#poem about being considered lesser

[writing-frenzy]

Beautiful Disaster AU

So, here I am, on a serious Shang Qinghua/Airplane bro binge because sometimes you just crave a thing and can't let go, and I ended up getting inspired by these two posts :) Link and Link So here I go.

Edit: Forgor to set a link for part two, my bad.

Also, here is this poem that also inspired a thing and also gave the name for this AU~

`Beautiful Disaster~ By Nikita Gill If he tastes like the rainfall, Looks like a summer storm, Fights for you like a forest fire; he's a tornado of trouble. (And you need to hold on to him and never ever let him go.)

So yeah, I took a look at that, and thought it actually fit both Shen Jiu and SQH/Airplane well, if in different ways. (Shen Jiu the tornado and Airplane bro the forest fire, but oh, how SJ fights like lightening in a storm, ready to burn everything away, while SQH is tricky like the wind, saving most of his energy for when it really matters until you can't see anything past the wails and talismans.)

So yeah, watch me stumble into a scumplane with Ghost!Shen Jiu :3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It starts ever so simply, Shen Jiu watching as that fake is so happily accepted, all the other Peak Lords seeming to rejoice at having them there, even the disciples pleased and ever so willing to bark for the man wearing his face, the little beast practically panting after him every step he takes.

It disgusts him, makes him grind his teeth, makes him want to scream, shout, curse like he hasn't since he was just a desperate slave, how many visit his former home, his sanctuary now a cage of bamboo and frustration, rage, and bitterness. Watches how Peak Lord after Peak Lord visits, each charmed, some slowly, some in less than a second, guests of all types and titles leaving yet obviously wanting to stay.

All except for one.

"Ha-hahaaa, hello Peak Lord Shen, I'm here to deliver the order forms for the new training instruments and inkstones." The An Ding Peak Lord, Shang Qinghua laughs weakly, even as the fake narrows eyes at him over his favored fan. Shen Jiu glares, wishing he could rip it to shreds, throw it away, burn it so that it is no longer being defiled by this body snatcher.

"You may leave them with my disciples, Ming Fan or Binghe can take care of it." is the dismissive response of this other, lesser fake goods, even as Shen Jiu wants to scream.

"These are my duties; these are the responsibilities of a Peak Lord, you cannot hand them off to mere children, much less the beast." The real Shen QingQiu wants to howl, but it only comes out as whispered words through clenched teeth, the ghost not able to open his mouth for the anger choking him.

"Ah, about that my fellow Peak Lord, these contents are not for the eyes of disciples, I'll need your seal of approval on them as well." Shang Qinghua seems to wince, sounding rather apologetic, but it is this refusal that gains Shen Jiu's attention, actually surprised to hear someone being reasonable since the switch happened.

(The first time he's seen anyone actually refuse his cuckoo of a replacement.)

And is just in time to see the cold, cutting calculation the supposedly 'apologetic' man hides with his bowed head, before it is gone just as fast as he raises it.

It is the start of his interest in Shang Qinghua, that man he considered a rat in life, only to show just how clever he is after Shen Jiu died.

Watches how the man sneakily tests the fake, teas for cleansing snuck in here and there, talismans deceptively hidden in paintings, vases of flowers that detect malevolent, demonic energies.

And even with none of it being triped, the Fake able to somehow breeze past all these tests, Shang Qinghua still watches, guarded and suspicious, without ever letting his cuckoo even suspect it.

It is... gratifying, even if it is from that rat, to know someone still does not trust in what they see, that they too judge the fake and decide to actually question it. It is more than what his own disciples have done.

(It is more than what his Qi-ge has given, still ever so tolerant, ravished as he is for any crumbs, he can fucking get like the dogs they were.)

Changes only happen after what is apparently a disastrous conference, with intriguing, if terrifying secrets coming to light.

"Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky!"

"Peerless Cumber?!"

Hearing their words, it brings in new consideration for his circumstances, makes his already yin filled core seem to freeze at just what he is hearing.

Some kind of fate that forces you into another's dead body, chains one to follow it with little hope for change, even forcing a literary god from the sounds of it to be reborn into a human, never actually expecting their words to come to life, just trying to live as it were like any other storyteller from the streets.

(Remembers how any damage he does is just as quickly erased, as if it has never happened, as if there isn't a resentful ghost clawing at the walls, ready to destroy any in its way at the first chance it gets.)

Shang Qinghua, or Airplane as it were, visits more after that, plotting and planning with his bodysnatcher, who while he still hates, would be willing to gut if possible (but... can understand, so painfully understand being forced and chained, even if he was lucky enough his Masters were very much mortal at least).

But while there are no longer any suspicions in those eyes (the calculations are of course still there), they are instead replaced by a... mournful quality?

?

"Rest in Peace, Shen-Shixiong." is said in the middle of the night one day, when his fake has long since slept, the words like a whisper in the wind. In his mind's eye, he can smell the incense of sandalwood and jasmine, with an offering of melon seeds beside it...

...!

oh...

... Not once, not since he has been stuck in his home, has he heard his Shang-Shidi call the imposter Shixiong...

For that night, Shen Jiu stares at one of the pictures on the walls of his bamboo house, keen eyes seeing the subtle symbols for mourning on it, a subtle 9 easily hidden among the strokes if one was not a master like himself, the rage a quiet thing tonight as he thinks.

-

And then, one day, seemingly normal for all it is a quiet day at his peak, Shen Jiu finds that whatever was trapping him, caging him, chaining him to his bamboo house turned prison is gone.

He doesn't miss his chance, out the door before his mind can catch up, before he fully realizes he has been freed. It is only once he is off his mountain, out from that sect, away from everyone, that Shen Jiu realizes he has a choice.

He can feel it, he can feel his body even with the distance he is, knows exactly which direction to go if he wants to reclaim it. And he could, he could do so rather easily he can tell, whatever link between it and chained binding his imposter had gone...

...But why should he?

Why should he? Why should he go back to all those so willing to trade him for his knock off, why should he go back to people who will only be disappointed in the return of the 'old Shen-QingQiu' even if it is the true one.

Why should he debase himself to go crawling back to people in a body even more wrecked then his Qi-Deviation left it, all wanting something he is not and will never be?

(Go to see that panting, drooling Beast, to the desperate, stalking Brute, to that disappointing, clinging to scraps and fakes Brother Sect Leader?

To see those calculating, distrusting, mournful brown eyes? As weak as he is now? Not worthy to even be called Shixiong.)

Shen Jiu pauses, turning aways from where he can feel his body, where all those lies and expectations are, into a different direction, where death calls and the yin energy beacons any foolish or ambitious or both to answer.

He can feel it in his distant bones, trembling in his ghostly yin qi running through his spiritual body, his other choice.

The Gates of the City of Gu are about to open.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's note:

*Me looking at Airplane, his trust issues, his knowledge of just how fucked up his story could be, thinking of alllllll those wife plots and the trickery* No way this man didn't try a few ways to see if Shen QingQiu was possessed by something or another; not that he doubts the all knowing sword, but yeah, he doubts the fucking sword.

Also, if anyone were to find out that Airplane was technically the creator god, I headcanon people would assume he was a literary god who either gained too much power on accident or some other gods decided to fuck around for shits and giggles because they could.

Also, Shen Jiu would be smart enough to figure out about the system, even if he doesn't know exactly what it is, the concept he understands fucking terrifies him; no way would he go back into his body giving the choice, being so weak from without a cure and whatever the fuck the imposter did to it to where he can go back. He'll take his fucking chances.

(Besides... his Shidi like demons well enough, why not a Calamity?) :3

[tfdtreasurer]

sorry for not asking about eridan but, why the feferi hate?

Don't worry anon I fully expected this question to be one of the first. Besides, Eridan and Feferi are foils to each other and thus any look at one is being done in the context of the other. Narratively, they're inseparable. My actual nuanced opinion on Feferi is that she's a bad person, a fascinating character, and yet one that I feel is so tragically misunderstood by everybody that it leads me to not liking how she's liked. If that makes any sense.

The short answer is she's one of the most casteist trolls out there. And not in the way Equius is, or Gamzee becomes, or Eridan claims to be. Her's is just a little too real and it kinda gives me icky vibes.

The long answer is... Well there's a reason a whole essay was in the works. If Eridan alludes to Herman Melville's novel Moby Dick of 1851, Feferi alludes to Rudyard Kipling's poem "The White Man's Burden" of 1899 (which in a semi timely way, was published to the context of the Philippine–American War). In her first pesterlog with Kanaya, "burdens" is the word used to refer to her responsibilities. Not really enough on it's own, but then you keep reading Feferi pages. Eridan being the best that alternia breeds, seemingly exiled from living in the sea to serve her captives' needs. The captivity of animals that she's associated with bolstering that. How she espouses a desire to unite the races, but mentions having plans for the throne, implicitly retaining imperial power. Her weapon being named after the triple entente, an alliance of colonialist powers. How she remarks royalty is so civilized, alluding to the colonialist projects of that era being referred to the West's civilizing mission. The way she talks to Jade and is quick to use the r-word, like she'd have to make her speech a hundred times plain. Just the way that she often has other people doing things for her that seems to emulate the delegatory voice of the poem. Eridan being the orphaner for her. In the Make her Pay flash (which is the best flash don't @ me), she has Sollux fight for her as she seems to sit back. Even her creation of the dream bubbles is something she asks of the gods to do for her. And if you think I'm searching for patterns in the clouds here with my ancient-ass 1800s literature: just take a look at the regime of Beforus Feferi. How casteism wasn't abolished, it just became patronizing the lesser and pretending that considering them lesser but in need wasn't the inequality is was.

Eridan is interesting in combination with her because they're designed to contrast each other. Eridan is so deeply associated with hipster inauthenticity, pretention, over exaggerated theater, and explicitly mentions that villainy is practically a performance for her. She calls comin off as a diabolical sort "showwmanship." But pay attention to the way that each frame dropping their quirk. Eridan drops her to become more genuine for a moment. Feferi has to be asked to drop hers and gets mad that she's had to peasantify herself. And the tragic part is that although Eridan is in the position of the audience in that poem, in essence the soldier sent to brutally occupy the Philippines, Feferi also sees her as one of the ones needing to be civilized. Eridan is to her half devil and half child, fluttering and wild, needing to be restrained by a moirallegience she seems to have never wanted from her.

I don't mean to let Eridan totally off the hook. I see her character as being under a dramatic form of siege mentality, perceiving herself to be the target of everyone's hostility. As she's the orphaner, I feel vaguely inclined to give it to her a bit. Like yeah, I can't imagine that job title comes with the perk of making friends. But her siege mentality xenophobia primarily makes her think that everybody that isn't Feferi must hate her, to the point where she only trusts people when her relationship with them is adversarial. The subversion central to Eridan's character is that while she may be genuinely xenophobic, she isn't a supremacist, nor genocidal in intent. The weapons she claims to be amassing to conquer the surface aren't military, it's just whaling equipment she uses to prevent everyone dying. The Brand Whaling Gun and Bomb Lance. Some derivative of the Greener swivel harpoon gun (that I have yet to 100% identify but I do have the original picture used for the Photoshop). Broken killing lance heads (as can be seen in my pfp being held by captain Ahab).

So why do I hate Feferi? Because she does think herself superior to others, in a way that is supremacist. She's a paternalistic casteist of the highest order and it is gross.

But here's the twist: if people believed in the Feferi I just outlined, I'd love the character. Because I still do fundamentally believe in redemption and rehabilitation of people with really shitty beliefs. Feferi could've been a character who narratively served to demonstrate how her beliefs may appear good intentioned, but actually warns the audience of the trap of real life paternalistic racism that justifies colonialism with a friendly face. A narrative where she had character development and evolved alongside Eridan. Symbolically, the orphaner killing the idea of paternalism would've been goddamned beautiful. But instead, what I got, what we got, was the fandom never picking up on the nuances, the comic itself electing to skirt around the problematic elements, all leading up to this strange quirk of Homestuck where once you're aware of all this, you really can't look at cutesy Feferi fanart the same way ever again because it never gets addressed. And I think that's sad. But, until the people that like Feferi are in the same boat as me in wanting a redemption arc for her, I'm gonna stay her #1 hater.

[yanfeisty]

!Sagau! Can i request some reactions of venti, kusanali, raiden ei, zhongli, and barbara of god reader being double from skullgirls? ( she is a monster in disguise as a nun under the name agatha look up her form its cool! She is known to be more hostile and angry towards enemies, but lesser hostile to close ones she is one of the enemies, following unknown masters. I recommend learning about her in skullgirls wiki so the information are accurate OwO. Feel free to ignore or declined! Even if it took a long time i'll wait patiently :3.

Genshin hcs | Double!Reader

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : Barbara, Ei, Venti, Yae Miko, Zhongli x Creator!Reader

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : You're hard to please and you hide your true apparence from them, but some Acolytes found a way into your heart.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : Religious theme.

𝐀/𝐍 : Hello and thx for requesting! I'm sorry I'm not doing Kusanali yet bc I don't know about her much, so I replaced her with Yae, but I hope you'll still enjoy it and that I didn't write Double ooc TT.

Masterlist

⠀‣ Barbara

. Since you're a rather stoic person, she won't push you to like her, but she won't be able to hide her joy to finally meet and serve you. She knows songs that can calm you down, would you like to hear one? She also knows the city by heart, and the best places for you. She's a bit shy and sometimes lost for words at your presence, but she's trying her best to share the joy you gave her with you.

. If you reveal your true form to her, she'll feel honored that you trust her with it, and that she's part of the people you're less hostile with and she's hopefully in your good grace. She's doesn't you as a monster, her God could never be seen as something horrible, everything about you is so pure and true. And she really doesn't want you to feel insecure about it, since others might see you as a monster and that your appearance in the sacred texts were wrong. (Even if you don't care)

. She's more curious on how does your form works, do you need to sleep, what's your alimentation, etc...Takes care even more of you in this form, you might feel alone and you'll need proper assistance, that she and only a few can provide. She'll make sure to have everything for you.

. She doesn't know anything about your "masters" but if her God follows them, that means they are her masters too! Maybe they're your creator, which means they're extremely important. She'll make sure to reference them in one of her verse, if you let her.

⠀‣ Ei

. She says she understands if you're not the most friendly type and that it's hard to win your heart, and will not try to force you to favor her, but without even realizing, she's doing the opposite. Always asking if you need something or any help, she offers gifts or sometime sends her servants, to shower you with them, aks what's your opinion about things she isn't sure what you'll think of it. She'll be glad to be part of the people you aren't hostile with, she hopes at least you consider her as tolerable.

