#quote from what life taught me

[fromevertonow]

Suzanne Collins is one of the few contemporary writers who realizes the importance of names in her stories and the significance they bear. They add so many layers to the story, additional meanings that otherwise would not have existed.

The original trilogy:

Katniss: named after a plant of which you can eat the roots. Her father taught her where to find it and told her that “as long as you can find yourself, you’ll survive” (quote may be a little bit off, but it’s from one of the early chapters in THG). Additionally, the leaves are in the shape of an arrowhead, referencing her skills with the bow which her father also taught her how to use.

Peeta: literally bread lmao. But bread is one of the basic nutritions humans need, a little bit goes a long way to keep you alive. Peeta’s presence in Katniss’s life also kept her alive, literally and figuratively—the burned bread he threw her in the flashback and their complicated relationship.

Primrose: a plant with medicinal purposes, even more significant in light of her work as a medic in Mockingjay.

Gale: literally means “strong wind” and considering that in every encounter with Katniss he’s caused some reaction, he pulls her into directions she maybe initially doesn’t want to go in. Additionally, his name also represents his determination and steadfastness in his beliefs.

TBOSAS

Lucy Gray: named after William Wordsworth’s poem “Lucy Gray” which is about the titular character of the poem who got lost during a blizzard. She literally got lost in snow. Rachel Zegler sang this poem in two parts on the original soundtrack of the movie. When Snow asked who the girl in the song is, Lucy answers that she’s a mystery, just like her.

Snow: aside from the obvious snow references, I think his name is most significant in relation to Lucy and the poem. The only one who knows what caused her disappearance is Snow. He is the reason that Lucy is gone. But her traces in the snow are still visible. He will always remember her because the memory of Lucy has manifested itself in every part of his life.

Coriolanus: named after the Roman general (and also the titular character of Shakespeare’s play), Coriolanus wanted to attack Rome and become its ruler. He was scorned and celebrated by the people, only to be later exiled from the city by them. In TBOSAS, Coriolanus is the star pupil at the Capitol’s academy but sent into exile to the districts after he won the Games with Lucy through cheating.

Volumnia: Coriolanus mother who played a part in his ascent to power. In TBOSAS, she almost serves like a mentor to Coriolanus, teaching him how to think in terms of power.

(Edit) Sejanus: a roman soldier who was betrayed by the roman emperor Tiberius, just like the future president betrayed him.

(Edit) Plinth: got this info from here, but it was too good not to include here. A plinth is a base for a statue or vase to stand on. After Sejanus’s death, all of the Plinth fortune was given to Snow for being such a good to friend him. It was this money that skyrocketed the Snow family from poverty to filthy rich. The Plinth money was the foundation upon which Snow built his power.

There are so many other names that have historical (mostly Roman and Greek) connotations—Plutarch, Seneca, Cinna—but also regular names like Trinket and Beetee bear meanings that represent the character beautifully.

Names are important. For any lover of literature or (aspiring) writers, please look closely at them. They can shape your story into something unique.

Feel free to correct me if I’ve said something wrong. I know there are many names missing, but I can only add so many examples ✊🏻😔

[teaboot]

Got any tips for taking standardized tests? I would like to follow the patterns like a trained rat

Read the entire test before you start. This will give you an idea of what you’re in for, but in reading tests or literature exams, a lot of questions are answered by later questions. For example, “what is the setting of the story?” may later be followed by, “what may we infer from the protagonist’s description of 1880’s urban Westminster?”.

Strategize. If you’re a slow worker, maybe do the questions worth the most points first. If you’re not confident in your knowledge, maybe answer all the easier questions first, then leave the hardest for last.

In multiple choice questions, read the options before the question. Let them inform your assessment of the question itself.

In math, if none of the multiple choice options match your calculated answer, go with whatever is closest.

If you truly cannot figure out a multiple choice answer, start by eliminating the worst options and work backwards.

If all multiple choice options seem equally absurd, choose C. Assuming it gives you four options (average in my experience) this mathematically gives you AT LEAST a 25% chance of being right- slightly more, too, as C is statistically the correct answer slightly more frequently on average. Don't quote me on that though- the important thing is to “randomly” pick the same letter every time this happens, so at least 1 out of 4 works out.

Don't leave anything blank. Even if your odds of being right are one in a hundred, thats still better than zero.

For written answers, include the question in the answer. If the question is, “How are the blue curtains symbolic of the protagonist’s emotional state?”, rearrange the question as you present your argument. “The blue curtains serve as a symbol of the protagonist’s emotional state by…(supported argument here)”. Helps you structure your argument and looks tidier to the reader, but also if the person doing the grades is just skimming shit they may just see that you kinda get the idea and give you benefit of the doubt when marking.

I mean, in an ideal world all classes are taught for COMPREHENSION, as the lessons they teach have value beyond academic achievement and will serve you in many unexpected ways throughout your life beyond the academic, but seeing how standardized testing and AI cheats are flushing everything down the toilet as-is I’d be happy to see some more real and honest good old-fashion grifting tbh

[shitpostingkats]

An Asexual's love letter to Good Omens 2

There's an infamous quote by Neil Gaiman going around, regarding the general vibe of season 2, and many people (I believe humorously) yelling that it could not be further from the truth. Particularly in the last episode, where that happens.

I disagree.

The final episode of season 2 was deeply, deeply comforting to me. 

I am asexual. Have been my whole life. Even before I had the words to describe what that was, child-me had this feeling in their gut of being an outlier, that everyone was exaggerating, or in on some joke, that I wasn’t privy to. Because I was bombarded on all sides by shows and movies and books, telling the same story of love, again, and again, and AGAIN. It’s drilled into our brains with the same fervor as the days of the week, or the quadratic formula. Meet-cute -> misunderstanding ->declaration of feelings ->kiss. More or less steps can be added to account for runtime or complexity of narrative, but that’s the basic structure that a relationship follows. It MUST be, because that’s the formula every character who's ever been in a story goes through, often times when it even feels like an add-on, like it’s only there because this is a story, there HAS to be a romance. And it has to follow the steps.

For a long time, I felt love wasn’t for me, because if there’s only one way to be in love, I sure as hell wasn’t feeling it. 

Instead, the relationship I ended up in looked a lot like what Beezlebub and Gabriel go through. Meeting someone routinely until it starts to feel comfortable. Getting to know them and slowly growing more attached. Eating chips and listening to music.

We like to joke whenever someone asks us how long we’ve been together, because the answer is we just sort of slowly fell into it, and we honestly don’t know when the line got blurred between ‘friends’ and ‘partners’. And, at least for me, a good deal of that confusion, that hesitancy to label, came from the fact that what I was feeling, what we were, couldn’t be love. It couldn’t be romantic. 

We were just quiet and gentle.

And that wasn’t love.

Because it was slow, because it wasn’t physical, because there was no structure aside from consistency and companionship. Because it didn’t follow the Rules.

Then I found myself in stories, and it felt like a revelation.

Beelzebub and Gabriel aren’t the first time I’ve seen a love like I feel represented in a narrative, but it never stops feeling special. And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop celebrating it.

Throughout the sequence in the pub, I kept expecting them to “confirm” Gabriel and Beelzebub. A dramatic line, a kiss, a whatever. That’s what I’ve been taught to expect, after all, that’s the only way a relationship is “real”. Of course, this doesn't mean Crowley and Aziraphale sharing a dramatic kiss is wrong, or that I can’t see why it resonated with so many people, but for me. Those moments in the pub are worth so much more.The last scene might have been literally showstopping, but those handful of moments between the duke of hell and an archangel were the beating heart of the season for me. A simple love story in four scenes. No kisses. No ‘I love you’s. Not even any definition of what. The love Gabriel and Beelzebub have is strong enough for them to both want to shatter their worlds and flee their lives and it's just. 

