#late night ramblings of a madwoman

[kit-kat-jo]

i really need a cyn au badly guys. just imagine. uzi eats the solver, tessa’s body fades away but cyn is left behind. her core is intact and completley void of the solver, it’s in uzi now. her eyes are white because uzi sapped away the yellow in hers. cyn’s still small and her limbs are still janky, her movements shakey, even moreso without fleshy insides weighing her down. she doesn’t have a voice, or at least forgets how to talk for a while, because the solver has been talking through her for so long. she has a horrible, horrible time, dealing with hazy memories of things she wasn’t in control of, of horrible things the solver did through her, all the souls trapped within that died by her body’s hands. n and uzi agree to take her in, to help her through it. v adjusts as she learns that she’s somebody completely different, apart from the solver, someone she never truly knew. she becomes n’s little sister, but for real this time. she becomes all of theirs.

someone help make this au with me im so srs

[mojomcm-fandom]

Edit: Now that it's not late at night and I have my laptop out, I'm editing this so it sounds less like the ramblings of a madwoman (tho there's a limited amount I can do seeing as it is, in fact, the ramblings of a madwoman lol). Also formatting and clarity and any additional theories/headcanons/whatever I think of while editing this.

Partly crack, partly copium, but I've got some theories/crossover/au thing going on that I wanted to write down so here goes:

Crack/Copium/Theories:

All 3 of the trailblazer kids are actually "dead" aeons.

Stelle/Caelus: Akivili (Herta makes us LARP as Akivili in Hertian Realm and we're known as the Trailblazer while Akivili is known as the Trailblaze so idk I know the player character looks like Nanook but they ain't dead soooo...)

Dan Heng: Long (maybe the High Elder Vidyadhara is actually Long's own reincarnation but they have no idea bc memory wipe. TBH makes no sense for the Permanence to be dead)

March 7th: Idrila (this one's a bit of a stretch so bear with me. The Aeon of Beauty could be HoHe Elysia expy and March is also kinda Elysia expy so ??? And March was froze in ice without memory so it's totally possible that's Idrila's mysterious disappearance)

Also:

Sampo is Aha. He gives strong vibes of being a Masked Fool in canon, but I think it'd be funny if he's actually the Elation.

Pom-pom was created by Akivili to protect the Express after Aha blew it up. Pom-pom is also a proficient marksman. This is bc of some canon evidence alluding to Pom-pom actually being really powerful (Yanqing and Welt both make mention of it iirc) and the engine of the train looking like a revolver. (Also headcanon that the Astral Express itself was made from one of Akivili's twin revolver pistols. Perhaps the other has the ability to summon the train?)

Lan has not and will not kill Yaoshi bc yin-yang/life and death balance and also bc what is a hunter without prey. The Hunt had no issue killing the Propagation, so this seems like the most reasonable reason why the Hunt has been after the Abundance so long without killing them.

On aeons and the relations between paths (I might end up making a relationship chart?):

Death Aeons: Nanook is unnatural death (think murder, natural disaster, etc.), while IX is natural entropic death (like degradation from aging), Lan is controlled, balanced death (think like hunters/predators keeping ecosystem in balance), and Oroboros is the death caused by one's own greed (think pollution, overconsumption). Terminus is the end of time and final death of the universe.

Life Aeons: Tayzzyronth is overabundant life (think how invasive species population boom bc outcompeting native species for resources), Yaoshi is overabundant continuation of life (think unnaturally prolonged life), and Long is eternity (without change or growth, entropy comes for all).

Mythus and Nous are polar opposites in path direction. Akivili is midway between the two (to trailblaze is to turn the unknown into the known).

Some paths are directly at odds with each other (opposite directions), some paths have overlap (too much overlap leads to one path consuming the other like with Ena and Xipe), and some paths are neutral (running perpendicular to the others). Mostly this matters in relation to pathstriders who walk multiple paths, as it is extremely unlikely to find, for example, someone simultaneously walking both the path of the Hunt and the Abundance.

Hooh's is the ultimate neutral path. Akivili's is also a fairly neutral path, though slight odds with Mythus's (to seek to make the unknown known doesn't really work with the idea nothing can be known) and maybe Aha (just bc Aha is a jerk and like Herta said, surely Akivili would've taken offense to Aha blowing up the Express). Idrila, Xipe, Fuli, Aha, and Qlipoth also have relatively neutral paths, though Qlipoth and Fuli are at odds with Nanook and Mythus. Xipe sometimes does not get along with Aha, if Aha is being particularly antagonistic.

Crossover/AU (Genshin):

Traveler and twin are Akivili (one soul two bodies, don't think too hard about it). Akivili is presumed dead by HSR universe bc Sustainer of Heavenly Principles imprisoned Akivili on Teyvat (a world at the fringes of the known universe/Yggdrasil/Irmunsul/Imaginary Tree). Claiming that they are siblings is far easier to explain than that they are two halves of the same god.

Zhongli/Morax is a high elder (do non-high elders have the ability to turn fully into dragons? are there any high elders who are not Dan Heng? idk) vidyadhara who arrived on Teyvat shortly before rebirth. Idk weird Teyvat magic or something made his rebirth cycle this time 10x longer than normal (should only be 600-700 years between rebirth and he's canonically 6000 years old). He is unaware of anything HSR related bc memory wipe from rebirth and nobody around to explain things.

The Imaginary Tree in HI3 and HSR and Irminsul in Genshin are the same tree (Yggdrasil), but some may only be branches of the other

So yeah, stay tuned to see HoYo prove my theories and headcanons wrong in the upcoming years.

[sidefanficaccounttohidemyshame]

Summary: Marko makes you dinner sometimes.

Brought to you by; my personal philosophy on how much immortality would fucking suck, how much I want to bone the lost boys, and how much I love Italian food, although I like lobster ravioli with vodka sauce way more than stuffed shells u guys it's literally perfect. Also I decided to write a full fic for once lmao 🤪🤪🤪

Warnings: very brief mention of police brutality but the cops die lol, some mentions of sexual content, cursing, drug mentions, general violence, unedited ramblings of a madwoman who's procrastinating finishing the third draft of her novel.

Black reader, mention of reader wearing a bonnet and earrings, and having locs!! But I don't Think any specific gender stuff. ***Non-Black people are 100% allowed to read and interact btw just please don't be racist lol

Marko would cook you Italian food sometimes.

It would always come out weird, and he would only do it out of the blue.

It'd be in the middle of the night, when they'd all decided to completely raid your house because you'd worked an early shift that morning and were sleeping in entirely too late for their tastes.

They'd be clamoring and making a bunch of noise at first before they realized half an hour had passed and you were still snoring.

It was late, and they'd eaten already. They wouldn't go as far as to brush their teeth for you, but a quick swig from the now empty bottle of tequila belonging to someone at the bonfire would be enough to take away the taste of iron in their mouths.

Dwayne would buy gum every once in a while. He wanted you to feel it one day—the steel warmth of a fresh kill on your tongue melding with the taste of booze, weed, and the same damn thing on his, but he couldn't pretend there was no part of him that liked you not knowing.

None of them would if they ever decided to be honest with themselves about it.

Sometimes it was nice to hear you snoring.

You'd wake up, somewhere around three in the morning, you'd guess. You were still too tired to accurately read the clock on your nightstand.

You'd adjust your bonnet and step out into the living room, following the smell that'd permeated your home and made your mouth water in your dreams. You were never surprised to see them.

You'd say they'd follow you to the ends of the earth if you ever decided to be honest with yourself.

You were surprised to see Marko, standing at your stove in your green tiled kitchen, looking at your pink non-stick pans with a scowl on his face while the rest of your boys talked about where they'd go once you woke up.

The answer to their conversation was absolutely nowhere. You were still wearing the bamboo hoop earrings you'd forgotten to take off the night before and rubbing at the indents they'd left in your neck, shuddering every time you'd brush against the scars and bruises they'd left on you simply because you'd begged for it so nicely.

There wasn't a chance you'd step out of the house until Monday morning. Every shift made you wonder if you should just ask.

For their lives, or lack thereof, for their blood, for forever with them in the same town doing the same things until the sun exploded and you'd die with the people you'd grow to see as prey.

Every time you thought about it—Eternity—it was too much. Too big. Way too big a thought for three in the morning.

"Hey Doll," David drawled. You'd mumble out a hello back, a sly smile on your face as you shuffled towards him wrapping your arms around him—partially because the cool leather of his jacket and his big arms wrapped around you felt nice, but mostly because you were tired of supporting your own weight.

Paul was on you in a second, kissing whatever skin he could reach from his awkward position before you turned your head to make out with him, drowsy and horny and happy to be touched.

"Baby," he'd pout after you'd pull back, "you said we'd hang on the boardwalk tonight. That band you like is playing."

You scowl even then, "I like them, but not enough to go out after a twelve hour shift. You guys can go—" your words were cut off by an obnoxiously loud yawn, "—see them if you want, I'm off for the weekend thank god, I'll be here tomorrow."

Dwayne would come up to you then, rubbing your back and pushing a loc that had somehow escaped your bonnet back in place. He'd be frowning. He'd never get used to seeing you tired, or hungry, or thirsty, or anything near the realm of unhappy if he was honest.

