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softidiotsposts · 2 days ago

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Anyone Can Cook

as the wise tale of ratatouille states "anyone can cook... but only the fearless can be great"

{Hello! Second fic, this time pure fluff for recovery! Warnings: kitchens being messy, mentions of bland food, cooking, mentions of the french and reader is french, picky eaters, incorrect cooking terms (probs) // word count: 2.2k}

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Leah always mentioned Ratatouille around you, like a little disease that you could never shake. The little blue rat named, Remy, had become a staple in your household- even earning you a nickname based on the rat. She thought herself funny, with you being French and all- even a native Parisian, which apparently made it even more of a gag. One that you didn't enjoy very much.

You didn't get it- the film, while good in a general sense and clearly a children's film- had no idea of what a professional kitchen actually looks like and you liked to point out the serious misconceptions to Leah every time she forced you to watch it.

"Seriously, Lee- I have had enough of this film!"

You grumble when Leah once again picks Ratatouille to watch on your weekly movie night- this makes it twice in a row that she's picked this. Making you absolutely devastated that watching Notting Hill was being put on hold, once again.

You wonder whether revoking her TV rights on film night would fix the problem but then remember that Leah could do absolutely anything and you'd probably let her do it anyway. Even if it's a chef rat based torture.

Still, it's actually getting to the point that you remember practically every single line of the film and the plot never surprises you. Not when Leah insists on watching it all the time.

You don't even think she actually enjoys the film enough to watch it all the time either so it must only be to see your reaction.

"But it's so good- really lets me get the idea of what you do at work," Leah giggles and presses start and the obnoxious "French" sounding music starts to play.

You groan, "This is not what I do."

"Yeah, yeah, Remy- You do some cooking with fancy things, I know."

"Actually, I-"

You're about to correct Leah with the most attitude you ever have when she presses her lips against yours and you melt like butter in a pan. She knows that you can never resist her when she has her soft lips against yours and it works without fail each time- even when you're terribly angry.

Leah smirks and wraps an arm around your shoulders. In turn you sigh, knowing that there is no winning when Leah has her mind set on something or whenever she uses her ultimate weapon.

It's around half way through the film, when the famous line is said that you come upon the genius idea. Taking Leah through cooking something that cannot be made via a machine- a cooking lesson with the most inept chef you've met.

The words anyone can cook are true... to a certain extent- It comes down to personal opinion mostly, what does one truly classify as cooking? In theory, if making toast with butter was considered cooking then Leah was the expert but when it came to the taste department- that is where your girlfriend falters.

Before Leah, when you still lived in France, you swore up and down you could never date anyone with the taste buds of a five year old- saying that it was the ultimate deal breaker. Now here you are, dating a famous Arsenal footballer that has the diet of a primary schooler.

At first, it had come as a shock- you went to a restaurant on your first date (not your ideal place for a date but Leah insisted) and she ordered the plainest thing on the menu. You were in such shock that you double checked the menu to see if you weren't misreading because who orders chicken nuggets at a Michelin star restaurant? And why did they even serve such a dish?

It also happened to be the moment that you fell head over heels for Leah, so you learned to get over the food very quickly.

Yet, this was a moment to teach Leah a lesson in taking you seriously... or maybe at least putting a stop to rewatching Ratatouille every single week.

So you take a week to prepare everything perfectly, you plan out what you're going to teach Leah to cook, even survey your kitchen staff before opening with a little questionnaire.

Then you make sure that all knives are sharpened, pots and pans are present- even though you're the only one who uses them- and that all other additional equipment is on hand if needed.

After all the prep work, you go out to the market early on Friday morning to buy a whole chicken since Leah is most likely to actually eat it after it's cooked- you're against wasting food in any circumstance. Then circle around to the other side for fresh vegetables. Once you have acquired all that is needed, you return home perfectly on time.

It leaves you enough time to get your chef coat that you wear when working and find the spare one you had borrowed for Leah, then set out all the ingredients on the marble countertops. It looks absolutely perfect and tickles that ocd part of you brilliantly.

In hindsight, you should have given Leah a slight pre-warning as to what the two of you were doing today but the expression on her face when she walks in is priceless- so priceless, you wish you had recorded it, so you can show it to all her teammates and your co-workers.

“What’s all this?” Leah says, clearly confused as she drops her training bag by the discarded sneakers.

You fan your hands out, presenting all the different things across the countertops with a large grin- just as large as Leah’s everytime she picks Ratatouille over any other mildly interesting film.

“This, my love, is your cooking crash course with the best chef in London.”

It’s true, the London’s society of restaurateurs had voted you best chef for the third year in a row and you couldn’t be happier to flex it in Leah’s face. It’s your personal victory and you like to compare it to her Euro win with England- just to watch her turn a little red as she fiercely defends it to be harder.

You'd normally agree but maybe she won’t be so quick to correct you next time though because as soon as she’s in the white coat with you (and after you had taken a photo of her that will be posted on instagram later.) the two of you are off, cooking what you think is going to be the driest chicken ever.

“No- not like that!”

You’re quick to correct her, it’s automatic and you feel as though it’s a little harsh but this is payback for making you suffer through a cartoon rat cooking.

You place a hand on top of hers and you swear she blushes just a bit but you ignore it, instead guiding her hand to correctly dismantle the chicken into its individual parts. After helping her with one side, you watch as she tries to complete the other- and to her credit, it is not a total disaster. The cuts are a little jagged and some of the chicken looks more like it’s been massacred rather than taken apart but albeit still looks edible.

Then she looks up at you with proud eyes and you forget about everything for a moment- all the mental gymnastics- and focus on her sweet smile that warms your heart. You come a little closer and give her a kiss on the cheek, careful not to touch her since you've just been cutting chicken.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart."

Maybe it's an exaggeration but the blush appears on Leah's cheeks after it is completely worth a white lie.

"Thanks, Remy, I have the best teacher," Leah wiggles her brows at you suggestively and you roll your eyes in return.

"Well, I do have three Michelin stars to my name," You grin and Leah smiles back at you.

Then you add, "It's like having three of those golden ball thingys that you all pine after."

Leah's face drops a bit, "You mean a ballon d'or?"

Your face lights up and you nod rapidly, "Yes, exactly!"

Leah pulls a face and furrows her brows, "Okay, baby... maybe we should focus on the cooking?"

You nod and turn your attention towards the dismantled chicken in front of the two of you- You resist the urge to cringe and put all the different parts into a bowl that you then place into the fridge.

"Let's wash hands before the next part."

The two of you take turns washing your hands, Leah flicking water at you playfully when it's her turn and you frowning when she does so.

"Take this seriously, Lee- In my kitchen-"

"Our kitchen-" She corrects you.

You raise your brows in question, "Who uses it the most?"

Leah suddenly fiddles with her coat and looks anywhere but you, you scoff but a smile finds it way to your face anyway- then you wrap an arm around her waist.

"Whatever, just focus- as if it were a match!"

Leah chuckles but steps up to the cutting board where various different vegetables are laid out with one of your personal knives that you bring to work besides it.

"So what now?" Leah asks, evident confusion in her voice.

"I want you to cut the peppers julienne and the carrots paysanne."

Leah looks at you with the most confused expression you've seen to date when the French leaves your mouth and all you can do is sigh.

"Peppers thin like matchsticks and the carrots into circles, please."

"Now that, I can understand," She laughs and begins to chop the peppers, first gutting them and throwing the seeds in the bin beside her then slicing them into strips.

You're leaning your head on her shoulder and your arms are wrapped loosely around her waist as you watch what she is doing- Leah's fingers are wrapped around the wooden handle and she guides the blade down each pepper part with some kind of precision.

You smile and encourage her by giving a light squeeze that you feel she leans into-

"Focus, that knife can cut your finger off."

You hear Leah scoff, "Maybe you shouldn't distract me then?"

You don't say anything nor do you move your arms away from her waist instead focus on the way she's slicing the various peppers- somehow, Leah begins to stray from the very thin slices into thick chucks without even acknowledging it.

You smile, "Stop for a second, Lee."

Leah pauses instantly and turns her head to look at you from where you stand behind her, she raises a brow in question and you grin in return. Then pick up a slice of pepper, holding it up for the two of you to inspect.

"Too thick, darling."

You press yourself closer to her back, forcing her to face the board again- this time you place your hands on top of hers, they are slightly warmer than yours and the heat immediately spreads, then begin to slice as you had instructed.

The rest of the vegetables go smoothly and you let them rest to the side before taking the chicken out of the fridge again-

"We are going to bake the legs, use the bones to make a sauce with the peppers and boil the carrots."

You explain, pointing to all the different elements as you do so and all Leah does is nod before stepping closer to you so she can wrap her arms around your neck.

"Yes, chef Remy," Leah chuckles when you scoff.

She gives you a quick kiss that you so desperately want to deepen but she pulls away before you can. Instead, she turns to the board and looks at you with the same focus you see on the pitch.

"Alright, let's start."

The rest of the evening goes... as well as you'd imagine- the kitchen is thankfully still standing, but in a state of utter disarray. The sauce that Leah made under your guidance had boiled over after she turned the temperature up, so that it would "cook faster". You didn't even get the chance to explain that it doesn't work like that, when a blob of sauce landed on the floor.

So there was a large spillage of sauce all over the stove and countertop but that was the least of your worries since the fire alarm had rang... once... twice... and a third time when the chicken was in the oven. Turns out that Leah cannot preheat an oven to the correct temperature either- so that chicken wasn't even dry, as you'd predicted, it was just simply not even there anymore.

All the meat had burned into crispy back sludge and the bones smelt disgusting- so disgusting that Leah had to stand on the balcony as you threw it out. Stating that she would throw up if she had to do it.

It turns out that nothing was safe from Leah's horrid cooking skill since the carrots suffered a death by over boiling- turning into mush rather than keeping their shape after the plunge in the steaming hot water of the pot.

In the end, Leah and you end up on the plush sofa with white styrofoam take out boxes in front of you and the normally tidy kitchen left in a rather untidy state, much to your dismay- but none of you had the energy to clean on an empty stomach.

