#i have an issue with the ideas about modesty but i use the word because it is easily understood and it is the language i have available
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uncanny-tranny · 1 year ago
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I've been thinking about modesty from a specifically trans lense lately. I was taught that modesty indicates shame, that modesty means you're simultaneously ashamed of being human and having a human body, but also that you are "purer" because you adhere to a hegemonic idea of modesty. Frankly, I just don't agree with this, and it was very much steeped in the idea of specifically christian ideas of modesty.
Before I transitioned, I felt very unprotective of my body because it never felt like mine to begin with. I didn't really care what happened to it, and while I was modest by other people's standards, I certainly didn't feel it. Once I actually started transitioning (and especially on testosterone), I've found that I'm so much more "modest" because I've become protective of my body. There's this stereotype that trans people start "showing themselves off" after transitioning, but I honestly feel the opposite. I'm possessive over my body and exactly how it acts and appears because I actually like my body, and it finally feels like mine. I'm honestly kind of selfish about it, and I think I've earned the right to be.
I made this post because I think this is an interesting topic, and I think it's interesting the ways in which we internalize the influences that be. It's also a reminder that no matter how you feel about things like modesty, you should adhere to what makes the most sense to you and what you are most comfortable with. There are pressures to be modest in this way or that way, but what truly matters is what you decide with your body and yourself.
#trans#transgender#lgbt#lgbtq#ftm#mtf#nonbinary#modesty#like i was looking into swim pants to wear under my swim trunks because i don't want people to be able to see my legs for example#like... they're MY legs not yours. get your own legs dammit 😡 (joking)#and i found i have no shame about myself since being more 'modest' because i do it out of self-admiration#and personally i have no ties to the hegemonic christian sense of modesty and what i was taught living in a *heavily* christian area#that's not to say i have an issue with christians and what they feel is modest but it's more specifically the shame surrounding modesty#the idea that being modest indicates that you're a 'better person' than those who sin (wearing short shorts or swearing)#that's not inherent to the religion from what i understand but i don't agree with it personally#and i do not believe that modesty (or lack thereof) is an indication of ANYTHING about a person#it doesn't tell you anything about their personality or their interests or what they think#it only tells you how they feel most comfortable existing or behaving and even then you often won't know the complexities of that comfort#i have an issue with the ideas about modesty but i use the word because it is easily understood and it is the language i have available#if there's a better term or word for sure let me know but i haven't been made aware of it 👍#ANYWAY. i just think it's interesting#and if you're experiences are different from mine i genuinely respect you for it and platonically love you#and i hope you feel beautiful/gorgeous/handsome/cool and i hope you are comfortable <3
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a-d-nox · 10 months ago
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vertex persona chart observations (part 2)
these ideas are for VERTEX PERSONA CHARTS ONLY and are completely hypothetical. they are based on my (the those closest to me's) experiences with each aspect/placement! please don't take everything i say as predestined, astrology is possible outcomes not guaranteed ones. this is just a starting place for when examining singular objects in an entire galaxy (this not the only chart in affect for you). take what resonates and leave what doesn't!
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☆ virgo (6°, 18°) sun people are likely to analyze themselves and how they effect the world around them
☆ capricorn (10°, 22°) sun people are mean to get their ego checked in this lifetime - they likely lacked the ability to be humble previously
☆ sun positively aspecting jupiter tend to be great leaders who influence others with their wisdom and knowledge
☆ sun negatively aspecting pluto people tend to want a lot of attention, but they either don't receive it or end up regretting receiving it
☆ sun positively aspecting mc people often feel joy when they are known by others and their legacy/reputation proceeds them because others to think highly of them
☆ leo (5°, 17°, 29°) moon people are supposed to experience joy, happiness, and laugh more in this life
☆ aquarius (11°, 23°) moon people are supposed to learn how to disconnect from their feelings in this cycle
☆ moon positively aspecting mercury people are set to learn healthy communication of their feelings
☆ moon conjunct venus people can feel both close yet far from their family (venus was welcomed by the gods, yet is older and was born in a different manner then they were)
☆ moon-venus people are bound to have children
☆ moon-venus people are meant to learn about sympathy and self-love
☆ virgo/gemini (3°, 6°, 15°, 18°, 27°) mercury people tend to have critical conversations with those around them - fluffy topics aren't necessarily them; they require intellectual conversations
☆ virgo (6°, 18°) mercury people can have a lot health issues this lifetime
☆ libra (7°, 19°) mercury people are meant to have romantic conversations and/or culturally interactive conversations
☆ 2h mercury people tend to notice the value of the physical and non-physical aspects of the world
☆ mercury positively aspecting venus people often see the beauty in everything around them
☆ mercury positively aspecting venus people can be fated to have a very nice car at some point in their lives
☆ mercury negatively aspecting jupiter tend to only see only the negatives
☆ gemini (3°, 15°, 27°) mars people are often very passionate about learning and/or using their words in a very eloquent manner that is meant to attract people to them
☆ capricorn (10°, 22°) mars people tend to be passionate about modesty and presenting themselves as responsible and dependable
☆ mars negatively aspecting jupiter often don't give into their desires - they might not have a lot of desires
☆ 11h jupiter tends to indicate a lot of wealth from their career - likely the benefits are unbeatable
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nesiacha · 6 months ago
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Letter of Madame Chalabre to Robespierre
I found something interesting on the excellent site amis-robespierre.org. It was mentioned in posts I saw on Tumblr about Madame Chalabre, a great admirer of Robespierre, who was supposedly arrested after his execution. According to Vandeplas, Bernard on the same site, some accused her of being an informant for Robespierre. Joke aside, I wonder if Stanisława Przybyszewska might be the reincarnation of Madame Chalabre.
But when you read the letter she sent to Robespierre, it’s much more than admiration; it shows a political spirit. When I see this, I think once again that some French revolutionaries, including Robespierre, missed the boat by refusing to make women equal to men.
Here is Robespierre’s speech from January 2, 1792:   "... War is good for military officers, for the ambitious, for speculators who trade in such events; it is good for the court, it is good for the executive power whose authority, popularity, and influence it increases; it is good for the coalition of nobles, intriguers, and moderates who govern France..." He continues: "... The most extravagant idea that can be born in the head of a politician is to believe that it suffices for a people to invade a foreign people to make them adopt its laws and constitution. No one loves armed missionaries..." "... Our victories by our generals would be more disastrous than our defeats..."
Here is Madame Chalabre’s response, which shows a good reasoning spirit: "No, I cannot find words to express to the admirable Robespierre the surprise and emotion caused by reading his interesting and useful speech in the latest Revolution of Paris. The patriots were right to include it, because this journal is widely read and goes everywhere. We cannot hurry enough to warn true Frenchmen against the execrable trap of war. But alas! I fear it is a foregone conclusion in the National Assembly, for the deputy Ramond (de Carbonnières) announces to us a long and beautiful report from the diplomatic committee whose conclusions will undoubtedly be for war. Just heavens! What betrayals! Unfortunate homeland. False guides still divert you from the right path with new ruses finer than those of the moderates. They do not have such a marked character of falsehood and are therefore more dangerous. Patriots are said to be misguided if they do not want war. Ah! Let us continue to be thus misguided to stifle it and save the homeland. Another speech at the Jacobins Monday played by the cruel war partisans who persist like ravens on their prey. If so, let us despair of the homeland’s salvation. Victorious even with the enemy’s power is to be defeated. That is the solution to the whole question but as you say, they always want to be beside the point. How with even a little judgment can one fall into such a trap? It seems incredible to me; instead of following nature, they prefer to reason against it. Shame, shame on eloquence in this case. Weak humans who boast of your enlightenment, the instinct of animals is far superior to your fine minds, for it never deceives them.
{} I cannot resist the feeling of gratitude inspired by the virtuous conduct and wise writings of the faithful Robespierre, despite his own advice to us not to give in too much to these transports. His touching modesty will produce the opposite effect judging by myself but it will not be dangerous for freedom, the noblest emulation will be the fruit. Greetings, friendship, Chalabre."
Thus, beyond admiration, Madame Chalabre shows great lucidity on the issue of war. I would love to know more about this character.
This makes me all the more furious about the films of the French Revolution that portray women as passive, too gentle, and groupies according to macho standards (yes, I have my eye on Heffron's films, the horrible movie "The Passion of Camille and Lucile Desmoulins," and even very good films like "La Terreur et la Vertu" by Stellio Lorenzi).
PS: I looked for Tumblr posts about this letter specifically and an analysis but did not find one. If it is already there, I sincerely apologize to the author. The goal is not to plagiarize.
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ladyjaneasherr · 4 months ago
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Jane Asher portraits featured in May 21st 1966 issue of woman. Shared by kimmclagan on here. My editions and enhancement of each picture for better quality! 🩷
She shrugs off her fume with an air of "Who's Jane Asher, for goodness sake?" The red-head, with Paul McCartney in her hair, talks about everything but you-know-who!
Plain unassuming-that's Jane. By Helen Speed
The trouble with being Jane Asher can be summed up in two words: Paul McCartney. To bring up his name, which people do constantly, is enough to make her about-turn, small face closed. "It's such a drag," she told me. "How would you feel if complete strangers asked you personal questions about the man in your life? It makes us laugh, really it does! It's nobody's business but ours. Nobody's. It's entirely between Paul and me."
Well, that suited me, because when I went to her London home, it was to talk to Jane Asher about Jane Asher and in no time we had dispensed with the Beatle bit. The truth is that Miss Asher has an acting career that's a go-go-going concern and she just doesn't need to use anybody's name to get attention.
I could tell that she'd be the last person to want to swing on someone else's star. In Alfie, which is Jane's latest feature film, she plays a provincial girl who comes into the life of a wolf-about-town, sweetens his souring world and moves out of it again, as gently as she arrived. What struck me on meeting her is that the real Jane has the same unassuming nature; in conversation she tends to “knock Jane" and there's no false modesty about it, no fishing for a complimentary contradiction from you. This quality is one which Paul McCartney must recognize in her in young actresses it's pretty rare!
Twenty year old Jane Asher lives with her family, her father is a doctor and their town house tiers above his ground floor offices in Wimpole Street, W.t. It's a house with four storeys, a busy telephone, and hard-worked stair carpeting. That rainy morning, I was shown up to the sitting-room on the second floor. Jane rose from a sofa in front of the window and shook hands. "Let's have your wet coat," she said, draping it over a chair to dry and ushering me into a comfy, fireside chair with two cushions. "I've just made coffee."
She dropped to her knees at the coffee table. A tray was all prepared and the Asher cups were those large blue and white striped ones. The room was warm, although the logs in the fireplace were unlit. They had been given a dash of colour: piled on top, upside-down and empty, were brilliant enamel pots and pans, all flame red. Jane's idea.
"This room is the hub of the house," she remarked. "You're seeing it at a quiet time. Mother is out. Father is working, and my sister Clare is at school." Mrs. Asher is a Professor at the Royal Academy of Music, and Clare, who is two years younger than Jane, hopes to make the grade as a geography teacher. Big brother Peter, the Asher half of the pop-singing pair, Peter and Gordon, was missing, too.
"I met him on the stairs ten minutes ago," explained Jane. "He was off to a Ready, Steady, Gol rehearsal, so I must remember to switch on tonight. Peter is very frank about what I do, which I like."
The Asher children have always been good friends, although Jane and Clare do have the occasional sisterly squabble. "Nothing serious," Jane assured me. "We share what clothes we can sweaters and blouses, not dresses and coats. Mine are too short for Clare. She's just a bit taller." Jane labels her own taste in clothes "not very modern": she isn't one to haunt the boutiques for gimmick gear.
"I go for feminine things, no matter how boyish current fashions may be." She rose to refill our cups. "I hope it's all right," she said anxiously.
"Mother is the coffee expert in this house. I'm really keen on the pure ground stuff, but I must admit most of the time I use the instant kind.
I'd like to get one of those push-button grinders like they had in The Ipcress File. I just have an old windy-windy one."
