#dia's diner

[menagerofmischief]

Hello, idk if you are comfortable writing for dom!female reader, if not you can just leave that one out :)

Server: Franco Colapinto

Starter: hummus nachos

Hot appetizer

Mains: carbonara

Drinks: espresso (dom!reader)

Pumpkin spice latte

Dessert: Yes

Favorite track: monza

Dia's Diner Menu

hummus nachos teammates hot appetizer sweet sex carbonara "Look so good on my cock" espresso dom/sub (dom!reader) pumpkin spice latte losing virginity (virgin!Franco) dessert aftercare + mint tea body worship (on the house)

Franco Colapinto x Williams!driver!reader

TW: unprotected sex (don't do it tho), dom!reader, cowgirl

WC: 1.4k

A/N: I haven't written anything in a while so this may actually be shit. Also, not BETA'D, we die like Logan's F1 career.

It all started rather simply, really. A bunch of people from the grid went out clubbing to celebrate the end of the race and the three week break that was going to follow it. The club was full of people, music loudly blasting from the speakers. 

One drink after another and one thing leading up to the next, I ended up dancing with Franco. He was the newest addition to my team, two races in after he replaced Logan mid season, Franco was turning up to be a rather good driver. 

We’ve been friendly right from the start, possibly more than friendly if you counted all those light touches and consonant flirting. It was safe to say we were being much more than friendly right now as my hips were grinding against his while his face was hidden in the crook of my neck, lips gently sucking on the skin there.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I barely managed to ask, the heat around us and his lips on my neck making it hard to find my voice and speak up.

“Yes,” he breathed out, hands gripping my waist. “Please.”

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺

We barely made it to my hotel room, stopping our exploring touches and pulling away once the elevator doors slid open and rushing to open the door and get inside. 

As soon as I closed the door I was back to lightly touching Franco, leaning my body into his and kissing him deeply, feeling his tongue run against my own.

“God, you’re so pretty.” I said, pulling away from him to get a good look. His hair was messed up, cheeks flushed red and eyes half closed. 

He let out a breathless laugh, smiling at me before diving back down into another kiss. “Please,” he all but whined, hands tugging at the bottom of my dress.

“Please what?” I asked, lips brushing against his with every word spoken. “You need to use your words to tell me what you want, pretty boy.”

“Want you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Need you. Need to feel you, please”

“There we go,” I said, a smile playing on my lips while my fingers were quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt. Once the last button was popped open Franco wasted no time in shrugging his shirt off, leaving his upper body bare.

“Fuck,” my hands moved on their own, first palms flat against his chest, his stomach and muscles and then moving to explore every inch of his skin I could. 

“Never done this before . . . Feels good, fuck.” He said under his breath but I caught every word, my movement instantly stopping while I stared at him. His eyes opened wide, pupils blown as he realized what he said and panic became noticeable on his face.

“You’re a virgin?”

I went to pull my hand away but he grabbed my wrist before I could and returned it to his chest. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I’m not entirely inexperienced I promise! I know how to pleasure you, please let me…”

“No sweetheart it’s not that.” I lifted one hand up to cup his cheek, offering him a comforting smile which seemed to ease his nerved just a bit. “It’s just . . . are you sure you want to do this? With me? Now?”

“Yeah, yes - I’m sure, I’ve never been more sure of anything.” 

“Okay,” I whispered, watching as his shoulders relaxed. “Let’s get these off then.” I touched the waistband of his jeans and Franco eagerly nodded, reaching to open his jeans but I moved his hands aside and did it myself.

I kneeled down, hearing Franco’s breath hitch, his eyes focused on me. I pulled his jeans down, leaning to place a kiss on each of his thighs. “You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen,” I told him, stroking the skin of his thigh before reaching to pull down his boxers as well. “With the prettiest dick too.”

I placed a kiss on the tip of his cock causing Franco to moan. One of his hands went into my hair, grabbing a fist full and gently pulling me back. I looked up at him through my eyelashes and saw the look of desperation on his face. 

“I’d love that, really would,” he rambled, his fingers easing in my hair making sure not to pull any out. “But I need to feel you around me, please. Wanna be in you, please, please!”

“Come on, let’s get on the bed,” I said, pulling off my dress while Franco eagerly scrambled to sit on the bed, pushing himself up towards the headboard. I took my panties off as well, leaving myself in my bra only and made my way to join Franco on the bed.

I crawled up the bed until I was straddling Franco, the tip of his cock barely rubbing against my clit causing me to take a few breaths. “Gonna let me ride you, baby?” 

Franco moaned when I slid my pussy against the length of his dick, his hands coming up to grip my waist for support. “Yes,” he whispered, voice thick with desire and need. “Ride me. Use me for your pleasure.”

I wasted no time, reaching a hand between our bodies to grab his dick and position the tip at my already slick entrance. I slowly sunk down on his, hissing at the initial stretch and the burn of getting used to his size.

After a few seconds I began moving, lifting up my hips a few inches and pushing them back down again, making both of us moan. Franco’s hands slipped from my waist to the back of my thighs, he gripped them hard enough for me to know they were going to bruise tomorrow, and began helping me bounce on his cock.

“Fuck,” Franco grunted, face scrunched up in please. “Look so good on my cock. Feel amazing too. So much better than I imagined.”

“Yeah?” I asked, with a breathless laugh. “Imagined me bouncing on your dick, using you to get my fill. Did you touch yourself while thinking about what I would sound like with your dick in my pussy?”

Franco whined. I could tell he was getting close by the way his cock twitched inside of me. He let go of my thighs, one hand wrapping around me and pulling me closer to his chest while the other sneaked between us to rub on my clit.

My body felt like it was on fire, every nerve light up with his touch. It felt good, all of it felt so good. His dick sliding in and out of me, hitting my sensitive spots with every movement, his tip kissing against my cervix from how deep he was and his fingers desperately rubbing circled on my clit.

I came with a loud moan, Franco following right behind, his orgasm triggered by mine. He put his face in my neck, muffling the sound of his moans as he came.

We both stopped moving for a few moments, taking deep breaths and allowing ourselves to ride down the high. Then I slowly lifted myself of him, his now softening dick slipping out of me. He looked so blissed out I couldn’t help myself but lean to kiss him.

“Where are you going?” He asked me as I slipped out of the bed. His hand reaching towards me, a lazy smile on his lips as he wiggled his fingers.

“To the toilet real quick, then I’ll be right back.” True to my word, I went to the toilet quickly, using a warm towel to wipe his cum from my pussy. I returned back to bed with two bottles of water and a box of Oreo’s. 

I passed one bottle to Franco while I settled up next to him, placing a kiss on his cheek before leaning my head on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around me. “That was … “

“Amazing?”

“Yeah, amazing sound about right.”

Silence filled the room for a few moment before Franco spoke up. “This wasn’t really a one time thing for me. I like you, a lot.”

I smiled, “I like you too. A lot.” I took his free hand in mine, intertwining our fingers together. “But we can talk about it more in the morning. Right now let’s just cuddle.” 

Franco chuckled, “Let’s cuddle,” he agreed.

[satureja13]

Of course I forgot to take ingame photos at the Diner de los Muertos -.- So I asked Barfolomew to take them at the Space Bar. This is the end of the Diner de los Muertos chapter.

From the Beginning    ~     Underwater Love    ~  Latest

[zeciex]

The Vow of Blood - 85

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 85: The Red Dress

AO3 - Masterlist

In the grandeur of the throne room, wine poured freely and indulgently. 

Aemond presided over the festivities from the high table, his steely gaze watching the commotion with cold indifference. Tables had been meticulously arranged between the towering columns, each laden with a sumptuous array of dishes. The offerings included succulent dire boar, whole roasted pigs, tender oxen, and an array of birds, each accompanied with its own sauce. Alongside these meats were platters of steamed and roasted vegetables, and a rich selection of fruits, nuts, and berries. The heavy scent of the meat permeated the air, rich and overpowering, almost overwhelming the senses. The kitchens would have toiled ceaselessly, preparing the banquet, and it seemed Aegon had spared no expense.  

Perched prominently on the dias before the throne, the King’s table was a spectacle of lavishness, set apart in both stature and decoration. From his elevated position, Aemond observed the revelry below with a detached air. His brother had already abandoned the formality of their royal seating, mingling among friends with a wine goblet casually in hand, his laughter echoing through the hall. 

Aemond, however, remained seated, solitary at the expansive table. He gazed out over the dancers and the diners with an expression of utter disinterest. While the ostensible purpose of the feast might have been to honor him, Aemond was all too aware of his brother’s motives–it was an excuse cloaked in celebration, a veneer of honor that  thinly masked an indulgence in excess. The joy and revelry that animated the faces of the other guests seemed to him a stark contrast to the cool, calculated thoughts that swirled silently in his own mind. 

Turning his attention from the boisterous crowd, Aemond’s gaze climbed the imposing columns where the stern faces of past kings seemed to pass judgment on the festivities below. His eye settled on the visage of Aenys Targaryen, the eldest son of Aegon the conqueror and his successor. Aenys I had been a king as fragile in rule as he was in constitution, his reign notably brief and tumultuous. 

From the contemplative face of Aenys, Aemond’s gaze drifted to his half-brother, Maegor, whose countenance were rendered enigmatic, almost condemning, as they were deliberately shrouded by a sculpted hood. Maegor had seized the throne through sheer force, his ascent marked by the brutal elimination of his nephews, Aegon and Viserys, in an act of kinslaying. 

History had condemned the former king for his merciless brutality, naming him Maegor the Cruel. Even the significant achievements of his reign, such as quelling the uprising of the Faith Militant, were overshadowed by the dark stains of the blood he had shed.

