#cw historical slur

[glossahistorica]

RAISIN-SKINS.

RAISIN-SKINS.—The skins of raisins are utterly indigestible. A child recently died at Barton from convulsions induced by eating raisins. Dr. Dewees mentions the death of three children from the same cause, and remarks that there is no stomach, unless it be that of the ostrich, that can master the skin of the raisin.

The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, August 1855, p.159. [x]

See also: "The Rind of Fruit Indigestible", Scientific American Magazine Vol. 13 No. 22 (February 1858), p.171, although they had previously (in 1852) taken "Dr Devees" to task according to The Old Foodie:

Skins of Raisins. We see it stated in some papers, that Dr Devees, of Boston, has said that raisin skins are indigestible, and that nothing but the stomach of an ostrich can master them. He mentions the deaths of three children, caused by skins of raisins not digesting in their stomachs. Well, Dr. Devees, what about their digestibility when cooked? Raisins are fruit, which from time immemorial, have been used as a nourishing and healthy food by all Orientals.

(Given that this is the first appearance of language like this on this blog, I would like to make it clear that whilst I don't condone nor enjoy language like "Orientals", I will be leaving it intact for context.)

And the claim from Dr Dewees repeated earlier in 1852 in the Wabash Express, Vol. 11, No. 10, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 18 February 1852.

And since you were so patient to read all these words on raisins, here is Dr William Potts Dewees making his claim, "Of Dried Fruits", in A treatise on the physical and medical treatment of children, p.199, this edition published 1853.

[submissivekillers]

kinktober day 3 - public sex (john hancock)

very mild cw on this one for mention of needles/injection near the end, in the context of radaway use

It was never out of the ordinary to see John Hancock out on the balcony of the Old State House — at least for residents of Goodneighbor, who’d had plenty of time to get used to the sight of a ghoul in colonial garb getting stoned out of his mind. 

Especially on a cool, clear night like this - almost unreasonably pleasant for an evening in the nuclear wasteland - the citizens who hadn’t flocked to the Third Rail weren’t surprised to see their Mayor perched on the landing over their heads, elbows braced on the flag-draped railing and the cherry of a lit cig glowing amidst the street lamps. Some raised a hand or shouted in greeting as they passed, while others lingered, exchanging pleasantries or giving reports from the Neighborhood Watch. 

If Hancock’s answers came delayed, his voice notably quavering, no one thought much of it. And from their vantage point on the ground, no one could see how his hands gripped the rail, so tight that his knuckles would have been white beneath the radiation-damaged skin. 

All the better for you. 

“Shit, sunshine.”

Hancock hissed, barely audible. His thighs were shaking, the lean muscle flexing beneath your fingertips. You hummed, swallowing with an audible gulp, and heard the railing behind your head creak worryingly. 

Pulling off his cock with a sleazy gasp, you replaced your lips with a loose fist, clicking your tongue at John in mocking disapproval. “Careful baby, this is a historic building, remember?” 

“I’m gonna be history if you don’t stop teasing me, sweetheart,” he wheezed, hips twitching into your hand when you pressed your thumb into the dripping slit at his cockhead. You rolled your eyes fondly and chased the pump of your hand with a long, languid swipe of your tongue, flicking at the deepest ridge of his textured skin that you knew would make him whine around his cigarette. One of his hands released the rail and found its way to your hair instead, curling into a loose fist at your nape. 

You drew back and swiped at your mouth, cleaning some of the drool and come that had accumulated on your chin. “Okay, just try not to be too loud — mmph.”

In the same movement, his fist tugged your hair back and his hips pitched forward, sheathing himself in your open mouth. You whined through your nose as Hancock pressed deeper, bullying his way into your throat with little pumps of his hips. He paused, your throat tight and hot around him; you could feel him leaking steadily into you, the taste of his cum vaguely metallic on the back of your tongue. When he pulled out, a thick, glistening strand connected your mouth to his tip. 

“Deeper, baby,” you slurred, saliva dripping from your swollen lips.  “Don’t wanna waste a drop.”   

“Sunshine—” He rasped, and that was the only warning you got before he slid back into your throat in one smooth slide. Your nose pressed into his rough skin, the short, whimpering breaths you managed to huff through your nose heady with his scent, and your eyes fluttered shut as you let out a final groan around him. That was enough — Hancock came with a curse down your throat, one, two, three pulses before he pulled you back and let the rest trickle onto your outstretched tongue. You shivered, your head light and thighs wet. 

“Jesus,” you croaked, swaying as you rose unsteadily before he caught you by the waist, “You were a little backed up, huh?” 

“Your fault, leaving me behind so long,” he growled, hands sliding down your hips to give your ass a squeeze. You smiled, swiping the last drops of cum from your chin with your thumb and sucking it into your mouth. A low groan rumbled through him as he watched you, fingers flexing tighter against you. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.” 

You grinned. “But what a way to go, right?” 

His answering chuckle was muffled into your mouth as he leaned in to kiss you, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you through the door into the State House. “We should, uh, probably get some RadAway in you.”  

“Way ahead of you.” A familiar voice drifted from Hancock’s quarters. 

You locked eyes with John and laughed, a flush rising to your cheeks. Nick was lounging on one of the couches in his shirtsleeves, a prepped IV of Radaway beside him. He glanced up from the files in his hands when you stumbled through the door, a playful gleam in his yellow eyes.

“Sorry, Nick,” Hancock drawled, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “Hope ya didn’t wait long.” 

Nick scoffed, automatically reaching out to hold your waist as Hancock guided you to a comfortable seat, slumping on the armrest beside him. “Should’ve known better than to leave you two alone for ten minutes.” 

“Hey, at least nothing’s on fire this time.” 

The grey skin of his brow ridge quirked, his gentle hands holding your arm steady as Hancock slid the needle into the crook of your elbow. “Small miracles, I suppose.”  

You laughed again, then cut yourself off with a grimace as the RadAway started to take effect — it always gave you a killer headache, a pulsing in your temples making you wince and shut your eyes against the bright lights in Hancock’s quarters. Without waiting for your word, John was already up and moving to hit the lights, replacing the glare of the ceiling light with the dim glow of a table lamp you’d scrounged from Sanctuary (he’d teased you, as they all did, for picking up everything electronic that you could get your hands on, but had accepted the gift with pleasure all the same.) 

Nick’s hand on your chin, the cool plastic of a water bottle raised to your lips. You took a few eager gulps, then let yourself recline on the armrest again, breathing slowly.  

“John,” you called as his footsteps drew nearer. His palm cupped your cheek, warm and rough against your skin, and you nuzzled into the touch. “How d’you think we should apologize to Nick for making him wait?” 

A gravelly chuckle as he moved around you, then the cushions shifting beneath you, a soft grunt from Nick and the sound of a folder scattering on the floor. “I got a few ideas, sunshine.” 

“Get started without me, won’t you?” You sighed, blinking in the dim as you watched Hancock settle in Nick’s lap.  “I’ll just enjoy the show for a bit.”  

Nick chuckled, exasperated, but tilted his head all the same as Hancock bent to mouth at the ragged skin of his throat. “Don’t you two ever turn off?” 

“What, with you and sunshine? Never.”

[sonik-kun]

Reminder that WWX did use a homophobic slur (cutsleeve) before he found out he was, in fact, a "cutsleeve" himself.

I'd also argue that him taking advantage of MXY's body and the rumours associated with him by acting as a "stereotypical gay" to get out of situations was a form of homophobia in itself.

He assumed this was how crazy, gay people act - like sexual deviants. He used that stereotype on top of the rumours about MXY just to get out of sticky situations and avoid being captured.

Whilst this isn't aggressive homophobia, nor would I consider him a raging homophobe myself, he still took advantage of the world view he was raised in, which, in modern terms, was problematic in itself.

Think the harmful, stereotypical, predatory gay trope in anime that a lot of anime fans have taken issue with. That's the stereotype WWX was trying to perpetuate and brush off as a silly joke which is bordering that harmful stereotype territory mentioned above. And yet I don't see the moral "holier than thou" crowd talking about that in their analysis on "fictional characters in an ancient Chinese setting."

(Note before I get jumped on: I don't think WWX was being cruel or malicious when he did this. Nor do I think he purposely intended to sully poor MXY's image further. And I ofc don't think that WWX is a terrible person for doing so either. The guy was desperate and needed to pull tricks to avoid capture. But that still doesn't make things right by modern standards. Even if said stereotype was used to goad a load of "homophobes." Would also like to add that even after coming out, WWX didn't really challenge the societal standard or think ill of anyone who thought like that. It's not like he toured the CW with LWJ, promoting gay rights. He'd be very extraordinary for doing that and brave, too. But he didn't. Instead, he just got up to sexy times with his husband daily and lazed about living the good life. Which is valid of him, tbh, giving the shit he went through. But my point still stands. The social norm persists.)

Also, bare in mind, WWX was heavily in denial about his own sexuality at first and struggled to come to terms with it in the beginning due to the societal norms back then, anyway.

Homophobia was the norm. Stop denying that when you know most of the characters found it bizarre.

By their standards being gay was, unfortunate as it is, unusual and to them, perhaps even immoral in its own right.

By modern standards, we know now that it is wrong. And the moral consensus is that being gay is normal and should not be vilified (even then, not all cultures today have reached that consensus and LGBT rights still have a long way to go).

With this in mind and the notion of what morality meant to people back then, you mustn't hold the characters to modern standards because that was simply the world view. What was "right" back then.

You cannot say with certainty that you wouldn't be homophobic back then, in a world where people called it strange and immoral. As much as I'd like to believe that I would be one of the few who find it wrong to treat gay people poorly, most of us probably would find homosexuality strange because that was the moral consensus of that time. As such, it is unfair to hold characters like JC, JL, and JGY to modern standards for that reason. That's the point we've all been trying to make here.

(Even then, JC and JL both watched as WWX left with his hubby into the sunset and didn't speak illy of their relationship again, nor consider them social outcasts like the Jins and Mos treated MXY. It's almost as if people can change their world views entirely (or to some extent) after things become normalised. Hmm. 🧐

Furthermore, MXTX herself said that JC wasn't a bad person. She wouldn't say that if he's the "aggressive homophobe, incapable of change" like you all seem to imply he is.)

You all make this point about historical context when us JC fans criticise WWX for his clear breach of bodily autonomy with the core transfer and his own war crimes. You should apply that logic to the period typical homophobia too. Because as I have said before, you cannot say for certain that the characters would be homophobic had this taken place in a society where being gay was the norm whilst homophobia was frowned upon. Let's use some logic and context when talking about characters from an ancient time period, shall we?

[ineffable-rohese]

Good Omens, or the Disruption of Gay = Death

CW: historical homophobic violence and death

@queerfables recently wrote an excellent meta on slash fiction and the concept of "Taking Away the Glass". I had some thoughts, which I was going to add as a reblog, but this seems to spiraled away from the original post, so I'm posting this on its own, but I'm referencing their ideas and references, so maybe go read that first.

This is especially for those of you who are, say, under 25 (which is apparently most of Tumblr), and who haven't had much opportunity to learn queer history. Let me say, I'm not a queer historian. I am a queer who has lived through recent history and can reasonably clearly remember the last at least 35 years of it, and I was fortunate to have had schooling that did include some earlier queer history and didn't shy away from queer topics. (I recognize now what a revolutionary bit of teaching that was.)

I also want to acknowledge that I'm writing from a place of relative privilege, as a white cis woman living in a progressive part of North America, and that some of what is history for me is still life for others. I am speaking from my own personal experiences here -they are by no means universal. But I think it's important for us to share our stories, so this is part of mine.

When You're Dying in America, at the End of the Millenium

Fables quotes a video by thingswithwings as saying "Homosexuality, or just loving touch between two people of the same gender, is equivalent to death in this media narrative." In the 1980s and 1990s, when Good Omens was written and first published, that wasn't a metaphor. When I was a baby proto-queer, what I heard about being gay was that it killed you.

My formative memories of what it meant to be gay weren't pride parades or even riots. It was gay men dying by the thousands and governments and religious leaders ignoring them at best, and welcoming their deaths at worst. To be gay, and a gay man in particular, was to be marked for death. It wasn't until a straight white boy who got it from a blood transfusion died that AIDS became something that "normal" people had any empathy for and governments really started to act.

The gay representation I rember in the media as a moderately sheltered child from the 80s and 90s with left-of-center middle class white parents was news about AIDS, Philadelphia (death from AIDS), Ellen (cancelled after she came out), and eventually RENT (desperately trying not to die of AIDS or capitalism). I knew a very small handful of out gay adults, and no trans adults at all.

My first time being in a large group of queer people was a vigil for Matthew Sheppard, who had been beaten and left to die tied to a fence. I remember being terrified. I wasn't out yet. I knew people who hated us might be there, this group of mostly young queer people gathering with candles to cry over a boy we'd never met, and over the many others who had died just for being what we were. I'd never even kissed a girl yet. I only knew my queerness in relation to death.

In the last decade or so of the 20th century, being queer was about grasping any bit of joy you could from a world that very clearly would prefer you were dead. It was defiance and anger and fear every time you held your love's hand, or kissed them in public. My second date with the person who would become my spouse was interrupted by some dude in a truck shouting slurs at us was we walked down a quiet street. We laughed it off - no one had thrown anything, or beaten us, so it wasn't a big deal. It should have been a big deal, but we couldn't let it be. When you're marked for misery and death, you can't let the little things get to you. You just hold each other's hands as tightly as you can and defiantly keep walking.

An Angel and a Demon and Immortality

Good Omens was written during some of the darkest days of the AIDS epidemic (which is still ongoing, by the way), before there were effective treatments, when gay = death. It is a mainstream, mass-market book. It wouldn't be shelved in the "Gay and Lesbian" section at the book store, it would be shelved with humour, or possibly fantasy.

And yet, here we have these two beings. An angel and a demon, with an unlikely friendship, and who are very clearly written as gay. Or, at least, as percieved as gay by outside observers. Aziraphale in particular is (in one of my favorite lines) "gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide," and "THE southern pansy" (self-proclaimed). Together, they are "consenting bicycle repairmen" (Neil Gaiman's explanation for context) who Anathema was safe with the whole time.

Whether you caught the subtextual shippyness of their relationship (and to be honest, I only did a little when I first read it), they were very obviously written as precieved-gay characters, in a story where their precieved gay-ness wasn't the cause of their downfall. Yes, an 11 year old calls Aziraphale a faggot. But he doesn't get arrested or beaten of killed - he just gets covered in cake. And he loves cake! The attempted insult just rolls off him like water off a duck's back, because he has no pressure not to be visibly gay.

Becuase, see, unlike us humans, unlike his gay contemporaries, he is not marked for death. He's an angel. He's immortal. Even more, he was made by God, exactly how God wanted, presumably, and that is intelligent, English, and so very gay.

