#this is going in circles but yeah. Pen is so fucking cool y'all.

[dootznbootz]

This is so important to me, like sincerely. And I know that's gonna sound wild coming from me especially with how I write MY Pen.

Because Penelope shouldn't have to be seen as a violent "Fighter girl" in order for her story to be important to people. Women should not have to be a warrior in order to be respected.

Because like, while yes, she has her violent thoughts and prayers towards the suitors from the Odyssey and such, that doesn't mean she actually will do that as it goes against the laws of Xenia AND even if she could manage to take down 108 men singlehandedly, she'd still have to deal with their families being like "um, where's our son??"

Also, the Odyssey takes place in the Mycenaean Era and women definitely did not learn to fight then. And folks definitely shouldn't be viewing like, "Spartan women" as more "badass" and/or more important than women from other regions and/or do not wish to fight.

In all honesty, like, it's so impressive that she was able to hold the suitors off for three years with her weaving shroud, and who knows if she could have pulled it off longer if Melantho hadn't spilled the beans.

Sorry to prattle on in your post OP <3 It's just that you're right and this is important to me. I'm noticing this pattern of "She's from Sparta! Therefore that means that she is a warrior!" when that's.... not necessarily the case. And even though I do have my Penelope be a lil buff gal, that's not based on that she's Spartan, that's based on some small parts of the text and mostly my own self-indulgent joyous whimsy :3

Can we get something straight here about Penelope and this whole “Spartan” thing?

Sure, we all know Penelope was from Sparta (well, technically), and we’ve all seen enough 300-inspired pop culture nonsense to think that every Spartan woman must be some spear-wielding, leather-clad, muscle-bound badass. So let’s clear that up once and for all: Penelope was absolutely not that type of Spartan. In fact, that vision of Spartan women is more of a modern fantasy than an actual reflection of Spartan society, and Penelope herself would probably laugh in your face if you tried to pin her down to that archetype.

First off, let’s talk about what it actually meant to be Spartan. Yes, Spartan women had a reputation for being strong, but we need to understand that strength wasn’t defined by throwing a spear or taking down enemies with a shield. Spartan women were celebrated for their physical health and were tasked with producing strong offspring to build the next generation of warriors. They were also responsible for the running of the household when their husbands were off fighting in wars, which meant managing estates, controlling property, and overseeing the everyday operations of Spartan life. So, while Spartan women were not helpless, they weren’t exactly wandering around with weapons, challenging every person who crossed them, either. Penelope’s version of Spartan strength was a little more intellectual, shall we say. For twenty years, while Odysseus was “getting lost” (as one does), Penelope faced down a horde of suitors who were camped out in her house, constantly pressuring her to choose a new husband. Did she pull out a spear and kill them all? No. That’s not what spartan women did. Did she start a war? Absolutely not. Instead, she employed the ultimate weapon: patience. She weaved and un-wove a shroud for years as a stalling tactic, keeping the suitors at bay. Sure, there’s no sword involved, but let’s be real: that takes more cunning than any weapon ever could. Spartan women are not known for fighting, but for surviving.

Penelope’s Spartan roots may have given her the ability to endure, to manage her household, and to outsmart the suitors who had overrun Ithaca, but we’re missing the point if we think that means she was out there battling it out like a heroine from some action flick. Her version of strength was mental, not physical. Instead of wielding a spear, Penelope wielded her intellect, her wit, and her ability to play the long game. If you’re expecting Penelope to start slaying suitors left and right, or charging into battle with a sword in hand, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.

Pop culture would love to turn Penelope into a spear-wielding warrior queen, but the actual historical context is far more subtle and far more impressive. She was Spartan in the most meaningful sense of the word: resilient, strategic, and damn clever. Penelope did not need muscles at all. She had the power of endurance — something a spear can’t give you.

[writethehousedown]

Lights (Scyvie) - phryne

A/N: Hey y'all! Here’s another little snipped of Girlfriends Without Benefits for day 17. Enjoy!

Scarlet lowered her magazine. “Yvie, please be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yvie mocked, standing on a rolling desk chair, which was apparently, as Yvie assured Scarlet, in locked position, trying to fix the twitching lights on their Christmas tree. For some reason, Yvie was sure the offending bulb, the bulb that was trying to ruin Scarlet’s immaculately decorated tree, was toward the top.

“Alright.” Scarlet went back to flipping through the magazine, landing on a french toast recipe, which seemed doable for their skill level. “Yves, what if we try this tonight for dinner?” She held out the magazine, running her finger over the glossy plate of french toast with fresh cream and raspberries.

“Yeah, sure,” Yvie agreed before turning to look.

As she twisted to look at the magazine, the chair rolled out from underneath her, sending her crashing to the ground, her shoulder slamming into the hardwood, a groan spilling from her lips, at first deep, then trailing off in a whimper as she tried to lift herself up.

“Don’t move. Oh my God, don’t move.” Scarlet scrambled to Yvie’s side. “Where’s the pain? Is it all on this side?” She lifted Yvie’s left hand a little too harshly, smoothing out her rough motions as Yvie sucked at her teeth to ease the pain.

