#romane speaks french

[comite-de-salut-public]

How many times a day is the roman empire brought up?

Actually not that many! The Roman Republic, on the other hand...

[bywandandsword]

So I'm researching Cajun folklore to try and reconnect more with my culture and idk if it's just me being GaelPol brained, but it seems very much like there's a Cajun Fairy Faith that parallels things I've seen in the Irish, Scottish, and British Fairy Faiths

[giantkillerjack]

Latin: THE CARRIAGE IS STUCK IN A DITCH (raeda in fossum est)

i’m obsessed with these…

(From DepthOfWikipedia on Instagram)

[facts-i-just-made-up]

What’s your favourite linguistics fact?

I wrote a history of the English language a while back that I'm pretty happy with-

English was invented in the year 927 by Lord English of England. Because 927 was a long time ago, he called it "Old English." Lord English of England was German, so the language was mostly just German with a dash of the language spoken by the original inhabitants of England, the Romans.

It became popular to speak English until 1066, when English Island was taken over by a French guy named Norman. Norman insisted everyone speak French, but they didn't know French so he just dropped some French words into the middle of the language and called it "Middle English."

After Middle English, trade patterns and technology such as the printing press and podcast allowed the infusion of numerous other languages, which all melted into English in their own way. Because they melted with each other, the new language was called "Modern English." Several sounds and phonetics changed over the years as well, so this was called the era of the Colossal Vowel Movement.

About this time, England did its usual bullshit and colonized pretty much every place on Earth that it could. English thus spread like a linguistic coronavirus across America, Africa, Australia, and Atlantis, which managed to purge the English influence by sinking to its total destruction and thereby avoiding the horrors of having to speak English.

Today, English is the most spoken language on Earth, not because the most people speak it, but because those who do just never shut the fuck up. Several books have also been written in English, including "Fifty Shades of Grey," "A Weasel in My Meatsafe," and "Pounded In The Butt By My Handsome Sentient Library Card Who Seems Otherworldly But In Reality Is Just A Natural Part Of The Priceless Resources Our Library System Provides."

[windvexer]

Book Review: The Witch's Art of Incantation, 2nd ed. by Roger J. Horne

10/10, I'd buy again for what it is: but you should know what it is before you buy it

This is a review of the second edition, which is about 100 pages longer than the original and contains 55 additional incantations.

What's it about?

This is a book of translated and edited historical and folk incantations to be used in syncretic folk witchcraft or any form of witchcraft. These incantations are grouped into 9 categories:

Seeking the Old Ones

Calling to the Green World

Love and Spurned Love

Coinage and Prosperity

Curses and Maledictions

Spirit Flight and Second Sight

Blessings and Benedictions

Heretical Psalmistry

Miscellaneous latinate charms

Besides a brief introduction, the book is just incantations.

It's not a spellbook. It doesn't tell you to collect candles or herbs, or what day of the week to work them on, or the moon phase, or whatever. Just as it says on the tin, it's a book of incantations.

However, Horne does have a very handy section at the beginning called Approaches to the Art of Incantation.

Here he describes methods and techniques to help empower incantations (I recommend not skipping it), a framework for understanding the power of words, and folk magic actions that may be combined with incantations, such as the burning of candles with pins stuck in, or speaking over poppets.

If you've skipped Folk Witchcraft, definitely check out this section.

(As Horne explains in the introduction, the first ed. of this book was a companion book to his other text, Folk Witchcraft. Apparently, Folk Witchcraft provided a great deal of context and lore surrounding the use of the incantations themselves.

The second ed. has been developed into a standalone text, but Horne still recommends looking to Folk Witchcraft if you want more context.)

Where do these incantations come from?

Horne makes it clear that he primarily sourced incantations from Europe and America (primarily Appalachia) not because they're particularly better in any way, but because these are the areas his ancestors and practice stem from. He makes an outspoken statement against any perceived Eurocentric authority, and warns people to not take his area of focus to mean there is more power within those cultures than within others.

That being given, these incantations are sourced historically from at least the first century onward, from a wide variety of sources, including Greco-Roman, Irish, Scottish, Cornish, Welsh, French, German, Appalachian, Icelandic, and more.

When possible, Horne notes where the incantation originated from, and in what manner he edited it.

All of these incantations have been edited for use by the modern reader; they are Horne's original adaptations. This is not a historical reference.

An example?

To give you an idea of the contents, this is one of the shorter incantations in the book, "A Call to Fire."

A Call to Fire Fire untamed, lustrous, and bright, power behind the sun, moon and every star. Aetherial fire, source of life, most splendid flower, heat-bringer, light-bringer, hear me, radiant fire. [Origin: 3 BC - 1 AD. Greco-Roman. Adapted and rearranged with poetic license after The Hymns of Orpheus. pg. 100.]

This incantation may be used to charm offering candles, to consecrate sacred fires, to call forth salamanders or fire elementals, to honor a god or spirit of fire, and so forth - the application is up to you.

Is the variety solid? Are they versatile enough for use even if you don't consider yourself to be a folk witch?

A big reason I recommend this book so highly isn't just because it's handy for me, but because I think it is very versatile.

The variety of what's presented is exceptional; there are charms to hail the seasons and the moons, the Old Ones and plant allies, to cure grief and wrath, to call a lover, to steal wealth, to conjure all varieties of helpful spirits, to reveal a thief, to hag-ride, to skin-change, to induce second-sight, to charm your cards for better readings, and I could go on and on.

In addition, because Horne sources everything where he can, it's a wealth to look not only at his adaptations but compare the charms to the historical originals, and thereby gain inspiration for developing your own incantations.

The best part for me is that they're all usable. It's not a spellbook where you can't get some ingredients so you can't use some spells. They're incantations that you pair with whatever spell elements you want to include, including just using them on their own.

But are they sexy? Will I feel like I'm living deliciously?

Yes. You will feel like you are living deliciously. You will feel like ye olde wytche who feeds blood and honey to their familiar, and steals the potency of men at night as you roam in your second skin; you will believe you may only be harmed with a silver bullet when you take the form of a hare to rob milk from cows.

Real quick, what's up with those 'heretical psalms' and latinate charms?

The last (and smallest) portion of the book more heavily leans into syncreticism. Horne's attitude in the book is that folk witchcraft is by practicality and oftentimes necessity a syncretic one, and that witches use what's on hand in order to get the job done. He references the importance of the influence of the Church on modern cunning traditions, including both the adoption of psalms and also of latinate language.

Twenty-three psalms are printed in the book along with recommended magical uses, along with a list of the magical uses of psalms (which you'd have to look up yourself).

Finally, Horne has a fifteen incantations in Latin. Or, latinate, as he keeps clarifying. He hasn't taken charms and translated them into Latin, rather he's edited historical folk charms that were recited in liturgical Latin by the people who used them - again emphasizing syncreticism in folk magic.

If you're not into Christian syncreticism, I doubt this section would be of use to you. This section constitutes 80 total pages out of 319, or about a quarter of the book. Personally I'd still get it for the more pagan incantations even if I didn't want the more syncretic ones, but it's certainly not to everyone's tastes.

(Be advised that there is a lot of Scottish folk magic in this book, plenty of which calls on Mary as divine authority. Obviously you can change the incantations as you please, but if you're allergic to these things, be aware they are peppered throughout the text.)

Chicken, who would you personally recommend this book to?

I would recommend this book to a practitioner who is:

Ready to start seriously investing in their personal repertoire of spells

Confident enough to experiment with spellcrafting

Sick and tired of spellbooks that recommend inaccessible ingredients, and just want building blocks to make their own full-format spells

Wanting a resource that helps with getting practical magic done within their current paradigm, without having to adopt a lot of new ritual aspects or theories

Looking for inspiration to expand their current practice without having to restart their practice

Looking for resources on Christian or heretical witchcraft

Anyone seeking resources on the power of words in practical sorcery

I'm a pagan, not a witch, and I love hymns and incantations. Would I like it?

To be honest, I doubt it.

Yes, the book starts with incantations to the Old Ones, who are ostensibly gods; but anyone with an eye to see can tell that the incantations all either relate to the Devil or the Queen of Witches. Also, one for Fenris ("darkling wolf") and one for the Sun.

Like 5 of the incantations may clearly be associated with Greek gods, but those gods are not named and the association appears to be selected based on their relevance to witchcraft.

A vast majority of all incantations in the book are related to spellwork and conjuring nature spirits. These incantations were designed for use in magic, which includes calling spirits and compelling action; not so much veneration or worship.

Readability and Accessibility

The physical quality of the book is disappointing. And that's not the author's fault and has no bearing on the actual contents, but right out of the box I was afraid the poor thing was going to fall apart. However it was cheap as hell so I have nothing to complain about, this thing was like $15 for a paperback. It has the quality you would expect from such a cheap purchase.

The text is sort of an artsy one? It's a serif font that's not too out there, but it's smaller than I was expecting, and my eyes don't love it. You will have to find your reading glasses for this one. All his books I bought are published in this typeface so I assume it's a choice.

Horne loves big paragraphs and long sentences. I find his writing style to be clear and easy to follow, but it's not a lower grade reading level. You may expect a maximum of two paragraphs per page in the prose portions.

The incantations themselves are broken up into much more manageable parts, always containing no more than 2 lines per paragraph break.

I believe Horne did this on purpose to compel the reader to find their own cadence in the incantations. But, it has the added effect of contributing to readability. The way each incantation is split up makes it very easy to follow and not lose your place.

6/10 for physical manufacture; I really wish the typeface was less artsy and more standard, but I could still read it through, especially once I got used to it.

[speaknow-sw]

THE POET AND THE ROSE Content : no smut just Anakin being himself. Age gap ? Anakin is 30 you’re 21. Vaginal touch and breast play. 3.7k words.

꧁ Chapter 1 : A Treaty in Vows ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

"They say the pen is softer than the sword, Yet neither have mercy for hearts of stone. I write not to conquer, but to endure, To whisper to shadows when I’m alone."

