#past tense verb

[possibilistfanfiction]

ive been in complete brainrot mode about your arcane prompts and the way you write the dynamics between cait vi and jinx. like ive just been thinking about potential scenes in this au so if its okay im just going to list down some suggestions for prompts if that’s okay?

- vi gets brought into the hospital because she spent too long in a burning building trying to rescue as many people as she could (because that’s just the kind of person she is). cait and her argue over how sometimes vi needs to put her own safety first while she treats her wounds.

(I’d actually love to read any prompts where cait just simply cares for vi emotionally/physically cause vi’s backstory too makes me froth…) i just want to put her in my pocket and keep her safe :(

- jinx/vander/vi go to the kiramman’s for that dinner party and jinx/cassandra get along super well cause they collaborate on their embarrassing childhood stories about vi and cait. a joint slay

- a cassandra pov chapter as she notices how serious cait is about vi and the little moments between them and what she thinks about vi.

- maybe a cait focused chapter about how much of an empath she is and how exhausting it is to feel so deeply and try so hard to make everything better for everyone.

Thank you so much for writing this au!

You understand these characters so well and i feel for them so much when i read your work. Your writing carries so much heart and bleeds love practically :’)

it’s been all I’ve been thinking about lately and it brightens up my day immensely when i get a notification that you’ve updated! :)

[is there anything so undoing as a daughter! anyway i tried to work most of these in in some way; cassandra pov for u :) ao3 if u want. (also cait is trans bc since this is my au there's no transphobia & i love her)]

//

caitlyn informs you that she's a girl three days before her tenth birthday. she cries, but she's calm, and tobias is first to take her into his arms and tell her that it's good, that it's lovely, that you'll both do everything you can to see her, to make sure she's seen the way she wants to be, the way she is. you hug her too, so tight, because it's one thing to have a son, to instruct, always, how to be thoughtful, and kind, and use all the privilege your last name carries to do good in the world.

your child is thoughtful, and kind, and determined — in spades — with the set of your brow and the blue of your eyes. you do love your child, without reservation.

caitlyn's lip trembles and you brush back her hair that you'll teach her how to take care of when it starts to grow long; she sniffles and you kiss her forehead. she will grow tall and elegant; you and tobias help her choose her great-grandmother's name and then change all of her records accordingly; you take her shopping for new clothes she picks excitedly, and a few years later she beams when she tries on a pretty, simple lace bra; you ask tobias to explain the medications she needs and help her, when she's small, to keep track of them, until she can do it herself; you hold her hand in recovery after each surgery, where she cries in relief and you wipe her tears with a gentle smile. each new stage of belonging brings with it an ease in her breath that you cherish. she grows to be fierce and funny and brave, and still always gentle.

you love her, and you see her — always, she has been yours; she had grown inside your body and you had held her first, the greatest pride and joy of your life.

but it's something you had never been able to prepare yourself for, in any circumstance: a daughter. she undoes you every day.

//

you first hear the name vi — a nickname, of all things, used formally — one sunny, cold afternoon during a late lunch after caitlyn had come over to shoot skeet, a rare day she'd finished work early.

she tells you about her weekend, how she'd climbed and it was sunny and brilliant and she felt strong.

'with jayce?' you ask.

she nods. 'we met some people we ended up climbing with, too,' she says, which is new. 'they were both really good, and very safe. vi,' she tells you, and her voice goes a little reverent, soft around the edges. 'and her sister,' she tacks on, almost an afterthought but not unkind, just not her focus. she clears her throat, a blush spreading across her cheeks, different from the flush that you're accustomed to when you shoot in the cold together. 'anyway,' she says, and you fight a smile behind a sip of tea, 'what did you and dad think of the opera?'

you laugh, but you're relieved too: no one will ever be good enough for her — not only because of the name she carries, one you had carried all your life too, but because she's a force no one can harm, as long as you have any say.

you don't ask more questions after this vi; you tell her about the opera, and then you shoot some more, one more round. she doesn't miss.

//

when caitlyn was born, you held her tight. all day long, people had been in and out to meet her, and she had been so calm. it's not what you or tobias had wanted, but she was the heir to the kiramman name and so her fortune was already set, far before you had cried in joy at the positive pregnancy test on the bathroom counter, tobias laughing delightedly, and far before she came into this world, with grey eyes that will turn electric blue and strong, tiny hands, clenched perpetually. she was so small and so new, and you handed her off to the nurse in the waning hours of the evening so you could sleep through the night.

not even two hours later, though, as the pain was really started to set in and tobias was dosing off in the chair next to you, the nurse had apologetically brought her back, bundled and screaming, her face splotched with red from crying.

'she won't stop,' the nurse said. 'we've tried everything, but she's keeping the other babies up. i'm sorry.'

you shook your head and took her back into your arms while she wailed as much as her little lungs would allow. you wondered about her, everything, because she was a person and there was so much to learn. you unbuttoned your gown and held her to your bare skin; she stopped crying, just like that. she latched onto your breast, easily, and ate a little, and then fell asleep, little sighs filling the room. tobias looks on in a very exhausted awe; you brought your lips to the crown of her head, the soft tuft of dark hair there that smelled so good, beyond anything you could have ever imaged: yours. she didn't fuss when he placed her in the bassinet a few minutes later; she slept all night, wanting just to be near you.