Given the chance she'll spend hours in the kitchen, alone with a transistor radio. "I love cooking, really love it," she enthused. "I nearly did the Cordon Bleu course when I was seventeen, but it would have been like going to school for a term and it was expensive. Instead, I went to a London County Council night-school, about seven-and-six a term, and you could bring home the things you cooked! There were millions in our class, of course, but it was very good.
I learned about stuffed marrows and how to do pastry properly."
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onboardsorasora · 1 year ago
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I don't normally post this late but I just finished writing this and Idk. I've had this idea banging around in my head and I wanted to write some Dewis. I hope it's good, if not, we can pretend it didn't happen 🫣🫣
Dewis Sleepwalking (potential 👀?) Au
Daniel bolted up in bed, he looked around quickly at the unfamiliar room. His chest heaved as he left the vestiges of the dream behind, it felt… too real. They always do when this happened. It was lucid dreaming on steroids and he wasn't always in control of what he did.
“It's cool, you're in my room Danny.” 
Daniel's eyes swung to the left side of the bed, his brain felt a little like molasses. Also normal. He looked at Lewis, confused but also apprehensive.
“Fuck, sorry mate.” Daniel rubbed his eyes and clambered out of the bed. Away from Lewis who sat up against the headboard scrolling through his phone. “You're very calm about this.”
“Max texted me.” Lewis locked his phone screen and grinned at his friend who looked spooked, for lack of a better word.
Daniel sighed and dragged his hand down his face. Of course, Max would have texted Lewis to warn him. How embarrassing.
“Mate, I'm so sorry.” Daniel groaned. This was not exactly how he hoped they would start their holiday. At least it didn't seem like Seb was awake yet.
“Danny it's fine.” Lewis insisted, he patted the empty side of the bed that Daniel had vacated, it was still warm.
Daniel was just about hoping the floor would swallow him whole. It was bad enough that he couldn't control it, but for Lewis to be one to witness it. At least with Seb, he knew he'd get a chuckle, a little teasing for a while. Before Seb would sit him down and pump him for information. 
He had no idea how Lewis would react, he was very particular about his space and who was in it. Daniel should know, he'd been trying to get one step closer for a little while now.
“So you sleepwalk.” Lewis said it with a shrug and a small smile. “Actually, I'm kinda glad Max texted me, cause seeing you standing in my doorway– asleep– could have been a little more terrifying, y'know?”
“Nah yeah, figure I looked like an axe murderer.” Daniel grinned a self deprecating slash of his teeth and mimicked stabbing the air with a knife. Daniel licked his teeth, stretching his lips over the expanse of them like he used to when he had braces.
They fell silent for a beat, Lewis watching Daniel with his keen brown eyes and Daniel looking anywhere but back at him. He needed to leave, he'd embarrassed himself enough for the day he felt.
“I'm just gonna…go.” Daniel pointed behind himself to the door. He scraped his teeth against the skin under his lip, feeling the grit of his stubble against the enamel.
“No, talk to me.” Lewis reached across the duvet, the space Daniel vacated was colder now, all his body heat already neutralized by the air conditioning.
“What do you want me to say?” Daniel groaned. It was always awkward around new people. It wasn't something he advertised, he had enough known issues with sleeping that he wasn't exactly trying to let everyone know that he also couldn't count on himself to stay in bed while he was at it. Max knew because, well that was unavoidable when you shared as many hotel rooms as they had, they created a system about it 
And now Lewis knew. But not because Daniel confided, but because sleep Danny decided  to walk down the hallway to apparently have a  cuddle with Lewis.
At least he had the decency to pull on the pyjama pants he had packed because he did not go to sleep in this.
“Wait– I came in here in these right? You didn't like see me bare assed and saved my modesty right?” Daniel asked suddenly with wide concerned eyes. 
Lewis blinked owlishly at him before dissolving into giggles. He took a moment or two to compose himself. Daniel laughed as well, because what else could he do, it truly was a ridiculous situation.
“Nah, you came here in that.” Lewis snorted, “so you're saying if I want a show I should come into your room? Noted.” He teased and Daniel laughed harder, a blush dusting his cheeks.
Tired of the distance, Lewis reached across the bed and grabbed Daniel's flailing arm and pulled him back onto the soft mattress. Daniel fell onto his side with a soft oof, he tried shifting backwards– to at least sit up– but Lewis' grip was like a cuff on his forearm. 
Daniel felt like his flesh was warm in that location only, the rest of him cold for Lewis' touch as well. He couldn't help but notice where their tattoos touched; grateful over love.
“Daniel. Talk to me, please.” Lewis asked quietly. Chocolate met honey and Daniel sighed, ready to give in. He gazed up at Lewis through his lashes, eyes roving over his smooth skin, the moles and freckles on his cheeks and his perfect lips.
“I sleepwalk, have for years. Being in a new place tends to trigger it, so I normally like bring shit from home that's familiar so I don't go off the rails in every hotel room. We got in too late last night so I just crashed.”
Lewis swiped his thumb soothingly along Daniel's skin as he listened. brushing the hairs on the back of his arm flat, just missing the tip of the rose.
“Why did you come here?” Lewis asked softly.
“I dunno Lew.” Daniel groaned and threw his other arm over his eyes so it didn't feel like he was baring his soul. So Lewis wouldn't see his soul was already bared. Why else would he come here unconsciously?
They were quiet again as Lewis waited patiently, he didn't stop his stroking.
Daniel sighed gustily, realizing he wasn't going anywhere until he gave Lewis what he wanted.
“Because I was looking for comfort and I– I knew you were here.” Daniel clenched his jaw and his fist to keep from doing something silly like get defensive and lash out in his embarrassment. This wasn't Lewis’ problem, it was his.
“So why didn't you go to Seb?” Lewis sounded confused, Daniel could imagine the furrow in his perfect brow, one braid coming loose from his bun to hang in his face.
Well that was the question of the hour, wasn't it? The answer wasn't one Daniel wanted to give, he wanted to keep it hoarded in his chest, behind his ribs. Safe and unknown to the world, especially Lewis.
Lewis' other hand grabbed Daniel's arm that kept him blinded, he tugged and before he knew it, Daniel was arrested by warm brown eyes leaning over him. God Lewis was beautiful.
Lewis' eyes crinkled and Daniel felt cold with the knowledge that he'd most likely used his outside voice. Lovely.
Lewis opened his mouth to say something when the door opened after two perfunctory knocks. They both froze and Seb walked in, two cups of coffee in his hands, hair a nest of bedraggled curls.
“Lew have you seen– oh. Morning.” His accent was thicker in the mornings. Daniel sprung off of the bed and dragged a hand through his own curls.
“Morning Seb. I'm.. Just gonna go.” Daniel didn't look at any of them specifically, before doing an awkward finger snap and gun gesture and leaving quickly. They could hear his door close soundly at the end of the hallway.
“What did I miss?” Seb’s wide eyes flickered between Lewis– who now lay across the bed, his head pressed where Daniel's had been– and the empty hallway. Lewis groaned.
Part 2
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i-mybrunettelady · 10 months ago
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scenes of an arson site
Summary: Pact airships go down, taken by Mordremoth's vines. Elandrin is on one of them. Content warnings: mentions of violence and all around bad times. Spoilers: HoT
I
It starts with a headache. 
Then there’s screaming. Thorns, so much fucking screaming. 
And then the airships go down. 
II
It takes him a minute to realize he’s conscious again. His eyes refuse to see clearly, so he closes them. He’s not in this primordial darkness anymore - there’s light, so much light around him, flashes of color, sounds he can’t parse out. His mind feels heavy. 
A thud of footsteps. A person comes close. “Is he awake?” He can’t say who asks the question. It’s all a jumbled mess. 
“Looks like it. He isn’t still anymore.” 
“Maybe he lost his marbles, like the rest of them.” 
“Spirits, no! Shut it! Arcanist Elandrin, are you with us? Can you hear me?”
Elandrin.. Elandrin.. That’s a cool name. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He squints at the all-consuming daylight and mouths the name again. Elandrin.. Elandrin.. 
Something in his mind tugs as realization sharply comes. Elandrin screams as he’s suddenly thrown back into his body that lays in his own sap, his ribs burn, and the tug holds for a bit until there’s a hand on his forehead and he slumps down again, panting like a sylvan hound. 
“Told you he’s with us,” a norn woman voices. Elandrin looks at her. She has blood on her face. “Here, drink some water.” She makes a face. “Plants need water, don’t they?” 
He swallows the cold liquid greedily and loudly. A bird screams above him. It smells like ash, blood, fire, and cooked meat. His hands scramble to get a hold of the flask as he downs the rest of it. 
“What the fuck happened?” he croaks and frowns at how wretched his voice sounds. He’s covered in a blanket; he feels the remaining pieces of his torn homegrown clothes tickle his bare bark. He assumes the blanket is more for modesty than for warmth. Have these people never seen a dick before? He dares not laugh at their moral constraints, if only because he knows it’ll sound like he’s choking.
“Oh! You’re awake!” a human woman in Vigil gear turns with a disapproving face. “Are you one of them?” 
“One of who, for fuck’s sake?” 
“You planty fuckers all went insane on that ship and almost killed us all!” the human all but yells and Elandrin snickers. 
“I am not fucking insane, you dimwit. I have no idea what’s going on, but I do know that my ribs hurt and that I need a mender.” He looks around and sees he’s the only sylvari in the camp. Aside from the yelling bitch, there’s a norn woman who gave him the flask, a bald asura with yellow eyes, and another norn, who’s cradling a broken arm. 
“Go find one yourself, you wretched Mordrem,” she adds and Elandrin sits up harshly, only to bend forward as the sharp pain pierces his ribs. His mind aches with a new weight he knows hasn’t been there before. Part of him wants to be afraid, but he’s too offended to care about it. 
Him, a Mordrem? Him, a sylvari, a Dreamer, secondborn of the Pale Tree, to serve Mordremoth of all things?! Him, an ugly monster? 
“Juliana, stop,” the norn woman says wearily and extends her hands to help him lay down. He shakes his head and groans his way onto the ground. “He isn’t a Mordrem. He’s one of us. If he was, he would’ve killed us right away.” She laughs nervously. “Wouldn’t be an issue for an elementalist of his caliber.” 
“What’s your name?” Elandrin asks the norn woman. 
“Skadi. Skadi Runarskin.” 
“Mm, and which order?”
“Priory, Arcanist. I.. I attended your classes on fire elemental magic techniques before the airships sailed.” He looks at her, and her big, wide eyes and the dark circles under them. Brown hair sticks to her forehead. Her face is utterly unmemorable. 
“And where are the airships now?” 
Skadi waves her hands. “Gone,” she says with a gravel in her voice. “Vines came from the sky and dragged us down. Sylvari on board, they.. They started screaming and attacking people. I don’t remember much.” 
Neither does he. All he remembers is the falling and the screaming. “Huh,” he says. “Unless Juliana shuts her mouth up like a good little girl, I will start attacking too.” 
Juliana growls. “If I ever see a sign, I’m killing you.” 
“Just try.” 
Oh, but his body’s tired. He lies back, feels his ribs throb, and blinks at the sun. 
I can make it stop hurting. 
The fact the voice isn’t his own should scare him. But he’s too tired to be scared. The tug lessens and he falls into a temporary, dreamless sleep. 
III
The man with the broken hand is the first to go. His death was quick, or so Elandrin saw. They’d attracted a Mordrem ambush; thankfully, there were so few of them, now ashes on the sparkly, green grass, but they got the guy well before they could become so. All it took was one swing and he was gone. 
He had no chances anyways. 
They’re making a burial for him. Elandrin never really understood burials, the same way he doesn’t understand namedays or marriage. Or surnames. He chooses to sit while they recite some meaningless words for his soul, Skadi, Juliana and the asura, and watch. The dead norn’s gear is so ill-fitted that Elandrin can only steal the shirt that reaches his knees, but it’s solid gear. As solid as gear comes when you’re lost in the jungle, anyways. 
“Raven guide your spirit, my friend,” Skadi whispers. Elandrin wonders why she’s sad. She hardly knew him. And even if she did, he’s a casualty of war. Grief has no place here. He thinks of Trahearne, and swallows a lump in his throat. 
Where is his friend, anyway? 