The clash of swords had long faded into memory, replaced by the measured beat of war drums. The French and British armies had bled each other dry over countless seasons, yet no victor emerged. The French Empire, once unyielding, now sought peace, not for lack of strength but out of weariness. Across the sea, the British, proud and unbowed, saw no other way forward.

And so it was that the fate of two nations rested not on the battlefield but in the fragile vows of marriage.

General Anakin Skywalker stood in the drafty war council chamber of a French outpost, his imposing frame dwarfing the room. His armor gleamed faintly in the torchlight, though the marks of countless battles marred its surface. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched behind his back as he listened to the terms of peace being read aloud.

"The King offers his daughter, the Princess, in marriage," the envoy concluded, his voice careful, almost hesitant.

Anakin’s lips curled into a grimace. He turned to Obi-Wan Kenobi, his second-in-command, who leaned casually against the stone wall, his expression betraying none of the mirth Anakin knew lay beneath.

"So this is what our victories amount to? A wife." Anakin’s tone was clipped, laced with disdain.

"It’s a union, not a surrender," Obi-Wan said lightly, though his eyes were sharp. "An end to the bloodshed, Anakin. Isn’t that what we’ve fought for?"

Anakin growled under his breath, pacing the room like a caged lion. He was a man of war, forged by the fires of battle, not the silken threads of diplomacy. The thought of binding himself to a woman he’d never met, for a peace he wasn’t sure would last, set his teeth on edge.

"She better be under fifty," he muttered, earning a snort from Obi-Wan.

"Knowing your luck, she’ll be a saint. Or worse, she’ll be kind."

Anakin shot him a glare but said nothing. The decision was not his to make. He was a soldier, bound to his king’s command, and the decree was clear.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century 

"To bind two nations with a golden ring,

A fragile thread between war and peace.

But peace is no gift—it is a battle of its own,

A sword wrapped in silk, waiting to pierce the heart."

Westminster Abbey was a grand, sprawling structure, its high arches and marble columns whispering of a legacy far older than France’s green hills. The air was heavy with incense, the murmur of the gathered crowd muted by the solemnity of the occasion.

Anakin stood at the altar, his back straight, his hands resting loosely on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. He had traded his battle-worn armor for fine but unfamiliar attire: a dark tunic edged with gold, a heavy cloak draped over one shoulder. Yet even in finery, he looked out of place, a predator among prey.

He kept his gaze forward, ignoring the curious eyes of Roman nobles who whispered behind painted fans. His thoughts were a tumult of irritation and resignation.

The doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, and a hush fell over the crowd.

The princess entered, her form veiled in a cascade of ivory silk. She moved with practiced grace, her steps measured, though Anakin noted the faintest tremor in her hands as she approached.

When she reached the altar, Anakin risked a glance at her. He could see nothing of her face beneath the veil, only the outline of her delicate figure. She was smaller than he’d imagined, her presence dwarfed by the weight of her ceremonial robes.

The priest began the rites, speaking in both French and the English tongue. Anakin’s responses were curt, his voice a deep rumble that carried through the hall.

Finally, the moment came.

"You may lift the veil," the priest intoned.

Anakin's hands hovered over the delicate fabric of her veil, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd expected to feel nothing, a sense of detachment from this forced union. But as his fingers brushed against the silk, he felt a jolt of electricity course through him.

Slowly, he lifted the veil, revealing her face inch by inch. Her eyes were the first thing he saw, a vivid color that seemed to pierce right through him. They were wide and luminous, framed by long lashes and set in a face of such beauty it took his breath away.

Her hair was a cascade of curls, tumbling down her back like a river of water. Her lips were full and pink, parted slightly as if she were holding her breath.

Anakin found himself staring, unable to look away. He'd seen many beautiful women in his life, but none who had affected him like this. It was as if the very sight of her had stolen the air from his lungs.

"You're... you're beautiful," he heard himself say, the words rough and awkward.

She blushed, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice soft and melodic.

The priest cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "The ceremony is complete. You may now be presented as husband and wife."

Anakin blinked, coming back to himself. He took her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. It was small and delicate, a sharp contrast to his own rough, battle-hardened hands.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

"Princess," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

"General," you replied, your tone measured but soft.

As they turned to face the crowd, Anakin felt a strange sense of pride well up inside him. This woman, this stranger, was his wife. The thought was still foreign, almost surreal. But as he looked down at her, saw the way her eyes shone up at him, he felt a flicker of something else.

Hope.

Perhaps this union, forced though it may be, could be more than just a political arrangement. Perhaps, given time, it could be something real. Something meaningful.

But Anakin knew better than to hold his breath. In his world, there were no guarantees. Only the harsh realities of war.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

”Bound by vows of gold and stone,

Two strangers stand beneath the crown.

The weight of peace, a heavy throne,

Where swords are lowered, yet hearts may drown.”

The reception was held in the grand hall of his castle, a sprawling room lit by dozens of chandeliers dripping with crystal. Long tables were laden with silver platters of roasted meats, ripe fruits, and delicate pastries. Musicians played softly in the corner, their strings and flutes weaving a delicate melody that was nearly drowned out by the chatter of the guests.

General Anakin Skywalker stood rigid at the altar, his jaw set, his expression an unreadable mask. He loomed in the sea of French grandeur, his presence at odds with the refinement of the occasion. The fine clothes he wore—a dark blue tunic trimmed with gold—felt foreign, a costume draped over the hardened warrior beneath. His scarred hands rested on the hilt of a ceremonial sword, though his instincts yearned for the familiar weight of the blade he had carried through countless battles.

Around him, the French elite murmured behind fans and jeweled hands, their gazes drifting to him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He could hear their whispers, faint and venomous.

"A barbarian…" "He doesn’t belong here…" "And she is meant to marry that?"

Their words did not bother him; he had grown used to such scorn. What rankled was the reason he stood there. Marriage. Peace. He was a soldier, a man who lived for the battlefield, not for the political games that followed.

Finally he sat at the head of the table, his new wife beside him. He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony, unsure of what to say. The weight of the day pressed heavily on him, the noise of the room grating against his nerves.

You were quiet, your gaze fixed on the goblet of wine in your hands. The soft light of the chandeliers caught the gold in your hair, making you appear almost otherworldly. Anakin found himself stealing glances at you, though he quickly looked away each time you shifted, afraid you might catch him.

"You’re brooding again," Obi-Wan said, leaning toward him from the next seat over. His tone was light, but his eyes flicked meaningfully toward you.

Anakin scowled. "I’m not brooding."

Obi-Wan smirked. "You are. Perhaps you should try speaking to your bride instead of glaring at your wine."

Anakin shot him a look that could have melted steel, but before he could respond, a sharp crash echoed through the hall.

All eyes turned toward the source of the noise—a French noble, Lord Aulbry, red-faced and unsteady on his feet, had knocked over a goblet. The wine spread across the table like blood, pooling near the edge.

"How fitting," the noble slurred, his voice loud and cutting. "A barbarian at the head of our table."

The room fell silent.

Anakin’s jaw tightened, but he did not move. You stiffened beside him, your fingers tightening around the stem of your goblet.

"Peace, Messire," one of the French officials said hastily, rising to calm the situation. "Tonight is a celebration, not a—"

"A celebration of what?" the noble sneered. "Of our empire’s weakness? Of selling off our princess to a savage?"

Anakin’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but you placed your hand lightly on his arm. He glanced at you, surprised by the gesture. You gave a small shake of your head, your expression unreadable.

"I suggest you hold your tongue," Anakin said, his voice calm but dangerous. His gaze locked on the noble, who faltered under the intensity of his stare.

The noble muttered something incoherent and stumbled back to his seat, and the tension in the room eased, though it did not dissipate entirely.

You leaned toward him slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you," you said, your tone careful.

"For what?" he asked, equally quiet.

"For not drawing your sword."

He allowed a faint smirk to cross his lips. "It was a near thing."

The castle chamber assigned to them was warm, lit by the soft glow of a roaring fire. The heavy wooden door closed behind them with a resounding thud, leaving them alone for the first time.

Anakin moved toward the hearth, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it onto a nearby chair. He could feel your eyes on him, though you said nothing.

"Does this room meet your standards, princess ?" he asked, his tone dry as he turned to face you.

You stood near the bed, your hands clasped before you. Out of the elaborate wedding attire, you seemed even smaller, dressed in a simple nightgown of white linen.

"It is fine," you said quietly. Then, after a pause, you added, "You may call me as you like, sir."

He arched a brow, and saw roses embroidered on her gown. "My rose, then."

"And what shall I call you?" You asked, surprising him with your directness.

"Anakin will do, or my husband." he replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with expectation. Anakin felt the weight of the evening press down on him. He had no desire to take you roughly right now—not out of indifference, but because he could see the tension in your posture, the faint nervousness in your eyes.

Instead, he moved toward you slowly, as if approaching a startled doe. When he reached you, he took your hand in his, his calloused fingers brushing against your softer ones.

"You’ve been through enough today," he said gruffly. "You needn’t fear me."

Your gaze searched his, and something in your  expression softened. You nodded, a small but significant gesture of trust.

He guided you to the bed, but instead of undressing you, he took a seat beside you and began to unlace your tight shoes. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as though you were something fragile.

"You don’t have to—" you began, but he interrupted you.

"Let me," he said, his voice softer now.

The flickering light of the fire cast a warm glow across your face, illuminating the delicate features that had captivated him since the moment he'd lifted your veil. As he knelt before you, gently removing your shoes, Anakin felt an unfamiliar tenderness stir within him.

"These shoes look uncomfortable," he murmured, his fingers brushing against your ankle as he worked. "I'm surprised you managed to stand through the entire ceremony."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "It's not the first time I've worn them, my husband."

The formal address sent a shiver down his spine, a reminder of the weight of this union. But as he looked up at you, saw the way your eyes shone with a mix of nervousness and curiosity, he felt something else. A spark of connection, however tenuous.