It's just that. 

Two people in a pub, playing the other's favorite song, giving a little gift, buying a packet of crisps. 

That sequence means far more to me than any kiss ever could.

Love isn’t only real when it's hot and sudden and ephemeral, it can also be

Quiet.

And gentle.

And still romantic.

Still real.

[hellishjoel]

taste you

514 words // joel miller x f!reader

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word: book

warnings/information: smut!!! pussy pronouns!!! joel being a book boyfriend!!! oral f!receiving!!! fingering!!! dirty talk!!!

a/n: joel miller, you will always be famous. my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!

Joel slowly nudges your legs open with a gentle guide of his hand, his lusty eyes flicking between your sleep shorts and the flustered look on your face. 

“This how they do it in your books?”

Your mouth is watering. You’ve never felt more attracted to Joel, all broad with his chest puffed and looking to prove something.

He’s noted how enamored you’ve been with a particular book series. One book after the other, he swears he sees you clutching one with new cover art every night. But whenever he asks about it, you clam up. 

He thinks, it’s just a book, right?

But after leafing through the pages of your most recent obsession left on the nightstand, he’s intrigued. 

There’s a lot of fucking sex in here. A lot. 

No wonder you always wiggle around in bed when you read it. You’re turned on as hell. 

This book was clearly written for the female perspective, but thinking about doing these things with you was getting him a little riled up, too. 

Now, he’s here, quoting similar lines from your book while his mouth makes out with your cunt. His tongue works slow and precise movements up and down your seam, moaning at the taste of you as your fingers comb through his greying waves. 

You whimper his name as he gently suckles on your clit, his tongue and teeth flirting with your sensitive bundle of nerves while his thick fingers stretch your throbbing pussy. 

“Joel,” you pant breathlessly, digging your head into the pillow as your stomach only tightens with immense pleasure. 

“Know she likes this,” Joel mutters with a smirk against your folds, his lips lacquered in your arousal. “Know this pretty pussy likes bein’ taken care of. That’s all she needs, someone to take care of her.” He curls his fingers, the tips gently massaging that special spot only he can service.

“Oh— shit,” you gasp, your thighs beginning to shake as your impending orgasm sinks low in the base of your stomach. “Joel, fuck, your goddamn mouth,” you groan his name as he attaches his mouth to your pulsing clit, your thighs clamping against the sides of his head. 

Everything he spoke was pure filth. 

“She’s so damn pretty, baby. Wet just for me. You know how much this turns me on? You laid out on this bed, takin’ what I give you. Eatin’ this pussy so good, you can barely talk.” 

Joel’s taunts make you whine, your body writhing against his possessive hold as he reaches up your front, his fingers toying with your peaked nipples. It’s just enough to push you over the edge, every nerve in your body set alight simply by what your books have taught him. 

“Holy hell,” you pant as he licks his fingers clean, a smirk painted on his lips as he writes the letter J on your thigh in your sticky arousal. 

“You can have your book boyfriends, I don’t mind,” Joel mutters as he runs his fingers along his square jawline, “but you’re mine off the page. Okay, baby?” 

What do you say?

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[onyxstyx]

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

[ladyphlogiston]

Any human metric that can be easily measured is probably not worth measuring.

010. As soon as you see people as things to be measured, they don’t measure up. (submitted by bibliothekara)

[nostalgebraist]

I feel like I've had the same experience several times now: someone does a new translation of a non-English literary classic, and all the critics praise it to the moon, so I go and try to read it, and it's turns out it's just . . . bad? Like, really bad? And weirdly bad?

A while back, I wrote about the case of Pevear and Volokhonsky. Here's another example, which I encountered while doing background research for my novel Almost Nowhere.

----

One of my novel's major characters is a literary translator, famous for his rendition of the Persian epic poem Shahnameh ("Book of Kings").

To help me write this character, I tried to read the Shahnameh myself. I started out – where else? – with the translation that seemed to be the gold standard, and which was certainly the most critically lauded.

Namely, the 2006 translation by Dick Davis, in prose with occasional shifts into verse.

Here's how the Shahnameh begins, in Davis' translation:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty? No one has any knowledge of those first days, unless he has heard tales passed down from father to son. This is what those tales tell: The first man to be king, and to establish the ceremonies associated with the crown and throne, was Kayumars. When he became lord of the world, he lived first in the mountains, where he established his throne, and he and his people dressed in leopard skins. It was he who first taught men about the preparation of food and clothing, which were new in the world at that time. Seated on his throne, as splendid as the sun, he reigned for thirty years. He was like a tall cypress tree topped by the full moon, and the royal farr shone from him. All the animals of the world, wild and tame alike, reverently paid homage to him, bowing down before his throne, and their obedience increased his glory and good fortune.

And here is the same opening, in the 1905 translation by Arthur and Edmond Warner (which I only discovered much later in the process of writing Almost Nowhere):

What saith the rustic bard? Who first designed To gain the crown of power among mankind? Who placed the diadem upon his brow? The record of those days hath perished now Unless one, having borne in memory Tales told by sire to son, declare to thee Who was the first to use the royal style And stood the head of all the mighty file. He who compiled the ancient legendary, And tales of paladins, saith Gaiúmart Invented crown and throne, and was a Sháh. This order, Grace, and lustre came to earth When Sol was dominant in Aries And shone so brightly that the world grew young. Its lord was Gaiúmart, who dwelt at first Upon a mountain; thence his throne and fortune Rose. He and all his troop wore leopard-skins, And under him the arts of life began, For food and dress were in their infancy. He reigned o'er all the earth for thirty years, In goodness like a sun upon the throne, And as a full moon o'er a lofty cypress So shone he from the seat of king of kings. The cattle and the divers beasts of prey Grew tame before him; men stood not erect Before his throne but bent, as though in prayer, Awed by the splendour of his high estate, And thence received their Faith.

Now, I can't speak at all about the source text. I have no idea how faithful or unfaithful these two translations are, and in what ways, in which places.

Still, though. I mean like, come on.

This is an epic poem about ancient kings and larger-than-life heroes.

This is a national epic, half myth and half history, narrating the proud folkloric lineage claimed by a real-world empire.

There is a way that such things are supposed to sound, in English. And it sure as hell isn't this:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty?

Excuse me? That's your opening line? I thought I was reading a poem, here, not taking a fucking AP World Literature exam!