He'd never tell you to quit though. He'd just imply it. And maybe imply how fun it would be to commit arson again to his men.

You'd jump a bit in David's arms when the incredibly kitsch Garfield kitchen timer you'd begged them to buy you with money they stole from someone that only a small part of you hoped was still alive. You regretted getting it often, but not often enough.

Marko reached to grab the dish with his bare hands and you had to yell to remind him to put on gloves. Even in your sleep-deprived state you were shocked he'd actually listened.

Soon you were being ushered to your couch, the still on tv in your living room playing nothing but static. You needled through your collection of tapes for all of two seconds before you picked up the first thing that looked like it'd be some decent background noise, shoving into your VCR and opening your eyes for long enough to watch that look they all got in their eyes when you turned on the tv.

You think David had seen one growing up, he'd mention he'd been around since sometime in the fifties, but from the way he described his child you were sure he hadn't owned one.

Dwayne, you think, worried a lot about it. He was the second oldest out of all of them and he'd seen things that you were sure you couldn't imagine, he'd been around since before this country was stolen and he'd lived through hells you wish you could erase from his mind but the cast of light from the screen on his face illuminated that glimmer of wonder and fear in his eyes. You hoped one day he'd tell you what he was afraid of.

Paul looked like a kid in a candy store nearly every second of every day. All you had to day was smile at him or lift up your top and he'd start giggling like a school girl. He quieted whenever you put on a movie on. He'd lift up his arm like he expected you'd always be there to take up the space next to him, and he'd go back and forth from staring at you and the tv like he wanted something he couldn't have. You didn't think he'd had many moments nowadays where he couldn't get what he wanted. If his smile didn't look so fake, you'd think maybe it'd be good for him.

Marko was old. You didn't think so at first, no one would. He had a baby face that would've gotten him carded at every event you went to if it wasn't for mind control and he acted on impulse more than any person or animal you'd ever met. There were wild, rabid squirrels that acted with more caution, thought, and patience than Marko. But he was old. He'd never told you how old, but you could see it. It hadn't taken long.

He'd always walk on the side of you closest to the road, he'd hold open every door, and he'd never let you pay for your own drinks, food, stuffed animals, arcade games—he'd practically jumped a carnie once to get you a stuffed animal that slept next to you in bed every night since then.

But they all did that, sometimes to a less dramatic extent, but it wasn't anything new.

You knew Marko was old when he stared at a stamp with the Mona Lisa on it and smiled, turning to you and saying something in Italian before wincing to himself and shaking his head. He refused to tell you what it was he said and dragged you over to go pick out a bracelet for him to shoplift for you.

You knew he was old when he stared at the water on the beach and told you how much he hates how murky it is here.

"I wouldn't have left if I'd known the water would look the same," he'd said.

He had told you when you'd asked that he meant Italy. He wouldn't answer when you asked him when.

Marko never looked at the tv much. You hoped it was because he didn't care, but you knew he'd never tell you.

You'd shoved half of a stuffed shell into your face, thankful you'd had ricotta and even more thankful they'd used the ground pork you'd started defrosting that morning, you wouldn't have had it in you to use it until next Sunday, probably.

"How is it, sweet cheeks?" He'd called you cocoa powder, chocolate cake, cocoa butter, and all other variants of food related nicknames a good three days into knowing you. It took a long conversation about race with you and Dwayne to get him to stop, and he'd settled for sweet cheeks. You wondered how he could go so long without realizing how bad things had been. You'd never seen him look more angry than when you'd talked about all the times the Santa Carla police department had followed you, threatened you, hit you, called you out your name. They all had, but he'd looked surprised first and foremost. He swore on that day when he'd come back with blood trailing down his face and emptied a bag full of police badges on to the ground in front of where you stood that he'd never eat a black person from that day forward.

"Reparations." He'd smiled. It was all red-stained teeth.

There wasn't much of you that felt bad.

"It's perfect," you said through a second mouthful of pasta. It wasn't, it needed salt, the shells were just a bit too undercooked, and there wasn't enough oregano for your tastes, but that didn't mean it wasn't heavenly.

He'd made it. He'd made it for you, because he'd wanted to. And you were tired, and a little tipsy from the glass of moscato someone had slid in your hand sometime after you'd climbed onto Paul's lap. It could've tasted like wet cardboard, you would've been thrilled regardless.

"Where'd you learn to cook like that?" You asked.

You were just coherent enough to see that sad look on Paul's face make it's way into Marko's. His big doe eyes creasing at the corners.

'He'll never get crows feet,' you thought, 'probably wouldn't if he was human either.'

You knew there was no answer coming, so you turned your attention to the little boy from the never ending story hiding out in his attic and beginning to read his book.

"Rome." He whispered.

You didn't think you were supposed to hear him, even though you were sure he saw you freeze after he'd said it.

You looked at him from the other side of your small, dingy couch you'd forced them to help you move, check for bedbugs, and reupholster—as a fun bonding activity, of course.

There was a blood stain on the fabric that hadn't come out somewhere on the underside. It was such a pretty green you'd felt bad using hydrogen peroxide, so, you pretended.

Just like you'd pretend Marko wasn't looking at you like you were perfect. Like if he could he'd tattoo every forehead wrinkle, every breath you took, every pimple, split end, and scar into his brain.

Like you pretend he didn't ever look at you and wonder what life was like.

You beamed at him, and took another bite of the pasta, watching as his eyes shifted and he became your Marko again. The animal who wanted nothing more than to keep you safe, and fed, and on his cock. Or his fingers, or tongue, whatever kept you distracted for long enough to not notice how little of him was left.

How many times had David lied to you and told you how thrilling existing without any attachments was? How many times had Dwayne offered you his jacket and whispered something under his breath about how you wouldn't be needing it forever? How many times had Paul pouted and teased you when you'd told him you needed to pace yourself after he'd tossed back his thirtieth shot?

How many times would Marko recreate a recipe his Nonna probably taught him and pretend the years he'd spent traveling the world made up for the fact that he'd never gotten a chance to see her again?

You cringed when you heard the little boy screaming as his horse drowned in tar, scrambling for the remote and sighing with relief when David started fast-forwarding through the scene, like he always did.

One day you'd ask them. If they actually did think it was worth it.

Maybe one day they'd be honest with themselves. Maybe one day they'd let themselves mourn.

That day would come long after you'd mourned for them. Probably not too long after you'd start to mourn with them.

But that day was nowhere close to right now. Right now you'd finish your pasta and use the two hours left before sunrise to make out with them.

You promised yourself at least once every week that you'd talk about these moments forever.

No matter how much it may hurt to talk about.

[rockkandii]

Playlist

Hana: Wait- you like, WHO?!

Y/n: DONT! Hana, please, for the love of everything please don't lose it. Like I said, it's just a crush! Nothing crazy!

Hana: Oh come on, when do I ever 'lose it'

Y/n: Really..?

Hana: Uh, noted. But anyways, PLEASE tell me I heard you right!!

Y/n: Yeah, you did.. but, like I said it's just-

Hana: Yeah yeah, just a crush sure. But, I mean come on! You liking anyone is a miracle of its own but LUCIO?!

Y/n: GAH- can you not Shout his name please?!

Hana: Oop- ha, sorry. But seriously! You've got a crush on our designated music man?

Y/n: Well.. I mean yeah, we've been getting out on a lot of missions together lately and sometimes I'm a bit nervous before hand so he's been letting me listen to music on the way there to help calm me down and then.. well we got to talking and such and he's really interesting and ya know he's always been cute and- GAH im rambling! *Hiding their face while Hana is grinning like a madwoman*

Hana: So what I'm hearing is, you've gotten to know him and he's gotten to know you and nowwww we just need to find out if he feels the same?

Y/n: Oh lord, no Hana, please.. I couldnt. I don't need to know anything, for all I know he's just been very nice this whole time and it's one sided and I don't want it to be awkward..

Hana: Oh don't worry! You, don't need to do anything but stay here. Detective Hana is on the case, I'm a master of stealth and information gathering. He'll tell me everything without even knowing it.

**Later that night**

In the common room, Hana finally found Lucio who was scrolling through his phone while listening to music.

Hana: Hey Lucio! *Plops down next to him, scaring him out of his thoughts*

Lucio: Woah- oh! Hey Hana! What's up?

Hana: Oh nothing much, just been wandering around bored. How bout you?

Lucio: Oh ya know, just- listening to music, the usual. *Hana goes to look over his shoulder, but he leans the phone away a bit*

S-so uh, was there- did you- uh, didja need something?

Hana: Yes actually. *Stares at him squinting*

Lucio: Okay..? And that is?

Hana: Do you like y/n? *Lucio chokes on nothing trying to suck on a breath at hanas forwardness*

Lucio: Do i- huh?? Where'd you get that from? Why do you ask?

Hana: You're so nervous, so I take that as a yes? *Smirking at her totally "stealthy" accomplishment*

Lucio: *Sighs, setting his phone down and nodding* yeah, you got me. I've actually been trying to tell them for like, a week now but every time I try I get all jumbled up and can't get it out right. So, all day I've been putting together a playlist of songs that actually fit their vibe but also spell out what I'm tryin to say.

