#feel free to correct me on that last one!

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 3)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 5k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

-

Claudia’s hand shakes my shoulder, her touch insistent. Her breath, warm against my ear, carries a hint of urgency.

“Get up.”

I burrow deeper under the coarse woolen blanket, turning my face toward the cool, unyielding wall. My limbs feel leaden, as if the weight of my dread has seeped into my very bones, anchoring me to the straw-stuffed mattress… It anchored me to the arch reality.  

“I’m sick.” I murmur, the words barely more than a whisper, lacking conviction. Thankfully, my morning voice could save me. At least, I hope it will. Around us, the other girls stir, their movements sluggish as they emerge from the grasp of sleep. The air is thick with the mingling scents of candles perfume, sweat, and the lingering traces of last night’s lamp oil.

Claudia crosses her arms over her chest, her brow furrowing. There’s no doubt: she doesn’t believe one single world leaving my mouth.

“You can’t avoid the emperors forever.”

A shiver courses through me when she mentions them, a visceral reaction I can’t suppress. The mere thought of facing their piercing gazes, their veiled threats, accepting their hands on my body, sends a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. The dark brunette sighs, the sound heavy with empathy and frustration. Lowering herself onto the edge of the bed, the wooden frame creaking beneath her weight, she speaks softly:

“Listen... If you really don’t want to go today, take my place. Lucius and Fabia are heading to the Macellum (market). You’re a free woman, the Magister Domus will likely agree.”

The Magister Domus, the overseer of the household, holds dominion over the servants, female or male, with an iron fist, his authority rivaling that of a centurion over his legion. His hair are only made of silver strings, emphasizing his sharps features and the lines carved on his face. He ensures that every task is completed with precision, that discipline is maintained, and that the intricate machinery of the household runs smoothly. However, hope flickers within me, tentative and fragile, just like a flame needing more oil to burn. I sit up, the sudden movement causing a slight dizziness.

“Really?”

Claudia nods, her expression softening. I grasp her hand, squeezing it tightly, seeking reassurance

“Thank you, Claudia.”

She shakes her head, a rueful smile playing on her lips, before pulling me into a brief, firm embrace.

“Don’t think this will last. If they summon you, you’ll have to obey.”

I nod, swallowing the lump that has formed in my throat, words eluding me.

We move through our morning rituals with haste. The water from the basin bites at my skin, each splash a jolt to my senses, washing away the remnants of sleep. The simple breakfast of coarse bread and figs feels like a feast today, each bite a small comfort, knowing I won’t have to face the emperors’ oppressive presence.

Together, we approach the Magister Domus’ quarters. He stands amidst a sea of servants, giving them orders, his sharp eyes missing nothing. The room is filled with the scent of freshly laundered fabric and the faint, underlying aroma of the herbs used to deter moths.

His gaze lifts as we enter, a flicker of irritation crossing his features even before we speak.

Claudia steps forward, her voice steady.

“Magister Domus, I don’t feel well this morning. Y/N volunteers to take my place to walk to the Macellum.”

The silence that follows is thick, stretching uncomfortably, as the Magister Domus’ eyes bore into us, weighing the truth of Claudia’s words.

Finally, he clicks his tongue, a sharp, disapproving sound. “You’re all lazy. It’s irritating!”

He scrutiny shifts to me, his eyes narrowing, as if he’s searching for any sign of deceit, any reason to deny the request. The tension is palpable, my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum.

Then, with a sigh, he shakes his head, clearly annoyed. Usually, he’s the one giving orders, when the emperors don’t, but his lack of time play in my favor.

“Fine. But tomorrow, I don’t want to hear lame excuses. Now, go to work!”

Relief floods through me, so profound that I feel lightheaded. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escapes my lips.

Today, I am free.

*

The sun beats down on the city, turning the air thick and stifling. Heat shimmers off the stone streets as I follow Lucius and Fabia through the crowd, weaving between merchants and slaves carrying baskets overflowing with figs, olives, and amphorae of wine. The scent of fresh bread mingles with the sharper tang of vinegar and the sweet decay of overripe fruit. For the first time in days, my chest feels light. The oppressive walls of the palace no longer press in on me. Here, among the voices bartering and laughing, among the scents of the earth and the sea, I breathe freely.

I miss my old life, that’s for sure, but after my brother and mother died, I lost everything. I was evicted from the place I was living in and had lost my job some time before. This led me to Rome, in the hope of finding work, first as a servant to Senator Gracchus before I was introduced to the Magister Domus of Palatine Hill, where I was promised a more suitable salary… The money I’m saving. The food and shelter I was also given weren’t inconsiderable, it was way better than working in a brothel. I couldn’t have been a lady of the night.

Lucius hands a small wax tablet to a butcher, listing the cuts of meat for the palace kitchens. Fabia haggles over the price of onions, clicking her tongue in disapproval at the merchant’s demand. I let my gaze wander.

Then, I see him.

A young man stands near a stall selling amphorae of oil, the golden liquid glistening in the midday light. His profile is sharp, his posture relaxed, yet something about him twists my stomach into knots. My breath catches. My legs stiffen.

My brother.

No. It can’t be.

But the shape of his jaw, the way his dark hair curls at the nape of his neck… It’s the same. My mouth goes dry. My fingers tighten around the edge of my dress. My brother is dead. I know this. I saw him buried. I buried him. Still, my feet move before I can stop them.

The world spins around me, but I cannot tear my eyes from the scene before me. My brother’s body lies in the dirt, an unnatural stillness to his form that pulls at my soul, rips it apart. His face, once full of warmth and life, is now pale and lifeless. His eyes, wide open but seeing nothing, stare at the sky, so empty… Empty for the eternity. The soldiers stand around him, their boots sinking into the mud, their weapons dripping with the blood of my family.

I can’t breathe.

My chest tightens, suffocating under the weight of what has just happened. I want to scream, to shout at the heavens, at the gods, at the soldiers, at the crowd that has already begun to scatter as if nothing had happened. But the scream catches in my throat, and all that escapes is a strangled sob.

“Y/N.”

Rufina’s voice breaks through the haze of my grief. My friend’s hands are on my shoulders, her grip tight, urgent, pulling me away. But I can’t… I can’t leave him. He’s my brother. My blood. My heart.

I want to scream his name, Valerius, but no sound comes. The only thing I hear is the pounding of my heart, the rush of blood in my ears, and the sound of the soldiers’ boots retreating from the scene, as though what they’ve done is just another task completed for the day.

Rufina’s breath is hot against my ear as she tugs at me, urging me to move.

“Y/N, we have to go."

I shake my head violently, my legs refusing to cooperate. It’s as if the ground itself is pulling me down, rooting me in place, but Rufina shows to be stronger than my grief. She pulls me back, drags me away, but my feet drag behind. I feel the weight of each step, like moving through water.

