#do THEY have a little worm wife!!! I Doubt It!!!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hi there bog! sorry if this is random but i Saw Her at a shop and thought of you…. a whole lil group of em…..

woag...

more of Her??? she's in shock...

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Gold Rush (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your whole life you have been Daemon’s voice of reason. Tonight, you choose to be the impulsive one. 

Warnings: Velaryon! Reader (And POC!) Friends to lovers. Fluff. Eloping. Tender, loving smut.

Requested: Uh, I don’t know for markers of arousal, but they are a mess. Sub Daemon and POC reader, as requested. I finished the bingo! Yay! 

You clutch the letter in your hand, a joyous smile slowly starting to spread on your face. Uncaring of the guards, or the people around you, you hike up your skirt and race to the courtyard, screaming with all your might. 

“Daemon!” You say, laughing. “Daemon, Daemon, come quickly.” The letter is still clutched in your hand. Your light blue slippers, matching your dress, are starting to get mud soaked; you have avoided the paths to get there faster. 

Your childhood friend is in the training yard, his armor glinting under the sunlight. For once, he is not wearing the full Targaryen regalia, but rather a simple chest plate. You find yourself a bit taken aback by how handsome he looks with the sun hitting him from behind, hair shining like polished silver. He reminds you of the statues of the Seven you have seen in the royal Sept, a halo around his head. 

Daemon sets Dark Sister down when noticing your arrival. He steps aside from his sparring partner, a knight from House Lannister, as if he were meaningless. The man shouts something, probably in indignation from the abandoned match, but Daemon only has eyes for you.

Standing on the steps near the courtyard, his full attention is a heady feeling. It nearly makes you sway. He manages to look even more handsome when a bit roughed up. 

“Is that…?” He asks, pointing at the parchment in your hand. You nod. 

“He said yes! My brother said yes!” You shout, laughing. Daemon runs towards you, even more mud soaked and sweaty than you are and hugs you to him, spinning you around. It only prompts you to laugh louder. 

“You wonderful, wonderful woman.” He says, peppering your face with kisses, uncaring of the stares from the rest of the knights scattered around. You squeal when he squeezes you to him a little too hard, only to laugh right after at his eagerness. 

At the noise, Ser Harold lifts his head, but when he realizes that it is Daemon and you once more, he only shakes his head in exasperation before returning to his guard duties. 

“And has the Queen..?” You ask Daemon, in a low voice. Sudden doubts make your heart clench. Convincing her of allowing Daemon to marry you had been hard, especially considering she had a match in the Vale already lined up for him. It had taken the two of you nearly a year, and you had only managed to soften her heart by reminding her and her brother husband were once a love match too. She had agreed only if your brother agreed to it too. 

And that had been another can of worms. You knew Corlys was ambitious and wanted to see his wife, Rhaenys, on the throne. Marrying Daemon was the utmost betrayal in his eyes, for it was clear your friend would side with his own brother if there was a succession issue. Thankfully, he had given you permission, swayed by the promise that you would keep Daemon and Caraxes out of it if the worst came to pass. 

Finally, Daemon and you could marry. You were holding the very proof of it in your hands. 

“She has. But still…” Daemon gently grasped your face, tilting your head up so he could look into your dark eyes. “We must not allow them to change their minds.” 

You looked up at him, chewing your lower lip. It was not the first time Daemon suggested eloping. Running away to Dragonstone to be wed in the traditions of your shared ancestors and damn to your families. You had never dared. Despite being oddly similar to the romance tale of the Queen and King, you doubted they would take kindly to it. 

“Corlys said…” You start, softly. You do not mind being the voice of reason. It is how it has always been. Ever since you were the little girl sent to foster under Queen Alysanne’s watchful eye. Your father had thought, back then, if you could claim the Cannibal, you surely needed a strong woman to teach you to be one. 

His plan had worked. Perhaps you had not learned much about being a proper Lady, that didn’t track mud into the halls or stab others with practice swords, but by the Gods you had learned strength.  Both of you had, under her. The thing was, Daemon always thought that strength meant charging right at problems while you thought it was better to watch and think first. 

“Give me that.” Daemon complains, taking the parchment from your hand. You yelp and try to take it back, but he raises it high over his head, where you cannot reach. You try regardless, holding his shoulders and jumping up and down in a quite undignified manner. 

Daemon watches you with a smirk, eyes lingering on the bodice of your dress. It is once you exhaust yourself that you notice he is leering at your breasts, and you give him a good shove for it. 

He laughs. He pulls you by the waist and places a kiss on your forehead. 

“You are a pig.” You complain, crossing your arms over your chest. It is not the first time you have caught him looking at you, but it is the first time it feels so intentional. Daemon and you have never crossed that line before. Sure, he has looked, and you have too, but it is only natural. You are the only girl he has been around in a consistent manner. The two of you have been partners in crime since you were children. 

Daemon has had his dalliances outside of you, of course. You know he is fond of brothels and Gods know what else. You do not mind it. This wish for a match between the two of you is not about physical attraction, but rather that if you had to pick one man to be bound with and him only one woman to belong to, both of you choose each other. It’s simple. 

You love him, of course you do. But then, how could you not? Everyone loves Daemon. He is just that charming. Maidens want to be with him, knights want to be him. He is a true dragon, the finest his House has to offer. 

And you are… You. A daughter of House Velaryon, a bit too wild, a bit too unladylike. Nothing to your name but your dragon. At least in that you take pride in. What a foe, your child was. 

“Only for you.” Daemon says, brushing a stray curl away from your face. He twists his finger in it, making it coil tighter before springing back up. 

“Sure.” You laugh, and Daemon gives your hair a harsh little tug, making you yelp.

“I am serious.” He warns, a bit threateningly. His grip on your hair is firm enough to force you to keep your attention on him.  His eyes are locked with yours. “From today on, you are mine. And I am yours. I won’t… I don’t want anyone in my bed that is not you.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. It might as well be a declaration of undying love, coming from Daemon. He is not one for monogamy, your friend. That he is now saying he wants you and only you means… It means everything. 

“But you have never touched me.” You say to him, confused. 

“Of course not, you silly thing.” Daemon shakes his head. “My father would have strangled me.” 

You fight the urge to laugh. Baelon Targaryen had never been too fond of Daemon not being a proper Prince. Unfortunately, he was often so busy with his duties he had little chance of teaching either of you manners. 

No, instead, the older Prince was much more decisive. Every time he caught Daemon with one of the maids, he got rid of them and paid them a pretty sum to forget the incidents ever happened.

“They would have sent me back.” You realize, voice barely above a whisper. If he had ever caught a whiff of impropriety between the two of you, Prince Baelon would have sent you back to Driftmark so fast you would have gotten whiplash. 

“Yes. They would.” Daemon agrees, softly. His grip on your curls soften. Instead, he starts scratching at your scalp, as if to soothe the hurt. “And I didn’t… You are good. I wouldn’t have brought you dishonor.” 

The admission embarrasses him. Daemon wants everyone to think he isn't concerned with that sort of thing. It is his armor. Being the Rogue Prince, the one who makes the unexpected move, the one who doesn’t care about consequences. But he does. When it is someone he loves on the line, Daemon does. 

He loves you. You love him. Why do you have to wait a full moon for Corlys to get here? He is not the one getting married. You don’t need a fancy gown, nor do you need to be wed in a Sept, under a religion that is not yours. 

You look up at Daemon, a mischievous smile starting to form on your face. He looks at you. Not a word is needed. Daemon knows what you are thinking right away. 

His brows pinch together.

“Are you sure?” 

“Daemon.” You say, exasperated. Who does he think he is speaking to? You had not claimed the most dangerous dragon in Westeros because you lacked boldness. 

“Tonight?” Daemon searches your eyes. He finds no hesitation.  

“In the traditions of our houses.” You agree. 

“You understand that if we…” Of course you know. The bedding. Being married usually implies that. The thought fills you with dread and excitement in equal parts. You have been trying very hard not to think of Daemon in this way since the two of you were teenagers. But now, it is not only expected, but encouraged. 

“I know.” 

His hand on your waist tenses. You can feel his grip tighten, greedily. There is so much want in his eyes that it warms your blood. 

“Alright, Lady Confident.” Daemon teases, pressing another kiss to your forehead before letting you go. 

“The dragonpit, tonight. Get us the robes and Viserys.” You point at him, sternly. 

“And what will you get?” He pulls you in again, pressing your bodies flush against each other. You tremble against him, unable to help it. Daemon has such a magnetic pull on you, sometimes you feel like the two of you are never truly apart. He is constantly pulling you to him, into him, even when not in the room. He owns your thoughts, your feelings, your desires. 

But you are not about to tell him that. You like running too much, and by the Seven he likes to chase. 

“Is my presence not enough?” You tease, deftly slipping out of his grip. You start to walk away, hips swaying. Before you are truly out of his reach, you casually speak, as if it were the most normal thing to say. “My riding gear. I intend to ride a dragon tonight.” 

Daemon grabs your wrist, pupils blown. He stops you from leaving. 

“A dragon?”

“My dragon.” You snicker. “I suppose, while we are busy with that, Caraxes and my Cannibal can get to know each other.” 

His joyous laughter chases you all the way to your chambers. You spend the afternoon getting yourself ready. You bathe, soaking in the hot tub until you feel dizzy from the heat. Choosing to elope has made you unable to seek any advice from the only female presence in your life. You doubt Queen Alyssane will take well to the news of what Daemon and you are planning to do. 

Nerves clench in your stomach at the thought of bedding him. It is needed, if you wish to really be wed in the manner of your ancestors, and it has to happen tonight. Otherwise, the tradition would not be complete. 

Having grown around Daemon, you are not fully innocent. Not only have you listened to his exploits, but you also know your body well. What worries you is the fact that he has a lot of experience on you. 

You scrub yourself clean and get up, taking out your secret stash. Pearls are one of Driftmark more prized exports, and you have quite a few. Some have been ground into a fine powder that you apply over your eyelids. You like how the shimmery white contrasts against your brown eyelids, drawing attention to your eyes. 

Some women, especially near Dorne, use black pigment to make their eyelashes look fuller. You have always enjoyed the contrasts more. Velaryons have striking coloring, or so most say. The shimmery silver hair all Valyrians share, with darker skin to offset it and make it pop even more. It’s the same logic you apply to your makeup. 

Once you have scrubbed yourself to your satisfaction, you fret over choosing a shift to wear under the robes. Daemon has sent them to your chambers already, wrapped in a cloth as to not let anyone see what they are. You note that he has selected ones with a red sash, and you frown. You will no longer be a Velaryon after tonight, but you intend to honor your House. 

Perhaps the followers of the Faith of the Seven have the right of it, with the exchange of cloaks. With no Corlys to attend your wedding, you feel oddly adrift. You exchange the red sash for a light blue one. 

Finally, with no other excuse to stall, you put on your black cloak and make your way to the dragon pit. The dragonkeepers barely spare you a glance, used as they are to your antics. 

Caraxes has been brought forth, as has Balerion. Their growls and cries greet you as you step into the lower part of the pit. Your own mount is near, but kept carefully separated. He has an unfortunate tendency of biting other dragons. 

“This is an awful idea.” It is the first thing Viserys says to you, once he sees you approach. “The two of you will kill our grandmother one of these days.” 

“Good evening, Viserys.” You say, taking off your cloak. “Why, thank you for congratulating us.” 

“Thank the gods.” You hear Daemon’s voice before you see him. You turn, finding him dressed in his own set of robes. You had not doubted him for a second. “I thought you were playing a cruel joke on me. That you were… Oh.” 

He finally sees you, dressed in your version of the ceremonial robes. He freezes. 

“You look beautiful.” Daemon says, still a bit stunned. The images of him superpose in your mind. The boy he had been, the man he is now, lips stretching into the most joyful smile you have ever seen. It makes something warm and syrupy sweet nestle inside your chest, covering you in a golden glow.  So of course, he has to be a bit crude. “And all of it mine by the end of the night.” 

Viserys sighs. He looks very put upon, your recently appointed officiant. You decide not to make him wait any longer. Daemon and you marry under the traditions of your Houses that night, with only Viserys and your dragons as your witnesses. 

After the deed is done, palms and lips bloody, you race each other to Daemon’s chambers. The few servants left behind turn to stare, and as you pass, chamber��s doors open. Everyone wants a look at the two troublemakers that are making a ruckus near midnight. Gasps and scandalized murmurs are heard as the onlookers take in your appearance. The runes are painted brightly on your foreheads for all to see if your attires were not damning enough. 

You are sure the news will reach the Queen before the night is over. But as you stop in front of Daemon’s door, you can’t bring yourself to care. He lifts you up into his arms and opens the door with a well-placed kick. 

“Finally.” He says, carefully placing you inside. You laugh. Daemon busies himself with closing the door after the two of you, and it is then that you realize. 

You are married. To Daemon. Your best friend. Your childhood companion. Daemon, rider of Caraxes, the Rogue Prince, Daemon. Fuck. 

Daemon seems to be going through a similar thought process because when he turns to face you, his face is frozen into stunned realization. Now what? His eyes seem to be saying to you. So you step closer. And closer. 

And then his hands are on your waist, and he is kissing you for the first time. 