//

you're in your car, your driver regrettably apologizing as you get stuck in a typical rush hour traffic jam on the freeway, when caitlyn calls, a few weeks later.

'are you stuck in this traffic too?' you guess after she asks what you're doing, if you're free.

she groans. 'i was hoping to get home early, have time to decompress and shower before...'

she trails off, a pause you decide to let rest. she's always needed to tell you things in her own time.

'i have a date tonight,' she confesses, and you can hear the giddiness, the nervousness, through the phone.

you hum. 'oh?'

'yeah,' she says, and you stop yourself from chiding her about the informal word. 'i — she's amazing, mom. i just want it to go well.'

'well, you're a kiramman,' you remind her, the reminder thinly veiled under a tinge of encouragement in your tone. 'i'm sure you'll be quite impressive.'

she sighs; you know it's not the reassurance she wanted, but your family doesn't always have that luxury. she doesn't tell you anything else — instead you talk about the upcoming council vote on your latest bill, and how her meeting at work about funding cancer treatments went — and, of course, you don't ask.

//

tobias, always softer than you, especially with your daughter, asks after this vi on sunday. you meet caitlyn for brunch at your usual monthly spot, your mimosas already poured and cortados prepared as you sit down at your table.

'next month, just bring vi,' tobias says when he notices caitlyn's fire department sweatshirt underneath her peacoat. it's not too nice a restaurant for her jeans, boots, and a crew neck, but you are not normal patrons. he laughs when he says it, not disapproving in the slightest, a smirk on his face when you understand the implication: caitlyn had come from vi's home this morning, rather than her own apartment.

'it's serious, then?' you ask, and you try not to feel slighted that tobias seems to know far more about caitlyn's feelings, and vi's existence, than you: it's your own doing.

caitlyn fiddles with the corner of her napkin. 'yes,' she decides on, her smile small and tender, her shoulders soft. 'i'd like if you met her. i... well, i hope she'll be around for a long time.'

you suppose it was bound to happen: caitlyn is beautiful and smart and driven, talented and successful and, most importantly, good.

'we should meet her, then,' you decide.

//

caitlyn was in her first year of college the first time she brought home a girlfriend. you're sure she'd had girlfriends over before, a few of her friends throughout the years of secondary school giggling too much to just be interested in hanging out, as they say, but you hadn't prodded and she hadn't said. you'd always left that up to tobias, who still called her sprout and spent afternoons on long walks with her and the dogs, a daughter somehow easier to handle for him.

during winter holiday, even though university is just an hour away from your home, she brought home a girlfriend for winter holiday. this girl's family lived far away, and, for most, it's expensive to travel that distance, and so, ever generous, caitlyn invited her. you had agreed, if only because it was proper and you didn't want a fight before she even arrived.

the girl, for the most part, was uninteresting, if polite. caitlyn was enamored, but you trusted it would fade. she had been distinctly sad when she arrived home for summer break, informing you — tobias already knew, although he didn't have much of a clue about caitlyn's grades or extracurricular involvement — one day hunting that she and this girlfriend had broken things off. she'd not given you any real reason, just that it didn't work out, but you'd seen her frowning at the kiramman coat of arms engraved into a bullet. she'd loaded her gun, though, her favorite hunting rifle, when she spotted a hare, and shot perfectly without pause.

//

'and what is vi short for?' you ask, doing your best to not stare at the face tattoo caitlyn's very serious girlfriend has of her own nickname.

'oh, uh,' she responds, looks at cait and then rubs the back of her neck.

her hair is messy and asymmetrical, and the t-shirt she's wearing is quite nice, tucked into similarly nice slacks, and her belt matches the loafers you're absolutely sure are caitlyn's because you yourself had bought them for her for her last birthday — but there are more tattoos over the backs of her arms, disappearing under her shirt and emerging again on her neck. you do your best not to judge — and you don't judge people, especially your constituents — but vi is not just a person in your life. caitlyn, allegedly according to tobias, is in love with her, only a few months in.

'violet,' caitlyn says, squeezing her hand not-very-discreetly under the table, a degree of reverence in her voice that has tobias looking your way with his brows raised. 'but she prefers vi.'

you might think that vi is certainly not good enough in any way for your daughter, but you also won't force a name down someone's throat: you didn't do it with your own child, and you would never do it now. 'vi, then.'

she nods, thankful, and looks to caitlyn's hands to figure out which fork to use when your salads are delivered. unfortunately, for just a moment, it's endearing, and when caitlyn smiles, proudly, later on while vi talks about her work as a firefighter, detailing one of her latest calls where she was able to carry two children out of a burning apartment as it collapsed, nonchalant and humble about the whole thing, you see a sliver of what caitlyn does: someone brave, heroic, steadfast in her selflessness — a partner. vi eats four of the small desserts when they get placed on an elegant tray in the middle of the table; caitlyn just laughs.

