Latest Posts by blorbusshmorbus - Page 3
Geta Headcanons
Geta always has a plan. In fact, he usually has two, three, four plans in the back of his mind. His brain is never not working; he’s always watching, always anticipating his and everyone else’s next move. He’s got it all down, he knows every exit in every room in the palace, he always has his back to the wall, he wears his sturdiest rings just in case he has to lash out. He’s thin, lanky even, but he figures he’s been on the receiving end of enough punches from his father to know how to land one himself.
Every blink, every flick of a finger, every word that comes out just a little bit off, he notices it. He sees how people watch him, but he watches them right back, and he sees it all. Things maybe they don’t even realize they’re doing. But Geta sees it, analyzes it, his mind spinning with reasons for why. Why do the senators fiddle with their robes when he is speaking? Why does Lucilla pause slightly before she answers his questions? Why does Tegula’s lip twitch whenever Geta adjusts his laurels? He’s got a million answers for each question, and not one of those answers makes him feel any better.
Geta doesn’t sleep well. He never has. He has trouble falling asleep and then staying asleep. As an adult, he grinds his teeth so badly he’s had one removed at the back of his mouth. As a child, he’d stare at Caracalla, passed out and snoring, completely oblivious to the world around him. Geta envied him for it. He still does.
Caracalla. It’s not entirely Caracalla’s fault he’s ill, Geta knows that. Geta isn’t even sure Caracalla knows he’s ill most of the time. Geta pities him as much as he loves him. If he thinks about it too much, he feels his throat seizes up and he has to close his eyes. He hasn’t cried in a long time.
Geta layers on the cuffs, stacks his rings, slathers his face with make up. Geta does not always like being himself. The thicker the eye shadow, the more elaborate his robes, the more 'Emperor' he looks, the less he sees himself and the less others can see him too, he thinks. He hopes. He doesn’t always feel that way, not when he is standing in the middle of a room, playing his part, and then something or someone goes off script and he’s left naked and exposed, a fool.
When that happens, Geta broods. He paces, he fiddles with those same rings he layered on for protection. He replays the moments over and over and over and over and over in his head, he can’t stop himself. His stomach burns and he’s found himself on the ground a few times, curled up and sweating, blinking back hot tears and swallowing bile. He’s pulled out hair before, he’s made himself bleed with his own fingernails, and so now he cuts them short.
lalala
Acclamation Day
Aka: Caracalla's stream of consciousness during the biggest moment of his life.
They're waiting for him. It's his big day after all, his acclamation.
Everything is going perfectly, but why shouldn't it? Beautiful purple and gold robes have replaced his old blue and gold ones and the fabric is soft and light on his skin. He looks down at himself. Yes, this is nice, his old ones had been stained anyway.
Geta never let him wear purple even though they're emperors and emperors wear purple, he knows that and he knows Geta knows that too but he had never been allowed- why though? It's silly, he should be able to wear purple because he is an emperor and thats what emperors wear, but he's in purple now so everything is okay. Except Geta still isn't here and he isn't sure why. Where is he? Perhaps already in his seat.
He spots Macrinus. Behind him, a bit further away is Lucilla. Lucilla didn't want to be his Mummy so now she had to pay. But... he isn't sure if he still wants her to pay, anymore. She could still be his Mummy, he could give her another chance. The General hasn't been around for a while, so maybe with him gone, Lucilla would change her mind.
"Must we kill Lucilla?" He whispers to Macrinus.
Macrinus is tall. He leans in, on his tip toes. Macrinus is nice, he told them about the plans the General and Lucilla had made. Geta said that they could trust Macrinus, so he does.
"Until she is dead, you will never know peace" Macrinus whispers back.
He nods. His head hurts a bit, and he moves on slowly, heading up the stairs. It's hot in the colosseum, and his nice new purple robes are beginning to stick to him.
Two big chairs. One for him and one for Geta. Geta isn't sitting here like he thought he would be. So where is Geta? Geta never leaves him, at least not for long. It's been a little while but they were just talking, they had been arguing actually-
Well, if Geta isn't here, he might as well take Geta's seat and let Dondus have his old one. That is nice of him, he thinks. He's a good emperor.
