keeping him going even in the most desperate circumstances. It represented a dream come true, a place where he belonged and a family to return to. Something he could barely imagine just not so long ago.

His steps quickened as he approached the familiar street, his anticipation building as the house he had bought for both of you came into view. Eagerly, he rushed to the door, knocking with expectation. To his surprise, there was no response. He knocked again, straining to hear any signs of life behind the closed doors. However, the only response he received was an eerie silence that hung in the air. With a mix of anxiety and a racing heart, Sihtric gently pushed the door, causing it to creak open. A tight knot formed in his stomach as he stepped into the cold and desolate house. His eyes scanned the surroundings, revealing dust-covered furniture and cobwebs that had claimed the corners of the room. Sihtric's entire world shattered into countless shards. The house stood empty, abandoned for quite some time. You were not there, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what could have happened or where you could have gone. His hands dropped to his sides, letting go of the flowers he had been clutching. They twirled to the floor. Sihtric turned on his heels and sprinted towards the marketplace, desperately hoping to find Finan still there.

“Finan,” Sihtric called out, rushing towards his friend, and grasping his arm. “She’s gone. The house is empty. She’s gone.” Finan grinned, as his initial instinct was to offer another joke, but the sheer despair in Sihtric’s voice, the anxiety etched across his wide eyes, silenced any attempts at humour. Finan choked back his words and almost bit his tongue, realizing that now was not the time for jesting.

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Finan wanted to be certain, “Could it be that she is out running errands?”

“No, you don’t understand, Finan.” Sihtric responded urgently, his words tumbling out in a rush. “She’s truly gone. Nobody has lived in the house for a while already. Finan, we have  to find her. I have to find her. I never should have left in the first place,” Sihtric's desperation drove him forward, simultaneously pulling Finan towards the stables.

“Hold on, just wait a moment,” Finan tried to stop his friend’s frantic movements, to hold him, “Wait, stop!” he finally yelled at Sihtric, gripping his shoulders tightly and shaking with all his strength.

“Where do you think you are going? Do you honestly believe you’ll find her by aimless riding around with no idea where to even begin searching?” Finan tried to put some sense back in his friends dazed mind. Sihtric struggled to break free from Finan's grasp, but Finan refused to let go. They were nearly wrestling now, when Osferth and Uhtred came running towards them. Not understanding what's going on they stepped between the two friends, trying to pull them apart.

“What’s going on?” Uhtred yelled, holding onto Sihtric tightly.

“Sihtric’s wife is missing,” Finan explained, as Sihtric continued to struggle, unable to articulate his thoughts, his despair evident. It took considerable effort and strength to restrain Sihtric, until he finally ceased his resistance, leaning his forehead against Uhtred's shoulder.

“She is pregnant, Uhtred. She carries my child, and I have no idea where she is or what has happened,” Sihtric whispered, his voice filled with anguish, as Uhtred placed a comforting hand on his friends’ shoulder.

“Sihtric, calm down. First, we need to find out what has happened. Does she have any family? Is it possible that she sought some assistance from her family or friends? Being pregnant and alone can be incredibly challenging. There might be an innocent explanation for her absence,” Uhtred suggested, nodding to Finan and Osferth, who instantly understood what he meant and turned around to disappear in the jungle of the narrow streets, searching for anyone who might have information.

While Finan and Osferth scoured the neighborhood, Uhtred accompanied Sihtric to the tavern. Sihtric slumped heavily onto a chair, his hands supporting his head, not even noticing the ale jug Uhtred had brought him. After an hour or two, Finan and Osferth returned with news.

"We have both good news and bad news," Finan began. “The elderly widow living next to you told us that the pregnancy was not easy. She felt sick very often and couldn’t eat as she was constantly throwing up. About a month ago, she apparently decided to go to her sister, as it was too hard for her to cope alone.”

“The bad news is that her sister came for a visit a week ago looking for her as she had never arrived at her place,” Osferth added.

Sihtric remained seated, his hands buried in his hair, supporting his bowed head. He had heard what his friends told him, but he was simply unable to grasp it. His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse racing with an agonizing mix of fear and desperation. His mind spun with unanswered questions, each one a dagger stabbing at his already fragile state of mind.

Memories of your last moments together flooded his thoughts, taunting him with images of your laughter, your shared dreams, and the promise he had made to you, to come back as soon as possible. Without you, the world felt vast and empty for him, devoid of any meaning.

Sihtric felt tears welling up in his eyes and blurring his vision. Helplessness surged within him, a suffocating sensation that threatened to consume him. Taking a deep breath, Sihtric shook his head and wiped away the tears before anyone could notice. He could not imagine a life without you; there was no alternative. He had to find you.

----------------------------------------------------

It felt like an eternity, but in reality, only two months had passed since your fateful encounter with Heasten on your way to your sister’s place. You had delayed your departure, hoping to wait for Sihtric, but as time went on, it became increasingly difficult. Your belly had grown so big, that even dressing yourself had become a challenge. It was obvious you needed help. With no news from Sihtric in over half a year already, you were faced with the truth that either you were going now on your own or you would never manage it and would be left alone for the childbirth. You had enough money to hire a wagon and a coachman and luckily it was not far you had to travel. Your sister along with her husband and their three children, lived just two days’ journey away from Winchester in a small village near the river.