"Anakin," he said softly, his hand still resting on your foot. "Please, call me Anakin right now..."

You nodded, your cheeks flushing slightly. "Anakin," you repeated, as if testing the name on your tongue.

He rose to his feet, his hand moving from your ankle to your waist. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, but there was a strength beneath it that spoke of the warrior he was.

"You're trembling," he observed, his thumb rubbing small circles on your hip. "Are you cold?"

"No," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm just... nervous."

Anakin's heart clenched at the admission. He knew all too well the fear of the unknown, the anxiety that came with stepping into uncharted territory. But he also knew the power of vulnerability, the strength that could be found in laying oneself bare.

"There's no need to be afraid," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "We have all the time in the world to... get to know each other."

The last words were laced with a hint of suggestion, but there was no pressure in his tone. Instead, there was a promise, a silent vow to take this journey together, one step at a time.

He drew back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "May I ?” He asked, a hand on the thin strap of your linen gown. 

Anakin's eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the air between you. He could feel the weight of the moment, the anticipation that seemed to crackle like electricity.

But there was no rush, no need to force the issue. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your throat in a feather-light kiss. The touch was innocent, almost chaste, but the scruff of his jaw sent a shiver down your spine nonetheless.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I find myself at a loss for words."

His hand slid from your waist to your back, drawing you closer. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of your nightgown, a reminder of the man beneath the armor.

"Tell me," he continued, his voice low and husky. "What do you want, my rose?"

The question hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Anakin knew he was treading on dangerous ground, that one wrong move could shatter the fragile trust that had begun to grow between you.

But he also knew that this moment, this first night as husband and wife, was a turning point. A chance to build something real, something lasting.

You took a shaky breath.“Anything you’d like me to have, husband…”

Anakin's heart raced at your words, a heady cocktail of desire and tenderness surging through him. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Are you sure, my rose?"

Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips. It was all the encouragement he needed.

Anakin's hands slid down to your waist, his fingers splaying across the small of your back as he pulled you flush against him. He could feel the heat of your body, the way your curves melted into the hard planes of his own.

"I want to worship you," he murmured, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. "To taste every inch of your skin, to make you writhe with pleasure."

His hands roamed lower, cupping your buttocks and squeezing gently. The thin fabric of your nightgown did little to hide the heat of your skin, the way your body responded to his touch.

"Tell me what you need," he urged, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me how to please you."

Anakin's own need was a throbbing ache, his cock straining against the confines of his trousers. But he held himself back, determined to focus on your pleasure first.

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. "I want to hear you, my rose. I want to hear you cry out my name."

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your nightgown higher and higher. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your muscles quivered beneath his touch.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your core. "Do you want me to touch you here?"

Anakin's own breath was coming in ragged gasps, his control hanging by a thread. But he held back, waiting for your response. This was your journey, your pleasure. And he would follow your lead, no matter where it took him.

His scruff ghosted against your shoulder. “I fucked many whores senseless in brothels…but never thought I’d have an angel to satisfy. This is the culmination of my mere mortal life…to have you in my arms, quivering from the pleasure I’m giving you …how lucky I am to be alive right now.”

Anakin's words washed over you, a heady mix of reverence and desire that sent shivers down your spine. You felt cherished, worshipped, like a goddess being praised by a devoted supplicant.

"Anakin," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. "Please..."

It was all the encouragement he needed. With a low growl, Anakin swept you into his arms, carrying you to the bed. He laid you down gently, his body covering yours as he hovered above you.

"You're my angel," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. "My very own heavenly creature, sent to grace my mortal life."

His lips found yours in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep as he claimed your mouth. You responded with equal fervor, your hands fisting in his hair as you pulled him closer.

Anakin's hands roamed your body, mapping every curve and hollow. He pushed the straps of your nightgown down, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his fingers skimming over the sensitive flesh. "Perfect."

He lowered his head, his tongue flicking out to taste your nipple. You arched into him, a low moan escaping your lips as pleasure coursed through you.

Anakin lavished your breasts with attention, his mouth and hands working in tandem to drive you wild with need. Your hips bucked against him, seeking friction, but he held you down, his weight pinning you to the bed.

"Not yet, my rose," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I'm not nearly done with you."

His hand slid down your body, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You trembled beneath him, your body aching for his touch.

"Please, Anakin," you whimpered, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears. "Please…husband..."

With a low groan, Anakin obliged. His fingers delved between your folds, finding you slick and ready. He stroked you slowly, his touch maddeningly gentle.

Suddenly a knock echoed “General, the French renegates attacked a village, we need you as fast as possible.” A voice spoke urgently through the thick wooden door.

The knock at the door jolted you both out of your passionate haze, the harsh reality of your situation crashing down upon you. Anakin cursed under his breath, his expression hardening as he sprang into action.

He quickly fastened his armor, the tender lover of moments ago replaced by the fierce warrior you knew him to be. You watched him through narrowed eyes, your heart pounding in your chest.

How could you have let yourself be swept away like that ? This man, with countless deaths on his hands, had touched you with such tenderness, had made you feel things you'd never felt before. It was a betrayal of everything you stood for, everything you believed in.

"I have to go," Anakin said gruffly, his voice devoid of the warmth and affection he'd shown you just moments before. "Your people have attacked a village. I need to lead my men."

You nodded stiffly, wrapping the sheets tighter around your body. "Of course. Duty calls."

Anakin paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He turned to look at you, his eyes searching your face. "Princess..."

"Go," you said firmly, turning away from him. "Save the village. That's what you're good at, after all."

The bitterness in your voice was unmistakable, and Anakin flinched as if struck. But he didn't argue, didn't try to change your mind. With a curt nod, he left the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You were alone, your body still thrumming with unfulfilled desire. But it was tinged with shame, with the knowledge that you'd betrayed your principles for a moment of pleasure.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back furiously. You were stronger than this, better than this. You wouldn't let a man, no matter how charming or skilled, make you forget who you were.

But even as you tried to convince yourself of your own strength, a small voice whispered in the back of your mind. A voice that wondered what might have been, if you'd given in to the passion that had burned between you.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker

"A fleeting touch, a ghost, a flame, A breath that whispers your quiet name. The silk of your skin beneath my hand, A treasure I cannot yet command.

I burn for what I cannot claim, This ache, a tether, this want, my shame. Your gaze, a wound in my chest both sharp and sweet, A battlefield where I’m brought to defeat.”

[incorrectwwe]

Jey: I’ll speak French between your legs~

Rhea: HOTTEST THING I HAVE EVER BEEN TOLD-

Naomi, containing her laughter: I can just imagine someone saying ‘bonjour’ to a penis-

Jimmy: BONJOUR MADEMOISELLE VAGINA, HON HON TITTY CROISSANT!

Damian: Titty croissant!?

Roman: None of you should ever be having sex-

[mikimakiboo]

Okay okay okay story concept again including bad sans poly but you can see it as platonic too

I thought about it while washing my hair lmao

Under the cuuuuuuut

So they all come from different time periods, Killer is a thief from the Antiquity during the Roman Empire around the years -30, Horror comes from a Viking tribe around the years 900, Cross is a knight in medieval times around the late 1200s / early 1300s, Nightmare is a high noble during the Renaissance around the years 1600 and Dust is a minimum wager in our current time period

They were never supposed to meet but there was a glitch in the timeline that caused them to get ejected in another time period, and where did they end up ? In Dust's backyard (he lives on the first floor of an old building)

Problem is, they all speak different languages: Killer speaks Latin, Horror speaks Old Norse, Cross speaks Old French, Nightmare speaks Classical French (I set them in France cause that's the history I know best lmao) and Dust speaks modern English, so that means Killer Horror and Dust cannot understand anyone, Nightmare learnt Latin and can manage to understand some of Cross's French but Cross struggles badly to understand him and doesn't know any Latin, and none of them speak neither Old Norse nor English

Luckily Dust has his phone so he uses it to try and translate but it is still difficult to have a good translation of Old Norse and Old French, so Nightmare has to translate Old French into Classical French for Dust to translate and for Old Norse they let Google do its things and hope it's accurate

But anyway, they manage to understand each other a little while Dust also needs to monitor everyone because they are all very frightened by everything modern around them and clearly don't know how to act in a society, especially Horror

And then when they are all semi-aclimated to their surroundings, the timeline glitches again and they all end up in another time period, this time being Cross's, so it's his turn to monitor everyone and teach them how things work, except this time they don't have Google because there obviously isn't any internet connection at that time

And then the timeline glitches again and they are transported into someone else's time period and it keeps happening until they eventually visited everybody's time period

But then Error arrives, a God, who just spent a really long time localizing the glitch and localizing them to sent them back to their respective time periods, but the thing is they all became very attached to each other, managing to understand each other without translator, going on many adventures through time periods, teaching each other some things from home, and they really don't want to lose their connection with each other, so they kinda force / beg Error to let them see each other, and at first Error doesn't want to and just wants them to go back to where/when they belong, but they are being insistent and he doesn't want to deal with it, so he ends up giving each of them a ring that they can use to open portals and jump from time period to time period to go see each other when they please

They're all very happy

@ancha-aus tagging you because I know you like bad sans poly and story concepts even tho I'll probably won't work on it before loooooong if I ever decide to work on it that is 👀

[pseudoquiddity]

Are people aware that the Bachelor's quoting of Latin is a very common part of the academic field? With all those posts calling him pretentious for Latin, I can't be too sure. The difference is that, today, Latin is not necessarily the academic standard when it comes to terminology and so readers can find Latin phrases mixed with German, French, Russian (etc.), too - depending on the subject.

I pulled a random article on Italian futurism and it uses the terms/phrases unheimlichkeit, homo faber, il linguaggio nascosto della tecnologia (so on, so forth). It becomes natural to the essay's conversation (in this case, futurism).