Niel and Terry are saying so much here. You can be gay and loved. You can be gay and have a deep relationship. You can be gay because that's how God made you. You can be gay forever, through all time, with someone beside you, finding joy in your life.

You can be gay and not die. You can be gay and live.

[radi0activesmile]

As if to lighten the mood, Alastor plays a soft ding ding ding! effect, the kind often played on a gameshow when a contestant answered the question correctly. No, that was no radio show, it was a memory from a life long gone. A memory that could necer truly fade into obscurity. It reared its ugly head each time he saw a man treat someone with lesser power in such a way.  Yes, the woman he referred to as Annie was-- is his mother. He’s aware that it might seem as if he was trying to hide that fact by referring to her by her given name, but in reality, he always refers to her by her given name when thinking back to unpleasant times, even in his own mind. In a way, it protects his memories of her. She won’t be tarnished by being mixed together with situations outside of her control. 

Despite the less-than-pleasant conversation, there’s a calm that settles into The Radio Demon’s eyes as he looks at Angel. It took the arachnid no time at all to piece together where those voices had come from, who they belonged to, and why, in this world of sin and torment, a serial killing cannibal cannot abide even the thought of a man abusing the power he has over someone less powerful.

And to think, Angel insists he isn't smart. Angel insists he isn't good at anything.

Were he able to move at all, the deer would nod. It was far from the first time and it was far from the last time. It happened often from the time Alastor was born until the day he impaled that man to death with one of Annie's own butcher knives.

Since he can't nod, and since it's evident that Angel wants to understand, Alastor chooses to give him more than a simple yes, much more.

"It was indecorous for a 'proper man' to have a romantic relationship with a negro woman," he explains softly, "and it was equally indecorous for a man not to marry a woman he had impregnated." His eyes attempt to flicker to their radio-dial setting, but they settle back to standard upon looking at Angel's wide, uncertain eyes. "Either way, he would have been the town's pariah."

A low, cold snicker echoes from his throat. "When I was a child, the state of Louisiana passed a law that made their marriage illegal." It's a wonder Alastor thinks so highly of himself, considering he was aware from a young age that his very existence was against the law. "Offers were ordered to break up such union by force if necessary." That calm smile morphs into a wicked sneer.

"But that wouldn't do, would it? To abandon a woman and child. Surely, that wouldn't reflect well in the eyes of God." There's a wonderful irony to that, considering where that man ended up after his son placed him in the ground. "He insisted on providing for us, but we were to remain inside our home. Never, ever to be seen."

There is nothing that makes a man resent something more so than feeling obligated to it, and that man made absolutely certain that both his child and wife were aware that their existence had made his life inadequate.

Something was wrong here. Something was very, very wrong. Angel knew as well as Alastor did the sort of terror that produced that pitch and strain in one's voice. He had killed enough people before being cast out of the family to know what torture sounded like. And he knew enough to know what one broken by such things sounded like. It hadn't taken long to learn that sound in his own voice.

All the years he worked for the family, he had been part of two things: drug smuggling and enforcement. The second, under the tutilage of his uncle, had been where he'd found his stride. Angel had been damned long before he ever thought about the possibility of his own death. He was innured to it by the time he was old enough to join the military - a thing he very distinctly did not do, even towards the end of his life when the whole world was fighting. He was both too disenchanted and too vicious for it. Despite the War, he wasn't a good fit. Besides, he barely existed anymore anyway, both legally speaking and in his own estimation. Hard to draft a shell or the ghost inhabiting it.

He had known that sound in his own voice well before ending up in this pit. The first time he'd been attacked by someone who meant to do him grevious harm, he had realized the terror his and his family's victims had felt He had realized the way their hearts had seized in cold dread and the way their lives had flashed before them. He understood the pleading, the begging, the crying for mercy even when they knew there was no way they would ever recover from what had alreaady been done to them. Perhaps especially then. The only mercy left at that point was death, a thing which his uncle had often allowed him to grant. The first time he had heard that terror in his own voice, he understood. In a way that caught his breath in his throat and made him want to vomit. He may have vomitted. Most of that night was a blur. A head injury would do that to a person.

So he knew - intimately - that distinct strain of terror. He knew what it was. He knew what it meant. And he understood the implication of what Alastor had said. His mind just didn't want to put it all together and was stubbornly slow to do so. And so were the hushed words that fell from him as he stared at a spot on the wall, just above the deer's head because he couldn't tollerate meeting Alastor's eyes with his own wide, distraught primary pair.

"Annie..." he said slowly, almost in a whisper. "That was... She was yer ma, wasn't she? That..... Fuck. Al... that wasn't a radio show, was it? That was... Fuckin' hell, that was..."

He trailed off weakly, his gaze dropping to his hands resting in his lap. A weak, damp, bitter laugh edged in disbelief and perhaps hysteria bubbled out of him. "Guess I get it now. Why ya always get so fuckin' pissed at tha shit Val does ta me. You... Ya watched it happen ta yer ma, didn't ya? An' I'm guessin' there's a lot more'n what'cha just played."

[catofthenine]

Gibbet Hill: Ham Stroker's New Publishing & Critique

Hey Ghouls! wake up new Bram Stoker!

I'm probably the last one to know, but a new short story by Bram Stoker has been uncovered from the archives! (Archival documents make me so happy)

SPOILERS BE AHEAD! If you have not gotten a chance to consume this piece of media, you can listen to it here. I couldn't find a written format, so this is the way I consumed it!

The audiobook I linked is really well done, although I would not pronounce 'gibbet' like that- maybe I'm just American, but it sounds too much like 'giblet'.

Shout out to Brian Cleary for discovering this 134 year old document! Almost as old as myself!

CW: I will be talking about racist and objectifying themes. I am also oversimplifying a lot of this because this is Tumblr, so feel free to add onto this!

ANYWAYS. Here's my review!

This story was decently entertaining, especially with the novelty on this new discovery! This ghost story was entertaining to listen to as I did my makeup this morning. The minor sexism at the end over the Wife was so over the top I found it amusing; "What should I do, husband!!". I enjoyed the plot a whole lot, I didn't find it too scary, but also I almost never find media scary. I also found like this magical-supernatural element really intriguing, and the snake part was cool (also sad).

Within I want to say the first third of the story, Stoker makes some racist comments. I believe he says something like "If these Indian girls were of European descent, they would be around 13, but because they are Indian, they are likely much younger." erm weirdo alert...?

This is seriously racist, objectifying, dehumanizing, among many other things. This is unfortunately very common in gothic literature- and none of these kinds of details are ever pertinent to the story! Like ever! I suppose that within a antique lens it's like a trope, comparatively Carmilla also had this similar thing.

You can make an argument that this is like, "of the time", and that this way of thinking is a product of the culture, but that's not the purpose of this post, maybe one day I'll do some kind of cool social-historical analysis, but not right now. For this post, I want to focus about how this effects the current day-- I'm not a historian!

How I consume gothic media with a critical lens:

Because a lot of our "classics" contain horrible stuff, it's incredibly important that we are anti-racist, call out the racism in gothic literature, and are open to stories that break barriers and stuff like that (I know that some stories regarding the harm of minorities are deemed "not scary enough" because we are so desensitized to this type of harm within western culture.) I'd say that we can be desensitized to harm against women as well, it is different however because that desensitization is inherently rooted to the objectification and sexualization of women. ESPECIALLY the sexualization of violence against women. But that's a little off topic for this post.

So, when we look at Ham Stroker's Gibbet Hill or any gothic media, we have to really like think of it in an oppositional way, and have that be an element besides our enjoyment. Or, I suppose, when we come across these uncomfortable plots we shouldn't be clutching our pearls at it- but we shouldn't also become desensitized to it.

I guess I don't actually care if you want to cross out/otherwise ignore the slurs or racist comments in books like Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite, but to ignore like this major horrible thing is entirely against what we as a subculture stand for.

Music Reccomendation: Voodoo Voodoo by LaVern Baker

You can come at me and say this isn't goth music but I'd argue that it's the earliest predecessor! Voodoo Voodoo was published before Screamin' Jay Hawkins' I Put a Spell on You, which it seems everybody and their mom seems to claim was the first song with 'gothic lyricism'. I also feel that this style of music was the predecessor for many gothabilly/spooky rockabilly music of the 60s and 70s.

As always, Thanks for Reading!

-Cat (Catofthenine)

[discworldwitches]

i know the theory of evolution has been used to justify eugenics but what do you mean it's tied to pseudoscience (besides pop science and racist understandings of it)? and like, what are the actual alternatives then?

evolution as in the actual phenomenon cannot & does not affirm the idea that certain ways of being, behaviours, bodies, etc. are “degenerate” or “primitive” but the theory can and was applied in this pseudoscientific way (ie social darwinism). so what i am referring to is pseudoscientific applications of evolution such as “race science” (which we referred to racial pseudoscience or race pseudoscience in some of my upper level classes in my degree).

i wrote a whole big reply but i went back to steven angelides and he explains it best.

note, bisexual was initially coined (krafft-ebing. 1886) to refer to intersex individuals and bisexuality was referred to as “psychic h*rmaphroditism” (cw for use of h slur)

The newly emerging registers of sex/gender and sexuality were inextricably entwined through the hegemonic discourse of evolutionary theory. Determined to reorder dominant social hierarchies, scientists explained deviations of normative being and behavior in terms of a hetero-teleological scale of evolutionary development. Blacks, homosexuals, children, and women were situated at lower points on this scale than white heterosexual men, not able (or not yet able) to reach the highest stage of (hu)man evolution. The category of bisexuality played a central role in this linear model, and thus in the epistemological configuration of the category of sexuality (Angelides, 2001). The human differences of race, age, gender and sexuality were thought to be the effect of a specific temporal and spatial relation to what evolutionists and sexologists referred to as primordial hermaphroditism or embryological bisexuality. Believed to be the earliest form of human ancestry, primordial hermaphroditism, or bisexuality, as Frank Sulloway (1979, p. 179) points out, became the evolutionists “missing bisexual link.” This was confirmed by recapitulation theory, which posited that the human embryo repeated “in its own life history the life history of the race, passing through the lower forms of its ancestors on its way to maturity” (Russett, 1989, p. 50). In other words, as Charles Darwin (1927 [1871], p. 525) posited, every individual “bears rudiments of various accessory parts, appertaining to the reproductive system, which properly belong[s] to the opposite sex.” This meant that blacks, women, children and homosexuals were thought to be the effect of an unsuccessful evolution, closer to, or retaining many more elements of, the originary (pre-historic) bisexuality of the human race and individual embryo. Put differently, an individual’s distance from this state of primordial bisexuality dictated the degree of one’s evolutionary advancement. Within this framework, therefore, the axes of race, age, gender and sexuality were defined and aligned by their very relation to bisexuality.

However, bisexuality posed a problem for sexological discourse. In the attempt to catalogue human sexual behavior, sexologists were con- fronted with the dilemma of containing its variant forms within the nascent and rigid oppositional categories of hetero- and homosexuality. After all, even in his 1897 publication, Sexual Inversion, Havelock Ellis (1897, p. 133) acknowledged the “person who is organically twisted into a shape that is more fitted for the exercise of the inverted than of the normal sexual impulse, or else equally fitted for both” (emphasis added). Similarly, Krafft-Ebing (1965, pp. 373-385) had identified what he called “psychical hermaphroditism.” Yet, sexology was unable to account for bisexuality as a form of sexuality. For instance, on the one hand, Ellis (1928 [1901], p. 88) claimed that “[t]here would seem to be a broad and simple grouping of all sexually functioning persons into three comprehensive divisions: the heterosexual, the bisexual, and the homosexual.” Yet, on the other hand, he affirmed like Krafft-Ebing, that “[m]ost of the bisexual prefer their own sex . . . [and that this] would seem to indicate that the bisexuals may really be inverts.” “In any case,” stated Ellis (1928 [1901], p. 278), “bisexuality merges imperceptibly into simple inversion.”

The difficulty for sexologists constrained by a linear logic of temporal succession was how to reconcile bisexuality as at one and the same time a biological cause (embryological bisexuality) and a psychological effect (bisexual identity). Ultimately, bisexuality as a form of sexuality or identity had to be refused in the present tense.5 That is to say that bisexuality always had to be somewhere else–in the embryo, the sphere of human prehistory–or something else–either really heterosexual or homosexual. It could never be a stable sexual identity in the here and now otherwise the epistemological integrity of the very categories of man, woman, heterosexual and homosexual would be thrown into doubt (Angelides, 2001).

steve angelides, historicizing bisexuality p. 130-132

[sapphic-horror]

SÉVERIN — HY / GORE — 20

a horror beyond your understanding <3

intro !!

my main pronouns are hy / gore but the full list can be found here; mutuals are welcome to use he / she; nh terms preferred! i'm a butch xenic transmasc sapphillean aro lesboy girlboy; i use more than just these terms but these identities are all very important to me i love horror in general, stardew valley, minecraft, analog horror/args, biology, forensic science, bones, & many other things

ask game here! (link)

byi !!

i use slurs i can reclaim positively, including other historic terms containing slurs. all reclaimed slurs will be tagged as '[letter] slur/word' or '[letter] slur/word reclaimed'. queer will not be tagged as a slur, DO NOT tag my posts as 'q slur' (you may tag them as other terms, just not as a slur)

i tag other triggers as '[trigger] tw' or '[content] cw'

i am autistic, have cluster b pds (borderline/antisocial), c-ptsd, did, & some other things i am not comfortable listing; i experience paranoia, dissociative amnesia, & low empathy— no pref. for singular or plural terms, DO NOT call us sysmates or headmates, i use i/we interchangeabley

disabled, chronic pain, & photosensitive— most flags should be eyestrain friendly but i make no guarantees; if something needs to be tagged as eyestrain lmk!

i id as alterhuman/non-human; i use nh terms as a way to cope with trauma & dehumanization

this isn't a syscourse blog, i reblog posts from both pro-endo & anti-endo blogs, DO NOT ASK ME MY OPINION ON SYSCOURSE

dni !!

basic dni criteria

terfs EXPLICITLY get blocked on sight

zionists, including neutrals

fans of the following; harry potter (any jkr related media included), dsmp/qsmp, dream, tommyinnit, jschlatt, hazbin hotel/helluva boss and wilbur soot

anti good faith labels; anti xenos or neos

demonize cluster b disorders (including npd & aspd), use the term 'narc abuse' (or similar terms), demonize people who experience psychosis, demonize people with osddid, or other heavily stigmatized disorders

anti-anti or proshipper

transx/transid (transspecies, chronosian, & folks with biid/bdd can interact) or 'radqueer' / pro/complex/neutral-contract harmful paraphilias (pedophilia, zoophilia, necrophilia, etc.)

heavy religious blogs (christian); personal comfort

i will. . .

good faith identities (lesboy, gaygirl, gaybian, etc.)

alt/new versions of flags

themed flags

extremely specific terms

xin (x-in-nature) terms

neurogenders

alterhuman/otherkin/therian/transspecies flags

terms relating to gore, horror, the undead, cannibalism, etc.

might do reclaimed transx/transid terms (i.e., transautistic meaning a trans person who's autistic)

if it's not on here, ask!

i won't. . .

tranx/transid terms (non-reclaimed)

nsfw/18+ or paraphilia terms

non-traumagenic terms

terms relating to slurs i don't/can't reclaim

flags for disorders I don't have or am public about having

flags exclusive to cultures I'm not apart of

intersex or tfem related flags (i'm perisex tmasc)

some religious terms

theme flags based on/of real people

extremely bright/neon flags (i.e., extreme eyestrain)

ANYONE (REGARDLESS OF IF YOU'RE ON MY DNI OR NOT) MAY USE MY FLAGS!