. For her, your true form is beautiful, you take the apparence of a mortal, but as in what she considers your God's form, you represent eternity, one that is untouchable from anything and anyone, and will remain forever to rule Teyvat. And it's a privilege for her to see you like that, which she won't like to share with anyone, she's one of your most devoted follower, the rest are either enemies of your eternity or too low compared to your superiority.

. For your enemies, do you perhaps need her to end them? She'll be glad to, if you judge them to be hostile with, that means they're a threat that needs to be remove, or she'll be very happy to fight them with you at her side, she'll be your blade that'll make them regret to go against you.

. Ei frankly doesn't care about your masters, she doesn't know them and she can't see how could they be superior to you, but she'll try to talk good of their name in front of you.

⠀‣ Venti

. He'll make sure that he finds a way to your heart, one poem or song that'll make you at ease with him, and break this stoic facade of yours, he isn't the best bard in Mondstadt for nothing! He can take you under the tree that he likes, and you can talk to him about anything or even nothing if you prefer, as long as you feel that he's a good companion.

. About your other form, which makes him hide his excitement when you reveal it to him, but he can't suppress the smile plastered on his face, more for the fact that you finally trust him. But he still likes it, in fact, he ships his wisp form with you as he thinks you would look adorable together. You're still the same Creator he loves no matter the apparence you take!

. He is suspicious about your supposed masters, why do you exactly consider them as such, and what do they exactly ask you to do. He'll try to play it smooth in trying to get informations from you, but worries as if it's actually from your own will or are they manipulating you.

⠀‣ Yae Miko

. It's easy for her to enter in your good grace, she's just watching how you're behaving with others and learns from it. Maybe, that's how she sees right through you, lurking made her notice your secretive nature. Perhaps, through that unfaze mask of yours hides something more sinister that people wouldn't be ready to see.

. And she's glad that she was right, you do look like and act secretly like something that would give a heart attack to its people. But for now, only her knows and she'll happily keep it for herself, she'll reward you with her other form too. It's a truly an honor to see you like this and reveal your true self to her, don't keep any secrets from her, you can trust her and she'll be joyful to help.

. That's why you should tell her more about those secret commanders, maybe she can offer them her service, that's what she's telling you, but her real motive is more of learning about them, why do they need you, and what goals do you have for following them, but most importantly, are they a threat to you and Teyvat, a Creator can't have someone above them, maybe she should put them back in their place, and let them know who is the real superior being.

⠀‣ Zhongli

. He gives you all the time you need to warm up to him, but he is still an Acolyte, so he is pretty much always by your side. You'll naturally come to him as he is a calm and wise person, moments with him are relaxing, in opposite with your other followers overwhelming you with their praise. Zhongli will conceal the joy and the bit of pride he has when you come talk to him alone or when you need to calm down, he truly feels blessed.

. But not as much than when you show your other form, regressing to a young god overly excited by his Creator, when he sees it, which he tries to hide, because you like his calming and mature nature. If anyone has any doubts, for him it just proves your God status, as you're not a mortal, but a divine being that nobody could compare to, if someone dares to do a blasphemy and say you have the apparence or mind of a demon, he'll shut them up with a meteor if they're an enemy, or if it's a normal citizen, pity them to not recognize their Creator and instead let their own heart invaded by hatred.

. For those unknowns masters you seem to follow, like Venti, he'll try to get informations about them, but if don't let him, well, he won't push you further. As long, as they don't make you do anything that could potentially hurt you, he doesn't see a problem if you want to follow them, but you'll stay forever the superior being in his eyes.

[justadram]

How did cultures of the mediveal people view aging? Were their ageism

Actually, there was a whole thread in historiography dedicated to the argument that the medieval era was like the golden age for being elderly. And I’d probably guess it was less ageist than modern youth oriented consumerist culture, but probably not as great as some historians claimed either.

Old age started around age 60, and there were plenty of elderly people kicking around. It’s high infant mortality rates that skew the average to like 30 very misleadingly! So, the elderly weren’t like a freak population. About 15% of the population would have been over the age of 60 in the late medieval period.

The elderly often were considered wise and more pious, which was admired. There are lots of saints lives about elderly saints who were not just spiritual warriors but also physically powerful. Lots of grey haired warriors in the epic poems, and old wise kings too.

In the Middle Ages, it’s all about the Community rather than the Individual, and there are good and bad parts to that. The elderly were still very much a part of the Community and as important as the other members. They didn’t exist as their own lesser category. They were considered capable of work, for example.

And if they were infirm and could no longer contribute, there were community institutions in place to protect them. Most people were cared for by their families. Others entered religious houses to retire. Some paid for a retirement setup within another household. But the church preached care for the infirm, so that was considered the right thing to do.

The law also protected the elderly. People who abused the elderly or took advantage of them were prosecuted.

But they also recognized ‘drawbacks’ to aging. There was some obsession over facets of aging we’d recognize, such as advice about changing dietary needs or brews and potions to regrow hair. And they did have some funny notions like some writers proposed the elderly weren’t capable of sex. But the writers tended to be male churchmen and they had all sorts of weird ideas about sex.

[walkawaytall]

bring back the turkey, you cowards

Weird thing none of you know about me: from about 2015(?) until about 2019 or so, I had a very specific and weird obsession: Lisa Frank's social media presence (and, to a lesser degree, Lisa Frank's collaboration deals clearly made in an attempt at making a comeback).

Now, I will go ahead and correct a commonly held misconception amongst the people who followed me on Facebook at the time: I was not obsessed with Lisa Frank the person (as mysterious as she attempts to be, I think I have her mostly figured out), Lisa Frank the manufacturer of my favorite childhood school supplies, or even Lisa Frank the company as it stands today (though this Jezebel article, Inside the Rainbow Gulag: The Technicolor Rise and Fall of Lisa Frank, is wild and I think everyone should read it; it may not hold true today since they've had so much change and turnover, but it's still fascinating). My obsession was primarily focused on Lisa Frank's social media presence. And that's because Lisa Frank's social media presence was batshit insane.

Keep in mind, when I first started following them on social media, they were not banking on Millennial nostalgia. They were still primarily selling school supplies. The adult coloring book (not adult like smutty; adult like...those therapy coloring books that were so popular ten years ago?) sold by way of an exclusivity agreement with Dollar General hadn't been announced yet, nor had workout gear or the SpongeBob collab (sold only at HotTopic). As far as anyone knew, Lisa Frank was still that rainbow school supply company whose target audience is nine-year-old girls.

Which is why all of the housemade "memes" were absolutely bonkers.

This is peak Middle-Aged Mom Humor, so why is it being presented to me by the company making pencils and folders for elementary schoolers?

Glad to know we are encouraging fourth graders to day drink.

This one isn't actually aimed at any particular age group; I just find it funny that captains of pirate ships are inherently pirates, so I don't know what this is supposed to mean.

He won't. He will not fly. He is a flightless bird. This is a terrible lesson and you are a homicidal mother penguin. (Also using slightly altered lines from poems without attribution is theft, but whatever.)

And the image that started my obsession:

This...isn't a joke??? What is this???

I don't know who was behind these posts, but considering how small the company was at that point, I always suspected that Lisa herself was recycling old artwork with the help of an intern or something and creating the social media posts...because it just sort of seemed like that's what was happening? I have no proof of this; it was just a vibe I got.

But, during that period of time, even though the posts were inscrutable and sometime just straight-up Minion Humor, they were at least interesting.

Well, I mean, sometimes they were interesting because they were like acid to the eyes.

Okay, and sometimes they were interesting but also sported questionable messaging about one's relationship with food and exercise.

Anyway, I digress. In 2019, Lisa's son Forrest Green (yes, her sons are named Hunter and Forrest Green) took over the social media presence and it became...very palatable for the masses, I suppose. It was a lot of photo edits of old boy band pictures with Lisa Frank designs superimposed on tshirts -- it was very nostalgia-driven and very much directed at Millennials and thus I lost interest, because if there's anything I hate, it's being the target demographic for a sales pitch.

Anyway, my point is that for several years in a row, Lisa Frank would post the same holiday-themed images, so I got used to seeing a certain Thanksgiving design that is, and I cannot prepare you enough, one of the most chaotic and hideous things you'll ever lay your eyes on. But it was tradition. They posted it like three years in a row, and then as soon as Forrest took over, this design was never posted again. And all I have to say on this Thanksgiving week of 2023 is: bring back the turkey, you cowards.

[andromedaexists]

Devout: An Anthology of Angels || ed. Quinton Li

★★★★☆

TW: MENTIONED AT THE START OF EACH SHORT STORY

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Okay, let’s get the important information out of the way first: I was lucky enough to receive an ARC of this lovely anthology in exchange for an honest review.

Dope! Now to my thoughts. I think the scream really encompasses my thoughts on it! Devout is an amazing anthology full of stories that push the boundaries of what we consider holy. 

It has a really strong start with a piece by Freydís Moon that really makes the trans body holy. Honestly, a good majority of these stories make what is considered heretical in today’s society into something that is so much more. 

There are also quite a few stories that push the divine, the pure, into Desecration. I love those stories, it makes me think and makes me confront my own beliefs and what I consider to be holy. 

Then, it ends with five star hit after five star hit! They really stacked the beginning and end of this anthology and I LOVE THAT!

I fully expected this to be amazing with names like Freydís Moon, Morgan Dante, Tyler Battaglia, and Rafael Nicolás being thrown around, and I was not disappointed. I am so honored to be selected to read this early and tell you all to read it.

I don’t have much more to say here, I broke down my thoughts on each story as I read it. I have those thoughts down below in order of how they appear in the anthology

I know it’s tempting, authors of Devout, to want to see what I individually rated your stories. But please, if you do look at it, remember that my rating is not a reflection on you as an author. Sometimes stories just don’t line up with everyone, and that is okay. I love all of you and you are all amazing, no matter what I thought of your story. (also reviews are for readers, not for authors. Please keep that in mind).

The Angels at Harvest Church - Freydís Moon

TW: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, MENTION OF SNAKES/SNAKE BITES, OFF-PAGE TRANSPHOBIA

“I am made to be yours, my King on Earth, my Morning Star. Have mercy, please”

“You look at him and see fire in his eyes. Brimstone. Chaos. Rebirth.

This short story is one hell of a way to open this anthology, holy shit. Quite literally holy shit, too!

This story makes the trans body holy. That is the best way I can describe it. It is the closest thing I’ve had to a religious experience since I left the church. Sure, it is smut, but it is also so much more than that (not that smut is bad or lesser in any way, as we all know I love a good smut story)

10/10, I haven't read the other stories yet but I know this is going to be one of my favorites.

★★★★★

I Know My Father - Dorian Yosef Webber

The next entry in the anthology is a poem, or, I am assuming it is a poem since my kindle said “fuck you” to the formatting. I’m not gonna lie, this issue with my kindle made me put down Devout for a moment. I imagine it’s beautiful on literally any other reader and on paper, but my little kindle paperwhite just cannot handle it.

Actually, I do have the kindle app on my phone, let me see how it looks there. Yeah, okay, it definitely makes more sense and comes across as a poem on my phone. I ordered the paperback copy of Devout as well so I will be able to fully see it in its beauty then!

As for the content of the poem, maybe it’s because I’m just not a poetry person but I didn’t understand it at first. I do now, and I love the story! There is something in my little heart that is drawn to names that are not the one you are born with, and this story renames its protag so effortlessly that I had to do a double take to make sure we were still talking about the same person!

Some quotes that I absolutely love are: (only two because this is a short poem and I don’t wanna give away too much)

Bless me the way you bless your Father

Your name is now Israel, he breathes against sweat-slick skin, for you have conquered both man and divine

Like, this poem (now that I understand it) is so… filling? I’m not sure how I would describe it. It feels to me the same as sitting in a pew at church before mass when there’s only you and the Father there, doing your own things and not interacting with each other. Y’know? (is my roman catholic upbringing shining through, yet? lmao)

★★★★☆

Seasons of God - Angela Sun

This short story came with content warnings that I will also put here. TW: SUICIDE, GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, BODY HORROR, UNDERTONES OF SEXUAL HARASSMENT AND GROOMING, MENTIONS OF RAPE, MISOGYNY

Now that we’ve got those down, let's talk about the story! I… didn’t like it. It feels very rushed to me, like the author is trying to fit a novel into a short story.

The premise is definitely there! I said it once with Sugar People and I will say it again: I fucking love stories about abuse in the Church and the victim winning. 

But where it really lacks is just that. Sure, Rui got as good of an ending as she could have, but it’s all so rushed. I have no idea what’s going on because it’s just thing after thing after thing, we don’t get to learn about any of the characters or where they are or anything. There is no atmosphere to this story and it desperately needs some.

Like, I don’t think I can sum this up in a better way than just: I don’t understand. I haven’t even talked about the body horror because honestly there wasn’t any. There are moments that are supposed to be body horror, but they are like one or two lines here and there and they are not described. At all.

That being said, I really think this would make an amazing premise for a novel. I think the extended format would do wonders for this story and I greatly look forward to what this author has lined up for the future

★★☆☆☆

Resta Con Me - Ian Haramaki

TW: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF DEAD BODIES, MENTIONS OF ALCOHOLIC/ABUSIVE PARENT, VIOLENCE, OPEN DOOR SMUT

I am SCREAMING omg this short story, y’all. 

This short story is what I wish the last one was. Not in content, I love that the stories don’t resemble each other. But this one had the backstory and the length but also the atmosphere. I hate comparing two artists' work to each other though, so that is all I will say.

This story is AMAZING I am absolutely living for Dani omg, like he is the most laid back and unconcerned person in existence I’m SCREAMING

Some quotes that just made me fucking cackle (both said by Dani because ofc they were):

“Do you two mind? This is a library.”

“Anyway, be not afraid or whatever.”

I’m actually finding it really hard to talk about this story without spoiling it, since everything else about the story is just incoherent screaming. But yeah, I loved it!

★★★★★

Seraphim - Ian Haramaki

Stunning, beautiful. I really don’t have much to say on this, art is a soft spot of mine and I love seeing it in this collection.

With Wings Like Madeleines - Dorian Yosef Weber

TW: REFERENCES TO EATING DISORDERS, SEXUAL ASSAULT/ABUSE

I mean, this story isn’t the worst. It’s kind of meh in my opinion, I’m just not quite sure what the point of it is. It’s very… I’m not an angel, but I’m not not an angel, and I can’t see angels, but I choose not to see demons, and I’m human and dirty. Which, I mean, mood.