On the second day of your travels, you noticed a few riders observing you from the nearby hills, but before you could start worrying, they withdrew, and everything seemed to be fine. However, your sense of security was short-lived as a group of warriors abruptly appeared on the road ahead. There was no possibility of escape with a wagon, so your coachman halted, awaiting their approach.

"What cargo do you carry?" a rough voice, tinged with a distinct Danish accent, inquired.

"We are not traders, my lord," you responded, opening the flaps of the wagon's tent.  “I am simply travelling to my sister for the childbirth.” Your pronounced pregnancy was on full display, as you hoped it would dissuade the riders from causing harm. You looked at the man, who had spoken and your heart froze in fear. It was Heasten, the Danish warlord whose path had so often crossed with Uhtred’s and his men. You recognised him from your few encounters at Alfred’s court where he tried to persuade the king that his wife and children wished to accept Christianity and get baptised. It had been a ruse, a ploy to gain Alfred's trust and provide false information about Bloodhair's army. Unfortunately, these encounters had allowed Heasten to recognize you as well.

A cunning smirk crept across Heasten’s face as he fixed his gaze upon you, scanning your entire being from head to toe. His eyes lingered upon your swollen belly and they narrowed slightly, flickering with a malevolent spark, revealing the twisted delight that swirled within. Like a predator sizing up its prey, his gaze became focused and intense.

“Ah, who do we have here!” Heasten exclaimed as the corners of his mouth curled upwards and a wicked grin began to spread across his face, his eyes flaring in mischief, “Sihtric’s little bitch, ripe as an apple!” He approached the wagon, dismounted his horse, and extended his hand in your direction, urging you to descend.

“You know Sihtric will chop you alive into pieces and feed to the dogs, if you lay a hand on me,” you hissed at him, attempting to invoke fear, but it seemed to have no effect on Heasten. His smirk only grew wider.

“First your husband will have to convince his Lord to stay away from the upcoming battle,” Heasten retorted, his voice laced with menace. “Or else, it will be me who carves pieces from your lovely body and sends them to Sihtric.”

“You, there,” Heasten commanded one of his warriors. “Go to Winchester. When Lord Uhtred returns, seek out his oathman Sihtric and tell him what happened today. Tell him, that if he ever wishes to see his wife and his pup alive, he must persuade Uhtred to stay away from the battle Edward – that little weasel of a king – is preparing to fight against Cnut’s army. And if he fails to do so, he will have to choose between the life of his Lord and the life of his wife and child,” Heasten stretched his hand toward you, forcefully ripping away the delicate silver chain that hung around your neck – a gift from Sihtric.

“Take this and present it to Sihtric as a proof that you speak the truth,” he commanded, handing the torn silver chain to the warrior.

------------------------------------------

Uhtred had sent out all his available men to gather information and persuaded Sihtric to remain in Winchester, ready to depart at a moment’s notice should any news arrive.  Sihtric was a complete mess. The mere thought of waiting idly, doing nothing, was unbearable. In a desperate attempt to drown his fear, despair, and overwhelming helplessness, he resorted to the only thing that came to mind—he drank. He hoped it would numb the consuming emotions that tormented him and finally got so drunk, that Finan and Osferth had to carry him back to his room in the tavern.

It was long past midnight when Sihtric awoke to a pounding headache. At first, he couldn’t even recall where he was, but then in a sudden rush, the events of the previous day flooded his mind. He jumped out of the bed still wearing his clothes as his friends hadn’t bothered to undress him. In need of some fresh air, he hurried outside just in time before his stomach revolted and he threw up. Spotting a nearby barrel filled with rainwater, Sihtric plunged his head under the cold water and counted to five before emerging, only to find a man – a Dane – standing next to him. Sihtric instinctively reached for his axe, but the Dane simply shook his head.

“Don’t! Believe me, you want to hear what I have to say,” the Dane spoke raising his hands to show that he held no weapons, while Sihtric watched him warily.

“I have a message for you from Heasten. You remember our dear friend Heasten, don’t you?” the Dane continued, “He sends his regards. It has come to his ears that you are missing something, something very dear to you. And guess what? Heasten has found it.” Sihtric listened with eyes widening in disbelief, his expression shifting from watchful cautiousness to pure fury, though the Dane seemed oblivious to the change and pressed on.

“Listen carefully. If you ever wish to see your bitch and the pup within her alive, you must deter Uhtred from helping Edward. He must not join Edward’s army, nor should he engage in the battle against Cnut. Do you understand, you worthless scum? If you fail to do so or if the lives of your family hold no value to him, then you have a choice to make: Uhtred’s life in exchange for the lives of your loved ones.”