Hana: That's actually so cute, omg.. they'll be so happy, you totally gotta finish it and send it to them! *Hopping on the couch in happiness*

Lucio: Whoa wait, back it up, they'd actually be happy? Wait a minute, did they say something about me?

Hana: *Sweating in nervousness* uh- no? Oh wow look at the time! I've gotta go walk my mech, see ya later! *Bolts out of the room, leaving a blinking Lucio behind.

Lucio: Man, what?

**The next day, Hana returns from a last minute overnight mission.

Y/n: HANA

Hana: What- huh? What'd I do?! *Notices it's y/n running towards her* oh crap.

Y/n: HANA YOUR STEALTH SUCKS BUT I LOVE YOU

Hana: *Completely confused now as she's getting shaken back and forth* what even, huh??

Y/n: Lucio, he came to my room last night sometime after you and the others left for the mission and he sent me a playlist.. it was so sweet and had so many good songs but then all the titles clicked and he likes me back.. and after we talked about all that he also mentioned your not so subtle way of asking about his feelings.

Hana: *Nervous laughter* haha, yeaaaa.. well I mean it all worked out, yea?..

Y/n: Yes, yes it did. Now, you go get your rest. I'll be with Lucio in the library if you need me.

[serenit-teas]

This post includes minor spoilers regarding the final boss for Lies of P, please scroll over if you’d rather not take the chance <:)

It’s late and I can just tell that my thought process and writing won’t be coherent but I finally reached the nameless puppet and I felt compelled to share my silly little Lies of P thought of the night💙

So you know how before the game released there was that rumor going around that P was 6’3, but once the game came out and the models could really be analyzed it was revealed that he was much shorter than what people thought he was going to be?? Well idk if it’s just me or the way the angles or camera are working in the fight but the nameless puppet seems to be MUCH taller than P. This could simply be a throwaway design choice by Geppetto, a genuine estimate of Carlos height at this age after so many years, so he’d be at a better advantage when fighting/defending himself, so on and so forth, it could be for a number of reasons, but considering that the nameless puppet is more or less meant to be Carlo reborn adds some interesting thought to it all!

And as a fun little side note, think about the specter as well! If I do remember correctly he’s also taller than P, and while there isn’t confirmation of the identity of the specter the two main theories are that it’s either Carlos spirit or a P from the future! Maybe Carlo really is as tall as the nameless puppet, or maybe after reaching peak humanity and just like with his voice and hair, P continues to grow and become his own person! (Or maybe P just begs Venigni and Eugenie to make adjustments to his body and make him taller idk or care, but the concept is fun!)

It’s just a fun lil random thought that’s been pinging around ever since I made my way to the nameless puppet, and I couldn’t help but want to write a post about it! ^^ <- <-(I am a madwoman rambling I see a sliver of evidence that supports tall 6’3 P and I go lunging for it😳 ofc there is nothing wrong with loving short P he is a sweetie pie no matter what I am just!!! Deranged and ready to gnaw on canon like it’s a jaw breaker)

[an-admiring-bog]

xi. scene that takes place late at night in the kitchen

you come in to get your pies.

I have been baking

like a madwoman

for a week now.

there are three kinds of pie,

and bread pudding,

and muffins, and crumble.

I fill your bag

and begin to ramble,

to no end,

with no sense,

just the desperate vain mad hope

of holding on to you

a little longer.

you kiss me so gently.

when I look back at the door

you wave.

and I go in and the tears overflow at last,

right there amidst my pies.

@nosebleedclub prompts

[reemerarius]

So, I saw all the hubbub about that one actress starring in the live-action Snow White. And, long story short ages ago I wrote this. It's not the best, and I'd like to revisit it someday, but here's The Snow White Dethphonticth

I'll leave you with an excerpt, please note I started touching it up so this version and what's in the ebook might be different:

It is in due time the two wed and Snow White is nowhere to be seen. She refused to come to the wedding. It was expected, but the king apologizes to his new queen nonetheless. It would not be for a few days until Sylvia cross paths with Snow White. It would be an uneasy moment.

Snow White is taller and skinnier than Sylvia. The contrast between Snow White's pale, sickly-looking skin and void black hair was unnatural. She stands up straight at the end of the hall in a beautiful gown and no shoes, her toes poking out from under the hem of her dress. As slim as she is, her presence saturates the space. Sylvia can not get herself to move, she is not even sure if the girl was looking at her, Snow White's bangs cover her eyes. She turns from Sylvia and goes on her way. Sylvia has not realized the door she is at has opened. When she turns, there stands the king inviting her in.

“What has caused such an ill look about you, My Queen?” the king brings her to sit.

“I saw her. At the end of the hallway. Snow White, was it? I don't know how, but I'm certain it was her. She... Is she always...”

“Calm down. I apologize. She's grown fond of her games. She's just been acting out ever since her mother's death,” the king takes her hands in his.

“Yes, of course. Any child would grieve such a loss. I'll do what I can to help ease the pain.”

“Thank you. That's part of the reason I brought you in here. I want you to help Snow White to heal, to grow, to learn. No teacher wants to work with her because of her outburst. The staff will barely go near her. She doesn't want anything to do with me. She runs and hides when I go looking for her, so I've never seen this behavior myself. But everyone is complaining, so there must be something wrong. I know it's a lot to put on you all at once. But I need this, she needs this.”

“It's fine, My King. It's the queen's duty to watch over a child's schooling as is. You aren't asking too much of me at all. But, if I may ask you a question, My King?”

“Yes, by all means.”

“Who came up with her name?”

“There was an... incident in her youth,” the king tells Sylvia the story.

“No wonder she's acting out, whatever happened in those woods must have scarred her and then to lose her mother on top of that. Poor babe,” Sylvia squeezes the king's hand, hoping to leave some reassurance imprinted into them.

The next week bumbles in as clouds of dust and torn down cobwebs. The old queen's quarters are finally being cleaned out after all these years. Amidst the moving of furniture, the old queen's journal is found and brought to the king.

He pulls it out that dusk and reads into the night. Unsure of what to make of his late queen's notes, he places the notebook away. The king is not sure if the last few entries were just the ramblings of a madwoman or a warning something awful, he decides to go with the option he can wrap his logic around. He knows he needs to start being a father to Snow White again. Everything should have been fine.

The sun breaks on the horizon and he roams the castle for his daughter. He follows sightings of her, somehow she must know he is looking for her and is actively avoiding him like usual. The king hunts for her through lunch. He refuses to quit and he believes his effort rewarded. He has followed her to the last room of a slightly empty hallway. She can no longer avoid him. The king walks in on her crouching in a food pantry. The king can feel their eyes connect through Snow White's bangs.

“We really should get those cut soon. It's unbecoming of a princess to hide her face,” the king pauses as Snow White stands up, she has his height. “Listen, you know you can't keep going on like this. Everything you've been up to will be coming to an end. You will not be bringing any more chaos into my castle. Your behavior will be punished from here on out. Am I understood?”

Snow White tilts her head in thought.

It is a few days until the castle is silent. The king's hysterics had echoed through the stone walls, shaking Sylvia to the bone. There was nothing the doctors could do before he was too far gone. The king was buried in the family cemetery far back behind the castle.

[elysian-drops]

Updating FAQ Masterpost

Hi everyone!

So I’ve been getting quite a few messages in my inbox concerning updating and Appetence’s status. For my own sanity, and everyone else’s, I’ve decided to compile the most asked questions into 1 master post:

1. Is Appetence back on hiatus?

Appetence isn’t on hiatus currently! I’m definitely still working on it (and I certainly didn’t account for it taking this long to get a new chapter up). School has turned my brain to mush so it’s been a bit difficult finding the time/motivation to write lately. If it does go back on hiatus, I’ll update the summary on Ao3.

However, if the summary doesn’t say anything, just know a new chapter is coming.

2. When is the next update?

Right now, I’m not entirely sure. I have the next chapter drafted + in the final editing stages so, hopefully, soon-ish?

3. Do you have an updating schedule? Would you consider getting one?

I do not 😅 With school kicking my ass right now, I can’t commit to a set schedule— real life will always take priority over writing, unfortunately. As for if I would consider an updating schedule, I have to say no for two reasons: one, life is very unpredictable for myself at the moment and, two, this is my hobby.

Knowing myself, and how my brain functions, the second I commit to an updating schedule, Appetence will turn into a “chore” rather than something fun to do in my downtime. For these reasons, adopting a concrete schedule isn't feasible in my case. Sorry about that!

4. Are you abandoning Appetence?

Nope! Not all 😅 Appetence is very much alive, I assure you.

5. When do you typically post?

Typically, I try to post either Monday or Wednesday (usually at like 3 am my time because I only function at night 😅).

6. How long will Appetence be?

That is an excellent question, my friend 😅😂 I’m honestly not sure yet. I have the skeleton drafted for the remaining chapters but I’m terrible at estimating numbers. Sometimes, I have to split up a chapter or, in other cases, I have to add more to tie in something that happened previously. Because of that, the exact number is always changing (plus, sometimes I just want to throw in a domestic scene because why not 😂). I'm angling though for a ~500k word cap!