----

Postscript

Some of the critical praise for the Davis translation, quoted on the back cover of my copy (emphasis mine):

"A poet himself, Davis brings to his translation a nuanced awareness of Ferdowsi's subtle rhythms and cadences. His "Shahnameh" is rendered in an exquisite blend of poetry and prose, with none of the antiquated flourishes that so often mar translations of epic poetry." (Reza Aslan, The New York Times Book Review) "Thanks to Davis's magnificent translation, Ferdowsi and the Shahnameh live again in English.” (Michael Dirda, Washington Post) "A magnificent accomplishment . . . [Davis’s translation] is not only the fullest representation of Ferdowsi’s masterpiece in English but the best." (The New York Sun)

[zshiftsrealities]

LETTING GO

i've talked about this a little bit in one of my other posts, but I realized this was a very important topic — especially for people like me out here, who might've had a hard time with this concept, and so I wanted to expand on it and give my own two cents.

the concept of "letting go" has been taught to most — if not all — of us by life long ago before any of us even found shifting. if you don't like a situation, "let it go". do your best, and "leave the rest and don't fixate on it". if someone you love doesn't respect you, "let them go". anything that doesn't serve you, "let it go". this is the one advice that got many of us through different situations. but everytime I ever came across a post saying "let go of your desire and watch it come to you", this quote always came to mind.

honestly, I couldn't for the love of God even think of letting go of shifting. I simply didn't want to. it felt like a betrayal to all the people I wanted to shift for, to myself, to my dreams — everything. I would think to myself "how do I not care if i'll shift or not? how do I not care about all these people in my dr I want to meet? I want to care. I have people I love, people I want to see, so how can I not care?", and it would make me so upset because I would see people talking about how they let go of it and it came to them. it almost felt like it was wrong to love, to care, to cherish this opportunity, and to want to be excited for it. I didn't want to "let go" and wanted to keep on holding forever. but then, I realized what the problem was. it wasn't my loving too much, caring too much, or anyone else's "letting go" of their desire to shift. the problem was my idea of what "letting go" means.

in any "normal" situation, "letting go" would mean "not caring" or "not giving your energy out where it isn't respected or celebrated". but. and a big but. when it comes to shifting, "letting go" has a totally different meaning.

• "letting go" in terms of shifting

to me, when it comes to shifting, "letting go" isn't about having an attitude of "if I shift, I shift. if I don't, I don't". while this can help some people, it's fairly hard for others to follow, because some of us WANT to shift and not even think about the "don'ts". so what letting go meant to me was being content where I am, because I knew that sooner or later — I will have what I want, because it is mine, and to stop trying to "make it happen" and simply just let it happen. because i'm a staunch believer that anything that happens, only happens for my own good — always, and if I found shifting, it was for a reason.

now, one could argue that both are the same, and I cooked nothing (lol). and yes, they might be. but. and a big but again. the difference is you CAN care about the people you want to shift for. you can be chalant, you can be obsessed with your dr, your s/o, anything — everything, and still shift. the point is being content. and you, yourself, have to give yourself the closure that whatever you want will be yours. because the feeling of being content always comes from within. don't force it, and take time to give yourself this closure. and care, and be excited, and be assured. you can be all of these things at the same time.

and if you're afraid of it being "not meant for you", then my dear friend, if it wasn't meant for you, I promise you, and I swear to God, it would've never found you. not in this lifetime, not in a million others. never. not EVER, okay? so rest assured that it is a hundred and ten percent meant for you. so, you don't have to grip it so hard you leave claw marks on it. it's right next to you, and that's how it'll stay. and if it "wasn't meant for you and still found you", it would've gone by now. it wouldn't have stayed. so "let go". be at peace. your dr awaits you, and you're going to make it.

and that's all. once again, if you don't understand anything, and want me to clarify, feel free to reach out.

[prlssprfctn]

"Who Is Afraid of Little Old Me?" is so Jason Todd core, and you are READY for this conversation.

'The scandal was contained

The bullet had just grazed

At all costs, keep your good name

You don't get to tell me you feel bad'

You tell me it is not about that one time Batman had finally faced Red Hood, with Joker being between them - as a reminder and a choice - ended up throwing a batarang in his neck (while Jason barely hurt him) and never told anyone else about this?

Is it a wonder I broke? Let's hear one more joke

Then we could all just laugh until I cry

And you tell me this is not about Jason's death? About his last minutes with Joker, about how they forever imprinted in the core of his memory, to the point that sometimes he laughs at them instinctively, until the realization doesn't kick in?

So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street

Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream

"Who's afraid of little old me?"

I was tame, I was gentle till the circus life made me mean

"Don't you worry, folks, we took out all her teeth"

Who's afraid of little old me?

Well, you should be

Is it not Red Hood who is back again, trying to return to Manor to remind others what happened to him?

So tell me everything is not about me

But what if it is?

Then say they didn't do it to hurt me

But what if they did?

… I wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me

You wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me

Had Bruce and Dick ever wanted to hurt Jason, both in the past and in the present? No. Did it still happen? Is Jason still the one to live with these memories, unable to explain how it makes him feel? Yes.

So all you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebs

I'm always drunk on my own tears, isn't that what they all said?

That I'll sue you if you step on my lawn

That I'm fearsome and I'm wretched and I'm wrong

And if I say it is about Jason and all the kids that came after him that doesn't fully know who he is, but heard stories of Red Hood and violent Robin? They don't know a little boy who thought Robin gave him magic, the boy that died a hero — but they know Red Hood. And they heard of what a doomed, angry Robin he used to be.

And you hurt me

And you taught me

… You caged me and then you called me crazy

I am what I am 'cause you trained me

What is it if not Jason's POV towards Bruce? He is the crazy one now, a killer, a wrong one (not to mention these comics, where they actually threaten to send him to Arkham or Blackgate), but he is his father. His mentor. Still.

And some additional parts I want to add, because I think that they speak volumes too:

- "But my bare hands paved their paths, you don't get to tell me about sad"? I can't fully explain to you what I mean by putting this quote, but it is about Jason, crawling out from his grave (literally) and it is about everyone who stepped on the Robin path after. It is about his family making his death and grief about themselves at some point, leaving him nothing;

- "If you wanted me dead, you should've just said. Nothing makes me feel more alive" just one sentence — it is Jason about the batarang incident;

- A little detail, but I heard a lot of people complaining after the song's release that "Who is afraid of little old me?!" parts were at first loud, and they expected it to get to the full scream, but only ever got it becoming weaker, almost a whisper-like. And it is so Jason, too. Because he returns to scream, to yell, and he does at first. Until his anger washes out under disappointment and realization that he will never be chosen in a way he chooses people. And he doesn't scream anymore. Just whispers.

[modelsof-color]

I feel that I owe it to the people that sent sweet messages to me , showing their support and love and these people are the only ones I want to read it and more than that , to know that your kindness impacted me 💖

may the universe rewards you with inner peace, health and happiness

My dear Mother passed away on June 30th

I'm learning how to living again without the reason of my happiness

I will always miss her . I will always miss the woman I used to be when she was here in this planet.

I miss not having her here to feel proud of me, I hate that I can't see her being proud the person I'm right now after losing her

I miss her honest words telling me to do better , to be mature about my frustrations, I miss her voice telling me what I did wrong even if it used hurt my ego

I miss the woman who raised me despiste her own insecurities, flaws and fears , the woman who gave me the affection, not too much not too little, just enough .

enough to make me understand , now , that I am a butterfly, with my own colors , my freedom and with endless delicacy as final form

I miss the woman who told me I don’t need anyone to tell me how important I am, that if I know and believe it from the bottom of my heart, I will be able to remind myself about it everytime I go through a hard time

the woman who told me to NEVER blame anyone for not love me back because my self love is the only love I should be afraid of losing

I miss the woman who taught be it's okay to feel like the most vulnerable girl in the world for a little bit as a long as I stand up and keep fighting .

I will always love the woman with the most humanity ideas, artistic mind, and purest heart.

The personification of the quote " the meaning of life is to serve humanity "

My eternal gratitude goes to every single one of you , y'all through spontaneous and lovely messages show me that some people still care , I am back mostly because I need to feel this positive energy and empathy in my life again 💜

[genderkoolaid]

Can you explain a sentence from your bio? "To create loving males, you must love males"? I don't understand that sentence, because like does that work for all oppressive groups? "To create loving white people, we must love white people" or "to create loving straight people, we must love straight people". That doesn't make much sense to me, especially since women do this all the time. Women always make excuses for men's behavior, give them the benefit of the doubt, are empathetic and sensitive to men and make tons of posts on the internet about male positivity and yet men still commit 80-90% of violent crimes (from what I remember). And I'm not trying to argue or anything, it's a genuine question. How is being kind to men going to bring about the collective liberation of women from the patriarchy?