//

when caitlyn turned twelve, she tried to run away. tobias, as you both frantically looked for her, hours before her party, had insisted it wasn't about her everyday life: her peers at school had been accepting and kind this year, even if she wasn't always good at making friends, and her teachers spoke highly of her performance and participation in classes; her puberty blockers had, so far, worked wonderfully, without any averse side effects.

it wasn't hard to find her, mostly because there are few places caitlyn loved more than the stables on your property; she was less interested in the horses than she was spending time with your hunting dogs. they had loved her for years, because she was always sneaking them bits of chicken from the kitchens, and also because she loved them: dogs can tell those sorts of things, you're sure.

you had found her, curled up in the hay loft, her eyes red rimmed from crying, snuggled up between the dogs, sniffling a little in her sleep. her party, an annual affair, was slated to begin in a few hours. but still, tobias had turned to you and led you out of the stables by the hand. caitlyn's presents, all kinds of gadgets she'd been interested in, and new books and toys, as well as a beautiful gown for the event, were abandoned in her room. 'just let her have a few more minutes,' he'd said, glancing back at her. you are in charge of so much, responsible for so many: caitlyn's childhood, while full of the pressures of her name and status, has been, in all the ways you deem most important, full — there are those who, certainly, have it much worse.

but still, you'd agreed, if only because she'd cried herself asleep.

//

vi is, among other things, a gifted rock climber and boxer, a very devoted older sister, a terrible shot — when caitlyn tries to teach her skeet, they end up laughing more than hitting any targets, which no amount of eye rolling on your part seems to dampen — and, you will admit, a loving girlfriend who seems, genuinely, to understand some part of your daughter that you never quite have.

it's caitlyn's birthday, and she will always have your last name, which means there is a party, all chandeliers and champagne, every year in the great room at your home in celebration of her birth. vi shows up on time, with jayce and viktor and mel, looking almost comfortable in a space like this, laughing at a joke mel says and elbowing jayce in the arm, holding viktor's drink while he situates his cane. she's handsome, in a suit you're sure caitlyn had helped her pick and get tailored: her broad shoulders fill out the jacket and her shirt underneath is unbuttoned just enough to look fashionable and not sloppy.

caitlyn is, every year, beautiful, and competent, and kisses vi quickly — still soft, still heavy with promises — before she says hello to her friends and then greets you and tobias with kisses to the cheek and then, less formally, hugs. the gown she wears this year is the same dark as her hair, hugs her hips, and is just on this side of elegant, and you know she'd worn it for one person, and one person only: vi's eyes never seem, truly, to stray from her, no matter how many rounds of boring conversation caitlyn has to wade through.

eventually, when the party is in full swing, you head back to the kitchens to check on the dessert course. you turn the corner and see caitlyn and vi sitting on the counter, in the corner of the kitchen, your head chef ignoring them fully other than a small smile directed in caitlyn's direction when she moans around a bite of grilled cheese, her favorite since she was small. vi takes a bite of her own sandwich, and then says, 'holy shit, cait, you weren't lying,' and caitlyn laughs, relaxed from the champagne she's had, sure, but also different from every other year you've celebrated her coming into the world.

caitlyn ducks her head when vi moves closer, so they're touching all along one side, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. the chef delivers a cupcake with a smile, one single candle in it, and then winks.

'happy birthday, baby,' vi says, takes out a lighter from her suit jacket, and lights the candle. caitlyn blows it out, looking younger than you remember in a long time.

//

vi's father immediately reminds you of her: his muscles fill out his dress shirt, and he's brash, laughing heartily with tobias, but a little shy at the same time, when he doesn't know whether or not it's appropriate to eat with his hands.

'it's a burger and fries,' vi's little sister says, rolling her eyes and digging into her own lunch — at a normal cafe near the water and their climbing gym, which caitlyn had insisted upon for this meeting — with no hesitation. she's... interesting, with a messy blue buzzcut and a denim jacket with neon spray paint all over it, shaky hands and big, bright eyes — she looks like vi but younger, softer, a different kind of weary: her own entity entirely. you've heard of her from caitlyn, sure, how she's fun and funny and requires a level of care that vi will always hold sacred, and also from jayce, from has spoken so highly of her studies, how creative and smart she is, how she has, in his words, the genuine potential to change the world. tobias asks after her arm; a few weeks ago she had needed some stitches, and she proudly pulls back the cuff of her jacket and shows him the neat scar. 'excellent work, dr. kiramman the original.'

it gets a laugh out of you, which both caitlyn and vi look a little surprised by, but jinx only grins.

'wanna hear about the time vi was trying to do a flip and her sweatpants ripped right off? she was ten.'

vi groans while vander lets out a hearty chuckle. 'do tell,' you encourage.

it's, perhaps, one of the easiest meals you've shared with caitlyn and vi, if only because they're so mutually mortified at the trading of embarrassing childhood stories between their families like the most precious currency.

'i have to say,' you decide as you're picking up the bill, and then point your last fry at jinx, 'i like her.'

she gives a triumphant ha! to both caitlyn and vi, and then shoots a finger gun in your direction, grinning.

