#[ myths are what you tell them to be ]

[gingermintpepper]

In my Zeus bag today so I'm just gonna put it out there that exactly none of the great Ancient Greek warrior-heroes stayed loyal and faithful and completely monogamous and yet none of them have their greatness questioned nor do we question why they had the cultural prominence that they did and still do.

Jason, the brilliant leader of the Argo, got cold feet when it came to Medea - already put off by some of her magic and then exiled from his birthland because of her political ploys, he took Creusa to bed and fully intended on marrying her despite not properly dissolving things with Medea.

Theseus was a fierce warrior and an incredibly talented king but he had a horrible temper and was almost fatally weak to women. This is the man who got imprisoned in the Underworld for trying to get a friend laid, the man who started the whole Attic War because he couldn't keep his legs closed.

And we cannot at all forget Heracles for whom a not inconsiderable amount of his joy in life was loving people then losing the people around him that he loved. Wives, children, serving boys, mentors, Heracles had a list of lovers - male and female - long enough to rival some gods and even after completing his labours and coming down to the end of his life, he did not have one wife but three.

And y'know what, just because he's a cultural darling, I'll put Achilles up here too because that man was a Theseus type where he was fantastic at the thing he was born to do (that is, fight whereas Theseus' was to rule) but that was not enough to eclipse his horrid temper and his weakness to young pretty things. This is the man that killed two of Apollo's sons because they wouldn't let him hit - Tenes because he refused to let Achilles have his sister and Troilus who refused Achilles so vehemently that he ran into Apollo's temple to avoid him and still couldn't escape.

All four of these men are still celebrated as great heroes and men. All four of these men are given the dignity of nuance, of having their flaws treated as just that, flaws which enrich their character and can be used to discuss the wider cultural point of what truly makes a hero heroic. All four of these men still have their legacies respected.

Why can that same mindset not be applied to Zeus? Zeus, who was a warrior-king raised in seclusion apart from his family. Zeus who must have learned to embrace the violence of thunder for every time he cried as a babe, the Corybantes would bang their shields to hide the sound. Zeus learned to be great because being good would not see the universe's affairs in its order.

The wonderful thing about sympathy is that we never run out of it. There's no rule stopping us from being sympathetic to multiple plights at once, there's no law that necessitate things always exist on the good-evil binary. Yes, Zeus sentenced Prometheus to sufferation in Tartarus for what (to us) seems like a cruel reason. Prometheus only wanted to help humans! But when you think about Prometheus' actions from a king's perspective, the narrative is completely different: Prometheus stole divine knowledge and gifted it to humans after Zeus explicitly told him not to. And this was after Prometheus cheated all the gods out of a huge portion of wealth by having humans keep the best part of a sacrifice's meat while the gods must delight themselves with bones, fat and skin. Yes, Zeus gave Persephone away to Hades without consulting Demeter but what king consults a woman who is not his wife about the arrangement of his daughter's marriage to another king? Yes, Zeus breaks the marriage vows he set with Hera despite his love of her but what is the Master of Fate if not its staunchest slave?

The nuance is there. Even in his most bizarre actions, the nuance and logic and reason is there. The Ancient Greeks weren't a daft people, they worshipped Zeus as their primary god for a reason and they did not associate him with half the vices modern audiences take issue with. Zeus was a father, a visitor, a protector, a fair judge of character, a guide for the lost, the arbiter of revenge for those that had been wronged, a pillar of strength for those who needed it and a shield to protect those who made their home among the biting snakes. His children were reflections of him, extensions of his will who acted both as his mercy and as his retribution, his brothers and sisters deferred to him because he was wise as well as powerful. Zeus didn't become king by accident and it is a damn shame he does not get more respect.

[ardenzia777]

I wanna know if you have an Antinous design! hehehe :]

I've got two actually, a put together version and a more ragged messy version. Both drawn because some friends of mine requested i draw Antinous. I'll post the full drawings of some of em on my bluesky one was a private gift for a friend so i'll wait till i get their permission before i fully post it uwu

[my-lover]

house is unapologetically needy; he demands things of people, and will simply leave if he doesn't get them. everybody knows this, sure. but so many neglect to mention that wilson is just the equally screwed up inverse of this. he needs to be needed - he demands to be needed, just as much as house demands to be needy. and, just like house, he is willing to up and leave if he doesn't get to be needed in the way he craves

it's like wilson believes he will cease to exist if he is no longer needed. here's a man who was raised to.. be things for other people, never for himself. and the one time he puts himself first, back in med school, his brother goes off the rails, rarely seen again. he does not know how to exist for himself, and so he believes he simply will not exist if no one needs him. and so, he desires to be useful above all else. it's the only way he survives. he became an oncologist to always be needed, to always have something to give

in greek mythology, there is the idea that gods will simply fade into the background if people stop worshipping them, needing them. and this can be applied to wilson's mentality. he believes that he has no purpose without being useful to others, without serving others. sure, his ex wives needed him. but as they grew up and apart, this became less and less, so he left them first, before they could admit what he feared most - that he wasn't necessary anymore

and who always needs him ? who is demanding, domineering ? who is so needy that his well of want will never run out ? house. this is simply why they work so well. they crave each other's neediness and thrive off of it. universal donor & universal recipient, etc

[seleneprince]

A Court of Shadows and Blood Chapter 1

Prologue

Nesta already expected the worst when she set off for the Wall.

But she couldn't have ever imagined this.

She's laying in a pristine, king-sized bed with sheets made of the most exquisite silk her skin has ever touched, in the middle of a massive room with some lit candles floating around, giving off an mysterious allure to the place. In theory, this should be a dream come true.