So this quote needs to be understood in the context of both the book it comes from (The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love) and bell hooks' philosophy of love in general. Here's the full paragraph it comes from:

“Only a revolution of values in our nation will end male violence, and that revolution will necessarily be based on a love ethic. To create loving men, we must love males. Loving maleness is different from praising and rewarding males for living up to sexist-defined notions of male identity. Caring about men because of what they do for us is not the same as loving males for simply being. When we love maleness, we extend our love whether males are performing or not. Performance is different from simply being. In patriarchal culture males are not allowed simply to be who they are and to glory in their unique identity. Their value is always determined by what they do. In an antipatriarchal culture males do not have to prove their value and worth. They know from birth that simply being gives them value, the right to be cherished and loved.”

People often see this quote or another one and assume a lot about bell hooks' point here, but The Will to Change includes her own experiences of abuse by men and her experiences with misogyny, alongside her observations about how men in her life experienced patriarchal abuse. She is not ignorant of the harms done to women when she says this.

My personal interpretation of her words is this:

The patriarchal expectations relating to how women are expected to "love" men is very different than what bell hooks means to love. Her concept of love requires self-love and self-care, and not being a doormat or adopting a "I can singlehandedly fix that incel by being nice to him!" mindset.

And, equally, how we are taught to "love" men is not good for men either. The patriarchy promises love to men in exchange for appropriate performance of dominance. It says that there are "real men" and "fake men" and only real men are deserving of love. It says that men must be constantly fighting each other, women, and queers in order to be deserving of love and escape punishment. bell hooks' argument is that we as feminists need to see inherent worth in men as people, and reject those patriarchal notions of what makes men worthy as well as the doomerist radfem impulse to label all men as evil and sever all connection forever. Men are people, and women are people, and we are all people in society together, and we always will be, so we need to be able to work together to create loving communities. Whether men are your friends, lovers, relatives, neighbors, patients, students, etc. you do live in a society with them!!! And we (intersectional / revolutionary feminism) cannot win without them. Not just as quiet allies on the side but as meaningful co-conspirators, fellow feminists with just as much a stake in the fight as any woman.

You can read this short chapter of one of her books where she explores love ethic in politics specifically relating to race.

[moralesluvr]

FABLE AND TRUTH 1 | billie eilish

୧ ‧₊˚ love was the law & religion was taught…. ↳ summary: you had always been raised on being poise, feminine, classy. but what was most important to your family was your religion— and it had embroidered itself into your daily life. but when it’s time to pick between feelings and faith, which will you choose? pairings & aus. billie eilish x fem!reader warnings. religious backgrounds & guilt | mature language | sexual content | substance use author's note. YAYYY ITS STARTINGG!! wc. 4.4k

✧ 9:06 am, monday ✧

the bells of harkness tower toll sharply, their deep, reverberating chimes slicing through the crisp autumn air. the sound is rich and weighted, echoing across yale’s storied campus, signaling the start of another day as people dispersed from their dorms and earlier classes, talking amongst themselves and hastily walking to their next destination. 

the mist of early morning clings to the aged stone of the university, a slight fog covering over you as you walk briskly across the cobblestone pathways, your leather satchel bouncing gently against your side. chanel pumps decorate your feet, a cartier bracelet accenting your freshly tanned skin. your sleek, blown-out hair was framed against your face, bouncing slightly with every step, and your pale pink cardigan stood out amid the sea of muted fall tones around you.

beside you was emma harper, your best friend— strolling at a leisurely pace, tugging her scarf tighter against the crisp autumn air that whacked against the both of you. where you were polished and deliberate, emma was bold and carefree, her wild auburn hair nearly as untamed as her personality . 

the two of you couldn't have been more different, yet your friendship had stood the test of time, from summers in france to your shared journey at yale.

"you're going to give yourself a stress migraine, y/n." emma teased at you, nudging your shoulder as you both approached your lecture hall, "professor weller isn't grading us on who takes the prettiest notes, or who sits at the front. why so worked up?”

you offered up a small laugh, though your grip on your notebook tightened. a sigh follows your short-lived giggle, "i just want to be prepared. philosophy of religion isn't exactly a casual topic. it's very intense."

"you've been prepared since the first day of class," emma grumbles, rolling her eyes. "honey, you're literally the only person i know who can quote augustine without looking it up. so relax a little."

relax. you had heard that word countless times, usually from emma. it wasn't that you didn't know how— it was just that there was always so much to do. papers to write, prayers to say, a faith to nurture. for you, discipline wasn't a burden; it was a way of life, a way of honoring the God who had guided you this far.

but as you entered the lecture hall and emma plopped into the seat adjacent to yours, you couldn't help but smile. emma was right in her own way— you could afford to let go sometimes. just... not too much. everything always had to be structured, neat, and in order. just how you liked it. 

professor weller's lecture was as engaging as ever, his voice commanding attention as he wove through topics of faith and reason, along with their uncomfortable contrasts and truths. you sat straight-backed, your pen flying across the page as you absorbed every word with neat, pretty handwriting, your pink pen gliding against your paper. emma, meanwhile, alternated between typing notes and sneaking glances at her phone, her impatience barely concealed as she locked her phone, slipping it into a pocket. 

midway through the lecture, emma leaned over, her voice low. "sooooo, sam's hosting a party tonight…”

you didn't look up, still writing away on your paper attentively, "and how does that concern me?"

"well, he wants to know if we're coming, duh.” 

you paused your writing just long enough to shoot emma a knowing look. you cock your head to the side, lips forced into a pout, "come on em, you know i don't do parties."

emma groaned softly, "right, of course. yale's resident saint doesn't do parties.” she throws her hands up in defense, “whatever. but just come with me, please? i promise, you’ll have fun!"

"it's not about being a saint," you whispered back, your tone firm, but always remaining kind. "i just don't see the point in spending a night doing... things i'd regret, like doing substances that make me forget i’m on planet earth. it’s never been my thing.” 

emma smirked, "not everyone regrets it, you know. some people do actually have fun. maybe you should learn how.” 

you smiled faintly, but said nothing. having fun wasn't the issue—it never had been.you did have fun— doing things that actually mattered, things that actually interested you. you could curl up with coffee and a good novel, or crochet a new sweater, there were multitudes of things that you did for fun. 

but in contrast, emma was the party girl. her type of fun was smoking a bit of weed and blasting music in her audi, or going home with various guys that she’d meet out at bars, or even in passing. she was bold, strong, carefree. but you adored structure, class— you didn’t put her down for doing what she does, she’s your best friend, afterall— but it just wasn’t your style. 

 it was about your values, about living a life that aligned with the principles that you had held dear for so long. you weren’t naïve; you knew what went on at those parties. drinking, hookups, conversations drowned out by loud music... and none of it appealed to you.

emma, to her credit, didn't push further. your friendship always worked out so well because you respected each other's boundaries, even when you didn't understand them.

you packed up your things as the sound of the bell’s ring filled your ears, sliding your bag into your shoulder as you waited for emma to stash her loose papers into her bag. you frowned, “your organization skills are..definitely something.” 

she just laughed it off, “works for me. i like living life on the edge.” 

after class, the two of you made your way across campus, the golden autumn leaves crunching beneath emma's boots and your new, all-black pumps. yale's gothic architecture loomed around you as you treaded against the grass, looking at all the buildings that were majestic and timeless, a reminder of the legacy that you were part of.