“They will find us here,” he says. Juliana looks at him. She looks like she wants to throw her helmet at him. 
“This was our second ambush in a week,” she snaps. “You’re attracting them. You’re sending out pheromones, or whatever the fuck you plants have. They’re sensing you like a fucking dog.” 
“Sylvari don’t have pheromones, not like you people do,” he replies and presses his hand on the ground to get up. His ribs haven’t stopped hurting, but he’ll be damned if he lets them see that. “Maybe they’re hunting you.”
I can make it stop hurting. Come to me.
The voice has been a constant, too. It came after the tug; he feels like it eats parts of his mind in morsels, like pieces of Elandrin-shaped fruit, a darkness he can’t shake off, no matter how hard he tries. It sends terror down his spine at night, when his glow is the only thing keeping him away from the darkness around him. It makes him curl in on himself, in spite of the pain, and breathe in the grass and the leaves and the blood to keep him from giving into it. 
The voice promises freedom from that, too. But it doesn’t feel like his own, so he doesn’t trust it. He doesn’t trust Juliana, or Skadi, or the little armored rat. He doesn’t trust anything but the pain in his ribs, the pressure in his gut, the ache in his body, and what remains of his mind. 
Get away from me, he says to the voice. 
Then it roars and he has to bite down his hand to stop from screaming. 
Mine, mine, mine, it roars, and he cries into the grass and the leaves and the grave of a dead norn. 
“Go fuck yourself,” Juliana says. 
I can kill her for you, if you’d let me. 
Skadi cries later. Elandrin watches the light catch on her tears and feels the urge to lick them off her face. Does her blood taste sweet? His tastes like honey; his is a desert. Norn blood probably tastes like licking metal. 
Be mine, Elandrin, and you won’t have to cry anymore. The world will be yours to burn. 
He resists, and cries anyway. 
IV
The asura disappears next. Dead, alive, Elandrin doesn’t know; the fucking jungle wants to kill them, and they’re running for their lives, and his concentration is shamefully weak as is, so he’s too focused on the magical warmth on his fingertips to notice where small things are. It’s like a bug. He never bothered to learn their name either - asura names make him snarl as he’s saying them. 
They’re irrelevant, just as the leaves he’s crunching beneath his feet are irrelevant. It’s getting harder to tell the difference anyways. 
“We should go back for them,” Skadi says. Her voice sounds distorted, high, and her words are hard to make out. He’s squinting, trying to catch the features of her face. It reminds him of a tree - brown on brown on brown, like a sylvari he once knew. “They could need our help!” 
“It’s no use,” Elandrin says. His voice sounds off to his own ears; he blinks himself awake from a stupor. Skadi’s face is long and scarred, she has overgrown eyebrows and dark circles around her bloodshot eyes. “The jungle has them already.” 
“How do you know it, Arcanist?” Skadi cries, hitting her fist on the ground. “Eissa’s research isn’t yet finished! They studied dwarven magic. They had siblings back in Rata Sum. How are we supposed to go back to them and tell them Eissa is dead?” 
Eissa can be reunited with their siblings when all is returned to me. 
Elandrin digs his fingers in his ribs. The bark is dark, sensitive to touch and he growls - in pain, at the voice, he doesn’t know. 
Go fuck yourself, I’m not becoming one of yours. He vaguely recalls that sylvari can become Mordrem. His chest tightens and he looks up at the sky, the clouds, the all powerful sun, and the endless expanse of tall trees and breathes. 
He almost fits there. Those leaves up above look better than his foliage does now, decaying, half pulled out, struggling to glow the way it did. He wants to be a tree, he wants to not think, he wants to have beautiful leaves again. He catches sight of one half singed leaf and breathes out. 
He wants to have beautiful leaves again. 
“The same way we were supposed to go back to our siblings in the Grove and tell them our bodies are now their live experiment,” he says darkly. “They have to pay for that.” 
Skadi swallows. Juliana sighs and pulls out a gun. 
“I should shoot you,” she says. “You’re destroying yourself. You’re obviously deranged. Soon enough, you’ll be one of the Mordrem.” 
Elandrin snarls. “Just try it.” 
The asura can pay. Juliana can pay. Let me in, and they can all pay. 
Elandrin gasps. Night spreads around them, big and tight and oppressive. His head feels like it’s about to burst. His mind feels like a half-eaten apple that’s home to a couple of worms. He bites his hand and cries when the pressure tightens and holds, and between the two sensations, he falls back into the refreshing pool of darkness beneath. 
When he mercifully wakes up, he runs. 
V
The jungle burns around him. The jungle burns, and his eyes prickle, and his skin feels like it’s on fire. He doesn’t know where he is, or what he’s doing; he watches the miserable, half-dead leaves on his head dangle before his eyes. 
The struggle and the pain can stop, little one. All you have to do is let me in. 
He roars and digs his nails into the ground. They break and he digs even harder, yells until his throat hurts, hurls sounds in the air as the dead remains of his enemies burn around him in a half-circle. Mordremoth screams, but Elandrin screams harder. 
He’ll scream himself to death if he has to. 
The ground shakes as someone approaches. Fire doesn’t seem to hurt them. There’s a hand on his face, and claws that don’t tear, and Elandrin stops screaming. His throat burns as he cries, and writhes in the corner, in the ashes of those that wanted to kill him, and he smells sap around him and is just aware enough to know it’s his own. 
“Master has been looking for you,” the person says. “You’re still struggling.” They sound gentle and Elandrin sobs harder with as much breath as he has left. 
“Please,” he rasps out. It all hurts. His head, his mind, his body, it’s all one big point of pain. 
The person kneels down. Elandrin looks at them. Hands hold their face, and they’re big. It’s blurry, but it’s as if the fingers part and reveal the soft browns of what’s a sylvari eye. 
“It can stop, the pain,” the person says softly. “Just let go.” And then, in a voice he thought long gone, “I hate seeing you in pain even now, El.” 
He doesn’t know what it is. One last punch comes from deep within, from the memories he tries so hard to bury down, hazy in the smoke. He grasps it and holds onto it. The figure then leans in, licks his tears with his forked tongue, and presses his petal-soft lips to Elandrin’s forehead. 
“Adryn,” Elandrin croaks. His whole body shakes. He loved Adryn, once. He loved their nights together. He loved the way Adryn laughed. He loved holding Adryn’s hand and making him fire constellations. He loved the way Adryn’s bark felt against his own, naked, his lips on Elandrin’s face, and the way he held him close, and he can almost hear himself laugh again the same way he did then. The sound comes distorted, off, and he can hear his own angry words and the tremble in Adryn’s voice. 
He loved Adryn, once. But as he loves all things, himself included, that too ended up in flames. 
“All you have to do is let go,” Adryn says. 
Elandrin stares at the night sky, caught between death and life. The fire can’t catch him, but he hopes it will. 
With one last push, he wishes the jungle would burn down with him. 
VI
“Arcanist Elandrin! We found him!” 
“Is he dead?” 
“Don’t think so! Come on, I need a hand over here! Hurry up! Do we have menders on the squad? I repeat, do we have menders on the squad?” 
There are voices. Steps. Rustle of leaves. Pants of worry, and hurt. Metal against metal. Clinking of armor. 
“Elandrin, are you with me?” 
He struggles to locate the voice. His eyes might as well be sealed shut. 
“I’m here. For fuck’s sake. Just listen to my voice, okay? I know you’re with us. Just listen to my voice, yeah. Good. Like that. I’m here. We have menders on the squad. We’ll get you up in no time. It’s just some healing magic. Feels a little invasive. Not much I can do about it. I’m sure you people have a better word for it.” There’s a hand on his face. He sighs as it guides him. The pain subsides. “Elandrin? Yeah, knew you were with us. Dwayna have fucking mercy on you. Who fucked you up like that?” 
His eyes open slowly. There are claws on his face, but the face that greets him isn’t monstrous, nor the eye familiar. The face is pale, human, with bright, purple eyes. 
“It’s me, Alysannyra. I know I’m not your favorite person, but who fucking cares right now. I’m healing you until the menders come. You’re not dying on me - you hear me? You’re not dying on the Pact. You’ll want to singe my eyebrows off later, but I’m not letting you die, you hear me?” 
Alysannyra..? 
“You’re coming to. Great. Glad to see you’re as destructive when you’re unconscious as you are when you’re awake. All this ash is very becoming of you.”
He raises a hand. It shakes but he holds it up. Alysannyra.. He can’t recall a single good thing about her, but right now, her body feels soft and safe. He touches her nose and his hand drops down again. 
“Not a mordrem,” he says weakly, when someone else kneels down beside them. 
“Good to hear. Thought I’d have to put you down if you suddenly go all monstrous on us.” 
He shakes his head. 
He made it. He’s alive. He could cry, if his body willed it. 
Not a mordrem, he thinks to himself one last time before darkness takes him again. 
But this time, the hands he falls into are safe. 
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faroreswinds · 2 years ago
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I wrote this elsewhere but I figured I would share it here too because... Well, I can, that’s why.
Claude. Why his accusation of the Church make no sense. 
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Let's look at his claims closely. These are almost directly word for word from his mouth:
They use social status to justify prejudice
They have no tolerance for those who come from anywhere else. Or who don't believe in their teachings.
They steal your freedom and give you an endless list of duties and obligations because you have a Crest
They force people into unwanted marriages and positions of power
They forbid any official contact with outside regions.
These are his biggest claims against the Church of Seiros and Rhea. But even if we remove "player knowledge" from the equation and knowledge from other routes, and focus primarily on how his experiences in Foldan would shape these views, it doesn't really add up.
1) They use social status to justify prejudice
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Claude interacts very little with Church individuals. How did he come to this conclusion?
The Central Church is, in fact, so far removed from the Alliance that people do not care about whether it dies or not. They follow the Eastern Church more, which is a very neutered and weak branch, weakened by the nobles themselves. It is outright stated in the game that the reason why the Eastern Church has no standing army of their own is because the nobles of the land of which they preach on do not allow it.
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You could argue that because many of the nobles themselves are prejudice against commoners, and the doctrine of the Church claims that Crests are gifts from the Goddess, that this indirectly means the Church supports the prejudice expressed by those in positions of power.
However, the issue with this argument is that the Church also has in its doctrine that one must not abuse the privileges of a Crest, and when the people did the goddess grew so sad that she left the world.
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Claude does come into contact with nobles who are truly awful to commoners. But he's also surrounded by nobles who are good leaders and do not see themselves above the common folk. Heck, Judith, a woman he admires, is a devote follower of the faith of Seiros and yet has no prejudice against commoners at all.
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Furthermore, while Claude does not have access to the library of the Church for a year like he did in Houses, it's not like he was living in the boonies for 2 years instead. He could have done research at any time. Heck, you can actually find the Book of Seiros V in his route around the camp. This book clearly states this:
Dare not abuse the power gifted to you by the goddess.
The goddess cares for and protects all that is beautiful in this world. The goddess will never deny the splendors of love, affection, joy, peace, faith, kindness, temperance, modesty, or patience. Follower her example and, in doing so, abide her laws.
So I have no idea why Claude goes to such an extreme when surrounded by contradictory evidence.
2) They have no tolerance for those who come from anywhere else. Or who don't believe in their teachings.
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In Claude's route, you are given Shamir. Just... for free. She is from Dagda who openly does not believe in the teachings of Seiros. And yet, she worked not only for the Church, but for Rhea directly for a while.
Furthermore, you can recruit Petra, who is also not from Foldan, who openly has a different faith than the teachings of Seiros. She was allowed to go to school, run by the Church. And while Claude wasn't in school for a year, he was in school for about two months or so. He would have known about Dedue, another man from outside Foldan who openly is not a follower of the faith of Seiros.
With three individuals that are all foreigners, who openly are not followers of the faith, that have crossed Claude's path at least once in his life in Foldan, you would think he would have noticed that they are surprisingly tolerant. We do see members of the cloth openly be racist or criticize people who aren't followers, but we also see the opposite, members of the cloth who preach love and acceptance to all.
Claude saying "they are intolerant and hate foreigners" when we have examples of the opposite in his very own route doesn't make it very convincing, and makes you wonder why he isn't making note of those people.