Sihtric stood frozen, rage slowly consuming him, as the Dane’s words sank in. He didn’t want to believe it. He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound escaped. The Dane extended his hand toward Sihtric, revealing something held within his palm. “This is the proof you were seeking,” the Dane smirked, unfurling his fingers, and allowing something small fall to the ground. Sihtric knelt down, his anger mounting, as he picked up the delicate silver chain with a pendant in the form of the sun. He recognised it instantly; the very same necklace he had given you when Uhtred agreed to your marriage, and you had always worn it ever since. Sihtric grunted in rage and quickly sprang to his feet, only to discover that the Dane had vanished.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

[sinligh]

It’s late July, A lost breath of soulful desperation bled half the year that has passed over my eyes, painting a veil like fabric that blinded me mercifully.

can time really heal anything? I’ve been struggling with digesting all that it stored for me…

My cruel heart is only a result of the ignorance that i built brick by brick from its remnants

I even named the process defensive mechanism.

It’s early august, I’ve held on to a routine for as long as i can, living off of small accomplishments; cause what’s the alternative?

Prisesstant melancholy? Undoubtable anguish?

I became insensitive to time passage, like a child that never knew health only saw it as a blanketing apology covering everyone they love.

a child that can vividly touch the heaviness of the life they’ll carry for as long as they’re allowed to.

I’ve been accumulating feelings like corpses that are waiting to be identified in a morgue.

frozen above my brainstem, that until the heat of the summer caused them to melt and overlap into a storming ocean; leaving little versions of me to drown in their waves

and I as a helpless outsider watching from a coast and hoping i could pour all of this in one single poem, or maybe aspire it all like you’d do a patient with fluids in their lungs: Thoracentesis.

And use it as a supply to wash away the catatonic rage that flows through my veins.

reality is ringing it’s bell inside the cavity where my eyes should be, and even though i can hear it.

It’s taking me longer than I thought it would to reach; cause thats all i can do.. try.

I measure my self value interchangeably with all the pieces of me i left behind to comfort others.

That and all the leftovers of my mother’s life.

My soul is constantly tugging.

Tugging, tugging, tugging. Never in the same direction but it’s still clear that it wishes to be free from me.

Emotionally attached to this and that to her and him

But they’re never enough; i never am…

And I’m so tired of it all, the never ending self loathing.

But to whom do I confess ?

Who would acknowledge my longing, Who will embrace my infelicitous desire to be held together or even just touched,

an innocent reminder of my existence, to ease me into being a human again, especially after I starved myself for the sake of nourishing others.

•••

•Quotes: Louis Tomlinson/ Taylor swift/ Henry Miller/ Rainer Maria Rilke/Helen Oyeyemi/Anne Sexton/Franz Kafka/Susan Sontag

•Original context: Sinligh

•Art reference:

1. Timothy Archer - The blue rider. 2. The Train by Ben McLaughlin. 3. Paintings by Raymond BonillaRaymond. 4. Ottoman Beauty with a Butterfly by Harold H. Piffard. 5. Side Light by Quang Ho. 6. Painting by Alex Kanevsky. 7. Fine Morning by Sally Strand. 8.painting by Steven J. Levin

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

What exactly could Charles do in intervening in Harry’s lawsuits? Harry's lawsuits against RAVEC/Home Office and the media has been on-going for several years in court. To me it looks like when it comes to Harry's lawsuits against the media, he wants censorship (e.g. the British press can no longer write anything critical about him) and quick easy payouts. With the lawsuit regarding the Home Office/RAVEC-- neither Harry or the King can force RAVEC to restore Harry's 24/7 taxpayer security again.

Allow Robert Hardman to explain:

Since 2020, Prince Harry had been fighting the British government over a decision to downgrade his security following his departure from the UK and from royal life. In 2023, he had lost a legal action challenging the Home Office's refusal to allow him to pay for police protection when he was in the UK. (summary of several recent events in Harry's lawsuits) The Duke of Sussex had many other legal actions in hand against the media, but this ongoing quarrel with the Government was especially problematic for the King as the 'fountain of justice'. 'Here you have the infelicitous situation where the King's son is suing the King's ministers in the King's courts,' points out one senior constitutional expert and adviser to the family. 'That is pulling the King in three directions. You also have the situation where the King's son publishes accounts of private conversations, some of which have been, shall we say, wrong.' The adviser points, by way of example, to the section of Spare in which his account of being told of the Queen Mother's death was a fabrication. Harry had painted a forlorn picture of a lonely Eton schoolboy being told, by a lackey, of the death of his adored great-grandmother: "I took the call. I wish I could remember whose voice was at the other end: a courtier's, I believe. I recall that it was just before Easter, the weather bright and warm, light slanting through my window, filled with vivid colours. 'Your Royal Highness, the Queen Mother has died.'" Harry was actually in Switzerland, skiing with his father and brother, when all three received the news. 'So imagine the situation,' says the adviser, 'if the Prince were to talk to his father about his court case and then later to describe that conversation – or, worse, a conversation which was not entirely accurate. There would be serious legal jeopardy.' Nor is that a hypothetical situation. The adviser points to the acute embarrassment of the 2002 court case involving Paul Burrell. The former royal butler was standing trial for theft after police discovered hundreds of items belonging to the late Diana, Princess of Wales at his home. After the Queen's private recollection that Burrell had told her he was looking after Diana's things for safekeeping, the prosecution pronounced its case 'no longer viable' and the trial was abandoned. 'Harry would only have to say, 'My father said this' and a court case could collapse,' says the adviser. 'That's not just awkward. That's bad. That is deep legal and constitutional jeopardy when you are head of state and of the judiciary and it is His Majesty's Government.'

