#my wife was the queen or whatever

[lazycranberrydoodles]

everybody go home. this is my magnum opus

[chick-it-out]

How do you feel about being called a dude? (For complimenting you reasons)

im dude (90s lesbian edition)

[ziracona]

Oh my god it all happened exactly like I said it would ToT and Peter was so mean! "I know why you did it-" "--To help my friend!" "--and because you're a criminal, and I was an idiot for expecting more" PETER. Like I get it he's got a skeleton in his closet now and that's a fucked up thing to do to someone, but the boy HAD. NO. CHOICE. And also Peter! Peter Burke!! ASAC PETER BURKE?? You've done illegal shit before! What about the Burke 7 or whatever number? What about telling Neal to flee the Marshals when it was illegal because 'He didn't deserve it'? You were right!!! You already know that the law is not always what is just, and the just thing is the right thing, you just cannot apply it to yourself right now! PETER. PETER

God El is fighting for Neal's life right now. Our woman in the trenches carrying his broken body through the gunfire trying to save that relationship. She's so right and bless.

Jones is NOT helping and it would be fine if Dianna was there to balance him out but she just had a BABY and is on maternity leave and it's a perfect storm of hell TuT

And now Hagen has Neal's stupid girlfriend who it's been so so clear is evil since her first scene but he's too fool to see he's getting played and she's been 'kidnapped' by (read: working with) Hagen and Neal won't go to Peter bc Peter basically told him to go die, and everyone but Mozzie and El is making terrible decisions every 3 seconds and

[midnightdemonhunter]

(IT'S ALL IN MY HEAD BUT I WANT NON FICTION) NO ONE'S TOUCHED ME THERE IN A DAMN HOT MINUTE!

[phoenixcatch7]

*Slams fic down on your desk like an interrogator does a newspaper*

Absolutely phenomenal dp x dc fic. Awesome concept brilliant plot incredible execution. Pretty much The Single best supporting/mc oc I have ever encountered, such good characterisation, super interactions and relationships, we are healing and growing in this house tonight lads!!!!

[wonder-worker]

"As regards women whose monuments depict a livery collar, the traditional supposition which saw ladies as appendages of their husbands should be revised. It may be true that some women did have livery collars depicted on their memorials in right of their husbands, but there are examples of those who were probably awarded a collar for their own royal service [...] Elizabeth Donne, wife of Sir John Donne, is depicted along with her husband wearing a collar of suns and roses with a white lion pendant in Hans Memling’s Donne Triptych. As she was one of Queen Elizabeth Woodville’s gentlewomen, receiving a £10 annuity, it is likely that she received a collar in this capacity. The same can be said of Margaret, wife of Nicholas Gaynesford (d. 1498), whose brass at All Saints’, Carshalton (Surrey), survives. Although her husband has no collar, Margaret is depicted in a ‘choker’ collar of suns and roses. According to the tomb inscription, she served in the households of both Elizabeth Woodville and her daughter Elizabeth of York."

-Matthew Ward, "The Livery Collar in Late Medieval England and Wales: Politics, Identity and Affinity"

[persephoneism]

Once again seeing people claim Persephone was A Minor. Once again I would like to know where they got that information from

[knizuu]

I wanna cry, what is this banner-

[widevibratobitch]

advising my mom on the affair with that dude when the more she tells me about him, the more i hate him and the more im #teamwife... 💀💀💀

[sysig]

I somehow forgot how fun Spider Bites is to draw ♥ (Patreon)

[geminipixels]

Mrs. and Mr. Celeste for Generation 2

(Yes, Omar took her last name. And he has no shame about it.)

[widowshill]

Character bingo: Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, the woman the myth the legend

Her.

[beastsovrevelation]

I said I have 4 storylines of Good Omens fanfiction (including the Crossover with Legion). Had I said that today, I would've lied. There's five.

["Diary entry" under the cut, so there's no litany on an unwilling scroller's feed]

NOTE: I haven't seen S2 of GO, not do I intendt to, so beware of canon divergence

Well... The 5th one is less a coherent storyline, more a concept. I was playing Gardenscapes, and suddenly thought "What if F!Crowley were my Antichrist's mother?"

You know, maybe Crowley owed Satan a new Antichrist, or something. I guess, she'd have screwed up this one, too... Well, she'll gladly take over the world, she just won't destroy it.