//

caitlyn calls tobias, crying, in the middle of the night. he puts the phone on speaker, because you'd woken too, and because your heart had skipped a beat the moment he answered and you heard caitlyn's sniffle. she tells you that vi was in a building when it collapsed, that they were able to get her out but it took too long, and she's hurt, and unconscious, and just getting to the ER now. she tells you that she's picking up vi's younger sister on her way there, and she asks tobias to come in and she asks you to bring clothes and food tomorrow morning, once they know more of what's happening and how vi is doing.

you don't go back to sleep that night; you wait for any updates from tobias and schedule send emails for the morning, just to have something to do. vi might not be your favorite pick for your daughter, but she's been wholly devoted to caitlyn for two years now, and you know they're planning to put an offer in on a house soon — not subtle in her commitment, despite her best efforts.

eventually, tobias calls to tell you that vi has made it through surgery and, although they'd had to remove her spleen and stop some difficult bleeding in her liver, and despite some broken ribs and a sprained shoulder, she should be just fine. you won't admit it to anyone, but you cry a few tears of relief when you hang up; more than anything, vi makes caitlyn safe and happy, and caitlyn takes great joy in being able to offer the same in return, and you would never want that to be taken from either of them.

//

they have a fight, not soon after, only about a month. caitlyn calls you, furious, even though you're in the middle of preparing one of the most important referendums of the year; she's your daughter, so you answer.

'she's being ridiculous,' she grits into the phone. you give her a moment to gather herself, and then she continues, less aggravated, 'i know it's because she isn't good at letting people help her, and she's worked on it in therapy, i know because we've gone together too.'

you hum gently.

'she's still hurt; her ribs haven't fully healed and she just got her stitches out two weeks ago, and she still gets headaches all the time, and yet today i got home to her building shelves. with a drill and everything! and normally, like, that would be hot —' caitlyn pauses, seemingly carried away for a moment; you don't laugh, just to spare her, but you have to fight it. 'we don't need more shelves right now. i just need her to...'

when she doesn't say anything, seemingly stuck, you suggest, 'let you take care of her?'

she sighs, on the verge of tears. 'then we had an argument. but, yes, all i want to do is take care of her. she had — she had so many unkind, awful things done to her; i saw her films and scans, and — mom.'

'oh, sweetheart,' you say, accepting, understanding, for the first time, the depth of their love: the grief, the pain, the boredom and difficulty and miracle of it all. 'she's stubborn only because it can be scary, to let someone love you so completely. i know how it feels, with your father.'

she sniffles. 'i do, love her like that.'

'you'll show her. she'll let you. just talk to her.'

'do you promise?'

she sounds so young, so small; you've wrapped her up in your arms and promised things much more difficult than reconciliation between the two of them. 'yes, my dear. i promise.'

//

time moves: they have a housewarming and, although you think their brownstone is smaller than necessary, it is beautiful. jinx shows you her basement proudly, and introduces you to her boyfriend? best friend? partner? — you're not quite sure, and her rambling and his adoring laughter at it, hadn't provided any real clarification. you help set out the small finger foods they'd ordered from their favorite lebanese restaurant, and you meet so many of their collective friends. it's a happy day, with a lot of wine, and everyone is in socked feet, and caitlyn wraps her arm around vi's waist and kisses the side of her head during a quiet moment in the hall, just the two of them in their home.

they adopt a dog, a big black and white boy who they're both immediately in love with and who falls asleep with his blocky, soft head on your lap when you sit down one evening with them over the holidays to watch a movie. caitlyn adores him, sends you and tobias pictures of him on their trail runs often; they take him on climbing trips and he enjoys sleeping in the sun.

//

when caitlyn is fourteen, you sat down with her and pressed your grandfather's wedding band into her palm. 'this was, when you were small, supposed to be yours, one day.' it was thick and gold and decidedly more masculine than she'd ever want, but it was gorgeous all the same, with your family's coat of arms inscribed on the inside.

she looked a little troubled by it, sorting out her feelings: what things belong, and what things are just off. you and tobias had never asked for her to explain, only if she wanted to; she told you, years ago, who she was, and you had always believed her.

'i can hold onto it for you,' you told her, 'just in case there's ever anything you end up wanting to do with it. there's no pressure, sweetheart. just know that it's yours.'

she had let out a big breath, relaxed her shoulders from her ears. 'okay,' she told you. 'thanks, mom.'

//

vi and jinx are out of town, on some kind of trip with jinx's partner, and caitlyn hadn't been able to take enough time off of work to go with them. she's over at the house now, moping about, clearly missing the people who have now become her family too, but it's dramatic enough that it's funny.

you're not sure, it's a gamble, but you call her up to your closet. she slumps down on the bench, in running shorts and one of vi's fire department captain — a recent promotion that you think caitlyn had been more excited about than vi herself — sweatshirts; she props one knee up and rests her chin on it, then looks at you expectantly, confused but interested.

'i'm not sure if you remember,' you say, and find it easily in the back of one of your jewelry cases, 'but i thought now might be a good time to give this to you.'

her eyes get big, the same blue as yours, when you put the ring in her hand. you're certain they've both been thinking of it: marriage, everything at the heart of such a union. their love, certainly, is big enough.

'i'm not sure what size violet's ring finger is, but it should be easy to resize, if we need.'

'oh.'

'but —' you rush to say — 'if you had a ring already picked out for her, one she might like better, we can just put this away again.'

she looks away from the ring and up at you, and then she's standing, years of grace and strength, the surest, best shot you know, and hugging you. she's taller, and the crook of her sweatshirt smells very distinctly like vi's cologne and caitlyn's perfume, all at once. 'thank you,' she whispers, teary.

you have so much you could say to deflect, about the horrors of wedding planning or whether or not vi is going to take the kiramman name, but caitlyn is your daughter, and you hold her to you like she's still small, still yours.

