gay mythology

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I already drew Sinfjotle and Godmundr from Norse mythology but I wanted to make a comic that really illustrated how stupid their shouting match in the Eddas is. It’s mostly Sinfjotle calling Godmundr a whore because he likes to bottom and Godmundr calling Sinfjotle an animal because he lived like one as a kid. There’s also some stuff about both of them sleeping with lower class and old women.

It should also be noted that Sinfjotle and his men are compared to wolves while Godmundr and his army are compared to horses. Both animals are sacred to some extend in Norse mythology and they’re both liked by Odin (Even though Godmundr is a jotun which is why he can get pregnant. Think of Loki), so neither of them were supposed to be the bad guy in this.

So yeah, it’s just two guys who used to be in a serious relationship but broke up and now they hate each other. A tale as old as time.

And yes, it does indeed end with Sinfjotle flipping the fuck out and his brother telling him to calm down.

American Gods Alphabet: Antinous

I really love American Gods and mythology so I made an alphabetic list of every reference made in the novel.

Read the whole encyclopedia here

Antinous (461)

Antinous (Roman) Lover to Roman Emperor Hadrian, Antinous was known for his extraordinary beauty. He was often compared to Adonis, or a living angel. When the Emperor Hadrian visited Bithnyia in 123 CE, the two fell in love, and Antinous was admitted to the Imperial court. When visiting Egypt in 130 CE, Antinous drowned in the Nile, coincidentally, the same day of the commemoration of Osiris’ drowning in the Nile. Hadrian’s grief caused him to deify Antinous, and the young man quickly became the object of a new cult. However, this cult and the god Antinous often came into conflict with Christianity, and as a result Christianity will condemn his relationship with Hadrian as immoral and cast off any acceptance of homosexuality.

All names/terms are depicted with the page in which they first appear in the American Gods Tenth Anniversary Edition of the author’s preferred text.

Read the whole encyclopedia here

The story of the warrior Sinfjötli and the jotun king Godmundr illustrates that the Vikings were okay with men topping other men, but not free men who bottomed (Slaves could bottom. They had no honor to lose anyway).

They meet in the Eddas and start a shouting match, and from the insults they throw at each other it becomes clear they have quite the past with each other.

Sinfjötli says that back in the day Godmundr was a very desired man and all Odin’s priced male warriors in Valhalla slept with him and fought for his affection, but Sinfjötli was the lucky one whom Godmundr chose. After some time Sinfjötli got Godmundr pregnant and he gave birth to nine wolf cubs. (I made another drawing where I talk more about male jotuns getting pregnant in Norse mythology). Sinfjötli then helped Godmundr become king, but eventually they had a falling out and became enemies.

Godmundr just replies that the wolves Sinfjötli fathered weren’t exactly Frenrir wolves.

So Sinfjötli, in front of all his men, bragged that he totally topped this dude and got him pregnant, so it would seem topping was totally cool and a-okay while guys who liked to bottom were argr (Argr is often mistakenly thought to mean “fag” which is incorrect. It was more like “unmanly” or “whimp”)

So who did all these free men top? Slaves and guys like Godmundr who didn’t give a fuck because there’s no proof that it had any consequences to bottom besides mockery.

anonymous asked:

Your Caeneus and Poseidon fics made me weep. Will you ever write about when Poseidon gives up the power of the sea and returns to Caeneus?

Part One / Part Two


They’ve all abandoned their duties, the world has changed and they’re not needed like they were needed before.

All but the three of them, the most powerful of gods.

Zeus stubbornly remains on the abandoned Mount Olympus. Even Hera has left him, shaking herself free of her shackles and her crown all at once.

Hades continues as he always has. It’s possible he wouldn’t have noticed anything had changed if it weren’t for Persephone’s new freedom that allows her to spend all months of the year with her husband.

Then there is him.

Poseidon sits on his thrown at the bottom of the sea, restless in a way he can’t remember ever feeling before. Amphitrite sighs from her place besides him, then stands to face him. “Perhaps it is time.”

“What are you talking about?” he snaps, although he knows the answer.

She smiles at him, soft and exasperated and even a little fond after all these years. “You knew it wasn’t forever. We both did.”

He presses a hand to his chest, and – he is of the sea, and he is not supposed to be feel fear. But he does. “I do not remember the man I was before I was King of the Sea.  If – if I return to that person, I do not know what I will be, who I will be.”

Amphitrite holds out her hands. Feeling like a child, Poseidon takes them. “I know exactly who you will be, and what you will do. It’s time, Poseidon.”

He’s never loved her, couldn’t love her. But she’s been his constant companion for almost his entire life, and he cares for her, as much as he is capable of caring for anyone. “What will happen to you?”

“That is none of you concern,” she says, “but I will be what I’ve always been – the sea.”

She uses a single claw and opens her chest, the inside of her a dark green except for a pulsating red heart. He sighs and breaks off a piece of his throne to do the same to his own chest. It’s not like he’ll need it after this.

He takes out the cold, dark lump from inside him and places it safely below her ribcage. Her skin heals over and pales, and the warmth of her eyes snuffs out. She slips the beating heart below his sternum, and his skin heals over just as quickly as hers had.