The Western academic world, for centuries, was fed off Roman stories and for most of the Western world's past, Latin was the predominant "intellectual" language until French became the status quo, and now it's English. So when it comes to studying in a certain era, not knowing Latin might bar a person from scholarly work.

Someone who spoke and wrote in Latin very prolifically was Thomas De Quincey (Englishman early, mid-1800s), and he wrote a few short stories. One of which, he's sitting with a coachman and speaks a Latin phrase in passing and then immediately strikes himself as silly because the working class coachman probably doesn't understand him.

Just one example of many where Daniil is clearly expressed as someone completely out of their usual, personally comfortable social circle. Sometimes one language just doesn't cut it for the description of things, but now an avenue of regular expression has been completely shut off from him.

Though I wonder if he uses Latin with general abandon in the town, is mostly speaking to himself when he uses Latin, or if, like De Quincey, is going you fucking fool, he doesn't understand you!

[princessofghosts-posts]

Recently realized that demigods at CHB are either rich/upper class or poor/broke by default.

You got Piper,and she is really the daughter of a famous Hollywood's star,she grew up under the spotlight all of her life,full of people that wanted to have her father's attention,and is super rich. She shoplifts thanks to her charm-speaking ability,yes,but she still got the money.

Rachel's the daughter of an important CEO,her family's money got her a last-minute helicopters (and taxis in all the city too-) to fly to Manhattan,in a couple of hours,while she was in a totally different locations. She hates her dad,and her family business isn't the best ecological one,but she is rich.

Annabeth's father is a professor that got his family of 5 (counting Annabeth even tho she doesn't live with them that much) moved from a state to another,Virginia to San Francisco. He might not be Rachel/Piper level of richness,but he is still able to provide a big family with an house in an expensive place and without economics problem. Annabeth is upper class.

Nico and Bianca's family is part of italian old money. Their grandparents were politicians,so was their mother,and they were probably related to someone with a noble title. During the start of the war,only a couple of people,usually the rich one,could travel from a place to another (Maria didn't met Hades in Italy after all). They lived in the Lotus and that place is full of everything you ever wanted,especially with the infinite credit card. Hades is the good of the riches too. They are upper class.

Half of the Aphrodite's cabin,if not full,is probably related to rich or famous people because of her nature. It's impossible she only had Piper that was from a famous actor. Silena and Drew are probably rich too but not on "Hollywood's star" level. (Tanaka is a japanese surname,and japanese families are usually well off,Beauregard is french surname so she is probably french,and most french people have a pretty expensive lifestyle.)

Thalia and Jason's mother was a famous television star that got Zeus attentions twice,so at least the first years of their life they had a good economic situation. She then went insane,and was horrible to her children and Thalia had to live on the street to get away from her (like Annabeth) while Jason got adopted by Lupa.

Then you got Leo that basically jump from a foster home to another,most of which are abusive or mistreat him. The guy lost his mother and the rest of his family hated him so much that decided to hand him to CPS directly. He lives day by day,and probably on the street a couple of time too. He is completely broke.

Percy (before Sally published her book and became a well-known writer,and Paul entered their life) was poor. They had enough to get by with Sally's money,and most of it was wasted on alcohol by Gabe. He didn't had a comfortable life,fortunately now his economic situation is better.

Now,you can discuss that Luke wasn't really poor,but the guy ran away from his mother and spent half of his childhood in the street. And with May's condition I don't think someone would employee her,and if she had a job before she probably got fired.

Ethan Nakamura literally lived on the street all of the time,either because he was doing something for Kronos,or because he didn't had a place at CHB (Hermes's cabin doesn't count).

Half of the children of minor gods/goddesses,and the revolutionaries who joined Kronos,were probably in the same situation as Ethan,if not worse.

Jason lived in a forest with a bunch of wolves. Then at CJ it's not like he had any monetary problem since they didn't really needs money inside the camp. And for any quest to do,I'm sure the romans had a vault,or some sort of safe,to keep money in case it was needed.

Probably majority of the Greeks demigods weren't in a good situation in their finances too,but I personally think that most of them had at least a a life with an enough stable economic situation.

Also,gotta love the parallelism that some of them have:

• Annabeth and Thalia (and Jason) are upper class thanks to their mortal parent's job,but had to live on the streets because their family were shit.

• Percy was poor but after his mom's business skyrocketed,and thanks to Paul's job too,they never had to worry about rent and not having enough food.

• Piper is rich but spent all of her teenager years shoplifting and stealing,trying to get her dad's attention.

• Rachel is rich but prefer to be an activist-artist,with oracle problems because she hates her dad.

• Nico and Bianca are rich,from both family's sides,but were forced to live in "poverty" (I have to desagree on this one because it's not accurate since it was from Percy POV's during BotL).

[solacescastleglow]

Cultural Capital #1: Intro + The Basics

One of the biggest privileges I had growing up was access to cultural capital. My parents were expat teachers, which meant that we had access to a lifestyle well above what we would've had if we had stayed in Australia. I got to travel, meet people from various cultures, go to private school, and I subconsciously absorbed that lifestyle as an expectation. This has given me a huge advantage, and since I don't believe in gatekeeping, here's how you can gain some of that knowledge.

0. A note

Some of these are things I strongly disagree with, but this is the way it is. One shouldn't have to change oneself to get ahead, but we often do. This is just a list of western upper-middle class cultural signifiers, and my listing them out doesn't diminish your own culture if it is different from this. Your own cultural capital is just as valuable as what I'm going to share. But we do live in a world where you can get benefits from knowing the dominant culture's valued information, so this is a guide to hacking that system.

1. What is cultural capital?

When people move to a certain place, be it a neighbourhood or a workplace, they need to understand the language, references, and customs of the people around them, otherwise they might be treated negatively. This is cultural capital. Your ability to fit in with the dominant class and culture can benefit you in work and social situations. Your education, who you know, how you speak and dress, which cultural references you make and understand, etc. are all class signifiers, and contribute to cultural capital.

2. Free ways to gain cultural capital

Confidence and vibe. I'm not the best at this, and there are plenty of resources out there for learning it that would probably be better than me. What I will say is that people can tell when you're used to settling for less, and that lowers your cultural capital in these spaces.

Go to a library or Google for research. Topics to research include: major religious stories and Greco-Roman myths, art and music history - especially from the 16th-19th centuries, different cultures and global geography, common idioms and expressions in French/Latin, jargon for your field as well as those of art/dance/music/business, fancy brand names (Quick, is a Ferragamo a shoe or a car?)

Read literary fiction and non fiction. Making references to classic novels shows rich people that you're well read, which in their minds translates to education and therefore intelligence (which isn't true but you know). It's also a shared experience, which gives you something to talk about. Use Libby for free audiobooks, and your local library for print books.

Expanding your vocabulary and speaking with care. The more you can articulate yourself, the more likely people will be to listen to you.

Going to public museums or galleries (if they have them where you live). They're almost always free, and are a great way to spend a weekend.

Watching videos, reading scripts, or listening to recordings of theatrical performances. These can be pretty easily found on the internet and give you material to reference when talking someone up.

Study philosophy. If you want something accessible and fun, watch The Good Place. Philosophy Tube makes excellent, thought provoking videos for free, and I'm sure there's more out there. Expanding your thought process and recognising the literature out there about 'deep' topics can help you not only seem smarter, but actually be smarter.

Learning to eat politely in multiple cultures. What do you eat with your hands vs a fork vs chopsticks? For western cuisine, you should know which fork to use, how to pour wine, what you do with your napkin, etc.

General etiquette. Handshakes, when and how to hold a door, you get the gist.

3. Ways that cost money

Cook something from a different culture every [week/month]. Expanding your palate and becoming familiar with things outside of your immediate circle will make you more 'cultured' in the eyes of people who care about that.

Special exhibitions and paid museums and galleries. Sometimes, a museum will cost money, and if it's interesting and within your budget, it's well worth it. Museums are an engaging way to learn more about history and culture, which will give you knowledge you could benefit from having.

Going to the theatre. Seeing a play, musical, opera, or ballet, especially if it references mythology or is iconic in its own right, can expand your views on universal themes like love, life, death, and revenge. It's also just really fun. You don't have to spend a huge amount either; see what's available in your area.

Dressing professionally. This means having a baseline knowledge on clothing terms and what fits you well, buying well made clothes that will outlast trends, and keeping them well maintained. Tailoring should be considered if it's in your budget; nobody likes an ill fitting suit. Some tips: second hand shops are a good place to start, avoid fast fashion, and remember that a 20 year old Chanel piece has more cultural capital than a brand new H&M piece.

Grooming. Smelling good, looking put together, and having good hygiene will help you immensely. A perfume that suits you is well worth the money, but don't be afraid of dupes if it's not in your budget.

Travelling. This is by far the most expensive thing on this list, but having those new experiences will completely change your viewpoint in a way that other people can recognise.

4. Signifiers that take a long time/effort

Accents. This matters more in some places than in others, but being able to fake a 'posher' accent gets you privilege in certain contexts. My school taught us only in RP English, but the social circles were run by the US military families, so I have a more neutral accent by default. I can also switch between the two, which gives me an advantage here in Australia, where proximity to an RP accent signifies wealth.

Learning a language. Knowing English automatically gives you a ton of cultural capital, since that's the lingua franca for most fields nowadays. But if English is your first language, knowing more than one means education. The unfortunate double standard is that if English is your second language, you need a third to be considered educated, usually a European language.

Straight teeth. This one is up to luck for some people, but having straight teeth usually means you have the money to straighten them. It also takes years and hurts. In my opinion, it's only worth it if your teeth are causing medical problems in your life, in which case you might as well straighten them while you're at it.

Getting a specialised degree in something. Don't worry about seeming silly (arts, humanities) or cold (business, sciences) when choosing a degree. Someone will be weird about it no matter what you pick, so pick one you like.

---

Remember, this is specifically for fitting in with the culture I grew up in and around (rich people). There is nothing wrong with the way you are now. This is just for people who are considering adapting to an environment where behaving like this allows for social mobility.