It’s devastating. There is no other way to describe it. You have been looking at Daemon ever since the two of you met, unable to look away from him, and you finally have his full attention on you. It’s terrifying. His lips move with yours, soft and tender, as if you are something to be treasured. No one knows you as he does, no one could break you as easily as he could. 

You grasp at him like he is your lifeline, hands clinging to his shoulders. There is no finesse in the way you undress him, greedy hands grasping at his robes. Daemon allows you to do so, his hands on your hips steady and calm. It is not until the robes have fallen from his shoulders, exposing his bare skin, that the two of you separate. 

“What do you need?” Daemon asks you, voice low. You look up at him, hoping to see the same desperation you feel reflected in his eyes. What you see takes your breath away. Daemon’s eyes are almost all pupils, the black having swallowed the purple you so love. His lips are swollen from your kisses, mouth slightly agape. “I’m here.” He says, and it sounds wrecked. “I am here.” 

The softness makes you want to cry. You feel overwhelmed with how badly you would like to be close to him. 

“I want… I need…” You articulate, barely. You try to take off your robes, but your hands, so deft at removing his, are slow and stupid when it comes to removing the knots. 

“Let me.” Daemon unties the knots, taking your robes away. His hands wrap around your back, pulling you close. “You are gorgeous.” 

His hands are warm against your ribs, caressing softly. He traces the curves of your waist and hips as if committing them to memory. You do not feel exposed or embarrassed, with Daemon touching you like this. You have belonged to him, heart and soul, since before you knew what the word meant. It’s only right that it is him who you give yourself to. 

Daemon kisses you again, slow and soft. His lips trace your jaw, and then, the shell of your ear. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. 

“I seem to remember you saying something about dragon riding.” He whispers, and you can hear the devious smile he must be sporting in his tone alone. 

Because you are mean, and so much like him, you bite at his naked shoulder. You expect him to yelp or curse, but are fully unprepared for hearing Daemon moan. 

The both of you look at each other, before a giant grin takes over your face. 

“You like that.” You smirk. Daemon’s brows raise.

“So what if I do?” He challenges, with a smirk of his own. You run your nails down his sides, almost experimentally. His eyes almost cross, expression morphing into half pain and half pleasure.  “Seven Hells, you are not allowed to do that!” He complains, and you laugh. 

“I do intend to ride, you know?” You whisper to him, not a hint of shame on your face. 

“Good.” Daemon goes sit on the bed and takes off his breeches. He parts his legs, letting you see his cock for the first time. “Princess, come sit on your throne.” 

You shiver slightly, feeling arousal quickly taking over your best senses. His cock is pink and almost angry looking, perfectly placed for you to sit on his lap and sink on it. You want nothing more than to have him inside you. 

“No.” You say, instead. “Get me ready first.” 

“Come here, then.” He orders, impatiently. “Let me touch you.” 

“You have no manners.” You complain, a bit irked. Daemon has the bad habit of issuing commands, instead of asking. Ever since he was a child, the people around him have yielded to his position or his charm, even to his good looks. Daemon always gets what he wants. 

And you don’t want him to think it includes you. Being taken down a few pegs is healthy, once in a while. So you remain rooted to your spot, naked and confident in your own skin. You start to run your hands along your neck and breasts, tantalizingly. You can feel yourself starting to get wet. 

His eyes track your movements in the same way a man dying of thirst might look at running water. Hungrily, greedily. 

“And you intend to be the one who teaches them to me?” Daemon’s voice comes out much breathier than he probably expects. 

“It is never late to start.” You agree, mischief making your eyes light up. One of your hands pinches your soft buds, getting them hard and alluring. Your breath is heavier, soft little sighs leaving your lips at the stimulation. 

“Fucking… Come here.” Daemon says. You ignore him, running your hands over your breasts. “Please.” He adds, a bit desperate.

You smirk. You take exactly one step towards him. The way he looks at you makes you feel bolder. Your stance widens, one hand dropping between your legs, teasing. 

“Please. Please, by the Gods let me touch you.” He interrupts, before you can do anything more. “Come here, just… I’ll behave.” 

You run your hands over your sides and wait a bit, as if pondering his question. 

“Please.” Daemon repeats. He looks wrecked and you haven’t even touched him. You wonder if this is what he likes about sex, how powerful and in control you can feel knowing that you have another person wrapped around your little finger. 

“I suppose I’ll allow you to get me ready.” You say, very graciously. You make your way to his lap and pull him in for another kiss. 

As soon as your hips are over his, Daemon tries to cheat. He lifts his own hips, trying to grind his erection against your core. You pull at his hair, in warning. He growls against your mouth, and insists on attempting to grind against you. 

You pull back from him, bracing your hands on his knees. Almost on instinct, one of his hands goes to your waist, to steady you. 

“Was that what I asked you to do?” You ask him, frowning. Daemon pouts. 

“I was getting you ready. You are so wet and warm, I bet I could just slide right in.” He complains, much like a scolded child. 

“Really? Then you must not know what getting a woman ready means.” You grin. “Allow me to teach you. Sit back and watch.” 

Daemon growls at you, face slowly starting to flush. You are not sure if he is more enraged or aroused by what he is seeing.  

“You can’t be serious. My balls are turning blue from…” 

“Not my problem.” You answer him, cheerfully. You remain sitting on his lap. The hand he keeps on your waist allows you to not need to support yourself so much. You free one of your hands and direct it to your pearl, where you rub slow, steady circles. 

Under the candlelight, your cunt glistens. You wonder what you must look like to Daemon, wantonly touching yourself on his lap. By the awed look on his face, it must be quite the sight. 

“Do you..?” He licks his lips, throat suddenly dry. “Do you need my help?” 

“Yes. Put a finger inside.” You spread your folds, feeling how slick you are. Daemon groans. 

“Fuck. That’s…” He presses his finger into your hole, slowly. It sinks right in. You sigh, please. Fascinated, Daemon pulls it back a bit, only to push it back inside and feel your walls swallow it. 

“Another. Open me up.” You say, voice a bit shaky. “Curl… Ah. Like that.” No other order is needed. Daemon adds another finger and curls it, a bit mean. It makes you sit up straighter, hands clutching at his shoulders. For a while, nothing exists, except his fingers moving inside you. Want is making you burn up, sweat collecting in the small of your back. You rock your hips against his hand, looking him right in the eyes. 

Daemon’s expression is open in a way you have never seen before. He looks entranced by you, as if he is in the middle of a religious experience. His eyes are fixed on your face, watching your mouth form soft little pants. His other hand is on your hips, aiding your movements. 

“I love you.” He says, sounding a bit broken, a bit in awe. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You press a kiss to his temple. “Ready?” 

Daemon nods, hiding his face on your chest. You grab his erection and line it up with your hole. He hugs you, tighter still, and it’s then that you sink on him. 

You curse, eyes going wide. Daemon lets out a groan. 

“Daemon.” You say, urgently. You feel like he is carving out a space for himself inside of you, as if he had not owned it already. “Daemon.” 

“I know.” He whispers back, rubbing slow circles on your back. He lifts his head and cradles your face, as if you are made of the most fragile porcelain. “My lady wife.”

“My lord husband.” You answer, equally tender. And it is then that you lift your hips and bring them down again. Daemon gives a punched out moan, hands tightening on your hips. 

You push him down to lay flat on the bed, bracing your hands on his chest to get better leverage. You lift yourself, up and down, until you have worked yourself into a frenzy and cannot stop moaning. 

Under you, Daemon has his eyes closed. His mouth is parted open, and he gives soft moans every time you bring yourself down. His hands are curled around your wrists, gently holding you to him. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough, it feels like you cannot breathe if you are not near him. You need to be as close as you possibly can, and you need it now. 

You lay yourself down on top of him, until your breasts are squished against his chest. Daemon’s eyes open. He hugs you to him, kissing the crown of your head. 

“Thrust your hips.” You say, starting to lavish his throat with kisses. “I need…” You grind your hips against him, his pubic hair rubbing against your pearl just right. With the way you are laying on top of him, Daemon can’t get enough leverage to do anything more than shallowly thrust. You nearly cry from frustration.

“Shh… Just…” He rolls the two of you over, ungracefully. He grinds his hips against yours, with little to no technique. His back is hunched, hair in complete disarray. The blood - drawn runes on his face have smeared, leaving only red lines in their wake. You wonder if you look as fucked out as Daemon does. The thought makes you clench around him, pleasure building up, and up, until one well aimed thrust makes you scream and reach your peak. 

Daemon collapses next to you, his release painting your thighs. There is silence, for a while. Both of you look at each other, sated and exhausted by the day you have had. And suddenly, there is a pounding on the door. 

“I swear to the Seven, Daemon Targaryen, when I get my hands on you…” The Queen screams, and you dissolve into a fit of giggles. 

[waldau]

love at tenth sight — kim mingyu | 903 words | fluff

i thought about weddings again (living the rest of your life with that person? holy shit) and i thought about the worm question again (it just means so much to me). hence this was born.

gender neutral reader. warnings: none.

mingyu's comfortable being the more talkative one between you both, but he's awed by just how large your family is.

you've been talking to your relatives for almost an hour now, greeting them with a smile on your face and an ease he would be floored by if he wasn't an idol himself, used to meeting tons of fans at a time. not to say that he isn't floored by you every other day.

nevertheless, he's grateful that all he has to do is tag along and get himself introduced as your boyfriend. most of your relatives ask his name and what he does for a living, and he likes the way your eyes light up when you follow up his introduction by saying he's the kim mingyu from seventeen.

he's pulled out of his thoughts when you press a kiss to his jaw, the highest part of him you can properly reach on your tiptoes. "just a while more," you say apologetically.

truth be told, he doesn't even mind being dragged around to greet and be showed off to your family. it's your brother's wedding reception, but it seems like you're meeting more people than him and his wife are.

"can we get milkshakes on the way back?" mingyu asks. there's very little that you refuse him, but he likes hearing it from you anyway.

"anything you want," you promise, squeezing his hand that's in yours.

both of you turn around at the sound of your name. it's an elderly couple making their way to you, the older man holding hands with the older woman walking with a cane. they're almost mirroring you. mingyu has a sudden wish — to be able to see you with white hair twenty years, fifty years, a hundred years from now. he doesn't think he needs to ask you who they are.

he bows in greeting and simply listens to the three of you talk, rubbing your back when you get choked up about not expecting to see your grandparents here. he blushes when your grandmother mentions how much you've talked about him, but you seem perfectly poised with him knowing that.

he thinks he loves you just a little more than he did yesterday.

"would you say it was love at first sight?" your grandfather asks.

for mingyu, it's not a question — it's the truth. it's been love at first sight for him as long as he's known you. both of you had been drawn to each other since the moment you met.

"it was," he says, standing up a bit straighter.

but you seem to hesitate. "sort of," you say, shuffling your feet, not meeting anyone's eyes. the air is slightly tense till your grandfather considers your words and nods. "just keep him around, yes?"

you frown at him, hand coming to wrap around mingyu's arm. "of course i will."

the moment passes, but mingyu's still left thinking about what you said. he knows you love him, but he'd always assumed it had been love at first sight for you, too.

you pull him aside the moment there's an ebb in the number of guests, most of them beginning to make a beeline for where your brother is.

"i love you," you say, tipping his face to meet your eyes.

"want to try again?" he asks, tucking some of your hair behind your ear. "that didn't sound very convincing."

you huff and catch his hand when he's about to remove it. "was it...was it really love at first sight for you?"

"i didn't have a doubt."

"isn't that scary? what if you were wrong?"

he shrugs. "i wasn't, and that's what's important."

you sigh. he curls his hand around your neck, letting his warm palm heat up your skin. "what about you?"

"i think...it was love at tenth sight for me."

"tenth?"

you laugh. "i'm exaggerating. the point it, it was more than one. when i first saw you, i thought you were the most handsome guy i'd ever seen. that's still true."

mingyu feels a boyish grin split his face. no one makes him smile the way you do. "so you had a crush on me back then?"

you give him a pointed stare. "i did, but for superficial reasons. then the more time i spent with you, the more i realized i loved you. rather, i was in love with you. regardless of how you looked." your hands come to rest on his waist. "your looks are just a bonus. i fell in love with you, kim mingyu. nothing's changing that."

mingyu can't speak. coherently, at least. "not even if...i'm a ball of slime in a jar?"

"ew. but even then."

"a single pickled cucumber lying under the sun?"

"...even then."

"an old, wrinkly—"

"why are your thoughts so gruesome? why can't you just be my gyu?"

"okay. but what if i was a worm?"

you press your hand to his chest, palm flat against his heart. "you'd be my most favourite worm."

he huffs. "you'd know other worms?"

you roll your eyes. "i shouldn't have said anything to that."

mingyu takes your hand off his chest and kisses it. "you know i'm going to marry you one day, right?"

"not here," you faux scold him, a smile on your face. "and that's supposed to be my line."

if mingyu closes his eyes, it's just you and him. it's always you and him.

[pterodactylterrace]

Why exactly did they decide to make Aegon SA the maid? In the books he never assaults anyone. He is known to have a “large carnal appetite” but it’s never mentioned that these women were forced in anyway. The closest we get is when we hear that he won the virginities of two maidens at an auction in flea bottom. Which, by my understanding, means he paid extra to be a whore’s first customer. It wasn’t some sweet innocent girl like we see in the show. The girls already worked in the brothel learning their trade. They don’t just yoink girls off the street and out their virginity up for sale.