You're shoveling food into your mouth when Leah picks up the remote and you dread what's coming. You see disney being opened and the pit in your stomach turns into sickness-

"So... Ratatouille?" Leah giggles and presses play, you music ringing out of the speakers.

"Darling- No, please!"

#woso x reader #leah williamson x reader #woso imagine #leah williamson imagine #woso fanfics #leah williamson #arsenal wfc

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marie-swriting · 3 days ago

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New Beginnings - Emily Prentiss

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Summary : Emily discovers Andrew Mendoza, her boyfriend, wants to propose and as she thinks back to what you told her when you broke up years ago, she realises why she's so reluctant at the idea of marrying a man.

Warnings : set between s15 and s16, comphet, struggling with sexuality, lesbian Emily Prentiss, reader is queer but no label is used, mention of Emily's abortion and catholic guilt about it and her sexuality, angst, happy ending, maybe some grammatical mistakes as English is not my first language, tell me if you see some or if I missed any warnings.

Word count : 2.7k

French version

Song inspiration : Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan

Emily blankly stares at the ceiling, her brain working fast and slow at the same time. She thinks back on her life, more specifically her relationships and the more she thinks about it, the more she notices a similarity in all of them.

Andrew Mendoza’s arm wraps itself around her waist, interrupting her train of thoughts. Emily’s body stiffens while she turns her head and looks at his sleeping face. She can’t believe she didn’t do anything to stop herself from getting into this situation. Feeling like she’s suffocating, Emily gets out of Andrew’s grip and goes to the bathroom without making any sound. The door closed, Emily drinks some water and then wets her face before putting her hands on both sides of the sink and looking at her reflection in the mirror. While she’s gazing at herself, Emily reminisces about the discovery she did earlier in the day.

As she was searching for one of her sweaters, she went through the entire closet where she found a ring in a red box hidden among her boyfriend’s socks. Emily panicked the second she saw the jewel, all at once she put it back in its place. Since then, she can’t stop thinking about what this ring means; Andrew plans on proposing to her nonetheless. When? She doesn’t know, she can’t stay in this relationship. Her head in her hands, she’s looking for a way to announce the awful news to Andrew. While she thinks about what she could say, a sentence and a voice she hadn’t thought about for a few decades make their way to her mind: “if you stay in denial, you’ll find yourself in a relationship you won’t want and one night, you’ll wake up in panic, wondering why you were so adamant on being someone you’re not.” You had said this to her when you were both fifteen.

You and Emily had become friends as soon as she first arrived in your school in Rome. You were inseparable and you shared your deepest secrets; one of them being you were questioning your sexuality which brought you closer. For the first time in your life, you felt understood. At first, it was platonic. From time to time, you were talking about how you were feeling, your interrogations and depending on the day, you’d reassure one another.

However, one night when Emily had invited you over, your relationship shifted. You kissed, your first kiss with someone from the same gender. At first, it was just to try, to be sure you liked girls, then, after a few more tries, you confessed to Emily your kisses meant a lot to you. Consequently, you had accepted to discover this new side of your relationship. There wasn’t a label on it, though you would kiss whenever you could, get jealous and do everything together. You were just experimenting. Yet, you were more in it than Emily. You wanted more, but she was always reluctant. Understanding perfectly your best friend, you hadn’t insisted on being official even if you would have wanted to. You were just two best friends who kissed. For you, it was reason enough to not meet other people, for Emily, it was really not the same.

One day, while you were going to school, you found her kissing John Cooley, a friend you had in common. Your heart had shattered into a billion pieces for the first time in your life. Sure, you were still discovering who you were, nevertheless you weren’t expecting her to kiss someone else, let alone a guy. Looking at her from afar, you had seen her smile, though you knew she was faking it. You were so hurt you ignored Emily for a whole week. Noticing your change, Emily took you aside during break, away from all the ears.

“What’s wrong? Why are you avoiding me?” Emily asked you.

“When were you gonna tell me about you and John?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she denied, looking away.

“Sure, you don’t,” you laughed humorless. “I saw you kissing him last week. I can’t believe you did this to me.”

“We never agreed on being together.”

“Because you never wanted to label it! And I’m not mad at you for that, I just didn’t think you’d kiss other people. I knew I should have put an end to this a long time ago,” you sighed, your heart beating loudly in your chest. “So, is he your boyfriend?”

“If you absolutely want to know, yes, he is. Besides, me and you, it was more to experience things. It was never love.”

“Wow, I can’t believe it. Let’s see how it lasts between you two.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re wasting your time with him,” you replied, taking a step forward. “We both know you don’t like guys.”

“I can like boys and girls!”

“Sure you can, but you said it yourself several times, you’re not sure you love guys and you feel like you’re searching for their validation. I think that says a lot.”

“You don’t know how I feel. You’re not in my head,” Emily retorted, defensive.

“True, though I know you well enough. You can try to convince yourself all you want, it’s not gonna change who you are. But you know what? It’s not my problem. You took me for a fool for too long, I’m done, so go ahead, be with him,” you stated, tearing up. “Keep kissing him, go kiss other guys even, if it can make you feel better but if you stay in denial, you’ll find yourself in a relationship you won’t want and one night, you’ll wake up in panic, wondering why you were so adamant on being someone you’re not. And even if I don’t wish you an unfulfilling relationship, I will tell you ‘I told you so’. You’ll see. You can deny all you want, but we know the truth, so good luck, Emily.”

On those words, you walked away, leaving Emily alone with her denial, yet also her heartache. She might have been too proud to admit it, but losing you hurt her a lot purely and simply because she hadn’t just lost a best friend.

The following morning, Emily is exhausted. She only slept two hours as her dark circles under her eyes prove it. At the crack of dawn, Emily leaves the apartment she shares with Mendoza, leaving him alone, and goes to a café near the BAU headquarters. She orders a black coffee, hoping it’ll keep her awake. Her order ready, Emily is about to walk out from the place when a familiar face catches her attention. She does a double take, staring at the person sitting at a table away from her and once she’s sure she’s not mistaken, she walks towards them. At the table, Emily says your name out loud, making you look up. A surprise expression takes place on your face, realising who is in front of you.

“Emily Prentiss! What a surprise!” you exclaim with a big smile. “How long has it been? You know what, don’t tell me, I don’t want to feel old. I already struggle hiding my gray hair.”

“We're the same on this,” she laughs. “I didn’t know you were in D.C..”

“I moved here three months ago. What about you? You’ve been here for a long time? What do you do?”

“I moved about twenty years ago. I’m working for the FBI, at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, more specifically.”

“Wow, that’s something! It doesn’t surprise me, you’ve always been so intelligent,” you genuinely say and Emily’s cheeks start to heat up.

“What about you? Are you an English teacher, like you wanted?”

“Yes, I am. I work in a high school not too far from here. There’s a good team and the students are majorly nice.”

“That’s great. Sorry, one second,” Emily replies when her phone rings. She takes it and checks her notification. “I gotta go, duty calls, but I’m so happy I saw you. If you’re up for it, we could meet again? To make up for the lost time.”

“I’d love that,” you state before writing your number on a piece of paper. “Call me when you’re free.”

“I will. See you, then.”

“See you,” you say, waving at her.

Emily leaves the café, beaming in a way she didn’t expect to today. On the way to the BAU, Emily reminisces about your relationship and the cute moments, whether they’re from after or before your first kiss. However, the happy feeling stops once she remembers your last fight. She’s always regretted the way things ended between you two. She wishes she could have fixed things when you were still going to the same high school, however she wasn’t brave enough to do so. Now that she’s found you again, maybe it’s time to make amends? She doesn’t know if you’ll accept her apology but she has hope. After all, you didn’t push her away when she came to talk. And if you still hold a grudge, Emily will do everything to change that. She wants to make things better between you two, like she should have.

The following weeks, Emily spends them as much as she can at work - which isn’t complicated - so she can avoid Andrew. She knows she has to break up with him, nevertheless she doesn’t know how to do it. Though she can’t wait too long, Andrew might propose shortly; she has to end the relationship before it’s too late. Consequently, Emily decides it’s time to stop running away from the problem. She comes home earlier than expected as she thinks about what to say. The second she walks through the door, she finds Andrew sitting on the couch. She was hoping she’d have more time. Emily puts her bag down, next to the front door and walks towards him; she sits down beside him, though she keeps a small distance. Right away, Andrew notices something is wrong, Emily didn’t greet him with a kiss to say hello. Uncomfortable, Emily wets her lips before speaking.

“I found the ring,” she confesses, point blank. “It was an accident, I was looking for my sweater and I found it.”

“Oh, and judging by your face, you’re not excited about it,” Andrew says, embarrassed.

“I spent most of my life hiding who I am and it’s time to stop. It’s better to stop now before our relationship passes this milestone,” Emily announces softly. “You’re a good man and you deserve better, a woman who will genuinely love you.”

“At least, you did it before I got down on one knee,” he nervously laughs. “I get it, Emily.”

“I’m sorry, I never wanted to hurt you.”

Emily and Andrew stay silent for a few seconds, the tension being heavy. Emily doesn’t know what to do to make the situation less difficult. Andrew ends up clearing his throat and standing up.

“I’m going to spend the night at a friend’s, I need to be alone if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

Andrew quickly packs a bag before getting out of the apartment. Hearing the door closing, Emily sighs in relief. Not being with Andrew anymore is like a weight being lifted off her shoulders, a weight she didn’t know was crushing her. Of course, she feels bad about breaking Andrew’s heart but it was the right thing to do and this feeling of being relieved is the proof of it. Emily can finally be free to be who she is. From now on, she won’t hide herself, she makes that promise to herself.

You end up meeting Emily two months later. Cases kept her occupied while final exams did the same to you. She told you to meet at a bar halfway between your two apartments. You arrived first so you settle down at a table and check your phone, waiting for her. Emily comes ten minutes later. As soon as she’s in front of you, you notice her hair is now gray. You find her even more beautiful.

“You changed your hair. I love it,” you remark with joy.