//

you straightened the straps of the dress caitlyn had picked out, the first she's ever tried on. she took a deep breath and then raised her eyes to look in the mirror. her hair was still short, although it was growing fast, much to her relief, and her features were delicate already on their own.

caitlyn turned to hug you tight around your waist, bursting into tears. you fought them yourself, instead rubbing gentle circles along her back while she got it all out. eventually, you dried her tears and turned her around to look in the mirror again. 'you are so beautiful, my girl,' you told her, and shushed when she started crying again. 'stand with your back straight,' you instructed, 'and your chest proud. the kiramman women have always been a force, and you will be too.'

she nodded, seriously, and straightened her thin shoulders. even though her lip trembled, a smile made its way through.

//

it's an ordinary day, another lunch, sunny and bright, when they tell you.

'a girl?' you ask, just to make sure you've heard them correctly.

'well, for now, at least,' vi says, sending a wink caitlyn's way, who rolls her eyes and then laughs.

they tell you more details of the adoption that's happening sooner than you can fully wrap your head around; you and tobias the second in the family to know, just after jinx, who had only found out this morning. she was, apparently, immediately thrilled, and tobias echoes the sentiment.

'to the kiramman women who have come before,' you say, after you've hugged both of them tight and ordered a bottle of champagne, 'and to those who will lead us forward, even further.'

caitlyn rolls her eyes and the seriousness, but they're suspiciously wet, and vi wholeheartedly clinks her glass with yours.

later, vi goes to get the car and tobias is settling the bill while you and caitlyn wait outside in the sun. 'prepare for her to be your undoing,' you tell her, serious but with a mirth you can't contain.

caitlyn raises a brow. 'i haven't been that bad.'

you shrug.

'mom.'

you laugh, pat her cheek.

she smiles, so bright. you weren't sure, when she was young, if this would ever be in the cards for her, but her life is beautiful and big, a world any child would be lucky to be loved in.

you hug her again, because you can. 'you are going to be a wonderful mother.'

she's taller than you, much stronger, but she'll always be small; you hold her still. she'll always be yours.

[tallbluelady]

I... I don't think that's quite my style...

[motions1ckn3ss]

orestes fasting and pylades drunk. hammered. leathered. trollied if you will

[cupophrogs]

What the fuck is the word “twunk”

[tombst0nelament]

Tbh it was probably good that I didn't get my arm blacked out by this artist....

[pompadourpink]

Le participe passé

The past participle (found in the pluperfect, perfect, past conditional, perfect past, past imperative, past infinitive, past gerund, past subjunctive, and pluperfect subjunctive tenses) is the second element (like been or taken) used to create several compound verbal tenses - the most common one being the perfect tense. A past participle can be masculine or feminine, singular or plural.

La conjugaison

Le premier groupe (-er except aller):

-é, -ée, -és, -ées (nous sommes arrivées - we have arrived)

Le deuxième groupe (-ir except découvrir, faillir, ouvrir, partir, sentir, sortir, tenir, venir...):

-i, -ie, -is, -ies (les filles sont parties - the girls have left)

Le troisième groupe:

Règles générales:

-s, -se, -s, -ses

-ø, -e, -s, -es (many irregulars: ouvrir > ouvert, peindre > peint)

-us, -ute, -us, -utes

Règles détaillées:

-é, -ée, -és, -ées; aller, être, naître

-ert, -erte, -erts, -erts; all -ffrir, -vrir except appauvrir

-i, -ie, -is, -ies; all -(a, e, ou)illir, -érir (not after -qu-), a few -uir(e) (fuir, suivre, rire) + partir, réussir, sentir

-is, -ise, -is, -ises; all -quérir + asseoir, mettre, prendre

-lu, -lue, -lus, -lues; résoudre

-ort, -orte, -orts, -orts; mourir

-os, -ose, -os, -oses; clore

-s, -se, -s, -ses; mettre, prendre

-t, -te, -ts, -tes; all -aire, -indre, -uire + dire, écrire, faire

-u, -ue, -us, -ues; all -oir except asseoir (devoir gets a circumflex), all -aître except naître/paître, a few -ir (courir, tenir, venir), most -re except mettre, prendre

-us, -use, -us, -uses; inclure

-us, -ute, -us, -utes; absoudre, dissoudre

-

Les règles

The past participle will have to agree with a feminine and/or plural subject if the auxiliary is Être. Les souris sont mangées par les chats - mice are eaten by cats.

If the auxiliary is Avoir and the syntax of the sentence is -determiner, noun, auxiliary, past participle, object- then you do not make the participle agree with the noun. It will stay in the neutral form, the masculine singular. La chatte a mangé la souris - the cat has eaten the mouse.

In the same way, if the object is an infinitive verb or an infinitive clause, the participle does not agree with it and stays in its neutral form. La chatte a voulu manger la souris - the cat wanted to eat the mouse.

If the object is placed before the auxiliary (as a noun or an object pronoun), the participle has to agree with the subject. La souris a été mangée par le chat - the mouse has been eaten by the cat.

N.B. If the perfect is made of Avoir + Fait and followed by another verb faire (making someone do/make): je lui ai fait faire des pâtes, or if the object comes with a preposition (indirect object rather than direct object): j'ai parlé à mes parents > je leur ai parlé, there's no agreement.