Except it's not.

Nesta grits her teeth, tugging futilely against the chain that keeps her bound to the bed by the ankle. The metal bites into her skin, and she feels the sting of each small movement, a constant reminder of her captivity. The luxury of the room, which once would've made her swoon, only added fuel to her anger now.

The elegance, the refined decoration around her felt like a mockery of her situation.

She scans the room, searching for anything that might help her break the cursed chain. The candles that hover mid-air cast a soft, golden glow, and the shadows they create dance across the stone ceiling. There are no windows, so the only exit is the door. Not that it matters; even if she managed to break free from the chain, there's no telling what—or who—would await her out there.

Her thoughts drift back to that damned Fae male, the one who’d dragged her here. His sharp, predatory smile, the cold amusement in his voice as he taunted her. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her chin, the way his magic had restrained her so effortlessly. A shiver runs through her at the memory, but she quickly suppresses it, forcing herself to think clearly. She can’t panic. Panic is useless.

She pulls at the chain again, testing its strength, but it doesn't give, and her skin is already red from the many previous attempts. Frustration bubbles inside her, and she digs her nails into her palms, trying to keep her mind from spiraling. There has to be a way out of this. There always is.

She tries to think what would Feyre do. Knowing that little beast, she probably would've found a way out of this already, and the thought makes her heart ache.

Feyre. Wild, unruly, stupidly brave Feyre. Her little sister who took the burden that belonged to their father and carried the family on her shoulders since they arrived to that filthy cottage. Her sister, who in her task to bring them food, provoked a powerful Fae beast and was taken away from her house in front of them. In front of Nesta.

It had been worse when she realized neither Elain or their useless father knew the truth . The next day, Nesta was subjected to excited talks about how lucky Feyre have been to be taken by some rich aunt Nesta knew nothing of, how some winter breeze had shattered their door. It got to the point Nesta really thought she was going mad, that what she vividly remembered from that night never happened. But whenever these thoughts pestered her, she looked at claws marked on the table, and knew she was right.

Then that weird stranger appeared at their door and asked their father to invest his money for him with a too good of an offer. And when money started pouring in like old times, allowing them to move to a beautiful mansion, Nesta snapped. She couldn't handle living in that bubble of deceit her family seemed blissfully trapped in.

Her sister had been stolen away that night, yet everything went on as if it had never happened. It wasn’t right. It was utterly, completely wrong. And she was the only one aware of it.

Nesta decided it right there and then. She went up to that mercenary from town and hired her to act as guide through the unfamiliar winter woods. Towards the Wall. The woman insisted there was no way through, but Nesta was determined. That Fae had to go through that way to take Feyre with him. There had to be some kind of entrance. A hidden path, or a secret door. Something.

Then she heard a voice, calling her from afar—a soft, indecipherable echo that sounded a bit too much like Feyre, making her walk towards it without hesitation. Had she stopped to think for a second, Nesta would've have realized that the air was filled with the same energy as that Fae's spell at the cottage, which, for some reason, didn’t affect her in the slightest.

But she was tired and eager to see Feyre again, to bring her back home once and for all. Whatever shields had protected her before against the influence of a Fae had weakened. And before she realized it, a blinding light struck her face with force, making her trip and stumble backward. She opened her eyes to a dark forest that looked straight out of a nightmare, with no sight of Feyre or the mercenary.

She fell into a trap. Probably set up by the same horrible Fae that cornered her. Or maybe it had been her imagination, a product of her stressed mind leading her to disaster.

It doesn't matter anymore.

With a deep breath, she refocuses, taking in her surroundings once more. If she can figure out where she is—or at least what he wants from her—she might be able to turn the situation in her favor. She’s survived worse odds on her way to the Wall. And she refuses to be a helpless, weak girl to be saved by someone else. Not anymore.

Suddenly, the candles go off and the whole room is coveted in darkness. Nesta grasps the bedsheets instinctively, as her eyes can no longer see what's around her. She needs to ground herself, ignore the strong drumming of her heart that resonates in the room through the heavy silence that reigns now.

She goes still, blood freezing in her body. There's no way to know what's happening and it drives her mad. ¿Has her time finally come? Has that twisted man grown sick of keeping her alive? She still remembers the stories told of what happens to the humans in Prythian. Ripped apart and their remains wasting in some Fae's stomach. Is this how it ends for her, really?

Her body shivers. Something has moved right besides her. She holds her breath, waiting for her painful demise.

"Did you miss me, dear?"

It takes her some seconds to recognize the voice. Her fear is guttered with a wave of rage when that bastard chuckles.

The fireplace crackles with a burst of flames, bringing some light back to the room. Nesta makes a show of slowly turning her heard towards him, as if he's the most uninteresting thing here.

He stands there, leaning casually against the bed post, his silhouette outlined by the flickering flames. That damnable smirk is plastered on his face, his eyes glinting with mischief as he watches her reaction. He looks far too pleased with himself, like a cat that’s cornered a mouse, and she feels the urge to strangle him with the chain.

“Sorry, did I scare you? Forgive me.” he asks, voice low and mocking. “You looked so... tense. I wanted to surprise you.” He takes a step closer, his boots silent against the polished floor, the shadows curling around his feet like living things.

Nesta’s hands grip the sheets tighter, her nails digging into the fabric as she forces herself to maintain her composure. She can't let him see how shaken she is, how his little game rattled her. Instead, she cocks her head, falling back into the cold indifference that's part of her.

“What do you want now?” she snaps, her voice harsher than she intends, but it’s better than letting him hear her true emotions. “If you plan to kill me, just do it already. You're wasting both of our times.”

