You Are: Pinot Noir
You're a charmer and no one charms the pants off people as easy as Pinot Noir. A cult wine whose fans are always searching for the next great bottle, you love the thrill of discovery, and are ready to move on once it spreads to the masses.
Drops a stuffed toy kraken in here.
He sputters for a moment. “ How dare? ” he scoffs, perhaps a bit too loudly. “ Do you mock me? I am a man grown, with no need for these… childhood rags.”
Yet the way he grips the little thing, almost comically small and delicate in his hands… he looks as though he’s struggling not to clutch it to his chest, squeezing it as if he’s loath to relinquish it.
BOLD all that apply!
MEDIEVAL: tired eyes. coffee stains on the table. listening to the bustle of the city. unmade beds. loose ponytails. sunlight seeping through the curtains. chapped lips. walking barefoot across the floorboards. dusty dictionaries. black and white reruns. huge sweaters. the ticking of the clock. hearing birds in the morning. fireplaces. falling asleep during class.
RENAISSANCE: freckles. the sun rising. watching the sea. taking shots of the city. historical museums. bright eyes. looking up at the clouds. walls covered in artworks. drawing in the middle of lessons. tracing your fingers on the sand. painting for hours. staying in uncrowded coffee-shops. worn paperbacks. messy braids. going to bed with your socks on.
BAROQUE: dark hair. a little sophisticated. always observing the world around you. intricate designs. high ceilings. extravagant musical pieces. dim lights. colourless photographs. fancy furniture.pale skin. hearing soft footfalls coming from outside the room. mischievous looks. bitten nails. candlelight dinners. dark shades of lipstick.
CLASSICAL: chandeliers. the clinking of a teacup. laced clothing. modern architecture. light hair. watching the view from the terrace. hidden birthmarks. drinking tea in the morning. wandering about in an empty building. botanical gardens. old films. ancient marble sculptures. expensive perfume. breakfasts in bed. reading about mythology.
ROMANTIC: compassion. short writings on scraps of paper. blushed cheeks. a bouquet of roses. reading collections of poetry late at night. loose hair. carpeted floors. attending operas. faint music playing in the background. staying under the covers until midday. the night sky. streetlights. picking flowers. dancing around in silk dresses. scented candles.
tagged by: @secxndstark tagging: whoever hasn’t already done it
@smalljonumber replied to your post: @smalljonumber replied to your post: ...
Exactly. Getting out is a good thing. Not too soon, just in time.
I lost seven digits, several teeth, and my sense of self. You’ll forgive me if I’m still just the tiniest bit sore about it.
@smalljonumber replied to your post: I seem to have more time on my hands lately, and I...
Someone escaped the Dreadfort, I see.
too soon
heh, now that I think about it “escaping the Dreadfort” could serve as an effective euphemism or metaphor for many things of varying degrees of unpleasantness
I seem to have more time on my hands lately, and I can feel a little muse coming back, kinda sorta. I guess we’ll see??
Gasp-hard theon amirite
... that pun physically hurt me but I am compromised by the sight ofGasp-hardGaspard Ulliel’s face on a regular basis and I refuse to shoulder this beautiful burden on my own - if I have to suffer, then the whole dash has to suffer
If you decide to direct a film, it’s because you have something to say, something to show to the audience.
TALL BOYS WITH PRETTY EYES AND DEEP VOICES AND MESSY HAIR WHO SMIRK A LOT ARE THE ABSOLUTE WORST AVOID THEM AT ALL COSTS 0/10 WOULD NOT RECOMMEND
edit request ⇢ @gendrywcters asked: theon greyjoy
Theon found himself wondering if he should say a prayer. Will the old gods hear me if I do? They were not his gods, had never been his gods.
❛ she is not someone you understand. she is someone you WATCH, someone you use, someone you mourn. she is made for love but love is not made for her. everything about her runs deeper than in you; her MADNESS is truer, her mind BRIGHTER and better BROKEN, and her anguish is in her bones, not her blood. ❜
independent sansa stark. asoiaf canon. as loved by jupiter. ©
[ trail ] ( eyezooms )
they should not be doing this. they SHOULD NOT be doing THIS. sure, no one was home… for now. but in the stark household it rarely took long for that to change. even for sansa it was near impossible for her to keep track of all the starks comings and goings. her mother would surely be returning soon with bran, arya and rickon in tow.. cautiously arms wrap around theon’s neck, pulling away from their kiss, ❝ theon, ❞ she says little more, she need not. he should have been able to comprehend her tone, and the meaning behind the separation of their lips.. no matter how WARM and inviting theon’s seemed to be. hands un-link, running from his neck down his chest, passing over his smooth stomach. an audible exhale of breath HEAVES from her own chest. how many times had they done THIS without being caught? yet.. how many times had it been a close call from robb finding his best friend in bed with his little sister? biting her bottom lip as knots tie themselves around her stomach, she steps away, head turning towards her discarded sweater upon the ground. a creak from an insistent floorboard lets her know hes moving towards her, wrapping his arms round her waist. strong yet wiry arms. lips press delicately at her neck aiming just below her ear. the knots tighten, pressing an involuntary moan from her own supple lips. ❝ theon, ❞ she utters, though this time it is less of a warning, more a call to urge him on. eyelids flutter closed and she presses back against him - ECSTASY evident upon her flustered features. sansa finds herself forgetting about the house, allowing herself to be all CONSUMED by the way HE kisses her neck.