"there they are!" emma hollers, spotting your friend group near the library steps.

oliver, ever the charmer, was lounging against the stone railing, his tailored coat giving him an air of effortless sophistication. he flipped a hand through his brown hair as he looked up, his eye landing on you and emma as she shot you both a warm smile. you spotted naomi first though, her bright purple hair almost impossible to miss— and she waved a ring-accented hand at you, a cigarette shoved between her index and middle finger. jules was seated right next to naomi, her black hair sleek and flowing down her back, complimenting her starry eyeshadow and long, red nails as she twiddled her fingers at you in greeting.

"y/n! emma!" oliver called, his grin broad and welcoming as he waved you and emma over, his lanky frame extending, ready to greet you with hugs like he always did. 

emma sauntered over, her confidence nearly as natural as breathing. you followed her lead, offering polite smiles as you joined the group, taking a seat next to naomi. she pulls you into a tight embrace, planting a little kiss on your cheek, “y/n! hi my love! missed you so much!”

she smelled of cigarette smoke and versace perfume, and the mixture was always oddly comforting to you. you giggle at her over-the-top affection, though you always loved it. naomi was the sweet one of the group, always offering the shirt off of her back if she really needed to. she was beautiful— inside and out, her whimsical fashion sense complimenting how pure and sweet her soul was.

"so," jules started, exhaling a plume of smoke from her half-dead cigarette, "sam's party tonight. we going?"

"i'm in," oliver said immediately, adjusting his coat with a shrug that oozed nonchalance, “need to get out a bit, yeah?”

"same here.” naomi added, flicking ash from her cigarette as her eyes found yours, and then all eyes simultaneously turned to you. you sat slightly apart from the rest of them, your pink cardigan and neatly pressed skirt a stark contrast to the haze of thick cigarette smoke and leather jackets. you smiled gently, your hands clasped in front of your frame.

you let off a shrug, a little sick and tired of having to repeat these same words over and over again, "you know i don't do parties.” you shrug gently, your voice soft but resolute.

"come on, little saint," emma teased, crossing her arms at your protest, "just one night. we’re your best friends, we promise that nothing will happen to you— we won’t let it.” emma’s statement earns approving nods from the rest of the group, sharing looks with one another in hopes that their eagerness was convincing to you.

it wasn’t. 

you laughed lightly, shaking your head, "just isn’t my thing, you all know this—“ you gesture to everyone, “i really just don’t feel up to it."

oliver shrugs, while naomi and jules nod quietly. they weren’t going to push you, so they just carry on with their conversation, chatting about classes, teachers, and everything that surrounded it.

as the conversation flipped to other topics, you found yourself falling quiet, content with listening in as the others bantered. you loved your friends, truly you did— but moments like this reminded you  of just how different you were from them. it wasn't a bad thing, necessarily; it was just... isolating, sometimes.

faith had always been your anchor, the thing that kept you steady in a world that often felt so chaotic. but every now and then, you wondered if it also kept you apart, if your refusal to compromise made yourself unknowable in ways even your closest friends couldn't understand.

you eventually pushed the thought away as emma started telling a story about some disastrous group project in her third class, her animated gestures pulling laughter out of everyone. 

comparison was the thief of joy— you knew this, but you sometimes wished that you could be more like emma. carefree yet compassionate, smart but knowing when to let loose. sometimes, you felt like you could be a little too uptight, and jealously oozed from your pores at you watched your best friend take a drag from a cigarette, laughing and carrying on with wide, sparkling green eyes. 

but you refused to get sucked up in comparisons, so you smile, warmth blooming in your chest as everyone stood up, walking to the main hall for a passing period.

you thought long and hard about the idea of going to a party with everyone— it seemed stupid in your humble opinion, but you missed hanging out with your friends— so you offered up, “okay, i have a proposal. what if i go to this stupid party, but only to drive? i’ll make sure none of you get too drunk and wind up someplace you aren’t supposed to be.” 

that makes everyone cheer, and naomi flips her long, shiny black hair to the side, “yes! yes!” she wraps you in an embrace that’s so tight you can hardly breathe, “— you’re the best! love you!” 

you offered a nervous smile towards the group as you filed into a starbucks, waiting in line as your friends carried on about what everyone was wearing, what drinks they hoped were there— and that’s when you tuned out. you were pumped to attend this party, but also scared, and as the day went on, the burden of going to this function was the only thing on your mind.

✧ 7:45 pm ✧

you sat cross-legged on your bed in your shared dorm room, your closet doors open as you stared at the carefully organized clothes inside. the room smelled faintly of lavender and pine, a subtle touch from the air freshener you’d tucked beside your desk— it always seemed to calm you down. your eyes scanned the rack, hoping something could catch your eye, but nothing particularly stood out.

emma had insisted that you join in on their festivities until you finally caved and said yes. you had reluctantly agreed, though you couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that you didn't belong in that atmosphere. but now you felt like you needed to go— you had to, the feeling of missing out making you a little afraid. 

finally, you settled on a dark blue polo sweater that clung to your figure just enough to be flattering, but was still modest. you paired it with some well-fitted jeans and, of course, your signature black heels—Chanel, naturally. it was a bit more casual than what most people would wear to a party, but it was your style, so you didn’t really mind. 

just as you were smoothing out the sweater's collar, emma barged into the room, her wild hair a stark contrast to your usual, soft blow out. emma's eyes immediately landed on your outfit as she raised her eyebrows.

"you're really gonna go with the ‘first day of prep school’ look, huh?" emma teased, tossing her purse onto your bed before digging through her own closet for something more daring.

"what's wrong with my outfit?” you asked, glancing at yourself in the mirror, twisting on your heel and flattening out a small wrinkle in your jeans.

"oh, nothing," emma grinned mischievously, shrugging, "it's just so... you. not a bad thing, just— this is a party that you're going to, did you forget?” 

you chuckled softly, fixing your hair in the mirror now, "i know, but i think it suits me, em. is that so bad?"

emma snorted. "right, of course. just—" she stopped mid-sentence, tossing her hands up in frustration. "you look so cute, but it's a party! where's the wild side, y/n?"

"i'm here to drive you guys," you said simply, a smile tugging at your llips. "that's all. i'm not here for anything else."

emma raised an eyebrow, pulling a dark velvet mini skirt off the rack. "yeah, yeah, i know. but you need to have fun, too. you're way too uptight sometimes."

"i'm not uptight, em!” you protested, though the smile on your face betrayed you.

"uh-huh, sure. just wait until i drag you out onto the dance floor!” emma winked, throwing a bold crop top onto the surface of your bed, “and you’d look so fucking good in this, why don’t you put this on?”

you snorted lightly. "yeah, good luck with that."

by the time everyone in the group was ready, the night was creeping in, the campus already buzzing with excitement. you could feel a quiet sense of discomfort stirring within yourself —parties weren't your scene at all, and you weren’t sure what to expect. but the drive to the party felt like the safest option, so you settled on that.

after a few minutes of emma touching up her makeup and slipping a pair of louboutins on, everyone met up in the parking lot, and you felt a little out of place. jules was clad in a black, tight mini dress with slick silver heels, her hair in a effortless but beautiful bun as she pulled out her digital camera to take pictures. naomi had settled on a purple halter top and a black skirt, complimentary to oliver’s lavender top and leather pants. 

jules gave you a raised eyebrow, “you sure you don’t wanna change out of that?” 

you gave out a sigh, a little irritated with how many times someone had suggested to change out of your outfit. it was comfortable, and that’s all you really cared about— so you just nodded yes, grabbing your keys and heading to your car while everyone finished up their photos.

emma and the others climbed into your car, the sound of music and laughter filling the air as you made your way over to the address. the streets were lined with people, most of them laughing or stumbling their way into various houses or apartments. as you neared the destination, you felt your heartbeat quicken.

although you didn’t want to admit it, you were a little nervous. you had never stepped foot into a house party, and it felt so off that you’d literally be in a random stranger’s home with a bunch of other people you didn’t know, and you were supposed to dance and get drunk in these conditions? absolutely not. 

the party was already in full swing by the time that you and your friends arrived. music blared from the speakers, a mix of bass-heavy tracks and indie-pop anthems that were so foreign to you. you killed the engine and parked the car, trying to steady your breathing as everyone filed out.