I guess this story just confused me more than I normally care for in a story, it feels like it’s not going anywhere. I do really like the mention of a prophet having a hot coal put in his mouth, though. That was fun and a really cool play to get us to try and understand what’s going on with the protagonist!

★★★☆☆

And the Mountains Melt Like Wax - Tyler Battaglia

TW: FIRE, DEATH, PANIC ATTACKS, BODY HORROR

Oh this story trips the same part of my brain that The Binding of Bloom Mountain did! It’s nature, it’s horror, it’s not Appalachia this time but I mean it’s on a mountain all the same. 

The inclusion of body horror and things that just aren’t right in natural and peaceful scenes such as hiking up a mountain will always hold the world for me. Especially with the tender show of love and care, like I am actually crying after reading this story. Sure, the angel in here is all kinds of fucked up and bug-like, but it’s also so loving and caring. It genuinely cares for Abel (the main character). 

I mean, this line perfectly describes it:

It was awful. It was beautiful. It was Godly. It was Hellish. It was the most ordinary miracle of all.

I also quite love the play on Cain and Abel, twisting the story so that (SPOILERS) Abel is the one to kill, and Cain is the one to take care of his brother. I love that.

★★★★★

The Mountains, The Mountains, The Mountains - Tyler Battaglia

Stunning, gorgeous, we all know I love art. It fits so perfectly after the last story, too, with the mountains. I love this piece.

We Suffer In Fire - Tyler Battaglia

TW: FIRE, DEATH, MURDER, RELIGIOUS FANATICISM, MONSTER/BODY HORROR

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA holy shit??????? I’m screaming, this short story is the perspective of the firesetter from the first Tyler short story AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

This short story is the mental ramblings of a clinically insane person who believes himself to be the Hand of God, the person to call forward something by sacrificing people through fire. Omg, I love this so much.

I love that we get to see both sides of the story, first in And The Mountains Melt Like Wax from the perspective of a firefighter and then from the perspective of the person who set the fire.

This story is very short, and while I am sad about that I think it was the perfect length for what it is. 

This story is amazing, my God.

★★★★★

Divine Body - Daniel Marie James

This poem is beautiful. It is a lot shorter than the poems we’ve seen thus far, but no less impactful. It gets its point across very plainly and clearly, and I really appreciate it for that!

★★★★☆

halfway to heaven - Freydís Moon

Right off the bat with this poem, the font is different. It is smaller. This is fine on my kindle paperwhite since I can always just change the font size, but I anticipate having a hard time with it once my paperback arrives. I am not terribly visually impaired, but it is still rather hard to make out some of the words without making the text much, much larger (and that’s already making it larger than my previously too-large setting). I normally read on a 7 or 8 on the kindle paperwhite, but I read this story with a size 10 font.

Other than that, I really like this poem. I think this is my favorite poem so far, I would even say my favorite poem in the whole anthology (sorry, rafa). It is downright lyrical, and boy am I a sucker for music. Even the formatting of this poem with its strange spacing screams SING ME.

I really don’t have much else to say on this poem, it is genuinely a lovely piece that speaks to the more musical part of my soul and I love it for that!

★★★★★

Fade To Black - Morgan Dante

TW: MENTIONS OF HEAVENLY VIOLENCE (ANGEL FACE MELTING), MENTIONS OF NB TRANSMASC CHARACTER DEALING WITH DEADNAMING AND TRANSPHOBIA AND MISGENDERING, EMETOPHOBIA

This story is not for me. It has a lot of the same issues I found with Seasons of God, it’s fast paced with no real time to take in anything. All in all, the tone of the story, the way it was told, and the style it was told in are just not for me.

★★☆☆☆

Misery in Company - Morgan Dante

TW: DEATH, MENTION OF OFFSCREEN VIOLENCE

Now this story, this is one that I can get behind. It feels very fleshed out, and though there are a few plot inconsistencies (in my opinion), I think it’s really great!

The pace is much slower in this piece as compared to the first one, which I greatly appreciate. I feel like we got to actually experience the story and the characters, got to truly know them. 

This is a continuation of the first piece, or, well, a bigger part of a brief mention in the earlier story. It really pulled at my heart strings for a bit. The story started to fall apart towards the end, it seems like it shifts from a love narrative to an abusive  acceptance. This is not a tone I like to read, and I really would have preferred if we stayed with the loving overtone of the first half of the story.

Overall, I like it! I probably wouldn’t read it again, but I am a chronic single reader anyways. It takes a lot to get me to re-read anything lol

★★★★☆

Enfleshed - Cas Trudeau

TW: INTERNALIZED GENDER DYSPHORIA, DISCUSSIONS OF GENDER SELF-ACTUALIZATION

I mean this in the best way possible but this poem reads like a medieval translation of an ancient latin or greek poem. Reading this felt like I was reading something for class, and though I struggle with poetry and struggle to understand its nuance even I can tell that the words hold deep meaning.

★★★★☆

Swarm Behavior - Aurélio Loren

TW: SEX, BODY HORROR, VAGUE MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, GORE, INSECTS

Not gonna lie, I have no idea what I just read. Timeline, who? It seems to jump between two different time frames with no distinction between them other than just knowing that something new was happening in a different place.

That’s not to say I didn’t like it, no no. I really enjoyed this piece once I understood that and was able to go back and mentally jigsaw the timeline together. This piece has some real thick and heavy body horror, like I’m talking it made me a bit queasy type of body horror. Maybe that was the bugs, though. I am really not a fan of bugs.

Speaking of! I added insects to the list of TWs for this short, it wasn’t originally included I think because the name implies but but! Better safe than sorry and hoo boy was that a lot of bug stuff, my god.

★★★☆☆

Recovered Contents From an Angel’s Stomach - Rae Novotny

TW: MENTIONED ANIMAL DEATH & CRUELTY, BODILY FLUIDS, BODY HORROR, CANNIBALISM, DEATH, GORE, STRONG LANGUAGE

Hooooo boy this story. This story feels so different from the rest in this anthology and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. In this story, the confusion is key. I feel like I just read a fever dream, and I quite liked it. I had no idea who we were following at any time but I don’t think that’s necessary, just that the being we were following was Angel. 

This story also has some banger lines, I mean:

God, he thinks, is a pervert.

Heaven, at last: to be utterly devout, and devoured.

So yeah, quite a good story. Confusing, but using that confusion to its advantage.

★★★★☆

An angel song from the ether - Rafael Nicolás

TW: SEXUAL CONTENT, SOME VIOLENCE

I am SCREAMING. Rafa, as always, delivered devastation in this poem. It reads almost like Catullus. Like, the homoerotic overtone (not an undertone, never an undertone) with the blatant hatred and pessimism. Like, it’s not over the top like Catullus often is with that, but you can feel the underlying hatred in this line:

Angel, I waited long enough for you, there is no love left in me, now, but lust I’ve never known to live without

It’s giving a more graphic Catullus 5, it’s giving Catullus 8. Hell, it might even give Ovid! I’m not as familiar with the Ars Amatoria or the Amores as I am Catullus, but Ovid definitely has a more sensual vibe like this poem does. All in all, an amazing addition.

★★★★★

Hashem yireh - Dorian Yosef Weber

TW: GENDER DYSPHORIA, RESTRAINTS, A FATHER NEARLY MURDERING HIS CHILD

Ooooooh this story is great too! I love how seamlessly the gendered terms switch, it was instantaneous and effective. 

I also had no issue with following this story, and I genuinely think that I would read a full length novel with this concept. I love it! I don’t want to give too much away, but I also quite enjoyed that the POV character found angels, which had been described as horrific and terrifying to him earlier, beautiful Again, I am a sucker for finding beauty in the monstrous and this story did just that!

★★★★★

Pieces - Emily Hoffman

TW: GORE

 Oh goodness this is the story with an uncomfy name in it for me. This will be fun!

Oh boy this story has it all! My legal name, Costco, the butchering of human bodies, Ken Dolls, a character who was judged for wanting to go into the arts and chose science instead, body modification, religious trauma, gosh it’s like I was written into this story. 

Needless to say, I quite enjoyed it! The existential horror and question of faith is written so well, I could practically feel it!

★★★★★

Paradises - Rafael Nicolás

TW: GRAPHIC SEX, REFERENCED ABUSE

I have to compose myself for this, this is the short story that made me want to read Devout and become an ARC reader. I have to compose myself. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Okay, okay I can do this. This story is stunning, beautiful, amazing. It feels like love, it feels like finding your home in someone else. It feels like what Gabriel is experiencing. 

I was expecting the sex to be much more graphic than it was, like I was ready for a full cock and balls but we didn’t get that. It def wasn’t like fade to black, but it wasn’t graphic. I could feasibly have my mother read this (i won’t) and not be uncomfy. 

I just, I love it, this story is one of love and doing what you need to do for yourself. I’m so glad that Gabriel found his home with Tlāloc, I’m so happy.

★★★★★

I am planning on writing little things like this every time I read a book just to help me keep track of them. If I don’t write down my opinions and thoughts right away I am liable to forget them. I am hesitant to call these a review because i’m really just not comfy with that lol I will do my best to make sure I appropriately tag and warn about topics. If I miss any please let me know!

[nimblermortal]

What what what! What!

So I'm reading the technical vocabulary, and

SLAVE

slaves had the right to personal compensation (like direct payments if they were assaulted), the right to keep a wife, the right to kill on behalf of the wife (!), the right to acquire wealth

the penalty for lying with a slave woman was the ordinary fine of three marks, c.f. Intercourse

INTERCOURSE

Unlawful intercourse and fathering a child are separate charges with different penalties. The woman has to have a man standing for her, of course, women don't exist under the law. In some cases the man in question has the right to kill the transgressor!

I would eat his heart in the marketplace *ahem*

If a successful suit was brought, the penalty for the man was full outlawry (!) and liability for personal compensation. But the woman also has penalties. Her legal administrator could claim six marks from her - that's twice as much as a main ring wergild!

The penalty for rape or attempted rape was also full outlawry!

"Other kinds of behaviour deemed offensive to a woman (and her family), including composition of love poetry, were also liable at law."

poets better watch out (and honestly this makes sense - this is not a literate society, if you compose a poem to a lady and keep it to yourself no one will ever find out, if poems are being spread then it's because you declaimed them in public and it's uh. a direct attack on her honor, probably viewed something like revenge porn)

anyway.

SLAVES

So, raping a slave woman incurs the same punishment as a single main ring wergild payment (vs raping a free woman, where you're exiled from the country forever)

Slaves could be traded as payment, but they could also have their freedom given or bought. The notional value of a slave was perhaps three marks - so, that's a good reference for the future. (A dead slave, reminder, main ring payment is 24 bits, whatever that is.) A female slave (bondwoman, unless I find out later that the definition of bondwoman is different) is worth half that.

...it is worth mentioning that the owner could kill the slave whenever he wanted, as long as it wasn't Lent or a major feast day. The church may have had something to say about it, though.

A slave was not fully free until he had been "led into the law" - don't know what that means! I hope it involves a turf arch!

FREEDMAN

"except in certain circumstances the penalty for adultery with his wife was lesser, not full, outlawry" fascinating

(note this also makes a hierarchy for sleeping with a dude's wife - free -> freed -> slave it goes full outlawry -> lesser outlawry (3 years) -> 3 marks)

"If a freedman were killed, the case lay with his son (who was counted free, not free); failing him, with his freedom-giver" oh, neat - so giving a slave freedom is, in some edge cases, equivalent to adopting them. You are still considered responsible for them!

however, the freedom-giver had some claim to his property on his death (and more so if he tries to, uh, hide that property from the law/prevent this)

but the freedom-giver is required to provide maintenance of the freedman, if he cannot support himself. (It's not clear what this means from the appendix alone, but I suspect it's basic food/water/shelter.) Remember that per Saga Thing, slavery died out in Iceland because the responsibility for getting slaves through the winter wasn't worth it!

Tempting to start spelling it freeDman, just to be clear.

[storm-inside-my-mind]

Chapter 3

Cyril quickened his pace to keep up with her, finding her connection with her horse admirable as the two of them seem to move as one. When they met with Rowan, he looked the other man over. In his tribe, he would be considered a lesser male, as he looked weak between Faenoina and Cyril. Based on his clothing, he was similar to Faenoina when she was found in the woods, wearing elven garb that was not meant at all for traversing the woods. He caught the look of deep displeasure that the elven man did not even try to hide at the presence of the centaur. Cyril returned a similar look of disgust, knowing that his elf would not even be able to take him down, in a sanctioned fight or not. He was not unaware that his tribe was looking up at them, as they would have the deepest displeasure at the fact that he was associating himself with two-legged, who would try to tame the mighty centaur and pretend that they are friends after he has plowed their fields and worked himself to the bone. They had a deep distrust for the elf that had come and singled him out by name.

The three now stood on the ridge, the centaurs below looking up at the two elves sitting on horseback and the one centaur who was standing with them. The only thing that moved were the horses that the two were seated upon. The difference between the woman elf and the man elf was the fact that the woman’s horse looked closer to Cyril’s horse half, being larger, and looking like he could drag along heavy things with ease. The elven man’s horse was smaller and daintier, as it was used mostly for looks and not for work like Faenoina’s was. Her green eyes turned to her current elven betrothed, Rowan, as a slight wind blew her brown hair that looked almost like red fire in the slowly setting sun behind her, giving her an unearthly halo of red, almost like the heavenly body was showing how she felt inside, anger. She was angry and upset. Was it Rown’s fault, not necessarily, but he was part of the reason. Her lips were slightly pulled up in a sneer, looking more like a wolf pulling its lips back to reveal sharp teeth before attacking its prey, and attack she did.

“Rowan,” she spoke sharply to the elf, “I am officially breaking off our engagement and taking Cyril as my betrothed. You cannot hunt. You cannot ride well. You cannot make anything useful other than art or music. You celebrate nature in such things, yet you fail to capture the subtlety of the nature around you, and any introspective poem you have given me about yourself has been empty, hollow, and nothing but a prostration of showing your skill in old elvish language, and even then, you do not use it correctly. You enjoy nature when it is bent to your will and not in its pure form of wild wonder and primal beauty. You have grown slovenly for an elf, as your playing of the harp is subpar,” she said simply, “and I know you have been cheating on me while waiting for me to come of age. I know of the other women you have been laying with, the concubines you have in your kingdom. You couldn’t even leave your bed pure for me to lay in with you and decided that a whore’s cunt is better than the woman you're betrothed to. I do not wish to be married to a man slut.” Rowan sat in stunned silence as the woman who normally was cold to him had suddenly given a fiery monologue or speech right after she said she was breaking off her engagement to him. He was berated and insulted and emasculated all in one moment, in front of a filthy four-legged creature that she was bringing with them for some reason. He couldn’t seem to fathom that she was intending on betrothing the centaur instead of him. His mouth was slightly agape as he looked at her, and she scoffed at his stunned silence. She looked like a fiery angel of passion if she had not been so harsh on him, or uttered those words, he might have actually enjoyed marriage to her.