[horsesarecreatures]

In yet another infelicitous decision, D told another boarder that they couldn't euthanize their horse on the property. Anyway, tomorrow I have a physician who is going to try Amba in the morning, and then later I'm going with a couple of other boarders to see a new barn.

[sareenas]

I'm sorry but every time i see a photo or a video with shang tsung in it i like cannot watch it because he's so infelicitous looking like he's dying to tell me a riddle

[marcia-11111]

Daffodils. I. The bitterness Sae Itoshi x gender neutral reader

TW! 

Breakup, angst, and heartache

Synopsis:

Sae Itoshi is a Japanese prodigy pursuing his dream of becoming the world's best midfielder. In the race to his own goals, he loses the person dearest to him: you. 

(y/n) (l/n) - Sae’s ex-partner. You are an exchange student from a Spanish university who came to Japan. You met him a few years ago during your year abroad in Spain and became his partner. You have moved on, or you thought you had. However, what will happen when the one who wanted you to avoid him the most finds himself again in your life? Is he going to prove his love to you? Or will everything turn into another heartbreak? Does your heart want the Japanese prodigy back?

All "Blue lock" characters belong to the authors of the manga and anime "Blue lock".

h/c - hair colour

e/c - eye colour

s/t - skin tone

Taglist:

@idk-bro-gay @kiopanxp

Please don't translate, plagiarise nor use my works on other social media platforms, etc.

-----------------------

People blindly believe that if you cage love, it will work out. Whether it is true or not, it is the subject of discussion. However, how many times has one's heart been shattered when the wings were unable to spread? If love means sacrificing yourself for the people you cherish, why is the world so selfish? The one you yearned for left you for what seemed to be forever. 

You have already not seen Sae for two years without knowing whether it was for the better or for the worse. Even though you broke up with him, you stayed in Spain for your studies. You preferred to pursue your dreams rather than be swayed by thoughts of hurt, no matter how painful your breakup was. Nonetheless, you avoided some districts of Madrid like a plague.  

Tomorrow, another chapter of your life will start: you are going on a student exchange to Japan, your ex-boyfriend’s country, which he has not been very fond of. Regardless, your foot leads you to a local field. Why does your heart begin to beat so fast? Even after such pain?

Your mind fills with thoughts of what used to be and could have been. Two years have passed since the day you craved to forget, but was it not hard to do so? Sae Itoshi became your ‘’if only’’, leaving you with a bitter taste in your mouth. Tomorrow, you are going to leave for Japan and get away from this city. A little melancholy stays in your heart, but infelicitous memories always take advantage. 

You hoped; perhaps today your bleeding heart will let you forget its scars. Chasing love has never been easy. Even though time passed, the wounds refused to heal. Your eyes scanned the area. 

“Love, love, love. What a miserable idea.” You shake your head after a few moments of staring at the soccer field. It is empty, reminding you of who you have become. No matter how hard you would have wished to have changed the ending, it was impossible. The past morphed and vanished like the wind, leaving you unable to grasp it. “Who am I? What have I become? An emotionless shell with a pierced heart?” These thoughts have clouded your mind since that forsaken day. 

Sae Itoshi, the prodigy midfielder whom you would curse for eternity, was the one who broke your heart, turning it into tiny pieces of shattered glass. His name follows you wherever you go, like a plague. The cruel words have been sinking into the deepest parts of your soul since then. 

“I had tried to reach for you, Sae,” You murmur to yourself, “but your heart was never mine, huh?” A bitter chuckle escapes your lips. “I am stuck in the past, and everyone assumes I know nothing about you or about us. How pathetic….” 

The world falls silent at your words. Nothing could be heard, not even birds or the wind. Why has everything come to this?

“I am leaving tomorrow.” You whisper to yourself. “Starting a new chapter far away in a country you did not desire to play for, I hope I grant your wish of not seeing each other ever again. At least for a while. So far, I have managed it," you say calmly, a single tear falling from your eye. “I hoped this place would not have become my fortress of regret, but I was wrong. Goodbye, everything.”

You leave the area after saying those words, taking one last look at that piece of memory. However, you miss one detail. The teal eyes stare at your silhouette, noticing you are too focused on your own business. They are filled with sorrow and regret; however, the man does not gather up enough courage to approach you. Would it all turn into a sea of even deeper regret that you would sink into? Together or not...

[tiktaalic]

I love a book that has me googling words. Oh you know I’m going to start working infelicitous into my day to day now

[23raccoons]

venēnum amōris

Sasori x Sakura

i.e. "[a/the] potion/juice/poison/venom of [a(n)/the] love/admiration/desire/enjoyment"

or

sakura makes sasori a love poison.