The conversation (between myself and myself) went about like this:

Me: ...

Also me: what if?..

Me: for fuck's sake, not again

Also me: Lady Crowley...

Me: please stop

Also me: Was Maxine's mother?

Me: whyever would she be her mother?

Also me: because she owed Satan for the ruined Apocalypse, and had to carry the next Antichrist

Me: Maxine doesn't want the Apocalypse, she's a sane politician

Also me: works for Crowley

Me: she also has black hair and blue eyes

Also me: Satan has black hair and blue eyes, Benedict's not his faceclaim, anyway

Me: fine, why would her last name be Frost?

Also me: Satan goes by Lucian Frost on Earth

Me: why would he ever go by the surname Frost?

Also me: a not to Dante's Inferno

Me: I hate you

Also me: 🤪

Me: you're killing me

Also me: with pleasure 😊

[End dialogue.]

Now, like I always do with any new idea, I of course collapsed down into the daydreaming pit, which often turns fanfiction, and original stories alike, into Tolkien-level complex universes you'd need a lifetime to fully explore.

I thought, it could be funny. When Max meets Anathema and Newt's daughter Agnes in Oxford, they can bond over their unhinged families.

"You'll probably think my parents are weird as fuck, they have a pet raccoon they dye black, and pretend is a cat."

"Honey, no, I get you. My mother mentally abuses her house plants, and wears sunglasses at midnight."

Rich people things, I guess. I mean, they're both nepo babies, who would ask questions about why their families are weird. Who would ask questions about why a rising star politician's mother mentally abuses her house plants.

There's a lot of potential for comedy. Crowley's issues with her sister-in-law, for example. Satan and Michael... They have a strange dynamic. The last time they spoke to each other is mentioned in the Book of Jude. But, they both have the familia ante omnia, blood is everything mentality. They support each other's political aim. They would kill for each other. And, Michael feels very protective (possessive, even) over her niece (the family mediator, why do you think she's a perfect diplomat). It would annoy the Hell (Heaven?) out of Crowley. Still, in the end, she and Michael would probably kill for each other, also.

I'd imagine Satan forbidding any contact with his disowned son... I don't know. In my fanfictions (where he is a thing), Maxine and Adam usually do have eventual contact, and consider themselves siblings (do keep in mind, though, Max would always choose her father over her brother). Satan doesn't mind her not wanting the Apocalypse, as long as she's loyal to him. He sees good points in her arguments against. He never really cared for it, anyway, it was mostly the armies.

Also... Maxine rides horses, ever since she was a child. Crowley doesn't get along with animals, everyone knows that. But. She's the nightmare equestrian mom (think soccer mom, only worse - much worse). How does she get along with Max's animals?.. Well, Titan (the hellhound) actually likes her. Ulysses (the horse) tolerates her. Horus (the falcon - yes, Max's so posh she's in the falconry hobby)... I have no idea. He'd probably sit on her shoulder, sometimes. But, Crowley's anxious around him, since snakes aren't usually friends with raptors.

At first, I thought about conflict between Crowley and Maxine. For example, her refusing to ride in the Bentley, because she (every author must place pieces of them in their characters) despises Queen. But... I don't like writing that. I like writing loving, healthy relationships between mothers and daughters. So, it's more "What do you mean you're bad at being a demon? You caused the Fall of Humankind. None of them can compare to you", and"You'll be the perfect Secretary-General of the United Nations, honey". We love mothers and daughters supporting each other here. ❤

I even thought of cute scenarios, like Crowley coiling in Max's crib, because she's anxious, and wants to protect her baby.

Max is fiercely protective of Crowley. That's why she'd be in conflict with Beelzebub - funny enough, for a similar season to the other stories (Beelzebub causes the death of her adoptive mother, after she realizes she's raising the Antichrist). Beelzebub hates Crowley, and the Beast of Rev. will show her very sharp teeth, should someone threaten her mom. Satan's on his family's side, don't worry.

Actually... You know why this story is cool? Horrific things happen to Crowley in my other fics. Not this one. Actually, she's doing great. She's the Queen of Hell. Damn... She'd outrank Beelzebub. She could terrorize... Her? Like I said, I haven't seen S2, Ι don't know the pronouns, and I don't care, you can get them right if it matters to you (I just know in S2 an actress from Bridgerton played her (?)).