Cyril listened with a smirk as she laid into her elven betrothed with harsh words and a fiery spirit. He liked that, as the mares of his herd were so intoned into tradition that they hardly thought for themselves more than their station in the herd. It was almost comical watching her ire being thrust at Rowan. Scratch that, it truly was rather funny, as the man couldn’t even get out anything even after she had given him space to speak afterwards, or rebuke what she had said. Yet he had said nothing back. He only stared like a fish with a gaping mouth, staring at her while ignoring him for the time being. He had also learned that this elf did not value the idea of monogamy or marriage. He also learned that in some aspects, Faenoina seemed to be loyal to an extent when it came to relationships. She expected loyalty back, and apparently this ‘Rowan’ character couldn’t even maintain that.

Now that the elven princess was done with her anger and had put it out there, she started to lead the two men back to the kingdom from which the elves had come from. They passed through paths and through places she had practiced her archery and trapping skills, but also her whittling. She was silent as she showed off the skills she had gained over time, as hundreds of arrows could be seen on trees and targets and in knots on trees. Dummies that she had made of straw and wood and moss sat dangling in the breeze as they passed through. There were carvings of centaurs, looking similar to Cyril hanging up on branches as they passed through, along with feathers and horns and antlers and skins and furs from her hunts, showing her founded skills of being able to precisely cut the skin and fur off of a kill cleanly. She was aware of the disgusted looks that Rowan was making at the barbaric sport of hunting, or even the want, much less the need, of having to hunt for your meals.

As they traveled to her kingdom (at least he assumed that was where they were going) he noticed the arrows dotted around some decayed and broken as age had taken them. But the shots were precise and pinpoint, he could tell she had been practicing and had gotten good. What was even more impressive was the fact that she was quiet and not bothering to point out her abilities but rather let the proof speak for itself. He had grown tired of all those suitors prostrating their achievements and abilities as they tried to win him over. Though the carvings were most intriguing as they seemed to be markings she had made to denote where his herd was. Had she been keeping close to him all these years? Even as a hunter it seems that Faenoina's innate abilities as an artisan still existed despite her will to be a hunter. But he continued to look around, taking in the different skins. Rabbits, foxes, moose, deer, bear, hawk feathers, owl feathers, robin feathers. He swore he even saw a butterfly, nailed onto a tree with an arrow in it, its wings on display.

She seemed to have the trails memorized in her mind, as the trio broke from the brush. She paused. “Rowan, you can go ahead to the castle and make my father aware of our coming and my intention to break my engagement with you,” she said simply. The elven man stared at her with anger in his eyes in the now soon to be setting sun. He scoffed, and turned his horse, being ruffer with his horse than need be, as he made his way into the gates that had opened for them. His beautiful hair whipping behind him as he stared ahead, trying to mask how angry he actually was.

When they were alone, she looked at Cyril with the same curious eyes as before, putting her bow on her back. “Would you take me as your mate? Or take me as your betrothed.” She stood quietly with a somewhat bated breath. Faenoina needed him to agree, or else this could not go through, and her fate would be assigned for her, and she would have to be married to a man-whore who found earthly pleasures more appealing than allowing himself to explore who he was internally. The centaur had remained silent the whole way there, so she was a bit nervous in all honesty to herself. He was just watching her with his dark and scrutinizing eyes.

Cyril had remained silent the whole journey simply following her lead as she guided them easily through the forest and brush. Only once they were alone did he make noise and even then, it was nothing more than a scoff. "You definitely have greatly improved your hunting abilities. Far have you come from the fledgling hanging upside down from her own trap." He says with a hard tone and not a frown, but not a smile, almost like he couldn’t decide what facial expression he wanted to make. He then opened his mouth and continued before she could even respond to his praise, his next words were like a backhand to her ego.

"And you even come proclaiming to want to be my mate? Do you even know what that entails in my world? The duties a mate should fulfill?" He questions her to see just how serious she is about wanting to be his. How much knowledge did she have regarding centaur society? Even though his words and tone were harsh his horse tail betrayed that he was rather intrigued by all of this, perhaps even happy to find himself here. He questioned her about his own society but honestly cared little for her own as their union in his mind was unlikely at best. He was expecting her to become discarded or not wish to continue, after all, they were completely different races, and they may even be incompatible.

The princess only turned her horse so she may look at him better, her eyes becoming hard as she stared at him. Part of this was out of necessity, the other part, deep down in her stomach, craved to have him as hers. As much as she left an impression on him, he made an impression on her, and she would admit to no one that her cunt squeezed around her fingers when she thought of him in the darkness and silence of the night. When her thoughts were able to wander as she fantasized, only to feel shame afterwards, that she was glorifying a stranger in her mind, but the more carnal part of her didn’t care. She looked at him with her own hard green eyes, her face emotionless as she answered him.

“Do I know? No. Do I care? Not really. I will do what I am required to do for you if you wish. Whether that is pleasing you or carrying your children. But I do not want to marry that…. creature,” she said with a fiery tone about her betrothed. “He betrayed me and I will not forgive it. Even if it is a farce you wish to put up. My father will approve. You are a strong hunter and have your wits about you. Since elves do not naturally die, I have no need to take the throne. My status would only elevate your own in our world. I will learn your culture if you ask me to. And if I must, I will make you mine and do all I have to to prove to my father that you are my betrothed.”

She sighed, and for a moment, she debated. She pulled out a talisman. It was made of wood, and looked like a centaur, though it was not painted, it seemed to have runes burnt into it in gold and black. It looked plain and simple, but she held it around her belt, as it swayed on her hip as she sat upon her horse. “I had it enchanted so that I may either become a centaur female, or if you wish, so that you may temporarily become like an elf. I do not care if you want me or not. I will continue to hunt, and even expand your lands. You have haunted my mind since we first met, while I swung upside down in my own trap. I would be honored to call you my betrothed, despite how…. full of yourself you are. There is one thing I cannot deny, your knowledge and skill as a hunter.”

Pleasing him? Carrying his children? This elven princess was offering far more than he expected. Originally, he went with her just to spite her father as she appeared to have become a rather superb huntress despite her father's desires that she create art. But now that she laid out for him how strong her desire was for him and to be his mate, he couldn't help but be a bit moved. "I see you have hardened herself into a true hunter willing to do what you must in order to hunt your prey." He says praising her grown attitude, his tail whipping excitedly behind him. His head tilted slightly to look at her in a very realistic sense, a much better light. But his mood was soured as before he can continue Faenoina shows him the amulet which causes his upbeat mood to dissipate slightly once she explains its use. He clenched his fists a bit at the insult the amulet represented to the both of them, but mainly him.

"So, you wish to either defile me by having me turn into a weak elf?" He growled, seeming to have completely missed the first part of that in his anger. His brow furrowed and his head tilted forward, and his brow creased at her blatant attitude towards having such a truly revolting item. However, the other use for the amulet soon bore into his mind and he stopped fists unclenching as surprise and shock graced his hard features as he finally started to realize what she was saying to him. "You would give up your appearance to carry my foals? You truly desire to be my mate that much," he asks in a slightly awed and humbled tone, as the dedication and offer touches him far deeper than any of his own kind. She did not want him for how he could elevate her position, no she just truly wanted him. At least, that is what the conclusion he had come to base on the claims she had just declared to him about learning his ways and changing her form for him.

Instead of answering Faenoina circled her large horse and led them through the imposing stone carved gates. They were as tall as the walls that currently loomed over them with carvings of an elf that looked neither male nor female could be seen carved into both sides. They wore a robe that looked like it was either made from a sunrise or set blended beautifully. Its hands were held up to its chest, near the middle where a large circle was being held, and within it, it looked like a star dotted sky. They had long flowing hair that seemed to fade into the background as it spread out, and depictions of the world around them were surrounded by trees reaching taller than the figure to the top of the gate. Each tree had green foliage that seemed to be either jade or glittering or granite. The figure had a peaceful look on their features as the gates opened, splitting the creature and orb perfectly down the middle.

They were now allowed to enter the kingdom from which the elven princess who had declared a centaur as her betrothed hails from.

[onlylovefordandelions]

The angry country songs sang by women really helped shape me into the person I am today

Any angry songs by women in general really

I've never really claimed to be a feminist

But I think it's a compliment to be called one

Even if just because it's an insult from a man's mouth

I know the guys around me huff every time I make a "mean" comment about men

But "not all men" is true until a man says it

Because any man who says it is guilty and hiding behind who is worse

Whether they're guilty of being the evil

or of shutting their eyes and ears to the evil does not matter

It all hurts us the same

And those songs taught me to shove the barrel of my gun into the mouth of any man who dares to consider me lesser or claim women deserve the violence

and shoot

The gun does not contain bullets

but blood

The blood of woman who have died due to mans greed and hate

And I hope they choke on it

Does this poem sound angry and bitter?

Good

I hope so

Bless all the woman who finally lose their patience

And snap

-aas-

[fuckyeahisawthat]

I'm just curious (still learning) at what point after 1100 AD would Joe and Nicky been in actual danger due to homophobia? At what point would they have to start lying to people about the nature of their amazing relationship, just to stay safe? Thanks!

(This is in reference to this post, in which I skimmed over like 900 years of sociological changes in identity formation in very very broad strokes.)

So. Here’s the thing. As “western” queer people in the modern world, I think we highly associate safety with being able to be out of the closet. Can I kiss my partner in public or walk down the street holding hands without fear of encountering hate speech or physical violence? Can I tell my friends, family and coworkers about my relationship without fear of social ostracization or economic consequences?

But that’s a very modern perspective. Between “pride parade!!” and “we will definitely be murdered if anyone finds out we are lovers,” there is...A LOT of space for different kinds of historical queer experience.

So it’s not so much that Yusuf and Nicolò could be safely “out of the closet” in 12th century Baghdad but not in 19th century London. It’s not quite as far from that as you might think. But they wouldn’t have thought about it that way.

In the first few hundred years of their existence, the Islamic world was...full of contradictions when it came to homosexuality. You had a strong taboo against adult men being the receptive partner in penetrative sex, but you also had poets--like, the most famous poets of their times--writing tons of homoerotic poetry about desiring young men and boys, and that was normal and even celebrated. (If you’re familiar with the sexual mores of ancient Greece...lots of similarities here.) You had clerics writing about how there should be harsh punishments for “sodomy,” but in practice in everyday life very, very few people were ever actually disciplined in the legal system for something like that. And other forms of sexual activity between men, like kissing and various forms of non-penetrative sex, were just...not a big deal. At the same time there was kind of an unspoken “don’t ask, don’t tell” social contract around sex between men. Like, we know this thing is definitely happening, and we’re not going to talk about it, and that’s what makes it socially acceptable to continue happening. So you can have a society that in the written, religious record looks fairly intolerant toward sex between men; in practice is actually quite tolerant; where everyone sort of knows things about certain people, but where no one is really “out” in the modern sense of the terms.

At the same time, pretty much everywhere in the world at this time but definitely in the Middle East, casual touch between men was much more normalized. Two men holding hands or linking arms when walking down the street, sitting pressed up next to each other, falling asleep with your head on your male companion’s shoulder...a whole range of things that look decidedly snuggly to our modern gaze would have been totally acceptable between friends of the same gender, and would not have been considered sexual in any way. (This is still true in much of the Middle East today.)

So you can easily imagine a scenario where, like, Nicolò is lounging with his head on Yusuf’s shoulder, eating dates and listening to some saucy Abu Nuwas poem being recited, and then they go back to their private quarters and they have as much sex as they want. Are they “out”? Not really. Is anyone bothering them about how they’re living their lives? Not in the slightest. Do some people in that room see them and know? Probably, but that’s their private business and we’re not gonna talk about it. Frankly that sounds like a pretty sweet existence for a 12th century queer.

To be fair, they have a few advantages. They’re men, which means no one will really question them traveling together, without wives or families. They can easily say they’re friends or business partners and no one will really give it a second thought. I’m sure having to break off contact with their families was sad, but it’s also the case that there’s no one around asking when they’re going to get married to a woman and have children so we have someone to inherit the family business. It gives them a kind of freedom that a lot of other queer people around them wouldn’t have had.

I think once they meet up with Andy and Quynh, they do do things like pretending to be two married couples traveling together. But that’s more because of sexism, because two unmarried women traveling with two men who were not their husbands would turn some heads.

In Europe at the time, Christian theology is pretty not-into all kinds of non-procreative sex, but sex between men is not necessarily viewed as a worse sin than, say, masturbation, or sex between men and women out of wedlock. And it’s like, a category of sin that a lot of people are doing all the time, so if you were to confess such a thing to your local priest, you would be told to do penance but the consequences would be fairly mild. And many of the same things regarding casual touch hold true. Various rituals of kissing, including men kissing men on the mouth, are used as greetings, to seal contracts, and as part of mass.

Medieval Europe also had a concept variously called passionate, romantic, or chivalric friendship--close relationships between two people of the same gender that could be long-lasting, physically affectionate, emotionally intense in a way we would today read as romantic, and (allegedly) celibate. Were some of these passionate friendships actually queer relationships with a sexual component that just wasn’t talked about? Probably. Were some of them what we would define as queerplatonic or homoromantic asexual relationships today? Probably. Is it even useful to try to stuff these experiences into modern relationship categories? Debatable. The point is...the borders between what was defined as friendship, romance and love were different. Two men who traveled together, slept in the same bed, shared resources, were emotionally intimate with each other, and otherwise entwined their lives would not necessarily have been assumed to be sex partners in medieval Europe. And (I think this is the important part) Yusuf and Nicolò would not necessarily have seen being perceived as passionate friends as “hiding” the true nature of their relationship or as assigning some lesser value to it.