He smiles. The games begin and he can't stop himself, he loves this. He loves the colosseum, he loves the games, he loves watching the gladiators and wild animals. Sometimes it's hard for him to follow, it's hard for him to track which is the animal and which is the human but its all the same isn't it? It's all the same and its fun. He and Geta have been coming to the colosseum since they were boys- where is Geta, again? He should be here-
He looks throughout the box. There's Macrinus, behind him, like usual. Macrinus is watching the games closely so he turns back around and focuses too. A good emperor must always lead by example.
And there's Lucilla! She looks beautiful, even from a distance. He remembers what Macrinus had whispered to him. Peace. He likes the fighting and the bloodshed and watching the gladiators fly through the air but he knows peace is good, people like peace. His fingers fiddle with the gold thread on his robes.
A yell from below catches his attention. The Praetorians are doing a good job, he thinks, squinting at the action. A laugh slips out and his tongue finds his gold tooth. Where in the world is Geta? He's missing it, he's missing everything, he's missing the big day-
There's that gladiator poet Geta hates! Geta is going to be so angry when he finds out he missed this-
The men are scrambling below, yelling and shouting, crying out and it's so close to him- he scoots forward, trying to see everything. When they were children, he and Geta used to practice with wooden swords, yelling and rolling in the courtyards, just like this. They are emperors now and Geta says it's unbecoming to play fight again like they used to, but it would be fun, he thinks. It's hot and he's sweating a bit but that's okay- a little sweat never hurt a warrior-
"This is war! Real war!" He cries out, unable to contain it.
Does anyone hear him? It's loud, almost too loud, and his head throbs once more. The crowd is yelling, he watches them all, the plebeians, his plebeians, his people. He shifts back in his seat.
Where is Lucilla's General? He'd like this, he'd like the action, perhaps he could even ask the General to show him some things- Geta's cape! He has Geta's cape and he has laurels to match, he could-
Copper red rivers squirm through the sand below. But it's not the salty, fishy smell of water he's used to when he goes to the coast. It's metallic and cold, wafting up with the dust and nestling in his senses like it lives there.
He leans back in his seat. It's hot, he's too hot, his nice purple robes are sticking to him and he doesn't like them anyway, he decides that suddenly, he wants to be back in his old ones, even if they're stained, even if it's Geta's blood on them because that's what it was, that smell, that red splash across the sand that was the same blood spray that had covered him. He's sitting in Geta's chair and Geta isn't here and it's not good, nothing is good anymore, this is not how his day is supposed to go- Geta is supposed to be here but he's not and he's sitting in Geta's chair and its his own fault-
Warmth spreads from his shoulder down. Someone is touching him, Geta, he is praying. A cold brush against his ear lobe, is his earring falling? And then-
Wrote a little thing based on these tags:
'Nothing is ever mine.' - A frequent refrain.
Not the throne, not Rome, not the titles, not the jewels, not the glory, not even her love.
It had been his idea, after all, though he doesn't remember it, he was certain the idea came from him. Geta took credit for it, just like he did with most things. But it had been his, just like she should have been- or he should have been her's- no-
The sword was cool to the touch and the scent of the flower petals was sweet. It was hot, the Roman sun shining like the smile on her face when she looked at Geta; he didn't even get a smile-
A large hand clamped down on his golden cuff. Rage burned hot but quickly dissipated; the hand was too tan and worn to be Geta- Tegula, that was it-
"Caesar".
A deep voice in his ear, and suddenly his feet are stumbling as he catches his balance.
"It should be me"
This time, his own voice, and all that white hot rage and a black aching sadness fills him again and he finds himself lurching forward. The clang of the sword rings out as it slips from his grip and even Tegula's strength can't keep his free hand from swiping out, connecting with the rich fabric of his brother's robes. Yanking and pulling at the cloth, nails digging into the embroidery, he hears Geta's voice:
"Let go"
Geta is hissing in his ear and now there's another hand on him, pale and bejewelled. There's too much touch but not the right kind-
It's as if he's a spectator, watching the mirror of him, himself but something is off, not quite right- is that him? He's watching himself pulling away, straightening up and turning to Mummy- no, it can't be him, Mummy never-
"Caesar"
Tegula, again. He's back in himself, watching Geta smooth out his robes. But his own feet are kicking now, except it's no use, Tegula has him now and it's out of the room, into the airy hall and away.