But I still can’t look away.

“Y/N, please.” Rufina whispers, her voice strained. “He’s gone. You have to come with me.”

I don’t know how I stand, but I do. My legs wobble, and my breath comes in ragged gasps. Every part of me wants to collapse, to crumble into the dirt beside him, but Rufina won’t let me. She’s forcing me forward, her hand over mine now, pulling me through the crowd, away from the square. The stares of the onlookers follow us, but none of them say a word. I don’t know if they pity me or not. I don’t know if they even care.

“Come, please. You’re safe.” Rufina says, her voice quieter now, but still insistent.

“But he’s not! He’s… He’s…”

Tears spills of my cheeks, they flow like an angry sea, they come in waves, each one burning my skin, rolling down my face, falling to the ground like raindrops in a storm. My throat constricts, and a sound that isn’t quite a sob escapes me. I want to shout at the gods. I want to demand that they give me back my brother. I want to tear the sky open and make the sun answer for what it’s done.

“Why, Rufina? Why?” I gasp, my voice barely a whisper, my words choked with grief. “Why did they…? He… He was just trying to save our mother, he was trying to save her…”

Rufina’s hand squeezes mine tightly and she pulls me forward, away from the square, from that crowd of vultures, not humans… Just scavengers satisfied with death, blood, decaying bodies.

“He was a thief, my dear friend. Those rich Romans won’t care why he did it. It doesn’t matter now.”

But it matters. It matters. My brother, my sweet, older and kind brother, was only trying to help us. He only wanted to get the medicine for our dying mother. The soldiers don’t care about that. They didn’t care about his reason. The first time it happened, he had to pay four times the price of the medicine. This second time, he paid the price of his life.  

“I couldn’t stop them.” I whisper, choking on my tears, the salted taste slipping on my tongue. “I couldn’t save him.”

The woman wraps her arm around my waist, supporting me as I stumble. “You didn’t have the power to stop them. You did what you could. Now you need to come with me. We need to go. NOW!” she insists as some gazes linger on us.

But as we walk, I can’t stop seeing him, his body lying on the ground, the blood still fresh in the dirt. My brother is gone. And I can’t bring him back. I can’t bring him back.

“Rufina…” I murmur, my voice broken. “What will I do now? He was all my mother and I had left.”

Her face softens, but she says nothing. She doesn’t need to. I can feel her sorrow for me in the way her arm tightens around me, in the way she keeps me close, never letting go. Around us, the city keeps living, movies, just as its citizens. People go about their business, oblivious to the tragedy that has just unfolded. So many people meet that kind of fate, that’s nothing new. The market smells of fresh bread and spices, but I can’t smell anything but the metallic blood, the dirt, and the emptiness that fills the space inside of me.

My brother is gone. And nothing will ever be the same.

“I… I need to bury him… I can’t leave him like that…”

“Y/N?”

A hand grabs my shoulder. I jerk back, reality crashing down as Fabia’s concerned face swims into view. Her gray eyes darkens with curiosity and she tilts her head, while Lucius sighs.

“Come on. We still have work to do. I don't intend to be chastised for being ineffective.”

The young man I was admiring turns and leaves the market, while my breath shudders out of me.

Not him. Not even close.

This man is taller, his limbs leaner. His skin is darker, sun-kissed in a way my brother’s never was. His features lack the sharpness I knew so well, his eyes softer, his lips curved into an unfamiliar expression.

I nod and force my feet forward, but my chest aches as if I’ve lost my brother all over again.

Valerius only lives in my memory.

*

The walk back to Palatine Hill feels like a slow, torturous march. The heat from the day still lingers in the air, and the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in deep orange and pink shades, as if Minerva, the Goddess of arts was painting in the clouds, at least for other people. To me, it’s just the natural amazing work of art God created, what I imagine in the Garden of Eden. Soon, my mind spins, my thoughts a whirl of dread and exhaustion, while my feet feel like they belong to someone else as they drag across the cobblestones. The great city fades into the background as the towering palace looms ahead, its sheer walls suffocating. The idea of facing the Emperors tonight sends a wave of nausea creeping up my throat, and my chest tightens as if something heavy is pressing down on me.

I try to breathe, to steady myself, but the closer I get to the palace gates, the more my stomach churns. The quiet whispers in the back of my mind grow louder…

Don’t let them see you, don’t let them call on you.

I push those disturbing thoughts away, but they won’t quiet. The idea of being summoned, of having to stand before them in all their power, is unbearable. I can’t do it. Not tonight. Not again and so soon.

I slow my pace, feeling the tension rise with each step. My chest heaves, my body betrays me. The sweat on my brow isn’t just from the heat, it’s cold… The product of deep fear. I clutch at my side, pretending my stomach hurts, trying to make my gait unsteady. I bite my lip, hard, praying that people will notice and believe my next lies.

Oh dear Lord, I know it’s a sin, but you have to understand me… I must avoid them at all cost, for my moral and body integrity.

At some point, when we’re all in our servants quarter, with Claudia, I catch the glance she gives me, somewhat half curious, half concerned.

“Are you alright? You look pale, sickly.” she notes, her voice gentle as always, except when she’s anxious or in a bad mood. She’s always been kind, but even she can’t protect me from everything, especially those perverted Emperors.

“I’m not feeling well.” I whisper, my voice wavering just enough to make it sound convincing. “I’m dizzy. My head… It hurts. I think I’m coming down with something.”

I look up at her, and I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She’s about to say something, but then she sighs, her shoulders sinking.

“Fine. You can rest in your bed tonight, if they send someone for you. The others and I will handle the rest.” she mutters.

Relief washes over me, but it’s tinged with guilt. I hate lying. I hate using people’s kindness like this. Alas, it’s my only way out, I have to take it.

After a quick dinner with a tasteless whine, some bread, vegetables and cheese, I hurry to get in my little bed, in the middle of the others. Here, the soft, musty scent of incense fills the air, and the pale golden lights from the window barely cuts through the heavy curtains. I feel the weight of everything pressing down on me. I collapse onto the bed, the sheets cool against my skin. I bury my face in the pillow, my eyes closed, not even listening to the surrounding conversations, while the other servants, free citizen like me or slaves, fill the room.

And then, just as I start to drift off, I hear it, the soft, steady knock on the door. My heart leaps into my throat, my stomach flipping with panic.

No, please, not me not yet. I beg silently. The sound of footsteps follows, and I freeze. Someone opens the door and a man clears his throat.

“Y/N is summoned to serve the emperors.” the voice calls out softly, but firmly.