In terms of how they are perceived in public, I think things really don’t start to change until the early 20th century. It’s a gradual process, but over the first half of the 20th century, more or less, affectionate touch between men becomes defined as “gay” and a mainstream (straight) masculinity that is concerned with defining itself as “not gay” emerges. Affectionate touch, and then any show of loving emotion between men, gradually becomes less and less acceptable, to a degree that probably seems absurd to two 900-year-old Mediterraneans. (The absurdity is really well-expressed in the van scene, which is literally like “Bro is it gay to [checks notes]...express concern about the well-being of the person you were just violently kidnapped with?”)

Like, on the one hand, you have queer people talking openly about their sexuality in ways that were not an option at earlier times in their lives. But at the same time you have to be careful holding hands walking down the high street now because someone might chuck an empty beer bottle at you. Must’ve been a real wild transition for them.

[sokos]

Anti-feminists always have bad takes but one of the worst arguments i've been given as a "gotcha" is men who have told me feminism was invented by men so I owe every advance in female's liberation to them.

They say this because Plato was supposedly the first person who "argued for the total political and sexual equality of women, advocating that they be members of his highest class, ... those who rule and fight" But they all forget he also said some incredibly misogynistic things. If anyone is interested here's a pretty good text that explains why Plato didn't invent Feminism and actually held sexist views (what a surprise!) . Let's not forget that there were probably a lot of female philosophers during Plato's time who were silenced because women weren't allowed to think differently. Misogyny has existed since the beginning of time and i'm sure women have always rebelled against that opression in some way and have been silenced by men for not conforming.

I was also told Poulain de la Barre invented feminism because he said "that the traditional domestic education reserved for women served neither sex well. Woman's education kept her in a state of complete dependence on her husband and perpetuated an unjust status quo that allowed half of the population literally to dominate the other. Poulain recognized the profound wrong in continuing the present state of female dependency. He lived in a society that intentionally stifled any desires a woman had to develop her mind within the realm of male scholarship." And although it's great that he spoke up for women's education, I wonder how many women before him fought for this right and weren't listened but he was actually recognized for being a man. It doesn't make sense to say he invented feminism because his work was done through the 17th century in France and Feminist ideas have existed since before this time.

There is no certainty of who truly was the first feminist but it sure as hell wasn't a man. Some people the Sumerian priestess Enheduanna, who lived in around the twenty-third century BC wrote poems that have been interpreted as feminist. / Others say Christine de Pizan was the first woman to write about feminism, surprisingly enough she existed 240 years before Poulain and "Her own writing, in its various forms, discusses many feminist topics, including the source of women’s oppression, the lack of education for women, different societal behaviors, combating a misogynistic society, women’s rights and accomplishments, and visions of a more equal world". In the year 1405 She wrote a book called "The book of the city of Ladies" in which she talks about how the world with be without the chaos and wars that men create and she says the history of women would be different if they weren't educated by men. hah, perhaps she's one of the first women who talked about female separatism? / Another early feminist was Moderata Fonte from the 16th century, who wrote "The Merits of Women" in which she says "Men and women are of the same species, the same flesh and blood, and they were created by God as companions for one another; yet men have so convinced themselves of their superiority to women that they have lost sight of this fundamental truth. Women are “otherized”; considered as lesser beings; deprived of the resources and education that might allow them to maintain themselves; forced into a position of humiliating dependence in which they must accept whatever harsh treatment their husbands or fathers choose to inflict. They are victims of “tyranny,” of illegitimate rule—an accusation of special potency in Venice" / Other early feminist writers were Juana Inés de la Cruz, considered Latin America's first feminist, who started writing around the year 1689 "she devoted much of her life to publishing artistic works that challenged the patriarchal gender role that she, and many other women, were experiencing. By publishing works such as plays, poems, letters, and musical works, she was able to challenge radical feminist views. One of her significant works, The Trials of a Household, is a play in which she voices her views against the injustices that women face." / Marie de Gournay - Anne Bradstreet - and Margaret Cavendish among many women were other pioneers in feminism who prove

that obviously men didn't invent it.

I know men are not capable of critical thinking and getting informed beyond what they're thaught but these accusations surprised me. Women have always been ereased from history but there's nothing worse than thinking women are so uncapable that even the fight for our own rights was invented by a man. Men can't be our opressors and our liberators too.

[colossal-fallout]

AoT Valentines Day H/C’s

 Head canons of how the following Characters would spend V day with their s/o.

Warnings; NSFW. 18+ only. Smut & Fluff. 

Fem!Reader x Various Characters.

You have been warned...

Eren Yeager: 

- You’d better buckle up and brace yourself, because this dark horse will absolutely astonish you with his valentine plans. 

- He may act nonchalant about the whole affair, both before the event and during, possibly throwing you off guard and believing he isn’t actually going to do much, if anything at all. 

- Oh, how wrong you are.

- So... so wrong.

- Expect a hell of a lot of affection. I can see his moody/brooding eyes glancing at onlookers as he wraps his arms around you, kissing your neck sensually; not giving a single f*ck who was watching. Today is about you, and you alone. If anyone had a problem with that, then they’d have to speak to him.

 Not that they’d have the balls to...

- He will shower you with gifts. 

Red roses, jewellery, soft toys, sex toys, lingerie... 

Even if being spoiled with material things isn’t your thing, he will still do it. You deserve to feel like the queen he sees you as and today you will accept his love, no matter what. 

- Back to that, ‘ not giving a f who was watching ‘ situation, he silently gloats as its the perfect excuse to boldly show others that you are his and no one should come near you with romantic intentions. 

- He’ll definitely wine and dine you. The fanciest restaurant in town, your favourite food, music... the whole SHABANG. 

 Because of how busy he is, he doesn’t get to do this with you as much as he’d like so he makes the most of it.

- Then prepare your poor, unsuspecting booty. Because you will be SHOOK.

-  He will spend hours warming you up. Kissing and nipping every inch of your skin, edging his way slowly to your core. Sighing and gasping at your beauty the whole time; praising you. His warm breath blanketing your skin.

By the time he gets there, you’re so fired up you can hardly take it. 

- But, unfortunately he’s nowhere near done. He’ll run his tongue up you so 

s l o w l y. He’ll over stimulate you, tease you and whisper the dirtiest things into you as he begins to include his fingers. 

- He won’t even consider sliding inside of you until you’ve came at least three or four times. 

- When he eventually does, he’s so turned on by the time he enters himself into you, he just sort of rolls you both up in a close ball, putting your legs up and wrapping his arms around you tightly, his head against yours and panting. 

- “I love you, y/n...” 

- After the biggest orgasm of his life, he’ll whisk you away to the shower before laying you back down into bed, head on his chest and telling you how much you mean to him. 

Levi Ackerman; 

- Levi isn’t a fan of PDA since he’s not only a stoic person, but a Captain held in high regard and wants to keep things professional around others. 

But in certain situations (like valentines day) he’ll pat your head and brush your hair out of your eyes in front of his comrades. (Hair touching is Levi’s love language.)

- But once you’re in private, ooooh boy.

- Levi would make you your favourite food. He would consider taking you out but depending on his mood; he can’t really be dealing with people coming up and bothering him while trying to spend quality time with you.

 “Ah, Levi. I didn’t think you ate here! Did you get my report on the --” 

 “Hange. Fuck off.” 

- Red Roses. Lots of them. I can also see him buying you a new cloak. He doesn’t want you to be cold, and that old one is starting to smell...

- He would sit with his arm around the back of the chair you’re sitting in resting on the back lazily, with one leg sticking out. 

You’re not on duty. This is the strongest yet most subtle way of letting others know; you. are. his.

- Sex with Levi would always be amazing, regardless of the day. But on special occasions, he treats you to a fantastic body massage before he starts getting heated.

Oils. Candles. He’ll even slowly (and gladly) bathe you. 

- Expect the usual; taking his time with you, showing off his strength by eating you out against the wall, your legs over his shoulders, regardless of height difference. 

- He’ll have you all over the room. 

- The only difference is, today he peppers the dirty talk with some sweet nothings.

“I love making you squirm... you’re so beautiful.”

“Fuck, you feel so good around me.  ...I love you, y/n.” 

Porco Galliard; 

(Side note; Porco isn’t my favourite since my best boy is Reiner, and I wanted to headbutt him when I saw the scene of him beating Reiner when they were young lol. I’ll try!) 

- Porco is a cocky little sh-

Porco is a pretty confident guy, so on Valentines day, expect a decent amount of PDA. Snaking his arms around your hips from behind and kissing the crook of your neck.

- Beneath his... ego, does lie someone who really cares deeply for his friends and family. So expect to be spoiled.

A lot. 

- “Anything you want, baby.” 

- He’d prefer to take you somewhere more quiet for food, a cosy corner in a gusto bar or maybe eating alfresco at a lesser known restaurant. 

- He’ll parade you around town, his arm draped across your shoulder, showing you off with a proud smirk tugging the corners of his mouth. 

- I can see him being a dirty dark horse in the bedroom. 

- He loves eating you out. Controlling when you cum, and making sure he is the only one who can make you feel this good at his mercy.

- His head expands several sizes when you beg for him or whimper his name. 

 “That’s right, beautiful. Who is making you feel so good, huh?” 

- Dirty talk. A lot of it. And if you like it, he would defiantly be into degrading you. 

“You take my cock like a good little whore.” 

- Aftercare, I can see him being pretty clingy. He’d love to spoon you and have you close, running his fingers through your hair and grazing his fingers down your arm. 

Armin Arlert; 

- Armin is such a thoughtful person, he had this day planned for weeks.

- He’ll take into consideration your most favourite things to do. 

Like the outdoors? Picnic.

Like to read? You betcha he’s taking you to the bookstore and buying you any you want.

- Expect him to lead you to a warm private area he's covered in candles and flower petals.

- He'll massage you from your feet, right up to your head. All while talking softly to you, telling you how he's felt since you met and how much you mean to him now.

- He will never take you for granted and will tell you this while he's working your thighs with his oiled hands.

- He will hesitate once he's reached your hips but will restrain himself until he's finished rubbing knots out of your entire body.

- "Let me show you how much you mean to me..." As he slowly lowers his head between your legs without once tearing his ocean blues from your eyes.

- Armin will carefully and meticulously work you, he's memorised all of your sensitive spots and how you like things done. He is amazing with his fingers.

- He'll relish your taste; passion and lust transforming this usually shy person into a hungry beast. He'll lick your wetness off his fingers before gently lifting you up, and sitting you down on his cock.

- Expect a lot of praise while you ride him. He loves telling you how beautiful you are.

- Once you're finished, he'll happily hold you while you quiver from aftershocks, kissing your head and playing with your hair.

- "That was amazing, y/n. I love you. So much."

Reiner Braun;

- Once Reiner loves, he loves so deeply.

- So you betcha he has a plan up his sleeve to show you how much you mean to him. Although it probably stressed him to hell thinking of something good enough.

- If something went wrong or didn't go to plan, he would freak out slightly.

- Reiner would do anything to show you how special you are. If you were a bit of a thrill seeker and/or were passionate about Titans like Hange, I could see him transforming somewhere to carry you around on his shoulder or in his hand. Obviously somewhere he couldn't be seen easily and be reported.

- This perfect man would, like Armin, make it an all day thing. Picnic, a romantic walk, dinner and even stargazing. He loves spending time with you and it's hard to find the time usually.

- Much like Levi, sex with Reiner is always mind-blowing.

- He loves taking his time to please you. He won't ever finish until you've been satisfied more than once.

- He would be the opposite of Levi with the nasty speak. With Reiner, it would be sweet something's sprinkled with dirty talk.

"You're perfect. I love you, y/n. You ride my cock so good."

- No matter how long you have been together, he still counts his lucky stars you're his and would do anything to protect you and keep it that way. This certainly comes out in how good he fucks you.

- All in all, I don't think Reiner would treat you any differently to how he always does. He shows his appreciation for you every damn day.

- This bear of a man loves to cuddle so once you're finished making passionate love, hell spoon you, hold you as close to him as possible and just thank whatever god's there may be that he has you in his difficult life.

Zeke Yeager;

- Zeke. I don't know why, but whenever I think of Zeke and how he'd be like in bed I get a little scared lol

- Zeke is pure FILTH. ...But we'll get to that...

- For valentine's Day, Zeke would craft you something. A handmade bangle or some form of jewelry. Maybe a necklace from a precious gem he crushed himself

- Poetry. I can totally see him writing you a sweet poem and leaving it somewhere he'll know you'll come across.

- Monke man keeps his feelings and thoughts pretty close to his chest so PDA would not be his thing. He instead would cherish you in a more private setting.

- He will spoil you with the finest foods and wine. Spinal fluid free, of course.

- In bed, Zeke is a freak. Extremely dominating, he takes out his stresses and frustrations out on you in the bedroom.

- Teasing, degrading, over stimulating and he loves doing you up the arse. Biting, markings even yelling like some wild animal as you brush his tip against your tonsils.

- He'll happily sit you on his face and just let you ride it until your hearts content, his fingers roughly digging into your flesh as you quiver above him.

- Zeke likes to fill you up as much as possible so expect sex toys in each of your openings while he forcefully fucks your throat.

- He might even be into pain play if you'll allow him to partake.

- So after Valentine's Day, definitely expect to spend the next day walking like you've been riding your horse on an extremely long expodition.

Pieck; "y/n? Are you okay? You're walking like I do... Have you hurt yourself?"

Jean Kirstein;

- Poor Jean has the best intentions and really wants to make the day special for you. But he's just so clueless at this sort of thing and would probably mess stuff up due to nerves and second guessing himself.

- He'll write you a love letter or poem, but scattered around him are paper balls and torn ideas as he tries to make it perfect.

- He'll take too much on at once. He'll forget he had something cooking while he's setting up something else and it'll burn, resulting in a comical fit of rage. So instead, he takes you out.

- Once you've calmed him.down and reassured him it was the thought that mattered, he calms down and you both have a lovely time.

- He'll take you for a nice walk after food and he proudly shows you off on his arm the entire time.

- Jean in bed is extremely thoughtful. He likes to take his time and be gentle, worshipping you like the goddess you are.

- He won't ever let himself finish until he knows you've had your fill and then some.

- When you ride him, he blushes slightly and watches your movements in awe, totally unbelieving that he's inside of this beautiful woman.

- Aftercare with Jean is one of the best. He'll leasuirely massage you while you lie on him, pillow talking deep into the night as he tells you how amazing you are.

I enjoyed writing these. I'll write more if I get any interest ☺️ Happy Valentine's!

[flowercrown-bard]

For the writing prompts #14. Can’t make move because other person is a rival/enemy (please!)