3) They steal your freedom and give you an endless list of duties and obligations because you have a Crest
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This one particularly baffles me. There are plenty of individuals who actively chose or plan to chose to live a life of a commoner, despite having a Crest. Lysithea is one such individual. She plans to give up her title and go to live quietly with her parents so they can recover together from their trauma. I really can't point to a time where the Church specifically forces the Crested to work. Unless Claude is conflating that all nobles are people with Crests, and complaining that people who are supposed to be leaders are being held accountable for their positions of power and expected to work. Or unless he feels that every Crested person has been forced into nobility. Which... if you are supposed to be a leader, even if by hereditary means, then having a Crest wouldn't change that fact. But that doesn't occur to him. Which is even more bizarre because he comes from a nation with no Crests and yet there is still a King on the throne, and he is prince of that nation. He has obligations as prince there, and there is no Church of Seiros telling him he has obligations there. Same with Petra, whom you can recruit to his route. Her nation has no Crests. She's still princess with responsibilities. No Church of Seiros in Brigid. And look at Hilda! Between her and her brother, she is the one with the Crest. But she has absolutely no responsibilities, because her brother is the future leader of their land. Why would he claim Crested people have no freedoms when Hilda is right there?
And that’s even ignoring the reality of many other lords in other nations don’t have Crests despite being leaders of their house. 
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4) They force people into unwanted marriages and positions of power
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Again, I feel like Claude is conflating that nobles marry each other for power, a very normal thing that was done in the real world, as if the Church was forcing them. We do see examples of nobles arranging marriages for their children (or in some extreme cases, people trying to force Crested people into marriages to get Crests in their bloodlines), but we never see the Church as the driving force behind it. We just... never see it. Not even the nobles surrounding Claude talk about it. Lorenz talks a lot about finding the perfect wife, but he's motivated by his own ideologies of what it means to be a noble, not because of some Church mandate. In fact, most of the people who talk about being forced into marriages are from different nations. Bernie was Ferdinand's betrothed at one point. Ingrid and Mercedes faced arranged (or forced) marriages. Unless he is considering what maybe his mother went through, and some other past nobles in the Alliance who do talk about s***ty arranged marriages. But... again, we never hear about the Church being the driving force behind it. So, how did he hear about it?
5) They forbid any official contact with outside regions.
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We look back to point 2 for this point. Plenty of examples of people from outside Foldan actively living in Foldan. Nothing in their doctrine states you cannot engage with foreigners. And also, there are books you can find around the camp that directly talk about trades done with other nations that we actually don't get to interact with. From Allied Territories of Leicester: Book Two, Edmund territory is stated to be an active hub for trade due to naval ports. Most of Foldan is land-locked, so who are they trading with besides outside nations? The Empire and the Kingdom are also known to trade with continents from beyond the borders as well. Albinea is one such place that is actively traded with. How could Claude not know these things? He's the leader of a large nation. These should be part of his job to know. Yet he is seemingly either unaware of these things, or he doesn't count them because big ol' mean Foldan's Locket has been keeping his people out for a century. It never occurs to him that maybe the reason why Foldan isn't interested in engaging too much with outsiders, especially Almyra, is because the outsiders have been aggressive to them. Dagda invaded. Almyra invaded (for fun, might I add). Sreng invades in the regular. Nader even complains a bit that Claude isn't allowing his men to loot the Kingdom while they are actively invading them. It's no wonder the people of Foldan have major prejudice against them, when they only have bad memories of them and their culture for a generation. Not even Cyril likes his own people.
Heck, technically speaking the Empire and the Kingdom are foreign nations as well. Yes, they share a common language and common ancestory, but they have been separate nations for at least 300 years. Why does Claude, and the game in general, treat Foldan as if it’s a single monolith rather than three independent states with different cultures and identities? Sylvain got it right when the Alliance was invading the Kingdom’s capital:
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So with all this in mind, Claude's words against the Church don't make sense. There are legitimate grievances to have with the Church, and with the way Foldan runs, but the ones he specifically blames on the Church are not supported by the evidence, even in his own route.
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andsheoverthinks · 1 year ago
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it's up to us to normalize feminism
upon reflection, i learned something from the current drama.
there seems to be this disconnect/disagreement about whether women who call themselves radical 'deserve' (for lack of a better word) the term based on choices made in their personal life.
while, for example 'dating men' or 'wearing lip gloss' or 'shaving' are not 'radical' or 'feminist' actions, it's important in this discussion i think to take note of how low the bar is for normies in the post Me-Too era, including 'libfems' to designate you a Foaming At The Mouth Blue Haired Man Hater for Feminist Thoughtcrimes, therefore why the lib/rad dichotomy exists and women feel that they can only be one or the other.
furthermore, a woman doing a handful of not-feminist actions while holding feminist beliefs doesn't transform her into being a choice feminist. choice feminism explicitly means everything a woman does is actively feminist which is a different thing.
acceptable 'feminism' (aka MRA rhetoric the remix):
porn and sex work are net good, and only occasionally exploitative
all men are owed access to sex as a birthright, and must have access to young and beautiful prostitutes
everyone suffers equally under a nebulous force of uncertain origin called the patriarchy
institutional misandry exists
nobody cares about men's mental health
rapists can be reformed
i let my bf fuck other women because i'm a sex positive cool girl
examples of thoughtcrimes that will get you called a man-hater/taking feminism too far (IRL) or a radfem (online):
porn is bad for women and society
prostitution is the ultimate objection of women and doesn't belong in society
sexism is a unidirectional form of oppression
organized religion is not empowering to women
modesty culture is hypersexualization
onlyfans is not empowering to women
we should believe rape victims as a default and bringing up false accusations is always bad faith
the majority of rape perps are men
a frightening amount of men are potential rapists
men are not oppressed on the basis of gender/sex
male violence is an issue
men of color oppress women of color/poor men oppress poor women/etc
patriarchy exists, it benefits men, and must be abolished
rape and femicide are hate crimes
et cetera
the base issue here is that the above relatively tame ideas (acknowledging misogyny) are considered radical by normies.
we need to keep talking to people IRL about the existence of misogyny. we have to normalize the discussion. we have to make feminism normal again.
the reason so many women identify as radfems but don't 'qualify' for the label is because radblr is literally the only place on the internet where you can say 'men suck' and not receive a deluge of backlash.
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anxiously-going · 1 year ago
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Just some disorganized thoughts.
I think I'm realizing that part of the reason I have such issues with the idea of a sense of identity or a sense of self is because of the way things were talked about in the church.
There was always warnings about "becoming like your friends so chose them carefully" or being warned about falling into "the world" and honestly I think more than I feared any kind of "punishment from God" I feared being used as one of those nameless examples of people who "went astray", I feared being perceived as anything but what I should be. I feared building out a sense of self because it didn't feel safe to.
A lot more went into it than just that, but it does make me think.
These last few days I've been listening to music that I love but that I wasn't allowed to listen to as a teen. And as a teen there was always ridicule for teens that were emo or goth because they stated that they had found their individuality or "their" style in those subcultures. I remember hearing about comments along the lines of "That's not 'your' style you look like everyone else that listens to that kind of music!" as if all the women didn't adhere to the same code of modesty and nearly all the men were in suites for a Sunday morning message.
There is something in all that that I am struggling to put into words.
But I think that there is an idea at the edge of my mind that individuality is unattainable, that trying to "create a sense of self" is...making things up. Because all of this is framed from my system.
Identity is complicated enough, but to add to it things like trauma, a disorder that causes disruptions in said identity and of which denial is a key component, and fear of freedom and other such things, has made this idea of "Identity" even more complicated.
This is definitely going to take more time to process will probably be easier to.word and focus on when Nine in the Afternoon isn't playing on a loop in my brain.
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marzipanandminutiae · 2 years ago
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The difference between Victorian prudery and 50's prudery is that Victorian prudery was a genuinely reasonable response to the situation women lived in, while 50's TV prudery actually was stupid.
I've let this percolate for a bit because I wanted to collect my thoughts on it. And they vary depending on what Anon meant.
What I think this is trying to say is that, given the emphasis placed on women's reputations back then re: sexuality, it made sense for them to behave in an extremely straitlaced manner. Because (for most women) their lives would quite literally be destroyed if their virtue were seriously called into question. They would struggle to find employment or a husband, might be cut off by parents or other supporting entities, and could find themselves alone in the world with no means of support. And with that general idea, I agree. Pretty logical to refuse to even kiss a man before marriage if your entire livelihood is on the line.
(Not to mention, a working-class white woman, a middle-class white woman, a white heiress, and a woman of color regardless of social status all had different standards for what they could get away with. While they all lived under similar unfair standards and systemic misogyny...intersecting axes of oppression and privilege definitely played a role here)
Except.
A. That was not the extent of extreme Victorian prudishness. While stories about table legs being covered for modesty are pure invention, you DO hear about some people in the 19th century going pretty far in the Prim and Proper department. I recall one 1870s issue of a fashion magazine by the renowned Madame Demorest where she cautioned her female readers about arraying their legs "like ballet dancers" in the wildly popular striped stockings. To do so, she implied, was to invite the stares of men when a lady lifted her skirt to go up steps.
And I honestly don't see any way that could be construed as reputation-ruining behavior, given that...well, like I said, the stockings in question were everywhere. I have two separate fashion dolls of the era who both wear their original striped hosiery. Clearly women weren't risking their means of support by wearing them, and yet at least one conservative writer considered them Improper. That, then, hardly seems justifiable prudishness to me- and that's just one example.
It leads well into my second point, namely:
B. Even the Victorians though some Victorians were too prudish. Etiquette manuals can tell us a lot about the ideals of an era, but they aren't a good record of real human behavior. Take, for example, the use of the word "limb" to substitute for "leg." Out of context, this seems like proof that our 19th-century ancestors were stuffy prudes who had the vapors at the slightest hint of anything remotely racy.
But if you actually look at sources from the era, most of them seem to be mocking rather than endorsing the practice (source)
That holds true for many other illogically prudish behaviors of the time- in my experience, many people seem to have rolled their eyes almost as hard as we do today at a lot of the "nice girls don't" edicts. The big one remained largely unquestioned: don't have sex outside of heterosexual wedlock and don't give anyone reason to think you have. And that latter part covered a lot of behaviors we- rightly -see as absurd and misogynistic today. But rules that got as minute as the appropriate number of times to dance with a specific man at a ball were often waived in reality- or at least, endorsed for reasons of potential rudeness rather than scandal.
Which is to say, not all Victorian prudishness can be justifiable if even they themselves thought some was ridiculous.
C. A lot of the pressures on women to remain chaste and morally unassailable remained- or had returned -in the 1950s.
I'm surprised I even have to say this, because I figured it was pretty common knowledge. But every reason a woman might shut down relatively tame amorous advances in 1850 was pretty much present in 1950: a woman known to be "ruined" could have a very hard time functioning in mainstream society. Things had loosened up a bit- although, to be honest, being caught in a kiss wouldn't even necessarily destroy a woman's reputation in the 19th century -but the central theme of Don't Let Anyone Suspect You've Had Extramarital Sex Or Your Reputation Is Toast persisted.
And as for things that were patently absurd in the 1950s- you mentioned "TV prudery," which I assume means things like married sitcom couples sleeping in twin beds -well. That sort of nonsense was present in the Victorian era, too. And as in the Victorian era, I expect plenty of people snickered at it in the 1950s.
TL;DR- To me, the idea of one period having Logical Prudishness and the other having Performative BS kind of falls apart because both eras had examples of both types. I can see a point of agreement here in the idea that some uptight behavior in women who wanted to do otherwise was a logical response to insanely rigorous moral standards, but the rest of your argument doesn't really hold water for me.
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#255
This is a direct follow up to #35.
“Glad to see you make it up here ok. I’m Robert, and you are?... Eddie. Good to meet you. Did you enjoy the drive? It really is nice. That’s part of the reason why I live up here. We don’t get many clients that come up here. Most order on line, but you are the first of the season. I reviewed your e-mail again and I think I have a selection of rimchairs for you. It would help me to narrow down your selections more if you answer some additional questions….