So why include it in the show? Was it because they realized Aegon wasn’t nearly as horrible as Rhaenyra, so they had to do something?

Rhaenyra has 3 bastards that everyone knows about, but can’t say anything. Just committing open treason and no one is allowed to point it out.

She had beef with a literal 2 year old. She had multiple tantrums at her little brothers second name day hunt. Also looked right at him and compared the death squeals of a boar to the crying to children.

Suspected of killing her first husband. In the show, she shows Laenor mercy, but has no problem killing off one of his servants because they needed a body. You don’t understand! She reconnected with her uncle by fucking him on the beach at his late wife’s funeral! She just HAD to marry Daemon instead! Who cares that Laenor was in the process of recommitting himself to their marriage when she sprung this idea on him? He gets to live penniless with his boyfriend in Pentos or something! All he had to do was give up his family, his inheritance, his power, his place at court and all his wealth, along with the life of one of his father’s servants. Sure, he could have kept all those things, but then Daemon would get all broody about how he can’t openly fuck his niece!

Her second eldest is adamant he doesn’t want the Driftwood throne. She forces him to fight for it anyway rather than just quietly sending word that Luke is willing to allow Vaemond to inherit in his place.

Suggesting Aemond be tortured to learn where he heard her sons being called bastards after Luke just slashed out his eye. Not to mention that snobby “Thank you, father” that was totally inappropriate, unnecessary and sent Alicent over the edge.

In comparison, Aegon is a teenage boy who… likes drinking and jerking it. The worst thing he has done was mock his brother with a pig. Alicent corrects this behavior, and from what I can tell, the two boys were friendly towards each other after the time jump. Aemond and Aegon are chatting before dinner. Aemond stands to defend Aegon when Jace acts like he may try something. When Aemond gets punched by Jace and then pushes him to the ground, Aegon grabs Luke before he can do anythjng. Clearly they have grown close.

We see the twins at the fighting pit where Aegon allegedly goes often. How can they know that, though? Earlier in that episode Otto asks his personal guard (either Erryk or Arryk. Their names sound the same and they have the same face, I don’t know who is who) where he is and his guard admits that Aegon exploits his authority to order him away and then evades him. He admits he doesn’t have a clue what he gets up to. Then, later we see a boy with blonde hair and purple eyes, and it’s Aegon’s. No doubt in anyone’s mind. Clearly Aegon is knowingly breeding child fighters for the pit. Weird how he wasn’t there, though.

Matter of fact, the white worm just found him drunk off his ass and stashed him in the sept. That’s what he was getting up to. Getting drunk and likely paying for sex.

Now let’s analyze the scene where Alicent confronts Aegon.

Alicent is IRATE and Aegon is half asleep. Looks like he hasn’t moved in a while, tbh. Aegon asks if something happened. Don’t you think he would know if he did something? His mother reminds him about Dyana, and he seems very nonchalant about it. Not the kind of reaction you would expect from someone that just forced himself on a struggling servants. He saw it as just a bit of fun. His reaction just seems… off.

Now, we know GRRM likes to repeat plot points. One in the original series was Cersei only laying with Robert when he was drunk so she could finish him off some other way, and he wouldn’t remember. Aegon is a known drunk. There were no witnesses. Who’s to say Dyana isn’t a spy or a mole sent to fuck shit up?

She is in season 2. Why bring back an SA victim in season 2 if she doesn’t have more to add to the story? Sure, there could be a revenge arc, but from my understanding, Dyana is at a brothel in season 2. Now, did she wind up there after the Aegon incident (hard to believe considering she was given a pouch of coin to start a new life and she only made it to the end of the palace driveway) OR she went back to where she came from. Back to her mistress, the White Worm. We see she employs young women in her service. Who’s to say they didn’t make the whole thing up to try and sway more people towards Rhaenyra’s cause? Nothing makes a man look worse than SA.

So all the horrible things Aegon has done so far, has been hearsay. We don’t see anything other than him bullying Aemond when they were kids. So either the writers had to do something totally awful with his character, or it wouldn’t be such a landslide siding for Rhaenyra.

You know if they hadn’t decided to assassinate his character, it would be much closer to a 50/50 split. They also had to whitewash the hell out of Rhaenyra to make her more likable. In the books, SHE orders Vaemond’s death and feeds him to her dragon. So in the same episode they blackwashed Aegon and whitewashed Rhaenyra so the audience would root for her. Then they had the balls to say WITH THEIR WHOLE CHEST that they aren’t biased in their writing.

[searchingforserendipity25]

You have been caught in a dream for a thousand years. 

-

You have been sap; you have been an animal's dead pelt, the buzzing mindless whir of a fly. The starlight upon the glade, the roots underneath. 

You are the one who brought it all up from the earth. And you are the thing caught beneath her. 

-

A thousand years; it is a work of will to be a thing apart, for thousands of years afterwards. Pride you make anew, and strength of mind; the clarity that was your own, and remained all that time, but changed. 

-

You have been caught in a dream for a thousand years; one day, you know, he will die, and leave you bereft, absent of starlight, fur, the bright flare of his mind.

-

All things will diminish in his absence; most of all those things you had a hand in creating, for they became his in the loving, and shall ever be his after you met.

-

You have been in this glade for a thousand years. 

You do not know what might make her release you. You do not wish to be released. Once perhaps you had a name, kin, a task and a duty - before you were hers. Elwe died at her feet, crumpling, overgrown with lichens and smooth-faced worms. Thingol returned.

You, Thingol, who hold your wife’s��hands as you walk through the dark aisles of Nan Elmoth, boughs and roots curling away to give you precedence.

-

Look away, you say. You: the trees, the night. This is not for you. These sights are not made for your kind. You will burn from within, little king, and starve, and go mad.

He does not want to look away. He does not; and you do not wish him to - and till the end of all things a doubt will remain.

Whose will it was to linger through the years, lost in the meetings of minds?

But then he loves you very dearly, and loves to fear you; until he forgets it. It would have been better, if you had not let him forget it.

-

You blink, and see it still.

The starry night through the tall branches and in the tall branches, in all things - purple starlight, and green, blue, golden celestial creatures whirring in her eyes. 

Then, there are the knives. Inside your own walls, as close to you as your own skin; you fall, blood seeping through the cracks in the stone, sinking. You see it, at the last - your wife the starlit night, your beloved.

-

He remembers the doubt. Dying, remembers what it was like to be dying before her.

The last of vanity was broken away like a mask. If only he could tell her:

I was glad to burn, I chose it - I would choose it always, a death of pride is my own and ever has been -

Melian takes the glade in Nan Elmoth with herself until the end of all things.

[martianbugsbunny]

Kay babes, I already posted a salty kinda tongue-in-cheek thing about Kalluzeb, in context of *MANDO SPOILERS* Zeb appearing sans Kallus in the Mandalorian. Because in honesty, he should be on Lira San with Kallus enjoying retirement, but I have no beef with him doing whatever it is he’s doing other than the part where he’s doing it without Kallus, because that is a huge red flag for me.

I thought I would have to worry about the following issues when it came to Ahsoka, but I guess they’re either setting him up for an appearance in that or they’ve decided to explore his post-Empire story in Mando, which is fine. If ye be free of indignation about Kalluzeb/Zeb just being gay, read on! If you’re an apple riddled with the worms of homophobia or if you’re very strongly anti-Kalluzeb, then this is not the post for you, and I would rather you just left now than got mad at me in the comments.

I’m going to specifically discuss this in terms of Ahsoka first, because I’ve had this in my drafts for months, so I wrote it before Zeb getting no-homo’d was a present and immediate danger. This may not be the best-written I’ve ever produced, but it is fairly logical, so please take it in context of the first section being written months ago, and the last section as being written today, and then you’ll be sitting pretty.

So it’s basically common knowledge at this point that Hera and Sabine will appear in some capacity in Ahsoka, and probably going to be in contact with our queen herself. I have doubts that Zeb will be a significant part of the show; maybe a cameo here or there, or they mention him but he stays off-screen. If Hera/Sabine gets off a comm in the back of their spaceship and Ahsoka’s like “hey, who was that?” and Hera/Sabine says, “just checking in with Zeb,” there is a choice. And because I have no faith in anyone to canonize Kalluzeb, this is what feels much more likely to happen: The writers will either throw in a single line after that (such as Ahsoka replying with “oh, cool, how’s his wife?”) or there will be no mention of a spouse. And believe you me, there is literally no reason that Zeb, who would be off-screen at that moment, and whose Rebels ending involved no female Lasat, should have a wife for that throwaway moment. It adds nothing to his story and it would be completely out of nowhere, probably never to be explored again. Mentioning a wife would literally just be the galaxy’s biggest, flashing-neon “no homo” (or, in Star Wars terms, you might say that he got Zorii Bliss-ed). There’s no reason to do it. Not saying he has a wife technically doesn’t even disprove the concept that he might have a wife *sarcastic snort*. So if something like that does end up in Ahsoka, we all know why. There is legitimately no other reason to add in a throwaway line like that other than to disprove the concept of Kalluzeb. Or maybe just to disprove the concept that Zeb is gay. I would honestly rather they never mentioned Zeb at all, even in passing, than throwing that kinda thing in our faces. There is no reason to disprove it. Leaving Zeb with a slightly ambiguous relationship poses no problem. No plot hole. No loose end in desperate need of tying up. There is no reason to officially, explicitly de-canonize Kalluzeb or gay Zeb, because there is no significant woman in his life he might possibly have a solid, built-up, understandable relationship with, and because his most significant person (I would argue) is a man. I can’t say it enough. This is the test. Either we get Zorii Bliss-ed again, or Zeb gets to continue enjoying the grey space. (Because I don’t have enough faith in Filoni, the man who still has not made Ahsoka a splesbian [lesbian in space] to canonize arguably one of the most dramatic potential romances in Star Wars history. Even though Kalluzeb makes sense. Even though Kallus’s entire reformation arc is started by Zeb. Even though in his little screen time as a Rebel, it is still obviously Zeb who means the most to him out of all the Specters. Even though Zeb, who is often portrayed as being kind of rough, is much kinder and more honorable towards Kallus than he deserves, before they’re on the same side.)

In context of Mando, the same rules apply. There is no need to mention him having a wife. There isn’t any urgent need to even explicitly canonize Kalluzeb, other than the fact that Star Wars needs to improve its queer representation by leaps and bounds to get up to standards, and also that Kalluzeb makes a whole lot of sense. I am terrified of him existing in post-Rebels media because thus far, he is without Kallus, and with the way their Rebels storyline ended, there’s really no reason he should be. Kallus should be by his side.

UNLESS Kallus is A) currently enjoying retirement on Lira San, and Zeb is off-world for short periods of time every now and then but goes home to Lira San and Kallus or B) they’re saving Kallus for a moment when Kallus shows up late to whatever business he and Zeb have and we get a quiet, “hey, husband of mine” and there’s no fanfare, no Zorii Bliss situation, just two gay dudes being married and living their lives together.

This is it. This is where I find out if it’s even crossed Filoni’s mind (or the minds of other miscellaneous writers, but he really sticks to his characters) to leave our plausible couple be. This is where I find out if his viewpoint of *paraphrased* “it wasn’t my intention, but I won’t de-canonize it” (https://gizmodo.com/star-wars-rebels-producer-dave-filoni-is-totally-fine-w-1823593680) holds up if he’s going to explore characters close to Zeb (which includes Kallus) post-Rebels.

[lesbiangummybearmafia]

The Gilded Age season 2, episode 1: You Don't Even Like Opera spoliers...

First I have say I'm so happy The Gilded Age is back! I've waiting since they showed us the teaser for season 2, thought I'd lose my mind. But finally...

I'm so glad to see Bertha there in all her glory. Reminding, re-reminding, annoying, giving a headache to especially Mrs. Astor and showing them all they need to be falling under her reign. I definitely think that lovely surprise at the end of her dinner helped greatly. Mrs. Astor was squirming like worm on hook. Which I personally couldn't been happier about. Because some time in first season I completely fell under Bertha's spell I'm good with that still. It's not just that she's attractive because well duh, but it's that she's cunning, brilliant, devilish, crazy intelligent, 6 steps at least a head of anyone else, always has plan, suffers no fools, old money/new money she'll can take you down faster then you snap your fingers. But I do think she's a loyal friend and a good person to those who prove to that her too. So I have very deep affection for her character.

My heart went out to Peggy and her Mom that they didn't get to her son in time. That whole arch just put me in tears time and again. To get that close to her son only to lose him like that was just cruel. I really want to see happiness for her character. I still will never be ok with what her father did but I understand a little more why he did it. Especially back then, they have soften his character which helps to see where he may have been coming from trying to protect his daughter. It would be nice to see Peggy as some point have a relationship with her father again. Her father know the pain he has caused to both his wife and daughter. It's easy to the guilt and pain he himself is feeling.

Same for Marian after what happened last season, I hated watching her fall in love for first time to that low life who didn't deserve her. I doubt it would happen but I think her and Bertha's son Larry would make a wonderful couple. He definitely likes her, we seen that last season. I just like to see happiness for her. I really think Aunt Agnes needs get over Marian teaching water painting to upper class girls at a private school one day a week. Give me a break, it's so not a big deal. Even for back than it's shouldn't be a big deal.