-

Les participes passés irréguliers (+e/s)

Acquérir (to acquire) → acquis

Apprendre (to learn) → appris

Atteindre (to attain) → atteint

Asseoir (to sit) → assis

Avoir (to have) → eu

Boire (to drink) → bu

Comprendre (to understand) → compris

Conduire (to drive) → conduit

Connaître (to know) → connu

Construire (to build) → construit

Courir (to run) → couru

Couvrir (to cover) → couvert

Craindre (to fear) → craint

Croire (to believe) → cru

Décevoir (to deceive; to disappoint) → déçu

Découvrir (to discover) → découvert

Devoir (to have to) → dû

Dire (to say) → dit

Écrire (to write) → écrit

Être (to be) → été

Faire (to do; to make) → fait

Falloir (to have to) → fallu

Instruire (to instruct) → instruit

Joindre (to join; to affix) → joint

Lire (to read) → lu

Mettre (to put) → mis

Mourir (to die) → mort

Naître (to be born) → né

Obtenir (to obtain) → obtenu

Offrir (to offer) → offert

Ouvrir (to open) → ouvert

Peindre (to paint) → peint

Permettre (to allow; to permit) → permis

Plaire (to please) → plu

Pleuvoir (to rain) → plu

Prendre (to take) → pris

Produire (to produce) → produit

Pouvoir (to be able to) → pu

Recevoir (to receive) → reçu

Réduire (to reduce) → réduit

Rire (to laugh) → ri

Savoir (to know) → su

Souffrir (to suffer) → souffert

Suivre (to follow) → suivi

Tenir (to hold) → tenu

Vivre (to live) → vécu

Valoir (to be worth) → valu

Voir (to see) → vu

Vouloir (to want) → voulu

Movie: Le grand blond avec une chaussure noire - Yves Robert, 1972

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[thebigcj]

I had a friend and his partner ask me for something recently, and they started saying pretty please, but then he said “beautiful please” and I really haven’t been able to stop thinking about it

[unbearable-lightness-of-ink]

so anyway I really did start compiling a kinyarwanda/english dictionary/grammar guide out of all the random resources i've been hoarding on my phone (it doesn't have to be great, it just has to be better than searching multiple different files every time I'm looking for some obscure vocab or grammar detail) and one of these resources is some PDF uploaded to the internet archive and it's... not great. from the writing and contents it's clearly

old (my guess is mid-1900s. I don't remember colonial and post-colonial Rwandan history specifically enough to guess well here, but based on some of the typos, it was done on a typewriter and then scanned with OCR)

intended for missionaries (some examples of actual sentences in the "translate this" exercises include "I praise God because He saved me and He gave me peace and joy" and, I shit u not, "The blind man cannot see the Word of God, but he can hear and he can know the love of Jesus." it's. well for one thing this is basically useless vocabulary for me, and also it's cringe af)

written by someone who was not a linguist (at one point instead of just saying "if T is preceded by an unvoiced consonant, it turns into D" they give you a list of every unvoiced consonant and then recommend that you invent a mnemonic phrase to memorise the list?! why?)

written by someone who was shit with pronunciation (legit so many places where they're like "there's no way to describe how this sounds, you just have to ask someone to make the sound for you" my good bitch the phoneme might not be in english but I could describe it just fine. skill issue.)

but the thing that's really killing me about all this is that every time they try to explain tonal vowels or phonemes that aren't in english, they tell you to "ask an African to say it for you."

an. an what now? an African? babe there are approximately 1.5 billion people in Africa. Africa accounts for about 20% of the land on earth, it's the second-biggest continent, and it has an estimated two thousand living languages spoken throughout the continent.

and kinyarwanda? it has maybe 15-25 million native speakers, depending on which source I trust. it's spoken (almost*) exclusively in rwanda, which is the 9th smallest country in Africa--and that roundup includes islands off the coast of the continent. It has the second densest population in Africa but it still only has like 13 million people in it. and it's a very unique language. its closest relatives do not have the same phonemes that kinyarwanda has, and its closest relatives are also spoken by relatively few people. I don't know enough about kirundi to say much but I do know that it doesn't have the same vowel tones in all instances and it doesn't have some of the same consonant clusters. and the more widely spoken related languages that you're more likely to stumble on someone who knows how to speak? they're even worse for a reference; ask someone who speaks kiswahili to pronounce kinyarwanda for you and they will not pronounce the difference between, say, umuceri (rice) and umucyeri (berry), or the tonal difference between words like umusambi (floor mat) and umusambi (crested crane).

so, like. it's just absolutely sending me, this random white lady who was obviously a colonialist missionary, bothering to make a whole language guide to teach me how to proselytise in kinyarwanda, but along the way she's like "just ask an african--any african--how to say this" lady less than 1% of them are going to know this language but go off i guess

*almost because there's the diaspora of rwandan expats and immigrants in other countries plus the banyamulenge which is a whole aspect of it that has so much fraught history on all sides that I won't even try to say something intelligent about it, it's totally not my place/something i'm educated enough about, but to my knowledge most of them speak dialects that are more or less dissimilar to kinyarwanda; kinyamulenge and kinyabwisha are not the same as kinyarwanda. take it from my munyamulenge coworker who could never pronounce the difference between c and cy

[lokh]

i know people complain about like. learning the rules for te-form or informal past tense in japanese being difficult but. right now swedish feels a million times worse

[giolovesyousm]

A Letter from Heaven

[except this is very bad, bc I wrote it at 3am in the morning after rewatching dps while crying & listening to ts]

You probably have so many questions I'm not capable of answering, and I'm sorry about that; I never would've imagined myself choosing this either, over you all, over everything we've been through, all the laughters, the jokes, the tears.