He laughs, the sound rich and infuriating, filling the space between them. “Now, where would be the fun in that, dear? Specially after the trouble it took to bring you here.” He takes another step forward , the firelight casting sharp angles across his face, highlighting the dangerous amusement in his expression. “You’re far too interesting to rot so soon. You see, it gets rather boring around here, day after day, and you'll help me with that."

She feels the chain tug against her ankle as she instinctively tries to shift back, the bite of metal sending a jolt of pain up her leg. She grits her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince. Instead, she meets his gaze head-on, letting her fury show. “You should look for better hobbies."

He shrugs, the motion casual, but she catches the glint of menace beneath the veneer of nonchalance. “Maybe, but you're the first thing to truly entertain me in fifty years. You ought to be worried that it remains that way, little thing. If you can't, well..."

He doesn't continue, but Nesta knows what he means. If she can't be of use to him, there's no point in letting her live then. She's stuck being his personal plaything, and expected to act accordingly, or else she'll die. She doesn't know how it is dying by a Fae's hands but she knows it won't be merciful in her case. He'll take his time with her, surely to amuse himself until the end.

He squints his eyes at her, burrows furrowing. His expression turns more serious, focused even. As if he's trying to find something in her.

Nesta doesn't look away, shoving her fear back down from the millionth time and pulling of every fiber of stubborness within her to stand her ground.

He huffs. Then leans his knee on the bed, slowly moving closer to her until his face hovers inches above hers, the heat of his breath mingling with her own. She lays back on her hands, her breath falling short when she realizes she's caged between him and the damn bed. His violet eyes are piercing her, staring at her unblinking.

Nesta's heart stutters in her chest, but keeps her expression locked in a mask of indifference.

The bed dips slightly under his weight as he inches closer, the shadows casting dark, flickering shapes across his already inhuman features. Her pulse pounds in her ears, each beat echoing in the silence that hangs between them. But she refuses to flinch, refuses to give him any satisfaction of seeing how vulnerable she feels.

"Interesting," he mutters, cocking his head slightly. "I can't hear you at all."

Nesta frowns, reading his comment as another mockering, but pauses when a flash of confusion blinks in his eyes for a second.

"What do you-?"

"I felt something was off earlier, but I didn't think-" he shakes his head, somehow without interrupting his intense stare. "Sweet Mother, you're full of surprises."

Nesta blinks, unable to hide her confusion at the moment. He seems to notice and lets out a light chuckle. A sound almost human.

"Let me guess, do you see through glamours too by chance?" A hint of genuine curiosity in his voice, as if he's just asking about the color of her dress.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She doesn't like this. It feels like he's figuring out something about herself that she doesn't know. It unsettles her.

He lifts a groomed, dark brow. "Have you ever witnessed something really strange that you had no explanation for, but no one else noticed? Things that just didn't make sense in your mind?"

A shattered door. Claw marks on the table. A rich aunt Nesta never heard of before but suddenly everyone knows.

A roaring beast that steals little sisters away in front of their families and no one else remembers.

Her mouth dries up.

"What do you mean?" She manages to get out.

He clicks his tongue. "Stop it. You know exactly what I mean, don't you?"

"Frankly, I don't understand a single thing you say or do. Nor I want to."

He purses his lip. "I could peel your skin off from talking to me like that, little thing."

She gulps, lifting her chin up. "And what's stopping you?"

He sits up, creating some distance between them. Nesta feels like she can breathe again.

"There are better ways to discipline pets. Besides," he drawls. "I'll hate to spill blood in my bed."

She grits her teeth, terror and rage tangled within her. Of course, that would be the main concern for an egotistical, twisted monster like him.

Wait.

He said his bed.

Suddenly, the chain feels like it’s burning, and not because she’s pulling it. A wave of shame, disgust, and fury creeps over her skin.

"You son of a bitch." She doesn't even think how improper it is to curse like that, how dissapointed her mother would be. She lunges at him, catching him by surprise enough to wrap her hands around his throat.

Blood is rushing to her ears. His bed. He chained her up to his bed. It all dawns to her. Calling her pet. All those suggestive taunts. Getting all over her personal space.

It seems like men are all the same, regardless of the race.

She won't let it happen. Absolutely not. He's writhing under her, grabbing her wrists painfully hard, but she ignores it. He didn't see it coming, which gives Nesta the advantage she needs.

She'll kill him before he gets to lay a singer finger on her. Fae, deadly as they are, are still made of skin that can bleed. And bones that can be broken.

Nesta's fingers dig into his throat, her nails pressing against his skin as she leans all her weight into her grip. Her pulse thunders in her ears, drowning out everything but the single-minded determination to stop him—forever. The fury coursing through her is a potent fire, pushing aside all rational thought.

He snarls beneath her, his fingers biting into her wrists in an attempt to pry her hands away, but she holds on with a ferocity that surprises them both. His skin is warm beneath her touch, too human for someone like him. The thought only fuels her, and she presses harder, her knuckles whitening with the strain.

"Enough," he growls, his voice tight, his eyes darkening with anger. But she doesn’t stop; she won’t stop. She’ll make him pay for every single one of his twisted words, his taunts, his degradation. She’s done letting men think they have any right over her.

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes—understanding? Perhaps even a touch of respect? But he grins up at her, a cruel, sharp smile that twists his handsome face into something chilling. With a swift, forceful move, he shifts beneath her, breaking her hold and pinning her wrists above her head with ease, trapping her in place beneath him.