As for Satan/Crowley... As long at Crowley's female, I don't mind it. I like it. Good for you, you little serpent tempter. Because, you know I always romanticise the Devil.

Have I any ideas for smut? You bet I do. I even have crack ideas... You know that picture of a female wolf protecting a male wolf's throat? Think that, but Crowley's coiled around Satan in her snake form, and snaps at anyone who wanders close.

So, I let this out into the web. Now I'll have to actually do it. Wish me luck. 😑

[fazcinatingblog]

He's mentioned the relocation from Sydney to Melbourne a few times so I finally asked why and he's just like sigh/pause/etc like come on, you can talk about the son's mother to me, what's she like, what's her name, did she grow up in Melbourne, how did you meet her, does she have Facebook, which gym does she go to oh the F45 that's the same one as me wait no that's a gym I have heard of, what's her Instagram, is she Chinese as well, no I didn't ask any of this

[shmlnbstrcnd]

- Helly asking Mark in the pilot if she was dead and the Severed Floor was Hell.

- Mark and Gemma's story being a spin on the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. A man who tries to rescue his deceased wife from being trapped in the Underworld.

- "Well boss, I guess this is the part where I should tell you to go to hell. Except you're already here."

- The musical notes that play during the elevator transition of Outie to Innie being a G and C#. A tritone, also known as the Devil's Interval.

- Mark mentioning Persephone in the latest episode, the Queen of the Underworld. Whose life is split in two, spending half her time down there, and the other half up above in the world of the living.

- "You know, my mother was an atheist. She used to say that there was good news and bad news about hell. The good news is, hell is just the product of a morbid human imagination. The bad news is, whatever humans can imagine, they can usually create."

[specsthesecond]

🃏👑🃏

You were married off to the king as a young noble woman. The arrangement was rather rushed in your opinion, not that anyone asked for it. The king only needed a show queen, a quiet but present symbol for the kingdom and you suited well enough for that.

He didn’t need a wife for pleasure, he had plenty mistresses for that and he seemed to be in no rush for a successor. You suspected it was because he had no intent to hand over power to anyone else anytime soon. Although, that's just what you assumed, others never blamed him for it. You were always the target of the hushed whispers and silent accusations of infertility, unruliness or even infidelity when it came to the subject of an heir.

The people's gossip aside, it was an easy marriage. You didn’t have to share a bed with a man you didn’t love and you didn’t have to raise his children. Many more deserving women would kill for such a life, which only made you feel worse about the utter discontent you felt. It was the loneliness, mostly. Such a privileged life and yet not a single companion in the world to share it with.

The king and his advisers only speak to you when they need you to make an appearance as queen. Their orders always dripping with condescension and near mockery. They’ve made you smile and wave for hours, waltz until your feet blister and recite a holy text’s worth of pompous poetry, but this most recent ploy was particularly concerning.

You sit on your throne next to your husband, hands in your lap, staring at the colourful figure in front of you. The bells on his ridiculous hat jingle as he bows his head so low they almost touch the marble floor. Quiet chuckles emit from the nobility crowding the massive ballroom and the unease in your stomach only builds.

When the jester picks his head back up, you can’t help fiddling even more with your dress, just like your husband's advisers have scolded you not to. The jester silently stares with his sheet white face, big red grin painted across his mouth. You want to shrink under the jesters stare, the blue diamonds painted over his eyes make his gaze feel piercing.

The king grins when he catches your nervous gaze.

“Do you like your surprise, my love? I thought you could use some cheering up lately. As did my advisers.”

He chuckles, looking over at the old men in the corner of the room. They smile back, amusing in a joke you're not a part of.

You just nod your head as politely as possible. You don’t know what's happening, but whatever they have planned can’t be good.

The jester skips up to where you and the king sit. He gives an exaggerated curtsy to the king, earning a laugh from him and the various nobility.

The bells jingle as he springs back up and steps closer to you. He stretches his hand out, you stare at it and then back to your husband.

“The fool wants a dance, my dear. Give him a dance.”

You try to hide the apprehension on your face and reach for the jesters white glove-covered hand. He doesn’t squeeze or pull you up like you expected, instead he holds it gently, waiting for your next move. You rise from your throne and cast one more glance at your husband, who only offers a self-satisfied grin in return. This whole time all they've wanted from you is a perfect queen and now they want you to dance with a fool?