That night, was the best night I could ever ask for, and I thank you for that, this wasn't the reason I'm not there with you anymore.

I just could not handle the life I would had to lead from that day on, it was a life I didn't choose, the only thing I could have choose in that current life, was my death, and so did I.

I choose it over everything, it was the second time I followed my own path, the one I wanted to create step by step.

maybe you could call me selfish, impulsive, and you could use many other adjectives, but I tried so hard, I really did: the moment the gun, my own hand was holding, reached my temple, I saw everything, I saw charlie and cameron's skirmishes, pitts and meeks' energy, knox's hopeless heart, and saw todd, his handwriting, his shy smiles, how his cheeks blush pink when he's comfortable, and all the love he'd been capable of giving me, in just three months; the love a father could never give.

but I still did choose the easiest way (someone could say), the one that would have ended it all, either the bad and good things; the second choice, to follow my oppressor, was too hard to pursue, it would have been more difficult and painful, or at least that's what I thought in that single moment of clarity before pulling the trigger.

please don't cry for me, I didn't cry for me either, spend your life at its best, make it extraordinary, seize the day, and don't think too much about the boy who just wanted to act.

forever yours,

-neil

[mikerickson]

This is gonna come across as a really low-effort post, but I'm starting to study Italian after already having a background in French, Portuguese, and Spanish, and it really is a cycle of just seeing new vocabulary and going:

[wheelchairbatgirl]

Would you look at that, past me even screenshat the credits for this issue. Birds of Prey, didn’t save the year, though.

This is a pretty good stylized wheelchair, in general. I have to deduct points for two things. First of all, grabbing the tires instead of the push rims will be a 1 point deduction per instance. Firm rule there, so that’s a -2. My other issue is just how much wider than her arm span is the top wheel width. Especially in top-down shots, those top wheels look like 29” apart. Combine that with 11 degree camber and she’s not going to fit through federally ADA-compliant doors (36”). She’d be okay at California’s 48” requirement, but based on the old architecture and political corruption we see in Gotham, I suspect that and building owner with narrow doorways can either get a historical exemption or bribe public inspectors to look the other way.

No wonder she says she can’t get out much. Inaccessibility’s a bitch.

I’m distracted. Where are we? Uh. 7.5 out of 10.

[auditionsuggestions]

Me, every time I see someone say "casted."

Cast. The word you are looking for is cast.

[artemistorm]

Shelter in the Storm (part 1?)

Random fic I had the idea for last night and I spent all day today writing. Wild gets stuck in a cave in a cliff in a storm. I do have some more written and an end goal in mind for this story but who knows if I can focus long enough to get there. Anyways. Here you go. (1373 words)

******

Wild wakes. He’s cold. Everything hurts. He blinks his eyes open. It’s dark and he can hear rain falling and wind whistling and moaning. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there. He’s there, but not really there, and he doesn’t even notice his eyes closing and he slips off to sleep again.

The next time he wakes, he’s cold. So cold.

He needs warmth. That’s all he can think of: warm, warm, warm, he instinctually seeks it out like a lizard in the morning. He can’t see anything but he doesn’t need to. His hand finds a way into the pouch on his belt and gravitates toward the heat of his flameblade. He takes it out and lays it beside himself surprised when his arm lances with pain above the cold-dulled soreness he has everywhere else in his body, but he doesn’t care to figure out why.

The light of the flame blade is the only thing Wild can see in the darkness and he takes comfort in knowing he isn’t blind. He tries to sleep again but only dozes on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. The sword isn’t doing enough to stave off the chill in the air. He groans and rubs his face in his sleeves. Again, he reaches into his pouch. His hand shuffles around clumsily and with minimal feeling in his cold-numb hand. His hand closes around a bottle and he pulls it out. It’s glowing softly orange—a warming elixir—just what he needs.

With great effort he sits up. His grip strength is weak and his hands shake as he wrestles the cork from the glass, then downs it in gulps, suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. It may not be a heart elixir but it still has a minor degree of healing effect. He slumps against a stone wall and closes his eyes and drifts as warmth washes over him and the pain fades away.

Wild wakes up sometime after the sunrise but it’s still dim. The warmth of the elixir has worn off and he’s cold again, but it’s tolerable. He starts, eyes widening when he sees how his hands and arm are a bloody mess. His clothes are damp and filthy and tattered and he has no recollection how it happened.

He’s in a relatively small and shallow cave of jagged and crumbly stone. Beyond arm’s reach at the mouth of the cave, his glider lays, the cloth shredded, just like his sleeves and arms. What could have done all this?

Wild staggers to his feet and limps stiffly toward the mouth of the cave. The ground where the glider lays is splatted with bird or keese guano and he grimaces in disgust. He picks up the glider and tosses it further in away from the edge. He can’t repair it. He doesn’t have any spare fabric suitable for it, nor does he even have a sewing kit or skills.