“Yeah, I was tired of dying it so I decided to accept my gray hair,” she says, nervously running a hand through it.

“You did the right thing. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Before you begin to talk, a waiter comes to take your order then leaves. Once you’re alone, Emily tells you about when she moved to D.C. and you tell her about how you ended in the same city when the waiter comes back with your two glasses of red wine. The conversation flows naturally, as if you had never stopped talking, as if Emily hadn’t broken your heart years ago.

At one point, the infamous question about relationships comes. You simply answer by saying you’re single. You quickly talk about your last lover before asking her the same question.

“I noticed you don’t have a ring on your finger so either you’re like me and you haven’t found the perfect match or you divorced recently,” you suggest and Emily takes a large sip of her wine, trying to hide her uneasiness.

“Well, I could have been engaged but I broke up two months ago,” she starts before clearing her throat. “I wasn’t in love with… him. You were right from the beginning. Come on, you can say ‘I told you so,’ I know you’ve been waiting for this since we were fifteen,” Emily adds and your heart tightens a little in your chest.

“I’m not gonna lie, my fifteen-year-old self would have said it with a big smile on her face, but I won’t. It pains me to know you struggled so much with your sexuality,” you say, putting your hand on her wrist for a second.

“I wasn’t as brave as you when it comes to this.”

“I was only brave because you were with me. After our…,” you begin, looking for the right word, “fight, I took a step back. I could only talk about this with you so once we stopped talking, I struggled again. I had to wait until my third year of university to fully accept myself.”

“You were still quicker than me.”

“I was, yeah. I guess your faith didn’t help either,” you say, drinking.

“You have no idea. Especially when you get pregnant as a teenager and the priest tells you you can’t go back to church if you get an abortion. If he had this opinion about abortion, I don’t want to imagine what he thought about homosexuality,” Emily informs, casually, making you frown.

“I didn’t know you had an abortion.”

“It was after our fight. Only John and Matthew knew. The fact is, in the end, it was hard. Fortunately, I’ve accepted that I'm a lesbian. Better late than never like we say.”

“True.”

“You know, I’m really sorry for the way it ended between us. You were there for me and I only pushed you away and hurt you,” Emily says before taking a deep breath. “You were my first love and I ruined everything when you were nothing but patient with me, at least until I pushed it too far. Losing you is my biggest regret.”

Hearing Emily’s apology warms your heart. You moved on years ago though you’d be lying if you said hearing those words didn’t heal something in you.

“You were my first love, too, and because of this, I was mad for years,” you admit. “It’s true what they say about your first queer breakup, it hurts like hell. But growing up, I understood why you acted the way you did so I stopped being mad.”

“It doesn’t mean I should have done what I did. I knew I’d hurt you by dating John and maybe that's what I wanted,” she says, her eyebrows knitting together. “Hurting you so you’d leave me and I could reject who I was a bit longer.”

“You’re not in denial anymore and I’m not mad so let’s move on.”

“Does that mean you’d accept me being in your life again?” Emily asks, nervous.

“I came tonight, didn’t I?” you rhetorically answer. “Of course, I want you in my life again. I missed you, Emily,” you confess, raising your glass.

Emily does the same and you clink your glasses before drinking to new beginnings. You smile to each other, glad to finally have left the past behind you. You don’t know what the future holds for both of you, whether it’s platonic or romantic again, it doesn’t matter, as long as you don’t lose each other once more, that’s all that matters.

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molecularhomosexual · 2 days ago

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enough people have already pointed out in reblogs and comments that haiti was *technically* not the first colony to become independent of europe, or that an historical event shouldn’t have to be the ‘first’ one to merit importance, and i won’t belabor those points. what i would want to add, and what some folks already kinda alluded to elsewhere, is how the haitian revolution and the american revolution had important differences in their political and historical content, differences that support the narrative in this post that the US should not be a model for democracy anywhere.

i’m gonna be going off of susan buck-morss’s work on hegel and haiti for most of the following points. the american revolution’s auto-consciousness involved a certain relationship to taxation: “we feel it unfair to be taxed without consent by the british, we feel that this is slavery, that this is tyranny.” they relied on writers like locke to argue their points here—locke has a chunk of passages arguing against “the slavery of man”. immediately notable to point out here is that locke himself was a shareholder in a company that employed slaves; a good chunk of the americans arguing for independence against britain were also directly involved in slavery-based trade and commerce. there was an immediate contradiction between what was being said as Official Discourse™️, and what was actually happening in USian economic institutions contemporaneously.

with regard to haiti, on the other hand, some of those political conditions are different. the haitian revolution and french revolution are happening so nearby each other, but the french revolution in its assertion of equality, fraternity, and liberty for all, and as a reaction against feudalism, could not make easy sense of just how much wealth france accumulated through its colonies, through slave labor, through—in other words—inequality, enmity, and slavery for a few. if anything, being a slave-led revolution, haiti was notable for leading one of the first revolutions that seemed, to some of the british, the french, and the americans at the time, to “accomplish enlightenment values” of liberty and equality more fully and more successfully than either the american or french revolutions. (buck-morss is a hegel scholar, which explains their penchant for putting the historical matter in this form: the ideal, or the rational, has to actually become material, and in that process faces contradictions and syntheses along the way).

one of the reasons the united states (and the american revolution, for that matter) does not deserve to be a model of democracy (or an inauguration of democracy) for anywhere else, within the context of this narrative above, is the fact that its independence was intended, from the beginning, to maintain anti-black, anti-indigenous institutions and practices (slavery, genocide, practices of dispossession and displacement). its independence was an independence to freely oppress and subjugate others without being oppressed in turn. (these kinds of details are precisely why it is important for elias sanbar to highlight that israel’s anti-indigenous politics look to the US’s anti-indigenous politics as a model! the concept of manifest destiny, the invoking of the rights of the first in relation to the land, etc).

haiti was a problem for europe and the americas: because it immediately brought to historical consciousness, whether any of the oppressing classes liked seeing it or not, the reality that despite white society’s invocations of independence from slavery (by the british, by their feudal lords, etc.), they maintained their wealth upon slavery nonetheless, and sometimes upon the very slaves who were then declaring independence and the abolition of all slavery. the US and europe both shared their antiblack project of wealth accumulation, exploitation, and theft—which is why a black colony revolting against france is so notable in historical consciousness, and why haiti was so punished after the fact through economic policy.

(typical disclaimer that any mistakes in my writing are solely my own mistakes, please correct anything incorrect cheerfully with free abandon, etc.)

genuine question why would the US be an example for democracies anywhere in the world asides from propaganda you've been fed, you've got the worst voting system, an INDIRECT voting system ("representative"), you didn't invent democracy you took some fucked up feudal system and slapped the name democracy on it because you don't even have a real democracy! You weren't the first country to gain independence from Europe by any means, you weren't the first one to grant equal rights to women or POC and also you failed catastrophically at it when you supposedly did because the only place where something like Jim Crow happened was apartheid south africa, you never had any sort of welfare state, you never had any sort of robust public system for anything, so what is it that you're bringing to the international table? you aren't the moral police you aren't the paragon of anything

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causeimhappinesss · 3 days ago

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Confidentiality (part 2)

Warnings: one night stand (no smut), manipulation, angst, drama, unplanned pregnancy

Pairing: Joseph Quinn x reader (Joseph Quinn x reader but you won't see her)

Words: 3,3k

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

PART 1

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, casting a sterile glow over the nearly empty pharmacy. Shelves stretch out in long, uninviting rows, stocked with cold remedies, beauty products, and vitamins I don’t need. My fingers curl around the small box in my hand, my grip too tight, my palm slightly damp. I force myself toward the register, my legs stiff, my throat dry. Every step feels measured, deliberate, like I’m walking toward something irreversible. The cashier, a young guy with dark circles under his eyes, barely looks at me. He scans the test with a quick, indifferent motion. The sound slices through the quiet. I flinch. He doesn’t notice.

His fingers drum against the counter as he waits for me to pay. I fumble with my wallet, nearly dropping it. A crumpled bill. A rushed exchange. His face remains unreadable as he shoves the test into a plastic bag, crinkling and loud.

“Have a good night!” He comments, voice flat, already looking past me.

I nod. My mouth is too dry to speak. Outside, the air bites at my cheeks, sharp and unforgiving. The city is half-asleep, streetlights flickering over empty sidewalks. Somewhere, a car hums softly in the distance. I pull my coat tighter around me, but the cold isn’t what’s making me shiver. My fingers clutch the plastic bag against my chest like it might disappear. I walk fast. I don’t look back.

3:14 AM

I wake with a jolt.

The room is dark, but my chest is tight, breath shallow, skin damp with the remnants of restless sleep. The air feels thick, pressing down on me, the silence stretching, unnatural. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hums. The pipes creak softly, an old, familiar sound. I glance at the clock. The numbers glow red, too bright in the darkness. I stare at them, willing my heartbeat to slow. It doesn’t.

I shift beneath the covers, but there’s no getting comfortable, no going back to sleep. My stomach is a knot of nerves. The weight of the plastic bag on my nightstand is unbearable. It sits there, unopened, but it might as well be screaming at me.

I could wait until morning. Wait until my thoughts are clearer, until the world feels less suffocating, but I already know I won’t. I throw the blankets off and sit up. The cold air rushes against my skin, but I don’t hesitate. My feet find the floor, bare against the wooden boards. Each step toward the bathroom feels heavy. The small space is barely illuminated by the weak light above the mirror. It flickers once before steadying, casting everything in a dull, yellow haze. I close the door behind me. The lock clicks.

Why does the box feel heavier than it should?

My hands shake as I tear at the packaging, my breath shallow, uneven. The test is white, simple, nothing remarkable. Yet, it holds the power to shift my entire reality. I set it on the edge of the sink. I hesitate and for a long moment, I just stare at it, my reflection paler than the usual and unsteady in the mirror. My fingers brush against the cold porcelain, seeking something solid, something real.