PLEASE CREDIT ME SOMEWHERE IF YOU USE MY FLAGS (VIA LINK, ALT TEXT, ETC.)

[fruitsofhell]

CW for an anti-black slur cause it's the name of a damn movie title, also mentions of historical racism in cartoons

Get really pissed off whenever I think about Coonskin by Ralph Bakshi because I need to rewatch it to see if it might be a fave movie of mine. I want to go over all of Bakshi's filmography sometime and really digest how he deals with depicting black people (especially Fritz the Cat cause the black crows are so cute!), cause he's in an interesting perspective where he is undoubtably sympathetic to us and grew up around us, but expresses this in ways that are soooo over the top we commonly see them now as only acceptable For A Black Person To Do.

Like, he's some white Jewish guy from the slums, he doesn't really have the right to reclaim the racist iconography as we think of it but at the same time it's like if someone's doing interesting artistic work they're doing interesting work. And I as a black person have actually been really inspired by that film ever since I watched it.

Ever since the rubber hose style became super hot again cause of Cuphead and Bendy I've seen people actively downplay how goddamn racist old cartoons were, or I've seen people pick up a clip from an old film and I just go "Chat, they don't know this is a quietly racist animation trend...". But it's not even just that old cartoons were racist and had racist trends, it was baked into their fundamental styles of comedy and cartooning - they were built to either exclude or humiliate blackness. And I feel like Coonskin is a work that expresses that very very loudly but with some sense of purpose.

I personally have wanted to tap into that idea since I started playing with golden age art styles, but for the tone I set in my shit that's way too overbearing. Plus, maybe as an actual black person something unique for me and not Bakshi is a wish to actually see myself represented in those old cartoon styles as more than as an object of controversy. I've also been meaning to watch more of the Proud family and works by Bruce W. Smith cause of that too, I heard in an interview he was motivated to draw because he wanted to see black folks in that mid-century, modernist style and like, SAME.

But it's actually way easier to work black features into that incredibly flexible style than it is to brute force them into the centerline/rubberhose ones where their origins can be traced back TO BLACKFACE. You guys remember that fucking lesson right? How the entire generic rubbergose face is a play on blackface, that's why the mouths and eyes are white but the body is black. If you're unfamiliar with that idea or don't believe it, look up Bosko, Warner Bros first attempt at a mascot, and see if you can tell what he's supposed to be.

It's more of an uphill battle, but not impossible to make it work in those styles. Though I have also considered the utility of borrowing directly from those racist designs to express a meta-contextual feeling/understanding that that is what you look like as a black person in this time period - that is you in the dominant narrative vision of the time. No matter what you are as a black person, to the historical zeitgeist you just appear as some flavor of coon yknow.

It could be a very potent visual tool I think, and I don't know if I'd be considering that if not for Bakshi and my relationship to Coonskin and its themeing. Which is the point, Bakshi was one of those racey types who always wanted to get people upset to start a convo or whatever. It's interesting to look at older but earnest expressions of this that would seem disastrous by today's standards - imagine "They couldn't make Blazing Saddles today" but true and on steroids.

[kriz-fics]

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Fifteen: Dreams and Revels

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 14.2K

CW: Explicit sexual content (masturbation, M) / blink and you'll miss it: mentions of dub/noncon behavior / Period Typical Attitudes

Being the Magister’s son, Eren finds, does nothing to acclimate him better to this kind of attention. The feast is well underway, though, and the storm of his discomfort has already passed. The worst of it, anyway; he really can do without the occasional gust.

“Here’s to the future lord consort!” a man-at-arms slurs, Anatoly by name, you whisper to Eren with the merest hint of laughter in your voice. He is a great tub of a man with a wine-keg belly and a big bushy auburn beard. It is a wonder the table can bear his weight.

He speaks too soon, as it is; Eren can hear the table creak alarmingly as the man raises his tankard to the dais above the salt, slopping beer all over his hand and the board beneath him. “You had best serve the ‘lil lady well, milord, woman’s like her deserves nuthin’ less’n the best fuck o’ her life!” he roars, blissfully unmindful of the snail shells and bits of bread his fellows are pelting at him as he stands with one foot on the buttered garlic snails. “May your sword stand tall ’n proud ‘n ne’er bend in battle!”

The storm rages anew. Never had Eren wanted to melt into the floor and disappear as much as he did then. Beside him on his right, you let out a tinkling laugh as Anatoly is helped down from the table, staggering and slumping, his face so red it is hard to tell where his beard ends and where his flesh begins. To add salt to Eren’s mortified wounds, the rest of the hall pound their cups on the tabletops, shouting, “Hear, hear!” The familiar first notes of ‘Lusty Boys to Lissome Girls’ begin to play as the musicians strike up a new tune to further compound his shame.

You can well laugh, Eren thinks a little sullenly. You are too trained never to give anything away, never to falter nor show your discomfort no matter the incitement. Knowing you, though, the titter is genuine. A new weapon has been handed you, of course you will be well-pleased; you are sure to use this against him once you resume your new game of flirtation. He both dreads and welcomes the prospect, contrary boy that he is.

For the first time in his life, he wishes he had a courtier’s face, if only to keep his dignity intact. He does not even know what kind of face he is making. A highly amusing one, apparently, to judge by your expression. And your sister’s.

“Best hone your sword well, future brother of mine,” Lydia sings after a bite of dormouse. “You wouldn’t want it to bend after the first stroke. Sister should have some joy of you, at least.”

“I don’t see how my sword is any of your business,” Eren snaps back hotly, flushing even more at the unabashed snort of laughter that escapes you as you reach for your goblet of wine and nearly spill the contents, your mirth making your body rock back into your seat. “How is your little bedmate? I hope you haven’t killed him off already.” He knows, even as he says it, how pathetic that rejoinder is. He has never thought himself a lackwit (he likes to think he is at least reasonably witty) but, gods, does he feel like one now.

Lydia smirks at him from her place on the other side of her sister, clearly in accord with his disparaging self-assessment. “Oh, he’s alive and well, brother dearest, have no fear. I keep him in a small glass bowl for now but I’ll commission a bigger tank for my rooms, to keep him in comfort. He goes by Renren now, I’ll have you know,” she grins at him, the little imp.

“Peace, Sister, you’ve had your fun, now leave my betrothed be. You’ve tormented him enough,” you chide, seemingly taking pity on him at last. Lydia gives him one last puckish smirk before returning to her meal.

Eren graces you with a smile. With his gratefulness comes chagrin, though. He cannot help feeling unmanned. Is he truly so slow-witted that you should have to resort to defending him from your own sister? Can he not even keep it together long enough to turn a phrase, parry Lydia’s words with his own sharper set?

He stamps the feeling down as best he can. He has always prided himself on staying away from the broader courtiers’ circles, away from the frivolity, the lies, the masks. Such webs as they spin with their words put him off, so above them he flies where they cannot touch him. Now he finds himself hopelessly entangled, by a mite no less, a slip of a girl not even half the match of the slimiest sycophants at court, turned round and round until his better faculties left him.

And in front of the woman who he would be equal to. He does not want nor need more reminding of how far removed he is from you, a young woman quickly shaping up to be a courtier as masterly as any of them. Much as he wants to be your equal, though, doing so will have him don a mask, and he will sooner not.

“Let’s go elsewhere,” you murmur to him, the very moment your father stands from his seat on Eren’s left.

“Where to?” Eren whispers back, watching the Lord Rhyzkov stride down to the trestle tables below the salt so he can speak and mingle with his men. Just as Father would do.

You nod to the tall arched entryway of the Great Hall’s terrace, off to the side of the spacious chamber. “The night air would do us good.”

For a moment, Eren takes the measure of you, takes in your smile, which seems to be the precursor to an even wider one, to be given to him once you are well away from prying eyes. A smile held back but not a courtier’s smile - this is all you and not the mask of Rhyzkova.

Perhaps it isn’t a matter of putting on a mask. Perhaps it is simply a matter of restraint.

His gaze slides down the smooth, naked expanse of your back as he trails your progress, admiring the gleam of the chain of diamonds and rose quartzes that traces the dip of your spine as you hail and kiss your lady mother’s cheek further down the table, on your way towards the balcony. He can be restrained. He will be your equal yet.

All at once, the gods see fit to test that restraint. The sway to your hips as you walk, that proud, confident stride that he has come to love so well is even deadlier in this dress - a charovma, he knows now, the southron halter dress that near made him groan aloud the first he saw you this night before the feast.

He had never felt so cunt-struck and so irritated in his life.

“Do you really want me to… break decorum that badly?” Eren had blurted as you sauntered down the empty corridor of the guest wing toward him, holding a crown of silvered laurel leaves studded with emeralds.

“Whatever do you mean?” you blinked up at him, innocent as the purest of maids. A maid you were, and pure, but innocent you were not.

Minx.  

It passed as a simple sleeveless vevda at the front, this dress of peach silk with its white lace paneling and belt of diamonds and rose quartzes. Would that it really was a vevda. Oh, how he wished it was a vevda. And it seemed such a safe dress, much safer than that sheer alabaster wisp of a chelya you wore earlier that day. Your breasts were not like to spill out of this one, at least (a fact he both rejoiced and regretted).

The back wreaked torment enough. He could not have asked for better fodder for his torrid fantasies. The charovma left your entire back bare, from shoulders to waist, now he knew what you looked like naked from behind. No longer would he be reduced to trying to conjure up images of your nakedness from what little had been given him. Well, not truly. But it was one thing, one sight more that was allowed him. Until the wedding night. Not even a day had passed in his stay at Arsechkala and already he had seen more of your beautiful body than he had in your year-long betrothal and friendship.

Still, he could not help feeling… baited.

He had narrowed his eyes at your impeccably artless face. “Don’t toy with me, my lady. Must you always dress like… this?” he gestured at your form gracelessly, made inarticulate by the strength of his turmoil.

The innocence left your face as the imp took over. “I always dress like this at home. I’m sorry if it offends you so, my lord, but you had best get used to it for you will be seeing more of the like.”

And more of me, your smirk seemed to say. It was then that he knew without a doubt: it was no happenstance, that you had your back turned to him when he exited his chambers. You had wanted him to see, and masked your ploy under the guise of examining the tapestry of the first Yelena Rhyzkova hanging on one of the walls down the hall.

Yelena Rhyzkova’s heir had lifted the wreath in her hands and pressed it down on Eren’s head before he could react to her preceding statement.

“Handsome,” you said, tweaking a couple of leaves by his right ear and eyeing the whole arrangement, pleased. “How do you like the fit?”

He glared at you a moment more before answering, “I like it well enough, it’s not uncomfortable.” He was no stranger to the sensation of metal leaves encircling his skull. Being the son of the eminent Magister entitled him to wear the hallowed wreath, reserved for southron guests of the highest acclaim to match their noble hosts. His noble hostess had foregone one for a simple chain of silver and rose quartz, artfully arranged over the elegant plaited knot of her hair.

“Good to see you haven’t forgotten where the podonza should be placed,” you went on, plucking at the white garment he had worn over his vevda of indigo damask with its elbow-length sleeves, belted at the waist by a chain of diamonds. The podonza was a garment of the well-to-do, a long sheet of cloth worn over the vevda (and the tube dress povevda, sometimes the chelya), wrapped about the body beneath the right arm by the right hip and fastened at the left shoulder by pins or brooches. Podonzaya were often fringed, with decorative scrollwork for the simpler palette, with gemstones for those of a more opulent bent. Eren was in no way opulent, yet the podonza he donned was dripping with diamonds to match his belt, like icicles hanging down the eaves of some snow-crusted roof.

“Told you that, did he?” Of course he would. Armin took entirely too much pleasure in telling you tales best left untold. Preferably when Eren was out of the picture. “In my defense, I’m a Midlander. How in all the levels of hell was I supposed to know which shoulder this contraption should be draped over?”

“Your minders would’ve put it on you, properly, had you not been a stubborn little mule of a colt. Not that things have changed much. Still a mule, not so much a colt.” You had him there. Not that he would ever admit it, stubborn mule that he was. “The only time we should expect to see you with the podonza fastened on your right shoulder is on a bier at your funeral.” The levity on your face had vanished then, to be replaced by a dawning sense of disquiet. And fear. “Gods forbid that time come soon.”

He had scrambled to revive your cheer but you drew yourself up, shrugging off the dread as you would a stifling thick fur pelt, and took his hand in yours. As though only his touch could drive away your troubles. You left the guest wing thus, slipping back into your comfortable banter.

Eren stares at the back of you, led along as he had been in the guest wing. It is never a pleasant thing to see fear mar such beauty yet he finds it pleasant still. It is an honest sentiment on an honest face. Yours. Not Rhyzkova’s. You are learning. You will be rid of Rhyzkova in your more intimate moments, he can see that happy prospect now. He will have all of you. Your fears, your grief, your anger, your joy and cheer and laughter. Your truths.

He will have all of you.

Around you, the feast is steadily descending further and further into uncontained revelry, as is the nature of these things. A rowdy group has commenced playing a knife game; more than one man will leave short a finger or two, Eren wagers. Yet another lot is trying to outdrink each other, to the tune of their fellows’ rallying calls. One man is already out cold and lying sprawled atop the table, beer foam trickling down his mouth to soak into his beard. The last two are well at it, though not for much longer, Eren can tell. Those whose purses rest with the beardless ashen-haired boy will find them heavier by bout’s end. His older, supposedly more seasoned opponent is lagging, lifting his tankard to his lips as if it is filled with stones and not beer; the eyes visible above the mug’s rim are comically crossed.

A man with a spade-shaped beard snatches at a passing serving girl as you and Eren draw level with his table. Eren looks away as the man pulls the girl onto his lap and slips a hand up beneath her skirts. The crash of her dropped flagon echoes in Eren’s ears as he looks elsewhere, anywhere but at the woman in front of him.