He looks out into a dark and stormy sky and far below, a field of bright green grass. He’s in a cave high up on a cliff. He leans out as far as he dares and looks up to see the top, but he can’t, rock overhangs the cave entrance blocking his view. He can’t glide out of the cave with the glider (and his arms) in the condition they are, nor can he climb the rain-slicked cliff. He’s stranded in the cave until the storm lets up.

He backs away from the opening and looks at he slate. No map. They’re not in his Hyrule.

That’s right. This is a new Hyrule.

It comes back to him now. The Chain had entered a portal into a new Hyrule and Wild ended up alone at the top of the cliff in the storm. He’d walked along it for a while but didn’t find anyone. He’d thought he’d heard Hylian voices echoed up from the field below and he had jumped off the cliff to glide down.

His memory of what happened next is foggy. He remembers being in great pain and terrible fear, scrambling to not die. There’s a gap in his memory and the last thing he remembers is flopping to the ground in the cave and immediately passing out.

What had happened to him while he was gliding? Had he been attacked? Did he slip off the glider’s handles and fall? Had he been struck by lightning? Did he run out of stamina? Had he fallen into the cave or climbed up to it? Were his injuries and the damage to the glider caused by the jagged cliff rocks or by something else?

At any rate, he was stuck. He’d have to camp out and make the best of it.

Wild had another warming elixir and then went about starting a fire. Once it blazed strong enough that a gust wouldn’t put it out, he set up the cooking pot and started heating up water. Gingerly he peeled his tunic off, splashing warmed water onto his arms to unstick the tattered fabric from where it had adhered to his wounds. Tunic removed, he inspects his hands and arms, rinsing off blood and dirt (he hoped he hadn’t gotten any guano on them, but he couldn’t tell). Hot red streaks (rope burns?) spiral around both his arms from the knuckles of his hands to his elbows like ivy encircling a tree. A multitude of cuts and bruises litter his skin from his fingertips and along his palms and the undersides of his arms. It feels as if the bones themselves were aching.

As much as Wild hated to admit it, he ought to use the ointment Hyrule gave him once. It was some kind of sticky honey-based ointment that was supposed to somehow prevent infection and help with healing. While Wild had an excellent immune system and rarely ever got sick, he’d been told that being cold, dirty, and not caring for injuries immediately all increased his chances of getting an infection.

Wild finished washing up, used the whole bottle of ointment to cover both his hands and arms, then bandaged them. He put on his snowquill set and tossed his dirty clothes in a pile. Between the warming elixir, the snowquill set, and the fire he was quite cozy. He dumped the washwater at the mouth of the cave and it ran out and away off the cliff, washing away some of the guano. He set a new pot of water to boil in order to make tea and porridge.

He frowned at the thick and heavy clouds. How long would this storm last? How long was he going to have to linger in the cave? He doubted the others would find him halfway up a cliff in a cave; when could he leave to go look for them? The storm didn’t answer but raged on with no sign of letting up anytime soon. If he had to guess, he was going to be stuck there all day at least, and probably all night too.

After breakfast Wild sets up camp. He constructs a low windblock wall around the fire of loose stones he’d found from the back of the cave, sets out bowls and pots at the entrance of the cave to collect rainwater, hangs up his dirty clothes on the cave wall, piles firewood nearby, and rolls out his bedroll. Taking inventory of his supplies, he finds that while he had plenty of ingredients, he is low on actual meals and elixirs. Hmm. He knew what he was going to do to while away the stormy day.

But first, a nap sounds nice. Despite only having been up for an hour or two, he feels himself starting to crash again. Though it is rather unusual for him to be so tired, it did happen from time to time on his adventures. There was nothing for it except to sleep and hope he felt more awake and less foggy once he awoke up again. And so he lays back on his sleeping mat, feeling warm and safe and well fed, even if the ground was a bit lumpy and his body was sore.

[rustbeltjessie]

There are verb tenses in writing that are not taught in schools. These are tenses that one learns instead when one grows older and knows that things will either be or not be, when one finds out that one might have been or might not have been something or other. I will refer to these tenses as the future imagined and the past imagined.

The future imagined is contingent upon daydreaming, that is, the type of daydreaming that can foretell the future. If I write in the future imagined, you may not know it. Whenever I write my daydreams, I am writing in the future imagined. In this type of daydreaming, the boundary between reality and the imaginary is blurred, and because this type of daydreaming brings the same daydream over and over again, we live out the same moment an endless amount of times, until that moment takes on the same qualities as our memories. Who is to say that what occurs in my dreams or my daydreams did not really happen to me? If I live them and experience them with the same intensity that I experience events in real life, then who is to say that these dreams or these daydreams are not real? If you follow me into my dreams, then__________.

When we write about dreams, we write them in the past imagined. So too do we write in the past imagined when we write about old love affairs, because nothing is as unreal, as dreamy as love. And nothing is as confusing, as cryptic, as encoded as what occurs, as what is said, when we leave a love affair and suddenly have to live again outside of that dream, that dream where something could occur, might occur, should occur, would occur, could have occurred, might have occurred, should have occurred, or would have occurred.

—Jenny Boully, from Betwixt-and-Between: Essays on the Writing Life (Coffee House Press, April 2018)

[dhwty-writes]

i have long disliked the spellcheck of google docs but is it just me or is word getting worse as well?