[caprifiles]

smth smth about the fact that charles leclerc is fluent not only in english, but french, italian and a little bit of spanish, and max verstappen speaks dutch and german as well, as english. smth about this is just–

like, they are fluent in the most popular languages in absolutely different linguistic groups of indo-european family (roman and germanic).

i mean, they couldn't be more opposite but they are.

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 8)

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

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 6,3k

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

Masterlist

-

A week later

The senator’s villa has been a sanctuary, a gilded cage where the bars were soft silks and fine foods, where the only danger lay in the knowledge that it could not last. For the past week, I have lived as I once dreamed noblewomen did. My mornings have been slow, filled with the scent of fresh bread and honeyed fruit, my afternoons spent reclining on cushions, admiring the glint of gold bracelets on my wrists, gifted by the Emperors themselves with new clothes. The stola I’m wearing is a pure, immaculate white, far too pristine for a girl like me. The fabric is so fine and light that it seems to glide over my skin like a second layer. It follows my movements with a grace I never thought I could possess. At the shoulders, golden brooches hold the fabric in place, intricately carved with a craftsmanship that betrays their worth. A purple silk belt cinches my waist, a detail that unsettles me more than I care to admit. This color is reserved for the powerful, for those who rule. I am nothing like a noble Roman woman, and yet, here I am, dressed like one. Over my shoulders, a palla of lightweight wool cascades in an elegant drape, deep midnight blue, with golden threads woven into patterns so delicate they seem to dance in the light. I brush my fingers over the fabric. It’s soft. Far too luxurious. Nothing like the coarse garments I was used to wearing. Then, at my feet, finely crafted leather sandals, adorned with tiny gemstones. I have never owned shoes so precious. I almost fear ruining their beauty by walking. And then, there are the jewels; a rigid gold bracelet encircling my wrist, a delicate torque resting against my skin.

During this week, away from the twins, I have laughed without glancing over my shoulder, dined without fear of unseen eyes watching my every bite. No whispers. No threats. No emperors. But all illusions must break. The arrival of the Praetorian guards comes as no surprise, yet my body reacts as though it has been struck. A sharp, unspoken dread coils in my stomach, twisting tighter with every step I take toward the waiting carriage. The two men stand rigid, their crimson cloaks heavy over their broad shoulders, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their gladii. They do not speak. They do not need to. Their presence alone is enough. Claudia stands beside me, her hand brushing against mine.

“It will be fine…” she whispers with a soft smile.

I wish I could believe her. Unfortunately, I know the Emperors, they way they behaved. Silently, I follow them, my rare belongings carried by their strong arms, while two others stand behind me, just in case… In case I would be tempted to flee. Outside, I say goodbye to Senator Aurelius and get inside à lavish carriage, meant for nobility, with its wood polished to a fine sheen. The moment the doors close, sealing us inside, I realize how tight my chest feels. I grip the folds of my dress, nails digging into the soft fabric. Claudia watches me carefully, as if weighing her words. Soon, the wheels creak against the stone roads, the steady clatter of hooves echoing in the enclosed space. After a long silence, my friend and servant – God knows how strange it sounds to me – exhales and leans forward.

“I heard something yesterday.”

I lift my gaze and frown, not sure about what to expect.

“What?”

She glances toward the small opening in the carriage wall, as if ensuring the guards outside cannot hear us.

“It’s about your adoption.” She mutters.

My stomach clenches, since I was expecting something related to those doomed Emperors. It was obvious.

“What about it? What do you know?”

She hesitates, her fingers curling into the folds of her own dress and she clears her throat.

“The Emperors made a deal with Senator Aurelius.”

A sick feeling washes over me as I press my hand to my stomach, before I take a breath.

“A deal? I guessed that, but they refused to tell me the ins and outs of their agreement.”

“In exchange for adopting you, Senator Aurelius was given privileges. Lower taxes. More land beyond the city walls. Greater wealth.”

I blink, the words sinking into me like stones thrown into deep water. The surface stills, but beneath, everything stirs. Everything seams logical. It’s beneficial to him as long as he leaves. When Death will grab him, the Emperors will inherit all his belongings, his wealth, his lands, which means more control to defy the Senate.

“And when he dies?” I asked, for confirmations.

When Claudia looks away, that is all the answer I need. I let out a breath, staring at the rich red fabric lining the walls of the carriage. This had never been about family, about offering me a place in noble society. This had always been a transaction. Aurelius benefits while he lives, and when he dies, everything reverts to them. The perfect arrangement. A temporary prize for the senator, an investment for the emperors. My hands tremble in my lap and Claudia watches me.

“Are you alright?”

I laugh softly, but there is no humor in it.

“You tell me that I was bought and sold like a fine horse, and you ask if I’m alright?”

She flinches.

“I thought you should know.”

I close my eyes for a moment. Of course, I should know. In pinch the bridge of my nose and then slide my hand on my forehead, since I can’t pull my hair, styles in a bun, almost everything hidden under my white veil.

“You’re right… Forgive me, Claudia. Everything is just strange, stressful, and I know they are trying to win my affection.”

“You’re fin, you will be fine…” she whispers as she takes my hand to stroke it.

“Not really. There's nothing nicer than a man who tries to sleep with a woman who resists him. They won’t give up.” I sigh, in a tired tone.

The carriage continues its slow, relentless journey toward Palatine Hill. My sanctuary slips further away with every passing moment. Not long after, the Imperial Palace looms before me, its marble walls shining under the midday sun. The week away has done nothing to soften its imposing presence. If anything, it feels even more suffocating now that I know what freedom tastes like. Once the carriage door is open, a Pretorian guard helps me to get out of it. Claudia stands beside me, her hands clasped tightly together. She looks calm, but I know better. Her grip on her own fingers is white-knuckled. A palace official steps forward, his expression neutral.

“The Emperor Geta is expecting you.” His gaze shifts to Claudia.

“You, girl, are to report to the Imperial Quarter to learn the new rules for such quarters.”

Claudia barely hesitates before dipping her head. She turns to me, her lips parting slightly, as if she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she squeezes my arm in a brief, warm, reassuring manner, before she follows the official into the depths of the palace. I watch her go, an uneasy weight settling in my chest. The moment does not last. Two Praetorian guards step forward, motioning for me to follow. Quickly, we roam through the palace, to the throne room, just as I remember it: vast, grand, meant to intimidate. Thick columns rise toward the high ceiling, where intricate frescoes tell stories of conquest and divinity. The scent of burning incense lingers in the air.

Little girls dressed in flowing white tunics move gracefully before me, their small hands scattering flower petals across the marble floor. The gesture feels more like a ceremony than a mere welcome, and my unease sharpens. Geta sits on his throne, the seat beside him vacant. His posture is relaxed, one arm resting on the gilded armrest, the other draped over his knee. He watches me approach, his lips curving into a smile. As I near, he rises. His steps are slow, deliberate, while his predatory gaze never leaves mine. He takes my hand in his and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is courtly, practiced, yet his grip lingers a moment too long. I can’t help but arch an eyebrow.

“I don’t understand this welcome, my Emperor.”

His smile widens.

“You are no longer a servant. You are a guest of the Imperial Palace, one of its few permanent residents. A position of great importance.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I offer a carefully measured nod.

“How generous.”

If he should ask my head for such an answer, he chuckles.

“Come.”

With a tilt of his head, he gestures for me to follow. The Praetorian guards remain at a respectful distance as he leads me through the palace. The path he takes is unfamiliar, deeper into corridors I never had access to before. I glance around, noting the lavish tapestries, the polished bronze oil lamps lining the walls.

“If I may ask, where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He replies with a secretive smile.

“Life has never been kind when it comes to surprises.”

He glances at me with his deep brown eyes, amused by my answer. Obviously, his life has almost been always pleasant, far from the regular burdens citizen have to go through everyday.

“You have nothing to fear.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

His laughter is soft. “You wound me.”

I slightly lick my lips, cross my arms and blinks. Suddenly, my mind goes to Caracalla, the strange Emperor, cruel but so delicate at the same time.

“Where is your brother?”

Something flickers across his face, satisfaction, perhaps?

“Ill.”

The answer is simple, but the weight of it settles uneasily in my chest. I should not care. I should not even ask. And yet, before I can stop myself, I do.

“Is it serious, Augustus?”

Geta halts mid-step. When he turns to face me, his smile has shifted into something more knowing.

“Are you worried, Y/N?”

I scoff, lifting my chin and take a deep breath.

“Hardly.”

“You hesitated.”

“I was merely being polite…”

The Emperor chuckles, his laughter soft, teasing. His ring-adorned fingers, worth more than a dozen slaves, caress his perfectly shaven chin.

“Ah, so you do have room in your heart for your Emperors. You care.”

This time, I roll my eyes, before I try to stay as polite as I can. Thankfully, he’s not looking at me.

“I just don’t want him to die before I get the chance to beat him too with a shrub branch.”

Geta bursts out laughing, the sound bouncing off the marble walls, showing his perfect white teeth. I’m sure this man takes care of himself perfectly: shaving everyday, never forgetting to brush his teeth, applying creams and lotions to keep that beautiful skin. In his mind, he was probably blessed with Venus.

“I’ll be sure to tell him that. It might just be the motivation he needs to recover.”

“You do that…” I say dryly.

My answer is enough for him to smirk.

“Perhaps I should fake an illness as well. Would you ask about me too?”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it.

“Hmm. No, I’d simply assume you were playing dead to avoid responsibility.”

His laughter comes louder this time, rich and warm.

“Clever and ruthless. I must say, you suit the palace already. But be careful, that lack of respect won’t be tolerated all the time.”

I shake my head, exasperated.

“Where are we going, Emperor Geta?”

His eyes gleam with mischief.

“If I told you, that would ruin the surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “I have a feeling you’re going to like this one.”

I narrow my eyes. “If it involves a pit of wild animals, I’m pushing you in first.”