meme: send one to see how my muse reacts // soft edition( [ trail ] for your muse to start a trail of kisses down my muses neck. )status: accepting !!!@iarainn
tea orange: what is something that your muse is fascinated with?
colorful headcanons ✧ accepting! ( @fifthbornforrester )
I’m of the opinion that Theon’s always been fascinated by nature from an aesthetic, and (to a lesser extent) intellectual perspective - of all the places in Winterfell, his most poignant memories are of the godswood:
“Theon Greyjoy was no stranger to this godswood. He had played here as a boy, skipping stones across the cold black pool beneath the weirwood, hiding his treasures in the bole of an ancient oak, stalking squirrels with a bow he made himself. [ … ] In amongst these chestnuts and elms and soldier pines he had found secret places where he could hide when he wanted to be alone. ”
If anything, I’d say much of this interest was sparked by the transition from Pyke the Winterfell - the Islands were small, harsh and infertile, while the North was sprawling and, in places, fecund. Imposing, well-bred horses were commonplace in the mainland, whereas before he’d only been familiar with the stout, shaggy ponies that only Harlaw had enough grazing land to sustain. Even more intriguing was the wolfswood, many times more vast, forbidding and mysterious than even the pine forests of Great Wyk, which had seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction when he was small. If his affinity for horseback riding and passion for hunting in later life is any indication, he proved to be a quick study, eager to immerse himself in idle dalliances outside the castle walls - to be frank, it’s probable that his interest in the activity was originally motivated by the opportunity to put some distance between himself and his new “home,” for a time, before it eventually gave way to a more genuine enthusiasm for the act of hunting itself.
a song of ice and fire meme ★ [7/10] pov characters = theon greyjoy reek? tears ran down his cheeks. “i remember, i do.” his mouth opened and closed. “my name is reek. it rhymes with leek.” in the dark he did not need a name, so it was easy to forget. reek, reek, my name is reek. he had not been born with that name. in another life he had been someone else, but here and now, his name was reek. he remembered.
mallow
colorful headcanons ✧ accepting! ( @eversoblack )
what sorts of things might remind your muse of those close to them? any scents, objects, sounds?
When I saw this, I was reminded of a passage from Theon’s first chapter in ACoK (emphasis mine):
“ The sea meant freedom to the men of the Iron Islands. He had forgotten that until the Myraham had raised sail at Seagard. The sounds brought old feelings back; the creak of wood and rope, the captain’s shouted commands, the snap of the sails as the wind filled them, each as familiar as the beating of his own heart, and as comforting. I must remember this, Theon vowed to himself. I must never go far from the sea again. ”
I feel that, being a person who is prone to either repress old memories or cling to idealized versions of the past, certain sensory inputs can trigger powerful reactions or unbidden recollections, such as the one described above. It stands the reason that the same can apply to the few people he genuinely cares about.
The first person that comes to mind for an example is Robb (and, by extension, the other Starks), but most of the things that remind him of Robb are inextricably linked to Winterfell and his time as a ward - the crackle of leaves rustling in the godswood as moss and loam squelch underfoot, the din of steel on steel in the practice yard, one of the spiral stairwells he and Robb used to play on (as mentioned in ADWD). It’s small wonder, then, that Theon continues to consider Winterfell one of the few places he truly belongs, even when the castle is little more than a hollow stone shell, and all the memories housed within have become bittersweet.
It’s a bit trickier for blood relations, even for Asha - much of his time on the islands is either locked away at the back of his mind or embittered by the trauma of the rebellion and subsequent separation - to the point where he can’t even recognize his own sister, the result of a decade of unwilling estrangement.
But there are a few things, outside the familiar realm of sight, that might bring old feelings surging back; the shoal he and Asha used to swim in as children; the smell of the beeswax candles the old maester used to favor; the familiar tune of one of those oarsman’s songs Aeron used to sing lustily, before the cold grey sea washed his mirth and good humor away; the sound of the tide foaming and breaking against jutting snarls of rock, like the sea stacks in the small natural harbor Dagmer would take the Foamdrinker out on, that Lord Balon’s lastborn might be instructed in the basics of the sailor’s craft, the ghastly grins the old reaver would flash him when he helped raise the sail, or managed to keep pace with the other oars…
And the stream of consciousness would go on, and on, until the reverie eventually gives way to markedly less pleasant memories (usually relating to his lord father), and he brings the reminiscence to an abrupt end, lest he spends the next few hours brooding.