I don’t move. I don’t even dare to breathe. I'm pretending to be in a deep sleep, when this man could grab me by the ankles and drag me out. The door creaks more open, I hear some light steps and Claudia’s voice:

 “She’s sick.”

“She’s been in bed all evening. Won’t be able to serve tonight.” adds someone else.

Good people still exist…

A brief silence. I can feel the weight of the Pretorian’s presence through the door, his impatience radiating. But then he sighs, the sound of retreating footsteps following.

“Very well.” he says, and I listen to the faint scrape of the door closing.

My chest heaves with the release of the breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s done.

I let myself sink deeper into the bed, the blankets enveloping me like a cocoon. My heart is still racing, but now it’s from relief. I can’t believe it. They won’t call for me tonight. I close my eyes and feel the tension in my body start to ease, slowly, painfully.

And then, before I can stop it, the exhaustion hits me like a wave. My limbs feel heavy, and my head, finally free from the terror of the night, grows foggy. I let the warmth of sleep take me, the quiet peace settling around me.

Tomorrow, the Emperors will be there, waiting. Tomorrow, I might be summoned. Tomorrow, I won’t be able to escape. But for tonight, I’m still free.

I wake to a faint touch on my hips, fingers gently brushing over the skin. My heart races. I freeze, eyes still closed. I can’t help but it’s a dream. Unfortunately, the pressure doesn’t fade. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My body tense when the soft whisper of a male voice reaches my ears:

“Are you hiding from us, little lamb?”

I nearly jump out of my skin, my breath catching in my throat. My pulse pounds and my blood buzz in my ears. The room feels too small, too suffocating. I open my eyes, every instinct screaming at me to move, to run, but I lie there, frozen.

It’s him.

Caracalla.

I can hear his soft chuckles, like he’s enjoying my discomfort, like he’s watching me, waiting for me to do something, anything. I dare not move and look up yet. I can’t.

Should I respond? Should I beg for mercy or stay silent? How long will they torment me before they get bored? Before I feel like I’ve lost everything?

Slowly, I raise my head and see the man as he stands there, imposing even if he’s shorter than his brother with his average height. A slight smirk spreads on his face as his azure eyes linger on me. I immediately pull the blanket tighter around my body, grateful I’m still in my night dress, though it feels like no protection at all. I try to act calm, but my voice trembles.

“I-I’m sick. Th-That’s why I’m h-here.” I stutter.

Caracalla doesn’t seem to be listening. He leans closer, eyes scanning me with a strange intensity.

“I know you’re sick, but I must admit I’m highly disappointed.”

Before I can say another word, he reaches out, his finger brushing against my chest, then slowly drawing something on me. I freeze. The Holy Cross. He traces it carefully, and I can hardly breathe, my skin tingling where his finger touches.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, you are healed!” He says softly, mockingly.

He flicks my nose, gently but decisively, and I am left dumbfounded, blinking up at him in confusion. He laughs softly, a quiet giggle that makes my stomach twist with discomfort.

“Is that what filthy Christians say, no?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, not wanting to anger him, but I barely manage a whisper. “It’s almost that.”

Actually, I don’t dare say more, fear tightening around my chest like a vice. I don’t want to die. I’m still young. I dream of finding the right husband to have children with him. I dream of happiness.

Suddenly, a strange thought crosses my mind then. Do Caracalla and Geta used to sneak into the servants’ room, that women they loved, when they were children? Did they have this same kind of strange power over everyone around them? Was this just how they grew up, twisting the world to their will? I shudder at the thought.

I force my voice to stay steady, not sure what to do.

“Augustus, maybe you should leave now. You’ll get sick too.” My voice is soft, pleading, and I pray he’ll go. I don’t want him here, not with the power he holds, the dangerous curiosity that glints in his eyes.

He looks down at me, completely unfazed. His smile deepens.

“That’s not a problem. I’m tough. I’ve seen war, little lamb. I’ve been through campaigns since I could walk.”

I blink, unsure how to respond. His confidence is overwhelming, and I feel small, insignificant in his presence. What could I possibly say to make him leave? I want to shout, to scream for him to go away, but I know that would make everything worse, such as ending beheaded. Instead, I stay silent, clutching the sheets tighter, trying to gather some strength, but it feels like a futile effort.

Caracalla leans over me, his broad frame blocking the space between us, while his hypnotizing eyes lock onto mine, burning with a mix of power and something else, something darker. His hands move without hesitation, sliding slowly under the covers, fingers grazing my legs. My body stiffens, a jolt of fear running through me. I try to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go, the bed too small, the space too tight. I feel his fingers creeping further, the heat of his touch against my skin sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with desire. It’s pure terror.

Jesus… Help me…

“No.” I whisper, my voice trembling.

I force myself to speak louder, to stop him before I lose control.

“I’m bleeding.”

His hand freezes, his fingers hovering over my legs as if he’s waiting for some kind of confirmation. I can barely breathe, my pulse thudding in my throat. For a moment, everything is so still that I think I might suffocate under the weight of the silence. Then, he blinks, and a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. His gaze darkens with amusement, as if I’ve said something absurd.

“Blood doesn’t scare me, far from it.” he replies, his voice low and thick, almost amused.

I want to crawl out of my skin, to run, but I stay still, frozen in place by the force of his words. His hands are still there, moving slowly as though testing me, and I can’t breathe. The world feels like it’s shrinking. I slide my hands over his, my fingers trembling as I try to push them away. The motion feels weak, like I’m trying to hold back a flood.

“I don’t like it,” I manage to say, my voice cracking. “It’s dirty.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth, but they’re the only thing I can think of. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I try to control the tremor in my hands.

"I’m not worthy… not worthy of soiling you, my Emperor."

The moment I speak those words, something changes in his expression. His smirk falters, his eyes narrowing as he watches me closely. He doesn’t pull away, but something flickers in the air between us, something cold, distant, before his lips curl again, just a little. He doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t push further, but instead he leans in closer. My breath catches in my throat as he tilts his head, his face coming so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of his breath waving on my skin. Then, with slow, deliberate movement, he shifts his lips to my neck. His breath against my skin is almost unbearable. My body tenses. Heat spreads across my skin as if I’ve been set aflame. My heart races.

I feel the heat of his lips on my neck, the faintest touch, just enough to make me feel dizzy. All of a sudden, his tongue slides over my burning skin, traces its way higher, to my jaw. I blush deeply, my skin smoldering, my hands clammy against the sheets. A warmth spreads through my lower abdomen and my breathing quickens in an erratic race, like my heartbeat. He lingers, just a breath away, his nose brushing against my skin as though inhaling the very scent of me. Something in my lower abdomen throbs.  My chest tightens, my throat closing as if I can’t breathe. I feel the weight of his presence, his power, his dominance closing in around me. And I feel small, so small, unworthy of the way he looks at me.  