He grins, completely unbothered.

“Noted. Now, let’s continue before my dear brother rises from his sickbed and steals your attention again.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Yes, because I’m simply yearning for his company.”

“You see?” Geta smirks, leading me forward. “You do like us.”

By the gods, just keep walking!

His laughter follows me, light and unbothered, as we disappear deeper into the palace. I glance sideways at Geta as we walk.

“Anyway, what’s wrong with him?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll brush off the question, but then he sighs.

“A strange disease of the mind. One only the gods understand.”

“That’s vague.”

He chuckles and licks his lips, before sliding a hand on my lower back, a gesture made for a wife or a concubine… I shiver, bite my lips and act like if I’m not feeling his touch. His warm touch. So warm…

“If you’ve ever tried to understand my brother, you’d know vague is as close to the truth as anyone will get.”

I shake my head.

“I always heard it was a disease that spread from his crotch to his brain.”

Geta stops walking. For a second, I think I’ve offended him, but then his shoulders shake with laughter. His eyes gleam as he turns to me.

“That rumor…” he says, voice full of amusement, “was my doing.”

I blink, shocked by the revelation, since it sounds so mean and probably revengeful. Everyone knows they love each other enough to rule together. However, there’s often tensions and competition between them.  

“You…?”

He nods, smug.

“Started it a few years ago, after an argument. I never expected it to last this long, but here we are.”

I stare at him, caught between disbelief and admiration.

“You slandered your own brother.”

“Oh, come now. He deserved it.” Geta’s smirk deepens. “Besides, it’s not entirely false. He does have a way of thinking with the wrong head.”

Jesus Christ, he’s talking about the head of his manhood…

If I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I recall the warmth, softness and wetness of her brother's length in my hand, I try to keep my expression neutral. It was so disgusting, and yet…

No, no, no! I've got to stop here!

Instead of thinking about that, I snort.

“And the actual reason? For his brain health? If there even is one.”

His amusement fades slightly, though the humor never fully leaves his eyes.

“His healers and caretakers say it’s tied to his birth. Something about the way he entered the world, how he was carried in the womb. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe the gods played dice with his mind before he ever took his first breath.”

I study him, searching for any sign of mockery, but he looks almost thoughtful.

“You believe that?”

“I believe there’s no sense in him, some days.” Geta’s mouth quirks at the corner. “And when there’s no sense, it’s easier to blame the gods.”

I let out a low hum.

“Convenient.”

“Isn’t it?” He grins, then gestures ahead. “Now, enough about my poor afflicted brother. We’ve arrived.”

I follow his gaze and see an ornately carved doorway ahead. Whatever is waiting for me behind it, I have a feeling Geta enjoys knowing I don’t expect it. The heavy doors swing open with a low groan, and the guards step aside to let us pass. Beyond them lies a room unlike anything I have ever seen. My breath catches. The walls soar high above, adorned with frescoes so vivid that they seem to move under the flickering torchlight. Scenes of gods and mortals entwined in divine struggles stretch across the ceiling, their faces immortalized in rich pigment, each brushstroke capturing moments of triumph and despair.

Statues line the vast room, their marble forms frozen in time. Some bear the proud expressions of conquerors, others the serene poise of philosophers. A few are so lifelike that, for an instant, I almost expect them to blink, to exhale, to step down from their pedestals and join us. Beyond them, golden urns and jeweled ornaments glisten, treasures gathered from the farthest reaches of the empire.

I can’t stop myself from staring. The sheer weight of History presses down on me, a thousand stories woven into the fabric of this place. The room smells of aged parchment, warm beeswax, and faint traces of incense.

“Do you approve?”

Why would he ask such a question? It’s not like if I could say “no” if I wanted to. He’s the emperor. Never contradict him. Especially when it comes to his riches, his wealth or politics and wars. Geta’s voice pulls me back. He stands a few steps ahead, arms folded, watching me with that same amused smirk he so often wears. I hesitate, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of my wonder.

“It’s… impressive.”

“Only impressive?” He cocks his head. “Not magnificent?”

I refuse to answer, refusing to indulge him. I know how he thrives on admiration.

He chuckles, unbothered by my silence, and gestures toward a section of the gallery.

“This is usually reserved for those who can truly appreciate it. I thought you should see it.”

His words send a flicker of unease through me.

“Why such an honor?”

Instead of answering, he steps toward a raised pedestal where an ancient scroll rests beneath a sheet of glass. His fingers hover just above the case, reverent, as if the mere presence of such a relic demands a kind of silent worship. Then, without warning, he speaks:

“At regina gravi iamdudum saucia cura

vulnus alit venis et caeco carpitur igni.

multa viri virtus animo multusque recursat

gentis honos; haerent infixi pectore vultus

verbaque, nec placidam membris dat cura quietem.”

(But the queen, long since smitten with a grievous love-pang, feeds the wound with her lifeblood, and is wasted with fire unseen. Oft to her mind rushes back the hero’s valour, oft his glorious stock; his looks and words cling fast to her bosom, and longing withholds calm rest from her limbs.)

The words echo softly in the chamber, filling the empty spaces between us. His voice is steady, smooth, each syllable shaped with precision. The beautiful words roll off his tongue as if he was born speaking it, as if it belongs to him. I know these verses. It takes me only a moment to place them… Virgil. The Aeneid. I remember my father saying a few things to me, words he memorized, from the rare books he bought and sold to the richest families of the Empire.

I glance at him, surprised.

“You know poetry.”

A slow smile spreads across his lips.

“Do I seem incapable of it? I was educated with the finest teachers of the whole Empire, little lamb.”

I cross my arms.

“I thought your interests were more… material.”

He chuckles, turning back to the scroll.

“I love many things. Poetry among them. I appreciate arts, they are an interesting way to deliver messages, when a speech is not enough.”

His fingers skim the glass, tracing invisible patterns over the delicate parchment beneath.

“Do you know why I chose this passage?”

I hesitate, the words replaying in my mind. Dido, the queen of Carthage, tormented by love, consumed by longing and despair. A wound festering in her veins, a fire eating away at her, leaving no peace, no rest. I arch a brow.

“Because you enjoy the suffering of women?”

He laughs, a deep, genuine sound.

“A fair guess, but no.” His gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, the amusement in his eyes dims. “Because fire consumes, but it also forges.”

A chill runs down my spine. Not from fear, but from something else, something deeper, something I don’t want to name. Quickly, I look away, my gaze drifting back to the statues, the frescoes, the relics of centuries past. He’s making an effort. And I don’t know what to do with that. I force a smirk, tilting my head.

“If you’re trying to impress me, I’ll admit it’s unexpected.”

Geta’s grin returns, sharp and satisfied.

“Unexpected? Good. I like to keep you guessing.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice.

“And tell me, did it work?”

I lift my chin.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, Emperor. I am no concubine or whore.”

His laughter follows me as I turn away, but I catch the glint in his eyes, like a man who has found a game he very much enjoys playing. However, I follow him, as we walk through the gallery, our steps echoing in the vast chamber. Geta moves with an ease that only a man born to rule can possess, but his shoulders are a fraction tenser now, as if weighed down by thoughts he rarely speaks aloud.

“Do you know what it takes to raise an emperor?” He asks so suddenly, his voice is measured, almost idle, but I catch the sharp edge beneath. I blink, not sure why this subject, this conversation. “It isn't all poetry and marble halls.”

I glance at him.

“Of course, Augustus.”

His free fingers brush absently over the gilded rim of a bronze shield displayed against the wall, the other still on my lower back. The polished metal reflects his face, distorted by the curve.

“My father believed in strength above all else. Strength of body, strength of will. He thought softness had no place in an emperor's heart.”

I stay quiet, waiting.

Geta exhales, eyes fixed on the relics before him as if looking into the past.

“He made sure we understood that. We were boys, but that didn’t matter. We had to endure.”

A muscle in his jaw tenses, then releases. His hand drops from the shield.

“You ask anyone in Rome what it means to be emperor, and they’ll tell you about power, about armies and riches. They don’t know what it costs.”

I study his profile, the sharp lines of his face cast in shifting light.

“Did Caracalla endure the same?”

A shadow of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, humorless.

“Obviously.” He tilts his head slightly. “But my brother was… different. Not as strong. Not as tall. And his mind…” He trails off, choosing his next words carefully. “Let’s say it has always been more fragile than mine.”

He shifts, looking at me fully now, too close to me, his chest brushing mine.

“So I took most half of the hits meant for him. Whenever I could.”

The words settle between us, quiet and heavy. I don’t answer immediately, only watching him as something unfamiliar coils in my chest. I never thought he could be protective of his older twin, loving him this much. For a second, I assumed he was lying; the gleam in his eyes shared another story. He was sincere.

“That’s admirable… To take the blows out of love. To protect him when no one else would.”

He lets out a small breath, something almost like a laugh, but it lacks real amusement. "

“You say it as if you wouldn’t have done the same.”

I hesitate, lowering my eyes to the ground.

“You would.” he says before I can argue. “You have that in you.”

“It was my brother, not me. He was the braver one.” I murmur, my throat suddenly too tight.

Geta studies me for a long moment, I feel his burning gaze on me, until I look at him again. Never in the eyes. Then, slowly, he leans in, just enough that his voice is lower, quieter.

“You see yourself as a quiet mountain. Steady. Enduring.” His gaze drifts over my face. “Personally, I see something else.”

His lips barely curve, but his voice is sure.

“Yes, I see a mountain on the verge of breaking open. A woman who doesn’t yet know that the fire inside her is already stirring, already waiting to pour forth.”

A strange heat licks at my skin, though the torches burn no brighter than before. I lift my chin, refusing to be drawn in so easily.

“And what if you’re wrong?”

His eyes glint with something unreadable.

“I never am.”

What confidence!

“I wanted to show this beautiful place. You’re allowed to come her whenever you want.”