The increasingly familiar aggravation surfaces from his depths once more. He is no shy and blushing maiden boy- well, a maiden boy he may be but shy and blushing he is not. Not until you, anyway. Somehow, you manage to make him regress and dither and fumble like a halfwit loon. He should be long past feeling embarrassed by the sight of randy debauchery. He had been (vocally) randy with you, he should not be dilly-dallying between virginal and sensual.

Now that he thinks on it, though, since when had he ever been embarrassed by lust? Never. He had seen more, seen them at it in the hallways during feasts, seen stableboys tumbling their wenches amidst piles of hay, seen people fuck and be fucked by countless others in the brothels. Not once had he ever shied away.

This girl is something else entirely.

He finds himself glaring at your beautifully supple back. You really ought to have let your hair down. Or worn a robe. Or a shawl, even a podonza. It wouldn’t cover everything but it would still cover something. “But charovmaya aren’t supposed to be worn with a podonza,” he recalls you telling him earlier, blinking that sham of an innocent blink at him.

Oh, how he wanted to kiss it off you.

He is learning more of southron women’s fashions than he cares for, to be sure. They are as revealing on other women as they are on his betrothed. Lydia and Lady Theresia are both clad in chelyakin. His future mother by marriage is elegant in black; tiny rubies dangle down the fringe of the deep crimson podonza she is wearing, adding to the lady’s overall sophisticated ensemble. As low-cut as the strap dress is, Eren deems it more compelling on her eldest. Lydia makes it look a deal more modest. She has dispensed with a podonza altogether, though she hardly needs one to cover herself. Her pink chelya at least has a scooped neckline, quite far removed from her mother’s deep vee.

He cannot understand how all of that inherent sensuality in southron fashions eluded him. He has never truly been susceptible to women’s charms, though, southron or otherwise. And yet he is susceptible, so susceptible to you.

What is it about you that draws him so?

Is it that sweet and pretty smile that is the delight of his eyes? Is it that gentle kindness he oft receives from you in his lesser moments? Is it that spirit, that passion, that fire that smolders within, the true you beneath the mask of Rhyzkova? Is it all of those at once and more?

The jewels sparkle bright against your naked skin, a sight reminiscent of the myriad women he has seen clad in only such. Not one of whom could have held his attention for more than a night.

It is not the garment but you.

The orange glow of lamplight washes over him as you pass through the tall arch of the terrace’s entrance. The strains of ‘The Forest Lass’ fade into the backdrop as you progress deeper into the balcony. Suddenly, he is alone with a fae enchantress, walking as one enchanted. You lead him beneath the trees, brushing past the trailing vines, your hand in his so much smaller yet strong, firm, imperious.

He had always wondered why Prince Rodion risked all for that forest lass, Alena, who had more than a drop of fae in her, the singers say. But perhaps now he knows something of what the prince felt when his maid spirited him away that day into her bower and left him with an insatiable longing no mortal woman could sate.

What were vows and a kingdom worth compared to a woman’s love?

The answer to that verse was clear, once. He is coming to find that it is not so simple as all that.

Arsechkala still yet lives even at this hour. The Great Hall is situated away from the sea, and so the city and the surrounding countryside are your only concessions to a view. The city, indeed, has its charms, as you said. Lampposts still illuminate the slowly emptying plazas, faint music drifts through the streets from some far-off revels; even the smell of cooking permeates the air, something fried and savory that piques Eren’s interest, though he had done the feast great homage mere moments ago. Leagues and leagues away, the line of the Greatshield is a dark starless void against the vast starry immensity that is the sky.

You let him go and lean against the banister, staring up at him. The light from the nearby posts gives you an ethereal cast. Your eyes are deep pools he can drown in. And the better part of him does not want to surface.

“Feeling better now?” you murmur after a time. “You looked like you needed to be away. I don’t know which was redder, your face or Tolya’s beard.” You reach up to take his face in hand and tilt his head up a little, the better to catch the light. “Not so red now.”

Eren threads his fingers through yours and holds you there a moment, savoring the warmth of your palm, before drawing both your hands down. Neither seem eager to be the one to let go and so you remain handfast. “Is that what I should expect as consort? Seems like a raw deal on my end,” he notes sardonically.

You chuckle. “They’ll grow on you. Don’t your men treat you the same at home? They’ll be yours, too, in time.”

Yet more reminders of his subsequent role. It is a strange thought, and surreal, but he is coming to reconcile himself with the fact every passing day. His resolve to be a good consort and knight of your household returns, stronger than ever. He had sworn such before you and your gods, a thousand years ago. It was his first vow to you. So much has changed since then. The boy anxiously waiting in front of the godstone need not have worried about the lady in the red dress. You are no Elva Riehl, no wife that a man can revile, he knows that now. You are a damn sight much better, so much better.

"Being home seems to agree with you."

You smile and release his hand, leaving him bereft. You turn to stare out at your city, hands splayed upon the gray stone banister. “Does it? Well, I’m always glad to be home. It’s just so freeing. It’s like waking up from some long, strange dream… one that seems more nightmare than dream, sometimes… in the end, you’re just glad to be awake and away from it all.”

Eyes of gray glass glare at him from the darkness. He blinks and looks down at the tiled floor beneath his sandaled feet, shaken. But only your eyes return his gaze when next he looks back up again. Concerned, and not condemning. “Are you all right?” you say, cupping his face into your hand once more. “Do you want to rest? We’ve had a long day.”

Eren leans into your touch, taking comfort. He is awake and away from it all; he will not let his ghosts chase him even unto his waking hours. “I’m fine.”

The loud peal of feminine laughter spares him the need to change the subject. Some man-at-arms is tugging a serving wench into the balcony, clearly looking for a quick tumble.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” you sigh, dropping your hand from Eren’s face. “I thought the terrace was unusually empty for this time and this sort of occasion.”

You do not lead him back into the light of the Great Hall, as he thought you would. You are staring at the unheeding pair through the arched colonnade that parts the balcony in half, a detached sort of curiosity in your expression as you watch the man push his giggling girl up the nearest wall and smash his mouth to hers. Darkness swallows them in its grasp. Not enough to be free of scrutiny, though, to those most interested in their commerce.

Somehow, your composure steadies Eren in what is supposed to be a moment rife with awkward tension.

“Do you like to watch?”

It takes him a moment to understand what you are getting at. The air grows hotter in an instant.

“In the brothels, when you go with your lads. Do you like to watch them at their play?” The girl’s legs are now wrapped around her lover’s waist, whose hand crawls beneath her skirts in a trice. The shadows cloak their congress but naught else. The night comes alive with the sound of her moans. “Does it give you pleasure watching them tease, kiss… fuck whatever slut they bought for the night?”

It is obscene, indecent, improper, and yet it isn’t. It is not in Eren to squirm beneath his betrothed’s gaze. Not now. Curious. “I don’t seek it out but I won’t look away when it’s before me.” He stares down at you, quite unblinking. Steady. “Sometimes, it gives me pleasure. When I make what I see mine. When I take the place of the lads, in my fancies at night, in the dark where no one can see.”

Your lips curl up slightly. “There’s freedom in the dark, don’t you think? Beneath its cloak, you can be free with anything. Free with your favors. And your pleasures.” The look in your eyes is… riveting. It is one he has never seen there before. He does not know what it is. He wants to draw it out and examine it further, see what is it about it that makes his heart race.

The woman’s moans take on a new timbre and are soon interspersed with the man’s grunts. Neither of you looks round at the source of the sounds of loving. Eren lets it wash over him and fade away into the distance. The lady in front of him is a more spellbinding thing by far.

“Would you… like to visit the sanctum? You have yet to see it again.” The dark pools of your eyes drink in the light of the nearby lamps.

“Will we be alone, my lady? In the dark?”

“There will be lamps. Except in the corners where there are none. Then, yes, we will be alone. In the dark.”

The call is tempting, so very tempting. It will be so easy to cross that threshold into more intimate terrain. Within the night, he can find himself becoming your lover as much as he is your betrothed. You are willing, he will not need to coax you too much… you can love before the godstone and have the old gods grace your union, and afterward, he can crown you with flowers and tell you… tell you…

A frisson races down his spine, shocking him. The dream is a bolt of lightning that leaves him just as stunned as if he has been struck in truth. He curls and uncurls his fingers, and forces himself to hold your entrancing gaze.

His is a dream too wonderful and too frightening to consider. For this night, at least.

“Perhaps we could go in a less dangerous hour. With you in a less dangerous dress.” And with me in a less dangerous disposition.

Your eyes search his face for several heartbeats. He wonders what it is that you are looking for, what you are seeing. Whatever it is makes your rousing gaze lose its heat, and all that is left is soft tenderness. You offer him a hand, smiling. “In a less dangerous hour, then. Let’s go and leave them to their play.”

Eren stares at you a while, taking in your gentle face, so different from the sultry front you’d worn mere moments ago. The lights shine dully on the jewels that adorn you, on your hair, your ears, your arms, your dress. A lady of surpassing grace and beauty. Beauty most of all. He smiles and takes your hand.

An altogether different sort of scream leaves the serving wench’s mouth the moment you pass her and her lover’s little love nest. The man fumbles as she instinctively tries to hide herself, but you hush down their panicked floundering and tell them to carry on, smooth as silk. Eren has to choke back a laugh.

The brightness of the Great Hall is almost blinding after all that time spent beneath the dimness of night. The feasting and the revelry had gotten a deal more lively during that brief time you spent away. Lord Alexander had returned to his seat at the high table, deep in discussion with Sir Grisha Dunayevsky, his castellan, who had taken Eren’s seat at the right hand of his lord.

Eren feels a thrill course through him, that old thrill of seeing a celebrated hero in the flesh in the same room as him. Before serving as the Rhyzkov castellan, Sir Grisha had led the royal fleet to victory in the Storming of the Causeway during the War Without almost thirty years ago, beating back the combined might of the Cydamaic navy and the corsairs they had hired to bolster their strength at sea.

Sir Grisha turns his head to take a sip of his wine, giving Eren a glimpse of the ropey scar that mars his mouth, a relic from some hard-fought battle. The blow had slashed him open, from the middle of his upper lip to the lower right corner of his mouth. It was not a deep cut, by the look of it, yet Eren knows he had lost a good amount of teeth for his trouble. The old knight had long since replaced the enamel for gold; even at this distance, Eren can see the nubs in the man’s mouth flash as the metal catches the light.

He hopes you can be prevailed upon to… ease his way into a conversation with the living legend. He had wanted to converse with the man the very moment he learned who he was all those years ago. It is not often he claims what rights he has as your betrothed to ask for favors. Perhaps you can oblige him in this; he will sweeten his suit with strawberry cream pie if he has to.

Eren finds his wish coming closer to fulfillment as you proceed to the dais, determined to play Rhyzkova and keep yourself briefed on the matters of your future fiefdom. He cannot help but admire your sense of duty even at this time of celebration.

“If it’s not too much to ask… if you could put in a good word for me to Sir Grisha, I would forever be beholden to you.”

“You mean you aren’t already beholden? If our betrothal isn’t enough to bind you to me… why, then, should I grant you this boon, Sir?” You are smirking though, as you near the heads’ table. You give the next table a wide berth, this one the rowdiest by far. Two curly-haired lads, with the look of brothers about them, are dancing on the tabletop arm-in-arm and armed with tankards sloshing beer everywhere. Someone had stolen some musician’s fiddle and is playing a bawdy jig. The Virgin Queen has shed her silken slip to show her silken skin, the men sing uproariously as you and Eren pass them by, careful not to get caught up in the carousing.

“I would be more beholden to you than I already am,” Eren amends easily, then adds, “I can make it worth your while.” He hesitates for a fraction of a heartbeat and slips his hand across the soft, smooth silk of the skin of your naked back. Gooseflesh forms beneath his fingers almost at once, and he feels you shudder just that merest bit. He smiles.

You press closer to him as if you cannot help yourself. “I could… put in a word, formally introduce you as my betrothed. You can carry on from there.” The breathiness in your voice sounds sweet as a nightingale’s trill. Triumph has never tasted this good. And he didn’t even need to ply you with pie.

---

He wakes up hard as a rock and randy as a whore.

Eren blinks up at the canopy of his bed, dazed and bleary and skin prickling with heat. He had kicked the blankets partially off himself sometime in the night, leaving all of him exposed but for his right leg. The haze of sleep reduces him to staring blankly at his cock. Stiff, erect, and weeping copiously with his arousal.

He stares at it a moment longer before turning his attention to his balcony. Not that he can see past the pillars’ drapes, which he had drawn closed before retiring. Faint gray light shines through the fabric, slowly illuminating the room. The hour of the cow has just dawned, by his reckoning. Too early. He will not be getting up until it is at least halfway through the hour. He should not be up at all, but for that dream.

Eren runs his hands down his face and sighs, looking once more down his naked body at his insistent cock, which is quickly (and loudly) making its grievances known.

He had as well take care of it.

His own touch makes him flinch, when he reaches to take himself in hand - already, he is so sensitive, so quick to respond, it will not take him long to reach his pleasure.

It was a new dream, this one. This time you were in the sanctum, which you had shown him the day before. The significant changes to the place suit his fancies well. It is not so dark, not so wooded as before; he could see every hint and spasm and flicker of the pleasure he gave you as he loved you before your gods, who looked on in silent, benevolent benediction.

In the dream, you had slipped into the gardens during the feast, with no one any wiser. In the dream, he had succumbed to the lure, with no compunctions. It is the only place where he is free to slip into temptation. They cannot take him to task for dreams, as dreams hold no consequences. And in them, his sentiments, those newfound feelings are not as frightening and can be overlooked for something baser, more carnal, more sensual. Just for a time, just for a while.

He had you on his podonza, that white, bejeweled sheet, which he had spread out beneath you on the grass. The both of you were, more oft than not, naked in his dreams. Only he was fully stripped bare this time. That ravishing, sinful peach dress was bunched about your waist. You were nude otherwise. Your body in moonlight was a thing of immaculate perfection. In this light, you were as ethereal as a fae maid. And beautiful, as a wild animal was beautiful: unbound, untethered, uninhibited. You in your truest form.

A grunt escapes his mouth as his hand slips down his cock, slowly pulling on the hard flesh and lightly thumbing beneath the flushed swollen head. A bead of arousal drips down to further wet his shaft; he is leaking so much he doesn’t even need his own spittle to ease himself along.

For the hundredth time, he wishes the hand now pleasuring him belongs to you. You can pleasure him better than he ever can himself, he is sure of it.

You would ride him some nights, in his fancies, rolling your hips against his hard and fast and eager while he held on to your waist, sometimes guiding, sometimes holding on, merely holding on, needing something to cling to to steady him lest he lost himself entirely to his desire.