"you're gonna be fine," emma said, slinging her arm around your shoulder as you approached the door, "trust me, it's just a party."

"well, i've never been good at these," you admitted, your voice seldom quiet, "i've never even been to one."

emma grinned, tugging you inside. "well, now you have the opportunity to be good at them. so let’s go!”

you sighed as the group filed into the house, which was chaotic, with people everywhere— laughing, drinking, shouting over the music, and making out in random corners. you felt immediately out of place, standing still for a moment to take it all in. you followed emma as she navigated through the crowd, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, while the others spread out, eager to catch up with their friends.

you didn't expect to enjoy herself, but a part of you longed to feel connected—to lose the anxiety that seemed to constantly gnaw at you. but it just wasn’t something that you were all that familiar with. you tried to hold onto emma as long as you could, but she eventually found some cute guy to buy her a drink and have a quick dance, so you ventured off, attempting to find some refuge in a corner that you could hide out in. 

as you walked, you heard something in the distance, smooth and beautiful.

a voice.

it was soft, haunting, yet full of raw emotion, it stood out amid the chaos of the house. the crowd around you seemed oblivious to it, caught up in their own worlds. but you, however, stood frozen for a moment, the familiar pang of curiosity tugging at you.

it was an acoustic set, just a voice and a guitar— but it was captivating. the melody drifted over the noise of the party, lulling you into some kind of trance. you had never heard the song before, so you pulled out your phone and quickly opened Shazam, holding it up to the sound.

as the app processed, the result popped up on your screen: billie eilish.

your heart skipped. you knew the name. of course you did. billie eilish was a sensation. a moment— everyone knew her name.

you lingered in the background, mesmerized by the performance. billie's voice was even more incredible live, filled with emotion, effortless and raw. you didn't notice how long you had been standing there, listening to the music, and you really only noticed because your feet were slightly sore from the heels. you started to walk away to find your friends until you felt someone brush past you— someone who was too close, and way too fast.

clink.

before you could move, you felt a cold splash across your chest.

"shit, i am so sorry!"

you looked down at your sweater, now stained with the dark liquid from some foreign drink, and your heart sank. it was easily your favorite sweater, and it was all ruined now. but when you looked up, you were met the apologetic gaze of a girl with striking, pitch black hair and vivid blue eyes. it was billie eilish.

"oh my gosh," you spoke softly, though you couldn't help the tiny flare of irritation, “no, i-it’s okay…but….you're…”

“billie eilish?” she asked, and you nodded in response, almost too shocked to really say anything else.

she was beautiful, way more beautiful now that she was standing right in front of your face, literally. her eyes were a piercing blue, oceany and warm, and every single one of her features were so unique, so prominent, and you felt your breath hitch.

billie's expression shifted as you stayed quiet, her lips curling into an apologetic smile, "i didn't mean to bump into you, love, i'm really sorry. let me fix this."

you shook your head, trying to laugh it off, "oh, no need, it's fine. it's just a silly sweater, i can always wash it out."

"no, no, it was shitty of me to not look where i was going, so i'll make it up to you," billie said quickly, like she was in some type of rush. "i'll buy you a drink. how about that?"

you stood frozen for a moment, wondering whether or not it was even worth the hassle to make billie buy a drink for you, or even tell her that you don’t drink at all. but she was persistent, and you knew that no matter how much you protested, she was going to somehow offer up a repercussion for her actions. 

"uh, i don't really..." you drafted, your voice still soft, unsure if you wanted to ruin this moment, by saying alcohol wasn't really your thing, so you just shrugged. "okay, yeah, sure."

billie left you with a wink as she turned around. "cool. i'll be right back."

billie disappeared into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of the chaos with the awful remnants of your ruined sweater, but somehow feeling a little more at ease than before. the music blared, people shouting and laughing over the pounding beats, but you couldn't help but feel something strange settle in you chest. billie was sweet, and thoughtful, and really the only person at the party who made you feel like you could just chill out.

a few minutes later, billie weaved through the crowd again, holding a glass in one hand and cutting through people like she owned the place. she didn’t really say excuse me, because people already knew to move. the crowd filed onto separate sides of the room as she walked through with a smile, her eyes finding yours as she met up with you again. 

you looked reluctant to take the cup in her hand, so billie shook her head, "no no, it isn't alcoholic, don't worry." she smiled, handing you the drink, "i figured you'd be more comfortable with this. i can tell you don't really drink— so it's just grape juice." 

you felt your lips curve upward, the kindness behind billie's words making something warm stir within you. you smiled, "thanks." 

you sipped at the drink quietly, the cider sweet and refreshing, and you couldn't help but appreciate the thought behind it. billie hadn't tried to push anything else onto you, which made the whole thing feel a little less like a game, and you felt yourself soften up a bit. 

billie swigged from her own red solo cup, the liquid inside clearly something much stronger, judging by the way she made a tight face when she drank from it. she let out a small cough, holding the empty cup in between her thumb and index finger, slumping against the wall, relaxed.

"yeah, no worries," billie spoke gently, "i know how people are with the whole 'let's get wasted' thing. i can tell that just isn’t your thing, yeah?”

you smiled at the words, but you still felt that familiar unease of discomfort just talking about it, "yeah, i just... i don't really get the appeal.”

"me neither," billie said bluntly, shrugging, “it's just a way for people to forget their shit for a minute. which i guess is fine sometimes, but it's not really my thing. i like to face everything, even the hard shit."

your brows furrowed slightly, cocking your head to the side, "but aren't you drinking...right now? excuse me for asking, i’m sorry.”

billie gave you a sharp look, her iridescent eyes glinting in the dim light. she waved a hand at you, "nah, i get it, don’t apologize. i only drink sometimes, simply when i feel like it. but i can’t get with people pretending everything’s all fine and dandy when they’ve got a little alcohol in their system. i don’t like that.”

your chest tightened a little, your mind racing with how easy it was for billie to speak so openly, so unapologetically. it made you feel a little small, like all the structure you’d built around yourself was just a facade. billie didn't give two fucks, and that somehow made you want to be like that, even if it was just for a moment.

"i get it," you said quietly, your voice calmer now, "i mean, i don't know if i'm that brave. but... i get it."

before billie could respond back, the crowd shifted, and your attention was pulled across the room. emma was waving at you, impatience and irritation written all over her face. you glanced at billie one last time, feeling a flicker of regret at the thought of leaving the conversation behind.

"hey, i should probably go," you said, finishing off the last of your juice, "my best friend’s calling me."

billie nodded with a lazy grin, leaning back against the wall, "i understand. but next time, don't bail so quick, yeah?" i'll be here when you wanna party a little bit."

your smile lingered as you turned to leave, pulling your purse closer to your chest, "well, then i don't think you'll ever see me again." 

you gave billie a wave goodbye as you walked toward emma, and you felt your heart literally beating out of your chest as you tried to place this weird feeling you got from billie. you were intrigued by her, wanting to know more about her opinions, how she felt about any and everything. about– 

"dude, are you coming or what?" emma's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. she was standing by the door now, arms crossed, a look of annoyance on her face. "i can’t believe what just happened to me, so please, let’s go before i get in a fight."

you laughed softly, shaking your head. "okay, i'm coming."

with one last glance at billie—who was already disappearing into the crowd again— you turned and walked toward emma, your mind racing with questions you didn't really have the answers to. you couldn't put billie out of her head. and somehow, you had a feeling it wasn't the last time you’d be seeing her tonight.