They say that in the act of killing his nephews, he had cursed himself in the eyes of the gods and man. And so, he had met his end by the very thing he had spilled so much blood to secure–found lifeless and impaled on the swords that protruded ominously from the ground around the Iron Throne. 

Aemond’s gaze drifted from the obscured visage of Maegor the Cruel, feeling the weight of judgment searing against his skin. It emanated not only from the stern, silent kings immortalized in the stone who stood sentinel over the throne room but also from the living occupants within its walls. Though none openly condemned him, Aemond sensed their censure all the same. He was marked as the Kinslayer. Beneath their superficial smiles and trivial conversations, he detected the revulsion they harbored for him. The dual judgment–from both the dead and the living–cast a chilling pall over his presence among the revelers. 

He had always yearned to be admired–to be respected and revered. He had wanted to carve out a place for himself in the annals of history, to be remembered. He wanted to command the same respect and power as his uncle, Daemon, had before him, to be esteemed with the same reverence as the Rogue Prince. 

He had wanted to be something more. 

Yet, despite all his desires and efforts, all he would ever be now was Aemond the Kinslayer. In the eyes of the realm, and in the judgment of history itself, he would be cursed–as all kinslayers are–doomed to be remembered not for any good he might achieve, but solely for the blood on his hands. He came to the realization: he would never be respected through admiration or love, but perhaps he could command respect through fear. If the world was determined to call him a kinslayer, then perhaps he should fully embrace the monstrousness they expected of him. This dark acceptance crept into his thoughts. He would earn their fear. 

As the dancers wove their patterns across the dance floor, moving rhythmically to the jubilant music that filled the hall, a sense of dread crept up Aemond’s spine as something caught his attention, standing still amidst the revelry. For a fleeting instance, Lucerys stood there, his skin deadly pale and marred with chunks of flesh missing. He appeared sodden, as if pulled from the depths of a dark, watery grave, and then, as the dancers closed ranks, his apparition dissolved just as swiftly as it had appeared. 

With a clench of his jaw, Aemond averted his eye, his gaze falling to his own hand as it tapped an uneven, restless rhythm on the polished surface of the table. Each tap was drowned out in the clamor of the feast, his fingers marked by scrapes and cuts. His gaze lifted once more as he noticed his brother approaching, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the table ceasing for a moment, as Aegon climbed the steps to the dias. 

“Must you always wear such a gloomy expression,” Aegon chided, stopping on the opposite side of the table. His voice carried a mischievous lilt–bordering on mocking, as it always did. “You look as though someone has died–,” he said, reaching for the flagon of wine, pausing for a moment, and then added with a half-hearted shrug, “Well, I suppose someone has–but someone we actually cared about, that is.” 

The jest, light as it might have been intended, hung briefly in the air, prickling against Aemond’s patience. It was not mocking, but it was close to it. His expression darkened as Aegon carelessly filled his cup with wine, nearly spilling it in his overzealous pour before setting the flagon back on the table with a clunk. He chose to remain silent, his glower deepening as he observed his brother. 

Aegon, willfully ignoring the tension, casually lifted the goblet to his lips, taking a deliberate sip. He paused, wetting his lips as if to prepare for further conversation, though the hall was rife with servers and wine at every turn–clearly, his approach to the king’s table was not for lack of refreshments but rather to needle Aemond. 

“This entire spectacle is in your honor, brother,” Aegon proclaimed with a sweep of his hand, indicating the lavish spread and raucous festivity surrounding them, His smile was amused and slightly inebriated. “You might at least pretend to enjoy the effort I’ve put into this.”

Aemond responded with a cool detachment that barely masked his irritation. “I believe it was the Hand who made the arrangements for this.”

While Aegon might have commanded the feast into being and outlined his desires to his Hand, he certainly hadn’t been the one to arrange the details. If it had been left to Aegon’s own devices, Aemond mused, they would likely have found themselves dining in Flea Bottom at some brothel rather than the grandeur of the throne room. 

“On my orders–that is what the hand is for, isn’t it? What the King dreams, the Hand builds,” Aegon retorted dismissively, with a nonchalant wave of his hand as if to brush aside Aemond’s point. “At least enjoy the fruits of the Hand’s labor; this celebration is in your honor, after all. It is you we’re celebrating.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Aemond declared flatly, his voice devoid of emotion and betraying little sign of any true pleasure. 

Aegon’s eyebrow arched, his expression dripping with skepticism. “Then perhaps try showing it. We’re celebrating your victory!”

Aemond only glowered in response.

“Don’t tell me you regret killing the little bastard–”

“I don’t regret it,” Aemond interjected sharply, his voice steady and dripping with disdain. He fixed his brother with a cold, unwavering gaze. “The bastard got what he deserved. I fed him to my dragon, and I will feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well–she’s developed quite a taste for bastards now.”

Aegon’s response was a wide grin, a chuckle escaping him as he glanced around at the assembled nobility. It seemed many had overheard Aemond’s dark declaration. Good, he thought, they crave my cruelty, and they shall have it. He felt no remorse for the killing of Lucerys, nor would he ever concede that it had been anything but deliberate. He had killed him, and they condemned him for it. So be it; what was a little more damnation?

“Then what’s with the sour mood?” Aegon teased, leaning in slightly, his voice lowering as though to probe a more personal sore. “Is it your lovely little betrothed that grieves you?”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed sharply at his brother, his hand resting on the table curling into a fist. Blunt nails scraped over the polished wood, drawing inward until they dug into the flesh of his palm. He felt the ache of healing wounds pulling tight across the skin, felt the ghost of a sting. 

“Oh, it is,” Aegon cooed, his voice laced with a jeering edge as he observed Aemond’s clenched fist. “Seems you’re a bit… on edge, brother? I’d wager your impending nuptials will prove rather frosty. I’m genuinely surprised she hasn’t taken your head for killing her brother–such devotion, she must truly love you.”

Aemond tore his gaze away, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he struggled to maintain his composure. He swallowed hard, forcing down the surge of emotions that threatened to shatter the stoic, steely facade he had so meticulously constructed. Yet, despite his efforts, the insinuations felt like a dagger twisting in his gut, each word a cruel reminder of the tangled web of his actions and their consequences. 

Aegon, unfazed by Aemond’s clear attempt to end the conversation, leaned forward on the table with a crude smirk on his lips. “Once the festivities grow stale, we should head to the Street of Silk. Let’s truly celebrate your victory–with wine and women! Perhaps we’ll even find a girl who bears a striking resemblance to your soon-to-be wife, though decidedly more eager. We might even find one that is a bastard if that’s your preference–”

The cutlery rattled noisily on the table as Aemond slammed his fist down onto the polished wood, standing abruptly from his seat, the feet of the chair scraping noisily over the dias. A crack had appeared in his carefully maintained facade; he could feel it, a crack through which his anger seeped. It surged within him, a hot, seething burn in his chest, and at his fingertips. He wanted to reach across the table and throttle his brother right there. The restraint he usually exhibited was thinning, strained by the provocation of his brother and aided by the constant tension hidden just beneath the surface.  

Aegon merely leaned back, blinking slowly at his brother, the trace of an amused smirk still playing on his lips. Before Aemond could retort, the sudden announcement of a new arrival pierced the sounds of the revelry, halting the music and drawing all attention to the doors of the throne room. 

“Princess Daenera Velaryon of House Velaryon.”

A profound silence quickly blanketed the room, almost tangible in its intensity as the festive noises abruptly ceased. The quiet seemed to echo throughout the grand hall, marking the significance of her entry. 

As Daenera entered, the searing anger within Aemond extinguished, like flames doused by a downpour. The heat that had just moments ago licked at his chest and fingertips was replaced by a cold, heart-rending sensation. It was as if her mere presence shifted the air around him, replacing fury with a piercing chill. 

There she stood at the threshold of the throne room, her appearance striking even amidst the grandeur.

The gown she wore was a deep, unforgiving red–as though a bleeding wound set against her pale skin. She paused momentarily at the entrance, allowing the assembled crowd to take in her appearance. Then, gracefully lifting her skirts just slightly, she began her descent down the steps to the floor of the throne room.

The crowd instinctively parted for her, much like flesh yields to the keen edge of a blade. They moved aside, not merely in deference but as if in fear that even the slightest brush against her might stain them with her blood red grief. 

With each step she took towards the king’s table, Aemond felt his heart wrench painfully at the sight of her. Daenera carried herself with the poised grace of a drawn blade, her elegance belying the steel hidden beneath the porcelain mask she wore–a cold, measured expression painting her soft features. Yet, despite her composure, he could discern the signs of her suffering–the haunted look in her eyes, the shadows that hollowed her cheeks, and her lips, frayed and painted a vivid red to match her gown, spoke of silent torment rather than concealment. 

As she drew nearer, the intricate details of her dress became more apparent. Adorning the bodice was a metallic golden dragon, masterfully crafted from beaten gold to resemble the creature’s scales, hammered in such a way that it seemed to move with the play of light. The dragon’s head rested on her lower abdomen, with wings that extended upwards to her shoulders, giving the impression of watching the beast from above. The fabric of the gown was rich and heavy, cascading around her and flowing to the floor like a waterfall. Her sleeves, long and sweeping, brushed the ground with her movements, and the deep neckline revealed the delicate pallor of her bosom and the gentle curve of her collarbone. Around her neck was a small ribbon, adorned with rubies shaped like droplets–pouring forth as though her throat had been cut. 

There existed a savage kind of beauty in the collective yearning to witness her sorrow laid bare–the sorrow she wore like an open wound. The crowd seemed to feed off her desolation, as if her grief were a spectacle to be devoured, a feast for their insatiable appetite. The cruelty in their hunger was almost poetic, a macabre dance between the observed and the observers, that left both of them with little semblance of humanity left in them. 