What’s happening to me…?

I can’t stand it anymore. The shame is suffocating, choking me. I yank my body back, my eyes wide with panic, my pulse pounding in my ears. My hands press against the mattress as if push myself through against the wooden headboard, away from him, from the suffocating heat of his touch.

How could I have let this happen? What did I just let him do?

I want to crawl into a hole and disappear, my face flushed, my chest tight with mortification. Before I can collect myself, the door to the room swings open with a loud crash.

Geta.

He’s standing there, frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide and locked onto us. His face is unreadable, but there’s something in his expression, something sharp, something dangerous. I can’t read it, but I feel the tension rise in the room like a tangible thing, thick and suffocating. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’ve been caught in the act of something unholy, and I want to scream, to explain, but nothing comes out. Caracalla doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t look at Geta, doesn’t break the tension. He only gazes at me, his face unreadable. He doesn’t seem angry. He stays still. Like a predator.

I can’t stop looking at Geta, his eyes fixed on me, and the room feels smaller and smaller as I try to make sense of what just happened, of what I’ve just allowed to happen. His gaze catching mine, sharp and calculating, his lips curving into a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Brother, we’re going to be late.” Geta says, his voice carrying a hint of authority.

His deep brown eyes glance over to Caracalla, but then they drop to me, lingering there. My chest tightens, and I suddenly feel exposed, even though my body is covered by the thick woolen blankets. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I feel an uncomfortable heat crawl up my neck. I want to look away, but his eyes stay fixed, like a hawk’s on its prey.

“You have to let her rest,” Geta continues, his voice softer, more persuasive now, but there’s a certain edge to it. “We need her full of energy for tonight.”

His smirk widens, just a touch, and I feel a sick knot twist in my stomach. His gaze doesn’t leave my chest, and the heaviness in the room grows unbearable. It’s as though I can feel the weight of his thoughts pressing against my skin, making me want to shrink back.

Caracalla’s eyes flick toward me for a moment, then back to his brother, his brow furrowing slightly as if in thought.

Geta steps closer to the bed, his expression shifting, all smooth charm again.

“You know we expect you to serve us tonight, sick or not.” The words slide from his lips like poison, casual but cold. They hang in the air between us, biting into the stillness.

I want to speak, to say anything, to tell them I can’t, that I’m not well, but the words don’t come. My throat is tight, the fear of defiance swirling in my stomach.

Caracalla doesn’t say anything, just turns toward the door. Geta follows, but not before casting one last glance at me. His eyes trail slowly down, and I feel his gaze again, like fingers running over my skin, until the door finally swings shut behind them. The second the sound of their footsteps fades away, the silence envelops me, and my breath comes in quick, shallow gasps. My chest feels tight, my heart pounding, and I can barely catch my breath.

I punch the pillow, the soft fabric offering no relief to the rage building inside me. It’s a weak, futile gesture, but I don’t know what else to do. The tears well up before I can stop them. I swallow hard, fighting them back. I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead, I bury my face into the pillow, pressing my hands against the fabric, trying to drown out everything.

The suffocating weight of their words presses against my chest. Sick or not. Serve them tonight.

I don’t know how much longer I can bear this.

What will they do with me to me?

Could I escape them?

Gradually, an idea dawns on me.

- - -

Author notes:

I see people saying Caracalla he’s short, but technically for Ancient Rome, if we keep Fred Hechinger’s height, Caracalla is average while Geta is really tall 😊

Anyway, interesting things will happen in the next part… What do you think our ginger freaks are up to?

So, in this part, I wanted to expand a little on the servant's life and reader's past. I'm trying to be evasive, but some things are important to give consistency to a story.

I will try to write the next part quickly, but it's taking me some time. I make my living as a French novelist, so writing is already my main focus during the day, which leads me to write this fanfiction at night, when my brain is already tired haha. So, please, be a little patient, I'm not abandoning you for the sequel. Keep on supporting me, it's really motivating! And thank you sooooo much for the comments and reblogs, you're all so lovely ❤️

The beheaded thing? Sorry, I had to mention that possibility for you know why + it’s my French brain that stayed in French mode for History lol

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

My Instagram: carolinemertz_

⚔️ Taglist: @duckyhowls (@babey-fruit-bat, @punk-in-docs, @t6gse370, @angelcloudxxsblog and @miragens-para-uma-vitoria, tell me here or in DM if you want to be added for part 4)

[fenya-scribbles]

Collide - Part 4

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<<prev | series masterlist | next>>

Pairing: Non-Idol!Dancer!Hyunjin x Dancer!Fem!Reader

Other Characters: Non-Idol!bff!Minho, Non-Idol!Jisung

Summary: They're idiots, I fear. More tension and a revelation.

Genre: fluff?, rivals to lovers

Content warnings: none I think, but feel free to correct me.

Word Count: 1,619

A/N: I'm sorry for the delay, I had to cope with some personal stuff. In any case, I love these idiots and I'm very happy, y'all like my silly little story :3

♥--------♥--------♥

It had been two days since your encounter with Hyunjin. Two days of practice, running into him at the studio, exchanging uncertain glances. Two days in which the air between the two of you had been awkward at best and uncomfortable at worst. He greeted you with a simple nod every time he saw you, a gesture so simple it should’ve meant nothing. But he had never greeted you before, only given you these nasty glares and rude remarks. But now he didn’t even speak to you, both of you unsure of how to handle the situation. It was weird, it felt off, and you hated it. 

The day before the second competition round approached like that. With you and Hyunjin in this weird limbo state, where you weren’t bickering, but you weren’t friendly exactly either. You had a group practice with the other competitors, going over the choreo one last time and making sure everyone knew what was going to happen the next day. Once the session was over, you slumped onto the bench in the back of the practice room, grabbing your water bottle from your bag and taking a big sip. 

Distracted by your drinking, you didn’t see him approach. He simply was there when you set the bottle down, looming over you. Your heart beat accelerated, just like it had those few nights ago, his sheer presence sending shivers down your spine. His eyes were slowly wandering down your body, scanning every inch of you with an unmistakable  interest, until they reached your shoes. You watched his eyebrows arch slightly, and followed his gaze. 

You immediately noticed, what he probably had - your left shoe was untied. Slowly, your eyes wandered up his frame again, only to see him go down on one knee, eyes locked to your laces and eyebrows furrowed with an odd determination. You watched his elegant fingers take hold of your laces, swiftly moving them over and under, silent and lost in his self-assigned task. You didn’t move, frozen in place by his unexpected actions. He just knelt there, tying your shoe, without a word, and it had your stupid, traitorous heart racing.