“Here, let’s go into the workshop. So, is this going to be a chair for you? Good. Are you the ass or the ass eater? Will you ever go underneath it?... No? Ok. Don’t worry, the only time I go under mine is to work on it.... Women, men, or both?... Women. Is this part of a S&M or kink situation?... That’s fine. It’s very rare for me to find someone willing to spend all this money for the sensual aspects of eating ass. Did you bring a slave woman with you? That’s fine. Most straight men don’t….
“No, I prefer fags under mine; is that going to be an issue here? I only ask because, I want to find the best rim chair for you, and I have a wealth of expertise I rely on. I don’t want to share my experiences with you and have it be awkward.
“Good! Good! Unless we need him, the faggot is up at the main house. That reminds me, will you be using the rim chair for full toilet activities? No… you would be surprised with just how many people are. Hell, every single dominatrix I have made a rim chair for is into it. And some of those women are fucking brutal to their slaves.
“So here let’s start with these three. The left two are designed primarily for rear entry and this third one is for the front. Me personally, I prefer my slave lying behind me when he’s attending to my shithole. His tongue seems to go in deeper and at a better angle. And I don’t have to spread my legs when he’s there. That’s one of the big difference between men and women is that women are narrower than men. It gets uncomfortable at times. For me it’s just easier with it behind me. Do you have a preference?... That’s fine. They will be designed for front and rear entries, but structurally it will be designed one way.
“It’s really all about comfort. Comfort was actually that reason that got me into making rimchairs. What I saw out there was horrible. They were rimseats. To me rimseats are different than what I make. Rimseats are essentially toilet seats on legs. The faggot lies underneath, and I would squat down. I’m a big guy and I can’t sit that low for a long time, before my legs start to cramp up, about fifteen to twenty minutes at most. The problem with making the legs longer is that the faggot underneath is then straining to keep his head buried in the crack of my ass. Either it is straining to keep its tongue buried deep, or its head can move all around. Either way, the faggot tires quickly and it’s a piss poor rimjob.
“That’s why I started with the idea of transforming regular chair designs into rimchairs. I have throne-like chairs, deck chairs, reclining chairs, dining chairs, and so on. Every one has support for the toilet lying underneath, so that multiple hour-long sessions are not a problem. I can customize it to a specific head size, as well as how far in you want the slave’s face when you sit down. Or, some of the chairs allow for adjustability. I personally like feeling my faggot’s face getting wedged in there, and then to have its mouth lined up to connect with my shithole. That is priceless. No other feeling of power compares with it. If you are into slaves that are reluctant, I can make the head spaces very restrictive. I can even create a box, measured exactly to your slave’s head where they can’t move an inch. My slave tells me that it gets very claustrophobic under it. I even designed is so that the slave places its head in the box and the hinged platform lowers with a piece going below the slave’s chin preventing the slave from pulling out from underneath until you get up off the chair and let it out.
“I see you like the casual desk chair. I have one just like it at my work desk. My faggot is under that one for hours. I can be doing work, surfing the internet, or jacking off to porn. I’m not even paying attention to the tongue fucking I’m getting. It’s just adding to the general euphoria of what I’m doing.
“You have a wife, girlfriend, bitch slave, or whatever?... Oh you have an out of state friend with benefits that likes to eat ass? From what I have learned through the years, it’s hard to find a woman into it. That’s fucking awesome.
“If you really love your butthole tongued for a long time, maybe you should get a fag, until you find the right bitch. Seriously. I had one client purchase a similar seat to that one, that he had installed in his playroom. It was up against a wall. He enclosed the sides of the chair. There was a hole in the wall that the ass eater would crawl through. It was an 18 year-old faggot from down the street, and that fag tongue fucked like no other I have ever tried out, and yeah I tried it out. The most interesting thing is that they had a set time each week when they did this. The kid came in through a dedicated entrance, and the client sat down, neither of them said a word to the other. Truly amazing.
“Go on, have a seat. I’ll have it customed to your ass and thighs so that when you are sitting, your cheeks are comfortably spread. You know, those Carhartt pants are restricting your ass and legs. You’re not getting the proper placement of your ass.
“Why don’t you take them off? Other than me and shithead up in the house, no one is going to see you. I get maybe, maybe one customer a week. When we go into the design room to take measurements, I will need you to have them off. Leaving your underwear on is better than this. Briefs, no briefs. We don’t care…. Commando? We don’t care about that either.
“Look, if you think this is my way of seducing you, let me say that I like faggot boys, not real men like yourself. I get turned on when I know a man—a real hard working man—is getting his dick, ass, and everything else taken care of at the expense of faggots. I’m not talking about gay boys. I mean faggots, boys who exist to serve a real man, to take care of that man’s needs including draining his balls, eating his ass, and so on. To a faggot, draining your cock and eating your shithole is the reason for its existence, even at the expense of its own needs. So no, I wouldn’t dream of sticking my cock in you. You can count on that.
“Don’t worry about my faggot; its tiny pecker is permanently locked away. It has been that way ever since he got here last fall. You remember that first snowstorm we had? Well right before the snowfall hit its car ran out of gas, and it got stuck. At least that was its story. I made it an offer, find someone else to help in the snowstorm, or submit to me. I’ve kept it naked, with its pecker painfully locked up in that device ever since. I’ve trained it to service my shithole for hours on end. It hasn’t cum in the five months it’s been serving me.
“Let me text it to come down here…. No, it’s no problem. Go ahead and get comfortable. Take the pants off, leave them on the table. It’s best to put your work boots back on.
“That’s a beautiful cock you have. I bet the women love it. Stop the modesty thing. You are a fucking hot man, you should relish in the adoration. Have a seat. Doesn’t that feel good on your ass? You can feel the spread, but it doesn’t feel like you are falling in? Now imagine a moist tongue darting in and out of your crack.
“And speaking of a moist tongue, here’s the fag…. Faggot! This is Sir Eddie. Get under the seat and get to work….
“No more protesting. I don’t care how dirty it is. I saw your skid marks in your pants, the fag will clean you up. He lives for shit like this. Its tongue feels good in there, doesn’t it? Don’t answer, I can see it on your face. Just relax.
“I will be over there in the design shop if you need me. Try out any of the other chairs. The faggot will do whatever you want or need to feel good. You can stay as long as you like. Even over night or throughout the rest of the weekend. The fag will take care of everything for you. It’ll eat your farts, drink your piss, throat your shaft, take a beating, or whatever. Just tell it what you want, and it will comply. By the end you will understand why a faggot is better than a bitch. Make me a good enough offer, and I may throw the faggot in.”
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oraclekleo · 2 years ago
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@hereismyloloverse + Christopher Bang (Stray Kids) - Sweet Romance Couple Reading
Hello and welcome!
I’m Kleo and I’m here to present some k-pop related tarot readings to you.
Disclaimer:
I would like to state that all these readings have a purely entertainment nature and their purpose is to bring some fun into my and hopefully yours lives. I have never ever met any of the idols / actors / celebrities in my readings, I don’t know them personally. Tarot reading isn’t an exact science and I can never guarantee any of it. Most of it is my intuition mixed with fantasy. Don’t take these readings seriously and don’t base any important decisions on tarot readings only, use your common sense.
If you wish to request a tarot reading, please read the pinned post on my profile first to see the instructions on how to request. I only do readings for idols / actors / celebrities of 18 years of age or older. Requests for readings including younger people will be automatically dismissed. If you feel uncomfortable with these tarot readings, do not engage in reading my posts. Thank you for understanding.
Reading Info:
Rating: 18+
Reading Type: Single - Couple
Requested: Yes - No
Requester: @hereismyloloverse
Deck: Tarot of the Divine
Spread: Sweet Romance
Questions:
The eyes meet across the room… (What captivates them about you)
Sweet scent lingering in the air… (What pulls them closer to you)
Only the brave ones… (What motivates them to approach you)
Words as sweet as honey… (What enchants them about you)
Lips like petals of a rose… (What makes them kiss you)
Love is a form of insanity… (What makes them fall in love with you)
Full Name: Christopher Bang
Stage Name: Bang Chan
Group: Stray Kids
Masterpost: Stray Kids
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@hereismyloloverse + Bang Chan
Christopher Bang
Bang Chan (Stray Kids)
Deck: Tarot of the Divine
Spread: Sweet Romance
The eyes meet across the room… (What captivates them about you) [15] - Queen of Coins
I can’t possibly know much about you but the cards suggest that Bang Chan is likely to feel captivated by your feminine charms. You don’t have to be girly but you possess the famme fatale vibe and it’s very likely for Bang Chan to notice. You are likely to attract his eyes by being confident in your own skin and not letting anyone discourage or pointlessly criticise you.
Sweet scent lingering in the air… (What pulls them closer to you) [72] - Knight of Swords
Your sharp tongue and witty reason are likely to attract Bang Chan. The way you ask questions in order to truly understand the issue, the way you focus on conversation and the speaker, you listen, you reply meaningfully and your observations are deep and on point. You can probably also retort with sarcasm and merciless wit. Bang Chan finds it refreshing and amusing.
Only the brave ones… (What motivates them to approach you) [46] - 0 The Fool
Your open mindedness towards anything new and your friendliness are the qualities motivating Bang Chan to approach you. Despite your razor sharp reason, you don’t intimidate him, you don’t push people away. You are open to new friendships and new people entering your life. Bang Chan feels welcomed in your company because you respond quickly and with nearly childlike curiosity and what’s more, you truly listen to what he says.
Words as sweet as honey… (What enchants them about you) [18] - 5 of Coins
Bang Chan is likely to feel enchanted by your independence and ability to fight for yourself and stand on your own feet. If that’s not completely true as of now (maybe you are still studying and need your parent’s support), Bang Chan will appreciate your selfless and non-materialistic nature. You prefer to bond with people through thoughts and ideas rather than bribe them with gifts (or being bribed by others). You probably don’t really need a large budget to be happy. Your modesty and resourcefulness will leave Bang Chan stunned.
Lips like petals of a rose… (What makes them kiss you) [26] - King of Coins
The way you get so serious and engaged in something that interests you will likely make Bang Chan to kiss you. You are in the middle of a deeply educated and professional monologue on something you are into at the time, you present your ideas with all the seriousness and passion for the issue, you probably detour to details often, sometimes skipping words because your mind runs faster than your mouth. And suddenly Bang Chan goes forward and stops the waterfall with a kiss. It’s likely to be sweet, short and in a way innocent as he didn’t plan it beforehand, just felt so pulled towards you listening to you. It’s likely you will pull him back into another much deeper kiss after he pulled away and whispered sorry shyly.
Love is a form of insanity… (What makes them fall in love with you) [36] - Ace of Wands
Bang Chan is likely to fall in love with you for your everlasting passion and excitement. You are curious about many things, you have many interests and hobbies and you truly enjoy them with glee. Bang Chan is the same, he’s passionate about what he does and seeing you immersing into another subject of your interest, studying it and trying new skills simply to expand and enrich your life, that’s what he finds so adorable and attractive and proud of you. It’s very likely he won’t even notice the one specific moment, he fell in love with you. It’s likely to happen gradually and smoothly.
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mus1g4 · 3 years ago
Note
At Hampton jail what's the strip search like does it just happen when you first enter or can then happen at anytime during a stay there? Also are you frisked search often what's the procedure like? As a guard have you done strip searches or pat downs of other prisons and which is worse?
Hampton jail does search you thoroughly on intake just as a normal prison would. We do not do rectal or cavity searches. If you are wanting that, I will have to disappoint you! We have you complete a role play contract before any activity begins and you can decline any aspect of the intake process. (A lot of guys prefer no mugshots, or mugshots taken only on their personal cell phones), others prefer no fingerprints or no nudity or no outdoor time. No judgments are made about you based on your requests. This is YOUR roleplay.
I will say here that an enormous number of "clients" end up doing many of the things they don't want to do because they change their minds. We try to be meticulous about not sharing photographs or names (without specific permission). You are assured absolute privacy if that is your wish. I was always nervous during my first time here. I absolutely did not want to do yard time. Interestingly enough, it is now my FAVORITE thing to do. (Just a touch of humiliation is good for an ego maniac's soul!!)