I have such a I like her/I dislike her relationship with Aunt Agnes. All last season I was like this omg one moment I wanted smack her upside the head and next I was nodding my head agreeing with her. I feel it may be another season of that with her.

Then there's Aunt Ada in middle trying to keep to peace or keep the house from burning down. Their like sisters that got custody of an adult teenager which it basically was back then when you had an adult young woman in your house. But I really love Aunt Ada. I know she's always keeping the peace but she did say in episode sometimes yelling could be a good thing so. But she has such a loving heart and she truly wants everyone to find happiness. I'd like to see her get happiness also. I could easily seen her be a wife and mom. So she deserves her own amount of happiness.

Now I know, we all know there is no way that Bertha is going to allow Gladys to marry Oscar. But what I'm trying to figure out is this is that good or bad? Now I see Bertha wanting have what happened with Cora on Downton Abbey, with Gladys ends up marring a English Lord or Duke. Not Oscar Van Rhijn that's for sure. But what about for Gladys at first I was against the idea because shouldn't she find a man that actually want to be in love with her? With Oscar because he's gay that's never a true possibility. But after what Oscar said in episode it got me thinking. Because back then it wasn't like a wife square and equal partner in a marriage. Depending on husband it was expected for the wife to have the husband's opinions on things, to keep in line. Gladys being married to Oscar she would have freedom she most likely never have in any other marriage. But she would also never have romantic love, I definitely think she'd have love with Oscar. Now I'm a lesbian so it is different to say the least but some of my closest friendships have been with gay men. One I consider the brother I never had. So Gladys could have a very deep emotional relationship with Oscar that's love just not romantic. So I'm lost what to think, however Oscar would need to show that wanting to marry Gladys isn't just for his own selfish reasons.

Than the mess with the robber barons. Which I wonder is just ment to mirror so many CEOs, Executives, Studio heads and etc... that are fighting the unions in our own time? I don't know if labor unions started because of robber barons or not. However I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they did. At that meeting with George Russell and the other robber barons is having talking about workers wanting medical care, better housing, better pay, 8 hour work day. While they choke on their own wealth but don't want to give the very people that are making them that wealthy a better life should be definition of greed. Is this how America became the greedy horrible place we now live in? That's why I use the term robber barons instead of successful heads industrialists. One tell everyone plainly what exactly what they were. But in the show it hard to know where place my feelings. Because the show is based somewhat in reality but the Russell's are fictional. But say that George Russell had been a real robber barons of the time. A large part of me wants to hate his character, but the problem is I actually like his character quite a bit. I want to see him put in ethical workplace practices for his workers, I want you see him do the right thing for the people that work him. Now I'm somewhat fearful what the show will have them do. Most likely mirror history no doubt.

Because I'll attempt it I love seeing Bertha in all her gorgeous, insanely beautiful dresses. Their so many of her's I was drooling over in this episode along, (she has the best wardrobe of whole cast). But if we were talking realistically, where is all that money coming from to pay for those dresses and grows. Off the backs off works who live in poverty. Does now, just like then makes so much sense why all jobs and industries need labor unions. But perhaps ultimately that's a part of the show. Because those two very thoughts were fighting against themselves at the same time in US right then. I do like the idea of the Gilded Age making us really think about that.

I'm so looking forward to whole new season!

I'm 100% on Bertha Russell side. She's basically Regina Mills cousin to me, don't ever ask me explain that outside my own mind lol.

Oh yea can't wait to see all the gorgeous clothes.

[amorgansgal]

That Fool Marston

So exciting to finally post this after I've been sitting on it for so long! This is my piece for the RDR Minibang and I've been working with @sentanixiv (otherwise known as Kichi) who will be posting the artwork later! Hope you all enjoy!

Warnings: Consumption of alcohol

Summary: John finally reads Arthur’s journal, only to find out that the man wanted to marry Abigail. John struggles with feelings of jealousy and inadequacy, even though Arthur is long since dead and gone. It might take some stern words from Abigail for him to see sense.

John’s initial reaction was to shut Arthur’s journal with a sharp snap. He drew in a shaky breath and tried to calm the furious beating of his heart. His stomach was twisted into knots. It felt like someone had punched him low in his gut. John cautiously opened the journal once more until the faded words were facing him. The discomfort and pain were inescapable and he forced himself to read what Arthur had said about his wife: ‘Took young Jack out fishing as a favour to Abigail. Many years ago, before she fell so hard for that fool Marston, perhaps I should’ve married her. I think part of me has always thought that…’

His hands shook fiercely as he held the journal. He had been endeavouring to read it all from start to… Hot quick anger burned in his chest and he contemptuously threw the journal against the wall of the barn. It landed with a heavy thud on a pile of hay and lay there in a spot illuminated by the pale sunlight glimmering in through the windows, the dust of the barn settling on the brown leather. Rachel put her head over the stall door he was standing next to and knickered reproachfully.

‘What?’ he snapped churlishly. Rachel lifted her head haughtily and tossed her mane, as though telling him in not so many words he was a fool and acting like one. His gut twisted again and he felt his cheeks flush with warmth. He shuffled over to the journal and picked it up, rubbing his sleeve over the journal to clean it and dusting off any dirt or hay.

He couldn’t help it though, like small worms burrowing into a dead man’s skull, his doubts and fears slithered back into his mind. He had missed so much and could he really blame her if she found comfort with another man while he was gone? Had Arthur just thought about marrying Abigail or had he talked to her about it? Had she laughed and dismissed the idea or did she seriously consider it? Had Abigail and Arthur talked through the night about how useless he was? Had Abigail snuck into his bed on cold nights and…?

His mind turned away from the thought. He couldn’t stomach it. It made him feel sick. His hand curled into a fist and he slammed it against the wall of the barn. This was absurd. She was his wife, they were married and there was no going back now. He was jealous of a dead man. No matter what happened or had happened, Abigail was his and he was hers. She had smiled when he asked her to marry him. Her smile was like the sun breaking over the horizon, turning fields and forest to gold. He'd almost been struck dumb when he’d seen it while they were on the boat, the waves lapping at the little yacht’s peeling paint and rough oars. He would live and die for that smile.

But still his doubts lingered, mocking him, cruel voices that whispered, ‘What were you thinking? Of course, she lay with him! Of course, you’re not good enough. Of course, she sought Arthur out and found comfort in him. You saw how all the ladies fawned over him, for all he thought he wasn’t good enough, oh they flocked to him. They weren’t interested in you. What do you have to offer? A scrawny, pathetic runt of a man who proved himself useless and disappointing on so many occasions. They didn’t like you, they didn’t want you, you’d be better off dead to them.’

‘JOHN!’ his wife’s voice echoed across the ranch and he almost dropped the journal. He hastily put it away in his satchel and hurried to the barn door. When he pushed it open, he could see Abigail standing on the porch, she waved at him, gesturing for him to come over.

‘C’mon, dinner’s ready!’

‘I’ll be there in a second!’ he shouted back. He scraped his forefinger against his thumb, a momentary relief as the sharp sting of his nail scratched the flesh.

‘Now John!’ she yelled back and then turned on heel, heading back into the house.

He built that house for her, built this whole goddamn ranch for her, promised not to pick up his gun again and be a good father for Jack. And what was it all for if she hadn’t got what she had really wanted? Arthur had been tall and handsome and loved by both Dutch and Hosea. For all he had said John was the golden boy, it was Arthur who could do no wrong, who brought in money and was kind to the women and helped with chores and took care of Jack and drunk coffee with Abigail in the morning. He still remembered bitterly how they would chat and gossip and giggle. As soon as they realised John was approaching them Arthur’s expression would darken and Abigail would roll her eyes.

‘Piece of shit… I didn’ want ya. Yer ma didn’ want ya. God knows I can’ wait to be rid of yer. Soon as you up and die the better!’ His father’s drunk, slurred words crept into his brain.

‘JOHN!’

He jumped on hearing his wife’s yell and looked up to find her standing on the porch again. ‘Sorry!’ he yelled back and began to walk over.

‘Quit just standin’ there and git inside!’ she shouted.

‘I’m walkin’ ain’t I?’ He almost wanted the argument, wanted to get angry, have a good excuse to accuse Abigail of loving another man, someone he couldn’t even sock in the jaw because he weren’t here anymore! But instead, he morosely walked over to the house, kicking aside dust and pebbles. He ignored Abigail’s usual instruction to remove his boots and took his place at the table. He leaned back in the chair, fiddling with a corner of the checked table cloth.

Abigail raised a brow on seeing him slouched in the chair and gloomily staring at the whorls that made up the table’s wooden grain, rather than passing out the plates. But she said nothing and dished out the stew. Jack cast a nervous glance at him and Uncle tapped his thumb against the table, as though the sound would alleviate any sense of discomfort or unease that was steadily building in the dining room. A plate of stew was pushed in front of John and he glared at the lumps of potato and murky brown gravy.

Abigail coughed and tried to catch John’s eye. ‘Jack’s been teaching me to read. Ain’t that right Jack?’

‘Yes, ma. You’re getting pretty good at it.’

‘Think you’ll write the next great classic novel, Abigail?’ Uncle asked, chuckling softly.

‘Pah, not sure if I’m that good!’

John picked up his spoon and pushed it back and forth amongst the chunks of meat, carrot and mushrooms. He wasn’t hungry. He felt sick. Not for the first time he looked up at Jack and tried to see himself in the boy, though more and more found Arthur staring back at him. The sandy brown hair couldn’t have come from anyone else, that confused expression and strong nose belonged to Arthur.

‘Pa…?’ Jack asked hesitantly, his eyes glancing across to his mother, then back to John.

He couldn’t stand it anymore. Usually, he could dismiss his doubts as easily as they rose in his mind now. They were just petty words and misgivings that folks were all too eager to use to rile him up and bother him with. But seeing those words, black marks on white paper, all but confirmed his fears and doubts. He was just something that Abigail had tied herself to, something that brought a slim sense of safety and a decent enough income, nothing worth loving, nothing worth holding onto. If she had any other chance, she would’ve chosen Arthur.

He tossed down his spoon, splashes of gravy hitting the clean table cloth and white plate, making the others look up at him as he rose to his feet. For all the swiftness of his anger, it suddenly dissipated and he lowered his gaze. His cheeks flushed with colour and he could feel his throat grow thick. He hurried out of the room and made his way down the hallway to his bedroom. He quickly shut and locked the door behind him and tried to ignore the stinging sensation and welling of tears in his eyes.

‘You know who cries? Do you, boy? Babies and women, that’s it! You ain’t a baby and by God, you better not think you can cry like a girl!’

He shut his eyes, pressing his palms against them and sought out that anger. That bitter twisted anger that made him yell at Abigail when he came back, that made him avoid everyone else’s company and kept him sullen and gloomy in camp. Anger was better than babyish tears.

Abigail knocked loudly and harshly against the bedroom door – he didn’t even have to guess who it would be – and yelled out, ‘John, what the hell is the matter? Open this door and come back to dinner.’

Couldn’t he just have five fucking minutes to himself? It seemed that wherever he went someone needed something from him. He could never just be enough for those around him. Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, Abigail, Jack. ‘I need this!’ ‘You need to do that!’ ‘We need this, the camp needs that!’ Expressing his doubts or worries got him more trouble, not more sympathy. He wiped away the tears and found his voice again.

‘I ain’t hungry!’

‘The hell you ain’t! I haven’t spent over an hour making dinner for you to not be hungry!’ Abigail snapped back.

‘I don’ have to eat if I don’ want to!’

The handle rattled in the door. ‘John, open this goddamn door!’

He knew he was behaving like a child. Pathetic tears, temper tantrum, locking a door, he could imagine all too well Arthur mocking him for it. ‘What? She’s goin’ to cook for yer, look after the whole house and yer goin’ to act like a kid! Why don’ you stamp yer foot Marston or flail yer fists against the ground? ‘m sure she’ll be really glad she married ya!’

He wiped away his tears furiously and then slowly opened the door. Abigail’s glare and cold eyes greeted him. He never failed to be put in mind of a panther when he came face to face with Abigail’s temper. He saw her bristle, her hands rested on her hips and she quickly licked her lips, before she sighed heavily and irritably.

‘I don’t want to know, John. I don’t want to know what’s put you in this foul mood. Come back to the table, do the decent thing and eat what I’ve made! You can act like a baby later!’ she snapped, then turned on heel and didn’t even wait to see if he was following.

He hovered in the doorway. He had almost expected and wanted her fury, her angry hot words, her disappointment with him, her frustration. But instead, he was left waiting in the doorway like a half-witted fool. Why did he want her anger? Her contempt? Why did he want a good excuse to get angrier? To lay the accusations at her feet and force her to deny them? Did he want her to deny them or did he want the truth?

He glanced towards the dining room, then over to the backdoor near their bedroom. He just needed a little time away from it all. Away from being a husband, a father, a son, a brother, away from being anything at all. He would ride Rachel into town, take some time to think and cool off, then come back. John quickly pulled open the backdoor, then took off in a run to the barn. He didn’t even bother saddling Rachel up, just used the rope that was hanging over her stable door as some basic reins and then mounted up.