Thank you so much for the prompt! So...I'm not 100% sure if this still fits the prompt but oh well, I tried

pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

word count: 5k

from this prompt list

summary: Jaskier finds anoynmous poetry that talks about how witchers are unwanted posted on notice boards. Of course he makes it his goal to find the mysterious poet and make them stop. It's too bad that as time goes on and the poet's verses change, it becomes really hard to hate them (new fic with Eskel‘s POV to this)

content warning: self-deprication, angst

Jaskier was known for many a thing. Some people knew him as a talented bard. Others thought of him only as the idiot they had seen jump out of a window to escape a scorned lover’s wrath. The list could go on forever, Jaskier had made sure of that.

But the one thing, everyone without fail would know him for, is that he was fiercely loyal to witchers.

For years he had sung about the White Wolf and his heroics, but lately, ever since that fateful day that he had finally met Geralt’s brother, Jaskier also sang about a different witcher. One who had promised to show him his collection of old poetry that scholars everywhere would kill for. The witcher that was kind and sweet despite what his appearance might suggest. The witcher whom Jaskier couldn’t stop thinking about ever since they had parted.

Briefly, Jaskier had been worried that Geralt might disapprove of Jaskier writing songs about one of his brothers. After all it had just been the two of them for so long. But Geralt didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he smiled a little wider whenever Jaskier crafted verses for Eskel. In fact, he looked at Jaskier as if there was more to it than just professional interest. Which was absolute nonsense, of course. Singing about another witcher was only profitable. It expended Jaskier’s repertoire and what better way to help all witcher-kind than to spread tales about more than just the most famous one of them?

So yes, Jaskier was first and foremost known as a friend to witchers.

Another, lesser known fact about Jaskier was that once he developed a grudge, he would hold onto it for the rest of his life.

Which is why Jaskier was seething with fury when he caught wind of some unnamed poet who apparently made it their life’s work to destroy witchers’ reputations.

What made it even worse that on the day Jaskier found out, he was in high spirits. He had been travelling alone for the past month and had just heard of Eskel – who Jaskier had been looking forward to meeting again since forever – being somewhere in the area. Of course, Jaskier had dropped everything and gone to search every notice board he could find for any clue as to any contracts close by that could have attracted the witcher.

What Jaskier found instead was enough to make his fists tremble with barely suppressed rage. Right there, in the middle of the notice board hung a piece of poetry on some cheap paper.

That in itself wasn’t too bad. Jaskier remembered well the days when he himself had been too shy to openly present his poetry and had resorted to anonymously posting it onto boards, but this – this was the worst thing Jaskier had ever read. The verses spoke of what it meant to be a witcher, of how life one the Path could look like. Some of the words and metaphors used were clear references – or even plagiarism – to Jaskier’s songs about his witchers. But where Jaskier praised and celebrated, this poet snarled and spat at witchers.

At the very least, the handwriting wasn’t too easy to decipher, as if the poet – if one could call them that – hadn’t had much time to write this. It was a poor consolation.

Jaskier read through the poem again and again, his mind catching on the words unwanted and mutant. And those were the most harmless insults.

The entire poem read as a collection of all the horrible things that were spat at witchers. Not only was it a clear rip-off of Jaskier’s work – describing the life of a witcher – but it dared to twist it into something ugly and loathed.

To make the insult worse, underneath the poem, in the place where normally the poet’s signature would be, was a clumsy sketch of a goat – clearly meant as another insult to Jaskier. Dread pooled in Jaskier’s stomach, as his eyes raked over the lines one more time and an even more horrible conclusion dawned on him.

The poet didn’t just made references to Jaskier’s works in general. It used imagery Jaskier specifically used in his songs about Eskel. The kindest soul Jaskier knew. A man so selfless that he had even saved a baby goat and had against all odds managed to take care of her while on the Path.

And now this poet spoke about Eskel’s bad experiences and posted them openly on the board for all the world to see.

Without thinking, Jaskier tore the paper with the offending poem from the board. It nearly crumbled in his fingers, but he forced himself to keep his hand steady. He would need the poem to ask people if they knew who had written it, even though the thought of showing it to more people churned Jaskier’s guts.

His search ended abruptly, when instead of finding out who the poet was, Jaskier heard about Eskel being driven out of the town.

He gritted his teeth and left the town to resume his search of Eskel. But even as he left the town behind, he swore to himself that whatever he did, some day he would find the poet and he would make sure they would never write another harmful word about witchers again.

-

Not a week later, a couple of towns over, Jaskier found another poem. The same handwriting, the same sentiment of witchers being resented outcasts.

After that, Jaskier doubled his efforts to sing the witchers’ praises.

Apparently, the unknown poet took that as a challenge. Wherever Jaskier went, it was only a matter of time before the next piece of offending poetry appeared.

The poet should have been easy to find. Poets of all kinds had the convenient habit of making themselves known – Jaskier could attest to that. And yet, this one alluded him time and time again. They were impossible to find. For a brief moment, Jaskier considered the possibility of Valdo Marx being the one writing these horrible things just to spite Jaskier, but even he wouldn’t stoop low enough for such a thing. Valdo had his place in Cidaris and he would never become a travelling bard for such a petty thing. Because that was clearly what this mysterious and hated poet was; travelling, just like Jaskier and yet always one step ahead, always out of reach.

There was no hint as to where the poet would go next. The only pattern Jaskier could find was that they always showed up in towns that remembered a witcher with scars running down his face.

For whatever reason, the poet was targeting Eskel specifically.

So Jaskier did the only thing he could do. If he wasn’t able to tell the poet off face to face, he might answer in the best way he knew how: With his own verses.

Every single poem he came across, Jaskier would reply to with poems of his own – pinned to the boards in the place where the stranger’s poem had hung before Jaskier had torn it off. For good measure, Jaskier would also sing his verses in taverns and market squares, just in case the poet would be able to hear him.

When the stranger that had quickly become Jaskier’s worst enemy, spoke of ugly scars in his lines that twisted every smile into a snarl, Jaskier answered with tales of a witcher’s laughter that was more beautiful and joyful than any coy giggles one would hear at court.

When his enemy talked about witchers being alone and scorned wherever they went, Jaskier sang about how wonderful it felt to call a witcher his friend, how loyal and protective witchers were of those they loved – this of course was underlined with a barely hidden message that Jaskier in turn was very protective of his witchers and would bring anyone down who dared insult them.

This warning evidently wasn’t received, for the next poem Jaskier found spoke of lonely nights and averted eyes.

And the thing was…the more Jaskier read those poems, the more he found that they were true. What could he say to disprove those words that he hated so much? He had seen first-hand how people scuttled away in fear as soon as they sat eyes on a witcher. He knew that right now, without his company, Geralt and Eskel would spend their nights alone, possibly hurt and feeling like they didn’t belong.

As much as Jaskier despised the poet for perpetuating the public’s opinion of witchers, Jaskier had to admit that somehow they had a deep understanding of what a witcher’s life was like, even if they used their insight to do harm.

Jaskier didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Whoever that poet was, he knew. He understood. Maybe even felt the same way.

But that didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

This person was hurting Jaskier’s friends and there was no excuse for that. If he ever met the poet, no word about this irrational fascination would come past his lips. He would make sure that they stopped writing such terrible things and nothing more. They didn’t deserve anything more.

--

There was just one problem…the poetry was good. Brilliant, even. If it weren’t for the horrible subjects, Jaskier might even admire the craftsmanship of the verses.

He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where the poet had learned to write like this. Certainly not at Oxenfurt. Some of these rhyme schemes were similar to ones only found in old elven poetry that had been nearly erased entirely and there were references to some of the poems to literature that had been almost completely lost for ages.

Jaskier almost wanted to sit down with this poet and talk about their craft. Their verses were more expressive than anything Jaskier had ever read and as loath as he was to admit it, some of them brought tears to Jaskier’s eyes with how beautifully worded they were.

It was such a sharp and painful contrast reading those wonderful metaphors and rhymes describing the Path as something gruesome, ugly and hated.

It made Jaskier long for his friends. He wanted to make sure they weren’t alone anymore, that they didn’t have to see only the ugly parts of the Path.

But it also made him want to know more about the poet. Wanted to find out why they sounded so hurt in the way they wrote. He wanted to console and comfort them.

It was an ugly thought and one that Jaskier was ashamed to admit to even himself. So he pushed it into the far back of his mind. This person, whoever they were, wasn’t the one Jaskier should comfort. They were the very reason why Jaskier’s friends felt lonely.

Jaskier would never betray Geralt’s trust by befriending someone like that. Even more, he wouldn’t betray Eskel like that. Beautiful Eskel who was afraid to smile for fear of people flinching back in disgust. Who had been shy and yet excited about talking to Jaskier about poetry.

Jaskier froze and ice spread through his chest. Eskel.

All this time Jaskier had been so fixated on finding the poet that he had completely forgotten that he couldn’t have been the only one who had found their poems. If Jaskier had seen any of them, he would be crushed. Poetry was one of the few things Eskel found enjoyment in while on the Path and this could ruin that for him forever.

That thought was enough for Jaskier to regain his earlier determination. Not a hint of affection for the poet was left in his heart.

--

Except that, as the months dragged on and Jaskier kept replying to the poet’s words, the hint of affection or rather fascination flickered back to life. At some point, the poet had started to respond to Jaskier’s responses. Not openly, of course, but it was obvious in the way they wrote that they were referring to some of the things Jaskier spoke of in his newest songs.

What had started out as a passive-aggressive way for Jaskier to tell the other poet that he despised them, slowly turned into something much different. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Ever so slowly, the subjects of the poet’s verses shifted. True enough, overall they were still about the Path in one way or another, but now the poems about hatred and scorn were interspersed with ones about flowers and occasional appreciation and strangely enough, the joy of knitting. The last one elicited a startled laugh out of Jaskier when he read it and he quickly stopped himself. He couldn’t however keep the smile off his face as he read through that poem again.

Hadn’t this been what Jaskier had wanted all along? It would appear that the poet had finally started to see reason and change the way they thought about witchers.

And now that Jaskier found those other, happier poems, he couldn’t help but see the beauty in their verses. He still kept all of their poems, but now he no longer did so to vanish all traces of them off the earth, but so that he could read them when he felt his own loneliness creep up on him.

Time and time again he let his eyes wander over a poem that talked about the happiness that came with unexpectedly meeting family again that had been longed for. It made Jaskier think about his witchers, about Geralt who had been his best friend for years and about Eskel who Jaskier wished more than anything to meet again someday. And strangely enough, he also thought about the poet, about meeting them and talking about the beautiful things they wrote about.

More than once, Jaskier reached for his quill to put a hidden message about a possible future meeting in his next poem, but every time he stopped himself. He couldn’t do this. Not for as long as he wasn’t sure whether this person had destroyed Eskel’s happiness and the last bit of his already fragile self-esteem.

But then, there was another change, one Jaskier hadn’t expected and that made his heart beat painfully fast in his chest. No longer did the poems speak about vague occurrences of joy and beauty, but of the joy Jaskiergave the poet. About how his voice and his words could make the poet feel like maybe life wasn’t as bleak as they had been told. About how Jaskier’s responses gave them hope. About how they made them feel less alone.

The sincerity and almost admiration in these words startled Jaskier. This wasn’t what he had wanted to do when he had started to respond to the poet. And yet…he couldn’t deny that he too felt a strange sense of companionship whenever he found another one of the poems. As strange as it sounded, but the poet had become the closest Jaskier had to someone he could talk to. Jaskier had no idea where his friends were, but no matter where he went, sooner or later, the poet’s words would reach him again. And damn him, it was nice having someone think of him and craft beautiful verses just for him.

Guilt gnawed at Jaskier’s insides and he wished it would be different, but he found himself looking forward to finding the next poem, always praying with all his might that it wouldn’t be about witchers.

It was nearly autumn when Jaskier found the poem that made his chest tighten with a strange emotion he couldn’t place.

The poem was so full of longing that it became hard for Jaskier to breathe. It was about yearning to meet Jaskier, of seeing his smile and feeling the gentleness of his hands. It was about the soul-crushing knowledge that they would only disappoint Jaskier if they ever met.

Jaskier’s hands trembled as he took that poem off the notice board. He caressed the small picture of the goat that had gone from being a hated mockery to something that made Jaskier smile whenever he saw it.

That night he got so close to telling the poet where to meet them.

The song with the directions was already written and he was already gathering his nerves to prepare himself to sing it the next day, when a sudden gust of wind made the stack of the stranger’s poems Jaskier had kept flutter through the air. Pages upon pages about how witchers were despised, about how they were fated to be alone and how no one would ever be able to see past their hideous scars landed all around Jaskier, accusing him of the betrayal he had almost committed.

His heart dropped like a stone and he forced himself to read through all of the poems again. Every verse, every line, every word that reminded him why he had sworn to himself to never forgive this poet.

When he was done, he stuffed the papers into the bottom of his back, telling himself he didn’t care about them crumbling and tearing.

When he left town, there he left no reply to the poet’s last poem. He only continued reading the notice boards to make sure the poet was still writing about things other than witchers, but Jaskier never responded anymore.

After a while, the poet too stopped writing.

His last poem was but a line, asking whether Jaskier was alright. It was so simple, so obviously worried that it took all of Jaskier’s will power not to respond and let the poet know that he was still there.

By the time it had become clear that no more poems would be written, Jaskier had almost convinced himself that he was happy about never having to hear from them again.

--

Though the thought of the poet didn’t leave Jaskier’s mind, no matter how hard he tried, Jaskier found someone far better.

Not a week after he had severed his connection to the poet for good and was back to performing his old songs about witchers, the door to the tavern Jaskier was playing at opened and a familiar figure entered.

Jaskier’s heart gave a jump and his fingers nearly fumbled when he recognised Eskel. The smile that spread across Jaskier’s face at the sight of the man he had longed to see again faltered, when he took him in more closely. Eskel was guarded most of the time, but now there was something more than that in his expression. He looked almost dejected and he had heavy bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Jaskier’s chest clenched and he had to fight to keep up his happy performance persona. The Path must have been especially unkind to Eskel. Dread clawed at Jaskier’s heart and his voice trembled.

Was this the poet’s doing? Had their words reached Eskel after all and taken away any peace he might have had?

Jaskier’s eyes followed Eskel as he scanned the crowd before his eyes landed on Jaskier. For a heartbeat, something akin to fear flickered across Eskel’s expression, but then his eyes lit up and his shoulders slumped in relief.

As quickly as he could, Jaskier brought his performance to an end, claiming that he needed a break to give his voice some rest. He hurried over to Eskel and practically fell into his arms.