An incoming inmate with no restrictions or a returning guest is usually stripped searched at intake and fully checked for contraband. They are subsequently issued a pair of orange boxer shorts for modesty and taken to the shower. We do not have smelly convicts in our jail at the outset. After a shower, the inmate is issued a uniform and intake bundle and taken to their assigned cell.
If a guard believes an inmate has contraband or the inmate has been out of the cell block, a pat down search at minimum is conducted. A strip search during a cell check or after a work detail is no unexpected, but again, this is within a vary narrow window and only at the approval of the inmate at the outset of play. Finally an inmate can use a safe word such as red or an activity seemed like a good idea at the beginning of play and now the inmate is having second thoughts.
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riddlecrux · 4 years ago
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Miserable together, happy apart: a dive into Elain and Lucien's relationship
This meta is based solely on textual pieces of evidence that can be found through the whole ACTOAR series written by SJM. My observations come from the text and what was given to us, the audience, by the author of the book. Due to the fact that this topic is connected with a raging shipping war, I would like to make an important note at the beginning of this (probably) long comparison post. This meta will be touching subjects such as trauma, forced and unhealthy relationships, being uncomfortable around the other person, and enforced feeling of duty. On that note, it's anti Elain and Lucien relationship.
The starting point of the whole relationship and mating bond begins in ACOMAF, when Lucien contributes to Archeron sisters being kidnapped - leading to them being Made. I'm very concerned with the way how this fandom seems to collectively forget about the trauma that Elain went through when she was pushed inside the Cauldron. After ACOSF we are left with the idea that being Made wasn't pleasant - on the contrary, it was horrible and scary, it left Nesta with psychological scars and mental barriers. So why are people forgetting that, in fact, it was Elain who undergone the same terrifying experience first? SJM had described this whole situation very vividly and painfully detailed. It was there to show us that both Elain and Nesta went through something disturbing and traumatizing. That's why I would like to start with a notion of TRAUMA:
"Elain’s foot hit the water, and she screamed—screamed in terror that hit me so deep I began sobbing."
Feyre is there to witness her sisters being shoved into Cauldron and one can only imagine how terrifying it was to observe such a thing. However, there is no amount of words to describe how utterly frightening it was for Elain to be pushed into the unknown. She was the first one, an experiment for everyone to see.
"More water than seemed possible dumped out in a cascade. Black, smoke-coated water. And Elain, as if she’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown. Her legs were so pale—so delicate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them bare."
Elain was a proper lady. She was the one who went along with the prevailing etiquette and rules. Feyre notices Elain's bare skin and how she doesn't even remember when was the last time she saw so much of it in the broad daylight. Elain was modest, she followed the social obligations and we as readers are presented with the fact that all her principles are being violated in front of these strangers and people she knew from before.
"Elain was still shivering on the wet stones, her nightgown shoved up to her thighs, her small breasts fully visible beneath the soaked fabric. Guards snickered."
She was let out in the open after such a traumatizing event. Just after being Made, the first thing she experiences is another form of trauma. She is involuntary stripped bare in front of males, her proper upbringing and modesty ruined as they openly laugh at her nakedness. It's another traumatic event, not even a moment after her whole human life was taken away from her.
"As Lucien took off his jacket, kneeling before Elain. She cringed away from the coat, from him—"
It's not surprising that she acted that way. He is yet another male who appears out of nowhere, comes at her when she is in a very vulnerable position. Not to mention, that he is connected to the fact that she and Nesta were kidnapped and used as hostages. He plays a role in her trauma, a trauma that is still happening around her. Elain is subjected to watch her older sister going through the same thing she went through.
"Lucien’s hands slackened at his sides. His voice broke as he whispered to Elain, “You’re my mate.”"
I would say that it wasn't a good thing to say at that moment. It's yet another brick in the wall of traumas that Elain just went through. She lost her human life, she was Made, she lost her human fiance, was kidnapped and used as an experiment, ridiculed due to her nakedness and vulnerability, watched her sister being shoved into the Cauldron. Now she is presented with the fact that she was stripped off of her free will, and she still doesn't have freedom of choice. The lack of choice is evident, she just doesn't let it fall upon her as the trauma she had just endured was too great to even imagine how that declaration could shake her already broken heart.
“From my sister’s stories. Her friend.” “Yes.” But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.” “Yes.” It was all he could say. “You betrayed us.”
Elain is aware of the fact that he was a part of her trauma. He was there when she got kidnapped and watched her being Made. She acknowledges the fact that he is partially responsible for what has happened to her and her sister. Not only Elain but Lucien as well. Lucien is also very much aware of the fact that he had contributed to her pain and hardship. Those feelings are also very prominent in the way he approaches her and behaves around her. The knowledge that she is that way because of his mistake.
FORCED RELATIONSHIP:
Both Elain and Lucien find themselves forced to "be" together. It wasn't a natural thing that happened between them, not a healthy type of bond snapping in its place. They were put together because of the Cauldron's decision.
She was nothing like Jesminda. Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she’d been born into. She had teased him, taunted him—seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn’t wanted anything but her. She’d seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. Elain had been … thrown at him.
Even Lucien, who had loved and lost his previous lover acknowledges the fact that it is something that both of them didn't want. Their bond essentially stripped both of them of their free will. They hadn't chosen each other, they were just put together in a fickle decision of The Cauldron. His previous love story signalizes that Lucien also wants to be chosen, wants to be loved by someone who decided that he is the man that the other person wants to love and spend their life with him.
“I am Lucien. Seventh son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.” And a whole lot of nothing.
Lucien has also his own issues - family feud, the fact that his friend betrayed him and in the end, it was him who did the same. He has troubles on his mind that are concerning. He's self-conscious in front of Elain because as Lucien is a reminder of her trauma - she is a reminder of his biggest mistake and another painful ending on his part. She's a living proof of his betrayal, how he went against his common sense and stabbed his friend, Feyre, in the back by bringing her sister into the scene.
The words were a rasp as he instead said, “I know. I’m sorry.” She did not love him, want him, need him. Another male’s bride. A mortal man’s wife. Or she would have been.
He is aware of the fact that Elain doesn't feel anything for him, that she was promised to another and she had planned her life with that person. Just like him in the past - it was his choice to love, want, and need Jesminda. As he's trying to keep his composure the feelings of the bond swirl around, yet Lucien still understands that both of them ended up with something they didn't want.
“When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?” He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.”
Even though they were "blessed" with this bond, the thread of it is weak and very unlike the other ones in SJM universe. As if it wasn't working properly - they both do not complete each other. Few pages before Elain says that she can hear Feyre's and Nesta's heartbeat and yet her mate can't hear hers? How is that possible? Also Lucien doesn't understand Elain - he sees her as someone who is devastated by her ruined human life, which is true, but right we as readers know by now that Elain was suffering because nobody seemed to realize what was wrong with her. Their first meeting doesn't spark hope for their future. It only showcases how wrong they both are for each other, two wounds plastered against each other.
BEING UNCOMFORTABLE AROUND EACH OTHER: Sadly both Elain and Lucien are pushed together by Feyre and her little meddling - which isn't something that they both want to undergo.
It was the most uncomfortable thirty minutes I could recall. (...) Pretending, while Lucien and Elain sat in stilted silence by the dim fireplace, an untouched tea service between them.
Even Feyre admits that a previously arranged get-together was a mistake. Because Lucien and Elain are wary of their presence around each other, they constantly remind each other's traumas and painful memories. Elain can barely stand his presence and Lucien is aware of that fact - the only thing that keeps him trying to break that barrier is their bond.
She rose to her feet, and Lucien shot to his. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “What—what was that?” Mor put a hand on my knee to keep me from rising, too. “It—it was a tug. On the bond.”
Even their mating bond isn't a thing of comfort. They can't navigate through it, both of them uncomfortable because of their proximity. Lucien feels as if he has to repay his debt towards Elain, however, neither of them wants to close the distance. Their wounds are still fresh, both of them not entirely healed. They are constantly rubbing their hurt on each other, meeting after meeting.
“Nothing,” he said, and again faced his mate. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you.” Elain sidled toward Nesta, who seemed to be at a near-simmer. “It felt … strange,” Elain breathed. “Like you pulled on a thread tied to a rib.” Lucien exposed his palms to her. “I’m sorry“.
He feels guilty all the time he's around her. He can't navigate through the mating bond as it doesn't work properly. It's uncomfortable, hurtful, and tense. Just like the relationship between them, it is not a good thing. They are basically strangers thrown at each other after seeing the other person at their lowest. It's not a coincidence that the bond between them is a mirror to their rough, strained relation.
Lucien murmured to me, eye still fixed on Elain, “Should we—does she need …?”
Lucien just stared and stared at my sister, as if he’d never seen her before.
Even with the bond, Lucien can't understand what Elain needs. They are basically strangers, yet the bond doesn't do anything to him in regards to helping her. They are constantly uncomfortable around each other, they try to avoid each other throughout the series because of the fact that they both don't want to be in this forced relationship. Lucien feels obliged to keep persuading her due to the bond, whereas Elain wants nothing to do with the said bond. They are in a maze of constant avoidance and unbearable proximity, which is very soundly described in the text and I would like to present some very important passages:
He hadn’t mentioned Elain, or his proximity to her. Elain had not asked him to stay or to go. And whether she cared about the bruises on his face, she certainly hadn’t let on.
Elain, at least, would be too polite to send Lucien away when he wanted to help. She was too polite to send him away on a normal day. She just ignored him or barely spoke to him until he got the hint and left. As far as I knew, he hadn’t come within touching distance since the aftermath of that final battle.
No, as Elain took a step back, hand falling away from the doorknob, she revealed Lucien smiling tightly at us both. “Happy Solstice,” was all he said.
A sidelong glance toward Elain, swift and fleeting. “Both of you.” Elain said nothing, but at least she bowed her head in thanks.
“You’re welcome to stay for the night,” I said, since Elain certainly wasn’t going to. Lucien lowered his hands into his lap and leaned back in the armchair. “Thank you, but I have other plans.” I prayed he didn’t catch the slightly relieved glimmer on Elain’s face.
My sister rose to her feet. “I should get refreshments.” Lucien rose as well. “No need to trouble yourself. I’m—” But she was already out of the room.
I would love to bring attention to the fact that Lucien understands and realizes that their relationships will never work. He acknowledges it in the text, with his own words!
"Give her time to accept it.” “To accept a life shackled to me?”
“Spend time with her.” “I don’t think she’ll tolerate two minutes alone with me, so forget about two weeks.” His jaw worked as he studied the fire.
He shook off my grip and headed for the door. “I can’t stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes."
ELAIN'S AGENCY: Throughout ACOWAR, ACOFAS and ACOSF Elain tries to get away from the bond and in conclusion also from Lucien himself. She doesn't acknowledge their bond and time after time she runs away from the fact that they are bound to each other. The thing is, Elain, probably doesn't know how to break their bond - we as readers are reminded in Azriel's POV how important their mating bond is for the Night Court, which makes her a sort of political pawn. It is yet another thing that is taken away from her, which to be honest is a kind of a hypocritical thing coming from Rhys and Feyre. We know that Elain is timid, however after slowly recovering from her trauma she started to voice out her discomfort connected to Lucien and their forced relationship.
I knew I wasn’t truly angry with her, not angry with anyone but myself, but I said, “You couldn’t say a single word to him? A pleasant greeting?” Elain only stared at the steaming kettle as she set it on the stone counter. “He brought you a present.” Those doe-brown eyes turned toward me. Sharper than I’d ever seen them. “And that entitles him to my time, my affections?”
Lucien still makes her uncomfortable, he is a constant reminder of her trauma and lost life. Another thing is that Lucien doesn't even know her, doesn't see her which is something that is very important to her. Everything he does is based on the fact that he is connected to her via mating bond, not by his own free choice. Which, again, is presented to us in her own words in the text:
“No.” I blinked. “But he is a good male.” Despite our harsh words. Despite this Band of Exiles bullshit. “He cares for you.” “He doesn’t know me.” “You don’t give him the chance to even try to do so.” Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male.”