The jester walks you to the middle of the room, encircled by leering nobility. He places your hand on his waist before dramatically correcting the mistake and placing it on his shoulder instead, looking bashfully to the audience who snicker at the joke. He takes your other hand in his and gives you a little nod before the musicians starts playing and he guides you into step.

Now obviously you know very well how to dance, you enjoyed it quite a bit when you were little although, now it’s just become another part of your queenly duties. Did any of that even matter now? Now that it’s clear the king and his peers see you as just as much of a joke as the man you’re waltzing with.

Your deep thoughts are broken when said man unexpectedly twirls you in a dizzying circle. You flail slightly in your surprise but you’re brought back into his arms just as quickly to continue your steps. You fully focus on him now and you wonder what his features look like under that gaudy clown makeup. Even in the bright chandelier lights of the ball room, you can’t make out the colour of his irises. Earlier, you thought they were hazel but now it seems they're an impossibly dark brown.

The dark pools look as if they could swallow all the colour from his face and your own. Actually, has he blinked even once during this dance, or at all for that matter?

You’re not sure if it was your mistake or the jester’s but you step on his foot and he suddenly pulls away from you. He clutches his foot and jumps up and down in theatrical pain. The room bursts into laughter, bellows and cackles. These elite men and women delight in the humiliating performance you’re both putting on for them. It takes everything in you not to cave right there in the middle of it.

While the jeering continues, you try your best to steel yourself, replacing the need to cry with spiteful compliance. If they want a dance, they can have a dance.

You curtsy at the jester, offering an apology and hold your hand out to him. He looks around and then points to himself. You can’t help but smile and nod your head.

He takes your hand and when the music starts back up again, you step in time to the beautiful melody. You try and put your full attention on the jester, not anyone else in the large room, which proves to be quite easy as he is by far the most interesting person present. You can just make out the small smile under the red painted grin, his relaxed eyebrows under the bright blue diamonds, the crook of his pointy nose.

While moving in sync, you become almost lost in trying to map out his face under the make-up. You look for imperfections in the face paint but can’t seem to find a single smudge or brush streak, in fact the paint looks impressively even, like it’s a second skin.

It truly does feel like its only you two and the music, for the first time in a long time you feel wanted by someone else.

But when the king grows bored he demands new entertainment.

He motions for the musicians to stop their music and you’re brought back to reality. The jester bows for the crowd, he gestures to you and you offer a little curtsy before being escorted back to your throne. Form there, you watch the rest of the strange performers routine. He juggles an impressive amount of miscellaneous items, he folds himself into ridiculous positions, walks on his hands and generally makes a fool of himself for the crowd.

You watch in delight, though your husband doesn't seem as interested as he was before your little dance.

You think about the jester all the way back to your courters that night. You think about him as you slip on your night dress and slide into bed, and you think of him as you stare up at the ceiling for possibly hours. There is too much on your mind, the fun of watching the jesters performance has subsided and thoughts of what this means for your reputation and position in the court remain constant. A sigh leaves you as you lift yourself up and open the doors to your balcony.

You lean on the balcony ledge and stare out at the starry night sky, not even the strange jester can distract from the humiliation ritual you were just a part of. He could have been in on it for all you know and you're just naive enough to think he was being kind to you during the whole thing.

A shuffling sound from behind you makes you turn your head and it takes you just a split second to register the very colourful jester standing in the corner of your balcony.

The screech you let out is smothered by your own hand. You clutch the edge of the balcony, staring at the slender man who puts his hands up, waving apologies while moving his chest as if laughing, nothing comes out of his mouth. You clutch your heart, breathing quite heavily as you stare at him bewildered. You look around trying to discern where he could have come from, and how you only now hear his bells jingle as he waves his hands, still apologising.

He steps closer and stands tall in front of you, he’s much more imposing than you remember him being. He holds up one finger and then mimics a waltz. His head bows low and he holds his hand out for you to take. He’s asking for another dance but is there really much of a choice at all? Has this also been planned? If you say no, will he just leave? Do you want him to leave? The dance you shared was the most delightful time you've had in so, so long

You stare at him for a good while, he stays with his hand outstretched, bent over at a near 90 degree angle, not straining even a little. The longer you wait, the more uncomfortable you feel in his unwavering presence.