Nesta resists with all her desesperation, kicking and scratching, her efforts becoming obviously futile. He has an inhuman strenght, not to mention his powers, but it'll be a cold day in hell before she gives up.

"Well, well," he murmurs, a wicked grin in his mouth, "and here I thought you couldn't surprise me more."

She glares up at him, her fury still burning, her breathing ragged, unyielding. She feels no regret. Whatever happens now, she'll face it with dignity.

His grip tightens, but she doesn't waver.

"You think you’re so brave, right?" he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. It’s almost gentle, deceptively soft, but she can hear the threat coiling beneath it. She pissed him off.

He leans in close, the shadow of his breath against her cheek. His lips brush her ear as he speaks, the touch so light it’s barely there. "But I wonder… how much of that is real? And how much is just an act to protect your pride?"

Nesta swallows, her throat suddenly dry, but she manages to keep her voice steady. "Why don’t you try me and find out?" she bites out, her tone cold and daring, even as she feels the tremor building in her hands.

It's foolish, really. She has no way of defending herself, even if she wasn't chained. There's nothing for him to find out.

His smile widens, and she hates how he seems to find this all so amusing—how he treats her defiance as a game rather than a challenge. But there's a shift in his gaze then, something darker and more dangerous than the playful facade he’s kept up until now. His hand comes up to her face, but instead of grabbing her harshly, he traces a finger along her jawline, a feather-light touch that makes her skin prickle. Not entirely by fear.

She hates it.

"I just might, dear," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a low, velvety purr. "But don’t worry… I’ve got all the time in the world."

She can feel the chain around her ankle pulling taut as she instinctively tries to edge away, but she forces herself to stop. Refuses to give him any hint of how much his words have shaken her.

Nesta matches his gaze with all the fire she can muster, letting her fury rise to the surface.

"All the time in the world to be disappointed, then," she hisses, eyes blazing as she looks into his, lifting her chin up. "Because you’ll get nothing from me. I'll never give you anything."

A beat of silence passes, and for the first time, she sees his expression falter, just slightly—a flash of something inscrutable crossing his features. His fingers pause against her skin, the warmth of his touch lingering as he studies her with an intensity that makes her feel as though he’s peeling away every layer of her resolve. Seeing through her.

But then, just as quickly, the mask of amusement returns, and he leans back, releasing the tension between them.

"Of course," he says simply, rising back to his knees. His voice carries a note of satisfaction, a promise of further games to come. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

He steps back from the bed, leaving her with the firelight casting long shadows across his retreating form. She can only stare at him, words dead in her throat.

"You can have the bed. Don't worry, we won't share it. I barely use it anyway."

He shoves his hands down his pockets, walking away in a nonchalant way. He turns his head at her one last time, his eyes connecting with hers. Something shifts in the air.

Nesta tenses.

"By the way," he snapped his fingers. "There. A little gift—for having the balls to try that."

It's only when he shuts the door behind him when she looks at the gift.

A trail of warm food placed in the table right besides the bed. Just by the smell alone, Nesta can tell last time she ate something like that was when her mother was still alive.

Hesitantly, she reaches out, fingers trembling as they brush against the edge of the tray. Her gaze remains fixed on the door, as if he might return any moment to snatch it all away, or mock her for daring to accept his so-called gift.

She picks up a piece of bread, bringing it to her lips, and nearly flinches at the warmth, at how it softens the edge of her hunger. She forgot how it was. The water is cool, soothing her parched throat, and each bite steadies her just a little more.

As she munches eagerly, a realization hits her:

She doesn't even know his name.

[xelidonia]

I'm obsessed with this line from Touga. "It's wrong of me to flirt with you since you're my equal (for now)." It's so insidious. It's got the same vibes as those guys who claim that being attracted to a muscular women is gay

[infiniteglitterfall]

Me, looking through books on Palestine: "Ilan Pappé wrote one called 'The Biggest Prison On Earth?!' People in Gaza hate it being called a prison. There's an entire hashtag for it. There's been an account dedicated to collecting pics and videos of #TheGazaYouDontSee for 6 years.

"Is Pappé even Palestinian? oh god wait I can tell already. this is gonna be an 'Israeli apologist' isn't it." Internet: "Yeah, Pappé's Israeli."

Me: "For fuck's--- so people will believe Israelis unquestioningly if they're shit-talking Israel, but in all other situations, Israelis are all liars?"

Internet: "Pretty much. Also, at best, Ilan Pappé must be one of the world’s sloppiest historians."

Me, admittedly in full schadenfreude now: "What?!?!"

Internet: "Benny Morris. That historian who's extremely hard-core about primary source documentation, who wrote that detailed book about how and why each group of Palestinian refugees left in 1947-9. He reviewed three books about Palestine."

Me: "Holy shit. And the book by Pappé is about the Husaynis. The family that Nazi war criminal Amin al-Husseini came from, the guy who fucked absolutely everything up for both Israel and Palestine."

Internet: "That's the one. Morris wrote, 'At best, Ilan Pappe must be one of the world’s sloppiest historians; at worst, one of the most dishonest. In truth, he probably merits a place somewhere between the two.'"

Me: "Why??"

Internet: "He says, 'Here is a clear and typical example—in detail, which is where the devil resides—of Pappe’s handiwork. I take this example from The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine'....