While many among them harbored a measure of pity for her, the court thrived on the spectacle of seeing someone else fall.

But she did not fall, and she did not cower beneath their gazes, instead she held them–held them until it hurt. 

Her presence cast a pall over the festivities, as if she were a mirror reflecting the darker undertones of the celebration. Many around her shifted uneasily, their discomfort evident as they met her gaze—like errant children suddenly aware they were to be held accountable for their misdeeds.

Aemond, perhaps, felt the weight of her silent accusation more acutely than anyone else.

His fingers prickled with an overwhelming urge to shield her from the prying eyes of the crowd–to cover and protect her from their relentless scrutiny. Yet, he remained motionless, acutely aware that she would never allow such protection–not from him. After all, she had chosen to be there–to make a spectacle of herself. 

He swallowed hard, his clenched fists easing as his fingers lightly brushed the surface of the table, seeking a momentary anchor in the solid wood. His gaze remained fixed on her with searing intensity, yearning for her to meet his eye, yet dreading the accusation he might find in her stare. She had come to haunt him, her dress a vivid reminder of the blood he had shed when he had killed her brother–the same blood she now wore as fabric, wearing his crimson guilt as a reminder and as a rebellion on the nobles' complicity. 

Aemond saw it for what it was; a careful presentation. There was a certain fragility to her–the visible scrapes and cuts on her hands spoke of her grief and turmoil, echoing the sorrow that had once reverberated through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and the hollow absence of her screams that seemed to linger thereafter. 

She dressed her wounds in finery–but there was still a wound, and it was still bleeding. 

Her attire was an ostentatious display, masterfully crafted and worn beautifully–pity me, it seemed to whisper. Look at me and see what has been wrought upon me, see how they deny me my grief. Pity me, for I am a sister bereft of a brother. Pity me, for I am a broken bird trapped within a cage. Yet, beneath the facade, a warning lingered–still, I possess claws. 

Aegon moved along the edge of the table to position himself in front of his seat. As she approached, he towered over her from his position on the dias.

The tension in the air thickened as Aemond watched her approach the dias where Aegon stood, his body tensing instinctively. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, all eyes riveted on her–they had all heard her screams, were aware of the havoc she had wreaked upon her room, and knew of how she had collapsed before the hearth, remaining there for days. Aemond had caught the whispers snaking through the halls of the Red Keep, heard the rumors that she had lost her sanity, that she had been confined for fear of what harm she might do to herself or others. It was said she had been sedated with milk-of-the-poppy, confined to her bed, and he had felt each rumor pierce him like needles under the skin, each one embedding itself a little deeper. 

But Aemond knew the deeper truth–that she was not mad or weak, but vengeful, and she now stood before them as a ghost come to haunt him.

Daenera’s piercing blue eyes met Aegon’s, holding his gaze with an intensity that belied her calm demeanor. Her gaze remained fixed on his brother as she stood defiantly, refusing to bow. Her spine was straight, her head held high in spite. With a clear and controlled voice that carried across the silence of the room, she spoke, “Forgive me, Your Grace, for my late arrival and for not offering the courtesy of a bow. As you may be aware, I have been well for the last few days and I was aware that a celebration was being held in honor of your brother’s accomplishments. I fear that should I bow, I might find myself unable to rise again.”

Aemond’s gaze shifted sharply from Daenera to Aegon. He noted the slight curl at the corner’s of Aegon’s mouth, which twisted into a petty and mocking smirk that suggested he might deny her the leniency she sought and instead force her to bow–and to publicly submit to his will. 

“Of course,” Aegon responded smoothly, his voice laced with feigned warmth. “We’ve all been privy to your… resilience in the face of your brother’s fate.” His smile then broadened, a glint of cruelty flickering in his eyes. “It is indeed a pleasant surprise that you’ve decided to join our celebration of your betrothed’s victory in battle.”

Daenera’s demeanor was disquieting, her expression meticulously composed, betraying no emotion, yet Aemond could see the intense hatred smoldering in her eyes–burning like a cold flame. 

“What a fine dress for a celebration,” Aegon commented, his voice carrying across the room, loud and taunting. He grinned widely, seeming to cast his gaze out over the crowd. 

Aemond’s fist clenched tighter, the skin stretched and tender from healing beginning to strain under the pressure. His heart pounded with apprehension as she watched a flicker of icy fire pass through Daenera’s eyes. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Daenera replied, eyes burning. “I would have chosen a more suitable dress for mourning my brother, but, unfortunately, all my black dresses have been removed and I am not afforded such courtesy.” 

Her voice, though light, carried a sad, fragile quality that resonated throughout the room–and it became clearer, then, why she had chosen that dress, and what she meant by it. 

Aegon paused, letting the silence swell before he added his voice to it. “And yet you stand among us,” he began, descending a step on the dais, still towering over her. His voice grew louder as he surveyed the crowd, saying, “It is indeed curious, how one so stricken with grief finds the strength to join us, dressed so… strikingly.” 

The insinuation lingered in the air, a silent accusation that cast a shadow of doubt over her mourning. Daenera held her head high, her spine straight as a sword as she bore the scrutiny of court, and yet, Aemond could see the way Aegon’s words crept under her skin, the way she drew in her breath and held it.

With a smirk twisting into a sardonic half-smile, Aegon cocked his head in a dismissive half-shrug and took another step down. “But we welcome you nonetheless to the celebration of your betrothed. He has won a great victory after all.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his muscles clenching in visible tension.

Descending the final step, Aegon deliberately invaded her personal space, leaning towards her as she stood her ground. His voice then dropped to a low murmur, a tone intended only for Daenera–and Aemond–to hear. “One might question where the line is drawn between genuine sorrow and mere preformance… After all, how could a sister who truly loved her brother attend a celebration of his demise?”

Daenera’s eyes flared with a silent intensity, and Aemond could see the fissures forming in her stoic facade as her composure began to fracture under the strain. 

“Please, princess, take a seat and enjoy the revelry,” Aegon said, his voice smooth as he offered her a crude smile. He gestured towards Aemond and the empty seat beside him. 

Aemond’s gaze lingered on Daenera as she gave Aegon a nod of acknowledgement, her head bending slightly in feigned courtesy. 

As she started to move, Aegon called out with a flourish, “Music and more wine!” 

The musicians picked up their instruments, and the lively tunes filled the air once again, drawing out the brief silence. The room buzzed with renewed energy as conversations sparked up. 

Daenera made her way around the table, the heavy fabric of her gown rustling softly against the smooth stone floor as she ascended the dias. Throughout her approach, she avoided his gaze, denying him even the briefest connection. She moved with purpose, refusing him both the beauty of her eyes and the cruelty that might lurk within them.

Aemond clenched his jaw as Daenera settled into the seat beside him, willfully ignoring his presence. He drew in a sharp, agitated breath before himself sat down, the chair scraping loudly across the wood of the dias. Even though she was positioned on his blind side, her presence was felt, pressing into the edges of his perception like a shadow just out of sight. 

The closeness of her made his skin prickle, and he found himself casting a brief glance over the crowd. It was clear they had become the focal point of whispered discussions. 

“You should not be here,” Aemond murmured under his breath, his fingers beginning to tap restlessly on the table’s surface. It would have been better if she had stayed away. This was no place for her, nor was it a celebration he wanted her to witness. 

“Where else would I be,” Daenera responded, her voice cold as ice, slicing through the clamor of the feast. Aemonf felt the sharp sting of her focus on him, like the cold bite of a blade at his neck. He turned to face her, meeting her penetrating gaze. “But by your side,” she continued, her tone laced with bitterness, “as you are celebrated and honored for murdering my brother.”

Their gazes locked in a prolonged, tense silence, underscored by the lively melody that filled the hall. Around them, dancers moved rhythmically on the smooth stone floor, their steps resonating through the air, mingled with the constant hum of chatter. Aemond was the first to look away, swallowing hard as he felt her scorn burn against his skin. 

“I don’t want you here,” Aemond managed to say, his words forced through gritted teeth as he felt a constricting pressure in his chest, as if his ribs were digging into his lungs.

“Why?” Daenera questioned, her gaze sharp even if her voice wasn’t–it was almost soft. Almost. “Is it because I remind you of what you’ve done? Or is it because you fear what I might do, now that you’re being celebrated for murdering my brother?”

Aemond maintained his composure, tightly gripping the facade he presented to the world–cold as steel and just as biting. And yet, he yearned to keep her distant from the revelry–the curious glances darting her way, waiting and wanting to see her breath, the pervasive hum of celebration, and the mingled pity, mockery, and judgment that filled the air. More than anything, he wished to spare her the cruelty of witnessing her brother’s death being celebrated like this, with wine and food, with music and dancing, with laughter and happiness. He wanted to offer her the mercy of being removed from a scene where his sins were lauded. 

And, perhaps, it was as much for himself. 

“Mayhaps it is because you’ve come to realize the horror of what you’ve done, and are not ashamed–”

“I am not ashamed,” Aemond declared, his voice strained as he forced himself to meet her gaze once again. Why should he feel shame? Lucerys had gotten what he deserved. He did not have any regret for the act itself, only for the manner in which it had unfolded–a momentary loss of control. Yet as he faced her cold, accusing stare, he felt his heart tear itself open upon her eyes. 

“You should be, Kinslayer,” Daenera said–almost a sneer, but far too soft. She averted her gaze, and he noticed the slight shimmer of unshed tears, the way she blinked rapidly and the tightness around her mouth as she fought back her emotions–her mask cracked then, if only just a little, and through that crack tears seemed to pour. 