Perhaps his thighs and groin would regret not saddling her up properly soon. But he could not ignore the tantalising sweet tug of freedom pulling him away from the ranch, away from Abigail, away from the damn journal. Rachel must’ve felt his nervous, irritable energy. She skittered one way then another, as he climbed up and kicked her into a canter. She leapt into motion, storming down the dusty path that curved up to the ranch house and John pushed her to jump over the nearby fence, rather than dismounting in order to open and close the gate.

He had ridden her during most of the days work, but she kept up a good pace until Blackwater glimmered into view, the first lights being lit in windows and trails of smoke drifting up from chimneys as other families sat down to supper. Other happy families who were not made up of old outlaws, whores or bastard sons. Families who did not have to pretend at happy, contented lives. Families who were born for this kind of life. Simple folk who went to market, who grew their crops or practiced a trade, who went to church every Sunday. They did not know what it felt like to have the hair on the back of their necks stand on end or feel their heart thrum with excitement on hearing a train’s whistle or watching a heavy bank coach pull into town.

John exhaled slowly, breathing in the cool evening air. Now that folks were at their dinner table or leaning heavily on the bar in the saloon, the dust of the road had settled. The only noises from the town were a lively tune being played on the saloon’s piano and a few doves cooed softly up in the rafters of yet another house that was being built. Rachel dawdled to a slow walk, then stopped by a low trough of water and dipped her head down to drink. John’s stomach growled, now reminding him after his foolish race away from the Marston home that he had not eaten since noon and even then, it had been a light meal of bread and cheese.

He fiddled with Rachel’s mane. Was it best to head for home, admit to shameful defeat and beg Abigail for the cold remnants of his supper? He looked out over at the hills. He could hunt something, a deer perhaps or a rabbit. Build a campfire, cook it, sleep out under the stars as he had done countless times in the past. But his rather foolish flight meant he had no bedroll on his horse and while he had revolver in his belt, it was better to use a rifle when going hunting for deer or rabbit.

A burst of uproarious laughter bubbled up from the saloon and John scratched his nail against the palm of his hand once more before checking in his pockets for what money he had on him. $10. Not exactly a fortune, but enough for a meal, a shot of whiskey and perhaps even a bed if he really felt like it. He dismounted from Rachel and then tied her to one of the railings outside the saloon. He’d made his decision and, hell, he’d actually enjoy himself! Fuck Arthur and fuck Abigail and fuck everything and everyone that had brought him to this lousy town!

‘Fuck Abigail and fuck everyone and fuck everything and fuck this lousy town!’

The bartender looked up at John’s outburst and rolled his eyes. Though evidently was unwilling to engage him in an argument or tell him to leave. The tall, dark-haired man who stood next to him at the bar gave John a smooth smile and quirked a brow. John frowned, taking in the man’s well pressed suit, the deep dark red of his waistcoat and the way his shoes were so polished the gas lamps were reflected in the black leather. He looked up at the man’s face and squinted at him. The man’s face shifted like sand, one moment he looked like a regular banker or shop owner, a nobody and nothing, the next it looked a little like Dutch, the next like John’s own father.

‘Trouble with women, hm?’ the man asked.

John snorted. ‘You wouldn’t know the half of it!’

The man chuckled richly, though John suddenly felt sick by the sound, as though something slimy had crept down his neck and curled around his throat. ‘Oh, I’m sure I do! That wife of yours is a beauty, but…’

‘She’s beautiful. So beautiful… That’s half the problem, I’m an ugly, damn fool and she’s just… there.’ John flung his hand out to the room, though Abigail was nowhere in sight. ‘She’s smart and capable and kept us going and I ain’t.’

‘Oh you’ve done your part John, of that I’m sure.’

‘I ain’t done much good,’ John muttered dully. He furrowed his brow in confusion, he couldn’t remember telling the stranger his name. But he shrugged, it hardly mattered anyway.

‘I’ve never found any man does anything entirely good or bad. The scale tips one way or another, but rarely does it wholly-’

John rested hands on the bar and then placed his forehead on them. The stranger chuckled drolly. ‘Not one for hearing philosophical musings, John Marston?’

John turned his head to look at the strange man. ‘Sorry, it ain’t nothin’ personal, just heard a lot of ‘em when I was running in… well, never mind.’

The strange man lifted his glass and gave him a smile that made John’s skin crawl. Even with his whiskey addled mind, he could see it being worn by a snake, malevolent and quick.

‘To men who keep running, Mr Marston.’ The man tossed the drink back, though the liquid didn’t seem to move from the glass, his lips remained pale and dry.

John uncomfortably turned away and lifted himself up from the bar. He briefly raised his own glass, then swallowed down the amber liquid, not thinking much of the man’s toast. Once done, he focused his drifting attention on the bartender. ‘Bar-keep, ‘nother whiskey, for me and my friend!’

‘Think you’ve had enough, friend.’ The bartender said sourly and John glared at him.

‘It’s my goddamn right to-!’

‘JOHN MAR- JIM MILTON! Where the hell have you been?’ Abigail’s furious yell across the saloon made most of the men in there almost cower in terror, as though their own wives had stormed in. But John leaned heavily against the bar and just smiled. Abigail looked like she might rip his throat out. While a few men in the saloon had jeered at him because his wife had shown up, some of the poker players looked like they may well have pissed themselves.

‘I’ve been right here, drinking, thinking and… something else ‘ing.’

Abigail stormed across the room and grabbed hold of his arm. While he was stronger than he looked, the whiskey sloshed in his stomach and made the room spin, and he was being pulled halfway across the room before he even had time to say anything.

John briefly turned back to say farewell to the stranger and to perhaps yell something about his beautiful, angry wife. But when he looked over to the bar and the space where the man had been, it was empty. The bartender was watching him, a satisfied expression on his face, perhaps glad he didn’t have to throw John out. Near the staircase stood two working girls, who were trying to hide their giggles, as they watched Abigail pull him out from the saloon and into the cold night air.

His stomach lurched and a wave of nausea burnt his throat. He knew it was stupid to drink without having anything to eat, but here he was, clinging onto the wooden railing outside the saloon and trying to keep the contents of his stomach down. He glanced across the road and saw Pepper, the dapple-grey pony, hitched to the small cart they generally used for quick rides into town and market jaunts. Pepper’s ears twitched and he let out a small snort as though ridiculing John.

John glanced at his wife, her eyes blazing with barely repressed anger and her hands curled tightly into fists. ‘You’re a god damn louse, John Marston!’ He moved back, almost expecting her to hit him, but the slap never came and she instead pointed fiercely at the cart. ‘Get in the cart!’

‘No!’ he sulked. Abigail swiftly looked over at him, her eyes narrowed as though daring him to repeat what he had said.

‘I will not ask you again, John Milton!’

‘I ain’t goin’ home.’

‘What you just expect me to let you spend all night here?’

‘I can do, if I want!’ He knew he sounded like a child. A kid stamping their foot and demanding candy would have probably been more threatening and commanding. ‘Not like you want me home anyway!’

‘Oh for god’s sake, John. I ain’t here to feel sorry for ya!’

‘No, ya just here because I was the next best thing!’

Abigail sighed irritably and pinched her brow between two fingers. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Arthur! It’s always goddamn Arthur! I’m never enough! I ain’t good enough!’

He almost flinched as her eyes turned icy cold and her brow furrowed. Abigail breathed heavily through her nose and he couldn’t quite tell whether she was trying not to hit him or trying not to cry. She clenched her hands into fists once more. His stomach squeezed tightly, he felt strangely guilty. Abigail never talked about Arthur, none of the family did anymore, except for Uncle, and even then it was only when John had been drinking and they were alone. In the hazy lamplight of the street, he could see the shining glint of tears in her eyes, before she sniffed sharply and turned on heel.

‘I ain’t doin’ this John,’ she said, untying Rachel from the nearby post and heading back over to the cart.

‘Abi, I’m sor-’

‘Don’t you dare, John Marston!’ she snapped, pointing her finger at him. ‘Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry, because you ain’t!’

He quickly looked about to see if anyone had heard her call him by his full real name, but there was no one around and it seemed like the saloon had resumed its clamour of music, shouting, laughing and talking. Abigail was already climbing up to the seat of the cart and fussing with the reins, though he could see the shake of her shoulders. The pit of guilt that had opened in his stomach was threatening to swallow him whole. He rarely saw Abi cry and it always broke him when he did. He was a goddamn idiot, a complete and utter fool.

He hurriedly ran to the cart, managing to jump up just as Abigail had flicked the reins along Pepper’s back and the cart began to move. But she yanked it to a halt.

‘Get down and go to hell, John Marston! I don’t want you with me and I don’t want you coming home.’

‘Abi, please-’

‘You’re a goddamn pig!’

‘I know, Abigail, please-’

‘Here,’ she dug in her pocket and pulled out a couple of dollars, then tossed them at him. A few fluttered down into the dusty road. ‘Go stay at the saloon, or drink yourself to death or get yourself a whore! Then maybe she can listen to your sad little story and you’ll feel better for all of five minutes!’

‘Abi, it ain’t my fault-’

‘Ain’t it?’ She let out a ridiculous screech of laughter. ‘It never is, is it John? Someone else is always to blame!’

‘Arthur wanted to marry you!’ he yelled.

Abigail stared at him, then sat back heavily against the seat of the cart. It felt like the whole street was plunged into silence, until a dog began to bark loudly and further off a baby started to wail. John felt his stomach twist again. Judging by her reaction Abigail had no clue that had been the case. He opened his mouth to offer another apology, but Abigail shifted over in the cart and sharply gestured to the seat.

‘Get in the cart, we’re goin’ to talk.’

He obediently climbed up and sat beside her, not daring to offer to drive as Abigail flicked the reins and Pepper trotted off.

He had expected her to just drive for home, but instead she drove the cart up the road until they reached the Great Plains and, rather than continuing eastward, Abigail pulled Pepper to a stop underneath a few oak trees. John waited in the cart, wondering if she was relieving herself or had decided to just walk off into the night and abandon him. But instead, she started to collect a small stack of twigs, leaves and dried grass into a pile. He watched her for a moment, until she glanced up at him and then sighed.

‘Well go on, there’s some blankets in the back! You can do something useful, can’t you?’

He dutifully climbed out of the cart and got the blankets, then placed them down on the ground. Trying his best to find a good spot, without too many stones or knotted roots. John wasn’t quite sure what Abigail had intended, but he managed to keep himself busy with removing Pepper’s reins and untying Rachel from the cart, so they could graze peacefully.

‘Sit,’ he heard his wife snap at him. He turned around to see her eyes on him, the small pile of kindling already lit, the fire illuminating her face, casting her tired, drawn features in gold. He quickly looked back down to the earth underneath his boots, then did as she bid and sat down on the blankets.

‘Well?’ she asked.

John nervously licked his lips, his throat suddenly feeling strangely dry, despite the whiskey he had poured down it earlier. He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out the journal. ‘Arthur said… he wrote… that he took Jack out fishin’ and he should’ve married you. Said he would’ve done… if you hadn’t fallen so hard for… for me.’

He risked a quick look up at her, but she was staring into the fire, her eyes no longer seeing him. Lost entirely in the past and he wondered if she was thinking what might have been, that Arthur would have looked after her, seen to it that she had everything she needed and been a better father to her son.

‘I… I just thought… I thought maybe you knew about that, maybe you wanted Arthur, maybe you thought you shouldn’t have married me.’ John looked back down to his boots, focusing on the lightly swaying grass underneath the trees and the crackling of the fire. He heard her sigh loudly.

‘And that’s why you’ve been an ass all evening?’ 

John risked looking up again. Abigail lips were pursed as though she had just licked a lemon. He fiddled with a blade of grass between his fingers and finally said, ‘Uh… maybe… I guess.’

Her irritated sigh made him feel like a beaten, mangy dog and she gave him a cold, withering look that could have frozen hell over! ‘Dammit, John! Why can’t ya ever just tell me what’s goin’ on in that goddamn, foolish head of yours?’

John dropped his head and twisted the grass over and over, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t ever sure. Maybe that was half the problem, he never knew what he was thinking or whether he had any certainty about the life he and Abigail lived. However comfortable and peaceful it seemed, he always got the sense he might wake up one morning and none of it would've been real. He would be back in camp, on a hard narrow cot, with the snorts and shuffles of the horses nearby, with Pearson clanging the stew pot around, with murmured conversation from those stood by the coffee pot. And truth be told he was never entirely certain if that would be such a bad thing to wake up to.

A hand under his chin forced his head up. Abigail was looking down on him, almost tenderly. He didn’t dare moved in case her usual scornful expression returned. She crouched down and straddled him. Her hands coming to his shoulders, his instinctively wrapped around her back.

‘You’re a fool, John Marston. A complete and utter fool. If you just talked to me-’

‘If I talked to ya then you’d get mad.’ He dropped his gaze again, but she wouldn’t have it.

‘Look at me, John Marston.’ He slowly peeped at her and Abigail snorted, then rolled her eyes. ‘And maybe I would get mad, but only because I think you’re being daft and worrying about shadows! There ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I chose you for a reason, John.’

‘And what reason’s that?’

‘That you love me and I love you.’

‘Simple as that, huh?’ he asked, not quite believing her words, though still feeling his heart flutter in his chest as she told him she loved him.