He won't remember swinging the blade come morning, nor will he remember the angry tears he shed or the look of pity on Mummy's face. But he knows. He knows.
*laying on the ground, emaciated and covered in muck*
Caracalla and Geta are wolves, teeth buried in each other’s throats. If either of them pull too far, the stops will be unplugged and the blood will rush to the ground where their bodies will soon fall. It is love. Dependence. Brotherhood. Any act, whether compassionate or hateful, deepens their jaw’s grasp. They cannot move, they cannot come apart. It was always going to kill them. They were always going to be each other’s end.
*coughs up blood and pulls myself into a hole in a wall*
sometimes i feel like im climing up this incline again alone but thankully sisypus and the itsy bitsy spider and here with me
from another room i heard the voice of peppa pig ponder the question "daddy. where has the sky gone" and for one brief moment, before her father could reassure her that it was simply fog, i felt afraid
sometimes drawing is awesome and sometimes it kills u in the slowest & most agonizing ways but then u come back to life n have to draw again.
anyway. here’s a very tiny caracalla wearing a ring as a hat
"It was a traditional humiliation, going back centuries, that peoples conquered by Rome should see themselves paraded in the names and titles of their conquerors, 'Africanus', 'Asiaticus', 'Germanicus', and so on.
There was even a dark joke that, after he had killed his brother Geta, the emperor Caracalla should be called 'Geticus'."
From Mary Beard's Emperor of Rome, pg. 314
happy Thursday the 20th
A fawn curled up beside a fake deer which is used for target practice
happy Thursday the 20th
fuckwits also don't, we may be stupid, but we're not as stupid to support him.
I need to kiss him and cuddle him and cradle him and spoon him so bad it’s not even funny
reblog to totally finger someone!
Pretty boy crying in his expensive silk curtains.
I want him to cry in my arms while I tell him everything is going to be okay :(
Struck by a realization.
Caracalla, a horribly disease ridden forceps baby, seemingly forgets his involvement with his brother’s death a matter of hours, or days, after the fact.
I see people attributing this to neurosyphilis, the psychological effects of lead poisoning, etc. Obviously. But I feel like it could also be some flavor of a trauma response. Whether he is unintentionally repressing memories of violence, or deliberately refusing to accept reality and thus losing the thread, I’m not quite sure.
Yeah, the man is obviously deeply sick. But him and Geta have also been through a history of physical abuse. A cocktail of drinking, desensitization to violence, trauma, brain damage, and psychosis all contributed.
If Caracalla was experiencing some type of severe complex trauma or delusions (or both;) it would be incredibly easy to completely discard anything that doesn’t adhere to the reality his mind had created. Especially when that reality is a place where he is correct, protected, or vindicated. Caracalla’s deep fried and shredded brain tissue would have absolutely no problem tossing out the memory of literally sawing Geta’s head off. Caracalla might have simply dismissed it as an intrusive thought he ignored, a nightmare he had. I dunno, him being conscious of the event but not recognizing it is MISERABLE!! And I am nothing if not a creator of miserable fiction.
I don’t have all of the right words here. But god. I am sick to my stomach thinking about my blorbos.
are you five nights at fucking kidding me
This guy and his endless lust for blood. I am obsessed with him!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[Based on those behind the scenes pics from Fear Street😇😇]
big day today
A Crash Course to Kendrick's Super Bowl Performance, from a Black Woman
Note: this does NOT go in depth into all of the song's lyrics. I don't have time to recount two decades of his discography. This is just a summary of the performance itself.
Let's start with the first visual we get:
UNCLE SAM - most notably recognized from WWII American wartime propaganda, Uncle Sam is the personification of American patriotism and freedom. The term "uncle" is also evocative of Uncle Tom from Uncle Tom's Cabin, an abolitionist book that aided in inciting the Civil War. Uncle is also a very common term (both endearment and derogatory) towards Black men (eg. "unc"). Samuel L Jackson was fantastic.
Uncle Sam also resembles a circus ringleader, notable for my next point:
THE GREAT AMERICAN GAME - no, not Super Bowl. The GAG is us the people being pitted against each other: through late-stage capitalism, through the culture war, through class warfare, through being built of the backs of slaves. We are all players in the GAG because none of us on this site were the oligarchs seated at the inauguration.