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[blackbird5154]

𖤐 Encyclopedia of Terzo 𖤐

I've been thinking a lot about how the personality of Papa III was created. Tobias set the basic framework, the archetype, the cliché from which he drew. But the real implementation of Papa was on stage, where his image developed through improvisation. Some things were conceived on purpose, some were invented on the spot, some came out unplanned, due to circumstances. Papa turned out to be as lively and unpredictable as life itself. In many senses, he lived on stage.

Thanks to the research of concerned fans, there is quite a lot of material. It occurred to me to collect them in one post for those who want to get acquainted with the canonical image of Terzo. This catalogue uses materials from two users, Cityofmeliora's and myself. You can use them for fanfiction or just for your own amusement. So, allow me to introduce Papa Emeritus III!

Cityofmeliora: Transcriptions and facts

Radley @cityofmeliora has an academic degree in Terzo Studies. He did a great job watching probably 100% of the Terzo videos and bringing us some interesting insights about his personality from the Terzo mines.

▸ notes / thoughts on Terzo's characterization (Terzo is so disappointed and depressed and i love him)

▸ Terzo's mom was mentioned twice

▸ quotes on Secondo and Terzo's age gap / the Emeritus brothers having different mothers

▸ TF on the archetype of Papa

▸ about Terzo's height...

▸ Terzo's sweet tooth 🍰🍫

▸ Secondo lied about being able to speak Swedish, and Terzo lied about *not* being able to speak Swedish

▸ according to the Nameless Ghouls, Terzo is better than Secondo because he has hair and is "less smelly" 😂😂

▸ TF breaks character a little too much and accidentally makes it canon that Terzo has a child 💀👶

▸ Who is Mysterious Spectre?

▸ transcript: Terzo's first concert - Linköping, Sweden (June 3, 2015)

▸ transcript: Sweden Rock Festival (June 4, 2015)

▸ Terzo lying about his knowledge of Swedish AGAIN!

▸ Terzo talking about his mom <3

▸ Papa Nihil taught his sons to sing

▸ Terzo hates it when people are bad at clapping 👏👏👏

▸ Terzo knows he's always yapping <3

▸ Terzo is hard of hearing 🦻

▸ Terzo did WHAT in Poland? 😳

▸ Terzo totally not bragging about his Grammy 🙄

▸ Terzo + children 🥰

▸ Terzo had eye infections???

▸ "And it is very important that you respect the fact that there are kids and there are"

▸ Terzo thinks 'Cirice' is a sad song

▸ Terzo getting angry

▸ Terzo's fucked up sore throat voice 🤒

▸ Terzo mentioning Secondo 😎

▸ Terzo mentions his parents 🧑‍🤝‍🧑

▸ Terzo + family 👪

▸ Terzo + being old 👴

▸ Terzo saying quesadillas are his favorite food 🧀

▸ Terzo is NOT a fluent / native Italian speaker 🤭🇮🇹

▸ Terzo + musical instruments 🎹🎸🥁🎺

▸ Terzo hates it when people pronounce "Meliora" incorrectly ☝️🤓

▸ What does terzology know about the overthrow of Papa III?

▸ sad, sad Terzo + 'If You Have Ghosts' 🌙

🆕 Terzo is "an isolated kind of guy"

🆕 Terzo's clothes are too big for him 👖

🆕 Terzo talks about Ghost visiting Philadelphia the same week as pope francis ✝️

🆕 Terzo + poor balance + falling ⚠️

Blackbird: Observations and analysis

My modest contribution to terzology was an attempt to summarise observations and look inside the head of the mysterious Papa III.

▸ Part 1: Terzo's responsible attitude to work

▸ Part 2: The jokes about height

▸ Part 3: The relationship between Terzo and Secondo

▸ Part 4: The ideas behind the birds and the bees speech

▸ Part 5: Terzo's other beliefs that he broadcast

▸ Part 6: Terzo and his loneliness

▸ Part 7: Terzo is referring to Cartesian philosophy?

🆕 Part 8: Papa lll's special kung fu

[wildeoscars]

Excerpts from 20 Questions: Eric Bogosian

Playboy, July 1991

The raging monologist who gave us “talk radio” raps about street life, horny guys and the redemptive joys of gardening.

Playboy: Your characters plead, cajole, threaten, offer skewed insights, and exhibit paranoia. Is your stage act a cry for help?

Bogosian: I need to solve my own personal problems. I know nowhere to look other than to myself, so I look at my own questionable traits. And then I personify them in a character. Early in my career, I spent a lot of time on things that had to do with sex, because I wanted to have better relationships with women. FunHouse was about pure, unadulterated fear, because at that point, I was just freaked out. My wife, Joann, and I were impoverished; we lived in this tiny apartment. Drinking in America, written when I became more successful, was about a hunger for power and success. Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll asks, How do you live when all you know how to do is party?

Playboy: You honed your performance style in New York’s downtown art scene. Was it easier and cheaper than enrolling in drama school?

Bogosian: The downtown scene allowed me to walk out on stage every night and say and do whatever I wanted. I would go out and insult the shit out of the audience. There were nights when I took all my clothes off. I had fights with the audience. The best thing about the scene was that we were making our work and having a good time entertaining one another. I would perform in front of audiences that were guaranteed smart and hip. They didn’t care whether or not I was doing something right, like some acting teacher had taught me. They would tell me whether or not they got it. I was performing loud, nasty, insulting stuff.

Playboy: Does The Stud, your monolog about one man’s extraordinary endowment, reflect your own desire for a larger penis?

Bogosian: I was taking a pee one day and I looked down and wished I had an eight-inch dick. You’re going to quote me on that. Don’t quote me on that. It’s part of men’s fascination with themselves. I wanted to take something out of the back room of male mentality and stick it right out in front of everybody. The Stud is one of my oldest pieces. Doing things about giant dicks is not that far out at the moment. There are probably twenty comics out there doing dick things. But when I started ten years ago, it was extremely embarrassing for men in the audience; they’d sit there with their hands folded over their crotches, not laughing, and the women would be laughing their guts out and the men would be getting angry. I thought it was great stuff going on between people in the theater.

Playboy: Horny guys populate your monologs. Do you claim special knowledge of America’s testosterone level?

Bogosian: I’m very average in what I want. And my desires point me towards centerfold models as the ultimate, the ultimate, the ultimate. The ultimate accomplishment in my sexual life would be to ball a centerfold model. For a pretty girl with large breasts to be the object of delight to millions of red-blooded American men is perfectly normal. Nothing wrong with that. Guys get horny and need to focus on something. Large breasts are great. A large breast is a lovely thing at a particular moment. But as I become old and wise, I think the really important thing is being oriented towards something and understanding that you don’t necessarily have to have the thing to enjoy the thing. I happen to be in love with a woman who has medium-sized breasts.

Playboy: You are synonymous with the downtown New York scene. Do you dream crossover dreams?