Poseidon didn’t know how cold he had been until he could feel warmth again, like a bonfire in his chest unfurling to fill him, warming the bottoms of his feet and tips of his fingers. The tidal wave of grief and love and happiness and sorrow nearly threatens to barrel him over, all the emotion he’d only felt echoes of now overwhelming him.

But even with all of that, he instantly knows something is wrong.

“This isn’t my heart,” he says, and it functions like his heart, these are his emotions and feelings, but – it’s not his heart, it’s not the heart he traded away to Amphitrite for power so long ago.

“No,” she agrees, “it’s not.”

She almost looks like she’s smiling.

He means to question her, to demand answers in spite of personally knowing how worthless it is to ask anything of the sea. But before he gets the chance, he’s being pushed away and onto the shore, and he knows better than to try and go back and attempt to get answers she doesn’t feel like giving. He doesn’t think she’d kill him, but he’s not interested in finding out.

He looks out at the impossibly tall structures before him, the glass city sprawling at the end of the beach when before there had only been a – been a – a cottage.

“Caeneus,” he breathes, and is gone in the next moment.

~

He knows the entrances to the underworld well, even as the world moves and changes they never have. It takes him no time at all to be standing by the River Styx with Charon in front of him. “You are not dead,” the boatman says reproachfully.

“No,” he says, “Summon Hades, I must speak to him. There’s someone in there who – someone I – someone,” he finishes, and it’s been thousands and thousands of years since he last has Caeneus in his arms, but it doesn’t matter. The heart in his chest is a heart that is capable of love, and he loves Caeneus just as he did as a fledgling god with dominion over nothing.

Charon has no face that he can see, but he still gets the impression he’s being laughed at. “The underworld contains many someones.”

“Call Hades,” he says, low and dangerous, and the waters of the Styx churn angrily at his temper. He may no longer be the king of the sea, but he is still a god of it, and a powerful one at that. Charon takes a step away from him, no longer laughing but also not moving to help him.

There’s a shift in the air, and a young woman stands before them. Her skin is as dark at the water of the river, and her eyes are the grey of its foam. “Who dares disturb my river?” the goddess Styx demands. He meets her gaze, and her mouth drops open. “Poseidon? What are you doing here?”

“That is not Poseidon,” Charon says, “He doesn’t feel like a king.”

He wants to slap himself. Charon is blind.

Styx raises an eyebrow, “Looks like he finally got with times. The king of the ocean is no more.” She circles him like a predator circles prey. “There’s something different about you.”

“Lady Styx,” he grits out, “Please. Summon my brother, I must speak with him. I’m looking for someone.”

She shakes her head, “I can’t. He and Hecate are expanding the realm today. They can’t be disturbed.”

He doesn’t care about his brother’s obsession with home improvement, but he doesn’t say that. “Persephone then.”

“The Lady is currently among the mortals,” Charon says.

He clenches his hands into fists. He knows it’s been thousands of years, and a little more time won’t make much of a difference. But he’s already lost so much time. He doesn’t want to lose any more.

Styx sighs as if she finds him troublesome. “Thanatos,” she calls out conversationally, “I need you.”

There’s another shift in the air, and a familiar figure appears in front of him. “What do you need?” the death god asks, ink on his hands and smudged across his forehead. “I’m busy.”

“Icarus,” he says. It’s hard to regret the actions he took with Amphitrite’s heart in his chest. He wanted, and so he took. Such is the nature of the sea. However, there many things he did then that he wouldn’t have done if he’d had his heart. Those years with Icarus are among them.

He’s never said no, never pushed him away or lashed out. But if Poseidon had had his heart, he would have known that it wasn’t what the young man wanted.

Icarus’s mouth drops open, but he shuts it again. “Poseidon,” he greets carefully. “Can we help you with something?”

“I’m looking for a mortal. His name is Caeneus, my magic should be clinging to him. He died – a long time ago, I’m assuming. I don’t know exactly when.”

Icarus’s eyes go distant as he reviews a mental list of the dead. He blinks, then slowly shakes his head. “There are many by the name of Caeneus in our realm, but none that are god-touched.”

He says, “That’s impossible. I transformed him myself. The magic would have clung to him, even in death.”

“Yes,” Icarus agrees. “But he is not among our realm, which means he’s not among the dead. This Caeneus of yours is still alive.”

“That’s impossible,” he repeats, but fainter this time. He presses a hand to his sternum, where a heart that isn’t his own beats.

Styx laughs and drapes herself over Charon, who tolerates it. “Poseidon, nothing is impossible.”

~

He goes to Aphrodite next. She’s dressed as a mortal, wearing glasses she doesn’t need and a dress too short for current mortal fashions. She’s curled up on a chair reading, and she slowly lowers her book to look at him. “So the rumors are true,” she says finally. There’s something like sympathy on her face. “They all said you were different once you became the god of the sea. None ever knew the reason was that you lost your heart.”