"Blah blah blah, basically in 1947 the UN voted to partition the land into Palestine and Israel, and extremist militias started shooting at Jewish towns and people. David Ben-Gurion was the leader of the Jewish community there, and his journal describes a visit from a scientist named Aharon Katzir, telling him about an experiment codenamed "Shimshon." Morris gives us the journal entry:

...An experiment was conducted on animals. The researchers were clothed in gas masks and suit. The suit costs 20 grush, the mask about 20 grush (all must be bought immediately). The operation [or experiment] went well. No animal died, the [animals] remained dazzled [as when a car’s headlights dazzle an oncoming driver] for 24 hours. There are some 50 kilos [of the gas]. [They] were moved to Tel Aviv. The [production] equipment is being moved here. On the laboratory level, some 20 kilos can be produced per day.

"Morris says, 'This is the only accessible source that exists, to the best of my knowledge, about the meeting and the gas experiment, and it is the sole source cited by Pappe for his description of the meeting and the "Shimshon" project. But this is how Pappe gives the passage in English:

Katzir reported to Ben-Gurion: 'We are experimenting with animals. Our researchers were wearing gas masks and adequate outfit. Good results. The animals did not die (they were just blinded). We can produce 20 kilos a day of this stuff.'

"'The translation is flecked with inaccuracies, but the outrage is in Pappe’s perversion of "dazzled," or sunveru, to "blinded"—in Hebrew "blinded" would be uvru, the verb not used by Ben-Gurion—coupled with the willful omission of the qualifier '"for 24 hours."'

"'Pappe’s version of this text is driven by something other than linguistic and historiographical accuracy. Published in English for the English-speaking world, where animal-lovers are legion and deliberately blinding animals would be regarded as a barbaric act, the passage, as published by Pappe, cannot fail to provoke a strong aversion to Ben-Gurion and to Israel.

"'Such distortions, large and small, characterize almost every page of The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine. So I should add, to make the historical context perfectly clear, that no gas was ever used in the war of 1948 by any of the participants. [Or, he later notes, by either Israel or Palestine ever.] Pappe never tells the reader this.

"'Raising the subject of gas is historical irrelevance. But the paragraph will dangle in the reader’s imagination as a dark possibility, or worse, a dark reality: the Jews, gassed by the Nazis three years before, were about to gas, or were gassing, Arabs.'"

Me: "Uuuuggghhhhhhhhh. Yeah, it will."

Internet: "He does say, 'Palestinian Dynasty was a good idea.' Then he does some really detailed historian-dragging about the lack of primary sources and reliance on people's interpretations of what they say instead.

"'Almost all of Pappe’s references direct the reader to books and articles in English, Hebrew, and Arabic by other scholars, or to the memoirs of various Arab politicians, which are not the most reliable of sources. Occasionally there is a reference to an Arab or Western travelogue or genealogy, or to a diplomat’s memoir; but there is barely an allusion to documents in the relevant British, American, and Zionist/Israeli archives.

"'When referring to the content of American consular reports about Arab riots in the 1920s, for example, Pappe invariably directs the reader to an article in Hebrew by Gideon Biger—“The American Consulate in Jerusalem and the Events of 1920-1921,” in Cathedra, September 1988—and not to the documents themselves, which are easily accessible in the United States National Archive.

"'Those who falsify history routinely take the path of omission. They ignore crucial facts and important pieces of evidence while cherry-picking from the documentation to prove a case. 

"'Those who falsify history routinely take the path of omission. They ignore crucial facts and important pieces of evidence while cherry-picking from the documentation to prove a case. 

"'But Pappe is more brazen. He, too, often omits and ignores significant evidence, and he, too, alleges that a source tells us the opposite of what it in fact says, but he will also simply and straightforwardly falsify evidence.

"'Consider his handling of the Arab anti-Jewish riots of the 1920s.

"'Pappe writes of the “Nabi Musa” riots in April 1920: “The [British] Palin Commission... reported that the Jewish presence in the country was provoking the Arab population and was the cause of the riots.” He also quotes at length Musa Kazim al-Husayni, the clan’s leading notable at the time, to the effect that “it was not the [Arab] Hebronites who had started the riots but the Jews.”

"'But the (never published) [Palin Commission Report], while forthrightly anti-Zionist, thereby accurately reflecting the prevailing views in the British military government that ruled Palestine until mid-1920, flatly and strikingly charged the Arabs with responsibility for the bloodshed.

"'The team chaired by Major-General P.C. Palin wrote that “it is perfectly clear that with... few exceptions the Jews were the sufferers, and were, moreover, the victims of a peculiarly brutal and cowardly attack, the majority of the casualties being old men, women and children.” The inquiry pointed out that whereas 216 Jews were killed or injured, the British security forces and the Jews, in defending themselves or in retaliatory attacks, caused only twenty-five Arab casualties.'"

Me: "Yeah. I'm looking at that report right now and it says there had been an explosion, and then people were looting Jewish stores and beating Jews with stones, and in one case stabbing someone. Some people said that some Jews got up on the roof of a hotel and retaliated by throwing stones themselves.

"And then it literally says, 'The point as to the retaliation by Jews is of importance because it seems to have impressed the Military and led them to imagine that the Jews were to some extent responsible for provoking the rising.' That's the only thing it really says about anyone blaming the Jews.

"Except.... the very beginning gives some historical context. And it does say that when the Balfour Declaration came out, Muslims and Christians 'considered that they were to be handed over to an oppression which they hated far more than the Turk's and were aghast at the thought of this domination....

"'If this intensity of feeling proceeded merely from wounded pride of race and disappointment in political aspirations, it would be easier to criticise and rebuke: but it must be borne in mind that at the bottom of all is a deepseated fear of the Jew, both as a possible ruler and as an economic competitor. Rightly or wrongly they fear the Jew as a ruler, regarding his race as one of the most intolerant known to history....