Tonight, he rode you. As he does most every time. As much as he loves the thought of you claiming him for your own, nothing brings him greater pleasure than the prospect of just bearing down on you, taking you as he will, hard and fast and eager, and having you at his beck and mercy.

Eren moans, soft and breathless, as his unoccupied hand comes up to tease his nipples, pinching and pulling one and then the other until they stand hard and stiff on his chest. His back arches a little, and his eyes, already half-lidded, close entirely. He likes to shut his eyes, likes to keep his world of sin dark. For in the dark, his hands are yours.

You run soft tantalizing fingers over his nipples for a moment more, circling, rubbing over the fleshy nubs, before lightly scratching down the ridges of his abdomen. His breath hitches and his stomach tightens at the touch, getting tighter still as your hand slips down to the dark thatch of hair at the base of his cock, sliding down further until you are cupping his balls in your palm and gently rolling them in your hand.

A louder, strangled moan breaks the silence in the chamber; your questing fingers have stolen behind his testicles and pressed firmly on that spot, that stretch of skin there that gives him such pleasure. His hips rut up into his fist, and he feels himself get wetter as his cock leaks further arousal over his steadily tightening grip.

Some nights, you would leave a trail of kisses up his body, running lips and tongue and teeth across his skin until you could capture his mouth with yours and let him taste the sweetness of your tongue. The tongue he would have tasted had duty, that poxy bitch, not called him away.

A hint of displeasure bleeds through his ecstasy. His hands can do much and more in the way of sensual satisfaction but they can only do so much. The rough pads of fingertips and the scratch of fingernails are poor stand-ins for the soft wet heat of a pair of luscious lips. But they are all he has, so he has to make do.

In his mind’s eye, he can see you hovering over him, smiling that gloriously sultry smile that he has only ever seen of late. Amid the comforts of home and away from the stifling court, the passionate young woman seems to bloom. Your hair drapes over you as you bend ever closer to his face, lending your congress further intimacy.

This brief scene is not as satisfying as it could have been, however. He cannot smell your hair, your scent, your body. The token you had given him the day of the Warrior’s Tourney would have helped compound his illusions. He keeps the piece of cloth in a clean box, away from anything that might adulterate your scent. It is, unfortunately, locked away in his chest of belongings. He had not needed to use it ‘til this morning, would that he had it now to enhance his dream…

Your perfume of apples and winter roses is still deeply entrenched in the cloth, along with your scent, a scent far sweeter and more intoxicating than any fruit or flower. He would have drowned in it as you lowered your face to his and kissed him. For a moment, he is tempted to get up and fetch your favor, make all of this a thousand times better, but his hand is locked into place, he cannot get up even if he wants to. And does he want to?

So, again and as always, he has to make do.

It is not your favor that drives him closer to bliss. Suddenly, he can smell your drying sheet, and the memory of the sensation hits him hard as a charging bull. His mouth is moving against yours, yet the taste of air is the only thing he knows. But he can smell your hair, your scent, your body, the essence of you you had left behind on your linen, stronger and more intense than it is on your favor.

He is bearing down on you all at once, back in the sanctum, back in the dream of the night. It is easier to imagine how you’d look now, with all the glimpses he’d had the past couple of days. Your breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts while he ruts into you madly, hands tight around your lush hips as he presses you down against the ground for better leverage. You are gasping for breath, fingers twisted in the white of his podonza, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

His hand picks up pace around his cock, his thumb rubbing over his dribbling slit, once, twice; his fist is slathered with his arousal, making him slip easily through his steadily tightening grip. The wet slaps of flesh on flesh are all the sound in the room, interspersed with his pants and pleasured groans.

White-hot embers begin to flare up in the base of his stomach, but he is not there yet, still he wants more, wants to further play with this pretty spectre he has conjured and bring you to your own peak…

He bends down and takes a nipple between his lips, suckling hard, flicking his tongue over and around the nub so he can further draw out your moans. You oblige him so eagerly, your back curving into a beautiful arc. The most sinful moan sanctifies these sacred grounds; never has he heard a sound so divine. Your hands come up to run through his hair as he moves to worship the other breast, pressing him close, closer, as close as you can to your yearning flesh.

His hands slide down, from your waist to your thighs. Your skin slips beneath his fingertips, the softest, finest silk he has ever felt, until he is hooking his arms beneath your knees and rearing up between your legs, lifting you a little so you can take him better as he starts pounding harder, faster, hips slamming into yours with wild, frenzied strokes.

Loud cries and whines take the place of your moans, blending in perfect accord with his groans and grunts and the wet slaps of flesh on flesh. Wind sweeps through the sanctum, proof of the gods’ favor, but he cannot feel the gentle cooling touch on his skin. It is so hot, he is burning, burning, and he is glad to burn, fire has never felt this good…

His hips are twitching, wanting more than his hand, wanting more than the tightness it can give him, wanting more than his own wetness. He wants to thrust into the real you and not this spectre, feel how tight you truly are and how wet, have the truth of that pleasure that is so acclaimed of his friends and that he can never get from any other because they will never be good enough, never enough.

Eren tightens and loosens his grip around his cock as he pumps himself faster, an attempt to mimic the sensations of a woman’s cunt at her peak, that most maddening, pleasurable sensation that they spoke of, of your tight, wet, and warm walls massaging his shaft as it strove to bring him to complete and utter euphoria.

His cock throbs; close, he is so close, his hips are moving erratically, so out of his control as he thrusts into his jerking fist, panting and moaning and chanting out your name, the most lustful hymn, the most sinful of prayers.

You are a crumbling mess beneath him, clawing at his chest, crying out and sobbing from the strength of your pleasure, your body near folded in half while he continues his rut, grinding, slamming his cock into your sweet, wet cunt. Your ankles are now draped over his shoulders, toes curling as your peak comes barreling closer, ever closer. You chant your own hymn and call out for him desperately, “Eren, Eren, Eren,” begging, pleading for your climax, let me come, please, please, please…

Hot, sticky spend coats his hand and splatters all over his chest and stomach as he reaches his pleasure with a loud cry, almost screaming his ecstasy into the silent chambers. His back arches, fire lancing up his spine and white heat engulfing him, and for a thousand years, he stays there, drowning in the fount of rapture that is his lady.

Seed still leaks from his swollen tip as he comes to bit by bit. His hips continue to thrust until pleasure becomes too much like pain and his movements slow to a stop. Eren releases his softening cock, letting out a satisfied huff of air. His torso is slick with sweat and spattered with spend but the familiar haze of sated pleasure is stealing over him, leaving him heavy-limbed upon his bed, too sleepy to clean himself off.

His seed will look better dripping down your cunt, he thinks, running a finger absently through a milk-white puddle pooled in the creases of his muscled abdomen. It will be proof of his presence, that he had been in you, had taken you in all the ways you could be taken. He will be secure in the knowledge that you are his in every sense. And he will not need to clean himself up. Stones weigh down his eyelids.

The man glares at him from the dark, eyes wide and gray and glassy. And filled with terrible anger. Eren jolts awake, heart hammering. He stares up at the bed’s dark canopy, suddenly averse to turning his head and looking round the room, dreading the sight of glass eyes staring back at him from the dark.

Contempt for his fear rises in him several heartbeats later. He is the Knight of Highridge, blood of Godfrey the Loyal and the Falcon Knights, a Falcon Knight himself, ghosts have no hold over the likes of him.

He turns his head almost defiantly, daring them to haunt him in his waking hours. They do not dare. Not today. It is lighter now than it had been before, and the muted illumination reveals nothing and no one. No vengeful man, no mournful boy, no accusing gray eyes. He is alone. As he should be.

Sleep has well and truly deserted him. He had as well get up. Perhaps you will be awake by now. The Alyfeis is today, he remembers with a happy jolt. The prospect of enjoying the day’s revels makes him shoot up from bed. He grimaces at the dirty, sticky feeling of dried seed on his skin and resolves at once to wash.

With his revulsion comes some amusement, though. Once, he would have been mortified facing you after what he’d just done. He had fucked himself to you so many times, shame is beyond him at this point. Now you know, beyond all doubt. And seem to love the idea. That is the best thing by far.

Eren stands from the bed and glances down at the emerald sheets. He will not need to launder them himself this time, he notes, pleased. That is the only thing that gives him some measure of embarrassment for his deeds. There is something so discomforting about servants being privy to his desires; it does not bother him overmuch nowadays, yet having control over who he welcomes into that part of his life gives him ease.

He pads naked toward the pillars and pulls back the drapes. Gray is leaching out of the world, leaving only color. Duns and browns and whites and reds. Blues and greens. That most of all. He breathes in the salt morning air, feeling the brief horror of the dawn vanish like the mists of morn. The day is promising to be a good one. Perhaps it can lead into the night. With any luck, he will dream of you again.

To dream of you every night will be sweet. Desire is always better than the dead, after all.

Dearest Miks,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am doing all right, thank you for asking. It is so strange to see the palace this empty and the court nonexistent, the place is so much larger without people in it.

It’s boring without all of you in here. I thought being a Guardsman would be a lot more exciting than this but all we do is stand by doors and stare down corridors. It is an honorable post, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t expect the slow times to be so… slow. At least Bertolt is with me, having a friendly face around makes it better. I’ve never truly appreciated the chap until now, I’m glad to have him as a sworn brother.

Speaking of brothers, I can’t believe I can call Sir Levi and Sir Erwin that. I still feel like a squire around them half the time… maybe because I’m the youngest of the bunch. Can’t say I like the feeling. I’ll work hard to show everyone I earned this, I’ll be a proper Guardsman in time, they’ll see!

I miss you and Karanes. Even Martin, even though he is a little snot. I’ll make a fine knight of him, between the two of us House Springer will rise to the skies!

Training is deadly dull without you here. Is it the same for you there without your trusty and ever-loyal Connie? Best keep your skills sharp, you’ll need it when next we cross swords. This’ll be the year I will finally throw you down, mark my words.

I hope you get this before the Alyfeis. I hope the Alyfeis here is as fun as it is back there. Thank the gods we’re allowed some fun. Just have to endure a couple of hours of guard duty and I’ll be free to frolic. I would say don’t frolic too hard without me but I know who I’m talking to, I’ll have no fear of that. I don’t think you can say the same for me, though, you know how Sasha is. Bless her.

Please write me. The occasional friendly word would do wonders. Really looking forward to the winter reconvene and seeing everyone’s mugs again.

All the best,

Connie

The letter had come as quite a surprise. A pleasant one, at that. Connie Springer, lowbrow, practically unlettered Connie Springer, is writing her. Mikasa places the missive on her desk, smiling to herself. It must be drearier in Midford during the reprieve than first she’d thought. The plaintive note to his last paragraph tugs at her heart. Is it truly that bad? She reaches for a fresh sheet of parchment and her quill.

A soft tap sounds on the wall beside the entrance to her bedchamber. “Come,” she calls out, lowering her hand.

Louise Ledovskoya brushes back the dark blue velvet curtains that serve as the room’s doors and steps in. She bows her blonde head. “My lady. I am come to dress you for the rite.”

“Of course.” Is it that time already? Mikasa turns her head about to glance down the mullioned window behind her. It would seem so. Cityfolk swarm the streets of the capital below, headed in the same general direction, toward the temple of the Gardener. From the vantage of her tower bedroom, the lively masses are no more than ants trooping back into their hill, come home after a day’s work done in the fields. There is no work to be had for the day, though, and the human swarm is off to worship and make merry; home is far from anyone’s mind.

Not from Connie’s, however. The scrap of parchment lying on her desk seems a dejected thing, and Mikasa feels the weight of it on her back as she leaves her bedroom for the bath. She feels a twinge of guilt. She must needs answer at the best opportunity. Tonight, after the festivities. First, she must give the gods their due.

Her new handmaid is a chipper thing, and chatty, quite unlike the lass before. The Neven girl had been passable as handmaids went, and served her well and ably for three years. She would have served for longer were it not for her light fingers. A chambermaid had caught her filching Mikasa’s jewels earlier in the year, and so she was dismissed, sent home in utter disgrace. Mikasa has never been a flashy girl, and could care little and less for the lost jewels, but thievery is thievery and should be punished in due course. It is the principle of the thing.

“Finished, my lady.” The new girl - Louise - steps back as she finishes the intricate task of clipping Mikasa’s veil to the back of her head. She glances at her reflection. A proper little lady gowned in copper and salmon stares back at her. The future Lady Ackerman, Lady of Karanes. The Shieldmaiden is nowhere in sight.

She stands from the vanity and straightens the sheer silk of the split sleeves that trail down her gown from the elbows. “Let’s go.” She does not deign to grace the painted stranger in the mirror another glance.

This year’s Alyfeis is already proving to be quite extraordinary. Lord Ludwig Ledovskoy is standing beside her lord father on the pulpit of the temple balcony, quite unmindful of the pointed stares and whispers coming from the floor below as the commons gossip amidst the ongoing rite. The more politically savvy ones have heard of the Lord of Ajdoje’s visit and know what that entails.

The scent of burning produce drifts up to the Ackermans on the gallery, where they always observe the rite, the better to have some privacy. Still the commons whisper even as the Bailiff’s voice echoes throughout the building to consecrate the year’s sacrifice and plead with the gods for another year of great bounty. Lord Lukas merely stares at the proceedings, seeming far away. Lord Ludwig is as stern and tight-lipped as he usually is.

Only Mother seems to disapprove of the buzzing impropriety. It is a comically ironic thing that a foreigner would find more offense in the blatant irreverence breaking out within these holy grounds. Especially considering she shouldn’t give a fig about a faith not her own. But so it is with the Lady Otsune, Azumabito as was, Ackerman now. And she has been for twenty-odd years; a developed attachment for the mores of her new home is only to be expected.

Mikasa wonders how they celebrate the harvest in Hizuru. Perhaps it is a festival of great beauty, like the Feast of Flowers. Her parents took a brief tour of Hizuru a year after she entered court, and they had brought her along. They had gone in the spring, in time for the feast. It was the most magical feast she had ever attended. She never knew that flowers could be so… beautiful.  

They never seem to be, at home. They make a riot of color, true enough, reds and whites and yellows, purples and blues, endless, endless pink. Yet it was only in her mother’s motherland that she had ever truly appreciated them. Lovayan cherry trees are not half so enchanting as the ones in Hizuru. They had sat beneath them on blankets, eating local delicacies and drinking local vintages. All the while the petals fell, those pale pink snowflakes that were never cold to the touch. Around them, the Hizurites would whisper, only whisper, all reluctant to break the spell of the moment with noise and volume.