Halloween, Necromancer!Sasori, Witch!Sakura, love potions, sasori is down bad as always

“Hello, Sasori!” Sakura calls cheerfully as she enters Sasori’s little metaphysical shop. Half apothecary, half alchemistic supplies, half curiosity store. Shelves lined with jars of toxic powders and bottles of corrosive elixirs. Preserved venomous squamata. “How are you today?”

She pays little mind to the vast difference in their respective magical practices, Sakura leaning towards love and light and all sorts of other virtuous do-goodings that make Sasori want to gag. While he, well, prefers to play with the dead—and things that will soon make one dead. Necromancy and iniquitous magic of a more nefarious nature.

“I am as I am every time you see fit to bless the shop with your presence,” Sasori intones dryly. She is the most annoying little witch prancing about town. From her mycena rosea toned hair to her verdant eyes. They glow when she uses her magic, nearly the same bioluminescence hue of the hadrurus arizonensis that fill the tank behind him when exposed to uv light.

“Well, the continuity is most certainly appreciated,” Sakura laughs lightly, making her way over to the counter. He wonders if she glamors herself to be so vexingly pretty, as lovely as the haunted porcelain dolls locked away in the warded display cases, or if it comes naturally so. From her charming coloring to the teasing banter she treats him with, she is the most tempting of specimens.

Sasori has checked, on more than one occasion, if she has placed him under some sort of love spell. A phenomenon-like pull to draw him into her web, an amorous curse of erotic attraction. She unfortunately has not; he rechecks often nonetheless. The quixotic feelings of lust and yearning all his own. An infelicitous lasciviousness he pushes down at the thought of her in most any capacity.

“It’s near sundown, shouldn’t you be hunkered down next to your hearth by now? Tending to your fire?” He mocks lightly. Her home warm and inviting, cozy even. Full of mismatched furniture and all her instruments of practice, he’s been by a few times on errands forced upon him by his grandmother. “All Hallows Eve is soon upon us, you know.”

Mere hours away from the setting sun crosses the barrier of the horizon, stealing the light from the sky. The turning of the bountiful harvest into the cold bleakness of winter. Sakura’s light, green work magic will dampen as the death and decay of Sasori’s dark magic strengthen.

“I came for some last-minute supplies,” she offers, tapping her nails on the countertop. Sasori narrows his eyes at the offending chipped opalescent enamel-coated keratin. Fingers adorned with an assortment of metal rings that catch the light as she moves.

“A candle for your jack-o-lantern,” he drawls. Protections from any sinister spirits that may be lurking about, all too eager to get their hands on a source of magic to feast on. “Or perhaps some cinnamon and clove for your simmer pot.”

Sakura often comes by the shop to purchase ingredients for her medicines. Dried flowers and leaves. Processed powders and tinctures. The occasional handful of mildly toxic hallucinogenic berries or psychoactive mushrooms that find their way into his inventory.

“Very funny,” she tells him, with a perfect pout. “I was thinking more along the lines of belladonna or mandrake.”

“Oh, really?” Sasori queries as uninterestedly as he can manage. “Seems a little dark for your type.”

It is true. Sakura’s a garden witch—a good one, both in skill and morality; village folk often seek her out for her restorative potions and medicinal balms to help treat their illnesses and ailments. She dabbles in divination and crystals. Star-reading and matchmaking. Midwifery. Hardly the type to need ingredients for darker, occult leaning intentions.

“Dare’s bane, hemlock, foxglove.” She continues, counting off items on her fingers. Sasori keeps his expression neutral as she prattles on. “Wing of bat. Eye of newt.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” he informs her. “No one calls that these days. Ilex aquifolium leaves and seeds from sinapis alba.”

“I mean,” Sakura interjects in his scientific classification lesson, “most people would call it holly and mustard seed. Who’s out here memorizing taxonomies for common potions ingredients?”

Sasori doesn’t point out that he does, and also Sakura, despite her teasing of him. She’s in here often enough with both her own orders and pick-ups that she packs in a little wicker basket to deliver to his grandmother. (The Old Hag never forgets to remark on Sakura’s lack of a husband every single time Sasori endures her presence.)

“What are you really here for?” He’s itching to know what she aspires to do on this nocturnal holiday.

“Oh, you’re so impatient.” She tells him. Sasori’s often torn in her presence, unable to decide if he never wants to leave her side or never wants to see her again. “I need some sugar cubes.”

Sakura has a running tab in his bookkeeping ledger, as she does not charge people for her services, taking payment in whatever form it is given. From wild honey to handmade gifts. Tokens or trinkets. Fresh meat and jars of jam or jelly. Favors, secrets, and the like. Trading in her earnings to pay down her balance when she acquires a novelty that Sasori would find of value.

“Sugar?” He can’t keep the shock out of his voice. What kind of silly little witch ventures out on All Hallows Eve to buy sugar instead of preparing her home against wicked specters and all other manner of malevolent supernatural creatures?

And almost like a test of his patience, something he has little of, waiting for her selection is always worth it. Sakura smiles, like the little flirtatious minx she is, pulling out a flask-sized crystal bottle from the depths of her enchanted apron pocket.