As I nod, we leave the beautiful room. The corridor stretches ahead, silent except for the faint echo of our footsteps. His pace is unhurried, but there’s a quiet authority in the way he moves, the weight of his position resting easily on his shoulders. When we reach my new rooms, in the imperial quarters, he stops and turns slightly, his gaze settling on me with an unreadable expression.

“I have some business to attend to.” he says. His voice is smooth, practiced, as though he’s said these words a thousand times before. “But we’ll meet again later.”

I nod, my fingers brushing against the carved wooden door frame.

“Of course, my Emperor.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. For the briefest moment, he seems as if he might say something else. Instead, he gives a small nod. That’s when I sense another presence. A shift in the air. A weight in the silence. I glance toward the far end of the hallway just as another figure emerges from the shadows. Caracalla.

He strides toward me with none of Geta’s controlled grace, his movements raw, uncalculated. He wears no sign of his imperial station, no paint on his face, no elaborate toga or layers of silk with gold, the same material as his jewels. Just a simple garment, unadorned, practical. The image is almost jarring. For the first time, I see him as a man, rather than the ruler whose name is spoken in fear and reverence. His cloudy gaze flicks between me and Geta.

“You should have told me she was back.”

His voice is rougher than his brother’s, edged with something I can’t quite place. Geta pauses, his tone edged with something close to impatience.

“I did. You weren’t well.”

Caracalla’s brow creases. He hesitates, then exhales, pressing two fingers to his temple.

“Right. Yes.”

I seize the moment before the tension can thicken.

“Augustus…” I say, my voice steady.

His blue eyes lock onto mine, searching, though for what, I can’t say. A heartbeat of silence stretches between us. Then Geta takes his leave, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I am alone with Caracalla.

“You look better than what I thought.” I offer, testing the waters.

His lips twitch in something that isn’t quite amusement.

“Do I?”

“You’re standing, at least.”

A breath of laughter escapes him, barely there, but real.

“I suppose that’s an improvement.” Then, after a pause, he adds: “My head still aches.”

I reach for my door, the brass handle cool beneath my fingers.

“Then I hope you will find relief soon.”

But before I can step inside, he moves. A swift, fluid motion, no hesitation, no warning. He crosses the threshold behind me, shutting the heavy door with a quiet finality. The space seems smaller now, the walls pressing in. I turn to face him, keeping my expression impassive despite the way my pulse stirs.

“You didn’t have to follow me in…”

Don’t irritate him, don’t get him mad, stay quiet! I lecture myself.

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, the gesture almost lazy.

“You didn’t stop me.”

I fold my arms, tilting my head.

“Perhaps I was too polite.”

His smirk deepens, but there’s something less playful in his eyes. He rubs his temple absently, as if trying to banish whatever lingers there.

“Did you see healers, Majesty?”

“They gave me a drink for it.” he mutters.

I study him, noting the faint tension in his jaw, the way exhaustion clings to the edges of his features.

“Something to dull the pain?”

His mouth twists, humorless.

“Something to keep me docile, more likely.”

A strange feeling tugs at me then. This is Caracalla, the emperor, the feared, the loathed, the unpredictable. And yet, at this moment, he looks anything but invincible. The man standing before me is not the cruel tyrant whispered about in hushed voices. He is tired. Frustrated. Human. And despite myself, I don’t step away. Caracalla watches me with something unreadable in his gaze, his fingers still pressing at his temple. He looks paler than usual, the furrow in his brow deeper. His head must be pounding.

“My mother taught me a way to ease headaches.” I offer, my voice softer than I expect. “If you want, I can show you.”

His expression doesn’t change immediately. He studies me, suspicious as ever, as if I might use this moment of vulnerability to do something unexpected. I hold his gaze, waiting.

“You?” His tone is edged with doubt.

“Yes. It works, but you don’t have to try after all.”

He exhales, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally gives a single nod.

“Fine.”

I don’t wait for him to change his mind. Turning toward the small wooden chest that holds my few belongings brought here when I was with Geta, I search for what I need, not even taking the time to admire the beautiful room I will leave in. The cold marble floor sends a shiver through me with each step, contrasting with the softness of the embroidered rugs scattered across the room. The walls are adorned with intricate frescoes, which depicts mythological scenes bathed in golden light. Massive silk curtains filter the daylight that comes from the open balcony, casting dancing shadows over the bed’s draperies. Everything here exudes opulence and delicacy.

My fingers brush against the polished wood, smooth ivory: combs, a hairbrush, and a cloth. I push past them, searching for the small jar of oil tucked at the bottom. The scent escapes the moment I unseal it, lavender, myrrh, a touch of bitter citrus. It carries the memories of home, of my mother’s voice whispering remedies over my forehead, of warm hands easing away pain. I turn back to him. He has not moved, but his gaze has lowered, fixed on my hands as if trying to decipher what comes next, while I walk to the bed. The bed itself is immense, larger than anything I have ever slept on, even in the house of Senator Aurelius. Draped in fine linen and embroidered covers, it looks so plush that I hesitate to sit on it, afraid of ruining its perfection. When I gaze on the side, a vanity made of precious wood stands near the window, topped with a mirror made of polished silver, where my blurry reflection seems almost unreal. Carefully, I press my behinds on the mattress, feeling how perfect it will be for my back, my body.

“Please, sit with me.” I say, settling on the edge of the bed. The young Emperor hesitates, then follows. When he’s close to me, I pour drops of oils on my finger and warms between them, before reaching for him. He doesn’t flinch when my hands press against his forehead, though his muscles are tight beneath my touch. Slowly, I draw small, firm circles, spreading the oil across his temples, feeling the ridges of tension beneath his skin. His breath is shallow at first, measured. I glide my fingers along his brow, smoothing the deep crease between his eyes, down to his temples, then to the base of his skull. He exhales, a quiet sound, barely there, but I hear it.

“Lie down, my Emperor.”

He does, shifting until his head rests near my lap. He could have kept some distance. Instead, he slides lower, letting his head settle against my thighs.

My breath stills. The heat of his body seeps through the fabric of my stola. His weight is solid, heavy, pressing against me in a way that feels… wrong. Improper. If I should push him away, I don’t find the strength to. So, I let my hands return to their task, kneading gently at his scalp, rubbing slow patterns against his temples, his forehead, the base of his skull. His hair is thick beneath my fingers, curling in unruly waves and reveal its dark roots, free from procedure to lighten them. The scent of the oil clings to him now, mingling with something else, something unmistakably him: warm skin, faint traces of perfume.

Slowly, his breath deepens and the rigid set of his shoulders softens.

I reach for a comb, running it through his curls with careful strokes. He remains still, allowing it, his body sinking further into the bed, into me.

“My mother used to tell me stories when I was little…” I whisper, more to myself than to him, just like my mother used to do, in order to soothe me. “She said they made the body forget its aches.”

A long silence. Then…

“What kind of stories?” His voice is quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness.

I pause, fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Ones about the gods, about nymphs and heroes. There was one she told often… About a nymph who loved the wind and the nature.”

I begin, my voice low, barely above a whisper. My fingers move as I speak, twisting small sections of his hair, braiding, unbraiding, tracing idle patterns along his scalp. The story flows from my lips as my hands move through his curls, grounding him, grounding myself. His breathing slows. His lips part slightly.

The flickering candlelight casts shadows over his face, softening the hard edges, revealing something almost delicate beneath the usual cruelty. His lashes are thick against his cheekbones, his lips full, his features perfectly Roman and yet touched by something more. A trace of oriental blood lingers in the set of his jaw, in the darkness of his natural hair, in the faint golden undertone of his skin.

Like this, he looks almost innocent.

A cruel illusion.

I swallow, fingers tightening briefly in his hair before loosening again.

I should hate him.

I should never find beauty in him.

Yet as my hands move gently, as my voice weaves the tale my mother once told me, I feel something unfamiliar curling in my chest. Something dangerous. Something I refuse to name.

Caracalla’s breath slows, his body slackening against me. His head is still heavy on my lap, his face no longer tense with pain. His lashes rest against his skin, dark crescents softened by the dim light of the oil lamps. His breathing evens out, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. For a moment, I think he has surrendered to sleep. Then, his fingers move. A slow, deliberate stroke over my thigh. The touch is light, but not accidental. A quiet test.

I press my hand over his, gently pushing it away.

“Don’t enjoy it to the point you want to take advantage of this…” I murmur, my voice calm, though my pulse betrays me.

His lips twitch into a wry smile. His eyelids lift just enough to reveal blue eyes, watching me with that strange, knowing glint.

“Too late,” he says, voice still thick from drowsiness.

The words send a flicker of heat through my chest, but I say nothing. I don’t need to. He shifts, lifting his head from my lap, then pushing himself up on one elbow. The weight of his gaze is heavy, searching. I remain still, my hands resting against the fabric of my tunic, my fingers curling slightly into the cloth. His knuckles brush my cheek, a barely-there touch. A shiver races down my spine before I can stop it.

His fingers move, cupping my jaw, his palm rough and warm against my skin. The scent of oil lingers on him.

Then his lips press against mine.

A slow, measured kiss.

Not what I expected. Not from him.

I don’t pull away.

His lips are warm, his breath steady. For a heartbeat, I let myself answer, let myself press into him, my own mouth parting just slightly. The moment stretches, intimate in a way that unsettles me more than if he had simply taken what he wanted.

Suddenly, something shifts.

His grip tightens. The kiss deepens, his body pressing closer, the heat of him bleeding into me. His fingers tangle in my hair, his breath grows heavier, as the need sharpens the edges of his touch. A sound escapes me, a soft, reluctant moan, before I press my hand against his chest and turn my face away.

“Enough…” I whisper. My heart pounds against my ribs.

For once, he listens.

He breathes out, something unreadable flashing across his features. Without a word, he lets go and leans back. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me against him as he lies down. His body remains close, his warmth pressing through the fabric of my tunic, but he makes no further move.