I need to do this. I have to do this. I take a breath, close my eyes, and begin to follow all the instructions. Within two minutes, the test rests on the sink’s edge, silent, indifferent. A cheap plastic thing. Meaningless. Except it isn’t. My small bathroom feels even smaller, the air dense, suffocating. I run a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the knots. My scalp tingles. A nervous habit. The same thing I did before exams, before job interviews, before making choices I couldn’t take back.

I pace. One step, two. A slow, unsteady rhythm. My arms wrap around my body, as if that could hold me together. My heartbeat is erratic, hammering against my ribs, pulsing in my throat.

I shouldn’t look yet.

The instructions said three minutes. Maybe four, just to be sure.

I could leave. Step out of this bathroom, distract myself, give myself a moment before my world shifts. But I can’t.

I can’t help myself, but I glance at the test. Too soon.

My fingers dig into my arms. My stomach twists. I squeeze my eyes shut. My breathing is shallow. Unsteady. The scent of antiseptic soap lingers in the air, sharp and sterile. I should never have bought the damn thing.

Two lines.

Two clear, bold, unforgiving lines.

The air rushes from my lungs in a jagged exhalation.

No, no, no!

My vision blurs. My fingers fumble for the box, tearing at the cardboard. The instruction leaflet unfolds in my shaking hands, the tiny print swimming before my eyes: “One line: Not Pregnant. Two lines: Pregnant.” I blink. Hard. I press my fist against my mouth, swallowing down something sharp, something broken.

This can’t be real.

I count the days. Whispers leave my lips, frantic, desperate. I go over the numbers again and again, hoping for a mistake. Unfortunately, the math adds up. My knees give out. I sink onto the closed toilet lid, the test still clutched in my hand. I press my palm, my trembling fingers, against my stomach. Of course, for now, nothing feels different. It doesn’t change what’s happening.

A tiny, invisible thing. Alive. Inside me.

A shudder rolls through me.

The room is too still. The world outside doesn’t know. The wind rattles the windowpane, the faucet drips in its lazy, indifferent rhythm. I swallow hard, but my throat is raw. My tongue is dry. I try to form words, but there’s no one to hear them.

I stare at the test. It stares back.

Something inside me cracks.

A small, strangled laugh escapes; a hollow, broken sound. My fingers tighten around the plastic, as if crushing it could erase what it means.

Tears burn behind my eyes, but they don’t fall.

Because I’m too stunned. Too shocked.

I was so stupid to have sex with that bastard!

I want to scream, to throw things, to punch my pillow. Yet, I stay still, my eyes on the floor.

The phone rests in my palm, heavier than it should be. The screen glows, casting a faint blue hue over my fingers. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. One word. One message. That’s all it would take.

I type.

“We need to talk.”

My chest tightens. The words stare back at me, cold, detached. I erase them.

I try again.

“I don’t know if you care, but…”

No.

Delete.

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. My apartment is too quiet. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, small sounds, swallowed by the weight in my chest.

What do I even want from him? An apology? An admission that what happened wasn’t just a mistake he needed to cover up? That I wasn’t just another woman in a long list of forgettable nights? Or do I want him to take responsibility?

The thought makes my stomach twist. I picture his face, unreadable, that same carefully crafted mask he wears in some interviews, in some meetings, especially these last months. I see his hand sliding the contract across the table, his voice smooth, impersonal. The memory burns.

I grip the phone tighter. He didn’t even text me after that night. Not a single word.

I scroll through our messages, barely anything. A few logistical exchanges before the gala, nothing since. As if I never existed.

My throat tightens.

I could force him to see me. To acknowledge this. I could tell him. I could change everything with a single message, which is the reason why the thought lingers, tempting. But then what? Would he step up? Would he care? Or would he find a way to make this go away? He might not give a fuck. I imagine his reaction. The disbelief. The frustration. The inevitable damage control. Another contract, this time thicker, full of legal jargon and quiet threats. A team of lawyers making sure I stay silent. A deep chill spreads through me.

I look at the phone again. And then, slowly, I put it down. The screen dims, leaving me in the half-darkness of my apartment. I won’t tell him. Not now. The decision settles over me, heavy but certain. I’m on my own.

Days later

The glow of my phone cuts through the dimness of my bedroom. I scroll aimlessly, thumb moving in slow, lazy swipes. Another news article, another pointless headline, until it isn’t. I freeze. The image takes up the whole screen.

Joseph.

Hugging with Doja Cat or Amala.

The flash of the camera catches the gleam of his tired features, the way he tried to stay close to her. A moment stolen in the blur of an airport.

"Joseph Quinn and Doja Cat: Together After a Romantic Valentin Day in Mexico!"

The words punch the air from my lungs. I blink, forcing myself to read the article, that piece of shite, while a fresh wave of nausea grips me. I sit up, the room spinning. The phone trembles in my hand, screen too bright, too sharp. I shouldn’t keep reading. My breath is shallow, uneven. I press a hand to my stomach, where a dull ache unfurls.

He was with her.

While I was curled up on my bathroom floor, staring at two pink lines. While I was drowning in uncertainty, counting the weeks, replaying every second of that night, he was boarding a plane, hands on someone else’s skin, his lips on her.

A memory crashes into me, unbidden.

His fingers tracing my jaw. The slow, deliberate way he had leaned in before kissing me, as if testing the air between us. The way his hands had lingered. His mouth, his touch, the quiet weight of him against me in the dark.

I shut my eyes, but the image of the article burns behind my lids. My throat tightens.

I shouldn’t care and I know I should have expected this. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop the sharp twist in my chest, the betrayal that shouldn’t even feel like betrayal. Because what were we, really? Nothing. A hook up.

I stare at the screen. At his face. At the man I thought, for just one night, might have been something else. My stomach clenches. I turn off the phone and let the darkness swallow me whole.

Somehow, I need to tell him.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The Warfare premiere is in town. Everyone’s talking about it, and of course, Joseph is the center of attention. The air is thick with excitement. The red carpet is a river of glittering gowns and sharp suits, the flash of cameras relentless. Celebrities glide past, their smiles practiced, their movements choreographed for the spectacle. The buzz in the air is palpable, every word dissected by eager ears.

I know there’s a place for me in this world of glitter and fake smiles. I could slip in unnoticed, a shadow among the invited. I got in through my professional contacts, I used the connections I’ve built in communications. I’ve never done something like that, using that privilege, but it’s not like I had another solution. A man like him would just ghost him if I texted him.

The room opens before me, vast, grand, lit by a thousand tiny lights reflecting off the polished surfaces. Dark hues dominate, but gold accents remind me that this is no ordinary night. Conversations swirl, laughter, snippets of excited chatter. People are everywhere. Journalists chase after celebrities, cameras flash, their questions about Joseph’s latest film hanging in the air. I’m a stranger in this crowd, but I don’t care. One thought keeps circling in my mind: I need to find him.

My heels click against the floor, the sound cutting through the noise surrounding me. I move through the crowd, scanning faces, bodies, the occasional glint of a smile. And then, near the bar, I see him. Joseph. Always so composed. His black suit hugs his frame perfectly with his shaved hair aging him a little. He’s surrounded by a group of producers, but his attention is elsewhere. He’s there but not really there, a hollow space around him despite all the eyes on him. I recognize it. It’s the same emptiness I saw the night we met.

I step closer, my pulse quickening. He doesn’t notice me yet. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a weariness beneath them, like he’s carrying the weight of the night. His face is tired, but his smile still manages to warm the room. When he spots me, his expression shifts. A flicker of hesitation, a crease in his brow, like he’s trying to place me. Then, that familiar, tired smile. It’s a little less certain than usual, but it’s still there. He lowers his head and says something to his group before slipping away toward me.

I breathe out, trying to steady myself, but my heart won’t slow. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” He comments, his voice low, raspy.

I shrug, trying to act casual.

“Let’s say I have my reasons.” I reply, with a small and fake smile.

I probably looked constipated at this point, something that my barely noticeable baby bump could fake too. Joseph watches me, his gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to read something on my face.

“Are you okay? You… want to talk?”

I nod, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“I think we need to talk. Right now. I can’t keep pretending.”

His expression shifts, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He glances around the room, as if checking to see if anyone is listening.

“Can we step away somewhere?”

He nods toward a door tucked in the corner.

“We can talk there.”

I follow him through the crowd, the noise of the party muffled as we move farther away. My heels seem louder now, each step heavier than the last. The tension in the air wraps itself tighter around my chest as we reach a small, quieter space, isolated from the chaos of the event. Joseph sits down on a couch in a corner, the city lights shimmering just outside. I sit beside him, not too close, but close enough to feel the tension radiating between us.

“I left confused the last time we spoke. I didn’t expect that… contract. That you’d think I would share what happened between us.” I reveal, my voice barely steady, though the heat of the moment rises within me.

He turns to face me, a guarded look settling over his features.

“It was necessary. I didn’t want any misunderstandings, especially with everything going on with my career.”

I can feel the anger bubbling up, but I bite down on it.

“You think I would run around telling people what happened? Do you really think so little of me?”

His expression hardens.

“You’re misunderstanding me, Y/N. It was just a precaution. Everybody does it in Hollywood.”

Hollywood.

Fucking Hollywood.

His biggest dream.

He wants to be someone important as an actor.

My breath catches, a mix of frustration and disbelief.

“A precaution. Right.” I scoff.

I stand up, anger and disappointment surging through me.

“Well, that’s great for you. But I don’t need a contract to know what I’m doing with my life.”

He looks at me, a silent challenge in his eyes.

“If you want to leave, you can.”

Asshole!

I open my mouth, but it’s hard to find the words. They catch in my throat, as if my body knows this is a moment that could break everything. I force them out anyway, voice low but steady.

“I’m pregnant. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

He looks at me as if I’ve just told him the world is flat, his lips parting in disbelief. His eyes search mine, waiting for me to laugh, waiting for me to tell him this is some sick joke. However, I don’t laugh or smile. I just stand there, waiting for him to see the truth in my eyes. A beat of silence stretches between us, and then he snorts.

“You’re joking, right?” The words slip out of him so quickly, I almost think he’s not even trying to process what I’ve said.