It doesn't help that the one who pushes her forward into this spiral of unbearable proximity with someone she hadn't chosen and don't want to be around, is her own sister. Yet, she stands her ground and sets boundaries. She is her own person and she wants to get to chose. ELAIN AROUND LUCIEN:
I handed Elain the small box with her name on it. Her smile faded as she opened it. “Enchanted gloves,” she read from the card. “That won’t tear or become too sweaty while gardening.” She set aside the box without looking at it for longer than a moment.
I found my sister in the kitchen, watching the kettle scream. “He’s not staying for tea,” I said.
I said to Lucien when we’d settled in the armchairs before the fire, Elain perched silently on the couch nearby.
I handed Elain the small box with her name on it. Her smile faded as she opened it. “Enchanted gloves,” she read from the card. “That won’t tear or become too sweaty while gardening.” She set aside the box without looking at it for longer than a moment.
I found my sister in the kitchen, watching the kettle scream. “He’s not staying for tea,” I said.
I said to Lucien when we’d settled in the armchairs before the fire, Elain perched silently on the couch nearby.
Elain had picked up the teacup, and now sipped from it without so much as looking toward him.
Elain only stared at him for a long moment. And any lucidity faded away as she shook her head, blinking twice (...).
He glanced at Elain, who was again studying her lap.
Elain now watched Lucien warily. Blinking every now and then.
He only glanced at Elain, whose face was again a calm void while she traced a finger over the embroidery on the couch cushions.
Their gazes locked and held. But Elain said nothing. Did not so much as take one step downward.
Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get.
Elain only shrank further into herself, no trace of that newfound boldness to be seen.
As you can see Elain feels: - uncomfortable - on edge - withdrawn - wary - closed off - silenced (she always loses the will to speak around Lucien, going deeper inside of her) - melancholic (she watches as kettle boil without flinching as if she wandered in the maze of her mind). Elain loses her comfort and courage around Lucien, which is problematic and utterly sad to witness. He is a constant reminder for her of violation against her own free will, but also a living proof of her own trauma. LUCIEN AROUND ELAIN:
Lucien surveyed it all with cool indifference. What he felt about Elain, what he planned to do … I didn’t want to ask.
“I would never hurt her.” A bleak sort of honesty in his words.
He tried to sound casual—comfortable. Even as his heart raced and raced, so swift he thought he might vomit on the very expensive, very old carpet.
He didn’t expect her to answer, and he gave himself all of one more minute before he’d rise from this chair and leave.
Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He’d said the same to Jesminda once.
He wished she’d shoved him out the window behind her.
He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth.
“I think she went through something terrible,” Lucien countered carefully. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have your best healer do a thorough examination.”
Lucien looked to her, then over to me. A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Nothing,” he said, and again faced his mate. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you.”
Lucien exposed his palms to her. “I’m sorry.”
Lucien murmured to me, eye still fixed on Elain, “Should we—does she need …?”
Lucien silently slid into one of the chairs, before the window, that metal eye whirring as it roved over my sister.
Lucien just stared and stared at my sister, as if he’d never seen her before.
Lucien inclined his head in a bow, the movement hiding the gleam in his eye —the longing and sadness.
“I am not always in this city to see my mate.” The last two words dripped with discomfort.
Lucien feels: - uncomfortable - guilty - uneasy - confused (especially in the moments where Elain is having visions and he doesn't understand what's happening with her) - apologetic (he is constantly saying sorry to her) - tense
The guilt eats him every time he is around Elain, he is constantly apologizing while battling his inner problems such as remembering his true love. He was stripped off of his choice and even if the mating bond is there, he isn't happy. He is in constant pain just like Elain because both of them are each other wounds, each other reminder of trauma. They can't heal together because they are only happy when they are apart - Elain blooms in the Night Court, as we have read in ACOSF she is coming up with terms of Fae life and her own powers, adjusting her life to the notion of immortality. She is content and courageous and yet everything vanishes when Lucien is around. The same thing goes for Lucien. Lucien was struggling with her around him - he didn't know her, he didn't know what was happening to her as well. They were both strangers thrown at each other without their own say in this whole situation. Not to mention that their meetings were always arranged and supervised by others. When he sets on the journey to find Vassa he finds freedom and belonging - which was something he was battling in ACOWAR, after betraying his friends and his court, after being at odds in Night Court, and after being uncomfortable around his mate. He didn't have that sense of belonging in any of those things.
Elain and Lucien aren't compatible nor perfect for each other. They are constant reminders of traumas they experienced. They will never work out because they make each other miserable while being together, and they feel free and content apart. Their happiness lies with free choice, free will both of them were looking for in their lives. They are bound together against their own, and the only key for them being happy in this farce is setting themselves free. A choice of freedom. I strongly believe that after their rejection of the bond both of them could, perhaps, form a friendship. It would have been some sort of catharsis - to dwell upon the fact that they overcame that obstacle. That they chose to be happy apart, and not be shackled by this miserable bond.
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moon-light-jukebox · 4 years ago
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Our boy - [Reid x Reader]
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Summary: Spencer Reid is anything but calm when his wife, reader, goes into labor.
Pairing: Spencer Reid / (Female) Reader
Rating: Wholesome AF
Word Count: 2.3k
Category: Pure fluff. Maybe some angst if you squint, just because childbirth is angsty.
Content Warning: None that I can think of.
A/n: This is just a quick little idea that popped into my head earlier. I wrote it all in one go. We don’t get enough Dad!Spencer. 😊 Reader’s labor was inspired by true events. 
y/n = your name. italicized block of text is a flash back.
-- Our boy -- 
“Babe, you have got to calm down.” I didn’t even bother opening my eyes to look at my husband; I was too tired.
His voice was as close to a squawk as I have ever heard. “I am calm, y/n!” That had me cracking one eye open to stare at him, which caused him to huff out a short laugh. “Okay, maybe I’m not calm. But how can I be calm?” His beautiful brown eyes were swimming with worry. “This has taken such a long time, and you’re so tired. The doctor said things haven’t been progressing.”
“Oh, come on, doctor,” I said teasingly. “I’m sure that big brain of yours knows that it’s not uncommon for first time mothers to labor for a long time.”
“But it’s been thirty hours,” he protested.
“I’m aware. Talk to your son.” I pointed to my very large stomach. “This is his show.”
That caused him to smile, the first real smile I had seen on his face since he arrived here, about an hour after I did. We knew this was coming, I was overdue, our son choosing to stay inside my body for 41 weeks and 6 days. The doctors had said if I hit 42 weeks that we needed to discuss inducing labor. Because of that conversation, Spencer wasn’t with the rest of the team, they were on some case in god knows where, instead he was helping at headquarters with Penelope. The same woman I had called when my water broke. I wanted to call Spencer, I really did…but my husband is prone to overact, especially in situations like this.
Turns out calling Penelope wasn’t any better.
--
“Hello, Mrs. Dr. Reid!” she had chirped.
“Hi Penelope. Is my husband around?”
“He is with the second love of his life.”
Which meant he had made a coffee run. I laughed, despite the pain rippling across my stomach. “Okay, well, I need you to pull him away for the first love of his life. My water just broke.”
There was a beat of silence before the screaming started. “YOUR WHAT JUST WHAT?!”
Just at that moment I heard him in the background. “Garcia,” my husband said. “Who’s what did what?”
“Penelope, be-“
It was no use; she had already started screaming at him. “YOUR WIFE! YOUR SON IS TRYING TO EXIT HER LADY BUSINESS! WE HAVE TO GO!!”
They then promptly hung up, only to call back a few minutes later and ask which hospital I was at.
--
There was a knock on the door, drawing me out of my memories. “Mrs. Reid?” the doctor called before walking into the room. She was a short woman with curly grey hair; Spencer and I had never met her before, she was just the doctor on call, but something about her demeanor put me at ease.
I gave her a wan smile. “Hey Doc.”
She marched into the room them, no nonsense to be found; which was unfortunate, I was a very big fan of nonsense as perfectly highlighted by the man I chose to marry. “Mrs. Reid, I need to check to see where you’re at,” she said, already snapping on her gloves.
“Knock yourself out.” At a certain point during labor modesty just vanishes. I don’t even want to think about how many people have seen my vagina today.
I felt some pressure for a few seconds before she pulled back. “You’re still at 5 centimeters.”
This comment got a groan from my husband. “But she has to get to 10!”
“I’m aware, Dr. Reid.”
“She’s been in labor for 30 hours and 23 minutes and 16 seconds!”
“I am also aware of that, Dr. Reid,” she said, suppressing a smile. “Which is why we need to have a little chat.” She turned to me. “Mrs. Reid, I’m concerned about the baby.”
That caused mine and Spencer’s spines to stiffen. “What,” I asked. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“Not yet,” the doctor said hurriedly. “We have been monitoring your contractions and vitals…but we also monitor the baby’s heartrate. It’s nothing to be too alarmed about now, but his heartrate has slowed a bit.”
“But what does that mean? Is he in destress?” My husband asked; he sounded so afraid that I instinctively reached out to grasp his hand.
“It means he’s tired, Dr. Reid.” She offered us a small smile. “Mrs. Reid isn’t the only one going through this. The baby is too. Like I said, it’s not low enough to be an issue now, but if it drops much lower, we need to discuss other options.”
“…he’s tired?” my voice cracked on the last word, tears already pricking in the corners of my eyes.
“Baby,” Spencer whispered, leaning over to place a kiss on my temple. “It’s alright.”
I shook my head. “It’s not. It’s not alright. He’s my baby, Spencer. He’s our baby,” I all but bawled at him. “Our baby is tired.” I’m sure one day I’ll look back at this moment and feel silly for how upset I had become…but I was so tired, and while the epidural numbed the pain, I still felt it. All of that I could endure, but I couldn’t endure this.
“I know,” he soothed. “But he’s fine. He’s okay.”
“I want to discuss other options,” I said, meeting the doctor’s gaze. “What are they?”
The doctor nodded, “Well, we could start a Pitocin IV. That’s a medicine we use to-“
“Cause the uterus to contract and speed up or induce labor,” Spencer interrupted, causing me to laugh, despite my tears. Even in times like this he was still…Spencer.
The doctor did not share in my amusement. “Yes,” she huffed. “That is one option. It runs the same risks, if his heartrate drops, we’ll need to move you to the O.R.” I gulped and Spencer squeezed my hand. “The other option is to take you back to the O.R. now.”
I looked over at Spencer, his eyes were wide and frightened, his always messy, curly hair was in a worse state than usual, his clothes were wrinkled. “I want our boy, Spence.”
He just nodded, bringing our joined hands up to his mouth to press a kiss to my knuckles. “It’s up to you, y/n. You know I’ll support whatever you want.”
Spencer gave me the courage to turn to face the doctor. “Let’s do it.”
--
Things progressed very quickly and very slowly at the same time. The room started bustling with different people doing different things to get me ready. Spencer called Penelope, who called the rest of his team, who were now all in the waiting room. How much Spencer’s co-workers at the FBI cared about him made me smile; they were his family, and by extension my family. Our little boy was going to be the most well looked after child in history.
Before I knew it, I was laying on my back in the operating room, a blue sheet put up just below my boobies. Apparently, most people didn’t want to watch themselves have a c-section. I couldn’t but laugh at the absurdity of the moment.
“What is it, my love?”
I turned my head to look at Spencer. His clothes were covered by some sort of yellow outfit, his hair was stuffed in one of those blue hat’s hospitals make you wear, I’m sure he could tell me the proper name, even his shoes were covered. One of his hands was gripping mine, the other slowly stroking the top of my head.
“I was just thinking about everything. Remember when we met?”
I realized how silly it was to ask a man with an eidetic memory if he remembered something right after I said it, something with which he agreed, given the look on his face. “Yes, y/n, I remember.” His hand squeezed mine tightly. “It was a Tuesday morning, at 7:34 a.m. You had on black pants and a light blue top, you didn’t notice me, but I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world.”
That caused a tear to slide down from the corner of my eye, only to be wiped away by my husband. “I didn’t notice you because you were in line behind me,” I teased.
“That’s no excuse,” he insisted. “I would notice you anywhere.”