You didn’t know how to react. This was wholly uncharted territory for you, so you just watched him, feeling how he gently pulled the laces tighter, as he knotted them into a pretty bow. There was something so soft and heartwarming in the way he took care of your laces. Never in a million years would you have thought to feel that kind of warm, fuzzy feeling spread in your chest because of Hyunjin. But here you were, happy to be sitting, because you were sure your knees would not support you right now.

When he was done, he cautiously looked up at you. It occurred to you, that this had never happened before. Hyunjin looked up at you. With his height, he usually towered over you, so that you had to tilt your head back to keep eye contact. But now it was the other way around, now his head was tilted slightly back, as he glanced at you. His eyes were so big and soft, as if he was trying to apologise but didn't know how to speak. As if he was trying to gage where you were at in terms of him. The vision had your heart melt in your chest and you cursed yourself once more for your inability to be indifferent about him.

Instead, you were locked in his gaze, and once again, just like when you’d caught him alone those few nights ago, time seemed to stop. There was something unspoken inside you, something pulling at your heart and mind and body and soul. Something telling you to just go for it, just touch his face, grab his hand, run your fingers through his hair, anything. It burned deep inside you with a smouldering heat, sending goosebumps over your sweaty skin.

You felt your hand lift, slowly reaching for his now blushing face. But you couldn't bring yourself to touch him. It felt too intimate. This whole situation felt too fucking intimate. If the two of you were alone, who knows what you'd have allowed yourself to do, but there were too many people here, and you felt at least someone's eyes on you. And everyone here knew how Hyunjin usually traded you. So you dropped your hand again and instead opted for a "thank you" that came out as a hoarse whisper.

Hyunjin blinked at you, searching your eyes, glancing at your lips and eventually getting back up to his feet. He gave you a nod, which felt oddly inappropriate for what had just happened. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared out of the room. You were left with a pounding heart, racing mind and sweaty hands. You gulped down the rest of your water, as if that could smoulder the blazing fire inside you. As if that could cool down your heated body, as if it could wash away these unearthed emotions. Deep down you knew they’d been lingering for a long time now. Deep down you knew you’d wanted Hyunjin to be more but he hadn’t been. He’d been a bully. It didn’t make sense. 

***

You: SOS I’m so confused, I need help Minho: About what? You: Hyunjin Minho: :)  Minho: Our place, 7pm, bring take out

When you arrived, after showering at the studio and picking up the food, Minho opened the door with a knowing smirk on his face. He took the bags of food from your hands and made space for Jisung to hug you, before all three of you settled in their living room. “So, what happened?” You could feel Minho’s eyes on you, as you nervously fiddled with the hem of your sweater. You were hungry, but also pretty sure, that nothing you'd eat right now would stay down. 

You hadn’t told them about that night yet. It had freaked you out too much to even really process it yourself. And you hadn't seen Minho much at the studio either - he was busy with his dance classes and you were busy with the competition. But after today, after the picture of Hyunjin kneeling before you, giving you boba eyes, had burnt itself into your mind, you had to tell them. You needed an outside perspective. 

“Remember your anniversary?”, you asked. “Very much”, Jisung grinned, but you waved him off. “Well, I went to get my bag after I left the two of you and Hyunjin was still in the room, practicing. And then…” You proceeded to tell them everything. How the man who had been picking on you for almost the entire time you knew him had ended up so painfully close to you, that you had almost…kissed? You weren’t even sure that was what he had wanted. But you did know that he had looked at you like Minho looked at Jisung. And you’d been drawn to him like Jisung was drawn to Minho. 

You also told them about the events that had transpired only a few hours earlier that day. And about those weird days in between the two events, where neither of you had known how to act around each other. Both of them listened, Jisung stuffing his face with the food you’d brought, and Minho just smiling. When you were done, you let out an exasperated sigh. “I just don’t understand what’s happening! Why is he looking at me like that all of a sudden?” Minho chuckled. “Oh, he’s been looking at you for a while.” 

You blinked at Minho. "I mean, sure", you said after taking a beat, "he's been glaring at me." Minho chuckled. "That's when you looked at him, kitten", he said, "but I saw him when you didn't look." "What's that supposed to mean?" Minho shrugged. "If you ask me, he has a big fat crush on you. The man was making heart eyes at you every damn day.” Again, you had to blink repeatedly to process the information. "What?!"

"No, think about it", Jisung weighed in, "He though you two were dating" - he gestured at Minho and you - "and then he finds out you aren't and suddenly he's not being an asshat anymore. Kinda sus if you ask me." You looked between them trying to understand where this conversation was going. Hyunjin having a crush on you seemed like the most ridiculous thing you ever heard. It also made your heart flutter.

"But he was always so mean!", you said, looking helplessly at Minho. "And when did that start?", he asked, "Do you remember?" You did, in fact, remember. You remembered your first dance class with Minho. You remembered tripping over your own feet during a spin, landing face first on the floor. You remembered Minho hurrying to your side, asking if you were okay, using his usual nickname for you. Kitten. You remembered Hyunjin calling you out on your "two left feet" for the very first time when he was passing you on his way out of the room that day. 

"Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands as it all slowly came together. Hyunjin, who had liked you from the very start. Hyunjin, who'd been disappointed, maybe even hurt, that you dated Minho - which you didn't, of course, but the damage was done. Hyunjin, who found out about his misconception and immediately stopped mocking you. Hyunjin, who instead wanted to be close to you, now needing to fix what he'd broken over time. Hyunjin, who most definitely had a crush on you. And you, who were most definitely feeling the same exact way.

♥--------♥--------♥

Fenya’s Masterlist

[iwritejustforfun]

Coconut scented ꩜ .ᐟ (part 2)

part 1 👈

part 3 👈

Chishiya Shuntaro x reader

Word counts: 1.2k

Summary: Reader was a hairdresser back in the normal world, when she met Chishiya, she was determined to take care of his hair.

Warning: The second part of this series. It’s a whole lot of fluff, just declaring Chishiya’s feelings for you. I used different colors to distinguish each character’s words.

Writer's note: English is not my first language so i'm extremely sorry if my grammar is not correct, feel free to correct me, thank you and enjoy 🫶

It's not wrong to say that Chishiya slightly regrets not stopping Kuina from instilling confidence in you, because the way that you’re walking around in that tiny bikini is driving him crazy. Luckily for him, that doesn’t happen too often, you still want to protect yourself from crazy perverts – like Niragi, to be exact. But the thing is, it's not just the fact that you're wearing a bikini that distracts him, it’s everything that you do. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when everything changed, but now, every word, action, and smile of yours makes his heart flutter. He can’t help the feeling of wanting to get closer to you.