“No, Joseph.” I say again, slower this time, my voice firm. “I’m not joking. I’m pregnant and it’s yours.”

His expression falters, the smirk falling from his face. For a second, it looks like he’s going to say something, but instead, he just stares at me, mouth slightly open. His gaze flickers around the room, as if he’s searching for someone to tell him this isn’t happening. That it’s some kind of dream. I don’t give him the luxury of that. I hold his gaze, unflinching, waiting for him to say something. When he finally opens his mouth, it’s with a nervous laugh.

“Wait…”

His voice is unsure now, like a crack forming in the walls he’s built around himself. He swallowed, his Adam'’ apple bobbing in his throat.

“This… This is impossible.”

I swallow down the surge of frustration, the heat rising in my chest. My fingers dig into the edge of the bar, grounding myself.

“Turns out your pull-out game is weak.”

The words are sharper than I mean them to be, but the anger spills out of me before I can stop it. His face pales for a moment, a flicker of panic crossing his features. I can see his brain working, trying to make sense of this, trying to find a way out. But there’s no escape. Not this time. His voice is tight when he speaks again.

“It’s not mine. I mean, it can’t be mine.”

I stare at him, and for a brief second, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Then, the exhaustion, the bitterness, the anger catches up with me, and I can’t stop myself. The words slip out before I can control them.

“You know, I’m not a whore like you are. I don’t fuck around like some people do. I’m not your crazy and problematic girlfriend, who thinks it’s okay to show her body to anyone and everyone, who thinks she can make fun of everyone, who thinks she can say the most terrible things. I don’t need that. I don’t need you.”

His jaw clenches, and I see his eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to put up some kind of defense. It’s too late. The words are already out, and I don’t regret a single one of them.

“You…” He starts, but then he stops, his voice hitching, unsure of how to respond.

There’s something in his eyes now that I can’t quite read, something raw. But I’m too tired to care.

“Please!” I mutter darkly, rolling my eyes. “I don’t have time for this. I’m not going to sit around begging for your approval, Quinn.”

I reach into my bag, pulling out the document I’ve been holding onto, signed, printed, ready, with a small copy of my first ultrasound. I thrust it into his hand, not caring how hard it hits his chest or if someone will catch what’s happening.

“You can contact me when your brain starts functioning again. Until then, good luck with whatever mess you’re trying to clean up.”

I turn away from him before he has a chance to speak, the air in my lungs tight, my pulse racing. The room feels suffocating now, the music almost too loud in my ears, the lights too bright, the voices too much. But all I can hear is the steady click of my heels on the polished floor as I walk away.

His cologne still lingers in the air, a memory I don’t want to hold on to. The scent is sharp, familiar, but I can’t bear it anymore.

I don’t turn back.

Fuck Joseph Quinn.

PART 1

Hey! Here is the second chapter! I'm not sure if I like it or not. But I wanted to publish it before the Oscars (Will there be even more dramas? Just wait and see…). Feel free to give your opinion on m work, it helps :)

Taglist : @ali-r3n @littlemissholy @yeoldebytche

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fanfic #joe quinn #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn imagine

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coyle-and-co · 2 days ago

Note

Do you have any headcanons about Franco?

i wrote a whole thing and tumblr shit the bed and didn’t save them omg

second times the charm! but yes i do have some franco headcanons i never stop thinking about him ever

HATES the taste of anything sour/bitter, can’t stand food that isn’t sweet. Trying to get him to eat anything with vegetables in it is a down hill battle at best, if you blend them up and into food he’ll still find away to pick them out

Medical time! Franco’s probably got bilateral exophthalmos which is why both his eyes wig out of his skull like that, and why he has a misalignment in his left eye, however that’ll probably also be because of the shotgun recoil he took to the face when he was 10

He has Hydrocephalus, which causes his head to be so large! how he’s up right i have no idea, but he’s also got pretty chronic headaches and eye strain because of it

Intelligent, yeah it’s fun to think he’s a bit stupid, but he’s probably amazing with numbers due to being a drug lord

As we know he can speak Italian, but he’s probably also fluent in French (growing up in new orleans), and Spanish due to being “stationed” in Cuba for a while, he probably uses this to piss off Coyle

Speaking of Coyle, Franco obviously dislikes him for being a cop, but he probably sees some of Salvatore in Coyle, since he’s a disciplinary figure who’s a big macho man. Everything Franco isn’t at his core

Even if people think his baby thing is weird, he’s well respected for how lethal his aim with Lupara is, if Franco sees you better say your prayers because you’re gonna meet whoever you believe in soon!

Despite this, i do think he’s probably got mild vision and hearing issues, that’s why he is so quick to shoot, kill first ask questions later

Strong as hell, this guy can one tap barricades down and swing grown men over his arm like they’re a stuff animal, even without Lupara he’s probably good with hand to hand combat and could rip a dudes jaw off if he really wanted to

His Hydrocephalus also causes pretty bad mood swings, which is why his attitude is so flippant (thank you @wendigoruble for this factoid!)

Sometimes you can genuinely have a completely normal conversation with him, like no mobster related shit and no baby talk, and oddly it’s eerie as hell because he’s not supposed to do that 😭

Short, i don’t care if the wiki says he’s 5’9-5’10, he’s at MAX maybe 5’5, personally my version is 5ft on a good day

Rejection sensitive as hell, if you tell him no he’ll loose his mind completely and throw the biggest tantrum, even over small things

Can’t handle certain textures because of his teeth rotting, and can’t have metal cutlery because it hurts, mainly eats with plastic utensils except for a metal knife for cutting things

Collection of the same suit all in different colors, with matching bow ties and pacifiers

He would wear jewelry in my mind, gold rings and chains, but never anything too flashy because he thinks it’s gaudy. He might be dramatic but he’s got some class

Closeted bisexual disaster, i speak no further on this

That’s pretty much all i have!!! there are nsfw ones but since this was asked on main they’d have to wait, HAHA

but hope these suffice! <3

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tremendously-crazy · 2 days ago

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Four instruments i want to learn (in no apparent order) and why:

Piano - pianos are cool and pretty

Violin - sherlock holmes plays the violin and i want to be just like him when i grow up, also the violin is such an elegant and beautiful instrument

French horn - some book i read when I was like 9 years old had a character who played the french horn and ever since ive wanted to play it

Guitar - dr house plays the guitar + guitar players are hot

#instruments #musical instrunents #music #piano #violin #guitar #french horn #sherlock holmes #acd sherlock holmes #acd holmes #acd canon #sherlock & co #house md #greg house #dr house

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dickgraysonfr · 2 days ago

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I don't understand why people like french language. It's soo unserious language and makes me mad for some reason.

#dick grayson #dick grayson rp #dcu #dc rp #batfam #dc comics

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cleolinda · 1 day ago

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Weekend links, March 2, 2025

Silent Hill 2 update: If you sneak over to my Patreon, you can watch the first commentary video already (I'll be replacing it with an updated version). I’m still working on the timestamp writeup (links, sources, etc.) and, uh, that updated version with some corrections at the end. I’ve also been formatting the writeup for Tumblr and, uhhh.... it’s like four posts. It’s honestly just embarrassing. But I know what the carving on the church door you might not even notice says, I know why all the oscillating fans are turquoise blue, I’ve found a thematically relevant Goya painting hidden in a shop you don’t even have to enter, and now we all have to suffer for it.

The second video’s been recorded but isn’t uploaded anywhere, and I’ve finished taking notes for the writeup. I’m taking so long that I might honestly just clip out a few excerpts and put them on my YouTube channel (I have a YouTube channel) (in theory).

(Yes, watching other people play video games IS a valid way to enjoy them, and it’s how I got into playing in the first place.)

Meanwhile: I just wanted to address the idea that medication obscures your real personality, and I ended up writing a memoir.

Reblogs of interest

It was a bad week for celebrity deaths: Roberta Flack ("Killing Me Softly"), after two years diagnosed with ALS; Michelle Trachtenberg (Buffy, Gossip Girl), after a prior liver transplant; and then, under circumstances that still haven’t been explained, Gene Hackman and his wife Betsy Arakawa.

Now, it’s important to know about the political protests happening in the U.S. (and I hope people run HARD with “Impeach President Musk” for maximum in-fighting), but it was “Vermont insults” that gave me the most joy.

"NASA released the clearest pictures yet of our neighbours in the solar system"

What Queen Nefertiti may have looked like in real life, improved

Microsoft is shutting down Skype

Joann Fabrics is going out of business (+ online alternatives)

“YOU FREAKS CRASHED THE DASHCON SITE AND THEN SOLD OUT THE TICKETS IN UNDER 30 MINUTES” (“I need you all to understand this is a post from February 22, 2025”)

“Help your local library; get books out even if you know you can’t read them all!”

Ursula K. LeGuin: “As you read a book word by word and page by page, you participate in its creation”

This full-series retrospective of Animorphs, however brief, is so unhinged that I went and legally downloaded the entire set of books.

“Good night to only the team names at the Seattle women’s hockey club” (personal favorite: Rink Pony Club)

Sometimes I wonder what the Victorians would think of “naked” dresses. Anyway, I really like Elie Saab

All they know is charleston, shake cocktail, eat hot chip & lie

“stop what you’re doing right now and look at archaic period terracotta fox scratching its head”

“The bath house duck spirits from Spirited Away, taking a dip in this lava lamp”

Tumblr: Where “Pelican Childcare” is inherently funny

Crow Time: Business bird

Gorgeous Dominique Ramsey art with a Langston Hughes quote

Grocery cats (“but then you scroll down and it’s like oh, there’s a team of cats ringing up that lady’s tea and jam”)

Look this bunny in the eyes and you will understand why I tagged this “become ungovernable”

“where is that cat with the kind and reassuring face”

Paint me like one of your French bears

Hi. 1 quastion

Video

LOTR film fandom has been going strong for 20+ years and we’re not gonna stop now (re: Pippin’s song in Return of the King)

Zelenogorsk is sand bathing

The sacred texts

Periodic reblog: this massive catalogue of parody lyric tweets

“The neurodivergent urge to do this,” or: the origin of a very popular reaction pic

Personal tags of the week

Wet Beast Wednesday is worth a look, plus the newest Beneficent Chain Post (happiness will come to you. “When You Least Expect It. Probably Late March”).