The liquid inside near fluorescent green, shimmering and swirling in its container, clearly magical in its properties. Absinthe, likely made by Sakura herself.

“You plan to divine tonight?” Quirking a brow, how licentious of her. He swallows the urge to offer to join her. To get a glimpse of her usual sweetness in a more debauched state on such a sacred night to his practice.

She swirls the bottle, causing the contents to swirl and flow around. Enchanting, entrancing, enticing. Passing it over the counter to him. “Not quite.”

Sasori pulls the stopper off the top, wafting the fumes towards his nose. Wormwood, fennel, and anise as expected. An overlay of mint, lemon balm, and basil.

“A love potion?” Nothing less than scandalous. Salacious.

She hums, fidgeting with the small crystal display on the counter. “A short-term lust potion, one that intensifies sensations between a couple. I thought perhaps we could enjoy it together if you were not otherwise engaged for the night.”

Oh.

Oh.

Sasori would enjoy that very much indeed.

[alexis-royce]

🪪 — Have they gone by any other titles? Will they go by different ones in the future? 🎩 — What would an Exceptional Story featuring this character be about? 🦑 — Would they kiss a Rubbery Man? (from the-capricious-socialite)

🪪 Have they gone by any other titles? Will they go by different ones in the future?

They did indeed go by “The Disgraced Academic” after those terrible businesses at the University and the Shuttered Palace. Before that they were the Infelicitous Mendicant- the Bazaar streets are full of people who just stare at the walls, trying to decipher the Bazaar’s Correspondence. The Disgraced Academic spent several fruitless years trying to piece it all together. They’d likely still be out in the cold, sketching and getting shoes thrown at them by urchins, if it wasn’t for The Topsy King and The Marvellous.

As for the future? There may be a new title on the horizon (but man, changing their name would mean changing the tag, and I want to keep things simple for myself XD )

🎩 What would an Exceptional Story featuring this character be about?

This one’s really tough; should I be super self-indulgent, or try to balance something that would center an actual player? I’m used to designing stories where my OCs are NPCs for a tabletop group, or interact with player characters, so I do actually have quite a lot of fun not making my OCs the main character!

They’d probably make for a good minor antagonist; someone fun to humorously beat, or a good example of an upper-class/rich villain who is only temporarily allowed to live their perfect life, due to social class and lucre. A story with themes regarding how social clout will never protect you the way a real community will. If I were allowed to be hyper-self-indulgent, then likely it might be about stifling actual art in order to prove themself to Pages in order to “be one of the good ones.”

Horrible. Disgusting.

It’s very fun to get to play a morally gray person who cuddles up to The Masters, but as an NPC, I think they deserve a swift kick straight into the mud. They’d be ever so much healthier hanging out in Helicon and September’s Balmoral, rather than Pages’ coterie.

[haggishlyhagging]

In an organizational age, the insistence on the part of the anarchist-feminists that equality was based on individual refusal to participate in an unjust society seemed anachronistic to many radical as well as conservative women. In addition, their conviction that the assertion of personal independence was necessarily connected to a rejection of marriage and the nuclear family structure further alienated them from many who may have agreed with other aspects of the anarchist argument. As Richard Sennett has pointed out, the last quarter of the nineteenth century was a particularly infelicitous period for attacks on family structure. Such attacks directly threatened the emergent belief that the family offered the most secure refuge from a chaotic, unstable, constantly changing industrial society. Finally, the anarchist-feminist contention that one of woman's first steps toward equality should be complete self-support not only offered even greater insecurity but also contravened a growing national trend toward sentimentality about the family. Women who were disastisfied with contemporary economic or social conditions had other choices, particularly socialism, which did not threaten explicitly the existing family structure. In fact, much American socialist literature declared that socialism would purify marriage. As a result, anarchist-feminists could not hope to gain the support of most radical women.

-Margaret S. Marsh, Anarchist Women, 1870-1920

[fruityyamenrunner]

I see people using the phrase "congenital liar", apparently just for the sound of it, unusually often, by people who don't think too much about the semantics of congenitality.

Most recently was someone, not a fan of Heidegger, who said that Heideggerianism in general was worthless because Heidegger was not only someone who stretched the truth, but that he was a *congenital* liar.

I think it's especially poetically infelicitous to refer to *congenital* vices in the context of criticising National Socialists for being National Socialists, but this didn't stop them. I think I have also seen antiliberal badmen like Mssrs Trump, Johnson and Putin also accused of being "congenital liars".

[syngrafaes09]

Strange Nights | Vampire! Dr Strange x Y/n

Logline: After Y/N gets imprinted by a vampire Dr Strange, living under a fictive identity, they must unravel the cause behind her constant misadventures before their hopes are crushed forever.

Masterlist

Chapter 16 : The Safe House

It wasn't much of a surprise to find two sorcerers waiting for them in the parking lot. Pepper parted from them with a hope to see her soon. And Y/N felt they would meet again though not soon. She felt a little disturbed at the sight of Loki.