“Traded it, actually,” he says, “and we didn’t want you to know. That’s not why I’m here.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“I need your help,” he taps his chest, “This heart isn’t mine either. I need your help to find the man it belongs to.”

She closes her book and puts it aside, eyes sparking with interest. “Very well, Uncle. I will do my best.”

~

Aphrodite finds him. They arrive at a small house jutting out of the edge of a cliff, the sea wide and churning below. A man stands at the edge, subtly manipulating the waves with the push-pull motions of his hands. “I didn’t know you knew Glaucus,” she says. “What are you doing with his heart?”

Glaucus. A minor sea god who looked after lost fisherman. “His name is Caeneus,” he says, already walking away from her.

“Good luck!” she calls out before returning to her home and her book.

He walks over slowly, not sure what he’s expecting. Anger, certainly. Perhaps a fight. Maybe if he lets Caeneus beat him up, he’ll be more willing to listen to him. “Hey,” he says, when he’s only a few feet away, bracing himself for – something.

Caeneus stills, turning to face him. His eyes widen, and he takes a hesitant step closer. “Poseidon. Is it – is – do you have,” he pauses and reaches out a hand, pressing a hand against Poseidon’s chest. “What’s in here?”

“Your heart,” he croaks, and reaches out a trembling hand and pressing it to Caeneus’s sternum. “Just as my heart is here.”

“You can have it back,” he says, taking another step closer, and the sun reflects off of Caeneus’s eyes so they shine gold. “I was only keeping it safe for you.”

He reaches for his chest, but Poseidon grabs his hand. “Don’t. Without my heart, you’ll die.”

Caeneus smiles, “That’s all right. I’ve been waiting for you to come back for it, and now you’re here.” His smile dims, “Will you kiss me first? Is that all right?”

Poseidon pulls him closer and presses their foreheads together. Caeneus’s arms wrap around his waist, and something inside him settles. “I will not,” he whispers, and Caeneus tenses. “You must keep my heart, because it belongs to you. It always has.” He shifts to kiss his cheek, and he can smell the salt from Caeneus’s tears that are threatening to spill.  “I shouldn’t have traded it to Amphitrite. It wasn’t mine to give away.”

“Then you must keep mine,” he says, and he’s shaking, “because it has belonged to you for just as long.”

Poseidon kisses him then. Caeneus melts against him, and the first true sunburst of happiness blossoms in his chest.

This is the beginning of the rest of their lives.


gods and monsters series part xvi

read more of the gods and monsters series

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have some Greek mythology doodles featuring different versions of Artemis!! 

Blonde Artemis and Siproites are based off @shanastoryteller ‘s gorgeous fics!! Here’s the specific one it comes from~

Elagabalus: The Transgender Roman Emperor

Reign: 8 June 218 – 11 March 222

Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus was 14 years old when he became Roman Emperor. He is known to history as Elagabalus because he was from birth the high priest of the androgynous sun deity Elagabal. Elagabalus is recorded as having been one of the most infamous and degenerate figures in Roman history.

Elagabalus married and divorced five women but his most stable relationship seems to have been his chariot driver, a blond slave from Caria name Hierocles, whom he referred to as his husband. He married a man name Zoticus, an athlete from Smyrna, in a pubic ceremony at Rome.

When he was married to Hierocles, Elagabalus would dress like a woman and allow himself to be caught in the act of adultery by his husband, who would then beat him as husbands were then allowed to beat their wives.

Elagabalus would paint his eyes, epilate his hair and wear wigs before prostituting himself in taverns, brothels, and even in the imperial palace: 

“Finally, he set aside a room in the palace and there committed his indecencies, always standing nude at the door of the room, as the harlots do, and shaking the curtain which hung from gold rings, while in a soft and melting voice he solicited the passers-by. There were, of course, men who had been specially instructed to play their part. For, as in other matters, so in this business, too, he had numerous agents who sought out those who could best please him by the size of their penis. He would collect money from his patrons and give himself airs over his gains; he would also dispute with his associates in this shameful occupation, claiming that he had more lovers than they and took in more money.”

He was described as having been “delighted to be called the mistress, the wife, the queen of Hierocles” and was reported to have offered vast sums of money to any physician who could equip him with female genitalia.

One of his palace orgies was the scene of an inadvertent massacre when so many flower petals were showered upon the banquet guests that dozens of people suffocated to death as they reclined on their couches.

He was known to harness teams of naked women to his chariot and whip them as they pulled him around the palace grounds.

On his head, he wore a crown in the shape of a tiara, glittering with gold and precious stones.

He preferred to spend his days in the company of the palace women, singing, dancing and weaving.

The soldiers were revolted at the sight of him. With his face made up more elaborately than a modest woman, he was effeminately dressed up in golden necklaces and soft clothes, dancing for everyone to see.

At the age of 18, in March 222 AD, Rome’s soldiers finally rebelled against their Emperor. After slaughtering his minions and tearing out their vital organs, they then fell upon Elagabalus as he hid cowering in a latrine. After killing him, they dragged his body through the streets by a hook and attempted to stuff it into a sewer. When it proved too big, they threw him into the River Tiber.