#weekend links #linkspam

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beautiful-basque-country · 2 days ago

Note

I actually have a bit of a... charged question. How has the Basque country interacted with the Romani population over the years/how is it currently?

Kaixo anon!

Yes indeed, that's a charged question that will need a lengthy answer.

The short version for the ones not willing to read this whole post, EH treated Roma people basically the same way Spain or France did: BAD.

The first reference we have about Roma people in EH is a document from 1435 where a group of them arrived to Nafarroa from Aragón. The leader of this group presented himself as a "Count of Egypt", and that's why we call them ijitoak in Basque, a word that comes from egiptokoak or "the Egyptians".

Although the kingdom of Nafarroa set no rules against Roma people, after the conquest by the kingdom of Castile this changed and the situation of these people began deteriorating from the 16th century on. The reasons for the ever present prejudice against Roma people may be several: their nomadic lifestyle, not being Catholic, being oftentimes accused of theft, etc.

There were a lot of laws passed throughout the centuries like Roma people would be expelled if they didn't dress or speak as the rest of their neighbors, they couldn't live in towns of 1,000 inhabitants or less, they would be expelled of the towns if they didn't have a proper profession, they couldn't be hosted in barns (of course nobody wanted to host them at home, but it was common practice to let them the barns to sleep the night until this law), etc.

There were two big mass detentions of Roma people, one in Spain in the 18th century and the other in France in the early 19th century. Around, 9,000 Roma were caught in Spain and sent to the Mediterranean area: Andalusia, Murcia and Catalunya mainly. In France, around 475 were caught and imprisoned, sentenced to be sent to the French overseas territories but eventually freed after some time.

In the 20th century, during the dictatorship in Spain they were oppressed and very usually imprisoned under the Law of Idles and Miscreants, that punished those with no specific home and job. In the nazi occupied France, although there are no official numbers, it's known that many Roma citizens were sent to different concentration camps.

In the 60s and 70s in Spain, Roma people - only 5% of them remained nomadic by then - used to live very precariously in the outskirts of the main cities in neighborhoods formed by handmade unsanitary shacks. The city councils took care of these places as late as in the 80s and 90s, building public houses to host them.

Nowadays, although their general situation is much more comfortable than in the past, Roma people still face discrimination and the freaking same prejudices as in the 16th century in EH which is a shame on us as a people. And sadly we're not the only ones: in France in 2010 Sarkozy proposed to expell every Roma that hadn't the French nationality.

After 600 years living with Basques, Roma people here developed their own language called erromintxela, a sort of Basque-Romani pidgin that sadly has less than 1,500 speakers nowadays.

Also, Romas have a role in some of the traditional masquerades here in EH, like the kaskarotak, although some authors defend this socially accepted group wasn't formed just by Roma people, but by agotes and other minorities too.

Still, these traditions are beginning to be questioned as problematic. For example, the masquerade from Zuberoa where beltzak (the blacks) are thought to be based on Roma people and have dirty faces and act wild are opposed to gorriak (the reds) that are believed to represent native people and wear shiny clothes and dance at unison.

Yeah. And not that long ago I read an article against the celebration of kaldereroak that truly had a point, since it seemingly started as a mockery against Kalderash people and even nowadays we see someone in a blackface during the celebration; which yeah, it's terrible, but believe me, here it's not socially percieved as terrible as in the US.

Truth be told, I'd say 90% of Basque people blissfully ignore these celebrations started as a mockery and spread a misrepresentation of Roma people; which isn't an excuse, but it's still a fact 💁‍♀️.

Sorry for the looong post!

#euskal herria #basque country #pays basque #pais vasco #euskadi #culture #roma people #basque people #history #anons

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mithriel-of-mithlond · 2 days ago

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Thoughts while reading TGR:

Jean's mother drove the point home early by doing what?????

Jeremy's stepfather's brothers are cops ok ok that explains at least some things

The back to back sitting on a bed 😭

BRYSON SHUT THE FUCK UP

JEREMY ALAN?????? Hello????

Ok MATHILDA SHUT THE FUCK UP, TOO

Wasn't expecting one of Jeremy's hookups to make an entrance

"You go away when you go home. "

Derek and Derrick annoying Jean 👌

The peach

Derek's "Oui señor" had me dying 😂

Jean checking Jeremy out in the shower

Kid dying from a beating at Evermore, why am I shocked, I literally gasped

"I didn't know you served" LOL they really are idiots XD

Jean still making sure Cody is comfortable around Pat and Ananya

His fear of food and traveling alone but feeling safe at Laila's 🥺

Jean's pronunciation of Jeremy's name

Discussing a loss of a sibling with Jeremy

Xavier explaining his surgery

THE. FIREWORKS.

Jean stopping himself before he could hit the freshmen 😢

I don't trust the car. Like at all.

ANDREW MINYARD IN THE FLESH

The foxes didn't know about Neil visiting Jean??????? Oh the drama

Kevin you diva, what the fuck was that with Jean at the house, I can't handle the angst

Wow the interview went to shit. Who would have guessed that..

"You are one of my Trojans" 😭😭

Kevjean addressing their trauma 😭 it's a start I hope

'Emotional procrastination' I love that. Nora put into words something I've been practicing majority of my life

Bryson's "You don't know who you're messing with" oh honey, YOU don't know who you're messing with!!

Jealous Jeremy if I squint????

JEAN IN THERAPY THE NATURE IS HEALING

The postcard 😭

Jean's little cup he made

Noah nooo 😭

Jean's motion sickness - me too bro, me too it's so annoying

JEAN TEACHING JEREMY FRENCH What parallel universe is this??

Jeremy taking the stairs with Jean

The "Jeremy"... I can't

Jean's crush on Laila is funny

The banquet oh no

Protective Jean oh yes

Jeremy's choice of lovers oh no

Jeremy's backstory oh no, I need more time to process all of that

Protective Jean again

Jean focused on the game and being literal savage on the court

"HAVE A WINNING DAY" OH MY GOD

Jeremy praising Jean's performance on the court

Why do the interviewers have to destroy everything?

Jean protecting Jeremy against Zane

Zane Reacher, you will rot in hell for this

Coach Rhemann I love you. The way he approached the situation was kinda brutal but it needed to be done. Jean could finally let everything out.

The whole sequence in Rhemann's house

"but better to be reckless fools than Ravens" DO YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING, DO YOU HEAR ME??????

Fathers DO YOU STILL HEAR ME SCREAMING???????

"I deserve to get better" I'M LOSING MY VOICE SCREAMING

Oh no, not the house 🥺 rip Barkbark

Agent Browning is so done with these exy obsessed mafia kids but honestly? I don't blame him

Thea turning on the Ravens 😶

How Jeremy didn't turn out to be a total dick surrounded by family members like that is beyond me.

Another Raven suicide.. and the fact Jean still cares about his former teammates despite all that happened to him at Edgar Allan..

Mathilda bombarding Jeremy with phone calls because she doesn't trust him

Jeremy's favourite color is blue hmmm ok ok

"brown like the gaze that sought Jean out in every room" AAAAAAAAAAAAA

Jean and Laila's conversation on the balcony

The whole end sequence with the dog is so precious. The fact it was Jean who picked the pup out, the dog immediately liking him, Jabberwocky Moreau, Jean's bi panic, "the rules have changed". Perfection.

EDIT: Fuck I forgot to write down the disastrous Foxes vs. Ravens game. My bad, it was too late. Anyways, hopefully all of the injured foxes would be back at no time.

#the golden raven spoilers #tgr spoilers #the golden raven #jean moreau #jeremy knox #catalina alvarez #laila dermott #jerejean

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starstuffandalotofcoffee · 2 days ago

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while I have a post dunking on weird hatred of vegans I really do need to stress that I (meat-eater) have met one (1) preachy vegan in real life and it was in high school and he was also in high school, ie, 17 year old white boy who was also on the math team and was really obsessed with Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Lost touch with him actually because he dropped out due to chronic illness (GI-related too, which, the veganism might have been a reaction to that). ANYWAY point being I know plenty of IRL vegans and they are very normal. There are shitty vegans online but, crucially, you can block them. I highly recommend meeting cool vegans in real life because they will lend you a copy of Vegan Cookies Invade Your Kitchen and tell you where to get recycled leather. Which is where I was going with this, which is: yes, vegan leather is plastic. The process of tanning real leather is also a process involving hazardous chemicals with a negative environmental impact. Personally I do own some leather items, though I try to be judicious in how much I purchase, and I do know vegans who will buy second-hand/recycled leather; but what gets me is that most anti-vegan sentiment is people going "oh so you're vegan? then you actually are required to have PERFECT ethical consumption under capitalism" and this lays bare the problem. It really is an "oh you think you're BETTER than me?" and most vegans are just like. hanging out eating french fries and you projected your own weird guilt complex onto them for no reason other than that you saw a reactionary post and didn't think through it and was like "ah! an acceptable target!", and that is why you are being an asshole on the internet, and you can stop.

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causeimhappinesss · 15 hours ago

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Rome's Devotion (part 12)

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: 4,3k

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

Masterlist

Days later

The Colosseum hums with the fevered energy of tens of thousands of souls, each voice adding to the deafening storm of sound that crashes against my ears. The scent of bodies pressed together, of spilled wine and perfumed oils. My fingers brush the silk of my stola, embroidered so finely it feels like liquid against my skin, yet the weight of it, the opulence, suffocates me. It is not my own. It belongs to them. At that moment, Geta stands at the edge of the balcony, wrapped in white and gold, the embodiment of imperial grace. The sun catches in his hair, turning the curls to bright copper, and the laurel on his head gleams with the weight of power. Below him, the Colosseum swells with voices, a sea of hands lifted toward their emperor, their devotion so easily given in exchange for the promise of bloodshed.