"Before we get started, I'll give a fair warning that you wouldn't like a teleportation. It will be unnerving- weightlessness and exploding like. Won't be like stepping through a portal," Wanda told her. "There will be a period of ... unusual sensation."

"Then why not step through a portal? Wouldn't it be less unnerving?"

"Here is your first lesson," Loki responded. "Portals are the easiest way of travelling but the traveller can be tracked. Teleportation is the toughest and undoubtedly - the deadliest - but no one can know where you went. It is like going right through the gate bridging two places. But the only difference is you’ll be creating the gates and brige through yourself.”

"And what are we running from?"

"We exactly don't know. That's why the precaution."

It ended as instantaneously as it had started. It was undoubtedly unnerving, sickening, weightless, contracting, and then exploding. It had knocked the wind out of her and nausea churned in her stomach. Good thing it was quite empty.

"I'll never get used to this," Wanda panted. Y/N felt a little relieved that she wasn't the only one breathing in a jerky rhythm, heart pounding. 

"You better get," Loki replied, his own voice a little breathless.

Trying to look up, Y/N shivered and thought, the words coming freely into her mind - the place was infelicitous.

The gate was tall and ominous and heavy, set strongly into a stone wall that went off through the trees. Even in the darkness, she could see the padlock and the chain that was twisted around and through the bars like a serpent. Beyond the gate, she could see only that the road continued, turned, shadowed on either side by the still darker trees.

With a flick of his finger, Loki opened the padlock, loosened the chain, and opened the gate wide enough for one of them to enter.

"Invite us in."

She stared at them in bewildered silence. They stood there few feet away as if some invisible barrier was holding them out. "We can't get inside any property unless it belongs to us or invited in."

"But this isn't mine."

"In sort of a way- you are inside- it is."

"Okay... come in," unsure if that was enough or something more formal was required. But it was enough. "I thought it was a myth."

"Not all myths are a myth. It's nature's own way of defending your kind from our kind. Everyone has their own protective aura. Low but enough to stop us from entering their spaces right away."

As they walked along the deserted pavement she caught a glimpse of what could be a tower or rooftop. She wondered if it was a castle with towers and turrets and spires. If it was not then maybe some gargoyles and gothic statues. 

They turned onto the last stretch of the straight walk to come, face to face, with the secluded old Victorian house. It was enormous and dark, looking down over them. 

It was his home. She knew that, although where her certainty came from was a mystery to her.

It looked like the home of a wizard. Dark and secluded. 

Lost beneath the tapestry of dust the main hall's bleached grandeur took her breath away. The blackened timbers that soared overhead housed an enormous chandelier laced with cobwebs. The fireplace stretched across one wall, the mantle and surroundings carved with mythical creatures. It was a grand place - one built for marquees, earls, or viscounts. Under the heaviness of the staircase were great double doors that veiled the hallway leading to the kitchen and the dining hall.

The wide landing bifurcated into two hallways that stretched across each side of the house. Their walls held heavy portraits in golden frames cloaked by white sheets. 

They strolled by the closed doors to the far end that gave way to another ascend of stairs. The second floor had a long, straight hall to accommodate the doors to the bedrooms and unlike the first floor - a stairwell to the third and first floors.

Y/N had a rare perception that any attempt to style was given up after the first floor - as if the builders had a premonition of the house being lying abandoned for decades. Another perception was, she and Wanda were alone now, Loki somewhere still exploring the riches behind the closed doors of downstairs. They went for the only door that bore the sign of not being untouched for decades, hence unlocked. 

It was a large, impressive room without a speck of dust. A brick masonry fireplace - flanked by doors - on one side, while on the opposite a great state bed - with a full corona and azure draperies - foregrounded huge volumes of books. Mostly it gave a pleasant atmosphere except the thick curtains obscuring the windows that were a reminder of the ambient melancholy of what was left behind the closed doors. 

She had expected, almost dreaded, some dingy cell to be held back that what was thrown in now was much more pleasant than the others - thrown hours earlier - weren't thrown so nicely. A piece of cloth, most likely by Wanda, was thrown at her as well.

"This wardrobe really needs an upgrade," she commented shutting the closet door with a bang. "No matter how clean, your clothes still smell of blood."

She'd felt self-conscious about using someone's clothes with or without their permission. On the other hand, she felt hardly comfortable exploiting the hospitality of a stranger to such an extent. "If isn't too much, can't you conjure something?"

"Junior, I would have done that without your asking. We're in a wizard's nest. Only his magic will work here. And Stephen being a keen experimenter, without warning has trapped us in here until his return."

The realisation of being stuck wasn't charming to either woman. And Y/N had mistaken her to be familiar with the place. "So you have never been here before?"

"Never thought he had one besides the beach house. But I'm not surprised. A sorcerer of his rank is bound to have secrets even from friends and family." Even after expecting secrecy, her voice had a tinge of hurt. She shrugged it off. Who didn't have a skeleton or two in their closets? "Try getting some sleep. He should be back by morning. Then I can go and buy you groceries and clothes for the stay."