For a moment, Eskel stiffened at the touch, but then he returned the embrace almost desperately and pressed his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

“You’re alright,” Eskel breathed, barely loud enough for Jaskier to hear.

“Of course I am,” Jaskier said as brightly as he could to ease Eskel’s worry and pulled back so he could properly look at Eskel. “Contrary to popular believe, I can go some time without getting into trouble.” He made no effort to try to be subtle about checking Eskel over for injuries. “Out of the two of us, I’m not the one who risks his life every day. What happened to you?”

Eskel stiffened slightly and his eyes shifted to the side, evading Jaskier’s gaze. “Nothing. I was just worried I had lost … a friend.”

Something in Jaskier’s chest softened and as they sat down at a table, Jaskier made a point of sliding in right next to Eskel instead of sitting down opposite of him.

For some inexplicable reason, Eskel still seemed hesitant to touch Jaskier as if he was worried Jaskier might withdraw if Eskel got to close, but his eyes raked over Jaskier as if he wanted to commit every inch of him to memory.

Jaskier scooted closer to Eskel until their thighs touched. He reached for Eskel’s hand and brushed a strand of hair behind his ears while talking about the thing Jaskier had seen since they had last met.

Ever so slowly, Eskel relaxed and leaned into the touch.

What had started as hesitant replies to Jaskier’s numerous questions about the Path quickly became a comfortable conversation, just like they had had when they had last seen each other.

The easiness with which words flowed almost reminded Jaskier of the easy exchange of words he had had with the poet.

He banished the thought as quickly as it had appeared.

He put his attention back to Eskel where it belonged and listened intently as Eskel told him about the monsters he had fought, about the places he had been and about the fact that for some reason, Eskel had been paid in knitting lessons from the very same old lady that had paid Eskel by giving him Lil Bleater a year ago.

As Jaskier laughed at that story and warmth spread through his chest, Eskel too smiled at him. It was a timid, gentle thing, barely enough to lift the edges of his lips properly, but it was big enough to twist the scars. And for once Eskel didn’t seem to mind.

The sight did something strange to Jaskier and suddenly he was filled with the urge to trace these beautiful lips with his thumb.

Eskel must have seen something shift in Jaskier’s expression, for he suddenly stopped talking and his eyes drifted down to Jaskier’s lips.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier whispered. “I love the way you talk. It sounds almost like poetry.”

The hint of a blush crept into Eskel’s cheeks. “I…I could never write something as beautiful as your songs, but…” His lips twitched upwards and he lowered his head slightly. “You are very inspiring Jaskier. The way you talked about poetry…it made me pick up a pen too, after we parted last time.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “You write poetry?”

“Not very well.”

Jaskier knew that his eyes were full of fondness for this wonderful, beautiful witcher, but he didn’t care if he saw. He was too relieved to hear that the poet hadn’t been able to take Eskel’s love for poetry away from him after all.

So fixated on that last piece of bitterness that Jaskier had carefully kept alive to remind himself not to contact the poet again, he couldn’t help the next words from slipping past his lips.

“Whatever you’re writing, I am sure it is better than those horrible poems I have had to read lately.”

Eskel froze and his eyes darted between Jaskier’s.

“What…what poems did you have to read?” His voice sounded strangely thick.

Jaskier’s brows knitted together and he waved his hand through the air dismissively, even as his chest clenched painfully. “Just someone who thought they should post their poetry on notice boards. It’s a good thing no one will ever have to read a word of theirs again.”

Eskel’s face fell and he drew back just enough that he wasn’t touching Jaskier anymore. “You really hated it that much?”

Jaskier huffed out a bitter laugh. “You would have too, if you had seen the things they wrote.”

Even while he said it, Jaskier knew that something was wrong. Eskel’s expression shuttered completely and he turned away from Jaskier.

Jaskier’s insides grew cold. For an uncomfortable moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he sat silently next to Eskel, wrecking his brain trying to figure out where he had messed up. Whatever it had been, it was clear that his presence made Eskel uncomfortable.

A half-hearted excuse left Jaskier, something about having to continue his performance.

Eskel only replied with a silent nod as Jaskier left the table to resume his playing. And when Jaskier risked a glance at their table during a song, he found that Eskel had already left.

Uncaring of the disappointed shouts of his audience, Jaskier’s voice broke off and he hastened back to their now empty table to gather his things.

Whatever he had done, to chase Eskel away, he needed to fix this.

He grabbed his cloak and dropped a couple of coins on the table to pay for the meal he had had earlier, when his eyes fell on something lying on the table. A slip of paper with some flimsy excuse for why Eskel had to leave on it.

For a heartbeat Jaskier only stared at it, uncomprehending what he was seeing.

But there was no two ways about it. The writing that now stared back at Jaskier was the same handwriting he had been reading for the past months. It was the poet’s handwriting.

Without a second thought, Jaskier bolted out of the tavern and after Eskel.

“Wait!” he called out to him when he caught sight of him disappearing into an alleyway.

His breath came heavy and his lungs burned from the sudden sprint, but Jaskier didn’t stop until he caught up with Eskel who stood with his back to Jaskier, obviously unwilling to face him.

“Eskel,” Jaskier said helplessly. “I-“

“I’m sorry,” Eskel interrupted and his shoulders tensed. “I didn’t know – If I had known how much you hated the poems I would have stopped.”

For the first time since Jaskier could remember, he found no words. His mind was racing, connecting memories to his knew knowledge and making connections where before there had been nothing but false conclusions.

Jaskier’s uncharacteristic silence must have been reply enough for Eskel, for he half-turned to him, just enough for Jaskier to see his scars.

“I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” Eskel said quietly and his voice was tight. “I am sorry I made you miserable with my poems all these months. I’ll stop. I promise, you won’t have to read anything like that again. You won’t even have to see me. I just…after I didn’t hear from you again, I needed to make sure you were still alive.”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier said, voice breaking. “You didn’t make my life miserable. But they sounded….Eskel, why did your poems sound like yourlife was miserable? Why would you say such horrible things about yourself?”

Eskel flinched and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I didn’t know what else to write about. There wasn’t much else. Until…” Eskel’s voice trailed off.

“Until you wrote about flowers and knitting and family,” Jaskier ended softly for him.

Eskel nodded and Jaskier felt tears pricking at his eyes. “I loved them. And knowing that they came from you, that you are the one who found happiness out there, you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Without meaning to, Jaskier reached out for Eskel’s hand and before he knew it, Eskel had threaded their fingers together and turned to face Jaskier fully. They were so close. Jaskier could see every speck of gold in Eskel’s eyes as they flickered down to his lips.

“Jaskier.” His voice was hoarse and he looked like it took all his strength to say the one word. Slowly, Eskel leaned forward, and Jaskier could feel his heart skip a beat and his breath hitch. Eskel’s eyes widened and he drew back abruptly.

“I am sorry,” Eskel blurted out.

Jaskier’s brows drew together and he tried to follow Eskel’s movement and close the gap between them again.

“Why? Eskel, what could you possibly have to be sorry about?”

An unreadyable expression flashed across Eskel’s face. “About this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “And about my last poems. I didn’t think you’d ever find out they were from me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It took Jaskier a second to understand what he meant, but when he did, his heart broke for the poet who had longed to feel Jaskier’s touch; for Eskel who had been scared that he would only disappoint.

Carefully, Jaskier lifted his hand, giving Eskel time to refuse the touch. When his hand settled on Eskel’s skin and gently caressed Eskel’s scars, Jaskier could feel Eskel’s shuddering breath ghost across Jaskier’s skin and Eskel closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“You could never disappoint,” Jaskier whispered. “Never you.”

“Does that mean you didn’t mind those poems?” Eskel’s voice was filled with barely restrained hope.

Jaskier let out a huffed laugh. “Oh, I did very much mind them. For so long I had wanted to punch my poet in the face for what they wrote. And those letters…they made me want to kiss them.”

Eskel’s eyes snapped open. “You-“ he broke off, a bittersweet smile on his face. His next words were so quiet that Jaskier couldn’t be sure he was even meant to hear them. “At least I could make you want me as someone else.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. His fingers slid down Eskel’s face, before they came to rest at the corner of Eskel’s lips.

“Oh Eskel,” Jaskier breathed, stepping impossibly closer. “The one thing holding me back was the thought that it wasn’t you.”

“Jaskier…” Eskel came no further. Before any more words of fear or self-doubt could leave him, Jaskier pressed his lips against Eskel’s.

Eskel let out a soft gasp, before returning the kiss, only interrupting it for long enough to whisper words to Jaskier that were simpler and yet more beautiful than any poem could be.

For the first time in what felt like too long, Jaskier responded to his poet’s words, with the same simple words that made Eskel’s face light up in a way that made Jaskier doubt that he would ever write about loneliness and feeling unlovable ever again.

[yamayuandadu]

Circe by Madeline Miller: a review

As you might have noticed, a few of my most recent posts were more or less a liveblog of Madeline Miller’s novel Circe. However, as they hardly exhausted the subject, a proper review is also in order. You can find it under the “read more” button. All sorts of content warnings apply because this book takes a number of turns one in theory can expect from Greek mythology but which I’d hardly expect to come up in relation to Circe. I should note that this is my first contact with this author’s work. I am not familiar with Miller’s more famous, earlier novel Song of Achilles - I am not much of an Iliad aficionado, truth to be told. I read the poem itself when my literature class required it, but it left no strong impact on me, unlike, say, the Epic of Gilgamesh or, to stay within the theme of Greek mythology, Homeric Hymn to Demeter, works which I read at a similar point in my life on my own accord.