This is also seen as Kendrick's stage was a Play Station controller. Not only did it remind of circus rings visually, but it was a game battle stage. The Great American Game is a battle royale of the commoners for the amusement of the rich whites.
Remember the foods / Them color was tin and brown / But now they 100 and blue - For this I'll just say, look what the last election said about lowering the price of eggs... and look at the prices now.
The revolution about to be televised / You picked the right time / But the wrong guy - Election 2024 once more.
THE FLAG DANCERS - yes, the dancers formed the US flag... off of the backs of Black people. Not a single white person in sight, and that's true of the cotton pickers in the fields. Plantations are part of how the US came to economic prominence after being a "backwater" colony. Remember tobacco? Cotton? Our bloodlines do.
The red and blue dancers are also notable for representing the Crips and Bloods, two infamous street gangs. The dance in Not Like Us is the Crip Walk. I recommend researching more on your own time about them, but just know they are a large part of the stereotype of Black people being "ghetto."
TOO LOUD, TOO RECKLESS, TOO GHETTO. Do you really know how to play the game? - This is exactly what Black people, especially Black men, get told all the time. It's why we change our names on resumes if they sound "too Black." It's why we codeswitch in non-Black company. This is especially rich considering how non-Black people love our culture and love to make money off of us, as the latter part of the quote points to. And it's even more profound during the Super Bowl-- the NFL is majority Black players.
STREET LIGHT A CAPELLA -- "thug" stereotype dancers to counteract the a capella connotations, with Uncle Sam then saying that Kendrick figured out "bringing other street guys around being a culture cheat code." Yes, this is a direct hit at Drake (listen to "Not Like Us") but also politically. Look up "model minority". Notably I would point to Candace Owens, or the Miami Venezuelan political group that's been in the news recently, especially as this directly led to Kendrick being surrounded by...
DANCERS IN WHITE -- it's white America. That's... that's the allegory.
NOT LIKE US TEASER -- Kendrick says "Not Like Us" is "their favorite song." -> he means white people specifically here. It comes after he's surrounded by all white dancers, the women around him who are his call and response are also in white (my opinion, they represent the industry). He's saying "Not Like Us" is the favorite of yts because it is about BLACK MEN FIGHTING. This again is reflected in the video game stage and ringleader Uncle Sam.
SZA -- instead of giving what they want, we see SZA. She's one of Drake's exes and Kendrick has always supported her.
ALL THE STARS -- This was in the first Black Panther movie, which I recommend you watch. Rest in Power Chadwick. Notably, this movie was incredibly mainstream as a major Marvel movie, and then we have Uncle Sam say...
"THAT'S WHAT AMERICA WANTS: NICE AND CALM. DON'T MESS THIS UP" -- translation: Marvel (the industry, America, etc.) wanted a safe, semi-pop song because white American likes safe pop songs, not Kendrick's usual heavy rap style about his life as a Black man! Don't mess up what you've got going mainstream for having this "Black rap feud" with Drake, who is an R&B model minority to white people because he's safe.
So what does Kendrick say?
IT'S A CULTURAL DIVIDE / IMMA GET IT ON THE FLOOR -- He was warned not to be political or apologetically Black for this Super Bowl performance, but he is using this big stage opportunity to speak out.
40 ACRES AND A MULE / THIS IS BIGGER THAN THE MUSIC -- 40 acres and a mule are what the freed slaves were promised. Instead, this land went to white sharecroppers. Research Jim Crow laws.
THEY TRIED TO RIG THE GAME / BUT YOU CAN'T FAKE INFLUENCE -- rig the election, rig the industry like with model minority Drake, rig the Great American Game with culture war to distract from active class warfare.
NOT LIKE US -- the only thing I'll mention because it made me holler is Serena Williams crip walking on Drake's metaphorical grave. She's another one of his exes.
TURN THE TV OFF -- exactly like he said! The TV is a distraction, the Super Bowl is a distraction, the mainstream news is often a distraction. Turn it off and get with your people!
GAME OVER — could not see this on my stream but at the end of the performance, the lights in the stadium spelled this out. The world is watching, America…
In conclusion, Kendrick Lamar is a visionary and thank you for coming to my TED Talk.
so fucked up that goncharov is only on poob