‘Simple as that.’

‘Don’t you ever worry you made the wrong choice?’

‘What other choice did I have?’ she asked, but before he could open his mouth to protest, she pressed a hand over his lips. ‘I know. I know what you’re thinking. But I never knew or loved… anyone else like I did you.’

He dropped his head again, not wanting to admit there was still a little sour note of jealousy flickering around his chest, not wanting to let his doubts plague him further that perhaps Jack wasn’t his, perhaps he was… Abigail forced him to look at her again. Her fingers deftly stroked his cheek and he couldn’t help but close his eyes and lean into the comforting touch. He felt a sudden ache of yearning, as though he had been away much longer than a few hours. She rested her forehead against his.

‘Stop being a damn fool, Marston. Stop runnin’.’

It took him a while to find his voice before he managed, ‘Alrigh’, I’ll stop runnin’.’

And she kissed him, as though nothing and no one else mattered, as though he was everything to her, as though she knew he would always come back. And he always knew he would.

[devil-in-the-details-ay]

11

“I see that I was able to change your mind on that damn stickler of an issue we had, Mrs. Anthas.” Astaroth had to tease Yara, who lay in his arms now on their bed as they relaxed and just enjoyed spending time together.. His fingers lightly stroked her bare upper arm. Yes, the Fates had definitely blessed him.

“Well, you were very convincing, Mr. Anthas.” Yara lightly chuckled as her head tipped back to kiss the underside of his jaw, his beard tickling her nose. “I can see now that I will always lose in an argument or negotiations. I guess the saying that there is no cheating death is very accurate.” She let out a light laugh as their fingers laced where her hand had been laying on his chest, fingers making small circles over his skin. His seduction earlier had been a little surprising, but she could not deny that she enjoyed the result of it. They were acting like a legitimate married couple and that still confused her some.

“Papilio, I think you know better than that.” His head turned and tipped down to look at her, his lips finding hers for a brief kiss, his smile never fading. “Besides, you only seemed to argue the first time it came up. I just tried to show how enjoyable it could be if you changed your mind. Death can’t be cheated, but he does compromise and convince.” His nose slowly ran along hers when their lips parted, his brilliant hazel eyes never leaving her emerald ones of her as he did. She was truly captivating to him on so many levels, a unique creature in his long life. THere was no doubt that there was more than just a forced marriage going on between them, and he aimed to find out exactly what and why.

“I might have seen the error of my ways.” A soft blush rose to her cheeks as she gazed up at him with something like affection glistening in her eyes. What had the Lord of Death done to her? How could she be falling in love with him? Demons didn’t fall in love did they? “Maybe we both are educating one another on a few things. You are never too old to learn, after all.”

“Count it as many of the wonderful things I intend on showing you, love. It seems you have been denied some very pleasurable things, I must remedy that. I do look forward to seeing what you have in store to teach me.” His arm around her tightened as he felt like his heart was swelling and its rhythm chaning. Something was different about his wife, something that he was going to find out what it was. She was NOT a demon, no matter what she had been told. It was possible that Lucifer was her father, but her mother could not have been a demon, Astaroth knew these things. He had spent time and even enjoyed dalliances with full demons, and he knew that that was like. Yara was unlike anyone he’d engaged with. What a gorgeous and glorious enigma to solve, and it was all his.

“Oh, and what other things do you intend on showing me, Asti?” A pleased smile formed on her lips as she continued to gaze up at him. She wondered what exactly he had in mind. After the past two days, she couldn’t deny she was looking forward to whatever it was because he had already shown her that she didn’t need to fear him or his affections, his love. He was so different from any other male that she’d ever met, and she had met many.

“Now, I can’t tell all my secrets, now can I?” An amused smirk raised the corners of his lips as he looked down at his wife and found the more that he gazed at her, the deeper she seemed to worm into his cold heart. Maybe it wasn’t even so cold anymore now that she was finding her way into it, interesting. Others had tried to enter his life and capture his heart and failed, and yet this female in his arms had done it without trying in the slightest. In fact, she was nervous and timid, afraid of rejection constantly. The beautiful fates certainly had been playing with his tapestry.

“I might be able to give you a few hints, though.” A soft kiss was dropped on the tip of her nose, as his voice became far more smooth. . “Like, what it is like to go up and visit Heaven. It is far more beautiful than down here. *I* am still welcome up there, Death is neither good nor evil, and I’m technically a lesser god. There are also other pantheons we can visit. Death is not just owned by one.” Astaroth couldn’t help but smile thinking of taking her places he doubted she’d ever gone before. The shrines on Olympus, the true temples of Egypt, Valhalla, just to start.

“You said that to father, but I don’t understand. You’re saying the one who created both you and him didn’t kick you out?” Her brows knit together some, what she was understanding from him conflicting everything that she’d ever been told. Her father had been very clear that all in Hell had been once in heaven and were kicked out and no longer welcome. Rebelling had caused God to be enraged and cast them all into Hell to separate them from his Heavenly Realm. There would be no reconciling or second changes, he was firm on that. It made sense that they called him “father” since she knew how her own could be, even if none of them were truly related.

“The Creator only kicked out those who rebelled against him. He has a major thing for following orders, you see. I didn’t rebel, I had no reason to, I didn't want to rule a whole realm and I also was not jealous of mankind. So, I’m still welcome there and on Earth. No angelic forces have ever hunted or attempted to hurt me if I ended up in the same place as one; and now they will not hunt you either. You are well and truly protected, my darling Papilio. I will ensure that nothing ever happens to you.” His hand gently slid down her side to pull her tighter against him. As it did, he had to think that the feel of her skin under his fingertips could become a definite addiction. One more thing about her he found fascinating, never had a female of any kind called to him as his wife did, and he knew it was not simply because of their bonding. What was it about the tiny female?

“But I’m forbidden from going up there because of my father,” she eyed him suspiciously, trying to figure out what he wasn’t telling her. Could what he was saying really be true? Could they really live somewhere other than hell? Yara was almost afraid to hope. She knew she could go to Earth, and had many times; and figured that was where she and her new husband would move to. However, she had never even dreamed of going to Heaven. That had to be strictly forbidden. Didn’t it?

“You are not your father. Add that to the fact that we are now married and bonded. I think you are now allowed, my darling.” There was something deliciously enjoyable about watching the shock settle in over her lovely features. The fact that he was pretty sure that she was only half-demon, if even that, if that, meant that she would have been able to go before. Only those considered who had actually been part of the rebellion were truly forbidden. “Besides, who is your mother?” He really did wonder, and had never heard from anyone.

“I..I don’t know.” She gave a small shrug and looked a little sheepish. “Daddy never told me. Said she dumped me with him and took off . I’ve only ever known my step-mother, and she’s as fond of me as Daddy is. Why?” Yara’s head tipped a little as her brows furrowed seeing that deep “one” line form between her husband’s brows that meant he was thinking about something.

“Because I don’t think you’re a demon, at least not a total one. You have a different feel to you, Papilio. I can’t say for sure what it is, but I know exactly who will. We'll make a visit after our honeymoon.” He grinned, loving that he was going to be able to reveal something to her that she hadn’t known before. This marriage really was going to be an enjoyable adventure.

[vvalengogh]

SPILL THE LORE

ANON I AM SO GLAD YOU ASKED. I AM SITTING YOU DOWN AND SITTING ACROSS FROM YOU.

OKAY SO. the priest dogman: his full name is wolf von bluth, though he insists people just call him “von” rather than his first name. he’s an old demon, a hellhound to be exact, who used to be a human back in the 1850’s and was formerly known as nikolai vasiliev-sovetsky, then. able to shift between both hound and human forms; he terrorizes people in many ways throughout the centuries, his most recent method being that of disguising himself as a priest. he finds religious people to be easier to manipulate, and thus, pushing them to sin and eventual, large scale crimes that leaves the town he’s in in a panic.

authorities are, of course, quick to get on the case and determine there might be a serial killer on the loose but nothing concrete on the killer’s identity because all victims so far appear as if no one had actually killed them. and this is where the second player of the story comes in: having recently gotten his degree in criminology and given an opportunity to work under the wing of a to-be-named detective, kind-hearted but slightly odd oliver jr. wright is tasked with investigation. he’s an upcoming bright man sorta type, and because the elder authorities couldn’t piece together the puzzle thanks to von being a tricky little demon, they figured they needed a fresh pair of eyes and a new mind on the field.

this was both a good thing and a bad thing for everyone involved. while authorities interrogated everyone who knew the murder victims even just a little bit, von was always marked off without real suspicion. oliver, however, felt that something was off about von. his visits to von were professional at first, asking him about the murder victims and von would simply manage worm his way out of concrete suspicion.

regardless, despite still doubting von was entirely 100% innocent he started to turn to him for advice as the pressure to solve the murders built. von offered him shelter, care and affection in the form of friendship.

a fourth victim pops up, and this one’s murder is a little different from the other two. this one is sloppier, and not made to look like someone didn’t kill them. a couple of montbs went by like this, each day starting to feel more stressed and worse. this is where i still need to figure out the details but basically: the last two victims were sloppy murders on purpose. a man was murdered, and some form of evidence left behind that was groundbreaking as prior, there was nothing left behind which upped the weird factor on the cases. the last victim, this husband’s wife, who is murdered roughly a week or so later, is shot outside the bar and the killer is caught on camera.

the killer is indeed oliver: he pulled the trigger, and he is quickly under arrest by the man who was responsible for him. but he swears up and down that he didn’t kill her. the theory they have on him is that he on purpose went into the field of criminology to cover up his crimes, thus the lack of evidence. he is soon looked at for not only the murder of this lady’s husband, but the others that have happened over the last few months.

the truth is: he did commit those last two murders, but the first three were von’s doing. due to the nature of oliver being more gullible and kind hearted, welcoming von into his life, made him more susceptible to his influence: aka possession. von took great interest in oliver, something about him was special in the manner that oliver seemed to crave the approval and kindness of a parental figure and von noticed he seemed to fill that role for him. so, he was able to quite literally pull the wool over his eyes and send him off to do his bidding for a short time.

the only reason he did this was as a means to ostracize him. the other three victims were part of something else entirely; some messy situation von just wanted to stick his nose in. in the end, they played no part to the bigger picture. this lady and her husband were just causalities for von along the way.

well, one thing leads to another, von entirely disappears off oliver radar for that time while he’s preoccupied trying to prove his innocence despite the fact that his gun was connected to the bullet that killed the lady. the detective who was watching over him wants to believe he didn’t do it, that there’s something else afoot here, and brings him back to the agency against all better judgement so he can try and look at evidence to build a case. no matter how illegal that was, he wanted to try and see what was up.

one thing leads to another and oliver blacks out; it’s like a dream, where von talks to him and reveals to him all of what’s gone up until now. and when he wakes up, the building is on fire, his boss is dead, and von is cradling his dying, broken body.

“there is only one way i can save you, oliver,” von tells him. “god doesn’t care if you die, but i do, so here i offer you survival under one condition.”

“that is?” oliver weakly responds.

“you are to be bound to me for the rest of time,” he explains. “you will have freedom, but you will work for me. simply do as i say; and you will be just fine.”

and oliver is far too disoriented to really think about that. he’d rather be dead than help the man who ruined his life; but in the embrace of someone who seemingly cares for his well being, he agrees, and essentially sells his soul to von.

and that’s that; oliver disappears from the public and he’s framed as a serial killer. von remains within the public eye, completely free of his crimes. oliver lives with him, does von’s bidding as his proxy. basically, he either kills or finds people for von sorta deal. tracks them down, all that fun stuff.

the two of them overall very much hate each other but oliver has this dependent nature on von. again, he sought for someone’s approval and he found it in von and that costed him literally everything. von, surprisingly, does care a little bit for oliver. they would still very much kill each other if they could tho ❤️

[willowser]

not to embarass you or nuffin, but I want to hear more about Kiri and babies

this man wants like....six kids. and it's not even like he knew that in high school or growing up !! but he had one and then he wanted another and then he just loves being a dad and having a little one and creating something that is both you and him and 🥺🥺🥺 ajdhwidhaka and he's just like ".......c'mon, we can have one more 🥺 don't you want another little bub? 🥺" AND OF COURSE YOU DO AJDHWJSHS

and girl dad kiri !!! 🥺🥺🥺 no doubt about it, always has sparkly nail polish. always havin' tea parties. wearing a tutu. goes to dance recitals or school plays or basketball games and he's. he's the largest man in the crowd LMAO most noticeable in his hero costume but he stands up when he claps for his little girl !! does the whistle with his fingers !! brings flowers and puts them in her hair and his, so they're matching 🥺🥺🥺 and when she's a little teeny baby, he puts her in little pink riot onesies !! and let's her gnaw his thumb as she's teething and gives her a little pea sprout pony tail on top of her head 🥺🥺 blows raspberries into her chubby cheeks until she laughs 🥺 squishes her chunky little thighs 🥺

boy dad kiri is — the doctor talks about skin to skin bonding in the hospital when your son is born and the man never wears his shirt again. kid is like six and kiri still is shirtless all the time, and then your son is too ofc. and you just got your boys running around the lawn, in shorts only, in the summer and the water sprinkler is on and they're supposed to be gardening, but it's turned into playing in the dirt and finding worms and kiri shows your son how to be soft with them, gentle cause of their little bodies and they put them in the cool dirt in the shade, where it's wet 🥺 and they watch cartoons on saturday mornings and eat cereal and when they pass out on the couch after lunchtime, they look just the same LOL head back, eyes closed, mouth wide open. and then if you're out somewhere, kiri will look over at him when your son is squirming and ask "you gotta go potty?" and they hold hands all the way to the men's room and he holds him up so he can wash his hands 🥺 and i bet your son wants to dress just like him, at all times !!

and in everything he does, he thanks his wife and kids. goes to work to make the world a better place for them. pictures of them everywhere, probably always talks about them and tells stories about them like "you would not believe what the little guy said to me the other day" and then goes on a 20 minute tangent that somehow is just a play-by-play of his day off at home. bc he just wants to talk about them. and even if you and him get a weekend away, things are quieting down for the night and you two are in bed and he's all 🥺 i miss the babies 🥺 and when yall get home he just wants to !! have his little family together 🥺🥺🥺

[haljathefangirlcat]

do you have any songs that remind you of kriemhild?