In that moment, despite everything, Aemond felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to her, to bridge the chasm of grief and guilt that lay between them. It itched beneath his skin, and he extended his hand across the smooth surface of the table before he clenched it shut again–finding a strange sort of comfort in the way the action pulled at his healing wounds. 

“How does it feel to get everything you’ve ever desired?” Daenera’s voice cut through the air, laden with resentment. Aemond turned to face her again, encountering the icy facade of that porcelain mask–deceptively soft yet harboring a beautifully sharp cruelty, like silk veiling a blade. “To finally achieve the revenge you’ve longed for. Does it bring you satisfaction? Has it made you whole?”

Aemond attempted to ease the tension in his jaw, but the effort was fleeting; almost immediately, he found himself clenching his teeth again, feeling the sting of her words like the kiss of steel. His fingers traced the table’s surface, blunt nails scraping across the wood grain, instinctively curling towards his palm where they fretfully picked at the scabbing wounds. 

No, it had not made him whole. It hadn’t restored his eye or reversed the injury inflicted by the injustice–it had not given him back that part of his soul that was taken when the maester had pulled out the remnants of his eye. Instead, his quest for vengeance–for regaining that part of him back–had exacted a heavier toll, allowing the festering darkness to bleed further into his soul. He acknowledged, without remorse or guilt, a grim satisfaction in Lucerys’ Velaryons death–it had been just. Yet, the tainted satisfaction was marred only by the manner of its execution: he regretted not the act itself but the loss of control that had defined it. 

And he regretted the pain it brought her. 

“You have your revenge now,” Daenera stated, her voice thick with bitterness as her fingers restlessly toyed with her fork. “You’ve got your war.” Her words were laden with disgust, scorn, and vitriol, trembling slightly as she spoke them, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’ve gained the power and renown you always desired–Aemond the Kinslayer. Now everyone will know your name. They all know what you’re capable of.” Then, she turned her gaze directly back to him, her eyes piercing. “Tell me, does it live up to your expectations?”

The monstrous darkness that had festered within Aemond since the day he lost his eye–that cruel beast that lurked beneath his skin–seemed to bare its teeth. He swallowed back the venomous words that threatened to spill from his lips, tainted with bitterness. 

“Even me, another piece of your conquest,” Daenera added with a scoff, her voice wrought with pain. Disbelief and bitterness twisted her features, furrowing her brow and pulling down the corners of her mouth–as though she was exasperated with herself for ever allowing herself to love him. 

The sight of her pain drove a blade deep into his gut, twisting agonizingly.

“Power, war, renown, and now me,” she said with an empty scoff. “Your prize. Is it everything you’ve ever dreamed of?”

Aemond’s posture remained as rigid and unforgiving as the blade of his sword, tension coiling between his shoulder blades. His muscles tightened beneath his skin as he turned to face her further, reaching out to cup the side of her face. His touch was possessive, fingers brushing against the small curls at the edge of her hair, her skin searing against his–he committed the sensation to memory, savoring it as solace for the long and lonely nights ahead. She stiffened under his grasp, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes wide with a tumult of emotions–anger, resentment, hatred–and she leaned back slightly, though unable to escape his touch. 

A heavy silence stretched between them, laden with the weight of the response he owed her–a response that hung in the air, unspoken and resounding with a silent no.

However, Daenera seemed oblivious to the silent response conveyed by his demeanor. Her brows furrowed into a pained expression, her eyes rimmed with red and gleaming with unshed tears–tears that seemed to cling to her, always at the edge of being shed. It appeared she perceived only the answer she expected. 

Aemond’s voice, chilling and sharp, sliced through the air like a finely honed blade. Yet, underneath the surface, there was a slight tremor in his tone that betrayed how deeply she had managed to poison him. “I do not possess all that I desire…”

“Remove your hand,” Daenera demanded through clenched teeth, her voice sharp and cold. It was then that Aemond noticed she was gripping the fork tightly in her hand, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light, her knuckles white with tension. “Or my dress won’t be the only thing that is red.”

Reluctantly, Aemond withdrew his hand. The touch of her skin lingered on his palm, sparking a mix of longing and regret, urging him to pull her closer once more. Yet, he restrained himself, curling his fingers into a fist and retreating to his own space. He redirected his attention to the dancers, watching them move rhythmically across the floor, their bodies synchronizing with the lively music. His gaze then drifted to his brother, Aegon, who stood at the end of a table, a wide grin on his face as he glanced over at Aemond and then returned to his conversation, his laughter shared by the friends gathered around him. 

Agitation smoldered within Aemond’s chest, a fire kindled by tension and conflict. 

Daenera loosened her grip on the fork and picked up a cup of water instead, lifting it to her lips. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over the crowd before settling on Aegon. 

“You’ve already been branded a kinslayer,” she said, her voice steady and piercing as she met Aemond’s gaze with a challenging intensity. “Why not remove the final hindrance and claim what you truly desire?”

A humorless smile tugged at Aemond’s lips, devoid of any genuine amusement as Daenera’s words pricked at his ambition and sense of duty. His gaze lingered on his brother, who cast his arms wide as he spoke with his friends, his face split by a wide grin. It would be dishonest to claim he hadn’t entertained the thought during the darkest hours of night, when his mind wasn’t consumed by the thoughts of her. Yet, removing Aegon wouldn’t be as straightforward as merely executing him; it would brand him not only a kinslayer twice over but also a kingslayer. Moreover, Aegon wouldn’t be the only challenge he’d face. 

Despite being a thorn in his side, Aegon was still his brother. 

“There’s not just one hindrance to consider, as you well know,” Aemond responded, his voice low and measured, his fingers resuming their restless tapping on the table. 

Daenera’s reply was laced with a chilling tone, almost ringing with the iciness of her accusation, “And here I was, thinking you weren’t above the act of killing children.” 

His gaze shifted back to her, studying the unyielding coldness of her facade. He watched her for a long moment, feeling the tumultuous twist in his gut, the beast within him recoiling at her words. What she was insinuating was monstrous, even for him, and he didn’t believe for a second that she genuinely wished for him to follow through–not even she could harbor cruelty of that magnitude. She would never bring such horror upon Helaena, nor upon Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Yet, her mere suggestion frayed his restraint.

“I am not above killing bastard children,” Aemond retorted, his voice almost a sneer, heavy with disdain. 

Their gazes locked in a long, tense moment– a moment where the air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken words. Resentment and bitterness crackled silently, an almost tangible force, as they stared each other down. 

Their intense exchange was interrupted as Aegon sprang onto the dias with a flourish, snagging a knife from a nearby platter. He rapped it against his wine-filled challice, the sharp clink resonating above the din, commanding the silence from the gathered nobles. With a casual flick, he tossed the knife back onto the table, his movement exaggerated and theatrical. 

Drawing in a deep breath, he stood tall before the king’s table, his presence asserting dominance over the suddenly hushed room. His voice boomed, robust and clear, filling the expansive space. “As everyone here is undoubtedly aware, tonight we’ve come together to honor my brother’s triumph in the battle above Shipbreaker Bay!”

As Aemond reasserted his impassive demeanor, the cold detachment enveloped his face like a mask, seamless and impenetrable–he wore it like a second skin, natural and familiar from years of use. And he fixed a steely gaze on his brother’s back as Aegon held the court’s attention. 

“Much has been said in these past few days,” Aegon declared, mastering a steady, authoritative tone that resonated through the now silent hall. He briefly locked eyes with Aemond, giving him a knowing look before his gaze swept across the assembly. “But allow me to tell you the truth of what happened.”

Aemond caught the suppressed grins of Aegon’s closest friends–Ser Leron Estermont, Ser Martyn Reyne alongside his sister, Lady Cira Reyne, and Ser Wyllam Lefford. They seemed to relish in the theatrics of the moment. 

Agitation stirred beneath Aemond’s skin.

“My dear half-sister dispatched one of her bastards to remind Lord Borros Baratheon of a long-forgotten oath sworn when she was our father’s only child,” Aegon narrated with a calculated pause, allowing the weight of his words to permeate the room. “She sent a bastard boy to do a man’s job. The boy must have quivered in his boots at the mere sight of my brother.”

A ripple of amusement undulated through the crowd. Aemond clenched his jaw, and although Daenera was out of his sight, her presence was palpable, as if an extension of his own being. He sensed her anger emanating like heat from a blaze, tasted the bitterness that filled her mouth, and felt the sting of impending tears in her eyes. He couldn’t see her, but he could imagine it–could feel it. 

Aegon carried on, his voice resolute, carrying a sense of triumph and smug amusement, “The boy had been sent to persuade House Baratheon to usurp my crown, yet he arrived with nothing more than empty hands and stale words. Borros Baratheon would have sent the boy back to his mother the same as he had come had my brother not intervened.”

A breath slipped from Daenera’s lips–a fragile and pained exhale that seemed to tremble in the air, seeping beneath Aemond’s skin and hollowing him out from within. The hand that had previously tapped absently and restlessly against the table now curled into a tight fist, the wound’s on his palms threatening to split apart. He endured the heavy gazes of the court, feeling it prick along his skin with the same piercing iciness as the rain that had drenched him when he had pursued Lucerys through the storm–prickling against his skin as icy needles. 

“My brother, Aemond Targaryen, generously offered to spare the bastard’s life if he would forfeit an eye in payment for his own,” Aegon declared. As he spoke, Aemond felt a surge of memories pressing against the edges of his consciousness–the sharpness of the blade slicing through muscle and bone, the warmth of the blood cascading down his face and through his fingers, the piercing sting of the needle as it stitched the wound, and the persistent ache that lingered long after. The scar throbbed and itched, reminding him acutely of the sapphire that now filled the eye socket–feeling its etches within his skull, feeling its coldness against the tissue. His heart echoed the discordant rhythm it had pounded on the night he confronted Lucerys–when the boy had mocked him with a half-hearted apology, when the chase had driven them both through the tempest. 