Bogosian: At this time, I don’t think I’m going to show up as some kind of box office attraction. But you never know. I’d like to be a star. There’s always the challenge, especially when you’re surrounded by agents and producers, to see if you can really catch the gold ring. Can I fill Madison Square Garden? Can I go on Johnny and do a killer five minutes? I can’t imagine getting on Letterman, people would watch and say they knew what I was doing: This guy plays thugs from New Jersey and subway panhandlers. They wouldn’t see the irony; it would be like I’m just making cruel fun on these guys. I need an audience to be with me for a little while.

Playboy: You’ve bought a house in New Jersey. Will crab grass begin to crop up in your monologs?

Bogosian: It has already. I did a monolog called Normal Guy. I like gardening a lot. Gardening gets me real mellow. I grow twenty-five kinds of vegetables, and when I’m lucky, like last summer, a lot of things come up very nicely. I grow lettuce and beets and carrots and different varieties of cucumbers. I grow different varieties of corn and tomatoes and squash and pumpkins and peppers and okra and all kinds of neat stuff. And early in August, you get to a point where everything you’re eating that night at dinner was grown in your own garden. That’s nice. However, when you garden, you find out that in order to get your vegetables to look good, you have to kill everything within a hundred yards: animals, plants, and little insects. And you realize that after you do all that, you still end up with this gnarled little carrot. Then you go to the supermarket and you get this perfect carrot and you wonder, What are they killing to make these?

Playboy: One of your characters defines being civilized as sitting on a couch with a babe, watching TV, eating clam dip on a ripple potato chip, smoking joints, snorting coke–and swilling bourbon, beer and champagne. What’s your vision of the civilized life?

Bogosian: In New Jersey, we have a fireplace and we’re very, very civilized. I’m sitting on the couch and the fire is going and snow is falling outside and I’m reading a pulp novel by Stephen King. Being over thirty-five, there’s no question that there is a vibe in me that’s moving toward a Stratolounger with a bowl of potato chips and a cable TV with a channel selector. I will fight that tooth and nail. It scares me. I like middle-class life. I don’t think it’s a sin to be middle class. I don’t have to be mainstream to be comfortable. I’ve spent time with Frank Zappa, and he has a very normal, middle-class existence. He’s a daddy and has a whole family and they have pizza for lunch and they have pets and it’s a very normal life. But he’s not mainstream and never will be.

[nemesis-writer]

[Unwanted Ransom (Prologue)]

Who Needs a castle? Masterlist [Prologue(Who needs a castle?)] [Chapter 1(What was I made for?)]

🎶 Ransom- Lil Tecca 🎶

My mother is Regina Dianne Amala and she was known to be a whore for the rich. She had beeen partying and drinking with politicians and governors. That stopped when she had met the famous Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne, my so-called father, gave my mother the "time of her life." And in nine months she had me...

Not something you would call a normal childhood, but I was at least happy with the life my mother gave me. She would buy me second-hand toys and watched cartoons with me on our ramshackled tv.

"No gem could be the sparkle of your eyes little one." I remember her saying those exact words to me when I look at her eyes. She would always call me beasty, little one, or little wolf. I remember giggling at the names because of how funny it sounds. I have inherited all of my mother's wonderful attributes, but I had always hold the darkness of my father's heart.

She would lie to me everyday saying "daddy is busy working" or stuff like that, but I never cared. She gave me the love my father wouldn't, he refused to gratify that small request.

If my mother taught me one thing, it was to never lose my honor and to work hard. I learned how to read when I was four and ever since, I would quote lines that I excerpted from the books to my mother.

Who needed a castle?

Every night I would always ask that to myself, I knew that me and my momma wasn't rich but, she tried to be there for me. She had to work three jobs and take several night shifts, just to feed me. Not once I have complained about our situation. But I always prayed for a miracle, that me and my momma would be rich.

When I was 6 I witnessed my mother's murder, she was killed by a brigand on ourway to the bus stop. No tears could come out, no screams could escape the stricture of my throat.

I couldn't hear, I couldn't breath, I couldn't move...

She looked at me in the eyes through his ski mask and said, "She had it coming." I started to lose conciousness, my eyes were drowning with tears, my heart pound in my ears.

Then everything stopped.

When I woke up I was in a police station, my ears were still ringing, and my head was still pounding from the event. I looked up and I saw a man wearing a police uniform.

"Hey kid, my name is Commisioner Gordon, what's yours?" The kind man asked me.

"Xerxes Dianne Amala." I whispered

"Well then Xerxes, you are going to meet your father." He said.

I slowly got up from my seat, and looked at his brown eyes expectantly.

"Can I pick you up." He asked softly.

"No, I- I can walk." I replied. I grabbed his hand and he walked me to the man, that is my "father." I saw a man in an expensive three peice black Armani suit. He looked down at me, but no signs of love showed. He embodied a blank but openly disappointed expression towards me, like I was some kind of criminal.

"This should do." He muttered loud enough for only me to hear.

"Come on." He commanded, compelling me to get in the car. I didn't argue, I couldn't, so I just climbed in the backseat and never dared to look into his eyes. His chauffeur then drove me to the place he called, "home."

[rightwheretheyleftme]

How the ‘Avatar Legends’ retcon fails Kya

Let me show you 2 moments from TLOK:

season 2, episode 9

season 2, episode 13

Both of those moments deliver the same joke: Kya doesn’t know how to meditate and when she attempts it, she ends up clumsily messing it up. In the first instance, it’s even a visual joke: Check how Jinora and Meelo, 2 characters who know how to meditate, have one stick of incense placed in front of them while Kya is awkwardly holding 2 sticks.

These jokes take on a deeper meaning when you read how the showrunners first conceived the character of Kya:

The Legend of Korra show bible

They envisioned Kya as someone who didn’t know her father very well- therefore, she doesn’t really know his culture or how to practice it.

Then in 2022, we got this retcon:

[…] she did internalize some of his [Aang’s] lessons about philosophy, meditation, and balance, holding them close to her heart for her whole life. Now, as the Air Nation's growth strains its leadership's time and energy, Kya has stepped up to help teach those same lessons her father taught her, both at Air Temple Island and out of her Dragon Flats-based clinic.

If you have encountered any K*taang account in the wild, you know that this semi-canon paragraph has been wildly celebrated. Now, out of nowhere, Kya knows meditation so well that she can teach classes about it! Hooray!

Bryke, stop bullshitting us. You established twice over that Kya doesn’t know how to meditate, you can’t erase what you portrayed in your show and try to convince us that she was a meditation expert all along. It’s clear that the showrunners don’t care about the Kya as a character, they see her as a tool to clear the mistake that they made when they wrote TLOK!Aang as a neglectful father.

Anyways, here is the full information that we get about Kya in Avatar Legends and I’d like to remark my favorite quotes:

“When disaster strikes, she can quickly switch between healing the injured and taking on attackers without missing a beat.”

“She does have some lingering pain, though, from her father favoring Tenzin, the Airbender, over his other children.”

“When she's in the city, the waterbending master Kya runs a free clinic out of a converted tenement in the middle of Dragon Flats. The clinic provides physical and mental healthcare, preventative to emergency, to a neighborhood that most needs it and can least afford it.” (emphasis mine)

“Katara broke boundaries as the first woman known to modern history to receive formal training as a master of both waterbending combat and waterbending medicine. Her daughter Kya was part of the first generation of young Waterbenders to learn both disciplines side by side.”

“Kya grew up frustrated that the world saw her as just a Waterbender, and not another child of Air Nomad heritage. Yes, she is an expert Waterbender, and she gladly accepted the traditions and culture of her mother... but she has always felt an affinity with Air Nomad culture. Her father taught Tenzin about Air Nomad culture far more than he taught either her or her brother Bumi […]” (empashis mine)

I love Kya so much. I wish the writers did as well.