Anon, you're asking me this at a time when I'm working on a Music Inspired By The Nibelungensage That Is Not By Wagner post in my drafts... I must admit, I just love the coincidence/fate/however you wanna call it of it all. :D

That said, talking about songs that aren't about Kriemhild but remind me of her:

Song Of The Storm by Émilie Simon. Quintessential Vindictive Mythological/Legendary Lady Song, if you ask me, but something in Émilie's voice makes me think especially of Kriemhild... somehow, she sounds to me both so young and like she has years of pent-up bitterness and hatred she's barely holding onto before she can finally let them loose at just the right time, which is a vibe I think goes well with her character even after her second wedding -- you could imagine her perpetually stuck in the moment when she realized she had lost Siegfried forever, and why. Also, I absolutely adore the line "I hope you're satisfied/To see the wind blow over me," which she could easily think about Hagen, or Gunther, or Brunhild, or Gernot and Giselher and whoever else in the court of Worms she might suspect to have been in the know of what would happen during the hunt yet told her nothing.

Tu vas le payer from the La légende du Roi Arthur musical. (Showcase version picked here exclusively because I find it so much fun.) In context, sung by Morgan as she plots the fall of Camelot and of her half-brother, Arthur. In my deranged internal ramblings, wonderfully easy to associate with Kriemhild refusing her family's attempts to make amends after Siegfried's death ("I had never stopped believing in you/But tonight your words are really not ringing true") and deciding in her heart that no, she can never never forget, and no, she will never forgive ("You can beg/Deny all/Your hands are tied/You are going to reap/What you have sown"). It could even go well with her accepting Etzel's marriage proposal because she understands what she could do with his army. I like that there's also a softness to it, made up of sadness and doubt, in between all the anger ("Heal me of you/Heal me of my pain/Heal me of your words") that could even be made into a try at convincing herself that "if they would just hand Hagen over to me, I could let them live" ("When I balanced between love and hate/Ready to restart everything from zero"). Also, I like that it's as close as I'll probably ever get to listening to an European rock opera type musical about the Nibelungenlied that's actually available to watch online and with subs, too, lol.

Forever Yours by Nightwish. I don't really think I need to explain this choice, it should be enough to listen to the lyrics. A calmer, quieter, utterly melancholy piece for a moment of solitary mourning in between all the scheming and death. "My time is yet to come/So I'll be forever yours"... besides the obvious association, it reminds me of a line said by Etzel after Kriemhild's death in Lang's Kriemhilds Rache, which I unfortunately don't remember by heart but I think sounded something like "She was never my wife. She was only ever Siegfried's."

... and I thiiiink that's everything, at least as of right now.

But as a little bonus, here's also a song that reminds me of Sigurd and Gudrun/Siegfried and Gutrune: Herr Olof by Garmarna, based on a Medieval Swedish Ballad involving a man, a siren, and an apparently harmless drink.

Thank you for this question, btw!! It's always a pleasure to get one on a topic like this.

[iam93percentstardust]

here again to drop another prompt. pls write a stevetony fic featuring the winning combo of clingy + touchy feely/cuddly + jealous + possessive steve. steve just likes to touch and be close to tony all the time. tony is steve's and steve's only. you know??? that type of stuff. it would make me a very happy bean. thank u. u r the best bean. also, i forgot to say it before, but as usual all my prompts come with the request of: please only write them if you want to. thank u. love u, best bean.

I didn't quite get the clingy + touchy/feely but I definitely got the jealous + possessive Steve part. Anyway, featuring some dark Steve and Tony: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41977752

~

There’s a boy dancing in Steve’s club.

He catches Steve’s eye immediately—how could he miss him with that golden glitter dusting his cheeks and arms and bare stomach catching the light? He’s pretty, the boy is, long legs and sex-tousled hair and plush ass that Steve wants to grab. He glances up at the upper floor, where Steve holds court when he’s here, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across his red, red lips, eyes gleaming with interest and an invitation both. Steve shifts, spreading his legs further apart so the boy can catch a glimpse, limited as it is from the floor, of the bulge in his black slacks.

The boy’s mouth parts, and he runs his hands up his stomach and over his chest, ending at his nipples, and Steve just knows that he’s plucking at the metal rings in them—pure gold, of course. Steve wouldn’t buy anything less for the boy—his boy.

Steve would walk barefoot into hell for his boy, and he’d take pleasure in doing so.

“Pretty slut,” he mouths. The boy’s eyes close, head dropping back and hips stuttering as he moans. Steve longs to touch, to claim, to fuck, and his hand flexes on his pants, feeling the empty weight on his lap like a physical thing.

“I’m sorry? I didn’t quite catch that, Mr. Ro—Mr. Rogers.”

Steve bites back a snarl as he turns back to the sniveling, cowardly worm of a man sitting in front of him. It’s bad enough that his evening was interrupted by this idiot, and now he’s continuing to bother him instead of getting the hint. Still, it’s amusing the way he stumbles over Steve’s name. It must be disconcerting—the name of someone so soft belonging now to New York’s most powerful crime boss.

“It wasn’t meant for you,” he says, feigning a lightness he doesn’t feel. He sits forward and plucks his whiskey off the table, admiring the way it looks just like his boy’s eyes. Now, tell me again, Mr. Grant, why did my lieutenant catch you skimming off the top of our business? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

 “No—no!” Grant says, eyes darting nervously from Steve to Bucky looming behind him. He had been an early hire of Steve’s, when he’d thought that Grant’s cowardice would keep him from stealing money—would keep him loyal. Clearly, that had been a mistake, one that Steve won’t make again.

“It’s just that it’s my family, see,” Grant babbles, and Steve lets his gaze drift away. Family—an excuse he’s heard so many times before, and one that might have even worked on him—family is so very important, after all—if he hadn’t known that Grant was lying. Steve keeps tabs on all of his employees. Grant hasn’t had a family since his wife walked out fifteen years earlier, only months after their nuptials.

His boy is still dancing, hips swaying sensually to the music, his tiny shorts riding up even further, but he’s not dancing alone anymore. His arms are wrapped around the neck of some guy—big and buff and broad—who’s pressed up behind him, no doubt grinding his hard cock into his boy’s—Steve’s boy—ass. Jealousy rips through him like a wildfire, his hand clenching down so hard on the leather armrest of his chair that it creaks under the strain. As he watches, his boy looks back up at him, a knowing little smile on his pretty face. He slides one of his hands back down his chest to cup the front of his shorts, squeezing.

When Steve manages to drag his attention back up to his face, fury coursing through him at the way his boy is letting someone else touch him, the boy just smiles, challenge written in every line of his body, and mouths, “Come and claim me.”

And then he turns around and kisses the man he’s dancing with, hand clenching in the man’s hair.

Steve surges to his feet. No one—no one—taunts him like that and gets away with it, not even his pretty little slut that Steve would—and has—killed for.

“Mr. Rogers?” Grant squeaks, and Steve is too furious to even pretend like he’s entertaining the thought of forgiving Grant.

He levels Bucky with a glare. “You know what to do with him,” he growls, and Bucky grins back, merry and cruel.

“But, sir!” Grant protests, falling from the couch and to his knees. “My family! You—”

“You have none,” Steve snaps, his fury drawing the attention of every other VIP in the lounge. Good. Let them be reminded of what happens when Steve Rogers is crossed. “You’re a pathetic liar who thought he could get away with taking what doesn’t belong to him.”

And the man below—he’s just as pathetic for thinking he can touch what doesn’t belong to him. He’ll be lucky if he even leaves the club alive tonight after Steve is through with him.

He stalks down the stairs, ignoring the struggle behind him as Grant tries to escape and Bucky catches up to him easily. The clubgoers fall silent, parting before him as they watch him with uneasy eyes and shuffling feet, hoping that he’ll pass them by. None of them even register on his radar tonight though. His attention is fixed on the two dancing men.

He doesn’t know if his boy senses him or not—it wouldn’t surprise him to find out that he had; they’ve always had a sixth sense for each other. But whether it’s Steve presence or the hush of the crowd, his boy somehow knows to turn around, smiling bright and vicious at him as he hooks his hands behind the man’s neck again, grinding back onto him.

Tony Stark has always known exactly how to push his buttons.

Growling, Steve steps forward to do exactly what Tony had challenged him to do: lay claim to him, remind him whose bed he returns to, who he belongs to.

Finally, the other man’s eyes open, going terror stricken as he realizes just who he’s been dancing with, whose ass he’s been rubbing his cock all over. “Mr. Rogers,” he stammers out, hands dropping from Tony’s hips like they’ve been burned. He takes several steps away from the two of them—or he tries to, at least, before the press of the crowd pushes him back. “I—I didn’t know, sir—I’m sorry—please, let me—”

He turns and runs, shoving through the crowd. Steve lets him go. Natasha will catch up to him before he’s gotten more than a block from the club. He has his eyes on a different prize.

He steps forward, fitting his hands into the spaces where the man’s hands had been on Tony’s hips, thumbs rubbing into the little divots. Steve’s hands fit there like they were made to belong there, like two puzzle pieces reuniting. His fingers tingle where they rest against Tony’s bare skin, pulse beating out a tune to the sound of Tony’s name. His knee slides between Tony’s legs, urging him up to sit on his thigh, pulling him in so close he doubts a piece of paper could fit between them. The crowd around them slowly dissipates as they realize that Steve isn’t going to get violent, not here where everyone can see them. He’ll rip the unnamed man apart later, when he can show him just how little hope he had with Tony in comparison to Steve.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you, you little slut?” he breathes, exhaling the words against Tony’s ear. Tony’s breath hitches at the name, hands coming around to clutch at Steve’s back. Steve runs his nose along the line of Tony’s neck, rocking Tony against his thigh. Tony’s cock is a hard line through his thin shorts, pressing against Steve’s leg.

When Tony doesn’t immediately answer, he bites down on the tendon and then repeats, “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Tony moans shamelessly, rubbing himself against Steve.

He’s going to get his pretty baby boy off in the middle of this club, he knows that already, people watching them furtively out of the corners of their eyes. He’s not even going to feel ashamed about it. This is his club and his boy, and Steve rules here. He can do whatever he wants, and if that means bringing Tony off against his leg, then that’s what he’ll do.

“What did he do, baby?”

“He was looking at you,” Tony says darkly, hips rolling against Steve’s.

Steve slides one of his hands around to Tony’s back, sliding it over his ass to press his fingers against his hole through the fabric of his shorts. Even with the fabric between them, he can feel how loose and open Tony feels from how hard Steve had fucked him before they came here. Tony keens, caught between the pressure on his dick and Steve’s fingers rubbing against his rim.

“Baby boy, I think he was looking at you,” Steve murmurs, sucking a bruise into Tony’s throat. It’ll be too high to cover with his shirt tomorrow, especially not the big sweatshirts Tony likes to wear. He’ll have to wear a scarf or let everyone in his classes know that he’s claimed.

Tony whines and tilts his head, giving Steve better access. “Not today,” he gasps, sliding his hands up Steve’s back to fist in his hair. “When you went to pick me up last week after class. I saw him looking.”

Steve pulls back to brush a feather-soft kiss across Tony’s lips, at odds with the punishing pace he’s setting between Tony’s legs. Tony melts into him, as enamored of being held as Steve is of holding him.

“So you lured him here,” he states.

“You’re mine, Daddy,” Tony growls, as fierce as Steve had been only minutes earlier. “He shouldn’t even look.”

Steve kisses him again, harder, sliding his tongue into Tony’s mouth to meet his. Tony moans and opens his mouth wider, letting Steve in. Steve adores him, can hardly believe that he gets to touch, to hold, to kiss, this beautiful, vicious boy. He licks into every corner of Tony’s mouth, chasing away the taste of the dead man.

“Do you want him to watch?” he murmurs when he pulls away, lips brushing against Tony’s with every word. They’re very red, he notices idly, bruised and swollen, and it makes Steve furious that he doesn’t know if that’s because of his kiss or the other man’s.

“Do you want me to tie him to a chair and make him watch while I fuck you open?” he continues. “Show him that he can’t touch either one of us before I put a bullet in his head?”