I stay beside him, on his left, my movements careful, deliberate. Around me, those granted the honor of these seats settle into place, such as Lucilla, draped in silks so sheer they are almost scandalous, offers me a brief glance, a flicker of acknowledgment before she returns to her idle conversation with her husband: General Acacius. The soldier’s face remains unreadable, his scars catching the light like old battle relics. Behind us, with Acacius and Lucilla, Macrinus watches everything with the sharp eyes of a man who trusts no one.

The Colosseum’s arena, transformed into a vast lake, glistens beneath the sun. The sight steals my breath. A feat of engineering so impossible it feels like magic. An entire battlefield drowned, turned into an ocean fit for war. On its surface, miniature warships rock with the motion of the water, the men aboard them nothing more than figures waiting to be swallowed by history.

The people chant, hungry for the violence they have been promised. They don’t care for the spectacle of the water itself. They don’t marvel at its creation. They only want to see it turn red.

A pulse beats at the base of my throat. How can such cruel game exists? Why people are so entranced? Life is too precious and none of them seem to realize this…

“You’re amazed.”

Caracalla’s voice, smooth and dark, cuts through the noise like a blade.

I refuse to turn my head, to grant him the satisfaction of my attention.

“How could I not be?” I half lie.

Of course, the Colosseum, filled with water, is splendid. However, I hate the idea of war so close to me…

His laughter barely carries, a low, amused thing meant only for me. He leans in, his breath warm against my temple.

“There are sharks in the water.”

The words crawl down my spine. I blink and focus on the shadows beneath the surface. They glide with unnatural ease, dark shapes slipping between the wavering reflections of the ships. A sharp taste rises in my throat.

“You’re lying…”

Caracalla shifts closer. I can feel the heat of him, the power coiled beneath his skin like a lion at rest.

“Am I?” He chuckles, his gold tooth shining under the sun.

I don’t know. That’s what unsettles me most.

A trumpet sounds, slicing through the chaos, and the entire Colosseum stills. Quickly, I sit on my eat, next to Geta’s one. The crowd holds its breath as if the gods themselves demand silence. The gates at either end groan open, and the combatants appear, stepping onto their assigned ships, their armor gleaming, their weapons ready. Some of them are slaves. Others, condemned men with nothing left to lose. None of them will leave unchanged. If they leave at all.

Geta lifts a hand, and the hush deepens.

My chest tightens.

He is going to announce it. My betrothal. My fate. My future, decided without my consent.

The crowd waits, eager for his words.

And all I can think about are the sharks in the water.

The cheers are deafening. The Colosseum, already a sea of restless bodies, erupts into a frenzy of shouts, stomping feet, and clashing fists against wooden benches. The people love a spectacle, and today, I am the center of it.

My breath catches in my throat as Geta rises from his own seat, the sun striking his golden tunic, the red fabric flowing like the robes of a god. His presence commands silence before he even speaks. His hand lifts, and the roar of the crowd quiets, not out of obedience, but in anticipation. They wait for him to give them something, a promise, a reason to continue their feverish adoration.

He gives them Rome. He gives them the future.

“Rome stands eternal,” he declares, his voice strong and unyielding, carrying over the vast amphitheater. “An empire that stretches beyond the edges of the known world. A force that will not falter, that will not crumble, but only grow.”

The people erupt again, fists pumping in the air, the echoes of their shouts rolling through the arena like a storm over the Tiber.

Geta waits, unshaken, allowing them their moment before raising his hand once more. Silence descends again, tense and expectant.

“No ruler, no empire, stands alone. Strength lies in blood. Strength lies in legacy. And I will give you that legacy.”

His fingers tighten into a fist. A murmur spreads through the senators seated in their reserved places. The equites lean in, their whispers barely audible over the distant clang of preparations for the naval battle below. The people catch on slower, but soon, the Colosseum vibrates with excitement, hands clapping, voices shouting their approval.

My blood turns cold.

I know what he is about to say before he says it.

“I will take a wife.” Geta announces, turning to me. “Rome will have an empress.”

A fresh wave of cheers erupts. A name passes through the mouths of the people before he even speaks it.

“Aurelia!” they chant. “Aurelia!”

My stomach twists. Geta’s hand reaches for mine. He doesn’t hesitate or ask. The world blurs for a moment as he pulls me to my feet, the weight of thousands of eyes pressing down on me, their scrutiny stripping me bare despite the silks and gold draped over my body. His fingers enclose mine, firm, possessive, unyielding.

“Lady Aurelia, daughter of Senator Aurelius! Your future empress!”

The ground seems to shift beneath me. The walls of the Colosseum feel impossibly high, the sheer number of people suffocating. The roar of their approval crashes over me like a wave, drowning out my own thoughts, my own voice. I am no longer a person to them. I am a name, a symbol, a decision already made. I force myself to stand tall, to keep my shoulders squared even as my heart hammers against my ribs. Lucilla moves first, stepping forward in a rustle of expensive fabric, her expression carefully composed. She reaches for my hands, her grip cool and deliberate. Her lips curl into a smile, but her eyes remain sharp, searching, assessing.

“The gods smile on you,” she says smoothly, her voice meant for the ears of the crowd as much as for mine. “And on Rome.”

There is something in her tone, an unspoken warning. I barely have time to process it before General Acacius approaches. His armor gleams under the sun, his posture rigid with military discipline. He inclines his head in deference to Geta before turning to me.

“A wise choice.” he remarks. He studies me for a moment, then adds, “An emperor needs an empress who can endure.”

Endure.

The word settles over me like a weight.

Macrinus follows, his expression unreadable, though something flickers in his gaze, something calculating. His mouth curves into what might be amusement. Or something colder.

“May the Fates weave you a strong future, Lady Aurelia.”

The applause swells again, louder than before, a deafening thunder that makes my pulse pound in my ears. I stand beside Geta, my hand still locked in his. I don’t smile. I do not bow my head. I meet the eyes of the people, the senators, the warriors, the men who will decide the course of my life from this moment forward. I don’t let them see how my hands shake.

When I turn my head towards Caracalla, this one is still seating, his legs shaking, while he bites his lower lips, his darkening blue eyes on me. At that very moment, I know he’s thinking what the wedding will grant him: access to my body, as his mind creeps into mine.

The horn’s blare reverberates through the Colosseum, a sound so deep it feels as though the stone itself hums beneath us. The crowd surges to its feet, their cries of anticipation rolling like thunder. Beneath the open sky, the great amphitheater is alive, a beast of marble and bloodlust. The arena, turned into a shimmering lake, reflects the golden light of the afternoon sun. Warships, their wooden hulls adorned with snarling sea creatures, glide into position, oars cutting through the surface in perfect rhythm. The men aboard, clad in gleaming armor, prepare for battle, gripping their weapons with grim determination. The scent of damp wood and burning oil mingles with the sweat of thousands of bodies packed together. Excitement thickens the air, stifling, suffocating. I shift in my seat, my silken robes heavy against my skin, my pulse hammering beneath layers of gold-threaded fabric.

Geta sits beside me, his posture relaxed, the white and gold of his tunic pristine despite the dust that clings to everything. His expression remains impassive as he watches the scene unfold. He seems utterly at ease amid the chaos, as though he were born to preside over such violence. The second horn sounds.

A brief silence falls over the Colosseum, a hush filled with bated breath.

Then, the battle erupts.

The first clash of metal against metal rings through the air. Arrows streak across the water, slicing through the sunlight like falling stars. The warships collide, sending up sprays of water as soldiers leap from deck to deck, swords flashing. A man lets out a guttural cry as he is struck across the chest, his blood fanning out in a bright arc before he tumbles into the water. I stiffen, my breath stuck in my throat, as my fingers grab the armchair.

Another warrior is shoved overboard, his arms thrashing wildly. The crowd roars with approval, fists pounding against wooden benches. Some chant for their favored side, others laugh at the doomed men struggling in the depths. A third man, young, no older than myself, is struck down, his helmet rolling across the deck before his body crumples lifelessly beside it.

My stomach twists.

I lower my gaze, hands clenched in my lap, but the vision of death lingers behind my eyes. The water, once pristine, darkens with spilled blood.

“Are you well, little lamb?” Geta asks with his smooth voice, edged with amusement.

I swallow, forcing myself to meet his gaze. His dark eyes flicker with something unreadable, as though he finds my discomfort… endearing. Or perhaps simply expected.

“I…” My throat tightens. I nod, though the motion feels unnatural, stiff.

The corner of his mouth curves, showing he doesn’t believe me at all.

“You will have to grow accustomed to this, it is part of the empress’ role.” he murmurs, fingers brushing idly against the gold cuff at his wrist.

A wave of heat rushes over me, though it has nothing to do with the sun. Another scream shatters the air, high and strangled. A man, wounded and desperate, attempts to hoist himself onto the wreckage of a shattered ship; he doesn’t get the chance. The water beneath him churns violently. Then, in the space of a breath, he’s gone. A song of whispers spreads through the crowd, a mix of delight and awe. Caracalla leans towards me with a huge smile on his face.

“These sharks are doing a good job.”

My body goes rigid as the ginger man chuckles softly, pleased by my reaction, and leans back in his seat. Geta, still watching me, merely tilts his head, as though curious to see what I will do. Instead of flinching, I stay still, I don’t allow the horror to twist my guts are enough me to show on my face. Unfortunately, my hands shake against my lap, and deep within me, something fragile cracks. I press my lips together. Then, with as much composure as I can summon, I fold my hands tighter and cast my eyes toward the heavens.

The people of Rome delight in this carnage.

But I won’t.

I offer a silent prayer to a God they don’t know, for the souls of the men slaughtered at their feet.

The Colosseum keeps pulsing with energy, the air thick with sweat, heat, and the stench of blood. The games are still raging when the change comes, subtle at first. The rhythm of the crowd falters, their cheers turning to something more uncertain.

Then, a sharp whistle cuts through the din.

Before I can react, the arrow strikes.

It buries itself into the carved wooden balustrade just behind the emperors, right between them. The force of impact sends splinters flying. My breath catches in my throat.