"'The prospect of extensive Jewish immigration fills him with a panic fear, which may be exaggerated, but is none the less genuine. He sees the ablest race intellectually in the world, past-masters in all the arts of ousting competitors whether on the market, in the farm or the bureaucratic offices, backed by apparently inexhaustible funds given by their compatriots in all lands and possessed of powerful influence in the councils of the nations, prepared to enter the lists against him in every one of his normal occupations, backed by the one thing wanted to make them irresistible, the physical force of a great Imperial Power, and he feels himself overmastered and defeated before the contest is begun.'

"Wow! What a great fucking example of how 'positive' stereotypes are actually used to fuck people over! We're not antisemitic, we actually think Jews are the smartest, most powerful, richest group with tremendous global power! So positive!! Not at all being used here to justify antisemitic violence!

"Also, immigration from all over the world actually meant that different agricultural and manufacturing techniques were brought into the region, and yes, financial investments to start businesses sometimes, which meant that Arab Palestinians there had the highest per capita income in the Middle East, the highest daily wages, and started a lot of businesses of their own. But go off, I guess."

"Anyfuckingway.... it basically says that the Muslims and Christians were angry and scared, the Jews were too quick to set up the functioning government that the Brits were supposed to be there to help both sides create -- and which the Arab leaders completely refused to create for Palestine, because (1) fascists and (2) didn't want Jews nearby -- and that they were "ready prey for any form of agitation hostile to the British Government and the Jews." Then it says the movement for a United Syria was agitating them real hard, and so were the Sherifians.

"Is that what Ilan Passe, I mean Pappe, meant by the Palin Report blaming the Jews?! That when it says it's understandable the Arabs were freaking out, because antisemitism, Pappe thinks it's saying the Jews were provoking them?!"

Internet: "I don't know. I kinda tuned out after the first hour you were talking."

Me: "OGH MY GOD"

Internet: "So anyway, then Morris ALSO says, 'About the 1929 “Temple Mount” riots, which included two large-scale massacres of Jews, in Hebron and in Safed, Pappe writes: “The opposite camp, Zionist and British, was no less ruthless [than the Arabs]. In Jaffa a Jewish mob murdered seven Palestinians.”

Me: "What the ENTIRE FUCK? There was no united 'Zionist and British' camp! The Brits would barely let any Holocaust refugees in, ffs!"

Internet: "Morris says, 'Actually, there were no massacres of Arabs by Jews, though a number of Arabs were killed when Jews defended themselves or retaliated after Arab violence.

"'Pappe adds that the British “Shaw Commission,” so-called because it was chaired by Sir Walter Shaw (a former chief justice of the Straits Settlements), which investigated the riots, “upheld the basic Arab claim that Jewish provocations had caused the violent outbreak. ‘The principal cause... was twelve years of pro-Zionist [British] policy.’”

"'It is unclear what Pappe is quoting from. I did not find this sentence in the commission’s report. Pappe’s bibliography refers, under “Primary Sources,” simply to “The Shaw Commission.” The report? The deliberations? Memoranda by or about? Who can tell?

"'The footnote attached to the quote, presumably to give its source, says, simply, “Ibid.”

"'The one before it says, “Ibid., p. 103.”

"'The one before that says, “The Shaw Commission, session 46, p. 92.”

"'But the quoted passage does not appear on page 103 of the report.

"In the text of Palestinian Dynasty, Pappe states that “Shaw wrote [this] after leaving the country [Palestine].” But if it is not in the report, where did Shaw “write” it?'"

Me: "I'M ON IT. [rapid-fire googling] OMG. This is.... Not the first time. In 'The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine,' he reported that in a 1937 letter to his son, David Ben-Gurion declared: 'The Arabs will have to go, but one needs an opportune moment for making it happen, such as war.'

"It's not in the source he gave. It's not in any of the three different sources he's given for it.

"He apparently has never responded to any requests for an explanation, either from the journal he published in, or from other historians. But it says he did "obliquely [acknowledge] the controversy in an article in Electronic Intifada, in which he portrayed himself as the victim of intimidation at the hands of “Zionist hooligans.”'

"This is absolutely fucking wild. THEN it says the chair of the Ethics Committee where he was teaching eventually said that the second part of the quote ('but one needs,' etc) was a (combined?) paraphrase of a diary entry and a speech Ben-Gurion gave, and that the first half is 'based on' a letter to his son.

"And it's so convincing! The chair says, 'Shabtai Teveth[,] Ben Gurion’s biographer, Benny Morris and the historian Nur Maslaha have all quoted this letter. In fact their translation was stronger than the quotation from Professor Pappé: ‘We must expel the Arabs and take their place.’ Professor Pappé has documentary evidence of these quotations and the source will ensure that this is correctly cited in any future editions of the publication or related studies.'

"And IT'S NOT EVEN TRUE?!

"Ben-Gurion's actual diary entry (not a letter) says the opposite.

“'We do not want and do not need to expel Arabs and take their places.... All our aspiration is built on the assumption – proven throughout all our activity – that there is enough room in the country for ourselves and the Arabs.'

"Benny Morris misquoted it as "We must expel the Arabs and take their places" in the English version of his 1987 book The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem, although it was correct in the Hebrew version. He corrected himself in the 2001 book Righteous Victims.

"Teveth also misquoted it in the English version of his 1985 book Ben-Gurion and the Palestinian Arabs, but again, had it correct in the Hebrew edition.

"And both Morris and Teveth explicitly point out the rest of the entry. The part about all their aspiration being built on the assumption and experience that there was enough room in the country for everyone.

"Historian Efraim Karsh’s 1997 book Fabricating Israeli History pointed out and corrected their mistakes.