Overwhelmed with emotion and excitement, she was certain of a sleepless night. Not unless some of her curiosity was downpoured. "Wanda," she called out with the voice of a child pleading her mother to tell one more bedtime tale.

She didn't need to be psychic to hear the unspoken words. "Fair enough but I don't know much. Keeping you up with speculations won't do any good either."

As per their negotiation, after Y/N was in bed, Wanda asked her to shoot her questions. There was hundreds of question swarming in her head. Since she didn't know who they were running from it would no doubt be difficult for her to explain their situation. So she went for the first thing she was sure Wanda knew about. "In the clearing, after the fight was over, what had I done?"

It was a simple question yet difficult. Not any sane person would take it well if they were told that they were a witch with the ability to wrap reality. At least she didn't take it well. "Will you be screaming and running out of the house, if I told you were a witch?"

She felt lost for words for a second or two. After a few more ticks, Y/N stammered, "I'll be Harry Potter to that," and awaited further information.

"Good... We don't use wands though."

"Don't worry about that. Not all magical systems use wands. What's our version?"

"Our version - Stephen would explain that better than me. I mess things up when it comes to teaching a novice. But I'll explain about what you did." Y/N's eyes twinkled with excitement. She was taking it pretty well. "You know everything around us has a probability. Most of the things - on a scale of zero to hundred, with zero being least probable and hundred being most - happen or not happen. For example, you get a paper cut. It will probably heal within a few days but that doesn't mean that it's not unlikely to get infected." Wanda paused, wondering if she was making any sense. Y/N nodded urging her to continue.

"Well, getting back to the paper cut. Sorcerers like you and me can alter or accelerate what's happening. If it's healing, we can accelerate it to heal it within seconds instead of days or can make it take months. The same works with infection, we can worsen the infection or retard it. There is also a chance of retrograding it to an infectious state if it hasn't healed completely."

That explained how he went swiftly from limping to beside her so fast. "But what happened to me?"

"Well, what had you wanted?" Wanda asked, getting up from the bed. "Just wanted to ease his pain or take it away?"

"Take it away," Y/N whispered after recalling the events.

"So you got it. Be careful about what you wish for, Y/N. This probability shifting is the tip of an iceberg." Y/N took a shaky breath. It was rattling dangerous. She bit her cheek. "What we wield is Chaos. Without balance and control, it'll fracture us mentally, physically, or both. But you have Stephen and me. He once helped me to control it. He'll teach you too." 

[hasufin]

Honestly.

Look, it's hard to acquire new phonemes. It really, honestly is. And there are many names which many anglophones just literally do not have the tools to pronounce. That's not racism, that's a schooling failure (sorta; how much are you going to teach?)

But infelicitous gods, the transliterations. How many names and words are considered unpronounceable because someone a century or two ago decided on a transliteration which is just gibberish? how do you pronounce "Ncuti" in English? You don't. You don't ever put "Nc" at the beginning of a word. That does not make sense in the English language. And there is no sane interpretation of that set of letters which turns it into those words within English pronounciation.

That doesn't make this man's name invalid. It means I want to borrow the TARDIS to find some fucking lexicographer and break their fingers with a hammer.

okay okay I know the point of this is “White people need to put as much effort into learning how to pronounce Black people’s names as they do foreign European names” and 100% I totally agree, absolutely good point

but this tweet becomes hilarious in the context of this clip:

anyways, absolutely put effort into learning how people pronounce their names. just don’t feel bad if it takes you some time to get it right 😅

(also in case you didn’t watch the video it’s “N-SHOO-tee” not “SHOO-tee”)

[davidpwilson2564]

Blogleet

Tuesday, August 20, 2024

Really enjoying the cooler weather.

Big night at the Democratic Convention. Quite festive roll call. Tammy Duckworth, Mr. Emhoff (the "second gentleman")...the evening features Michelle Obama, followed by Barack (the finale). Both are compelling speakers. One more night to go but this is going to be hard to top.

Wednesday, August 21, 2024

I take the bus to the East Side to see Dr. N, one of my eye docs. Many stores along Third Ave are boarded up. It is not a bad wait at the doc's. No piped in music. Some grandparents, one of whom is a patient, has brought along the little one they are babysitting. The doting grandmother has brought the child's favorite music medley. This is torture (kids' favorites) but in a while I am called in and can escape it. I am put through numerous tests and see the doctor (his dry laugh). Talk to him for a while. He is a music enthusiast and amateur trumpet player. We talk about music. He says (here is the good news) come back in six months.

Evening: Democratic National Convention. Bill Clinton, Oprah, Nancy Pelosi (yikes, she's 84)...the evening closes out with Tim. He says something about "leaving it all on the field"...(that Coach talk)...says we have much do do (we are the underdogs, people keep reminding us) but (gulp) "We'll sleep when we're dead." A truly infelicitous phrase.

R F K Jr. says he will soon drop out of the presidential race, news for some of us who didn't know he was still in it. Says he is considering endorsing Trump and Trump is glad to hear it. There is talk of Kennedy's getting a position in the Trump cabinet, maybe health secretary. God forbid. R F K Jr is broken man.

to be continued