The chamber is silent. Only the faint crackle of the oil lamp remains, the distant echoes of voices and footsteps from the corridor beyond. He turns his head, his gaze finding mine in the dim light.

“Tell me your real name… Again…” His voice is quieter now, the sharpness gone.

I hesitate. The air between us is thick, charged with something I don’t want to name.

Still, I whisper it.

He repeats it slowly, the syllables unfamiliar on his tongue, reshaped by his accent. He pronounces it again, softer this time, more carefully.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips before I can stop it.

His mouth twitches, mirroring mine. A shadow of something close to tenderness flickers in his expression. But it vanishes too quickly for me to grasp.

-

Caracalla experienced ASMR, like scalp check videos, way before it became a thing! haha

I've already started the next part and all I can say is that you're going to love it! At least, I hope you do! 🤭​

Don't forget to comment and tell me what you think. ❤️​

By the way, I've also started writing something with Fred Hechinger, but it's going to be very long and probably cut in two parts. Of course, my priority is Rome's Devotion, but that new fanfic will be coming soon!

-

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

-

⚔️ Taglist: @duckyhowls @babey-fruit-bat, @punk-in-docs, @t6gse370, @angelcloudxxsblog, @miragens-para-uma-vitoria, @himikoquack, @chloe-skywalker, @bocreep, @littlemissholy, @yeoldebytche

Ask to be added in the list! :)

[danny-phantom-slut]

PJO AU for the DP characters

Danny, obviously, is the son of Hades. Hades appeared to his mother when Jack and Maddie were on a break, enticed by her intelligence, and they had a whirlwind romance before Maddie eventually went back to Jack. It's important to note that Maddie didn't know Hades was a god when they were together - she just thought he was some rich, powerful dude. When Danny was born - blue eyes, black hair, pale skin - he looked so much like Jack that Maddie just assumed he was his. Danny has ghost-like powers, like his normal power-set in the show, but also more PJO themed, with a few ommissions and additions. Like, he can shadow-travel, call ghosts and the dead to do his bidding, can control the earth and riches under the ground, can go intangible like a ghost, can speak all dead languages, etc. But he can't fly, shoot ecto-blasts, or control ice, etc. His preferred weapon is a sword called Soul Reaper, gifted to him by Hades, made of stygian iron. It has the power to consume souls and send them straight to the Underworld, later to be called upon by Danny.

Sam is the daughter of Demeter. Her mother cheated on her father with Demeter because she was drawn in by her power and wealth. Sam's powers include controlling and speed growing plants. She uses this to maintain her greenhouse at home but eventually learns to use it in combat. Her preferred weapon is a celestial bronze dagger, which she was given after arriving at Camp Half-Blood.

Tucker is the son of Hephaestus. His mother had him before meeting his stepfather and marrying. Tucker is a natural with technology of all kinds and can build his own phone from scraps. His preferred weapon is the technology he builds, like traps and nets.

Dash is the son of Ares. His father, a military veteran, attracted the eye of the war god because of his military prowess, strength, and combative nature. Dash has enhanced strength and spends most of his time trying to prove he's worth both his father's attention. His preferred weapon is a celestial bronze spear he was gifted by Ares.

Paulina is the daughter of Aphrodite. Her father, a famous movie actor, got together with the goddess of beauty and love, and well ... Paulina was the result. She has minor Charm Speak and a great fashion sense. She is also naturally good in the language of love, French, which means she speaks three languages! Spanish, English, and French. She prefers words over combat, but her preferred weapon is a dagger.

I haven't hashed out all the details, but it's coming along. Vlad would be the one to incite the war with Kronos, due to him wanting more power or something. He thinks he can host Kronos' power and use it for himself, without Kronos taking charge. He would be an older demigod, who resents the gods for their absence and neglect.

Jack and Maddie would be mortals who study Greek and Roman mythology and are obsessed with proving the gods and monsters are real. They don't know their college friend, Vlad, is a Greek demigod. But Vlad occasionally sends them on wild goose chases to find monsters.

Jazz would have Clear Sight and can see through the Mist, but is mortal.

All of Danny's rogues would be different monsters (ex. Ember would be an empousa).

Are you seeing my vision?

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Facts about the English language

English was invented in the year 927 by Lord English of England. Because 927 was a long time ago, he called it "Old English." Lord English of England was German, so the language was mostly just German with a dash of the language spoken by the original inhabitants of England, the Romans.

It became popular to speak English until 1066, when English Island was taken over by a French guy named Norman. Norman insisted everyone speak French, but they didn't know French so he just dropped some French words into the middle of the language and called it "Middle English."

After Middle English, trade patterns and technology such as the printing press and podcast allowed the infusion of numerous other languages, which all melted into English in their own way. Because they melted with each other, the new language was called Modern English. Several sounds and phonetics changed over the years as well, so this was called the era of the Colossal Vowel Movement.

About this time, England did its usual bullshit and colonized pretty much every place on Earth that it could. English thus spread like a linguistic coronavirus across America, Africa, Australia, and Atlantis, which managed to purge the English influence by sinking to its total destruction and thereby avoiding the horrors of having to speak English.

Today, English is the most spoken language on Earth, not because the most people speak it, but because those who do just never shut the fuck up. Several books have also been written in English, including "Fifty Shades of Grey," "A Weasel in My Meatsafe," and "Pounded In The Butt By My Handsome Sentient Library Card Who Seems Otherworldly But In Reality Is Just A Natural Part Of The Priceless Resources Our Library System Provides."

If English were a dress, it would be purple.

[aquarianshift]

Monkee Noses: A Quick & Dirty Guide

Analyzed, compare/contrasted, and rated by a certified nasophiliac.

Mike

A lot has been said of Mike's nose, and deservedly so. On an otherwise soft, even delicate face, it is his strongest feature (sideburns excepted). He doesn't have a heavy jaw or particularly strong chin, so the line of his nose balances his profile well, lending an air of masculine distinction. And it's not even that big.

...Okay, it's big. The bridge is quite tall—almost as high off his face as his forehead—and long. For those of us who (like me) got into the Monkees by way of the Beatles, you may have been expecting the schnoz of the group to have a Roman bump or at least some kind of down-slope. But Mike's nose is almost perfectly straight from brow to tip, level enough to balance a glass of water if he leaned back a bit.

Mike's nose is so long ("How long is it?") that it begins to crowd his mouth, which doesn't take up much real estate as it is. But he has a very symmetrical face, and his tall, narrow nose anchors his other features beautifully. It makes his eternally boyish face look older.

It's cute!

(Fun nasolinguistics fact: the French word for "nose" is nez.)

Micky

When the angels were handing out extra helpings of nose, Micky was in the hair line getting seconds. In terms of his profile's nose-to-chin ratio, he is essentially Mike's opposite. The bridge of his nose is mostly flat, and the body more wide and round than narrow and long. This is most evident in the way his nose widens when he smiles. A broad nose is perfectly suited to a face as smiley as Micky's, making his grin seem to stretch a mile from cheek to cheek. Though, like Mike's, his mouth and nose are fairly close together, Micky's ends so high on his face as to make him look perpetually youthful—and mischievous.

When compared side-by-side, we can see that Micky's nostrils are more left-right horizontal, while Mike's go straighter out, almost perpendicular to his face.

To clear up some Micksconceptions: Micky's nose may be small, but the prominence of his chin makes it look smaller than it really is. And most importantly, he does not have a PUG NOSE! A pug nose would have virtually no bridge and turn upwards such that his nostrils faced forward while looking at you straight on. (Though not for nothing: just as a bulldog is bred to latch onto a charging bull without letting go to breathe, Micky's pushed-in nose was made to give head without coming up for air.)

Davy

I naively went into this exercise thinking I would have nothing to say about Davy's nose. Neither long as Mike's nor short as Micky's, neither wickedly sharp nor softly rounded, Davy's nose is not his most distinctive feature. But upon closer study, it is as interesting and complicated as Davy himself. First, it is set rather high on his face, pulling on his upper lip a bit to complete that slightly pouty look. Second, his profile is not totally straight. He has the barest ridge of bone (not prominent enough to be called a bump), and the tip of his nose actually hooks down the tiniest bit. This down-curve is exacerbated by the severe arch of his nostrils. From beneath, we can see the opening is more pointed than smoothly curved, making him look like his nostrils are always flared.

These features in addition to Davy's deep laugh lines (another fun linguistics fact: those are called nasolabial folds) result in a very aristocratic nose. It lends all too easily to a sneer, which is unfortunate re: his height—he's probably never been able to look down it at anybody.

Next to Peter, whose nose points out and slightly up, we can see Davy's very slight down-turn. We can also practically see our reflection in that shine. A little more powder, please?

And speaking of Peter...

Peter

My thoughts on Peter's nose could fill a library, so I'll try to be brief. It has a high bridge with a gradual concave slope, but it's when we reach the tip that things really get interesting. Though the bridge is slender, the lower half of Peter's nose is slightly bulbed, giving him a sort of Snufkin/Little My look. The underside of his nose comes out from his face at a nearly perfect 90 degrees, but the slope of the bridge is so steep that it has the appearance of being daintily upturned. This is not to say his nose is unmasculine, or god forbid, delicate. In the shape of Peter's nose, there is a gentle masculinity, like the alternative spark of peacenik sensibility in the man himself. It is sensitive.

All the Monkees have expressive noses, but Peter uses his the most in his acting. As soon as you see the corners of his mouth start to droop in an Emmett Kelly frown or his upper lip curl in a snarl of confusion, his nose becomes the star of the expression.

When Peter crinkles his nose, as he is wont to do, it loses some of its slenderness. I would say that out of the four, Peter has the most awareness of his nose, and how to make it work for him rather than vice versa. It is as much a part of his look as his profound dimples, sandy mop, or smiling eyes.

Sex appeal: Do I have to start over?!

bonus:

Thanks if you've read this far! I may be an obsessive and a self-professed expert, but I am not the final authority. I welcome any other thoughts you might have. (Should I do one for the Beatles?)