But what drives him even crazier is the fact that he had never felt these feelings before with any other woman, so why you? Even though in the back of his mind, he knew that he was falling in love, because that is how love is, you can’t control it, nor you can control who you fall in love with. But he just can’t bring himself to accept it. He’s in denial that the cold hearted Chishiya is developing feelings, he didn’t want to feel attached to anyone, especially in the Borderlands – where anyone could die tomorrow. Although that man is overly confident in his intelligence, he suddenly became stupid in love.

He had tried to stay away from you, but never succeeded. Occasionally, he still lets you take care of his hair, and he would always console himself with the fact that he only does it because you’re really good at your job (not because he actually loves the way you touch him).

And now, you’ve gained a new hobby, which is practicing makeup on Kuina. Every night you two would leave him behind and hide in the room to have your own fun, doing makeovers and putting up fashion shows with the variety of clean bikinis that you found. The truth is, the two of you did invite him, you said something about how makeup would suit him really well, but he pretended not to be interested, because he don’t think he could control himself if you get that close to him. Until one day, you both managed to lure him into being your judge for your little show. You and Kuina will compete to see who gives the other person the best makeover.

You are the first one to show off your skills, a few days ago you found a sailor hat along with a really cute sailor bikini laying around, it must be one of The Hatter’s kink (ew), but you decided to wash and keep it anyway because you know it’ll suit Kuina really well. You make her change into the bikini, then take off her pony tail and turn her dreads into low pig tails so you’ll be able to put the hat on her. For the make up, you gave her thick eyeliners with a blue under eye that matches her outfit, then you draw on a tiny anchor on her right cheek and finishes it off with a red lip. Damn, you’re so proud of your work, she is drop dead gorgeous, you’re for sure going to win this.

Next it was Kuina’s turn. Now some people might mistake her for an absent-minded person, but she is actually quite sharp. She knew that Chishiya has a big fat crush on you, and it’s so funny that someone as perceptive as you can't figure it out, cause come on, he makes it so obvious. So with this opportunity, she has decided to mess with him. And lucky for her, the day before she found a leopard print bikini in the unused pile, it was tiny - perfect.

Saving the best for last, she starts with your make up, deciding to give you smokey eyes with some freckles, brown lip liner and gloss. Then she tops it off with some chunky gold jewelry that she had collected around The Beach. For the hair, she just let you wear it down. Satisfied with her work, she thrusts the bikini into your hands and pushes you into the bathroom to change.

When you took a good look at the bikini, you were shocked at how small it was, so you called out to her – “Kuina, this is tiny!!! I can’t wear this!!!”

“If you don’t then you’ll just have to admit your defeat” - she challenged, knowing that you're a competitive person.

At first you were hesitant, but thinking that you could show off to Chishiya, you confidently stepped out, wanting to see what his reaction would be. And let me tell you, that man’s eyes almost fell out, jaw dropped to the floor. Damn, you have him in a chokehold, he’s so thankful he had agreed to this. He wishes that you could always dress like this, but then again, it’s not really a clever choice in this environment (and it’ll be a big distraction for him).

So without any hesitation, he chose Kuina as the winner, his reasoning was because he likes cat. That is such a stupid excuse, but he doesn’t give a fuck, you look good and he isn’t going to lie about that.

Kuina jumped for joy when she knew she won. But you were not buying it, you outfit was AMAZING, how could you lose??? “I want a rematch” - you said, with a displeased look.

“Chishiya, let me do your make up”

“What?”

You then walk over to him and push him down on the bed – “I’ll show you that you’ve made the wrong decision”. Without saying another word, you climb on top of him and strangle his body in between your legs, making him sit still.

Oh, this is going to be interesting.

He tries resist a little but is now pinned down by your body, he could clearly feel the way your skin was rubbing against him, making the blood rush straight to his …ahem… so he stops moving, afraid that if you push down any harder you’re going to be able to feel him.

He is now completely at your mercy.

So you pull out your make up bag again and begin your revenge. You decided to give him smokey eyes that matches yours and cat-eye eyeliner to enhance his sharp gaze. Then you put on some light contour and blush to make him look absolutely snatched. Finally, you finish off his look with a pink-ish gloss and accentuate his beauty mark. Done, you then give him the mirror so he can admire your work.

When he saw his reflection, his jaw dropped, even Kuina standing next to him was surprised. Damn, you have done a really good job, he has never looked so fabulous in his life, and he can’t even deny that he’s feeling himself. So with a nod from Kuina, he admitted that he made the wrong decision, you are the true winner.

As soon as that was said, you cheered in joy. You were celebrating your victory when you realized that you were still sitting on top of Chishiya, so you awkwardly cleared your throat and quickly moved away from him, but still continued to celebrate your victory, making him instantly miss your touch.

But when he saw how happy you were, the way you playfully teased Kuina and how your bubbly laughter instantly lit up the room, he knew. He knew that he couldn’t push back his feelings any longer, he’s long been lost in your eyes, captivated by your lips and lovely smile, never wanting to escape. He can feel himself painfully yearning for you, and he will willingly do anything, anything, to be able to call you his.

You have to belong to him.

[lesbonoi]

some of sherlocks idle animations that make me giggle plus one im not sure is actually used in the game:

[fouryearsofshades]

Some Chinese fashion styles

Disclaimer: The following styles and their definitions were observed by me and are not authoritative. I am only familiar with Hanfu and if I made mistakes and picked the wrong photo examples or fraud shops, please let me know. Also, this post focused on women's fashion because 1. I am not into men's fashion so I don't know much about them. 2. The algorithm also knew that so I don't really see them.

汉服/Hànfú

传统服饰/Chuántǒng fúshì （传服/chuán fú）

清汉女/Qīng hàn nǚ

旗装/Qí zhuāng

旗袍/Qípáo

新国风/Xīn guó fēng、新中式/Xīn zhōngsh�� 汉元素/hàn yuánsù 茶艺服/Cháyì fú or 茶服/chá fú 唐装/Tángzhuāng 中山装/Zhōngshānzhuāng.

汉服/Hànfú

The ethnic clothing of Han Chinese (not the Han Dynasty).

There was a prohibition of Han clothing and hair styles in Qing dynasty, i.e. the 剃发易服/Tìfā yìfú qu Queue Ordinance, so modern hanfu is an on-going revivalist moment.

Modern hanfu are based on archeological evidences with minor twists to suit modern like, such as the type of fabric used and cut.

As a result, there are many types of garments and sub-styles. The figure above shows some examples.

While which style should be included and promoted is a constant debate, but in general, the cutout line is the Qing dynasty (however small accessories such as purses are alright).

传统服饰/Chuántǒng fúshì （传服/chuán fú）

No example because I am not sure who identified with this label.

The Chinese traditional clothing.

This either referred to historical clothing restorers (regardless of ethnicity) or people who promoted that the traditional clothing of Han people should be in the late Ming dynasty style, since "people should get up at where they had fallen".