Aegon’s voice carried on, laden with contempt, “A fair exchange for the agony my brother endured at his hand, I would think. Yet, the coward refused to settle his debt. He fled, tail between his legs, no doubt seeking the comforting folds of his whore of a mother’s skirts!”

Laughter swelled once more, filling the room as murmurs hummed among the guests. 

“Had the bastard merely settled his debt, my brother would have let him go,” Aegon proclaimed. Aemond wasn’t entirely convinced he would have done so, but the point was moot now–it didn’t matter, all that mattered was what had happened. “Instead, Aemond was compelled to exact justice on his own terms–he pursued the bastard and his dragon through the storm…” Aegon’s eyes flicked towards them, his expression sharpening, a growing smirk marring his face. “You killed the bastard, fed him to your dragon! What did you say, brother? You fed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?”

Aemond heard the slide of her movement–could almost taste the steel she clutched–and as he turned his gaze towards her, his heart shuddered at the way her eyes were aflame, burning bright and cold, filled with sorrow and rage and a familiar desire for destruction. Despite the fire in her eyes, her expression remained nearly blank, her composure a finely crafted mask–slowly starting to crack under the strain of her emotions. His eye followed her movements down to her hand, which was clenched tightly around the knife on the table, her knuckles white from the grip, the tip of the blade quivering slightly. 

He moved subtly, placing a hand over hers to still it–knowing that she wanted to plunge the half-dull blade into his brother’s neck, or even his own. Her skin was cold beneath his touch, yet it burned against his skin all the same. Daenera neither flinched away from his touch, nor did her eyes move from his brother. As Aemond’s hand slid up to gently pry the knife from her grip, the moment the weapon slipped from her fingers, her own snapped down on his. He felt the sharp sting of her nails, felt the promise of bruising, and he welcomed it. 

Yet, despite the pain intended by her touch, it brought him an unexpected solace–her marks were a testament to her presence, and he found a twisted comfort in the pain, as long as she touched him. 

Aemond kept his face impassive–the usual sharp smirk on his lips, but his eye bore into his brother’s smirking visage with a glare sharp enough to cut.

Aegon, unfazed, turned back to the crowd, his voice carrying a cruel amusement. “With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son… but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death…”

Laughter swelled around them, and Daenera's grip tightened on Aemond's hand, her nails digging in with such force that he was certain they would leave crescent-shaped indentations in his skin

“It’s a pity Vaemond Velaryon isn’t here to stake his claim on Driftmark. If only he had waited another week…” Aegon jeered. He then raised his chalice high, shifting the focus of the celebration. “To my brother, for his first victory in battle!” 

Aegon’s grin widened as he turned towards Aemond, lifting his chalice in a gesture of respect and honor. “You are the true blood of the dragon!”

Aemond responded to his brother’s toast, his fingers reluctantly uncurling to grasp his own chalice, lifting it in acknowledgement. 

With a wide grin, Aegon turned back to the assembled crowd, his brother booming with fervor, “Let this first blood of war serve as a warning to all who dare oppose us!”

As the hall erupted in cheers and chalices were hoisted high, Daenera’s fingers withdrew from Aemond’s hand, leaving behind a sharp sting from the emerging bruises and the residual heat of her touch. This sensation seeped into his veins, twisting in his gut, and he quickly gulped down his wine to wash away the bitter taste clinging to his tongue. The realization of how deeply he craved her touch–whether gentle or cruel–struck him as profoundly pathetic.

The music swelled once more, weaving through the renewed buzz of conversations as the celebration continued. Aegon swiftly drained his wine and placed his chalice aside, then strode along the table to position himself before Aemond and Daenera. With a slight tilt of his head and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, he addressed them. “Princess, I’m delighted you could join us for this celebration. Your presence must be a great comfort to my brother, standing by his side as we honor his achievements. And again, brother, well done.”

Aegon flashed a quick wink at Aemond, then turned and strode confidently down the dias, rejoining his circle of friends. He was greeted with cheers and raucous laughter. Meanwhile, Aemond remained where he was, enveloped in a heavy, oppressive silence that lingered between him and Daenera. 

He felt a desperate urge to speak, to say anything–to apologize for his brother’s tactless words, to atone for his own harshness, to confess his love. Yet, when he opened his mouth, the only words that emerged were, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“No it is good that I came,” Daenera responded, her voice trembling yet icily calm, “I see things clearly now.”

Aemond’s gaze fixed on Daenera. Her composure had begun to fracture, the cracks in her facade widening, yet beneath the porcelain exterior, ice seemed to gleam. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, met his with burning intensity. She was devastatingly beautiful–like summer snow. 

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping noisily across the dias. Reacting instinctively, Aemond rose swiftly to his own feet, his chair skidding back, nearly toppling in his haste. 

“Will you excuse me,” Daenera said, her voice measured and cool, “I fear I have worn myself out.”

“Let me escort you to your chambers,” Aemond offered, his voice laden with a faint hope that she would accept, granting them a moment alone, away from prying eyes–where he might be honest and soft and pathetic. 

Daenera raised her hand, halting him with a gesture. “No, this feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

With that, she turned and descended from the dias, her silhouette gliding behind the columns and melting into the shadows. She traced the periphery of the throne room, where she might be left in peace, making her way discreetly towards the doors. 

Aemond stood motionless, his gaze tracking Daenera until she vanished behind a column. He searched the shadows for her, eye darting between each pillar, catching only a fleeting glimpse of her as she slipped through the doors and into the hall beyond, disappearing from view. 

Aegon approached then, breaking Aemond’s reverie by clapping a hand firmly on his shoulder. “The feast is growing tedious. Let’s take our celebration to the Street of Silk, brother.”

[useless-catalanfacts]

Listen on YouTube / Listen on Spotify.

This is a traditional work song from the Valencian Country that used to be sang in the storehouses, with lyrics talking about their working rights. In this recording, it's sang by two of the most recognized Valencian singers of traditional style of the moment: Pep Gimeno "Botifarra" and Noelia Llorens "Titana". Botifarra has learned this song from elderly women and has added one new stanza as homage to them.

As always, here's the original lyrics in Valencian/Catalan and the translation of each stanza in English.

Ja ve l'aire, ja ve l'aire! Ja ve l'aire del migdia I ha vingut un pardalet A portar-nos l'alegria The breeze is arriving, the breeze is arriving! The noon's breeze is arriving And a little bird has come To bring us happiness.

Senyor amo, senyor amo A això no n'hi ha raó Que han tocat les dotze i mitja I encà estem en el muntó! Mister owner, mister owner This is nonsense For [the bells] have rung 12:30 And we're still at the pile!

Ací estan les triadores Fortes com els diamants I les encaixonadores Perles fines encaixant Here are the sorters [women] Strong like diamonds And the packers [women] Fine pearls [when it comes to] encasing.

Allà està el tapador Passa el dia repicant I l'embalador que embala I el carreter carrejant There's the capper [man] Who spends all day pricking And the wrapper [man] who wraps And the cartwright [man] carting.

Ja s'emporten les taronges Ja les duen al vagó Ja se'n va l'amo a València A forrar-se el jaquetó They're already taking away the oranges They're taking them to the coach The master is going to València [the capital city] To get the get his refeer coat lined

Ja ve l'amo, ja ve l'amo Ja ve l'amo dels diners Porta paper, porta plata I calderilla també The master is coming, the master is coming The money's master is coming He brings paper, he brings silver And loose change, too.

Ja se'n van totes les xiques Molt contentes se n'anem Amb el jornalet a casa Que el tinguem ben guanyadet All the girls are leaving We're leaving very happy With our salary [we go] home For we have earned it hard.

Ací estan les perles fines Braç a braç amb els diamants Repicant amb alegria Volem tot: les flors i el pa! Here are the fine pearls Shoulder to shoulder with the diamonds Pealing merrily We want all: the flowers and the bread!

[Repeat the first "ja ve l'amo..." stanza]

Ja ve l'amo, ja ve l'amo Ja ve l'amo dels diners Perquè les hores són nostres Si en vol més que en pague més! Perquè les hores són nostres Si en vol més que en pague més! The master is coming, the master is coming The money's master is coming Because the hours are ours If he wants more of them, he shall pay more of them. Because the hours are ours If he wants more of them, he shall pay more of them.

[almostbroadway]

┈➤ ( LINDSEY MORGAN ) —  Era Uma Vez… Uma pessoa comum, de um lugar sem graça nenhuma! HÁ, sim, estou falando de você LORELAI D'ANGELO. Você veio de NEW YORK, USA e costumava ser GARÇONETE E CANTORA por lá antes de ser enviado para o Mundo das Histórias. Se, infelizmente, você tiver que ficar por aqui para estragar tudo, e acabar assumindo mesmo o papel de MUSA ESQUECIDA  na história HÉRCULES… Bom, eu desejo boa sorte. Porque você VAI precisar!