That made my heart squeeze in my chest. “I must be pretty special,” I surmised. “I pulled your attention away from coffee.”
His voice was breathy, his eyes shimmering. “You’re the most special thing in the entire world, y/n. I don’t know what I did to deserve you. I don’t know how I got the courage to speak to you when you walked by me, but I’ll be grateful that I did it for the rest of my life.”
It was my turn to reach up and wipe a tear from his face. “I’m glad you stopped me,” I whispered. “Our little guy probably is too.”
Spencer didn’t laugh like I expected him to; instead he bit his lip, his eyes bouncing from my face to the blue curtain that separated us from the doctors.
“What is it, baby?”
He swallowed, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m scared, y/n,” he whispered. “I’m afraid that I won’t be any good at this. I never had a dad…What if I’m not everything he needs me to be?”
I felt my heart crack in half. “Spencer, that’s not possible,” I insisted, ignoring the way he started to shake his head. “You could never let anyone down, especially not your family. Especially not your son. You are going to be the most amazing father. You’re going to love our son so much; you already do love him that much, Spence.”
He was crying in earnest now. “But, y/n,”
Spencer never got to finish that sentence. The doctor suddenly interrupted our hushed conversation. “Okay, dad,” she called. “Here he comes!”
My husband placed a kiss on my forehead before he stood up, looking over the curtain. He had insisted beforehand that he wasn’t going to look; he said he didn’t want to see me like that, but I knew he’d end up looking. My husband was far too curious to do anything else.  
A shrill cry cut through the air, causing my heart to stop. That was him. I had never heard him cry before, but I knew that sound as sure as I knew my own name; that was my son.
Spencer and I were crying when the doctor brought him around the curtain so I could see him. He was wrinkly, red, and looked positively furious. I had never loved anything more.
They took him to the examination room to make sure he was breathing okay. Spencer had told me after c-section births this was normal. “They don’t get squeezed when they’re born,” he had said. “So, the nurse checks them over, weighs them, all that.”
He looked down at me, tears streaming down his face, then back towards our son.
“Go,” I urged him. “Go get our boy, Spence. I’m fine.”
--
Spencer’s head poked through the door of my room. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“REID. If you don’t get the fuck out of my way and let me see my godson I swear to GOD.”
“Oh,” I groaned, giggling slightly, despite the pain. “Please don’t make me laugh.”
I don’t know if Spencer moved willingly or if Penelope had just had enough, but soon the door was thrown open and a parade of people poured inside.
“Oh, my god, Mrs. Dr. Reid,” Penelope gushed, her hands hovering over my son, then back up towards my face. “You look like an angel. How did you just have major surgery? How did you just give birth, because a c-section is giving birth-“
“Penelope,” I cut her off. “Do you want to see him?”
“Gimme.”
I pulled the blankets down around his body, staring at his little face before I handed him over.
“Oh, my mother effin god,” she whispered, looking around at everyone else in the room. “He is the most beautiful child I have ever seen. He even looks like a genius. I don’t know if you can look like a genius, but I think he does.”
“You don’t have to whisper, Garcia,” my husband said, coming to stand beside me, leaning over to kiss my forehead again. “She is right though, Mrs. Dr. Reid. You’re beautiful.”
“Quit hogging the baby,” JJ said, reaching for him. “I’m the co-god mother. Hand him over.”
Emily leaned over JJ’s shoulder, staring at him with a look of wonder. “What did you guys decide to name him?”
“Arthur,” I said quietly. “His name is Arthur Spencer Reid.”
--
The room was dark when I opened my eyes, my head turning towards the tiny cry that woke me up.
“I know, I know,” my husband whispered to the tiny bundle in his arms. “I miss your mom too; she’s the best person in the world and I wish she could be awake all the time too.” I bit my lip, trying to suppress my laugh. “But you have to let her sleep some, little man.” My son gave another cry. “I know, believe me.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice thick with sleep.
“Talking to Arthur,” he said simply. “You know, speaking to a child whenever they reach the babbling stage of their cognitive development is actually very important. It encourages them to learn the language they’re hearing. You know, children are actually experts at learning languages. Studies have shown that children that become fluent in a language before the age of 13 are often able to fool native speakers into thinking they’re native speakers themselves.”
“Huh,” I said, smiling like a dope. That was my Spencer. “Did you hear that, Arthur? It sounds like your dad wants to teach you some languages.”
“Only a couple,” he whispered to our boy. Then he looked up at me, his eyes bright, despite the dark circles under them.
“You’re tired, babe,” I said, moving to sit up. “Give him here, you can get some rest.”
He just shook his head. “No, I’m alright. You rest.” Spencer looked down at his son again, who was already back to sleep. “No dream I have could be better than this.”
As usual, Dr. Spencer Reid was absolutely right.
-- 
Taglist: @rachelxwayne​ @pinkdiamond1016​ @sickeninglyshoujo @justagirllookingforherplace 
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immerlein · 4 years ago
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I see that some Christian women like to cover their hair, particularly the Orthodox women on your page, what is the significance of this? I find it beautiful and I’m thinking of wearing my headscarves like that as well.
Hi there! Thank you very much for this question; this is probably my favourite thing to talk about (if my #headscarf tag didn’t give that away, haha).  Wearing a headscarf/headcovering in church and in prayer is an ancient and traditional Christian practice. It is mentioned throughout the Bible:
1.) The priest shall stand the woman before the Lord, uncover the woman’s head, and put the offering for remembering in her hands (Numbers 5:18)  (her head must have been covered for this to make sense) 2.) Then Rebekah lifted her eyes, and when she saw Isaac she dismounted from her camel; for she had said to the servant, “Who is this man walking in the field to meet us?” The servant said, “It is my master.” So she took a veil and covered herself. (Genesis 24:64-65) 3.)  Now Susanna was exceeding delicate, and beautiful to behold. But those wicked men commanded that her face should be uncovered, (for she was covered,) that so at least they might be satisfied with her beauty. Therefore her friends and all her acquaintance wept. (The Story of Susanna / Daniel 13:31-33)
And, most famously:
4.) Now I praise you, brethren, that you remember me in all things and keep the traditions just as I delivered them to you. But I want you to know that the head of every man is Christ, the head of woman is man, and the head of Christ is God. Every man praying or prophesying, having his head covered, dishonors his head. But every woman who prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head, for that is one and the same as if her head were shaved. For if a woman is not covered, let her also be shorn. But if it is shameful for a woman to be shorn or shaved, let her be covered. For a man indeed ought not to cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God; but woman is the glory of man. For man is not from woman, but woman from man. Nor was man created for the woman, but woman for the man. For this reason the woman ought to have a symbol of authority on her head, because of the angels. Nevertheless, neither is man independent of woman, nor woman independent of man, in the Lord. For as woman came from man, even so man also comes through woman; but all things are from God. (1 Corinthians 11)
Our Church Fathers write of headcovering, saying: “The angels are present here... Open the eyes of faith and look upon this sight. For if the very air is filled with angels, how much more so the Church! ...Hear the Apostle teaching this, when he bids the women to cover their heads with a veil because of the presence of the angels.” - St John Chrysostom, referring to St Paul’s writing in Corinthians.  Origen said, “There are angels in the midst of our assembly...we have here a twofold Church, one of men, the other of angels...And since there are angels present...women, when they pray, are ordered to have a covering upon their heads because of those angels. They assist the saints and rejoice in the Church.” Instructions for catechumens in The Apostolic Tradition, by St. Hippolytus of Rome, include this: “Moreover, let all the women have their heads veiled with a scarf...” And St. Cyril of Alexandria, commenting on I Corinthians, wrote: “The angels find it extremely hard to bear if this law [that women cover their heads] is disregarded.”
I should probably mention now how this passage in Corinthians can be taken to mean that women are ‘inferior’ to men in some way, and that is what the covering represents. I won’t pretend that there aren’t people who might think this is the case, however, if we look at the Greek translation of “for this reason, the woman should have a symbol of authority of her head, because of the angels” we find the word “exousia”, which means “right/power/authority”. “Exousia” is also used in John 1:12: “As many as received Him, to them He gave exousia to become children of God, to those who believe in His name.” The headcovering is not a sign of a man’s authority over the woman, rather it is an outward sign of her own authority/right/power as a woman.  Another question you might be asking yourself is “why would angels care???”  To borrow from orthodoxinfo.com: “In her book, The Holy Angels, Mother Alexandra writes: “The Celestial hierarchies are the spiritual reality of ordered creation, the stable patterns in which disruption is unknown...” Obedience is characteristic of the angelic realm.”
In Orthodoxy we recognise nine orders/ hierarchies of celestial beings, arranged in three choirs. 
“Seraphim and cherubim are in the first, archangels and angels in the third choir, closest to us. Without obedience there is chaos and disorder. St. John Chrysostom, in a sermon on I Corinthians, speaks of how distinction in male and female dress—and particularly the veiling of women—“ministers effectively to good order among mankind.” Taking off the veil was “no small error,” said St. John; ”...it is disobedience.” It “disturbs all things and betrays the gifts of God, and casts to the ground the honor bestowed...For to [the woman] it is the greatest of honor to preserve her own rank.” To some who argued that a woman, by taking off her covering, “mounts up to the glory of man,” Chrysostom answers: “She doth not mount up, but rather falls from her own proper honor...Since not to abide within our own limits and the laws of God, but to go beyond, is not an addition, but a diminution...” Always emphasizing the equality between man and woman, Chrysostom admonishes the man “not to dishonor her who governs next to thyself.” The issue was order, not superiority or inferiority. At Matins for Orthodoxy Sunday, we sing, “Come and let us celebrate a day of joy: Now heaven makes glad! Earth with all the hosts of angels and the companies of mortal men, each in their varied order, keeps the feast.” “ - from orthodoxinfo.com
Fr. Basil Rhodes wrote in his Master of Divinity thesis in 1977 on the veiling of women in I Cor. 11 “Man is the head of the woman, according to Genesis and to St. Paul who compares the relationship of man and woman with that of the Son to the Father: ‘And the head of Christ is God’ (I Cor. 2:3). It would be a grave error to say that Christ is inferior to His Father.”  (it would be heresy!) 
Timothy McFadden writes: “Members of the Godhead—and His image—are not interchangeable. As God Father and Son are equal and One in nature, so also they are unique and not interchangeable. Similarly, though equal in nature, man is not woman, woman is not man. They are distinguishable.” - from orthodoxinfo.com
I posted about it a little while ago, but I also heard another interpretation of “because of the angels” on the Ancient Faith radio podcast called The Lord of Spirits. They linked it back to sexual immortality between humanity and spiritual beings, so not only do you need to cover to be modest among human beings, you also need to because angels might, I don’t know, be tempted by you? (The context of the passage was essentially around pagan converts to Christianity and explaining how Christian worship was not sexual/did and does not contain ritualistic sex.) @hymnsofheresy added some additional commentary from her classes: “1 Corinthians 11:4 specifies that covering is especially required when a woman is prophesying. In Hellenistic temples, it was understood that prophecy could result in a sexual encounter with spiritual beings. Veiling in church while prophesying was a way of preventing women from having sexual intercourse with (or being raped by) an angel. Angel theology at the time was heavily influenced by the Book of Enoch, and it was likely that many people saw angels as sexually capable beings who desired human women.”  I have absolutely zero idea how much this (if at all) influenced the continued practice of Christian women covering their heads in church/during prayer, but it is certainly fascinating to think about nevertheless. 
For me, on a personal level, I wear a headscarf as an outward sign of respect for holy spaces and holy practices, to help myself focus on prayer, as an imitation of the Theotokos (and other women saints), for modesty, because I respect the tradition, and largely simply because I like them! At my parish, they’re required if you want to partake of the Holy Mysteries (communion, confession, etc) but I’ve also been in Orthodox parishes that don’t require it (though perhaps encourage it). An old friend of mine once told me how his priest said that women are lucky to have a covering/protection to be sheltered by as they approach the Holy Chalice for communion, because it is SO holy and men have no such shroud. I thought that was pretty interesting too! 
I hope this is helpful to you! Please feel free to ask more if you need to :) 
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