They might be agreeable with the hanfu movement or not.

清汉女/Qīng hàn nǚ

The clothing of women of Han Chinese in the Qing dynasty.

Since the Queue Ordinance wasn't that strictly enforced on Han women, the Han women clothing in the Qing dynasty had quickly absorbed Manchurian's elements while retaining the characteristic two-piece silhouette. (Manchurian women wore a one-piece robe.)

I believed it appeared around 2019 when the styles of hanfu had moved to fully embroidered surface to a more tone down brocade or weaved patterns.

旗装/Qí zhuāng

The ethnic clothing of Man people (Manchurian).

The women's clothing are generally in round collar opened on the left (youren) with straight sleeves.

The most basic item is a 衬衣/chènyī, which doesn't have vents.

However, the most common item I have seen on the street is a 氅衣/chǎng yī (probably rented), which should be worn on top of 衬衣, since they have side vents.

They usually have no standing-up collar but in some cases a fake collar could be worn.

On top of changyi they could wear a 马褂/mǎguà、坎肩/kǎnjiān、褂裥/guà jiǎn.

旗袍/Qípáo

The Chinese clothing of women originated from the Minguo era, known in English as qipao or cheongsam.

The male equivalent is 长衫/chángshān.

Currently in style is the retro-cut, while uses the traditional flat cut (no shoulder seam) instead of the more body-hugging modern draping style.

There are also many variations and cuts, but the overall silhouette is similar.

新国风/Xīn guó fēng、新中式/xīn zhōngshì

Innovative clothing that was inspired by Chinese traditional aesthetic.

It is an umbrella term.

汉元素/hàn yuánsù refers to clothing inspired by hanfu specifically, while xinguofeng could be inspired by qipao and other ethnic clothing. In addition, hanyuansu is a term more familair to hanfu-ers, so the target audience is slightly different between hanyuansu and xinguofeng.

茶艺服/Cháyì fú or 茶服/chá fú,i.e tea dress, which aimed to convey a zen and rustic aesthetic could also be considered a sub-style. They are often worn by retirees, artists or workers in tea shops, calligraphy shops, Chinese spas, Chinese traditional medicine clinics etc.

The older "Chinese style" generally refers to 唐装/Tángzhuāng and 中山装/Zhōngshānzhuāng.

Tangzhuang (Tang Suit) was a men suit characterized with a mandarin collar with a row of 盘扣/pán kòu frogs in the middle. There are two pockets at the bottom front of the suit. It was a well-known looked worldwide due to the 2001 APEC summit. However, other clothes resembled a 马褂/mǎguà could also be called a tangzhuang.

Zhongshanzhuang was designed and named after Sun Yat-sen but was often known in English as the Mao Suit. Mao Suit was characterised with a 关门领/Guānmén lǐng（“closed-door collar", but also known as Mao collar in English) with a row of round buttons. There are four pockets at the front of the suit.

中华lolita/Zhōnghuá lolita

A sub-style of the lolita fashion inspired by cheongsam/qipao, hanfu or other Chinese artistic elements.

The same item could appeared in different styles, but with different cut and accessories. The following examples showed a mamianqun used in different styles.

THE END

[feroluce]

On Sampo's name (ALL of his names!)

I feel like everyone who's a fan knows the meaning of Sampo's full name by now- the sampo was a legendary item that could magically make endless supplies of gold, flour, and salt, all priceless items at the time! So it works perfectly for a scammer businessman like Sampo. ☆

"Koski" is the Finnish word for "water rapids" which might seem kinda random but actually makes sense for him, since Aha and the Masked Fools are also referred to with water terms:

This kind of analogy isn't specific to only Aha and the Masked Fools, but it does still tie them together. So water rapids fits perfectly! Sampo wants to stir the pot! He likes to shake things around and spice things up! He's taking that stagnant pool and turning it into water rapids! It would actually explain his ridiculous hair color, too; a dark blue wave tipped with white foam haha

EDIT: an amazing contribution from @ricochetlovebombs, who heard it from hoyolab user Rattaboy. If you interpret his first and last name together, instead of separately like I did, you would get something like "money river."

In other words, Sampo's name literally means CASH FLOW SKXJMDMDMD

What I really wanted to talk about is his drag alias name, though, Brughel Poisson, because to me that's where it gets really interesting.

So like in the English version, Sampo goes by Brughel Poisson when he's in disguise. Searching for just "Brughel" itself doesn't seem to get you much at first: a Flemish and Dutch Renaissance painter named Pieter Brueghel the Elder, who was famous for his landscapes and peasant scenery, especially Hunters in the Snow and The Blue Cloak.

He's referred to as "the Elder" because he had a son also named Pieter Brueghel (the Younger), and he began a long line of painters, all named Brueghel. Some of them did original work, and many of them created reproductions of the Elder's art to sell. The Elder was also famous as a printmaker. All of this is hilarious when you remember that Sampo is an infamous counterfeiter and has sold a relic called the Parallel Universe Printer JSKZJSMD

There is also something called Brueghel's Syndrome, named after one of Brueghel's paintings called De Gaper, which pictured a man yawning widely. It's a condition that causes the mouth to open and gape uncontrollably, twisting a person's countenance into a distorted mask of their usual face.

Tumblr doesn't have a way of censoring pics like twitter, so for the sake of the medically squeamish, I'm just showing De Gaper here. But if you look up Brueghel's Syndrome, you can find pictures of actual patients, some of whom really do make faces resembling Aha's comedy and tragedy masks!

In the Chinese and Japanese versions, his alias last name is a lot more silly- In those, "Sampo" is phonetically written as "san-bo" and "san-po." And in disguise, his last names are phonetically written as... "Bo-san" and "Po-san." The Chinese version uses different tones, but still. This smug asshole seriously just decided to write his own name backwards and called it a day NDMKXMDMD

In the English version, Poisson itself is kind of a reused Hoyo asset- it's also the name of Navia's fishing village in Genshin Impact. Which is a really silly name for a village, because it literally just means "fish" in French smzjxkdkdk but!

Again, more water imagery. And in English, if something is suspicious, we say that it's "fishy," which is perhaps the most fitting association yet for someone as shady as Sampo ☆

And for a good while I thought that was the only connection. But then. My beloved @hydrachea, who is an actual native French speaker, dropped this on me right after April Fool's Day:

Poisson is literally the word you use to pull an April Fool's prank.

[sang-i-fetge]

Forever curious abou the fact that Willis Todd casually had Lady Shiva, a secret agent, and a doctor who does illegal operations in his adress book??