"This is apparently a very well-known issue among historians of Israel and Palestine. It was a big deal in 2003, when an evangelist Christian publisher put out a book FULL of disinformation, which not only used the same quote as Pappe does, but also could not give a real source for it.

"But Pappe STILL USED THE MISQUOTE AND DOUBLED DOWN ON IT EVERY SINGLE TIME."

Internet: "Are you done? I know all this already."

Me: "Also, there are literally only two places where the phrase 'twelve years of pro-Zionist policy' shows up online, and they're both about Pappe making quotes up.

"NOW I'm done."

Benny Morris wasn't, though. The review continues at the link below. And the next part starts, "To the deliberate slanting of history Pappe adds a profound ignorance of basic facts. Together these sins and deficiencies render his “histories” worthless as representations of the past, though they are important as documents in the current political and historiographic disputations about the Arab-Israeli conflict. Pappe’s grasp of the facts of World War I, for example, is weak in the extreme."

[baekuras]

Because I am lazy with reinventing stuff I have been looking at some fallen angels (mostly Watchers because there is a list) and it's so funny to me that there is/was an angel around to "Cure the stupidity of men" Like thanks I need no more

also there was one guy which bascially was a constellation myth for Orion and he and Azazel(/Lucifer/Satan/whoever pointed Eve to the apple) were punished by hanging out between Heaven and Earth...forever or a long time but that got me to think...this would mean that (insert name of whoever tempted Eve in YOUR specific texts) is also a constellation, and if it's Lucifer it'd be the Morning Star which from what I remember either refers to Venus OR the brightest Star in the Sky aka Sirius aka part of Canis Major aka the constellation right next to Orion Fallen Angel shenanigans in the Sky? it's more likely than you think

also smth smth them being turned into Constellations and humanity using Fallen Angels, aka the givers of forbidden knowledge (you know..like reading and stuff) to navigate smth smth

[consumeroflemoans]

Which myths would you be particulary excited about working into the superfox verse

Greek myths are always a classic. I’ve already mentioned things like centaurs, harpies, sirens, and dryads. But tbh them in a modern setting has already been thoroughly explored by stories like Percy Jackson so they’re not the most exciting to explore.

I think what I’m most anticipating is Celtic folklore. It’s always been one of my favorite mythos. I kind of want to include Kelpies somehow because I love those murder horses but I’m not sure how. I just love how many of their creatures are just slightly inhuman like with the fae, leprechauns, werewolves, bodach, the dullahan, vampires, and a bunch of unique ghosts like the banshee. It would be fun to find ways to integrate them into modern society.

I think I just have a weakness for myths about tricksters

[thanatika]

low-coherency rambling in the tags

[gingermintpepper]

hey I hope you’re doing ok!! For the ask game, 🌈? Also perhaps ☔️?💧, even?

Hello hello, thank you for participating ☆ Once again, I can't comment on whether or not this extract is particularly fluffy but I do think it's rather sweet and it's definitely romantic so I think it's good for filling out both 🌈 and 💧!! It's an extract from what I've tentatively dubbed my 'Women and Apollo' doc which is essentially just a big running document I have dedicated to exploring themes and dynamics between Apollo and the women he's been entangled with! This extract in particular is from my Melia section 🥰

The night is a cold sheet spread across her shoulders. She wakes in pieces; first, her flesh, bracketed between the raw heat of Phoebus' bare chest and the sharp sting of the night air's fangs, then her mind, pleasure's fleeting haze quickly swept aside by panic then worry then guilt. What would Kaanthos say if he could see her now, bare breasted and stained in a male-god's desire? What would Father? No doubt she would have to cede the seat of the temple to Kaanthos. How could a carnal woman serve the people after all? And her river - oh, her sweet river! Would his waters even deign to soothe her scales when she was so completely drenched in the scent of a sky-god?

How foolish she's been, throwing everything away just because of some sweet words and a pretty face. Maybe Kaanthos truly did deserve the temple after all. Maybe Melia didn't deserve such a treasure if she was so easily seduced.

She sniffles softly, slipping gently from Phoebus' loose grip. His heat wafts off his skin like the warmth of a well-tended hearth, it lingers in her bones as she kneels in the grass of this unfamiliar field. It makes the sear of shame dig that much deeper into her heart. Phoebus had listened well to her warnings. He'd carried her someplace far away from flowing water, somewhere distant where her brother's scrying eyes could not reach. The tears welling in her eyes finally fall as she turns this way and that, utterly and completely lost without a source of water to follow. How could she return now? Even she was not bold enough to have the man she planned to reject take her back to her father's house.

Stupid girl. Foolish. How could she have been so short sighted?

"Melia?"

His voice is laden with sleep's husk, his arm makes little grabs at the grass searching for her shape. She swallows her tears and bids her voice to not betray her, "Here I am, my lord. You may go back to sleep."

The mildest furrow of his brow. When he turns his head, his hair flows like rich golden oil over the dark grass, "Come here," his hand keeps searching for hers, patting the ground, dragging long fingers over the dirt and frowning when he does not find her. "It is not yet morning, why have you fled so far from my side?"

Melia cannot help but laugh at his visage, clumsy and squinty-eyed, less the graceful gentleman who promised her a taste of change and more a bumbling kitten desperate for its mother's teat. She wipes her tears as quickly as she can muster, "If you but open your eyes, I'm certain you would find me."