7. Why didn’t you prewrite Appetence?

So, this one has come up a few times in the past month and I want to address this real quickly. While I know it’s frustrating to read a WIP, especially one without a concrete updating schedule, I do want to gently remind you that you signed up for this 😅

The main reason why I didn’t prewrite Appetence is simply because I get better ideas 😬 All. the. bloody. time. My brain is constantly thinking of new connections and new ways to rewrite a scene I wasn’t happy with originally (as my friends will attest to this— they bear the brunt of my madwoman ramblings 😂) and I didn’t want to lock myself down by having it already written. Appetence’s ending and order of scenes have actually changed quite a bit from when it started to now. Additionally, I’ve found writing chapter to chapter is just better, overall, to my creative process.

I think that about covers it for the most asked questions regarding updating! If I missed something, or if you have a question that wasn't addressed here, feel free to send me an ask.

Once again, I just want to thank you all for your patience and your willingness to wait for another update. As often as I get these (admittedly sometimes pushy 😅) updating questions, I also get plenty of messages reassuring me that it's fine I take my time— and for that, I'm especially grateful 💕 It means the world to me and I really do appreciate hearing it!

Until next time 💕

[jamilelucato]

Faking It || pt. 3 [F.W.]

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x reader; Fred Weasley x reader.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Hogwarts Masterlist || Part 4

Summary:

You’re a Slytherin dating Draco Malfoy and life is pretty normal until Fred Weasley decides that the best prank against Draco involves you; this won’t end well, will it?

*gif not mine // [y/h/c] = your hair colour; [y/e/c] = your eye colour.

This is a series, so be free to ask if you wanna be tagged.

Warnings: cheating.

Words: 2k+

A/N:  Last part comes tomorrow — or at least I hope. This is my favourite one so far, so enjoy!

Tag List: @marvelsmalfoy​​ @naomi02hook​ @elf-punk​ @enjoying-fantasyland21​ @stuckindilemma​ @moosewingsimagines​ @happiestsparkleofall

—

Fred woke up with the brightest smile he could give, and if George hadn't have heard everything that happened the night before, he could've been confused.

That was the case with Ron, who couldn't think of a reason why his older brother was so happy.

"Are gonna prank me?" asked Ron frowning. He and the twins didn't have the best history when it came to pranks.

"Nope," answered Fred without dropping the smile.

Ron exchanged looks with George, who just shrugged, not caring at all.

"You don't wanna know," George informed his younger brother.

The three Weasleys headed to the Great Hall, followed by Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, and even though Hermione seemed quite happy with something she had just discovered, she was not more excited than Fred.

Of course, he was happy! he had all the reasons to be! His plan was finally working; he was at what he called "stage 2", and, from there on, things would only get funnier.

Fred had kissed y/N last night, Draco's girlfriend, and although the snogging truly surprised him — he was not expecting her to be a good kisser at all —, he knew he was now one step closer to his goal. You didn't run away from his touch — at least, not until the very end — and you kissed him back. You also hadn't screamed or slapped him, which he considers positive results.

The smile was still on his face when his eyes met yours from across the Hall. You looked beautiful that morning, as usual, wearing the fanciest and expensive Hogwarts' uniform, but that was not what made his smile fade away.

You were laughing hard at some joke someone had told, holding on to Draco's neck to keep yourself in place, after all, you were on his lap.

The scene made no sense to Fred. Come on now! His kiss did not affect you what so ever? Not even enough for you to feel guilty and, don't know, avoid your boyfriend?

George followed with his eyes to where his brother was looking.

"Oh," he let out. "When you told me about the kiss last night you forgot to mention it was 'the kiss'," he said, confusing Fred even more.

"What do you mean?"

"She's all around Malfoy, practically begging to forget what you two did last night," explained George, tilting his head in your direction.

"I beg to differ," started Fred, "she's showing off how she didn't care about the kiss."

"That's what she wants to display," George smirked, "and I think it might be working."

The twins stared at each other, George practically telling his point of view just by arching his brows. It took a while, but Fred finally understood.

Holding Draco so close wasn't your way of showing that you didn't care about last night — that was your attempt to erase it. You were begging for everything to go back to normal, to avoid your thought about Fred, replacing him for Draco.

Fred sighed, a bit too loud, which scared Hermione, who was sitting next to him. She stared at the boy but could not understand what was going on. Fred was glad she couldn't — it meant his and your plan was working.

However, part of it scared him. You two had opposite intentions, and he knew that, at the end of it all, one of you would end up hurt. He hoped it was not him.

***

Every time you could be with Draco, you were with Draco.

He was going to steal food in the kitchen — you followed. He was going to Quidditch practice — you were in the stands. He had to study — you held his book.

If he thought that was weird, he didn't complain. Draco enjoyed your company a lot, especially for trivial things, things not exclusive related to boyfriend and girlfriend.

He always thought things had happened to fast for you two — but with his father whispering in his ear, he had not much to do except ask you out. Sure, he liked kissing you — you tasted like chocolate most of the time — but he missed the times when there wasn't much pressure around.

You missed those times too — times when you wouldn't receive letters from Narcissa Malfoy, such as the one you had in hands, about how fun will it be when you get married.

"Is it my mom again?" Draco asked, realizing the expression on your face.

"Yeah," you said, dropping the paper over the Slytherin table. "I guess she has... picked my wedding dress?"

Draco took a look at the paper before shivering. "Madwoman," he commented, "I'll talk to her, don't worry."

It had been a week and a half until you faced Fred, both alone in the long hallway. You gulped, as hard as ever, avoiding look into his eyes.

You couldn't understand how he was there in your path — you had been very careful to avoid any place where he could be at, especially if you could be alone, just like now.

The Astronomy Tower you much love to visit was out of your sight ever since the rowdy night. You missed the place, but you knew he could be there as well.

He passed so close to you but did not touch. There was no need, though, because you felt all your nerve endings get agitated.

"Fred," you called his name, your voice just like a whisper. There was no need for a scream, Fred had heard you. He would've heard anyway you called.

He turned his face back at you — his eyes, widened as if he was scared.

"Thank you for..." you gulped, having no idea of how to put it, "for not saying a thing."

He offered you a said smile but said nothing.

"And I'm sorry for dragging you to it," you continued, not wanting to leave. "It was as much as my fault as yours."

You twisted your mouth, regretting the way you sounded.

"It was just my fault," you correct yourself, walking a step over in his direction. "I'm the one dating."

He puckered his forehead and attempted to reach for your hand before dropping the idea.

"I knew the truth and did it anyway," Fred said, "It's my fault too."

His words echoed in the hallway, still very empty. It was a surprise to find a part of the castle deserted, especially at that time — in between classes.

You two stayed in the silence, afraid to say anything else, both just taking the blame.

"Hum..." you looked around the walls, avoiding his eyes, "I gotta go... Potions, you know. Can't be late."

He said nothing after you rambled out loud, so you just turned towards your class, and left, walking a bit to fast for someone who was supposed not to be affected by the red-haired boy.

***

Studying with Pansy Parkson was something you avoided at all costs, but since she asked your help, you had no idea how to say no.

So there were you, sitting around lots of books Pansy had scattered over one of the library tables, trying to make the silly girl write her essay for her History of Magic class.

You were unexpectedly very focused on the reading and collecting data until two red-hairs walked in. Your eyes followed them until they sat down, next to Angelina Johnson, a girl from Gryffindor you knew was dating George Weasley.

"Do you think Professor would like it if I included this?" Pansy asked, calling your attention back to your table.

The girl in front of you showed a passage on her book, and even though you tried to read it, you couldn't understand a word. You knew why — your attention was no longer on the assignment in front of you, but on the three students sitting a bit far away.

However, you couldn't tell that to Parkinson as she was the most gossip girl you knew.

"Yeah, write that down," you said, rushing your eyes back at the Gryffindors.

Angelina had stopped reading whatever book she had in hands, talking animatedly with twins. At that distance, you couldn't be sure, but you were pretty sure Fred was the one on her left.

George seemed to be talkative as well, even using his hands to gesture something. They are up to something, you thought, remembering every time they tried to prank you and Draco. Fred, however, was rather quiet.

"Okay, I think I've got it," Pansy said, handing you the paper where she had written her homework.

You ran your eyes through it, focusing on finding grammar mistakes, but there was none.

"Looks good, Pansy," you complimented and she breathed at the sigh of relief.

"Then can we go? I hate this place," she said, getting up and gathering the books on the table. You had a pretty good idea of why she hated the place.

You got up as well, helping her with the books as slowly as you could, just to keep looking at the twins. However, Pansy was anxious to get out of there, and in less than a minute, you had left. Though not before exchanging a long look with Fred.

***

You kissed Fred again. You had no idea how it came to it, but there you were, under a hidden cabinet just a walk away from the Gryffindor Tower, kissing the red-haired boy.

Fred, on the other hand, knew exactly how he had gotten into that position.

George and Angelina were great helpers when it came to his doubts on how to get your attention back, after that whole "unholy" thing from the night at the Astronomy Tower. He knew you were feeling guilty and you wouldn't give in soon, so he had to be stronger at his seductive game.