⤷ 𝑰𝑵𝑷𝑰𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎marley rose ( glee ) ; ‎ ‎lane kim ( gilmore girls ) ; haley james scott ( one tree hill ) ; francesca bridgerton ( bridgerton ) ; bess ( my lady jane ) ; karolina dean ( the runaways ) ;

⤷ 𝑩𝑨𝑺𝑰𝑪

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Lorelai ♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Rory ♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 27 anos ♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Escorpião ♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bissexual ♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ + perseverante ; fiel ; obstinada ; ♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ - fechada ; carente ; desconfiada ;

⤷ 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑺

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎No bairro de Washington Heights em um apartamento apertado demais, viva o patriarca da família com os 5 filhos, sendo Lorelai a mais nova entre os irmãos, uma família simples e muito unida, mas que passavam mais dificuldade do que a maioria. Desde muito jovem, Lorelai sabia que precisaria trabalhar muito se quisesse ter uma vida melhor e levar sua família junto consigo, afinal, eles eram tudo o que ela tinha.

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Começou a trabalhar muito cedo, em um mercadinho local, ganhava pouco, mas já era o suficiente para ajudar nas despesas de casa. Lorelai era apaixonada pela cidade em que vivia, gostava de dizer que Manhattan era o lugar onde seu coração pertencia, e com o pouco dinheiro que conseguia guardar para si, juntava o que podia para conseguir assistir os musicais da Broadway, onde tudo sempre parecia estar bem e o mundo era um lugar melhor.

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Apesar de todas as dificuldades e tendo sido abandonada pela mãe com apenas 3 anos de idade, sendo assim criada pelos irmãos mais velhos, já que o pai, apesar de amoroso mal tinha tempo para eles, ela era feliz. E eles foram os seus maiores incentivadores e primeiros fãs, fazendo o impossível para que a irmã conseguisse ter aulas de canto e dança, pois queriam mais do que tudo que ela conseguisse realizar seus sonhos.

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Quando completou 19 anos, conseguiu finalmente uma vaga para trabalhar na Ellen's Stardust Diner, uma lanchonete onde os garçons cantam músicas da Broadway enquanto fazem o pedido e trazem a comida, ali ela sentia que poderia estar a oportunidade de ser reconhecida, fazia aulas de teatro musical na faculdade comunitária e trabalhava no máximo de empregos que conseguia. As coisas estavam melhorando, ela tinha uma ótima reputação dentro da lanchonete e um dia fora até apresentada para alguns produtores que viram muito potencial na menina e a ajudaram como podiam, mesmo muito desconfiada, Lorelai se permitiu acreditar.

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎E finalmente, seu sonhos estava a um passo de se realizar, tinha finalmente chegado sua vez, os produtores lhe deram uma chance, e depois de milhares de audições, ela conseguiria, iria ser Christine. Foram meses de ensaios e mais ensaios, e ela não poderia estar mais realizada, tudo se encaixara de forma perfeita, aquela oportunidade mudaria sua vida por completo. E fora no dia anterior a sua estréia, após uma tarde cansativa de ensaios que Lorelai recebera aquele livro estranho, pensou ser algo de seus irmãos, mas estava tão exausta que acabou não mexendo no mesmo naquela noite. Decidiu leva-lo para o camarim, para lhe trazer boa sorte na estreia, o problema foi que poucas horas antes de estrear, o livro simplesmente começou a brilhar e ela foi transportada para o reino das histórias.

⤷ 𝑫𝑬𝑻𝑨𝑰𝑳𝑺

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Lorelai já teve os mais diversos empregos, trabalhou entregando jornais, estoquista em uma loja de bairro, ajudante de mecânica, garçonete e cantora de rua nas horas vagas;

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Seu primeiro papel no teatro, foi como chapeuzinho vermelho no teatro comunitário de seu bairro. Já o primeiro papel em um musical foi como Ariel, em A pequena sereia, também no teatro comunitário;

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Musicais são sua grande paixão, se fosse possível ela gostaria de viver em um eterno musical, onde todos os problemas são resolvidos com uma bela canção;

♡⸝⸝‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Foi criada pelos irmãos mais velhos, então, aprendeu a se defender desde muito cedo, e também foi um pouco mimada por eles, que buscavam fazer tudo o que podiam por ela;

[theoutcastrogue]

The THIEF's song (La Cançó del Lladre)

Manuel Cabral y Aguado Bejarano. Escena de una venta. 1855. | Eugenio Lucas Velázquez. Bandoleros. circa 1860. | Manuel Barrón y Carrillo. Emboscada a unos bandoleros en la cueva del Gato. 1869. [x]

"La Cançó del Lladre is a popular 18th century Catalan melody, from a tradition known as Canciones de Bandoleros: bandit songs. The bandoleros at that time were people who challenged the established social, political, and economic order, engaging in banditry in an era when divisions between social classes were very pronounced. They stole from the upper classes sometimes to give to the poor, and sometimes simply to protest against the system, which precluded social mobility and did not allow people to escape poverty and labour exploitation.

This song's lyrics are told in the first person by a thief who is sentenced to death after a lifetime of robbery and crime. Through each stanza he recounts his misdeeds, every robbery he committed, and despite everything, this song is in a major key. And in a way it is joyful. With the lyrics starting from the thief's childhood, it broadcasts that despite all he went through, he lived his life fully and he was happy. The chorus, which says "Adéu, clavell morenet, Adéu, estrella del dia", meaning "Goodbye, dark-coloured carnation, goodbye, star of the day", is a kind of farewell to life, and to that energy that made him feel alive."

— Paola Hermosín

The Thief's Song

(translation from lyricstranslate.com)

When I was a little boy I was boastful and presumptuous; White espadrilles on my feet And a handkerchief in my pocket.

Goodbye, golden carnation! Goodbye, day star!

And now that I am all grown up, I have chosen an evil path! I have started to rob people: (This is) my daily job.

Goodbye, golden carnation! Goodbye, day star!

I robbed a merchant Who was returning from the town fair; I stole all of his money And the sample he was carrying.

Goodbye, golden carnation! Goodbye, day star!

Once I had enough money I have kidnapped a young maiden: I have taken her with lies, Promising that I'd marry her!

Goodbye, golden carnation! Goodbye, day star!

The law has imprisoned me And it has dragged me to a dark jail. The law has imprisoned me And it shall make me pay with my life!

Goodbye, golden carnation! Goodbye, day star!

Original Catalan lyrics after the cut:

La Cançó del Lladre

Quan jo n'era petitet festejava i presumia, espardenya blanca al peu i mocador a la falsia.

Adéu, clavell morenet! Adéu, estrella del dia!

I ara, que ne sóc grandet, m'he posat a mala vida! En sóc posat, a robar: ofici de cada dia.

Adéu, clavell morenet! Adéu, estrella del dia!

Vaig trobar un traginer qui venia de la fira: li prenguí tots els diners i la mostra que duïa.

Adéu, clavell morenet! Adéu, estrella del dia!

Quan he tingut prou diners, n'hi he robat també una nina: l'he robada amb falsedat, dient que m'hi casaria!

Adéu, clavell morenet! Adéu, estrella del dia!

La justícia m'ha pres i a presó fosca em duïa. La justícia m'ha pres i em farà pagar amb la vida!

Adéu, clavell morenet! Adéu, estrella del dia!

[stupidlovergirl]

Human TV I Think They'd Watch

All the Bros and Dateables

Dev Notes:I have been watching Kitchen Nightmares while writing and how I think Barbatos might like it,, and then it lead to what human world TV they might like,,, maybe spent a little to much time on it instead of working on WIPs

Lucifer

Really likes old people TV

He watches things like How It’s Made, National Geographic documentaries, if he wants a little laugh those shows about “aliens”. Skin Walker Ranch is his dirty little side piece TV show

He just enjoys educational shows because they are easy to tune out

Really loves Soap Operas. Young and the Restless and General Hospital are kept up with religiously(hah). He, Diavolo, and Barbatos usually watch it. Dia really likes it and Barbatos watches when working with Dia second hand while doing work. He latched on after watching it in the background a few times.

Also, just the news. Mans will put on a 24 hour news station and will keep it on for like, 5 days. 

Mammon

He watches Harrison Porter, so give him the joy that is Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit.

Would also enjoy the Spiderwick Chronicles movie since he doesn’t know how bad it was compared to the books

Just a big fantasy fan honestly. Loves them.

On another note, he also loves trashy reality TV and News. The only one who beats out his love for celebrity gossip is Asmo. When he is putting on a TV show to go brain dead to its something from TLC, like 90 Day Fiance, I Love a Mama’s Boy, etc. 

He watches the Kentucky Derby, bets on it a lot (loses a lot too)

His dirty secret show/movies are Hallmark movies. He watches them when he won’t get caught. Hopeless romantic nerd (Affectionate)

Leviathan

You’re joking

You’re joking right?

Anime or DIE!!! (/hj)

Also really popular fantasy movies based on books. He will rip them to shreds when you watch them. Can be fun if you read the books, annoying if you haven’t.

Has a soft spot for magical girl animes, obvi

There isn’t really much to elaborate on, half of his personality is anime and nerd stuff.

Just a few favorites I think he might have with no explanation:

Tokyo Mew Mew, Yugi-Oh, Death Note, Naruto, Angel Beats, Lucky Star, Soul Eater, Watamote, Saint Tail, and Cowboy Bebop

Satan

King of detective shows

He loves trying to find them out

It is canon he loves the Devildom equivalent of Midsomer Murders, so just show him that too

I think he would like Forensic Files too.

Also, thriller movies. And psychological horror movies.

He loves them, he typically can predict an ending, but it's nice to see how they write out how the characters themselves find out

Asmo

Trashy reality TV!!!!!

He and Mammon watch 90 Day and Mama's boy and talk shit about them.

Loves Maury, Jerry Springer (rip my king), Parent Court when he's feeling a little frisky

Next Top Model and RuPaul's Drag Race. It's about the DRAMA! The OUTFITS!

Watched part of Euphoria but honestly? Found it mid. Sorry but he just couldn't understand the hype after the writing started to plummet.

Has watched Jersey Shore, will not elaborate on his opinion.