The whispers here sound a deal less reverent. Those and stares follow them to the Bulwark. Mikasa trots astride her piebald palfrey Mitsu, keeping pace with her mother’s litter as their small party navigates Middelfoort’s busy cobbled streets. All and sundry stare them out of countenance. The festival commences as it should, with plays and entertainments, music and dancing and laughter and flowers, with the trade and display of the best of the harvest.

But alongside the beets and carrots and peaches and pears comes a different sort of crop. The best of the gossip is on sale as well, prompted by the highborn passing. Everywhere they turn, only one thing seems to be in everyone’s minds. Mikasa wonders if they would have attracted half the attention they are getting now without their honored guest tipping the scales, as it is.

There he sits atop one of the biggest destriers she has yet seen, a massive dark bay beast with powerful flanks, conversing with her father with no more care for the eyes around him as he would a fly buzzing about his ear. His standard flies before him carried by a bearer, a teal banner with the red fess of his House. The Ackerman pennant is not to be outdone beside his. There it flies in the hands of another bearer, the three longswords of Ackerman crossed upon its blue field, the proud and ancient sigil of a proud and ancient House.

‘Swords, swords, swords,’ Mikasa seems to hear everywhere, at every turn and corner, until it begins to sound like a call to arms, a demand for Lord Ackerman to call the banners and ride to northern aid. Middelfoorters are hardly the most war-like of people; the whispers sound more conspiratorial than anything, curious, even excited at the thought of what these northmen could want, if Lord Ackerman will raise swords.

This is why Ledovskoy is here, she knows. To tell Father of the Ajdine clamor and their discontent with how the Zhelevic were treated. These northmen seem an intimate bunch. Wrong one and you wrong all. In many ways, there is something admirable in that. Many will call it prickly, though. And it is one of the many reasons the rest of the realm takes issue with the North.

The crowd that tailed them from the temple has grown larger and is growing larger still as they near the Bulwark. These will settle on the bridge and one of the courtyards of the castle to prepare for the harvest feast and further sell their produce. Many and more will wait for the autumn audience, to be held later in the afternoon. Here they will offer Lord Lukas the pick of their crops and perhaps bring forth a petition to be settled. The evening is reserved for the harvest feast, one in the castle for the highborn and their household, the other for the commons down in the courtyard.

Father is having little joy of this year’s festival. He had spent the entirety of the audience only half in attendance, absently dispensing his judgements as he pondered other, more pressing matters.

Now, Mikasa sits quietly listening in as Lord Ludwig apprises Father of the building malcontent of his commons, reassuring his liege that he is doing all he can to stem their mutinous flow.

Some assistance will not be unwelcome, says the Ledovskoy lord, him with his hard, lined face with the square, clean-shaved jaw and his long blond hair, which he has tied back behind his head with a red ribbon. The eyes that lock onto her father’s are a muted hazel, green with a faint brown ring about his pupils. Lord Ludwig is handsome, for an older man. And bears a strong resemblance to his daughter, Mikasa’s new handmaid.

This homegrown northern matter seems to be a good deal more pressing than first she’d thought. Both men had vanished during the entertainments, leaving the rest of the household spare and idle. Which worried Mother, Mikasa senses, as she comes over much later to bid her good night and seek her blessing. This further feeds Mikasa’s own foreboding as she makes her way to Father’s solar for his blessing.

He is standing in front of the tall window, hands clasped behind his back as he looks down upon his still rejoicing city. Lord Ludwig is nowhere in sight. Father does not turn around when she announces herself and enters. For a long moment, there is silence, broken only by the soft snaps of the fire in the stone hearth to her left. Above, the glass and iron chandelier shines its balmy orange light over the chamber, lending a certain warm homeliness to the space.

Several more heartbeats pass until at last, he sighs and strides over to his desk, which is standing beside the mullioned panes in front of a shelf of books and knickknacks. The blue and gray carpet underfoot muffles his steps.

A sheepskin map is rolled open on the surface of the table, its corners weighed down by books. A map of Karanes, Mikasa sees, as she strides nearer. There are no markers, no marks upon the painted hide. She wonders what it is that Father is looking for, what he is noting.

“Well, it was only a matter of time. I can’t say I’m surprised, you know what they’re like.” He leans down on the desk, hands spread out on the map. The first two fingers of his right hand lay pointing at the Lord of Ajdoje’s stronghold, up in northern Karanes.

“Northmen are northmen.” She walks to the lounge situated in front of a wall of books to the right of the desk and sits down.

“More’s the pity. Oh, to be a pure Midlander as we were of old… What even are we Karanesi now? Midlander or northmen? We’re not quite one, not quite the other. And both so different from one another. It’s a wonder any man could herd this lot for all this time.”

“Our family has always been able,” Mikasa says, quite awkwardly, not knowing how to address her father’s laments. It is something she is little versed in, to her chagrin. She is little versed in dealing with people generally, a fact which gives her no small amount of anxiety. Especially considering the station to which the gods saw fit to call her.

“If only our family weren’t so… able.” Karanes is the only one of the States spanning two fronts, the Midlands and the North. The Ackermans of old, however, had settled further south than where their descendants now rule, in present-day Neustadt ruled by the Vukasins. Some Reiss king rewrote the Lovayan map and placed his Ackerman lord in the middle of the State as a buffer, a serjeant best suited to handle the insurgent northmen whenever they rose up (which they did often and well even to this day).

The Ackermans have ever been a martial family, producing warrior king after warrior king throughout the millennia until the Titans came and beat them down to vassalship, as they did all the other kings and queens in fair Lovaya. Who better to be a bulwark against the wild than one with warrior’s blood himself?

It is a suit of armor her father is never comfortable wearing. He is an oddity, as far as Ackermans go, more scholarly than warlike, happier with a book in hand than with a sword. This had caused no end of strife between him and his lord father, Klaus Ackerman, who slapped the Vukasins and their dogs down to heel during the War Within decades ago. Lord Klaus’s death had freed Father of his father’s scorn. And he has never been happier.

As happy as duty can make him, to be sure. But Mikasa knows he would rather have the pain of duty than the pain of a father’s derision. Lord Lukas sighs, world-weary. “We hear the same clamors as the rest of the North. It’s not just Ledovskoy. Neven and Brzenska are reporting malcontent as well, at this point, it’s only a matter of time before I hear from Zackly and Zacharius.”

Another sigh, and suddenly, he has aged a decade, as though that last breath of air was his very vitality itself. Father sits down heavily upon his chair, with little grace. He stares hollow-eyed at the map before murmuring, “Ledovskoy is more an Ackerman than I. Hard, stern, dependable, martial. It’s no wonder he speaks for our North. He’s what people want me to be. People think he is me. That’s why I avoid standing next to the man at gatherings, if I can help it, they all think him the Ackerman.” An easy enough mistake to make, in hindsight. Both men are fair as the sun, and the current Lord Ackerman is famously gold as opposed to the ravens their House tends to be.

Lukas Ackerman turns to his daughter at length and smiles, tired yet affectionate. “You’re what people expect of this House, a true warrior and fierce. Perhaps they’ll have more joy of you than they ever had of me someday.”

“But I never wanted any of that.”

That gives her father pause. And brings remorse and pity, that most wretched of sentiments, out into the light. She almost regrets saying anything then.

“You cannot know how sorry I am that this was thrust upon you,” Father says softly. “But it pleased the gods to bring your brother back into their graces and so we have no choice. If I could spare you the chains of commanding, I would. The best I can do for you, ultimately, is to ease the way and prepare you for your calling.”

And what a calling it is. She will forever hate the wild salt sea for forcing it on her and robbing her of a brother and a simpler life.

“Ah, you did not come here to hear a lord’s burdens. Come, let me bless you and bid you good night. May your dreams be more pleasant than mine tonight.” She stands from the lounge, receives her blessing, and goes with her own good night, imparting a gentle kiss on the stubbly cheek and hoping that will give him ease.

She has so much to tell Connie. As he does her, she can see it now. She imagines a thick scroll of parchment tied to the leg of a floundering dove as it flaps frantically outside her window, desperate to enter and snatch rest. The thought makes her snort. The boy would be lonely indeed if he ever writes anything longer than a foot.

It suddenly occurs to her much later, as she settles into bed warm and snug and content, that she had barely thought of Eren today. And it feels… good.

A great rousing cheer answers your father’s foreword, and with that, the festivities proceed apace.

You gaze down at the hundreds gathered below Goldhaven’s presence balcony, smiling your courtly smile and feeling inordinately pleased that you were not asked to give the speech this year. You are equal to the task and will do so if prompted, yet the desire to remain free of the duty of addressing the public is strong in you. You can address all the courts in the world if you have to. When your time comes. And the gods only know how many speeches there are in your inevitable future. What’s one less speech to that endless repertoire?

Lord Alexander turns to you with a smile. “Off to the Great Sanctum-”

“I’d like to show Eren around for a while before we head there. If it please you,” you say hurriedly, hoping against hope for leave.

Bemusement dances across Father’s face before he smiles once more, ever accommodating. “It pleases me to grant you leave. Before sundown, the hour of the dove. You have until then for your frolics.”

You beam and stand on your toes to kiss his bearded cheek. You turn to Eren behind you, still shining. “Get dressed.”

“I’m already dressed,” he points out, perplexed.

“Not in plain clothes, you aren’t. You can’t explore the city in cloth-of-gold. You’ll blind everyone,” you tut, grabbing his arm and marching him off to get changed at once. Pretty as he is in your House colors, he can hardly run about the streets with a podonza threatening to slip down his shoulder half the time. Which is a-wasting.

His orange tunic with its brown trim and belt is markedly less blinding. And brings out the green in his eyes so beautifully. You yourself have changed out of your teal and gold sleeveless vevda for another simpler one, a white knee-length garment paired with a pale blue floor-length underskirt trimmed with meanders in white thread along the hemline. A thin pale blue cord ties the whole thing into place about your waist. Nice and simple. Its only concession to frills is the pair of gold chains looping above your left arm, which is left bare; your right arm is encased in a long sleeve that is fastened from your upper arm with gold buttons.

You lead him through the castle gates and into the bustling streets, both now suitably dressed, joining the throng of servants and soldiers on leave as they pour through the walls to partake of the revels. “No guards?” Eren asks, glancing around for an armored tail, only to find none.

“I have a pact with Father. I avoid the docks and the seedier areas of the city, the guard stays well away from me. Not too far that he’ll be unable to come to my aid if need be. He’ll be keeping a close, and unobtrusive, eye on us. From afar.” You draw your white lesos over your head to keep off the worst of the midday sun.

“What brought this pact on?” Bareheaded Eren quirks an eyebrow at you as you enter one of the city squares. Dmitriy Rhyzkov sits proud and fierce astride his rearing stallion in the middle of the plaza, his noble likeness forever captured in stone atop a tall granite pedestal. The crowd grows thick as you lead Eren on.

His query makes you grin. “Father had a long talk with me after I slipped my guard one too many times. I just couldn’t stand having a solemn bore breathing down my neck as I explored my city.”

“What if you did get into trouble? They can be hindrances but they’re useful to keep around.”

Says one who also ran away from his hindrances the first chance he got. “We don’t have tails in Belris.” At last, you spot your destination. You pull him along, weaving nimbly between festive folk headed in the other direction, one of whom drapes a crown of flowers over Eren’s head before prancing away. You laugh at his startled expression.

“We don’t have tails because the Golden District is safe as can be. Belrish dregs live by the walls,” Eren says, once his surprise had passed into the void. He reaches up to pluck at the crown, seeming gratified.

Around you the crowds make merry, piping their pipes and fiddling their fiddles, dancing and scattering flowers and petals everywhere. Red and pink and gold gently rain down upon you as you breast the human tide. From the buildings around you, more petals fall from homebound roisterers. You turn your head a little to look back at your betrothed, smiling slightly. “You’ll keep me safe. Won’t you?”

“Always.”

His sudden solemnity makes your smile slowly fade, and you have to look away at length. The heat pricking your cheeks is not from the sun’s harsh rays, you do not think.

The Blue Pearl’s hands are as welcoming as ever, its fare as excellent. Custom is meager owing to the festivities; most everyone is lunching in the Great Sanctum, including your family. But Eren is due his tour of your city and you can think of no better day to start than today. The Pearl is one of your favorite haunts and the staff know you well as a patron. Eren is subjected to a light (yet serious) dressing down by the barkeep, who warns him off of ‘doin’ the ‘lil lady dirty.’ Whose face heats up again at the young knight’s grave denouncement of such conduct.

You leave the tavern well-fed and hankering for something sweet and fresh. You direct your path to the packed produce arcade, feeling more than a tad anxious. Here you will see the fruits, as it is, of your labor. Those weeks spent in constant correspondence with your heads of house, all the organizing, allocating, supervising, negotiating, advising… here it will all culminate at last.

The proof in the autumn pudding.

You are far from disappointed. Every stall and stand and cart display the bounty of Vascalin. Apples, figs, pomegranates, dates and plums and lemons - fruits shine bright as jewels next to bundles and bundles of vegetables: leeks, fennel, radishes, cabbages and artichokes and olives. An excellent haul. The gods have blessed you this year.

And you are not to be held accountable for the failure of the crop. That is the best thing of all. All at once, you can breathe easier again.

“Good haul this year. Well done,” Eren commends, grinning down at you, making you glow at the praise. You glow even more when he proceeds to buy you an apple from one of the stalls. It is only fair you have a taste of the gods’ blessings and relish in their favor, he claims, as he buys you both your sweet. You have one more thing to thank them for tonight. Never had you had an apple so sweet as the one you ate that day.

Things sour for you as you move on, however. The foot traffic, already thick, has grown even thicker near the market square, and so you are forced to take the bypass you had wanted to avoid like the plague. You dash through one of the high-end avenues where some of the most expensive and upscale brothels are located, the area busy but not so packed as the square nearby. You practically fly through the street as though the very hounds of hell are at your heels.

Eren staggers behind you, bewildered, feet tangling over each other as he is dragged along like a leashed pup. Nothing diminishes his comely countenance, apparently, however ungainly a sight he makes at the moment. Half-dressed and undressed whores lean out the windows, calling out for patrons. More than a handful call out to your betrothed, to your extreme annoyance. Flower petals rain down on you from the sluts and their basketfuls of blossoms. You impatiently brush a yellow petal off your lesos and march on doggedly.

“H-hey, can you let up a bit, please?” Eren pants, loping beside you to keep up. His crown of flowers has vanished, torn from his head during your headlong rush. “What’s the rush? It’s barely past the hour of the lynx, we still have another hour…”

You give a vague grunt and keep your silence, just as a whore draped in jeweled chains and nothing else calls down to Eren coquettishly from her trellised balcony. Your stomach lurches unpleasantly, then lurches again with something more buoyant as you pass the fountain that marks the end of the avenue.

“Jealousy truly becomes you, have I told you that lately?”