And, apparently, his extra work was paying off.

Fred noticed you were paying more and more attention to him, analyzing his posture, his looks, with who he talked and what classes was he attending. He knew you were watching because a lot of times your eyes would lock and you would blush in a very guilty — but cute — way.

He noticed that you were coming back to your normal state around Draco — just pecks on the lips before parting ways. He knew it was only a matter of time before you'd let him touch you again.

And it happened, seventeen days after the first time you two kissed. You followed Fred all day, like a shadow. You were still very confused about why he was being so kind to you lately, why was he smiling to you a lot. And then you started missing him. You missed his smart remarks, his smirks and, the worst of all, you missed his touch. Oh, how you missed his lips! His hands!

You were walking around the school in the middle of the night, in hopes to trick your mind into thinking about something else, other than him, but it was far from working. Besides, you weren't even tired.

Fred had just left his dorm, and he was trying to hide in the shadows, afraid to get caught. Your eyes met his a little too anxious, and you knew there was no turning back. You couldn't run from that feeling one more night.

You hushed towards him and kissed him, softly; just a peck on the lips before returning to your starting position, without having to stand on tiptoe. He lowered his brows, looking down at you, probably confused by what had just happened.

The boy then smiled, widely, and reached for your waist, grabbing it to guide you to a safe a hide spot — the hidden cabinet — and finally kissing you the way he was expecting to do since the first time he had done it.

He grabbed every part of your body he could, giving you chills every time he squeezed some part of you. Your fingers were wandering all over his body — you did, however, have a tendency to go for his hair.

The kiss was better than the first time — probably because you two already knew what you two liked. It was not at all an attempt to make the other satisfied; you two were there for yourselves, so you were pleasing yourselves.

You loved to pull his hair and bite his lower lip, he liked to grab your ass and kiss your neck, and neither of you was doing it because of the other — it was pure egoism in its primitive form.

You had no idea of how long it took for you to stop snogging. It was probably two in the mourning you judge by the lights, but it didn't matter. When it ended, you felt more awaken then before.

You two stared at each other, gasping for air.

"So..." Fred started saying, adjusting his shirt, "see you same time tomorrow?"

You wrinkled your nose, dilating your nostrils at his suggestion. That was not happening again! It was an incredible mistake you were not planning on making a third time.

You ran your fingers through your hair before leaving, trying to fix it, but it seemed useless. Fred was smirking like he had just won a match and you couldn't understand why. What you did was wrong in so many levels, it was just...

You walked out of the hidden cabinet, leaving the door open behind you. Fred was soon out in the corridor too.

You looked at him one more time before walking away.

"Same time tomorrow," you finally agreed, disappearing in the darkness.

Fred started giggling alone, and although you were already very far from where he stood, you were able to hear his happy laugh.

PART 4 (LAST ONE) HERE!

[voltage-vixen]

"Cuff me, officer.” Gavin (NSFW)

“Finally!” MC triumphantly crowed.

She slammed down the top of her laptop and began to pack up for the evening. MC glanced at the clock and groaned when seeing it was a little after midnight. Gavin was not going thrilled when he found out she had broken her promise of leaving work at a reasonable hour for the third time this week.

“Maybe he won’t find out,” MC gulped, and toyed with the gingko leave bracelet on her wrist.

“That you ended up staying late another night, even after I left you off with a stern warning after the last incident?” a stern voice she recognized called out from the window.

MC spun around to find Gavin standing there with his arms crossed, shooting her a glare that could only be described as intense.

“U-Um,” MC stuttered, while awkwardly avoiding his gaze as he moseyed on over to where she was standing.

Gavin reached out to tilt her head, allowing him to confront MC directly. He saw her guilt-ridden expression and sighed in exasperation. Didn’t she realize that he wasn’t mad at her, but that her well-being was his main priority?

“Hey, you know I’m not trying to be a jerk, right? Upsetting you couldn’t be further from my true intentions,” Gavin comforted.

His face was now directly in front of hers, and MC could feel the warmth of his breath tickle down the front of her neck. Distracted by the golden tint in his eyes, MC’s cheeks began to flush and a bead of sweat dripped from her forehead. Gavin was SO painfully close; she couldn’t help but sneak a peek down the crevice of his white shirt. The slight glimpse of his rippled chest only made MC more aware of how alluring the evolver was.

“I’m aware,” she remarked. MC leaned in closer and fiddled with the drawstrings of the sweatshirt Gavin was wearing. “I know you’re always looking out for my prosperities."

The way MC was looking at him didn’t go unnoticed by the ever-observant police captain. Gavin’s hand tangled in the wavy locks of the producer’s hair, as he pushed her head closer to collide with his parted lips. His tongue danced along MC’s, and the cop’s free hand trailed down the cotton fabric of her dress to fondle the curve of her ass.

Not caring that they were in her company’s office, she pushed Gavin down onto one of the chairs and climbed onto his lap to straddle him. MC grinded her hips down onto Gavin’s newly formed erection, and she sucked hard on the side of his neck until a bright red mark was visible.

“You don’t mind that I left my mark on you, do you?” she purred.

MC’s lips crashed with Gavin’s, and he panted in a wild desperation, as she reached into pockets to pull out the handcuffs that he always had handy. Gavin’s eyes glazed with desire, and his trousers grew even tighter seeing MC dangle his handcuffs in front of his face.

“Is my naughty girl asking for a punishment?”

Gavin’s thumb pressed against her lip and MC obediently sucked on it, evoking a loud groan from her boyfriend. He could feel the dampness of her panties through his pants and Gavin impatiently thrusted his pelvis upwards, grinding through the fabric of their clothing, while pressing up against the sensitive nub of her clit.

“Yes, sir,” MC huffed. “Cuff me, officer.”

Gavin didn’t need to be told twice. He snatched the handcuffs from MC’s grasp, and promptly snapped the links onto each of their wrists. MC held up her wrist and experimentally tugged Gavin towards her while taking in her new restraint.

“Bondage suits you, Mr. Gavin,” she chuckled, before omitting a small shriek when Gavin firmly grasped the sides of her waist.

“Stand up,” he ordered. “Stand up and put one of your legs over my shoulder.”

MC reluctantly executed his command and inclined between his thighs. Trying to balance herself on the chair, the handcuffs joining them together clanked, and MC grabbed the hair on the back of Gavin’s head. Following his instructions, she threw her leg over his shoulder and quivered when Gavin’s teeth tugged away her underwear to the side.

“Just relax,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

His tongue rubbed against MC’s clit before entering her slippery opening. The way he delicately stroked every inch of her sodden heat, and sporadically wringing the sensitive bundle of nerves longing to be touched was nearly enough to push MC over the edge. She tried to prevent herself from bucking like a madwoman, but the feeling of pleasure was overwhelming. And GOOD. There was no way MC could stop herself from humping his face.

“Oh, yes! Don’t you dare stop, Gavin!” MC urged amidst her satisfied mewls.

Ignoring her whines of complaint when he pulled away, Gavin temporarily abandoned his mission, and instead mischievously glinted at his lover.

“This is supposed to be a punishment, remember?”

Gavin and MC precipitously rose into the air and he tightened his grip on her. She anxiously squirmed while Gavin’s connected hand solidly supported her back, and the other shuffled his pants down to his ankles.

“Ever have an orgasm in the air before?”

“Obviously n-AH!”

MC’s voice hitched into keen hisses and her body violently convulsed from the sensation of Gavin’s member stretching her narrow walls. There was something erotic about the fact that they were making love in the air in the middle of her company’s office floor. The immodesty of the situation intensified MC’s arousal, allowing Gavin’s gliding movements to be brisker than normal. Her fingers entwined into his linked hand, and she whispered sweet ramblings of affection, enjoying the sentimental intimacy of becoming one with him.

“I love you,” MC muttered, as her stomach somersaulted signifying she was close to reaching her peak.

“Me too,” Gavin grunted, whilst the walls of the woman he loved fluttered around him.

Gavin soon reached his own climax and moaned in gratification from the explosive release of his load. He floated back down onto the chair, allowing MC to burrow into his warmth by closely snuggling up. She was reveling in the sound of his soothing heartbeat, when the sight of Gavin beginning to unlock the handcuffs distracted her.

“Wait!” she protested with a pout. “Can’t we stay together like this for a little while longer?”

Gavin bopped the tip of her nose with his finger, before leaning his own nose in to nestle against hers.

“With or without the handcuffs, we’re always going to be together anyways,” he affirmed. “I would never let anything stand in the way between us.”

“Promise?” she asked and stuck out her pinky for confirmation.

Gavin twisted his pinky around hers and nodded.

“Always and forever,” he pledged. “Although, we should probably go be together forever somewhere else rather than your office.”

Giggling, MC resignedly allowed Gavin to remove the handcuffs from their wrists. Resting her head on his arm, her fine gentleman escorted her to the elevator, but not before whispering into her ear with a vow of all the torturous ways his punishment would continue later.

[monotonous-minutia]

because I think of it altogether too much, some dialogue on the differences in the role of the Muse in Les contes d’Hoffmann, in the play versus in the opera. Enjoy my nerdy, disorganized, former-literature-major ramblings as I spend altogether too much time picking apart the minutia of this issue (but hey, it’s in my URL, so).