Tbh, he also doesn't really watch much because he feels like he has better things to do with his time, he only watches it for Brotherly Bonding, and for background noise

Beel

Haha, big guy hardly watches TV

Watches workout videos primarily

He likes learning new work out and dietary things

Has been banned from watching any type of food shows. Sorry Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.

Will participate in movie night, primarily for food, buhe does pay attention

Honestly just watches whatever someone else typically puts on with no complaint

Belphie

Much like his twin, doesn't typically seek out TV watching.

Much easier to watch on his phone

He does enjoy satisfying videos

Watches Rug cleaning videos, silly ASMR videos, Video essays when he can't sleep and gets curious. Loves obscure media and icebergs.

The essays are about the only thing that goes on the TV

Sorry but he just doesn't care much.

Will also participate in movie night, almost always falls asleep. Still can tell you the entire plot of the film.

On a very rare occasion will watch South Park. Will not elaborate on this one.

Solomon

Loves old TV shows to some newer ones

I Love Lucy, The Twilight Zone, The Muppet Show

I cant really explain the Muppet Show, but I know its true, it is in my bones

Honestly loves older sitcoms. They just hit different.

Can I mention I Dreamed a Genie and Bewitched? Classics in his eyes. Would fight to the death for them

Will make a off hand comment on how he doesn't feel like TV is the same anymore

Watches reality TV in the background when Asmo turns it on when he lounges in either one of their rooms

I feel like I just can't explain most of these, but they are the truth in my heart and that is enough

Simeon

Haha...What?

Watches whatever Luke or Solomon puts on or whatever someone else would suggest

He has a preference for books most of the time I feel like. Just goes with the flow

Just suggest something and he'll put it up for the next movie night when it's his choice

I really can't think of one he would pick oops.

Barbatos

He watches whatever Diavolo puts on in the background. Likes the Soap Operas some times, gets a little annoyed with anime voices when he has a migraine.

Kitchen Nightmares and Hell's Kitchen just hits right for him. Loves the insults

He doesn't much watch TV either though. Prefers audio books since they are easier to carry around

You essentially have to beg to watch TV with him, he's a busy butler ya'know?

Diavolo

KING OF FLEXIBILITY

Has watched all of it, and will continue to do so.

Has a special place for Soap Operas and Ruri-Chan

Seen all the classics, the new block busters, all of it

Honestly you wonder how he gets the time?

He really likes consuming stuff, so he does it when he is working on paper work he puts on the subtitles and turning the audio on low and going HAM

Couldn't be me, I would get distracted

For the most part he's watched it all, and what he hasn't is on his to watch list. He just likes talking to his friends about it :)

Luke

GREAT! BRITISH! BAKE! OFF!

He likes seeing the different foods

It inspires him so much, it's so cute watching his eyes sparkle as he sees something he likes and he writes it down on his phone

Also, he really likes watching Bluey. He lets Simeon and Solomon, and Barbatos found out (because he knows everything), but would DIE if anyone else found out

Also likes early 80's and bad CG horror movies. Kid literally laughs and Mammon is losing his mind next to him. I think because of the bad effects it makes it more tolerable.

Killer Klowns from Outer Space slaps man what can the kid say?

I think I'm projecting hard onto him,, but he's my son so it doesn't matter

[creepedverse]

whats everyone's living situation?

Tobin and Tali currently live together in a cheap, sketchy apartment in Farnbury. Tali covers rent while Tobin pays the other expenses

scout lives with her mother, across from the high school

Shannon lives in the same apartment complex as Tobin and Tali. She affords everything by her part time job at a Boba store and by working as a seamstress on demand. Fixing clothes, curtains etc.

Bonnie lives with her grandparents at the Honey-Crisp Apple Orchard! It’s probably about 10-20 miles north of Farnbury and 5-10 miles from the forest… her ACTUAL home is back in California though

Dia lives in a small 1 bed and bath house w a fairly nice kitchen and living room on 139 Groveham Ave. Dia also kind of took over an abandoned warehouse and turned it into an art studio that’s also on Groveham but further down the the street. She stocks it w all her art supplies and even has a thrifted couch and mini fridge in there for long nights. But Dia is originally from Michigan, specifically the Detroit area.

Tommie lives in any place he can worm his way into. In a different life, he could have lived very happily in his apartment in Corvallis, Oregon, but in Farnbury, he takes what he can get. Sometimes this means sneaking into the backroom of the diner he works at to get some rest, other times he's broken into Dia's art studio for shelter, and other times he sneaks into the local junkyard, where an old, abandoned camper van puts a roof over his head. Sometimes, when he sleeps there, he has funny dreams about things that have happened in the camper, but he doesn't think much of it.

Arthur camps out! He doesn’t have a permanent residence in Farnbury since he didn’t plan on actually living there long term, so he has set up a little camp in the wilderness. He actually ran into Tommie this way! And ever since then he’s found himself kinda trailing behind wherever he goes. He finagles his way into the camper, and when he can’t get into the camper, he stays in his tent. He also finds himself staying with friends here and there, only if they insist. He feels really bad invading their space so he tries not to! His proper home is back in New York, where he lived with his mother!

Joy owns a simple RV from her parents back in Iowa, although she didn’t exactly take it “legally”. The RV itself now resides in the local junkyard in return, preventing people from stealing vehicles at night. The inside itself has been decorated by her as well with blankets covering the couches and photos hung up, but she still keeps shotgun by her door to chase away people who trespass. One of the windows has been missing since childhood but was converted into a pet door for her raccoon, Gigi. Other than her photos she also has plenty of plants around her RV and inside given her green thumb.

Nico lives in a two bedroom house with her adopted little sister Nero. She bought it off the previous owner, fixed it up all on her own. It's a nice place, Nico's raison detre is beauty and it bleeds into everything she touches, she's decorated all the rooms to her and her sisters' liking. Before she found her sister, though, she was a wanderess. Stayed in motels, rented lodgings, or with her lovers.

[missartistabby]

Just a quick question! Is it possible for you to give us a Diavolo pov? Like is he aware of Michael’s abusive/manipulative behavior or does he not know or is at least suspicious about him

Honestly, I’m assuming he doesn’t know! Or maybe he does and he’s just pretending to not know for whatever (valid?) reason he has. Second one is a really stupid thought that came to me cuz of that one interaction of Dia and Luci when he was surprised about Luci smoking. Although it is most likely that he doesn’t know or is (or becomes) a LITTLE suspicious bc of Lucifer’s “gotta ask for Michael’s permission first!”

I can definitely give Diavolo's pov!

He definitely has a little suspicion especially after Lucifer dropped the class they were in together and how his number was blocked.

At first he didn't know because he knew that Lucifer was busy with school and raising his brothers and also working a small part time job. I definitely feel like Luci worked like a bartender's job and was really good at his job (cuz it's Luci, everything he does is perfect!). So Dia knew Luci was tired a lot but was concerned but tried to keep a distance. He was a little weirded out by the asking Michael's permission comment but he just assumed it was a sarcastic response since Michael is always around Luci.

And of course Dia has feelings for Luci so he wanted to spend any time with him. But he also knows Michael (rich kids parties) and he knew the two were dating so he tried to only act like a friend even though he was crushing hard sometimes (especially in class).

But after the whole class quit and his number blocked, he didn't know Luci quit his job until he went for a week and didn't see him. He had to find out by Mammon who I have as a prep/line cook at a diner after he saw Lucifer leave with Michael. Which made him a little suspicious and he would ask the brothers how Lucifer was doing anytime he saw them.

I know I am going to have him bump into Lucifer at sometime and he is going to notice how skittish he is and how Luci is going to avoid him. Then pops out Michael who is very mad and tells Dia to get lost and basically drags Lucifer away.

So then at the moment Diavolo is definitely going to know something is up and might be a little bit of a stalker to get evidence.

I hope that answers your question!

(and no thought is stupid! I love getting all these questions and ideas! ☺️❤️)

[kcrev]

𝐿𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑛 𝐶𝑟𝑒̀𝑚𝑒 — 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡

Desde sempre apaixonada por gastronomia, a ideia de se tornar confeiteira apareceu em um momento de sua vida bastante conturbado. Seus amigos e colegas começavam a conversar sobre o futuro. Alguns diziam que iriam para a universidade, enquanto outros tinham alguma profissão em mente, dentro de Bend. June, por outro lado, não tinha a mais absoluta ideia do que iria fazer. Muito próxima de sua família, nunca tinha imaginado sair de sua cidade natal. Por outro lado, sabia que suas opções após sair da escola seriam limitadas, mesmo com o grande apoio dos demais Atwood. Suas angústias eram tantas e June passou a experienciar ansiedade como nunca antes. Uma de suas formas de se distrair passou a ser a culinária, mais precisamente a confeitaria.

Na época, June não sabia nada sobre patisserie. Vivia em uma cidade no interior do Oregon, não era comum ter locais que servissem aquele tipo de confeitaria. Os lugares que tinham na cidade eram diners, com uma confeitaria essencialmente americana. Porém, passou a assistir a um programa de culinária francesa na televisão e se apaixonou, passando a replicar receitas que via lá. Sua avó materna, Josie, estava doente e quando podia passava as tardes com June, sendo sua principal cobaia para comer o que fazia. Após provar inúmeras tortinhas, eclairs e croissants, Josie comentou com a neta que uma confeitaria com aquelas delícias, como adorava dizer, seria um sucesso na cidade. E foi nesse momento que June descobriu o que queria fazer para o resto da vida.