What motivated me to pick up this novel was the slim possibility that for once I’ll see my two favorite Greek gods in fiction, these being Hecate and Helios (in case you’re curious: #3 is Cybele but I suspect that unless some brave soul will attempt to adapt Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, she’ll forever be stuck with no popcultural presence outside Shin Megami Tensei). After all, it seemed reasonable to expect that Circe’s father will be involved considering their relationship, while rarely discussed in classical sources, seems remarkably close. Hesiod’s Catalogue of Women and Apollonius’ Argonautica describe Circe arriving on her island in her father’s solar chariot, while Ptolemy Hephaestion (as quoted by Photius) notes that Helios protected her home during the Gigantomachy. Helios, for all intents and purposes, seems like a decent dad (and, in Medea’s case, grandpa) in the source material even though his most notable children (and granddaughter) are pretty much all cackling sorcerers, not celebrated heroes. How does Miller’s Helios fare, compared to his mythical self? Not great, to put it lightly, as you’ll see later. As for Hecate… she’s not even in the book. Let me preface the core of the review by saying I don’t think reinterpreting myths, changing relations between figures, etc. is necessarily bad - ancient authors did it all the time, and modern adaptations will inevitably do so too, both to maintain internal coherence and perhaps to adjust the stories to a modern audience, much like ancient authors already did. I simply don’t think this book is successful at that. The purpose of the novel is ostensibly to elevate Circe above the status of a one-dimensional minor antagonist - but to accomplish this, the author mostly demonizes her family and a variety of other figures, so the net result is that there are more one dimensional female villains, not less. I expected the opposite, frankly. The initial section of the novel focuses on Circe’s relationship with her family, chiefly with her father. That’s largely uncharted territory in the source material - to my knowledge no ancient author seemed particularly interested in covering this period in her life. Blank pages of this sort are definitely worth filling. To begin with, Helios is characterized as abusive, neglectful and power-hungry. And also, for some reason, as Zeus’ main titan ally in the Titanomachy - a role which Hesiod attributes to Hecate… To be fair I do not think it’s Hesiod who serves as the primary inspiration here, as it’s hard to see any traces of his account - in which Zeus wins in no small part because he promises the lesser titans higher positions that they had under Cronus - in Miller’s version of events. Only Helios and Oceanus keep their share, and are presented as Zeus’ only titan allies (there’s a small plot hole as Selene appears in the novel and evidently still is the moon…) - contrary to just about any portrayal of the conflict, in which many titans actually side with Zeus and his siblings. Also, worth noting that in Hesiod’s version it’s not Oceanus himself who cements the pact with Zeus, it’s his daughter Styx - yes, -that- Styx. Missed opportunity to put more focus on female mythical figures - first of many in this work, despite many reviews praising it as “feminist.” Of course, it’s not all about Helios. We are quickly introduced to a variety of female characters as well (though, as I noted above, none of these traditionally connected to the Titanomachy despite it being a prominent aspect of the book’s background). They are all somewhat repetitive - to the point of being basically interchangeable. Circe’s mother is vain and cruel; so is Scylla. And Pasiphae. There’s no real indication of any hostility between Circe and any of her siblings in classical sources, as far as I am aware, but here it’s a central theme. The subplots pertaining to it bear an uncanny resemblance to these young adult novels in which the heroine, who is Not Like Other Girls, confronts the Chads and Stacies of the world, and I can’t shake off the feelings that it’s exactly what it is, though with superficial mythical flourish on top. I should note that Pasiphae gets a focus arc of sorts - which to my surprise somehow manages to be more sexist than the primary sources. A pretty famous tidbit repeated by many ancient authors is that Pasiphae cursed her husband Minos, regarded as unfaithful, to kill anyone else he’d have sex with with his… well, bodily fluids. Here she does it entirely  because she’s a debased sadist and not because unfaithfulness is something one can be justifiably mad about. You’d think it would be easy to put a sympathetic spin on this. But the book manages to top that in the very same chapter - can’t have Pasiphae without the Minotaur (sadly - I think virtually everything else about Pasiphae and Minos is more fun than that myth but alas) so in a brand new twist on this myth we learn that actually the infamous affair wasn’t a curse placed on Pasiphae by Poseidon or Aphrodite because of some transgression committed by Minos. She’s just wretched like that by nature. I’m frankly speechless, especially taking into account the book often goes out of its way to present deities in the worst light possible otherwise, and which as I noted reviews praise for its feminist approach - I’m not exactly sure if treating Pasiphae worse than Greek and Roman authors did counts as that.  I should note this is not the only instance of… weirdly enthusiastic references to carnal relations between gods and cattle in this book, as there’s also a weird offhand mention of Helios being the father of his own cows. This, as far as I can tell, is not present in any classical sources and truth to be told I am not a huge fan of this invention. I won’t try to think about the reason behind this addition to maintain my sanity. Pasiphae aside - the author expands on the vague backstory Circe has in classical texts which I’ve mentioned earlier. You’d expect that her island would be a gift from her father - after all many ancient sources state that he provided his children and grandchildren with extravagant gifts. However, since Helios bears little resemblance to his mythical self, Aeaea is instead a place of exile here, since Helios hates Circe and Zeus is afraid of witchcraft and demands such a solution (the same Zeus who, according to Hesiod, holds Hecate in high esteem and who appeared with her on coins reasonably commonly… but hey, licentia poetica, this idea isn’t necessarily bad in itself). Witchcraft is presented as an art exclusive to Helios’ children here - Hecate is nowhere to be found, it’s basically as if her every role in Greek mythology was surgically removed. A bit of a downer, especially since at least one text - I think Ovid’s Metarphoses? - Circe directly invokes Hecate during her confrontation with king Picus (Surprisingly absent here despite being a much more fitting antagonist for Circe than many of the characters presented as her adversaries in this novel…) Of course, we also learn about the origin of Circe’s signature spell according to ancient sources, changing people into animals. It actually takes the novel a longer while to get there, and the invented backstory boils down to Circe getting raped. Despite ancient Greek authors being rather keen on rape as plot device, to my knowledge this was never a part of any myth about Circe. Rather odd decision to put it lightly but I suppose at least there was no cattle involved this time, perhaps two times was enough for the author. Still, I can’t help but feel like much like many other ideas present in this book it seems a bit like the author’s intent is less elevating the Circe above the role of a one note witch antagonist, but rather punishing her for being that. The fact she keeps self loathing about her origin and about not being human doesn’t exactly help to shake off this feeling. This impression that the author isn’t really fond of Circe being a wacky witch only grows stronger when Odysseus enters the scene. There was already a bit of a problem before with Circe’s life revolving around love interests before - somewhat random ones at that (Dedalus during the Pasiphae arc and Hermes on and off - not sure what the inspiration for either of these was) - but it was less noticeable since it was ultimately in the background and the focus was the conflict between Circe and Helios, Pasiphae, etc. In the case of Odysseus it’s much more notable because these subplots cease to appear for a while. As a result of meeting him, Circe decides she wants to experience the joys of motherhood, which long story short eventually leads to the birth of Telegonus, who does exactly what he was famous for. The final arcs have a variety of truly baffling plot twists which didn’t really appeal to me, but which I suppose at least show a degree of creativity - better than just turning Helios’ attitude towards his children upside down for sure. Circe ends up consulting an oc character who I can only describe as “stingray Cthulhu.” His presence doesn’t really add much, and frankly it feels like yet another wasted opportunity to use Hecate, but I digress. Oh, also in another twist Athena is recast as the villain of the Odyssey. Eventually Circe gets to meet Odysseus’ family, for once interacts with another female character on positive terms (with Penelope, to be specific) and… gets together with Telemachus, which to be fair is something present in many ancient works but which feels weird here since there was a pretty long passage about Odysseus describing him as a child to Circe. I think I could live without it. Honestly having her get together with Penelope would feel considerably less weird, but there are no lesbians in the world of this novel. It would appear that the praise for Song of Achilles is connected to the portrayal of gay relationships in it. Can’t say that this applies to Circe - on this front we have an offhand mention of Hyacinth's death. which seems to serve no real purpose other than establishing otherwise irrelevant wind god is evil, and what feels like an advert for Song of Achilles courtesy of Odysseus, which takes less than one page. Eventually Circe opts to become mortal to live with Telemachus and denounces her father and… that’s it. This concludes the story of Circe. I don’t exactly think the original is the deepest or greatest character in classical literature, but I must admit I’d rather read about her wacky witch adventures than about Miller’s Circe. A few small notes I couldn’t fit elsewhere: something very minor that bothered me a lot but that to be honest I don’t think most readers will notice is the extremely chaotic approach to occasional references to the world outside Greece - Sumer is randomly mentioned… chronologically after Babylon and Assyria, and in relation to Persians (or rather - to Perses living among them). At the time we can speak of “Persians” Sumerian was a dead language at best understood by a few literati in the former great cities of Mesopotamia so this is about the same as if a novel about Mesopotamia mentioned Macedonians and then completely randomly Minoans at a chronologically later point. Miller additionally either confused or conflated Perses, son of Perseus, who was viewed positively and associated with Persia (so positively that Xerxes purportedly tried to use it for propaganda purposes!) with Perses the obscure brother of Circe et. al, who is a villain in an equally obscure myth casting Medea as the heroine, in which he rules over “Tauric Chersonese,” the Greek name of a part of Crimea. I am honestly uncertain why was he even there as he amounts to nothing in the book, and there are more prominent minor children of Helios who get no mention (like Aix or Phaeton) so it’s hard to argue it was for the sake of completion. Medea evidently doesn’t triumph over him offscreen which is his sole mythical purpose. Is there something I liked? Well, I’m pretty happy Selene only spoke twice, considering it’s in all due likeness all that spared her from the fate of receiving similarly “amazing” new characterization as her brother. As is, she was… okay. Overall I am definitely not a fan of the book. As for its purported ideological value? It certainly has a female main character. Said character sure does have many experiences which are associated with women. However, I can’t help but think that the novel isn’t exactly feminist - it certainly focuses on Circe, but does it really try to “rehabilitate” her? And is it really “rehabilitation” and feminist reinterpretation when almost every single female character in the book is the same, and arguably depicted with even less compassion than in the source material?  It instead felt like the author’s goal is take away any joy and grandeur present in myths, and to deprive Circe of most of what actually makes her Circe. We don’t need to make myths joyless to make them fit for a new era. It’s okay for female characters to be wacky one off villains and there’s no need to punish them for it. A book which celebrates Circe for who she actually is in the Odyssey and in other Greek sources - an unapologetic and honestly pretty funny character -  would feel much more feminist to me that a book where she is a wacky witch not because she feels like it but because she got raped, if you ask me. 

Circe evidently having the time of her life, by Edmund Dulac (public domain)

[wither-rose-circus]

*slides into DMs*

Hello there, I would like to hear about your Listener Jimmy ideas

Disclaimer: this got really long I am So Sorry

So I’m not skimming through Jimmy’s entire series to get his full relationship with either entities it’s 100+ episodes long like Jesus fucking Christ but I did skim through a handful of videos to get a basic understanding

And I noticed they did mention Jimmy in the end credits, but I think what’s noteworthy is that they didn’t specifically praise him for anything like the others, only scolding him.

I assume that’s partially why the Listeners chose him.

For context, though, I wanna clarify my general Listener headcanons

• The Listeners are to the Nether what the Watchers are to the End

That is not to say they are from the Nether, but that it is their domain. Both the Nether and the End are (or were, in the Nether’s case) total wastelands. From what I understand, the series hinted at some sort of war between the two factions. That is what I believe caused these two lands to be destroyed. Prior to 1.16, the residents of the Nether were diseased and undead, hinting that some kind of disaster happened (Even now, the achievement for finding a bastion references some war among the Piglins, the End Cities have airships and are decked out with leftover enchanted diamond armor, etc). Now, what in the Nether has to do with the Listeners?

• The Listeners are related to Ghasts

Now I know that sounds weird, but hear me out. The description for the achievement Uneasy Alliance goes as follows: Rescue a ghast from the Nether, bring it safely home to the Overworld... and then kill it. This directly implies that ghasts are not native to the Nether, but to the overworld. Now what are ghasts obviously inspired by? Ghosts. What is the Nether obviously inspired by? Hell. What do you get when you put that together? Ghasts are player souls trapped in the Nether. How does this related to the Listeners? The Listeners had their souls trapped within the Nether in the form of ghasts in an attempt to wipe them out. Only some were eventually able to regain their senses and escape the Nether via players’ portals. But why were they trapped?

• The Listeners oppose the Watchers because they believe the Watchers are taking away players’ autonomy

This is less headcanon and more directly reading into the series. The Listeners tell the evolutionists that they need to take back their freedom, that the Watchers are controlling. My personal interpretation of the Watchers is that they are “Awoken,” which is based on how the credits poem references players awaking from dreams. They are essentially the end goal of that process. When a player passes through the portal in the End, the Watchers judge their soul and decide whether or not to awaken them. This leads to them ascending to the Aether (yes, that Aether), which they believe is the “perfect” version of the game (everyone being in creative and thus unable to fight or be hurt, constantly daytime so no mobs, access to the creative inventory to do whatever they please, etc). Now, how did they know what the Watchers were doing in the first place?

• The Listeners are former Watchers

Due to their similar designs, I believe Listeners are simply rebellious Watchers who believe no one group should have control over a player’s life. After the war, they were subsequently banished to the Nether, which has only recently begun to recover. However, this separation left them stripped of the Watcher’s all seeing eyes. This led them to utilize sound to more discretely convey their messages. They have dedicated themselves to “freeing” players from the Watchers’ grasps and recruiting whatever souls they can still get their hands on. This is where Jimmy finally comes in.

The Evolution server was unique in that the players brought to it were specifically chosen to be tested. It was essentially a recruitment effort. The Watchers state that choosing to take Grian was a difficult decision, likely meaning they assessed each one individually. Due to their dismissal of Jimmy, I take it he was not heavily considered. This negligence is what allowed the Listeners to latch onto Jimmy.

Jimmy arrives in the Evolutionist’s old spawn before any of them arrive. We know it was before because Jimmy placed the enderchests the Listeners gifted the rest of the team and because, upon returning in his next episode, the Listeners’ symbol is replaced with that of the Watchers. However, when the evolutionists show up, he’s nowhere to be found, only making his way back with the signs they left. But Jimmy’s videos imply he never really left the main area, so something happened to him between that cut. This is where I believe Jimmy was “marked” by the Listeners.

So now, tumblr user Harley the Pancake, I am so sorry I’ve rambled for like 3 pages without answering the question, but these are my headcanons for pseudo-Listener Jimmy, specifically in the context of 3rd Life:

• Jimmy has bouts of auditory foresight. They’re not consistent, but tend to happen in relation to bad things. This is why he got so defensive towards the Red Army. He foresaw them, specifically Ren and Martyn, killing Scott. However, these flashes are purely auditory, so he had no context as to how or why they killed Scott. His own paranoid imagination applied the idea of Scott being sacrificed (Ironically, this actually sealed Scott’s fate, as neither of them would’ve been killed the way they were had they joined the Red Army). Jimmy is not fully conscious of this ability and tends to chalk it up to gut feelings.

• Jimmy has Nether traits. This comes from more general evolutionary traits you would expect from having lived in a place like the Nether. Not being very affected by heat, more resilient to lava (yes I know that’s ironic for his first death to be lava but I said resilient, not immune), piglins are less likely to aggro on him, etc.

• Jimmy can understand both Standard Galactic and, to a lesser extent, Piglin. Standard Galactic is something he can read fluently while Piglin is something he can vaguely understand. He can’t speak Piglin because Piglin is a very guttural language and few players have the vocal cords for it. If you asked him how he knows these languages, he wouldn’t have an answer. (I also headcanon Scott to be inhuman in different ways, though, so he also knows Standard Galactic. Jimmy just kinda assumed it must’ve been a normal thing to know.)

• Jimmy vaguely remembers past dreams/lives, most notably sounds. He tends to remember sounds specifically so he gets this intense feeling of deja vu when several server members talk to him.

• Jimmy has incredibly conflicting feelings towards Grian for reasons he can’t explain. On one hand, Jimmy vaguely recognizes Grian as a friend from Evo. On the other, he has this instinctual discomfort due to Grian being a Watcher. He can’t tell Grian is a Watcher, he just gets this strange gut feeling around him. (Grian, on the other hand, is very aware Jimmy is part Listener.)

And that’s all I’ve got for now, sorry for how long this was!

[thholyghsst]

As you say, I do act aggressive. I think the trouble is that my mind, my thinking mind, is aggressive. I am a machine of ideas. I adore (in a funny way) to think.

Ugh, I think I am missing you, & right now! I don’t know why—you are such a contrary creature. But I do.

I tried to tone down the mask and, as you said, “be myself.” If there had been time I would have written you back, “which self????” … but there wasn’t time.

It is kind of like sandpapering a sunburn but I’m doing it.

I’m dropping out of myself. Partly because my mother is dying now and I… I know it’s crazy, but, I feel like it is my fault..

I didn’t say that I have spent two years wishing that you would like me and feeling that instinctively you did not. I didn’t say how I cried the day this summer after leaving your house, because you were such a good man and your home seemed to radiate. I didn’t say that I am surely a fan of yours, a lesser but a firm fan. I didn’t say how welcome you make me feel in your home when you think to include me to a party.

People that belong together, do not need to be glued together. I always have this desperate feeling about time, time passing by and not being able to catch it. But, now that I consider it again, I try to remember that people who belong together do not need to be glued together.

This winter when

cancer began its ugliness

I grieved with you each day

for three months

and found you in your private nook

of the medicinal palace

and it walked out at me and grew like a bone inside of my heart.

The trouble is that I am crazy and the room, ah, my own room drinks me.

The trouble is that I love you and I just WON’T be thrown out. In the first place, I did kind of walk out on my own and you didn’t even know it.

Then I’ll have something concrete to fret about. But then, lust is so inadequate. And loving exhausts me.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

Tear this letter up too. Even my letters are incoherent. I meant to write a sensible note. But can’t. I’m not in love with you but I seem to keep acting that way. If I ever figure it out I’ll let you know.

Whatever I have written you, disregard. I have no right to offer you my mumblings. They mean nothing—just the miasma of madness. I’m just writing as a poet. And as a poet, and person I’m bonged on the head. And even this is unimportant. The thing that matters is that anyone wrote it ever.

You are a good boy. You are good for me.

I’ve had this letter on my desk for two days, hesitating to mail it and planning to rewrite it. It sounds a little conceited or “I can do anything” … and since this is only a now and then mood (soon lost), perhaps I am Manic or something, I didn’t want it to go out … But send it anyhow. The buoyancy was your doing and most of my letters are depressed and full of self doubt.

The words I write in letters are never real anyhow. I hook into my mood and drain it onto the paper. The doubter is back today—but sends this anyway with love—the fact is—I have [not?] written for a month—

God knows what was wrong with me. I just sat in there and cried. For 3 days. I didn’t eat or sleep. I just cried. Then I got hold of myself and got out. My Doctor is against institutions and always persuades me to leave. For 3 days it cost me $92.00 …!!! Pretty expensive tears I would say.

But the greatest self-indulgence was free; Anne loved the sun. No matter when it shone—even in winter, stripped to her underwear, wrapped in her mother’s mink coat, she would sunbathe atop the backyard snowbanks.

Some misty god has shoved me up the ladder and I am my own inheritor … I am going to try and NOT write a poem about it.