In the original play by Michael Carré and Jules Barbier (the same people who wrote the libretto for the opera), the Muse doesn’t double as Niklausse. We get two separate characters–the Muse and Hoffmann’s sidekick, Friédrick.

The play opens with a monologue from the Muse, similar to the one in the opera (some lines are taken verbatim). The monologue in the play, though, isn’t about the Muse being mad at Stella and wanting to win Hoffman’s love. It is in a lot of ways a love letter to the real Hoffmann’s writing, of which Carré was a huge fan (obviously, he wrote a whole play about them). The works of E.T. A. Hoffmann were (and to an extent, still are) hailed as being unique, strange, and otherworldy compared to most of what was seen at the time. The Muse here talks about her stories as if they’re her own, and she happens upon Hoffmann in the tavern (read: when he gets drunk, he gets inspired to write weird stuff). She’s here, then, to introduce this story–the play that we’re watching/reading–as one of her own. She does reappear at the end and makes a statement similar to that made at the conclusion of the opera, that the poet had to suffer to be truly great and now that he’s given up on love she has him to herself–but it’s not that she specifically tried to make this happen, she’s just pleased that it did.

After the Muse’s opening monologue, she tells the audience that the people are coming and she’s going to hide, because they scare her. She puts on a suit and hat similar to that warn by the students that will soon be populating the tavern, so she can blend in with them and not be noticed. I’m guessing this is where the inspiration for the Muse also being Niklausse eventually (partially) comes from.

But we don’t have Niklausse in the play; we get Friédrick. Friédrick is, in my perception, ridiculously adorable. He spends a good portion of the play serving sass. There’s a ton of banter between him and Hoffmann, and some with Friédrick and the side characters as well as they collectively role their eyes at Hoffmann. So, much similarity to Niklausse. A few differences, though: the guys in the tavern love making fun of him, because he’s younger, and Hoffmann is even a little bit meaner to him than their operatic counterparts, and Friédrick is just kind of resigned to it, though he does make fun of Hoffmann at times. Mostly he feels sorry for him and feels the need to take care of him, as he can’t seem to take care of himself.

Friédrick is referred to as Hoffmann’ “shadow,” in that he follows him around everywhere making sure he doesn’t get himself arrested or shanked. He is also referred to by Hoffmann as “the voice of reason” through all his adventures, though of course Friédrick doesn’t remember any of them, since they didn’t actually happen. But he is constantly dragging Hoffmann out of trouble in these stories, which is why Dappertutto tries to off him in the Giulietta act. Dappertutto is annoyed that Friédrick first rescues Hoffmann from Olympia when she goes crazy (which is a big part of the play, and written into the libretto, but rarely ever portrayed on stage for the opera), then saves him from Crespel when Crespel tries to get Hoffmann for (as he perceives) killing Antonia (another bit that’s in the libretto but rarely portrayed onstage) and, finally, is trying to literally drag him away from Giulietta. As with Niklausse, Hoffmann severely under-appreciates Friédrick and all that his friend does for him. But when Dappertutto tries to give him a “sleeping potion” that he says will just make him pass out long enough for Hoffmann to get it on with Giulietta, Hoffmann kind of gets a reality check when he’s like “Wait, okay, but what if he drinks it and then he dies?” Dappertutto insists that no such thing is even remotely possible. I do wonder where Hoffmann’s sudden suspicion and consideration comes from. Like, is he already suspicious of Dappertutto, or is he just concerned because Friédrick is so small a single dose of Nyquil could end him? (Being a lightweight myself, I do wonder.) But we never find out either way, because Giulietta waltzes onstage and downs the poison first and of course Friédrick arrives just in time to save Hoffmann yet again. I just gotta wonder: given Friédrick is not the Muse in this version, why is it that he’s the one who drags Hoffmann out of trouble over and over again in a series of stories that didn’t actually happen?  As constantly annoyed as he seems at Friédrick, he’s the one making the choice to have him play that role. And Friédrick is pretty cool with it. I guess they were roommates.

The Muse’s role, then, comes with a different vibe. She doesn’t have any influence over Hoffmann’s love life or seem quite as imminently concerned about it. She’s not following him around in the same way; she kind of just has to wait for him to come around. She’s less assertive and pretty resigned to having to deal with the constant BS but at the same time seems less bothered by it. She’s not totally dependent on him or solely invested in him; she just likes him a lot and enjoys writing stories with him. The operatic Muse is much more definitively attached to Hoffmann and sees his love life as a direct opposition to them. The stakes are higher for them than for the Muse in the play.

The whole Muse/Niklausse dynamic on the opera fascinates me to no end. I can’t even quite put into words the thoughts I have about it. Lately when I think about the question “If you could go back in time and talk to anyone in history who would it be?” I just want to go and talk to Barbier and Carré and ask how they came to the decision to make Niklauuse and the Muse the same character because–is there really anything in literature that’s quite the same as that? We get “a madwoman, come down from the heavens, to fight with a frivolous woman over the love of a fool” (a line from the libretto) who transforms themself into their poet’s best friend, and deals with his BS which is (as I rambled on a bit in an earlier post) borderline emotional abuse in some cases and even in its mildest forms raises the question “Why, sweetie, why do you put up with this.” Well, they can’t not, can they? What’s a Muse supposed to do? They’ve got their poet and have no other purpose in life that to serve as their inspiration. What would they do if Hoffmann did actually choose Stella over them? It’s basically out of the question.

So looking then at the Muse/Friédrick dynamic was an interesting transition. I can start to see some of the pieces but in some ways it also raises more questions. Was Niklausse ever an actual person, like Friédrick? Is the Muse donning the disguise for just that one night, to be witness to the storytelling, as the Muse in the play does? Does the operatic Muse just figure that Hoffmann will be drunk enough to not notice the difference when the real Niklausse comes back later? Or was Niklausse the Muse all along, and the Muse has for years (or however long) personified themself as another student to try and win Hoffmann on his level? Further, is it Hoffmann who comes up with all the little things that Niklausse does that hints to us what his status actually is, showing that Hoffmann is subconsciously aware of the connection all along? Or is it the Muse infiltrating the storytelling as it occurs to insert themself further, trying to get Hoffmann to really see them during the course of the telling?

On one hand I go crazy over the fact that these questions are never answered, and I wonder why the librettists went from the relatively straightforward Muse/Friédrick dynamic to the super meta, almost incomprehensible Muse/Niklausse dynamic. On the other hand, I appreciate the weird genius behind this that makes me think unreasonably hard about the creative process and art in general and also the relationships we have with people in our lives who we depend on in ways such as this. Also, I appreciate how the ambiguity allows different productions of the opera to have so many interpretations of the role (although there are definitely some interpretations that can go to hell as far as I’m concerned).

Also I think a lot about the names. I think Friédrick is just a cute name and I think it suits the original character. And the transition to Niklausse makes sense: a new interpretation of the character warrants a new name–plus Niklausse comes from “Nicholas” which means “victorious people” which makes sense, you know? Niklausse triumphs in the end, so why not have a powerful name like that? If I were a Muse taking on a human form on earth, I’d want something with that kind of power, too.

[maddiicake]

Ramblings of a Madwoman

Because I honestly have no other idea what to title this as. To put it simple, that's what this entire journal is going to be. From start to finish--no stopping to think about whatever f-ed up stuff will be put into written text and to be immortalized for eternity (deleted after or not) here on the World Wide Web--nothing but unedited, freewriting, off topic sidebar-ing throughout the entirety of this Journal. So, we'll see where and how it ends.

In about a month, I'll have been on DeviantART for an entire decade (and about 8 years since Tumblr). And, I just want to make it clear: I've done a shit tone of fucked up things in all the years that I've been here. Of course, this was things that I mainly did to people. (Yes, people, because, let's face it, whether or not we have the comfort of anonymity behind the keyboard in the middle of our "safe space" of the internet, we're still people on the other side of the screens). But, yes, I've done and said fucked up shit to people during me time here. I'm not ashamed to admit it. Nor will I deny any of the messed up stuff that I've done, especially to said people, in the past decade. I'll spare you all the wall of novel-length text that consists of my usual self-deprecating self-flagellation, since you all know the drill by now. Plus, I would hate putting you all to sleep just at the beginning of this Journal.

I'm messed up in the head. Plain and simple.

In my younger years (earlier in the decade, right about when I first appeared on dA), I had something wrong with me--not sure what, but it was definitely something that I, unfortunately, would never fully realize until recently this year. I grew up sheltered in an overly Conservative and Bible-Thumping household. The neighborhood I grew up in was what my parents lovingly called "God's Waiting Room", because of all the old-timers living in the homes. Any kids around were ones that I wasn't allowed to socialize with because my parents didn't want them "influencing" me. So, needless to say, I didn't have much of a social life growing up. I only went to a real school for two and a half years of my life, and, during that time, I stuck out more than a sore thumb (Hell, I didn't even know what a "Cafeteria" was, because the only "Cafeteria" I knew of was the dinner table. So, needless to say, my first time experiencing "lunch" was very awkward). All in all, being sheltered and not having much of a social life when you're still in your single-digits you grow up having this narcissistic know-it-all, controlling, 'I'm better than you', 'I'm the only person in this world and everyone else doesn't exist' personality and you think that you can control everyone else to your every whim. Being put into a real school with other real life people and kids my age was, obviously, a massive culture shock. When you suddenly realize that other people are their own individual person and have their own free will, you start to become aware that you were educated and raised in a world that could be similar to solitary confinement.