For the briefest of moments, everything stills.

Geta and Caracalla turn their heads, their expressions twisting from boredom to something utter fear. Their eyes meet, then flick to the arrow quivering between them. They yell and quickly moves. Everything happens really fast.

The Praetorian Guard surges forward, armor clanking, blades flashing. A hand seizes my wrist. Geta.

“We must move.”

Everything happens too fast.

Lucilla is already standing, her expression sharp and unreadable. Macrinus and Acacius bark orders, his voice lost beneath the roar of the chaos. A shield rises in front of Geta, another in front of Caracalla and another one in front of me. Strong hands guide us back, pushing us toward the safety of the inner corridors. The passage beneath the Colosseum is cool, damp, the scent of smoke and earth thick in my nose. The flickering torches cast jagged shadows against the stone walls. My heart pounds, my pulse a frantic rhythm in my ears.

Then Geta exhales, almost amused.

“I do believe someone just tried to kill us, brother.”

Caracalla leans forward, elbows on his knees, lips curling into something too close to a grin.

“Or perhaps they meant to warn us.” His fingers trace the polished wood, stopping just shy of the arrow’s shaft. “A bold statement, wouldn’t you say?”

A scream erupts from below. Then another. Panic spreads through the arena like wildfire. People shove against one another, spilling out of their seats, hands raised in desperate gestures. Dust kicks up, choking the air. Caracalla is the first to break the silence.

“I want that man found.” His commands, his voice low, laced with something dangerous.

His hand full of golden rings flexes at his side.

“Alive, if possible. But I won’t grieve if he arrives in pieces.”

A guard bows his head.

“It will be done, my Emperor.”

Geta exhales, brushing dust from his tunic.

“It could have been anyone. A poor shot. Or a message.”

His gaze slides to me, lingering.

“You’re quiet.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight as I blink, not sure what I should answer.

“Would you rather I scream? I didn’t know it’s what you’re expecting from your future Empress.”

If his lips twitch, he doesn’t answer, while his twin laugh, applauding me for being bold with Geta. Lucilla choses this moment to step closer, before she clears her throat.

“The people saw.”

Caracalla licks his lips, scoffs and shrugs.

“Let them.”

His eyes gleam in the torchlight, his smirk sharp enough to cut.

“Rome forgets quickly.”

The morning light spills gently through the windows and casts a soft glow over the room. The seamstresses are already busy, their hands move with practiced precision as they arrange fabrics across the long wooden table. The smell of fresh linen and wool fills the air, mixing with the faint scent of lavender from the small vase beside me. I sit at the edge of the table, as my fingers shake slightly while I take in the array of choices before me.

The tunica recta is to be my wedding garment, the most sacred of all the attires a Roman bride could wear. White wool, simple yet elegant, the embodiment of purity and chastity. It seems such a small thing, this simple dress, but it feels like the weight of the Empire itself rests upon my shoulders as I sift through the fabrics. I touch each one, testing its weight, its texture, until I find the perfect piece: a soft, almost ethereal wool that will sit lightly against my skin.

Beside it, the saffron-colored flammeum catches my eye. The veil. It will cover my hair, hide my face from the gaze of the crowd, a symbol of my transition into something more. Something the people will watch. It’s so delicate, the fabric like sunlight, almost translucent but still holding a subtle strength in its color. The pale yellow hue is the color of fire, of burning passion and sacrifice. It is fitting.

But it’s not just the garments I must choose. My heart sinks a little as I reach for the Hercules knot, a reminder of the role I am about to assume. A symbol of my fidelity to Geta, to Rome. The knot is intricate, woven with delicate strands of golden thread. It will hold the fabric of my tunica together, but it will also bind me. Bind me in ways I’m not sure if I��m ready for.

I pick it up and my fingers brush the smooth, silky strands. The room feels suddenly too warm. Too small. The weight of what I’m about to become presses down on me like a stone. The door opens behind me, and I barely have time to look up before Geta steps inside, his presence filling the room like a storm. The seamstresses immediately bow their heads, offering him their deference. He pays them little mind, his focus entirely on me.

“Ah, there you are!” He comments with a smile, his voice low and rich.

It’s the same voice that’s been haunting my dreams, the one that holds the promise of power and control.

“Are these your choices?” His words are easy, but his gaze is sharp.

As soon as he asks that question, he moves toward me and presses a hand lightly on my shoulder. His touch feels warm, familiar. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, not trusting my voice to remain steady. He looks over my choices with care, his eyes scanning the fabrics. The tunica, the veil, the knot. His approval is clear in his expression, though it doesn’t feel as reassuring as it should.

“Good taste, just like me. The tunica is simple. It speaks of grace, of purity. And the veil…”

He pauses as his fingers brush lightly against the edge of the saffron fabric.

“It will suit you. You will be perfect.”

His eyes catch mine then, and I see a flicker of something in them. Something I can’t name.

I swallow hard. The fabric beneath my fingers feels suddenly too heavy.

“And the knot?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t know why I ask it. I know it must be part of the ensemble. But there’s something about it, the knot, an element that feels like a chain I can’t undo. He looks at the knot and his eyes suddenly gleam.

“It is a symbol of our bond, a reminder of what is to come, what we are about to begin. It looks perfect to me.”

I glance down at it, then back up at him, unsure how to respond. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. There is something unsettling about it.

“I have no doubts you will wear it beautifully.” He adds, as though it’s already decided, as though it’s already written in stone.

I force myself to nod, but it feels like I’m being led into something I can’t escape.

Geta turns toward the table where the jewelry is laid out. There are necklaces of gold and silver, bracelets set with precious stones, rings gleaming with emeralds and sapphires. All of them are exquisite, all of them are meant for someone who belongs to the Empire. And yet, as I walk toward the table, it all feels like another world. A world I’ve never truly known.

“These will look well on you.” Geta says, picking up a delicate bracelet from the table.

The gold gleams in the soft light, and I can’t help but reach out to touch it. He’s right. It would look beautiful, resting against my skin. But it feels too much. Too heavy. He turns to me, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes me want to pull away. But I don’t.

“The golden hue will complement the white and saffron.” He explains, his voice smooth, so smooth it’s a privilege. “It will show everyone who you are. What you are becoming.”

I nod again, though I don’t feel like I’m becoming anything at all. I feel as though I’m betraying other people, servants, but also God. He places the bracelet down and picks up a necklace, one with a gold chain and bright green emeralds, their deep color reflecting the light in a way that makes them seem almost alive.

“What do you think of this?” He asks, turning toward me with the necklace in his hands.

I look at it, the way it catches the light. The way it would rest against my neck, marking me, claiming me.

“It’s beautiful.” I admit with a shy smile.

He smiles too, though there’s a glint in his eyes that makes me feel small, vulnerable.

“It is beautiful because it is meant to be worn by you, the most beautiful woman of Rome.” He declares, his words low, almost a whisper. “It is meant to mark you as mine.”

I feel a chill run through me. I don’t know how to respond to that.

I look away, my gaze falling to the floor. The weight of what I’m about to become, of what I’m about to do, presses down on me. It’s not a future I chose, but one that’s been thrust upon me.

Let’s hope I’ll be able to use my power to help other people, to soften these cruel Emperors…

“You will shine. Everyone will see your radiance. And they will know who you are.”

Unfortunately, I don’t feel radiant, most like I’m about to be swallowed whole. With these words, he presses a soft kiss on my forehead, his soft lips so warm against my burning skin. My heart hammers wildly in my chest. A sigh escapes my mouth, as it feels too good, too kind, to be true. Is he able to love someone else? Except his mother and his brother?

“Follows, I want to walk with you.”

Soon, the warm sun in the garden warm my skin, the kind of warmth that feels both comforting and unsettling all at once. The gardens stretch before us, a riot of color and scent, but it’s almost too much. Too bright. Too perfect. It only reminds me of how little I belong here, how little I understand what is happening. Geta walks beside me, his pace steady and confident, as if everything is exactly as it should be. His arm brushes mine, but it’s a casual touch, probably meant to reassure me. I look at him, at his face, but there’s nothing there that tells me what he’s thinking.

“You don’t have to worry about anything else, you know.” He suddenly says. “A month’s time, that’s when we’ll be married, after the Kalends.”

A month.

Right after a religious celebration dedicated to the gods and the coming month’s prosperity. It was also a day for settling debts.

I can’t even wrap my mind around it. A month until my life changes forever, until I am no longer just Y/N, a servant, but something else entirely. Something that belongs to Rome. The weight of that responsibility is heavy on my shoulders, and though I try not to let it show, I feel the pressure building inside me, crushing me little by little. The words are still heavy in the air, hanging between us like a barrier, and I can’t stand it any longer.

“Days ago, I forgot to ask… What about the Senate? Has the Senate actually validated our marriage?”

At the sound of my voice, Geta stops walking. I can hear his shoes scuff against the gravel path, his figure pausing just ahead of me. For the briefest of moments, I think he might be irritated by my question, but then he turns to me, a slight smile curling the edges of his lips.

“Of course, my heart. Two days before the naval battle.” He explains with a casual shrug, as if it’s nothing at all. “I submitted my plan to them. They had no choice but to accept. What else could they do? It was done, and they couldn’t argue with it. Not after everything that’s happened.”

He tilts his head slightly, looking at me with something like amusement.

“And anyway, you’ve become the perfect candidate. The daughter of a senator. The people love that. The Senate has no reason to deny it.”

The words hit me like a slap, and I have to force myself to breathe. The perfect candidate. That’s all I am in his eyes, in the Senate’s eyes. A piece of the puzzle, a move in the game. His smile is so easy, so practiced, like he’s made peace with all of it. But me? I’m not sure if I can.

I hope you enjoy this chapter! I know not much is happening, but I’ve been dealing with nonstop migraines lately, which has really impacted my writing. On top of that, I’ve decided to focus on writing the upcoming smut scenes before Lent (it’s my first time doing this, and I don’t want to fail)! I absolutely have to finish before midnight tomorrow… Wish me luck! lol

That's why the next chapter may take a little longer to come.

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

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