“Fuck, Steve,” Tony gasps. He’s getting close, Steve can feel it in the desperate motion of his hips. He pushes his fingers into Tony’s hole. Tony is hot, even through the fabric, and Steve groans, pulling him into another kiss.

“I could,” he says, reluctantly pulling his head away to make eye contact with Natasha, who’s escorting Tony’s date, gagged and bound, into the back halls. She nods once and forces him into the hall, disappearing a moment later. Steve tucks his face back into the curve of Tony’s neck, the siren call of his touch too great to resist. “I don’t want to share you, baby, but I’d show him what he thought he could get his hands on if you wanted it.”

Tony buries his face in Steve’s leather jacket, muffling his cry as he comes. Wet warmth spreads across the thin fabric of his shorts, staining both them and Steve’s pants. Tony’s hips continue to hitch against Steve’s, his probably oversensitive cock dragging against his leg. He’s making small, whimpering sounds into Steve’s shoulder.

“Shh, pretty slut,” Steve soothes, pulling his fingers away from Tony’s hole to rub his back. “You were so good for me, baby, so good coming in front of all these people.”

“I don’t want him to see,” Tony says, drawing Steve’s mind back to his earlier question. “I want you to kill him and then I want you to come back to me, but I don’t want him to watch us. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, already thinking about how he’s gonna bundle Tony out of the club and into their apartment without anyone looking at the spend dripping down his legs. He knows that Tony doesn’t mind people watching them play like this in the club, but afterwards, when he’s coming back down, he gets shy. It’s one of the things Steve loves most about him, along with the way he never minds when Steve wants to cuddle him for hours whenever they get the chance.

He shrugs his jacket off, draping it across Tony’s shoulders. Tony still has another growth spurt—probably—but for now he’s small enough that the jacket drapes down around his softening cock, shielding him from anyone looking.

“Come on, pretty baby,” Steve murmurs. “Let’s get you home.” Home, where he can lay Tony out and bring him to another screaming orgasm and then let him sleep as he comes back to take care of the scum who dared to lay hands on what belongs to him.

Sounds like a perfect way to spend the evening.

[neapenning]

Hey! I see that you're a Spy Family Fan and i wanted to ask what you think would happen,

If Yor asked the age old question "Would you still love me if I was a worm" to Loid. How would he react?

This is probably a question better suited for a fic writer, but here's my take.

I feel like Yor isn't the type to ask this kind of question in earnest. She only seems to seek verbal validation when it comes to hiding her job, and not when interacting with her family. The words that stay with her are those that are relatively unprompted, so I doubt she would ask him such a question so directly.

However, I do think that (with a little bit of confidence) she would be a good tease, so she would use this power to fuck with her husband.

Completely unable to suppress his overly realist nature while also pacifying his lovely wife who he is absolutely whipped for, he would say something like, "no. Because if you were a worm your whole life, we wouldn't have met. And if you were to turn into a worm in the future, then still no. I wouldn't let that happen to you."

And Yor, thoroughly entertained by this, would go, "oh, so you would stop loving if I turned into a worm?"

And he would say, "I would love you regardless, but you would not be a worm. I wouldn't let anyone turn you into a worm."

And then they would have a discussion about the possible ways Yor might be turned into a worm, and Loid would insist he could thwart any worm-turning plot with the confidence of a modern man convinced that he could safely land a plane in an emergency.

That is assuming you meant this as a post- relationship conversation. As a pre-relationship conversation, Yor would say it in a drunken stupor and Loid's brain would shut off at the mention of "love", rendering him totally speechless, to which Yor would start crying and Loid would start panicking because his wife is sobbing in a very public bar because of him. Loid would scramble to assure her that he would so that she would be pacified enough to return home with him and Yor would forget anything happened by morning. Loid would spend the next week trying to silently decipher the motivations behind her question, completely ignoring the implication that his wife might like him back.

[jaded-but-queer]

Here is part of the rewrite where I describe where the mane six currently is in life when Screwball is about two years old

As well as a completely separate scene describing the “disappointing” birth of Mothball

Obviously these are going to be tweaked much more in the final draft but here’s a sneak peek of my interpretation of this story ✨

Scene 1

It had been a bit over two years since everything happened, and Fluttershy knew it was not the most… conventional of situations. Especially since it resulted in her marrying the literal embodiment of chaos and disharmony, of course being ironic with her being a part of the Mane Six of Equestria. However, love knows no bounds and they were the living embodiment of it; and Fluttershy honestly could not be happier. She had been able to settle down and feel content with her husband, and most of her friends had been able to enjoy the same luxury.

Rarity had finally agreed to move in with Applejack after being convinced that her wife could not stand the idea of being apart from her family’s farm for longer than what she deemed necessary; but it was the way Applejack had phrased it that eventually persuaded Rarity to accept it: “I was born and raised on that farm, and I will proudly die on that farm just like my ma and pa did”. They’ve apparently adopted two darling little foals, of their own, just a few days ago, and Fluttershy was still debating what she should give them as a welcome present.

Twilight Sparkle claimed that she was in a “long-distance” relationship and did not give much context beyond that, and Rainbow Dash was currently single and perfectly okay with that–turns out her and Soarin did not last long-term but they kept things cordial due to the twins they had a few years ago. Fluttershy did suspect that Rainbow might have been seeing someone on the downlow but was considerate enough not to pry, besides her friend will no doubt shout to the rooftops about her newest partner once she was ready to do so.

And last but certainly not least, Pinkie Pie had ended up marrying her fellow party pony Cheese Sandwich in a surprise shotgun wedding just one month after Fluttershy got hitched. Although it came as a shock to no pony when they ended up having three more foals afterwards, and it was a miracle to every pony that they were all either quiet or shy in comparison to their rambunctious parents.

Scene 2

Chrysalis sighed as she stared blankly from across the cramped nursery at the wiggling and chirping grub that had finally hatched out of its egg, appearing to be a carbon copy of her when she was that age. However, something told her it wasn’t what she had hoped and prayed to their ancestors for.

While she knew it had not been confirmed yet, she already had a bad feeling from the moment the egg began to slowly hatch just thirty minutes prior.

She decided to forgo informing her husband of the news, not being in the mood to watch him shoot dirty looks every five seconds at General Mantis as he sat by her side.

Something they have learned over the years was how to immediately identify the sex of a royal hatchling, and it was quite a simple procedure that could be done in just a few minutes: comparing the weight and looking at how colorful the patterns on its worm-like body are.

And judging by the lack of celebration from one of the nurse Changelings checking it, Chrysalis’s suspicions were finally confirmed.

As she glanced around at the extravagant gifts given to her by officials and family members, she was again reminded of one clear fact: they had been expecting a girl to hatch out of that egg, not the puny male that was chirping desperately for love and affection to feed it.

“Just my luck,” she bitterly murmured to herself, “yet another son; as if I am being endlessly punished by my late mother for my failures.”

The hatchling was staring blankly at her, as if expecting for her to come cradle him like a doting mother but, how could she when she was so utterly displeased with this outcome.

She already had one single daughter, and that was her treasured and idolized daughter, Vespula, the beloved Crown Princess of the Changeling Empire.

[curiositymemes]

1776 SENTENCE STARTERS : PART TWO.

taken from the 1972 film adaptation of the 1969 broadway musical. feel free to change wording and pronouns and provide context as necessary. do not add to this list.    

“damn the man/woman/person.” / “god damn the man/woman/person.” 

“what is that racket?” / “latest thing from europe, ___. it’s called music.”

“well, you’ve had a whole week, man. is it done?”

“disgusting.”

“well, cheer up, ___. get out of the dumps. it’ll come out all right, i assure you.” 

“now, get back to work.”

“hello! and whose little girl/boy/child are you?”

“what makes you think so?”

“she/he/they is your wife/husband/partner, isn’t she/he/they?” / “well of course, she/he/they is. look at the way they fit.”

“come along, ___.”

“you don’t mean to say that…”

“i mean, they’re not going to…” / “in the middle of the afternoon?” 

“incredible!”

“i’m very lonely, ___.” 

“oh, now, don’t be unreasonable, ___.”

“oh, they were fondly intended!”

“well, now there you have me, ___.”

“please. come to ___. please come.” 

“I thank you for that.”

“___, how goes it with you?”

“do you still smell of vanilla and spring air?” 

“what was there, ___, still is there, ___.”

“i’ve forgotten the feel of your hand.”

“til then, ‘til then.”

“go ahead.” / “me?” / “your voice is more piercing.” 

“good morrow, ___, good morrow!”

“is it the habit in ___ to shout at ladies/gentlemen/people from the street?” / “and for men/women/people of your age, it is not only unseemly, it is unsightly!” 

“please! i know your name(s) very well, but…”

“it’s of no matter. your thoughts were well-taken elsewhere.”

“well, then shall we start over again?”

“won’t you join us?” 

“i feel an absolute fool.”

“well, what will people think?”

“___ did this, and ___ did that, and ___ did some other damned thing.” 

“tell us about yourself. we’ve heard precious little.”

“oh, ___, you can dance!”

“___, i want you to see some cards i’ve had printed up.”

“ought to save everybody here a lot of time and effort.” 

“dear sir/madam/per, you are, without any doubt, a rogue, a rascal, a villain, a thief, a scoundrel, and a mean, dirty, stinking, sniveling, sneaking, pimping, pocket-picking, thrice double-damned no-good son of a bitch.” 

“what do you think?” / “i’ll take a dozen right now.”

“all right, ___, enough socializing. there’s work to be done.” 

“he/she/they never complained, but i could see the poor man/woman/thing was suffering terrible.” 

“one foot in front of the other!”

“i’ll take a crack at old vacant-face.” 

“how in hell did you ever make a decision?”

“you clot!”

“you come into this world screaming ‘no’ and you’re determined to leave it the same way, you slimy worm!”

“the whole world is waiting!”

“leave me alone, ___, you’re wasting your time!” 

“that man/woman/person would depress a hyena.”

“why not ask them yourself? they ought to be here any minute.”

“would you or wouldn’t you?”

“___, are you mad?”

“it sounds lively as hell up there.” 

“like hell i am.”

“what for?”

“do you see what i see?”

“the sun is in the sky, a breeze is blowing by.”

“why should we risk losing?”

“you don’t even like him/her/them.” / “that is true, he/she/they annoys me quite a lot.” 

“why? for personal glory? for a place in history?”

“most men/women/people with nothing would rather protect the possibility of becoming rich than face the reality of being poor.”

“that is why they will follow us.”

“how’d you like to try and borrow a dollar from one of them?”

“here, son/sweetie/kid. there you go.” 

“it’s too damn hot to work.”

“what’s it like out there?” / “you probably know more than me.”

“this is the last place to find out what’s going on.”

“what’s that got to do with it?”

“now, where’s that?”

“come looking for me.”

“by the red maple tree.”

“is that you i’m hearing?”

“it was a slaughter. a slaughter!”

“how far have they gotten?”

“nothing to fear.”

“it’s a masterpiece.”

“i wish i felt that way.” 

“if i was ever sure of anything, i’m sure of that.” 

“now, surely this was an oversight.”

“i had hoped that the work would speak for itself.”

“this is a revolution, damn it! we’re going to have to offend somebody!” 

“you’ll give yourself an attack of apoplexy if you’re not careful.”

“have you heard?” / “i heard.”

“courage, ___.”

“it won’t last much longer.”

“these are dangerous times.”

“be careful, ___.”

“we might as well say so.”

“i can’t quite make out what it is you’re talking about.”

“why didn’t you say so?”

“economy. always economy.”

“there’s more to this than a filthy purse string, ___.”

“it’s an offense against man and god/nature.”

“for the love of god, ___, please.”

“you’ll have to forgive them, ___.”

“we’re wasting time.”

“what good will it do?”

“if there’s anything i can do for you there, let me know.”

“we have no choice, ___.”

“___, what are you saying?”

“you forget yourself, sir/madam/per.”

“what’s happened to me?”

“___, what am i going to do?”

“you don’t usually ask my advice.” / “yes, well, there doesn’t appear to be anyone else right now.” 

“what is it?”

“oh, ___. has it been any kind of a life for you?” / “i never asked for more.”

“well, i have always been dissatisfied, i know that. but lately, i find that i reek of discontentment.”

“it fills my throat and it floods my brain.”

“sometimes i fear there is no longer a dream, only the discontentment.” 

“can you really know so little about yourself?”

“have you forgotten what you used to say to me? i haven’t.”

“commitment, ___. commitment.”

“do you remember?” / “yes, i remember.”

“all for you, ___.”

“didn’t you hear a word i said before?” / “oh, never mind about that.”

“now, here’s what i want you to do.” / “___, i’m not even speaking to you.” 

“you know where i stand.”

“i’ll do whatever you say.”

“is anybody there?”

“does anybody care?”

“i’m sorry if i startled you.”

“i couldn’t sleep.”

“you must believe that i will do what i promised to do.”

“what is it you want, ___?” 

“what else is there to do?”

“little good may it do you.”

“the question is clear.” / “most questions are clear when someone else has to decide them.” 

“___, you’re keeping everybody waiting.”

“i just didn’t bargain for that.” 

“goodbye, ___.”

“i happen to be a harvard graduate, __.”

“and how it shall end, god only/who knows.”

“all right, step right up.”

“don’t miss your chance to commit treason.”

“to hell with ___.”