And that's just what we know

[racetrackmybeloved]

why do the newsies always magically have such large coins, surely they'd mainly be carrying pennies since that’s what most people would be paying per pape ??

anyway we were robbed of a scene of race s l o w l y counting out 50 pennies to give to wiesel just to be a little shit

[friendlycursedspaceotter]

ATTENTION US CITIZENS OF COLOR!

ICE has shown that they will be racially profiling during their raids, so here is how you can prove citizenship, here is how to apply for a US passport if you don't have one already (GET ONE), here is how to get a passport card that is explicit proof of US citizenship, and here is the national immigration legal services directory.

For your safety, none of these are rickrolls or phishing sites. They are either government-run or from nonprofit agencies who deal with these things. (I put down the immigration law directory because you are probably going to have an easier time with getting one.)

And remember: "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can (and probably will) be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to a lawyer. If you do not have one, one will be provided to you. If you decide to answer questions without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop at any time." The Miranda Rights, addition mine

this post was inspired by this video (tw mentions of violence, potentially graphic violence, the cops doing shit, mention of child separation): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6O3U17Cs0Sk

Summary: ICE walk into a seafood store and arrest a US veteran of color. They did so unlawfully.

I have attempted to make this post as disability-friendly as possible. Lawyers of Tumblr, feel free to add to this and correct me.

The information in this post may also be used for protected non-citizens, but not all of it may be applicable. Again, feel free to add to this.

If you try to start a MAGA fight in the reblogs/replies, you will be blocked and reported for the reason most relevant to your offense. That behavior will not be tolerated here. Doxxing attempts will be similarly punished, as well as false reporting of this post. This disclaimer is in place because I have had enough to deal with IRL, and hate speech is not protected as free speech. If you go low, so will I. You have been warned.

We now return to your regularly scheduled silliness.

[deus-ex-mona]

i miss her…

[wizardmarriage]

シン・仮面ライダー 『継承』

[cassandragemini]

here's the refs of everybody who's on artfight this year

[dawnleaf37]

in honor of the tpot short with the failed debuters (assumedly) being announced soon heres my tierlist of all the tpot debuters most favorite to least

tags for longer opinions :3

[chilapis]

Last post before I crash and no-one hears from me until I return from my first final the morrow’s eve (a changed man no doubt) but there’ll never be anything funnier to me than consistently being viewed as a composed and calm saviour by peers while I’m, actively and uncontrollably losing it.

[rainbowvamp]

Story idea:

married person. partner asks for a divorce married person did not want. married person grants their request because they don't want divorce asker to be unhappy. married person and divorce asker did one of those little sand jar things where you pour in the two different color sands in a pattern to symbolize how you're entwining your lives together or whatever. after the divorce is finalized, married person obsessively tries to separate the two colors of sand from each other over the course of several years. thinks this will be healing. gets therapy at some point. something something giving up on separating the sand and just putting it all together and throwing it out at the beach is way more healing that obsessing about it ever would have been and the lesson is that letting go takes time and sometimes we do a thing we think is letting go (helping) but is actually just a way to hold on (hurt ourselves).

[columboposting]

Honestly not even the last fifteen years — try since the 1990s. A lot of the language we use to talk about social issues today comes from academia, and it is language that has been in use in academia for far longer than it’s been in vernacular. “Social constructs” and the ways in which texts produce/subvert/question them have been, broadly speaking, the primary concern of literary scholarship since the ‘80s. The third wave of feminism started in the late ‘80s; Kimberlé Crenshaw coined “intersectionality” in 1989, and very soon after it gets picked up by a lot of literary critics. Edward Said’s Orientalism, which is pretty much the starting point of postcolonial theory, came out in 1978. By the year 2000 Queer Theory and Gender Studies are flourishing. Fuck, I was so busy talking about those guys I almost forgot to mention that Marxist lit theory has been alive and well since the fucking ‘70s!!!! If you go back and read a piece of literary theory from 1998 you will probably be surprised by how much it sounds like it could have been written yesterday. But that’s because many of the ways we now describe gender and race and sexuality were invented by academics — queer and female academics, academics of color, other marginalized academics — thirty-forty years ago. 

Obviously, criticism from the early/mid-20th century is, to generalize a little, going to suck for all the reasons you think it will; back then, most critics had this idea that a text had one objective correct meaning, and the critics deciding on that meaning were overwhelmingly wealthy straight white men (that said, we even owe some things to those nerds — mainly close reading, looking at a paragraph or a sentence of a work and examining its form and content and using it to draw conclusions about the work at large, AKA what’s happening in 90% of tumblr media analysis). But since the 70s literary criticism has been primarily post-structuralist, and since the 90s that post-structuralism has primarily turned its attention to examining how a text understands structures of class, race, gender, sexuality, culture and society at large in very nuanced, intelligent ways. There are a lot of fantastic scholars doing a lot of fantastic work!!! Post-Colonialism, Gender Theory, Queer Theory, Feminist Theory, Critical Race Theory, and New Historicism are all doing quite well at the moment — within the past fifteen years or so you can start throwing Ecocriticism into the hat, if you want to see people talking about how literature treats the natural world. By dismissing “scholars,” you’re ignoring the fact that there are a lot of really cool literary critics you could be learning from RIGHT NOW!!

And this is a little beside the point but I do really want to note that also: you’re neglecting the fact that YOU are doing scholarship, even if you’re not “scholars”!! Like, I hate the people who invented close reading, but holy shit close reading is the foundation of like every piece of tumblr media analysis ever!! Furthermore: Frankly, if you’re talking about the latent meaning hidden within the text you are probably also doing a little bit of psychoanalysis because that’s where we get that idea about reading literature (sorry, fellow Freud haters). If you’re talking about the emotional reaction the text provokes, if you’re interested in how the serialized nature of dracula daily changes the experience vs reading it as it was published — congratulations, that’s Phenomenology, the study of how people experience a text!!!!!! Plus there are (as previously mentioned) all the ways that we get our vocab on gender and race and class and social constructs from theory. Your blorbo analysis post is a form of literary criticism that is deeply, deeply indebted to both modern post-structuralist theory and earlier 20th century ideas of close reading and psychoanalysis, even if you don’t know it. In that respect, and in the fact that modern criticism is going to be working under many of the exact same methodological and ideological influences as you, I promise literary scholarship is worth your time. 

since I'm paying more attention to drac daily stuff this year I'm seeing a lot of posts saying "scholars always get the book wrong" and guys, ya gotta read better scholarship. poke around on jstor and google scholar for publications from the last ~15 years. see if you can find queer / feminist / postcolonial centered journals with online public archives. find a writer you agree with and see who else they cite. I prommy that academics are not your enemy and a lot of them are in their line of work precisely because they're just as not normal about their blorbos as you are. hashtag don't turn this into another "historians will say they're just friends."