You refuse to grace him with your attention, misliking the tone of his voice. The look on his face is only fit to be smacked off, you are sure, if you ever deign to look at him now. You jolt, surprised, as his arm wraps around your waist and holds fast, forcing you to look at him. Behind the teasing grin is something more insistent. Honest. “Eyes only on you,” he says simply.

The day is sweet, oh-so-sweet indeed.

In time, you find yourselves exploring the arcades, acquiring yourselves chains of flowers from the stallkeeps in the process. Eren amuses himself by picking at the many garments on display in the fashion arcade, flourishing dresses at you at random. Most of which have sharp vee-shaped necklines.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” you ask, entertained, as Eren brandishes a sleeveless emerald green vevda at you. One with a deeply slashed neckline, of course. “I regret to say I don’t own nearly enough breast-baring dresses for your tastes. That’ll look pretty with a silver belt.”

“It will, won’t it?” Eren beams, then carefully places it back on its display as you walk off. “Pity about your dresses. Charms as lovely as yours aren’t meant to be hidden away.”

You laugh. “Pity the court has such blue noses for all their love of randy chatter. More charm can be a useful thing up there. But court fashions have their own allure. It gives you only enough to tease at the truth and all that. Gives you something to long for, think about.”

“That it does.” His eyes sweep down your body, slow and sensual. You shiver, as though he had caressed you all over with his hands instead of simply looking. “I have much to long for, true enough.”

It is a feat of remarkable ability, you think, that you can stand here still and brave his flames. You are getting better at that as time progresses. Then again, you are a being of heat, after all; who better to brave his flames than you?

The smell of salt wafts pleasantly toward you in the fashion arcade, sited as it is near the docks. The snatches of conversation that leap out at you from the many stallkeeps are glaringly less pleasant. Even this far south, news of the North still haunts you. That it has managed to trickle down here of all places concerns you. Was the clamor getting that bad? You do not want to think about what awaits you all when court reconvenes the next season.

It is an utter relief when you pass through to the next, less gossipy arcade.

The sight of all the handmade crafts - furnishings, figurines, toys - reminds Eren of his niece and the present he owes her as an uncle visiting a place of note. “There’s a qaxan parlor by the docks, did you know? The only one in Arsechkala,” you inform him as he examines a carved wooden dragon overlaid with silver leaf from one of the many stalls. “I could take you there sometime, see how you go up against someone else besides me. Thus will we know your true capability.”

Consistency has entered Eren’s court at last, to your utmost pleasure. His first true win back in Friedfurt wasn’t entirely a fluke, it turned out. Your games after that have been more balanced. At last, Eren is making up his lost ground, steadily winning game after game after game. Your pride knows no bounds.

“I’ll know my true capability when I can go up against Armin at last,” Eren says, as you move on to the last of the line of stalls, leisurely browsing.

“I think that’s too high of a goalpost… A step at a time, yes?” You will not soon forget your games with that golden commander. Any and all wins you can scrape against him are much treasured.

“He hasn’t written back yet, has he? I wonder how his Alyfeis is going. His dull and dreary Alyfeis.”

“It’s only dull because it’s what you’re used to. You’ve experienced it all your life and so the magic of it’s disappeared.” You tramp down the steps of the arcade, emerging into another relatively less packed street. Little stalls are still scattered about the area, those of vendors unable to secure a lease to hawk their wares in the arcade proper.

You stop by a table bearing little wooden figures of the twelve sacred beasts of the Creed. Which in itself is a surprise. The Creed has never been strong here. The small temple of the Gardener in the city had held its quiet celebration earlier, for its handful of Arsechkalan believers. Eren turns to you, fingers wrapped around a figure of a lynx. “Do you find your Alyfeis dull?”

That brings you up short. “Point conceded.” You have never found the harvest feast dull and will never.

The rumble of sound about you seems to grow louder. It is then that you notice how thick the throng is getting. Before you quite know it, a host of people is passing through, as though a sluice gate has been opened to let the tide in. Eren moves to take you aside and away from the carousing crowd.

“Oh!”

Someone knocks into you and then you are stumbling, crashing into something hard and warm, who lets out a yelp of his own as he staggers back into the table behind him, scattering wooden figures everywhere. His arms fly up to wrap around you on instinct, and it is all you know. His strength, his heat, his scent mixed with that of flora. Wide green eyes stare down at you. Beneath your palms and the crushed blossoms, his heart races.

Thump, thump, thump.

Fire and water fill your world, from the flame of his shirt and the sea of his eyes, and for a long while, he is your everything.

A thousand years pass until you can think to look away. A cluster of carvings had landed by your feet. An eagle, a wolf, two serpents twined. The Sun, the Moon, the Lovers.

“M-milady!”

The elderly stallkeep had gotten to his feet, toothless mouth agape, pale blue eyes bulging with shock before he remembers himself and bows. Your lesos has fallen about your shoulders, displaced from your head by the commotion earlier. The stallkeep straightens up from his bow, his long, wrinkled fingers tangling together nervously. “M-milady, such a surprise- ‘s an honor to see you ‘round this parts, and by me shop, too! The honor-”

“It’s my pleasure, goodman. Please pardon us for jostling your stall- here, let me-” You move to step away from Eren’s warmth and pick up the fallen figures. His grip tightens around you, and you think he would not let go, but let go of you he does. You can feel reluctance leech into you. His own or yours, you cannot say.

“Ah, no, milady, can’t possibly let you trouble yourself-”

“It’s fine, we knocked over your wares, it’s the least we can do,” you reassure the man, smiling and putting his worries to ease. Beside you, Eren has set to, helping you scoop up the figurines and carefully placing them back on the table.

The elder bows once more, stammering out his thanks as you place the last carving on the counter, and offers you a gift of his wares, which you swiftly wave away. In the end, he makes you a present of the twined serpents - which you still insist on paying for, a handful of coppers, for his trouble.

Money well spent, you think, admiring the skill and the craftsmanship that you can tell went into the making of this piece. The serpents weave about each other, an endless loop, unbreakable. Eren weaves his fingers through yours, and away you go.

“The hour of the dove,” you state, catching sight of the tall clocktower ahead, with its triple arches spanning the river Goldtide. And so you set your steps toward the Great Sanctum, following the tide at last instead of going against its current.

He has never been, Eren had told you, so you take great pleasure in showing him the greatest pride of the city, one of two marvels of the Old Way. The largest godstone in the realm stands at the heart of its little island in a lagoon not too far off from the coast. You pass through the wardens’ commune, home to the holy isle’s caretakers, through the arched gate and onto the narrow stone bridge that connects the isle to the mainland.

The sea breeze blows strong here. You take a deep breath of the clean salt air, cheerful and content and alive. Overhead, seabirds fly, gulls and sandpipers and terns. Your cheer is mirrored in Eren’s face to mate with his awe. He glances down at you, grinning, and his eyes are the sea surrounding him, blue and green and sparkling. He takes the sea with him, wherever he goes.

“It’s massive,” Eren exclaims once you step foot on the islet at last, craning his neck back to gawk at the godstone and its hundred feet of glory.

“Magnificent,” you beam with pride and no small amount of reverence. The stone god carved into its face is majestic, stern yet kindly, a true king of the gods. Four hundred years' worth of salt air and rains have eaten away at the august face, however, to your and the Old Blood’s dismay. No mage now can keep nature from doing what she will to this sacred effigy. Powerful as they are, not even the gods are a match for that wild sovereign where their earthly forms are concerned. It is now for the caretakers to do all they can for the gods. And that must be enough.

“The most beautiful sanctum,” Eren remarks, glancing about at the rows of trees ringing the island as you break away from the still-long line of worshipers passing through another gate to the foot of the godstone, where mounds upon mounds of produce are heaped. Perhaps they will have offered enough for yet another year of bounty, to judge from the sheer quantity you had glimpsed through the hallowed entrance. You lead Eren on, to the spot in the isle where your family usually gathers. It is custom for you to picnic behind the gigantic godstone in that patch of grass beneath the trees, beside the viewing platform, which is open to the sea.

“You think the Great Sanctum more beautiful than the godsway?” Through the trees, you see a garlanded little boy running, trailed by his father, young and tall and dark, with his hair in its loose knot behind his head, a chain of flowers about his neck. You look after them, heart pounding, but they have melted into the mass, one of many families taking their joy of the festival. You wonder if they are vision or muddled truth.

“Even more beautiful.”

There is nothing muddled about your betrothed’s truth, and you cling to that. He is a vision, yet true and living and tangible. His is the only truth you’ll have.

He seems to hesitate a moment before asking in a quiet voice, almost bashful, “Do they allow weddings in front of this godstone?”

You smile, at the question and at him, this sweetest of boys. “Yes, they do.”

He looks away, out at the great salt sea. The tips of his ears have gone that sweet shade of pink, pink as the blooms of pink princess about his neck. “The sanctum in Midford- I mean, I’m not saying it’s not a good sanctum to wed in but- only if it please you and your family, of course- and the hassle of travel and all that-”

“I think we should say our vows in here.”

His head whips back around, so fast you are astonished he did not crick his neck at all. His eyes are wide for several heartbeats before he smiles, the softest, most tender smile you have yet seen from him. It is then that you are resolved. You must see that smile again, every day of your life. From this day to the end of your days.

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

A/N:

Happy belated birthday, Eren! Have some smut in honor of his happy day! (Not the real thing, though, sadly, we'll get there, we'll get there.)

(Now I'm obliged to do a masturbatory scene for YN so, uh, there's that).

The first NSFW scene. And not the last. At last one goal done.

Nerdy info dump 2. Just to help clarify the many, many styles of southron clothing, I'll list them out the best I can:

Chelya - strap dress

Charovma - halter/backless dress

Povevda - tube dress

Vevda - catchall term for southron clothing for both men and women. Everything not mentioned above is a vevda for simplicity's sake (except for the tunic/pants combo). All of this is inspired by Greco-Roman culture (tweaked massively for my own worldbuilding), if you can't tell, and gods, they had A LOT of clothing terms to sift through. I hope I managed to get my descriptions right...

Also, added a slight change to the way I described the Great Sanctum in chap. 3 cause I hadn't really fully envisioned what it looked like til now. Just a couple of sentences for continuity's sake.

Oooh, yeah, happy belated birthday to Jean, too, I guess. (Lol, nah, I love you, too, Horseboy. Not as much as Eren but still. You're great!)

Thank you so much for following! Til next update <3

Tagging: @alekstraszas @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten

[koskela-knights]

3 Conversations and one final Talk

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56911081/chapters/144710611

CW: (internalized) homophobia, violence, f-slur in the last chapter that still has to be posted :P

Posted the first 2 chapters of my Jaakoppi & Ahti fic. It's set in the historical take on YY series and acts as a prequel/POV fic, formatted through a few conversations Jaakoppi has with Ahti.

I liked the idea that Ahti isn't only a mentor and father figure to Kesä, but to the Huotari brothers as well, especially Jaakoppi.

--

Preview:

 “I need some advice, old man.” Ahti chuckles and crosses his arms. “On what? I thought you Huotaris never listen to what anyone says.” Jaakoppi's fingers clench harder around the cup, his brow turning into a frown. The janitor is correct so he can’t really argue on that.  “It’s… rather personal.” Jaakoppi retreats his hands from the cup and instead rubs them together until he holds them still on the table.  “And I thought the only person who might be able to help, would be you.” He has never said it out loud, but he considers this peculiar janitor as the town’s wiseman. Jaakoppi wouldn’t be the first person to go to him for advice.  “Okay, so what do you need help with?” “There’s… someone… in town. I think pretty positively of them,” Jaakoppi begins. He wets his lips and watches the janitor.

[mumble-muse]

a list of (maybe?) all the queer characters that appear in midsomer murders.

cw for homophobia, biphobia, transphobia, abuse, death, violence, slurs and sexual content.

spoilers for all series.

Series 1-5

Notes:

Where possible I've avoided using specific labels but used descriptions given within the episodes by the characters themselves or others.

I've included brief descriptions of their role in the episode and other details. These are not intended as full summaries.

I've used the wiki to check details so hopefully it's fairly accurate.

Season 1: Tom Barnaby & Gavin Troy

Gerald Hadleigh, E01S01 Written in Blood. Sexually abused as a child, he kills his father and runs away. He is revealed during the episode to cross-dress and is described by other characters as a transvestite. He attends a gay bar in Causton. Other characters, including Troy, express confusion and/or disgust at his cross-dressing and his dresses. He is killed by another character for implying he and her brother were lovers and her disgust at seeing him in a dress. Barnaby is largely neutral about Gerald, but does assume he must have seen a psychologist regarding his cross-dressing.

Tim Young & Avery Phillips , E02S01 The Hollow Man. They run a second hand bookshop and are partners. Avery expresses concern to another character that Tim is cheating and/or will lose interest as he did not identify as gay his entire life. Later, Tim is revealed to have been having an affair with a woman. She threatens to reveal the affair, but Tim confesses to Avery before she can. We see Avery crying in his arms as Tim tells him that he only loves him.

Simone Hollingsworth and Sarah Lawton, E03S01 Faithful Unto Death. Troy immediately calls them dykes cause of course he does. Sarah has a little chat with Barnaby about the joy of being the only gays in the village. Barnaby is very chill and accepting. Simone and Sarah fake a kidnapping to help Simone escape her (supposedly) abusive husband, kill a bunch of people and steal some money. Simone betrays Sarah after Sarah has gone to prison for her.

Season 2: Tom Barnaby & Gavin Troy

Ian Eastham and Charles, E01S02 Death's Shadow. Ian is discovered in bed with Charles (a youngish minor character) by our detectives. Ian says he is not gay and is disgusted by his own impulses. He is paying Charles to sleep with him.

Season 3: Tom Barnaby & Gavin Troy

Arthur Prewitt, E02S03 Blue Herrings. A resident of the residential nursing home. Almost immediately described as a "poofter" by Troy. Barnaby reminds Troy that it was illegal to be gay when Arthur was young. Troy laughs cause he's an arsehole. Arthur is a very particular and tidy person. He confesses to tidying another resident's room, accidentally scaring her and causing her death out of shock.

Frank Mannion, E03S03 Judgement Day. A TV presenter and judge for the village competition. Is mostly just flirty and bitchy. Honestly kind of delightful. Unfortunately gets a lot of snide homophobia from other characters.

Alan Bradford, E04S03 Beyond the Grave. He's briefly suspected of taking vengeance on a woman for not being into him but, in a hilarious analogy, he describes himself as "If sexuality were the Civil War, I'd be a Cavalier not a Roundhead". He then says he's never been attracted to the opposite sex. Luckily Troy makes no comment.