Nunca imaginou que sairia de Bend, muito menos que moraria por três anos na França. Foi uma decisão impulsiva, ao mesmo tempo que muito pensada. June não contou a ninguém sobre seus planos, a única que sabia era sua avó, que pagou por muito do que June precisou para realizar seu sonho. Foi Josie que encontrou uma professora de francês para ela, por exemplo.

Preparava-se para ir à França quando a doença de sua avó piorou. Decidiu, então, adiar a viagem alguns meses. Nesse meio tempo, Josie acabou falecendo e June, enlutada, adiou ainda mais. Acabou embarcando para a França cerca de um ano após o esperado. Passou os três anos seguintes aprendendo tudo o que podia sobre confeitaria, já pensando sobre o dia que abriria a sua própria. Sempre soube que se chamaria Lemon Crème, uma vez que a tortinha de limão que fez para a avó foi a sua preferida, dentre tantas que fez ao longo dos anos.

De volta a Bend, levou alguns anos para conseguir abrir o seu negócio. Trabalhou por um tempo na pizzaria da família, mas logo conseguiu uma vaga para ser a responsável pelas sobremesas no Boulevard. Foi nesse momento que Nate se tornou seu melhor amigo. Nunca desistiu de abrir a Lemon e, quando conseguiu dinheiro o suficiente, comprou uma casa de esquina no centro da cidade, quase tão antiga quanto Bend. A reforma foi tão extensa que praticamente só sobrou as paredes que davam para a rua, mas após oito meses a confeitaria dos sonhos de June ficou pronta. O ambiente remetia muito ao que tinha visto durante seus anos em Paris, cada detalhe foi pensado com precisão para que ficasse exatamente como um dia ela e sua avó sonharam.

Feliz 21+1, @carriessotos !!

[deepsix-writing]

It's wintertime, and the cold windchill has ushered your wandering feet towards the closest reprieve: a rundown diner at the western edge of Farnbury. The building is bustling, but the workers don't seem as far behind as usual. There's someone in the kitchen, a new face, keeping the ship afloat.

"He wandered in like a stray dog," one of the waitresses say.

"He doesn't say a word. He's kind of... scary." Says another.

"...But he gets the job done," was the general consensus, though not a single one of them are able to put a name to the man. Even when the dinner rush passes, the noise from the kitchen does not stop: There's dishes to wash and a stove to clean. Did you hear them right when they said there was only one man back there?

...THIS IS TOMMIE.

He appeared in Farnbury during the winter by nothing short of a miracle. No one knows how he got here, considering rumors say he came from Corvallis, Oregon, and he doesn't own a car. It was almost as if he simply snapped into existence.

No less of a miracle was how he managed to make friends with the local residents: Tobin approached him after a shift one night: Dia and he met when he unknowingly broke into her art studio; Bonnie, when he discovered the antique shop.

It was no small feat; Tommie is about as easy to talk to as a brick wall and just as intimidating. He is an imposing presence: he looks scary in a way that would have him stick out in a crowd of people like a sore thumb. He's a boulder, a stationary anchor even as the world turns around him. Not to mention, he doesn't talk. Ever, as far as most people know.

Something does seem to lurk beneath his near-impenetrable surface though, even if it isn't brains. However loose, there's conviction and morals he adheres to, laid out for him by someone he used to know. Someone he once spent every day with; someone who gave up his life for him. That same sense of to-the-grave loyalty carries over to his new friends.

He would do anything to help them. Anything to do the right thing. For them, he eagerly dons rose-colored glasses, and for even the most questionable of friends...

all their red flags just look like flags.

[satureja13]

The whole Graveyard is decorated. It’s November 2nd, the main event of the Dia de los Muertos.

Ji Ho is the DJ and Luci is in charge of the bar (the guests are adviced to help themselves, if necessary ;)

They invited even Mr Lum, the jannitor! How sweet :3

Everything was prepared in advance so they can all enjoy the festivities. Soundtrack on youtube: Rhythm of the Night - Debarge and All Night Long - Lionel Ritchie

From the Beginning    ~     Underwater Love    ~  Latest

[bob-blogs-33]

El meu primer dia de negocis a l'escola 29/8/2026

(.1 setmana) jo començo per buscar clients i el millor lloc era el menjador i perquè moltes persones assin extraescolar ja que té àmbit perquè no et poden quedar 4h sense menjar. I el meu primer client el meu amic que s'asseia a taula.

doncs el primer dia em compro un BI FRUITES bo per prinsipio jo li comprava i ell em pagava els diners del sum empasse per 0% de benefici.

[useless-catalanfacts]

This is my favourite summer song this year 🐢 (sorry sea turtles, we'll be back for the phone in September)

Sexenni is a pop band from Lleida who makes lots of music with fun lyrics. In this one, the singer gets rid of his boring job.

Lyrics in Catalan (blue) and translation to English:

Fa molt temps que ja no tinc cap nou record inèdit

M'arrossego i em limito a navegar

Repetint el mateix vídeo com un loco cinèfil

El problema és que aquest trasto no em pot despentinar

It's been a long time now that I don't have any new unprecedented record

I drag myself and I'm limited to sailing

repeating the same video like a mad cinephile

The problem is that this thingy cannot mess my hair up [note: this reference to hair is a way of saying "get wild" or that nothing can surprise him anymore]

Em vaig fer el mort i m'he venut el sarcòfag a crèdit

I surto amb el Blanco Herrera a les esqueles de l'As

Amb els diners em vaig comprar un bitllet genèric

Per tal de tornar al lloc on sempre he volgut estar

I pretended to be dead and I have sold my sarcophagus on credits

And my name is next to Blanco Herrera's in the As' obituaries page [note: As is a Spanish sports newspaper]

With the money I bought a generic ticket

To go back to the place where I've always wanted to be

#Chorus:#

#M'he posat de to del mòbil el soroll que fan les copes

Així no es distingeixen si em volen trucar

Si em volen trucar

Tiro el mòbil per la borda per a fer-lo callar

#I have changed my cellphone's ringtone the sound of cheering glasses [🥂]

So it's undistinguishable if they call me

If they call me

I throw the phone overboard to make it shut up

I ara brinden les tortugues bussejant per la mar

Para-bara, pa, para-bara

I tremola la coberta si ens escolten cantar

Para-bara, pa, para-bara#

And now the turtles scuba diving in the sea drink a toast

La la la la

And the deck trembles if they hear us sing

La la la la#

I ara la tortuga aguanta al jefe amb la turra

Li posen dates límit i neda per cobrar

Jo he trobat el millor clima al bell mig de l'huracà

I amb el cant de les sirenes em deixo emportar

And now the turtle puts up with my boss and his pestering

They give it deadlines and it swims to get paid

I have found the best climate in the very centre of the hurricane

And I let the mermaid's song take me

Puja el sol, que és allà on la vida crema

Un banyet sense pudors passejant per la platgeta

I quan ja és fosc ballem la marimorena

Noto com la pell cada dia és més morena

The sun comes up, that's where life burns

A little bathe without shame, taking a walk on the little beach

And when it's dark we dance the "Marimorena"

I can feel how my skin is darker every day

#Repeat chorus#

Mai tindré allò que desitjo, és igual per on passa

Tot allò que necessito està entre el cel i la platja

Que s'enlairi l'avió, jo segueixo de festa

Del final del sopar, fins que acabi la gresca

La nostra veu va pujant com la marea

I'll never have what I wish for, it doesn't matter where it passes by

Everything I need is between the sky and the beach

May the airplane take flight, I'm still partying

From the end of dinner until the party ends

Our voices keep going up like the tides

#Repeat chorus#

[shep-the-bat]

JERRY+ U

You sat by the lake not far from your friend Jerry's house to read Frankenstein. Jerry had recommended you read it sometime- and now was the time. Jerry ran through the trees  crying, holding a little glass poodle and a copy of Frankenstien. “Jerry?!?” you called out. You dropped your book, and it slid in the lake slowly.

“JERRY!!” you yelled as you ran to him. Jerry sat down on some haystacks, and you sat next to him. “Di- Dia- Diana!!” Jerry said as he clenched your fist. you blush but jerry doesn't notice

“Jerry, did Diana break up with you because you're poor?”

“y/n, i loved her. I thought she loved me too. But all she cares about is the fact that we’re apples and oranges.”

“Jerry.. I'm so sorry.. But you have me and- Anne and your siblings.” 

You pull out some of your 50 cent coins and put them in jerry’s pocket

“Keep them, please!” you say with passion, because you know he needs the money.

“Let's go get some dinner. Use the money and buy some new clothes.”

“Thank you, y/n i'll see you later.”

You walk away , to your house to change into a nice dress and corset. When you get home you get undressed and pick out a nice baby blue corset, and blue velvet dress with your  favorite, puff sleeves. You know you have a little crush on Jerry, and he has a crush on you too. You walk out the door and meet Jerry at the most fancy diner in the town.

“It's very nice to see you.” Jerry said.

“Are you feeling any better..?”

“Now that you’re here.” 

You know he just flirted with you, but you don't want to flirt back, because you don't want him to feel forced into a relationship with you.

“Lets go sit down.” you suggest.

You sit down, and look at him intensively and your faces move closer together.

You were very nervous because this was going to be your first kiss.  His soft lips rub against yours and his breath smells like fresh cherries.

“I-I-I love you y/n.”

“Me too jerry.” 

You lean in for another and kiss him again.

Years later you had 4 kids and we happily married.

[welldonekhushi]

Buenos Dias/noches (whatever it is for your country)

I have a question for u Arjun

If u can be with diner with anyone dead or alive

Doesn’t have to be romantic diner just fun

Buenos dias! It's afternoon for me now, hehe! ◉⁠‿⁠◉

"I'd prefer to have dinner all by myself. Unless I have to bring my wife otherwise, no." Arjun sighed.