Against your better judgement, you reach out and touch his gloved hand. He curls his fingers around yours and stands upright. You let him bring your hand to his shoulder, place his hand on your waist and step closer. This time is different from the last time. Now it really does feel like his attention is only on you, not with the other guests, not with the performance. It should be frightening, but you find no malice in his eyes, no ridicule in his demeanor.

As he steps into motion, you begin a slow waltz in the small space of your balcony. It's slower than in the ballroom, it's more intimate. While you dance with this complete stranger, your thoughts run rampant, you second guess your judgement again and again. Maybe the kindness you sense from him is a ruse. Maybe he is here on behalf of the king, setting up another degrading show. He could even be an assassin, come to rid you quietly in the middle of the night.

You would deserve such a fate for giving in so easily. You slowly spin in his arms and this time you don't hear the snide laughs of the nobility, just the sounds of the night. Both of you step in time and you let him guide you to the edge of your balcony. You hold your breath as he dips you over the ledge. Your eyes squeeze shut and you let out what could be your last breath ready for him to let go and let you fall.

But he doesn't let go, your grip on his shoulders never slips. You open your eyes, a bit blurry from wetness but you can make out his face, because it's right in front of you even though you're bent over the balcony far enough that your feet have left the ground. You stare back at his unrelenting gaze. In the dim light of the moon his eyes look even darker than before and something new swims in the deep black of his pupils, something sad.

They are lidded as they examine your face, your entire being. His hand on your back presses your chest further into his until you're sure he can feel your rapid heartbeat through your very flesh.

He lifts you upright again, turning you away from the ledge and out of harms way. You’re still chest to chest, he’s so close but you can’t feel him breathe. Your wide eyes stare up at him, trying to discern his expression. Your breaths are short and your grip on him hasn’t let up a bit.

He brings his hands up to your cheeks, the warm fabric of his gloves on your cold cheeks has you easing into them far too easily. His eyes examine every inch of your face while his thumbs stroke your cheeks, you can just barely see the frown on his lips behind the painted smile. He brings your face closer to his, slow and methodical, making it very clear what his next move is. You’re not sure if this was due to his own hesitation or to give you time to pull away, regardless you let him inch closer and closer until his lips grazed yours and you finally feel him breathe out one long breath.

The kiss is deep. Despite being slow and gentle, it still forces a struggled breath from you. You would’ve thought he tasted like paint but he doesn’t, he’s warm and inviting. It’s nice.

Your eyes close, surrendering all hesitation to the stranger in your arms. Fingers dig into the fabric of his puffy striped sleeves as your body melts further into his. You quickly learn to breathe through your nose, out of necessity and unwillingness to part from his affections.

You let him work your mouth open, slipping his tongue inside. The feeling is so foreign, you can’t help but whine. The backs of his fingers flutter over your throat and you shiver.

His tongue fills your mouth, sliding along yours and savouring your taste. The wet muscle reaches far into your mouth, farther than you thought normal but your experience is slim and you don’t have the awareness to fully question it. It’s overwhelming. Your knees tremble and he lowers you both to the cold stone floor. His tongue reaches into your throat, a feat you know is impossible.

You’re too lost to even think of the implications of this, as you gag and convulse around the thick muscle in your throat that no longer feels like a normal tongue. He reaches so far, your eyes roll back, your lower region warms uncomfortably and you forget how to breathe. You tap his shoulders quickly, a plea for air, and he retreats from your throat. He holds you as you cough and heave, wiping the spit from your chin.

You look at him with the an expression full of shock and fear and bewilderment and every other emotion shooting through your fuzzy mind. His expression is hard to discern but he seems both amused and sad.

He stands and brings you up on shaky legs. When he starts to back away, you panic and clutch his hands tighter. You don’t know what you were hoping for. That he would stay? That he would spend the night with you?

His face is full of what you hope is longing and not pity, you know what pity looks like. He holds you close in what you know is a goodbye embrace. He presses his forehead to yours and he places one last short kiss on your lips. Its playfull and very much not what you’d consider a proper good bye kiss. You search his gaze and you’re met with rather boyish mirth, lifting your spirits slightly. Maybe this isn't goodbye then?

He winks at you and takes your hand, spinning you around once, twice and three times before he lets go. When you rebalance yourself and look around the balcony, there is no sight of the jester. It's just the pitying sounds of the night and your only other witness, the moon. Like he was never there at all.