He makes a grumbling noise, some cross between a boar's grunt and the crow's deep bellow, "Is this another of your games? I'm much too tired for games Melia." Finally, his finger grazes the edge of her ankle and like a child, he lights up, eyes still stubbornly closed but smile positively radiant, "Ah, there you are!" Diligently, he traces the shape of her leg with his open palm, measuring the smoothness of her calf, the swell of her knee, the broadness of her thigh, then he lays his head upon her, cheek pressed close to her stomach, heated back like warm coals against her skin. "So cool," he murmurs and kisses her stomach, throws his arm around her waist and nuzzles further into her skin, "Tell me when you've need of the water -" a dreadfully wide yawn interrupts him. "- I'll fetch it for you."

Melia finds herself laughing again, just a tiny thing as she runs her fingers through the thick waves of his hair. What is she to do now?

As for a fic idea I'd like to talk about since I don't know if I'll ever write it: Among the many, many, many things I'd like to write but probably never will, I really wish I could just sit down and write a story about Tenes and Hemithea. There's a lot of reasons why I have no plans to ever properly tackle anything regarding the Iliad - chief of which being that there's just too much information and the amount of research would be insane - but a lot of what I would potentially focus on have to deal with people and places Apollo loves and his inability to protect those things throughout the conflict starting with Tenes. I absolutely adore exploring Apollo's paternity in my writing and considering how fiersome Tenes was and how both he and Troilus would die protecting their sisters, I've just always wanted to dig into an exploration of their lives and connection with their father and how Tenes' death specifically would've affected Apollo. Like yeah, I know Troilus is usually the point of focus for such works especially because of the manner in which he was killed, but Tenes was also beloved! Also considering he was originally punished for being falsely accused of sexually assaulting his stepmother, I can't help but want to write his wrath when he realises what it is Achilles intends to do to Hemithea. Alas though, I don't think I'l ever get to do more than think longingly about it, at least right now lmao.

[chrometheraptor]

uurughhdhhrrhhrjf my ocs..

[fettery-fetterie]

GIRL HELP WDYM I REACHED 30 TAGS??????? OMG???? I WASN'T EVEN DONE YET

ANYWAYS 31st: and that compared to a relationship where the communication lines are basically none or very fucking weak then yeah it is an upgrade I think. Idfk I was never in a relationship I'm just picking from the ones I've seen in my life

[aroacettorney]

when will aup sidestories return from war and stop leaving me bitter about how the main story ended

[pinks-wizards]

I'm thinking about my YW Roslyn and specifically about how she's a myth wizard. I imagine myth students are heavily encouraged to befriend their minions by Cyrus (or at least build a positive business relationship) and while Roslyn doesn't get those classes (busy saving the spiral) she naturally wants to know and befriend them. She's borrowing their power so it's only polite and when she spends so much time travelling and alone she wants someone to talk to.

Roslyn knows her minions well. She knows their names if they have ones, and named the ones who wanted them. She calls on them to help her often outside of battle. She's a 4'0" forever 11-year-old body she's going to need help reaching stuff and has a habit of calling them to sit on shoulders so she isn't always looking up. And importantly, when things go badly, she trusts them to keep people away from the fight. To protect people where they can. She might only have one in the dueling circle with her but she has many. The wooden minion is her go to when she needs a voice to yell in her place.

And like everything related to the YW, this can get sad. Because myth minions are less usable as time goes on. I basically never use them now in game. And I think Roslyn in lore doesn't include them in battles. She's grown protective of them. They trusted her, so she wants to prove they can. Their biggest notice of this is likely Azteca. Roslyn goes on a mad run across the entire world to guide everyone to the spiral door she's opened to wizard city. And she does it alone. She doesn't dare summon them both because her brain is racing and she's already exhausted from a fight but also because she doesn't want them to experience it. The death, the blood. The glass shattered around her. And because if they go hit, they are too weak to take it. Despite needing the help she does it alone.

I imagine that hurts them. But they can't fault her either. They, like everyone close to Roslyn, just have to watch as she tears herself apart for failure. As she constantly pushes and pushes herself to the limit doing it all alone. She is still as nice to them as ever when she does see them. The breaks. She's always asking about them. Never letting them help her the same as they once did during the journey to Maliaster.

While I don't use shadow spells in game I imagine Roslyn does. She gets to know the shadows she calls. More hesitant, they are more likely to call her out on everything she represses, but still caring. Shadow Sentinel is her favourite, and is the one given the most chances to help Roslyn when she needs it. She calls them for others, to protect them, and after the fighting is done they take care of her. The backlash will only apply during duels, because carrying her (or dragging) her to the nearest healer isn't demanding work. I think myth wizards can befriend shadow casts more easily, if purely because befriending those they call the power of is part of what makes a good myth wizard.

Her minions are family and close friends. Be they myth or pure shadow. And they care for her too. So I imagine it hurts as even they can't keep up with her. As she grows stronger and faces stronger enemies she can't rely on them anymore. So they watch out for her in other ways. Warning (or threatening) those who could harm her. Seeking out those who can help her. They aren't always with her but they know her full story because her magic betrays it all.

[achilleslyre]

it floors me anytime someone is dumbfounded when the source material of ancient poems and epics is brought into a conversation about ancient myths. you’re going to look at me and seriously tell me that you think a 2000s adaption into a childrens series is going to be more accurate than the actual ancient poets that recorded the stories? you’re going to question me straight faced on how there can be a “real” or “accurate” way of telling a story when 3 different ancient poets wrote it the same way? i’m pulling all of my hair out of my head you have to watch me strand by strand.

[widowshill]

reminder to myself to find and upload the article about the gendered enlightenment/scientific reason vs superstitious persecution in Carmilla and it’s resulting ambiguously supernatural narrative because. it’s so formative to the way I think and write about ds lmao it needs to be on some kind of blog syllabus.