"Oh, hey, (Saki's real name). What're you doing?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just trying to think of how I can get all my classmates together for our superhero team so we can go off and fight bad guys in my head, all the while thinking I can bend them to my will as if they're not actually other human beings."

"...Didn't Chris-Chan already do that?"

"Pfft. This is 2005! Chris-Chan won't be a thing for another few years."

Now, my parents weren't perfect. I was their first child, and the first-borns are always the "guinea pigs"  for new parents.  Of course, I never understood that my parents were humans until my 20s. They made mistakes with me, like thinking that not giving their young impressionable daughter a social life through the first crucial years of her childhood was a good idea.

I know it sounds like I'm complaining--that's always the initial reaction people get whenever they read posts like this from me. "Oh, Saki's just starting drama", "Kura just wants attention", "She's cray-cray and needs help, like srsly...". Believe me, I get it, I completely understand why one would think that I sound like I'm complaining. Because you, the reader, are just reading these little pixelated words that look black on your computer monitor/mobile screen. But, in reality, when up close, those pixels are just a collection of RBGs. You interpret what you see through your reading and comprehension of the words before you. Because you're not the author. You merely interpret what you're writing and filling the blanks with guesswork of what the writer is trying to convey through these little pixels making up words.

It's weird, y'know... They say that "hearing voices" is the first step into insanity. But, are you insane if you're fully aware of it? They say that psychos and sociopaths don't admit nor are aware of their disorder because of the narcissism that accompanies it. So... would you still be a psychopath or sociopath if you admit it and/or are aware of it? These are just a handful of the kind of questions that fill he chaotic Hell in my mind when nothing else is going on.

Lately, though, that hasn't been very often. For those of you, who follow me on Tumblr (by the way, if you still follow me there, you must have a lot of tolerance for me), you may have noticed the rather alarming on-and-off episodes I've been having over the past few weeks. Trust me when I tell you that former friends will assure that "This is normal for Saki/Kura. Just stay away from her. She's just a lost cause. You'll only end up hurt associating with her, much less talking to her."

"Saki... the things you have been saying aren't really 'normal'--"

"Oh trust me... this is the Keemster-level of a 'cycle' that she goes through. Why do you think we made her theme song that Keemstar Parody of All Star? LMAO. This is 100% Normal for her."

But, what is normal? 'Normal' is nothing more than a perception of what we're used to: routines, topics, lifestyles--whatever we are used to. When something occurs that is out of our routine, we immediately perceive it as 'abnormal' (or just not normal). Much life me experience, albeit rather brief, time I spent in an actual school. You feel that unnerving unease as the stranger in a foreign land.

Now, what I do and say isn't Healthy, that would be the proper use of the phrase you're trying to portray. But, my diagnosis came far too late. There's no undoing what is done. There's no chance at saving loathsome sinners, the chance they had was the life they had before and the punishment is this. There's no rainbows inside of demons.

People, who view others outside of their little bubble, call those 'abnormal' people "toxic", simply because that person has disturbing psychological issues. It's like: "Ewww! A mud puddle! Gross I can't believe I stepped in that! Now my $200 shoes are ruined forever because of that damn puddle!" Those people are treated as lower than dirt just because their perceived in such a negative light. It's a label those high and mighty ones quickly slap onto those, who can't help the disorders they have. Sometimes those people aren't even aware they have a disorder, yet those prissy princesses still sit with upturned noses and chastise with their prim: "You need help, srsly." with their venomous undertone of "I'm better than you." Is it really fair to be some uppity hoity-toity sociality; sneering through your little rainbow-soap window down below at those loathsome dirty little plebian peasants? Perhaps that may be "normal" for you.

Sometimes--no, actually, often; very often--I just want to pop that bubble. Let that sprinkle of soap sting their eyes as it dribbles into their corneas. Their screams and cries in pain while they lean over the sink to wash them out would be such a delight.

I would go into more detail about other things regarding this, but I'm not dumb enough to freewrite my thoughts out to the point there's incriminating evidence against me.

"...Saki, this Journal is getting a little dark..."

"It's called 'Ramblings of a Madwoman' for a reason. Besides, the little 13-year-old edgelord wannabes on this website get away with far worse. Trust me, I've seen them. Some of them are in their 20s and haven't grown out of that phase. Them going on and getting away with using their boyfriends, who has ties to the dark Web, to get the personal information (mailing address and all) of the people they don't like just so that they can have them killed. You'd be surprised how thin-skinned these little lefties are. 'Someone Disagrees with me?? -cue Mission Impossible montage of tracking that person down and killing them-'."

"But you're talking about killing people!"

"I have said no such thing! At least not put it in writing. What part of 'I'm not dumb enough to post incriminating evidence of myself' did you not understand, my dear?"

Yes... it would be nice to have a peace of mind for once day. It would be amazing to not have to wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat from another night terror (had one just last night actually). When people want you dead--and have gone out of their way to find your address so that they can kill you--, all you want to do is keep you and your family safe. People can't kill you if they no longer exist, right? It would be just so nice to be able to go on for the rest of my life without having to worry about being sought after and killed just because I disagreed with someone and told them they were being stupid and immature. Or just randomly responding to condescending Twitter users, who think I'm talking about a certain someone when I'm not. But, just knowing that people still continue to go after me for no apparent reason just causes those night terrors to persist.

I just want to keep my family safe. Selfishly, I want to be able to sleep without having to worry about people in other States and Countries somehow knowing where I live and can come and kill me at any moment.

"Why didn't you call the cops--?"

"Because I didn't know it was them at the time it happened. Their former friend didn't tell me about all the plots and things they said in their Discord server until two years later. So, they were able to get away with this because of the Statute of Limitations."

Regardless, that still won't put my mind at ease knowing that they're still out there and can pull the same thing or worse once again. I wasn't the only one they they did this too, either. Of course, that the YouTube Drama Channels for you. They do fucked up shit behind the scenes while putting on some "I'm a good person" face.

You can't trust people, who act nice publicly. They aren't the innocent souls they want everyone to believe that they are. They want something. They want something from you. And when they've squeezed everything out of you that they want... they'll toss you away with no hesitation because they're done using you. Using you to feed their little lambs, whose fleece are white as snow, while they sleep their way to the top.

They want me dead. They've always wanted me dead. They know where I live, and they'll take me out along with the rest of my family. They'll rejoice and be glad of course~ ^u^ "Ding Dong the witch is dead~!" They will sing as they dance together happily in the streets. "Huzzah! Hooray! The monster has been slain. No longer shall she continue to torment us because we have FINALLY killed her~!" They said so themselves: "I'm happy that people told you these things." That was back in 2015 (and I still have the screenshot and the link to the original post)... half a decade ago. Even back then, they wanted me dead. Their party planning for that day is still in preparation. But, they'll immediately set up once that time come when I no longer exist. "...Saki, you're not okay."

This is what happens to people when they've finally Snapped.

But, I want to get better. Don't get me wrong. I don't like that I've become this person. No, I don't believe in change--I don't believe people can change whatsoever. I just want to feel better and not have to worry about these things anymore. But, I know well that things will never be the same. All I can do is continue moving forward and hope and pray that I don't mess up once again and start the cycle all over.

[starry-bi-sky]

The Courts

I made a Fairy Au in the Discord, and me and @minightrose (Bee) made a... uh thing. It’s gone through a minor editing process.

Me - Black, Bee - Orange

"Witch," people mutter softly. Yet not loud enough for her to hear. After all, no one wants the wrath of the Fair Folk on them.

If she got lost she could ask a firefly for the way home and they’d guide her. People often saw her covered in mud, smiling widely as she follows a firefly, thinking her mad.

To save her soul, they forced the parents to try to marry her off to the local Priest’s son. See if they could get her in her right mind.

Yet they harp about the Good Word, not realizing it has no meaning if the one who preaches it doesn't believe in it. The priest himself sired the son from a bastard woman. She died not long after, forced the child on him. And he was forced to raise him lest his cover be blown.

He was not a man of the Good Word, no...he was a Fey Hunter. Selling their blood for money and good times. He was the unholiest of all.

“Poor dear,” the nuns chitter pitifully as they shuffle by the young woman, the young woman with a jagged scar marring her face. And the young woman who whispered softly to the flowers.

Her dress swayed at the slightest slightest breeze, sewn with silver and looking as if it were painted onto her body. “Lost her mind that one, too many adventures in the woods. Her parents banned her from going when she returned one day with that scar, but it was too late. Perhaps a marriage with the Priest’s boy might save her.” They speak quietly, thinking that the young woman wouldn’t hear them. But the lady had ears keener than a fox, and she heard them just as easily as if they were speaking normally.

She cared not for their words, choosing instead to act kind to them. After all, kindness beats rudeness any day.