She bent each finger, then pressed against the bones of Yvie’s forearm, only eliciting a reaction—a screeching cry followed by a guttural moan, blinking out tears—when she tried to rotate Yvie’s arm.

“Scarlet,” Yvie said, a hair above a whisper, still crying. “Please. It’s the shoulder.”

“Oh God. Okay. Right. The shoulder,” Scarlet stumbled out, lowering Yvie’s arm gently. “You fell on the shoulder. What do we do about the shoulder? Do we ice the shoulder? Heat? Do I need to get the bag of beans? A bath? An ice bath?” Scarlet’s brain was overheating, frantically flipping through any way to ease Yvie’s pain.

Yvie winced as she chucked. “Scarlet, please.”

“Will eucalyptus oil help this, you think?” She reached over and grabbed a pillow from the couch and rolled Yvie over so she could fit the pillow under her shoulder.

“The hospital would help this.”

“Right, right.” She reached over Yvie’s body to grab her phone, while Yvie cursed her shoulder, that christmas light, and Scarlet’s affinity for wearing flimsy tank tops without bras. “I’ll call an Uber.”

***

They waited at the hospital for what seemed like hours. Yvie squirmed around on the hard plastic chair, Scarlet trying to still her body and her frantic mind by holding her hand, stroking her palm.

“I can’t move my shoulder.” Yvie repeated, probably for the fourteenth time since they’ve been here. “Scarlet what if it’s a goner? What if they have to cut it all off?”

“I’m not gonna let them cut it off, Yvie.” Scarlet said, tone firm, though the gulped at the thought of Yvie losing an arm over her silly little Christmas lights.

“But Scar, what if they gotta?”

“You’re gonna leave here with both arms, baby. I promise.” Scarlet wove their fingers together.

Yvie somehow believed Scarlet more now, thought she couldn’t place why. There was something about Scarlet’s firmness, how she rambled on and on about how she was going to be alright and they’d go home after and Scarlet would make her the most wonderful french toast she’s ever had, how she took her hand in hers and gripped tightly to her eucalyptus oil with the other. There was something steady about Scarlet.

“Yvangeline Bridges?” A nurse called from across the room.

Scarlet helped her up—though her legs were perfectly fine—and walked her over to the nurse.

“So you’re Yvangeline?” The nurse pointed at Yvie, who nodded in reply.

She turned to Scarlet. “Then who’s this?”

“I’m Yvie’s girlfriend.” Scarlet replied easily, quickly, insistently. It was as smooth as a fact—Scarlet wished it were a fact.

It made Yvie’s mind race, spinning in circles, dizzying itself, trying to figure out why Scarlet bothered keeping up their charade here, at the hospital, where it wouldn’t matter if they were together.

But as the nurse brought them back and had Yvie sit on the bed, prodding at her arm, the surge of pain she felt, stinging, needling pain, pulled her out of her contemplation. She didn’t even notice Scarlet holding her hand, stroking her free arm up and down, the cool glass of Scarlet’s eucalyptus oil against her skin, the hot breath in her ear, assuring her that she’d be fine, it’s just a few tests.

“There’s not a lot of swelling and it’s still in the socket. It’s probably just a pull.”

“A pull!” Yvie burried herself in Scarlet’s chest, whispering “oh my god I’m gonna lose my fucking arm” over and over while Scarlet smoothed her hair.

“What does it mean? Will she be okay? What do you have to do for that?” Scarlet asked, rapid-firing the questions, her anxiety stinging them too closely together.

“It means it’ll just be fine with some rest, some ice.” She scribbled something on the clipboard. “Probably prescribe some painkillers.”

“Okay but what can we do with this?” Scarlet held out the oil, waving it back and forth. “Is this gonna help? I think it’ll help.” Yvie nodded against her chest, still crying, muttering “the whole arm, the whole arm.”

The nurse scrunched her nose at the scent, snatching it from her hand and throwing it out in the trash can behind her. “It’s not going to do anything but give all of us a cluster-migraine.”

“I don’t think so, but whatever,” Scarlet grumbled, stroking Yvie’s hair.

The nurse rolled her eyes, sticking her pen back through the clipboard with a tad too much force. “I’m gonna get you a sling and then you’re free to go.”

“You can go, Yvie.” Scarlet reassured her, her voice cotton soft. “You get to keep your arm, baby. It’s all alright.”

Yvie sniffled and nodded against Scarlet’s now tear-stained tank top.

When the nurse walked back in on those two sitting at the edge of the bed, whispering back and forth, she almost thought it was cute, the way they cared for one another. She thought that before remembering that they were morons. Loud, crying morons.

Yvie left, outfitted with a sling and a prescription for ibuprofen, hand in hand with Scarlet, who whipped out a spare bottle of eucalyptus oil from her purse with a wicked grin the minute they passed the emergency room doors. She dropped a bit onto her hands—muttering something about the mean nurse—and rubbed it into Yvie’s arm, her touch feather light and warm.

She stuck the bottle back in her purse and took her hand again. “How about we get you home and get you some ice?” She hailed them a cab. “I’ll make that french toast and you can just lay on the couch and appreciate the part of our tree that’s still lit, yeah?”