Season 4: Tom Barnaby & Gavin Troy

N/A

Season 5: Tom Barnaby & Gavin Troy

Melissa Townsend and Sally Rickworth E01S05 Tainted Fruit. Melissa is killed early on and Sally is suspected briefly after their previous affair was revealed. Their relationship is a secret and historical and really they're frenemies. Also Melissa is played by Lucy Punch and therefore incredible.

Honourable mentions:

Dennis Rainbird from the pilot episode, The Killings at Badger's Drift. Assigned suspiciously queer at Gavin Troy but there isn't much here to say either way.

[vanitinhas]

Paracelsus, Vanitas' parents and Babel

[Note: English is not my first language. Sorry for any mistakes.]

The character of Paracelsus in VnC is probably based on the famous physician and alchemist of the same name.

Although the series focused on his role as an alchemist so far, historically Paracelsus is also well-known for his medical work (some consider him to be Father of Toxicology).

Now, as I was researching about his life, one thing caught my attention on the Britannica page about him (CW: anti-romanyism - g-slur):

“The universities do not teach all things,” he wrote, “so a doctor must seek out old wives, gipsies, sorcerers, wandering tribes, old robbers, and such outlaws and take lessons from them. A doctor must be a traveller.…Knowledge is experience.” Paracelsus held that the crude language of the innkeeper, the barber, and the teamster had more real dignity and common sense than the dry Scholasticism of Aristotle, Galen of Pergamum, and Avicenna, some of the recognized medical authorities of his day.

This really reminded me of Vanitas' father, who, according to Vanitas, was a doctor who left his old life behind to join Vanitas' mother and her band of traveling players.

With that in mind, I have two main suspicions:

First: Paracelsus is Vanitas' father. This theory does arise some problems in the timeline. Either Vanitas' father was almost imortal (or fully imortal. Who knows, maybe the guy is alive) and really old, or we're dealing with time travel/distortion here (due to Babel?)

Second: Paracelsus is Vanitas' mother. Perhaps, she was a doctor as well and held onto the belief that "A doctor must be a traveller". Vanitas' father tried to follow the same principle (for her), but was not that convinced by it (which might explain why, according to Vanitas, he didn't seem to like the traveling band that much).

Do you remember chapter 21? When Vanitas is looking at the Tower of the Sun, he says with a gloomy expression:

It's a tasteless building. I assumed they'd adopt Gustave Eiffel's proposal, but... It's just like... the Tower of Babel.

We know that in VnC's universe, Babel is a major incident that happened as a consequence of Paracelsus work. It's what created vampires and astermite.

Until now I assumed that Vanitas reaction was related to something that happened in his past with Luna. But perhaps it's actually related with his past with his biological family.

What y'all think?

[joyfulmagic]

Inktober Poem — “Kill The Witch” for Prompt: “Witch”

“Kill The Witch” by Lettie CW: witch hunts/witch-phobia (is that a term?), calling out the patriarchy, cursing (censored), death, slight implications of witches being feminine coded in language (hard to avoid when mainly women were targeted for witchcraft historically), witch stereotypes (not necessarily negative), fire, alluding to modern “witch hunts” (note an eye roll here), Christian-normativity in Western civilizations (in a bad light, no offense intended), rhabdophobia (fear of magic).

Author’s Notes:

I was inspired by the witch hunts in Europe and the Americas, especially the Salem Witch Trials (1690s) and the early ones in Germany during the 1400s.

I tried avoiding gendered language (aside from the slurs), as witches can be any gender identity or sex. 

It was hard due to the misogyny associated with anti-witch rhetoric, plus most accused (and/or killed) during the witch trial were feminine presenting / considered women. Granted, that does not mean men were never accused. Mind you, they didn’t really accept “other” gender identities historically in Western Europe and the Americas post-Columbus… 

I really wanted to write something about the identity of being a witch, but this ended up being a “vent poem” about how it feels to be on the fringes of society / counterculture.

The moldy wheat reference is to the theory that the supposed “witchcraft” during certain witch hunts was the actual cause of abnormal behavior in the supposed “witchcraft victims”.

I intentionally used slurs used against women, as a woman is the worst thing you can be in a patriarchal society sometimes. The language is misogynistic and harmful to someone of any gender identity. You’re feminine? Then you’re living up to negative stereotypes. You’re masculine? Then you aren’t manly enough. That’s why I used those terms - because of that stupid mentality amongst some societies.

This is very European/American coded, as I didn’t want to write about other cultures that I know less about the role of “witches” and “witchcraft” in such as Asian and Pan-African cultures. 

I mention tarot toward the end, and how non-witches…are “intrigued” by witchy-stuff in a disrespectful manner, where it is more like we’re sideshow acts or carnival workers. I know not all witches use tarot/divination, but it felt right for the poem.

“Kill the witch!” They yell. “B!tch!” They call us. Burnt at the stake Stoned to death, with bloodshot eyes Deluded, they try to kill us

“Kill the witch!” They demand. “Wh0re!” They call us Mistreated Misused Unloved?

“Kill the witch!” They call out. “Cow!!” They call us. Shall we call them sir and ma’am? As we burn

“Kill the witch!” They chant. “S!ut!” They call us Wink and blow ‘em a kiss As the flames surround your ankles

“Kill the witch!” They roar. “Harlot!” They call us Is it really so wrong what we do? We can burn you too

“Kill the witch?” They murmur “Where’d the witch go?” Crowds demand to know A giggle fills the air as the village sets aflame, Who is the prey and who is the hunter now?

“Kill the witch!” They scream in fear. “Where’d the witch go?” They search the skies We don’t ride brooms, But baby do we fly. “Kill the witch!” They determined. No justice, oblivious to innocence Can’t you be strong and smart? Or did you eat some moldy wheat?

“Kill the witch!” They chant again. “You trollop!” They insult. What sins have we committed? Are our hearts shrunken and black?

“Kill the witch!” The voices fade. “Kill the witch?” The voices ask The witch smiles knowingly, Having been here centuries before.

“Kill the witch!” They call for once more. “Witch! Witch! Witch!” They chant It’s been six-hundred years We don’t die darlings

“Kill the witch!” “Kill the witch!” “Kill the witch!” It’s a witch hunt, you see. “Kill the witch!” The crowd demands. A smirk upon the witch’s lips, Weaving the magic of freedom. We break free from convention, We break free from the flames. We soar into our ascent to power.

“Long live the witch!” They chant now.  They only like us when we’re helpful. Our ancestors are the ones who didn’t have their souls burn, The ones who were midwives and healers, Knowing nature’s remedies. 

“Witch, tell me my fate” They demand. A small smirk once more, The flames now lighting a candle wick. Flipping over the tarot card,  Death smiles up at the witch.

[brokenbluebouquet]

2/xx, Charles I on horseback 1630s, royal collections trust

CW: historical ableism and medical abuse

This is partially inspired by a post by James-vi-Stan-blog regarding Charles and disability. Thus one is also loooong as there’s a lot to unpack to apologies in advance, gentle readers.

What did Charles I actually look like? More to the point, how visibly disabled was he?

This is actually a harder question to answer than you’d think. Charles is generally agreed to have been very short as an adult man, with estimates from 5’6” to 4’7” even with head still attached. His legs were short compared to his body and bowed. You can sort of see this in the above picture.

He also famously had some sort of speech issue, traditionally a stutter but possibly slurred speech from weakened facial muscles. This has often been an explanation for his refusal to explain himself and his secrecy. Like his father he considered playing to the crowds demeaning, hated the stigmatising stares directed at his physical body, and was fearful of assassins.

Charles has confused the situation considerably by trying to erase his own impairments and differences under a thick cloak of idealised portraits, elaborate court etiquette that prevented anyone getting too close in public, and the rare heavily stage managed public appearance. To say nothing of the Van Dyck portraits that have been heavily face tuned, an equestrian statue commissioned by one of his ministers to flatter him, showed him absurdly as 6 feet tall - it still stands in London today.

However, even in his own lifetime, parliamentarian propaganda painted him as the second coming of Richard III (who we now know had severe scoliosis and was also quite short), or as a weak legged, tongue tied fool. The block at his execution was deliberately low to force him to lie down as opposed to kneeling to humiliate him. But what lies between these extremes?

Rickets as a knock on from a tongue tie is often put forward as the main explanation for his restricted growth and atypical proportions as an adult, but other explanations have been proposed including cerebral palsy, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, or some sort of hereditary neuromuscular disorder.

As a child and young man Charles was subjected to a number of proposed interventions including having the ligament under tongue cut (thankfully James was talked out if this), leg braces (reinforced boots were used instead), and talking with pebbles in the mouth (that ones from Plutarch and I think George vi tried it too).

The party line was that he grew out of it and that he was athletic as an adult. This isn’t totally impossible but seems to rely on the idea you can’t be both disabled and physically active. I personally believe that these were lifelong issues and Charles simply was good at finding accomodations and shortcuts to get around problems. The cane he is often shown with in portraits was probably to help him stand up and maintain balance. The stigma and bigotry he would have faced was a bigger issue as Charles himself seems to have internalised a lot of these beliefs about himself and people like him.

James found Charles to be the child he most resembled and his feelings about this were complicated to say the least. Although James often defended Charles against insults and abuse and tried to protect him to the extent of infantilising him instead of preparing him to be king; it’s also hard to avoid the fact that seeing himself reflected to this extent in his son and later heir was deeply disconcerting for James.

For example in 1616(?), in an attempt to complement James, a Latin pangeryc (praise poem) referred to Charles as a miniature James - James was far from impressed and in fact took it as an insult.

This is one of the (many) reasons why James turned his younger lovers into surrogate sons - they were not political threats like Henry, and did not make him uncomfortable like Charles.

Indeed the whole family seem to have found him an embarrassment. This really should not come as a surprise given how obsessed with image and status they were. Anna and Elizabeth just seemed to have ignored him, and Henry seems to have had a particular contempt for him, something Charles seems to have found particularly wounding.

Indeed, Elizabeth only really tried to connect with Charles when she needed his help after the “getting exiled after picking a fight with the emperor” debacle; which tells you a lot. For some time she fancied the idea of herself as the next monarch after her father - this is how little she thought of him.

The below picture is of the second to last king of Italy Victor Emmanuel III, another unloved child, failed king, and survivor of rickets - he is is the closest analogy to what I would imagine Charles to look like in terms of physical proportions as an adult. VE3 is the small ne on the right, Albert of Belgium is on the left.

Well Yeah. It’s not hard to imagine why Charles would not have inspired confidence in his elites, why he was generally regarded as sexually incompetent, or why he resorted to elaborate tricks and contrivances to hide himself away. He was unable through no fault of his own, able to physically embody what his contemporaries expected of a king; he also spent most of his life with his communication needs unacknowledged and unmet.

I personally think one of the reasons so many assumed George had the upper hand in their relationship was due to the vast differences in size between the two men. It’s also IMO one of the reasons why so many choose to believe Henrietta was an adulteress - a lot of people then and now could not imagine Charles as being able to inspire sexual passion due to his disabilities.

We need to start acknowledging the realities of Charles disabilities but also start combating and unpacking the ableist bigotries and stigma that have shaped our perception of him as well. Charles’s disabilities and childhood chronic illness (I refuse to use the word sickly) are often treated by historians as a failing of character and an outward marker of his personal inadequacy and political ineptitude, usually with little or no indication of what’s being implied about PwDs in public life and politics. Given how few openly disabled politicians and leaders (and indeed professional historians) we have this can’t just be coincidence.

[hexagonopus]

CW: discussion of slurs, uncensored use of the r slur and the f slur

i wanted to talk about the way people use the R slur and are like, "no uwu its ok im reclaiming it"

like, just as a disclaimer (i consider this basically unrelated to my actual point):

but like, if someone tells me they arent comfortable with me using the r slur when around them, obviously im gonna not use it around them.

thats not really related to the topic at hand imo, though. id do the same thing with words like queer which have been unambiguously reclaimed but do still make some people feel targeted or upset.

if someone asked me not to talk about dogs when around them because their dog passed away id think about it the same way, and its not super about the semiotics of the word dog or smth

but we can observe that the word "retarded" used to describe neurodivergent people comes from a medical field that was, at its base, hostile to a vulnerable minority population. the inception of the word was not neutral, it was aggressive. it was also imposed from above onto that same minority group, and used to discriminate them out from the in group.

thats the historical basis of the word being a slur. as the medical field has advanced over time, we've shed that term in an academic context, because our treatment of and understanding of neurodivergent people has advanced to a point where "mentally slow or halted in mental progression" is not an accurate description of how the medical field understands neurodivergent people as a group.

ill admit, we can also observe that terms like "stupid, lame, moronic, imbecile, idiot", etc also have similar roots and an argument can be made that they also used to be slurs, even if they aren't used in that way anymore. so like theres a path that i think a lot of people want to take the word retarded down, and a lot of people also relate to having used it in that sense basically their whole life. i dont super want to discount that

but

so many people who use the r slur posture so much about "oh im reclaiming it", and i guess i find that pretty absurd.

like. "queer" is reclaimed bc we use queer as a neutral, descriptive word. the n word is reclaimed as a display of comradery. sometimes people will call themselves like the f slur or the d slur to say just, "im so gay" in a positive way. these are words who have a tangibly different use than they had as slurs, they are not being used to slur people.

but ive never actually seen someone use the r slur that way? its always being used derogatorily. it is fundamentally still being used as a slur. and we agree that slurs are bad. so why doesnt that compute?

you cant just continue to call things the r slur as an insult to say its stupid as hell and consider that reclamation bc its like, identical to how the slur has been used for decades

like if i say "im such a fag" im not rly saying "im degenerate and not masculine" im saying like. god i like boys and im gay and im gay. yknow??

this isnt like the word retard. ive LITERALLY never in my entire life seen someone use the word retard to mean smth other than an insult. if someone used "retard" in a like self affectionate sense to evoke comradery w/ other neurodivergent people. thats groovy imo that would be a case of trying to "reclaim" it.

my beef is with people who use the word "retard" in a way indistinguishable from how people have use it for decades, just to say "thats stupid, thats low, i dont like that" and then are like "no u dont get it; im neurodivergent so its reclaimation"

finally, a note addressed to the people who want to use the r slur as a word for "stupid" not directed at neurodivergent people:

if someone is using the r slur they should be honest about why they're saying it. and that is, always:

because its an insult, they're trying to insult something by calling it stupid.

they're trying to neutrally describe a neurodivergent people bc they think its still the 1960s

they're specifically trying to insult neurodivergent people

and like, HOPEFULLY we can agree that 3 is just bad.

2 is also bad, if arguably well intentioned. its smth to be corrected, and thats what things like Rosa's Law was passed for.

and ig in that context, i dont personally see the appeal of using it in the case of 1.

why would u want to share that kind of linguistic company w/ 2 and 3, yknow???