And the Sisters sure were flustered when she came the next day with a fresh loaf of bread from her family's oven.

If they refused, it would reflect poorly upon them, but if they accepted... who knows what would happen.

Nothing ever happened, the bread was fine. But she enjoyed watching them squirm.

Then one day, a visitor came to the village. He was... peculiar.. cold, like a frigid winter. His hair was a shocking blond, frosty, and his eyes were a cold blue, like ice frozen over on a pond.

He was... not rude, but not kind. He was odd, too. He cares not for the many stories of wonder that the hunters of the village told. In fact, he seemed repulsed by them. You could find him almost always near the woods, beneath the shade of a tree with a book in hand, or, even stranger with the village madwoman; Marinette.

He was kind to her. Well, or what could be perceived as kind, he wasn’t closed off and seemed warm towards her. He smiled at her when she rambled to her flowers, and swayed when she sang with the wind, he watched fondly when she danced with the streams and even, occasionally, joined her when she beckoned for him.

He only appeared at the oddest of times. The days before and after the Winter and Summer Solstice, he never appeared in any other time. Just those days, every year.

During those days he never left Marinette’s side, clinging to her like frost clings to the window. His eyes never left her, full of so much emotion that it was near impossible to place.

He was always dressed up nobly, and many in the village assumed him to be a Lord. They weren’t wrong that he was noble, but they were wrong in the idea that he was mere but a Lord.

After those days, the Witch’s eyes were an electric blue. Almost alive with hidden magic. And the Wedding grew ever nearer, much to the Hunter’s Delight.

He planned on harvesting his dear son’s new wife, claim that the Fey took their favorite parts from her.

However, one can’t hide their intentions from one of the Fair Folk, no matter whether or not they were fully one. The young raven knew exactly what the Priest was planning, and she knew that must escape as soon as she could.

Perhaps she could make it so that the wedding is the night of the Winter Solstice? The Fey always were tricksters with their tongues.

He was always so fond of winter. How his little Bug seeked him out for warmth. How she always fit right in his arms. How perfect will this be? They will wed at Winter. And he will love her forever and forever more.

Imagine his surprise when, come Winter, he can’t find his Bug anywhere. She isn’t at the creeks bordering the woods, nor is she at the flower patches she always whispers to, she isn’t singing the songs of wind either. Where has his little bug gone?

Then, he hears it. The chapel bells tolling, the melody of matrimony. Perhaps that is where she could be, forced to attend a wedding? Hm.

Perhaps he can make an entrance... but first. Appearance is everything, and he wouldn't want to look a mess on his wedding day.

With all but a wave of his hand his attire changes, much more worthy of his Love, and of this day.

His wings, of which he normally kept hidden on the mortal plane, unfurled. A crown made of ice and snow appeared above his head, floating pristinely over his shock-blond hair.

His suit was made of frigid winter winds and frost woven together, the sword he was given so many years ago materialized at his side. Only the best for his Bug.

With another wave of his hand the doors burst open, the resounding slam echoed off the church walls, sounding like a haunting warning.

His darling was dressed unlike her usual wear, he clicked his tongue at the sight. How terribly... mortal. It fit her not, and while she looked beautiful in everything, the sorrow that decorated her visage ruined the occasion.

That sorrow, however, disappeared when she saw him, and instead a blinding smile as warm as summer sunshine appeared on her face. It warmed him down to his bones, to his soul, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Félix.” She whispered, her voice sounding like blooming flowers and morning birdsong.

No one could separate them this time. No one. He thinks as they embrace, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head. No one is going to take his Queen away… never again

“What is this!?” The other blond demanded, stepping off the altar and marching over to his bride-to-never-be and the man who held her close.

It was the same man who never left Marinette’s side when the Summer and Winter solstice came, the one who looked at her with so much love that it could be felt in the air.

The Priest’s son seethed in jealousy.

Felix held her close, glaring at him. "I’m taking my bride home. Why do you care, you mewling little bastard?" He was right. The Father never wanted him.

Felix guided his Bug behind him, not wanting the pathetic man to touch his Queen.

“Your bride? She is mine! We are to be wedded! She was promised to me!” The Son— Adrien —snarled, if only he had his sword with him, he would tear this— this fool apart!

The Winter King smiled cooly, and the chapel seemed to freeze, frost slowly creeping up the walls. “She has never been yours, and she never will. She is my Queen, she has been since she stepped foot into my realm back when we were small.” His hand crept closer to his sword, he will fight his way out if he must. The mortals here— even the Hunter —were no match for him.

Felix eyed the man— who was more a boy than man —in amused mocking. "After all, I have something you do not." He said, steady as a Fey can be. He knows these pathetic mortals would be unable to challenge him and win. And had Mari not made him promise to leave them be, they would be reduced to particles and dust in the winter breeze.

But... she didn't say he couldn’t leave them hurting with his words.

“I have her love, and her warmth. I have her kindness and the care you could not ever see. I have the songs she sings just for me, and the sunshine her smiles bring. Your village is known for its beauty, but only because my Queen was there, telling the flowers stories of wonder and speaking love into the air. When she is no more it will return to the state it was before she was born.”

“But most of all… I have her. She gave me her heart long ago, and I gave her mine. She is mine as I am hers. She does not love nor care for you. She does not see you as a husband. We see you as an annoying pest who won't leave her alone.”

With a grin as cruel as a blizzard night, the King of the Winter Court and the Queen of the Summer Court disappears, the only thing left in their wake is the mixing scent of pine and pollen.

In their wake leaves a village, silent in shock, and fearful of the future. Silently, they wonder that if they had been kinder, then perhaps the Summer Queen would have stayed, and their village would stay beautiful and verdant. Of course, they only care for image, and not of each other.

She doesn’t, and the village remains selfish.

[dest-iality]

Dream A Little - Ch 1

Word count: 1637

Pairing: bucky x reader

Warnings: none right now, smut in later chapters

Summary: You just can't sleep. You keep telling yourself it's the stress of work, but deep down you know it's your unrequited crush on Bucky. He tries to avoid you like the plague, until a very late night run-in changes everything between the two of you.

The bright red numbers on the bedside clock mocked you, the blocky 3:00AM too bright in the darkness of your bedroom. You squeezed your eyes shut and threw yourself onto your back. This was the latest night of insomnia in a long line of many, and the lack of sleep was taking its toll. You were dozing off in meetings, dark circles rimmed your eyes, a constant headache thrummed at the back of your head, and you had a snarky attitude with everyone in the tower. With a groan of frustration, you pulled the blanket away and slid yourself off the bed; if you weren’t going to get any sleep you sure as hell weren’t going to spend the entire night staring at the ceiling. You toed your feet into your slippers and pulled an oversized hoodie over the t-shirt and shorts you had gone to bed in, and made your way to the door. The door clicked shut behind you and you turned down the hallway towards the communal kitchen; if you couldn’t sleep, you’d snack.

On the short walk from your room, you considered your predicament. You hadn’t gotten a good eight-hours in weeks, getting most of your rest from naps stolen throughout the day. Stress was probably the culprit; you were working yourself to death, going on mission after mission, jetting across the world at a moment’s notice, was becoming a huge strain on your body. And living in the tower meant you spent all of your time around work and your team. Not that you had a problem living with your friends, most of the time everything was perfect, but living in such close quarters was causing you some issues, and that issue’s name was James Buchanan Barnes. Just the thought of his name had your heartbeat jacking up, making you roll your eyes at yourself.

When you moved in and met everyone, you had immediately been drawn to Bucky, his dark broodiness and bristly attitude completely melting you. You could remember him clearly that day; his dark hair had been pulled back into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, the two or three day old stubble on his jaw made you want to rub your cheek on his just to feel the burn. He had been wearing a loose black t-shirt and black sweats, the dark colors making him seem even more prickly. You introduced yourself and held out your hand to him, but he had just looked at it for a beat, then turned to walk away with a quiet, “Nice t’meet you.” You just stared after him as Steve made apologies for his friend, and it was at that moment you knew you were screwed.

Ever since then, you had been nursing a gargantuan crush on him. You knew it was just a crush you had to let run its course, but it was impossible to let it die while constantly being in his space. Bucky was there when you had breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He was there when everyone had game night. He was there when you were training in the gym, when you were lounging in the common areas, or watching a movie in the little home theater Tony had built. It was completely impossible to get one moment where Bucky wasn’t clouding your senses, lingering at the back of your mind.

It didn’t help that he had zero interest in you. In fact, he kind of seem repulsed by you. When you were paired to train with him, you had overheard Bucky arguing with Steve to let him train with someone else, anyone else, but ultimately he was stuck with you. Rather than get your feelings hurt, you channeled your irritation into several well-placed kicks and managed to beat the hell out of Bucky for four out of five rounds. It pleased you to no end to watch him try to catch his breath when you were finished, holding his bruised side as he walked away from you without so much as a “good game”. And yet, your heart still fluttered annoyingly whenever he walked into a room.

When you reached the common area, you grabbed a bag of pretzels and settled on the couch. You left the lights off and turned the large flatscreen on the wall on. There was never anything good on TV at three in the morning, so you settled on a hilariously bad infomercial for a fancy blender. You nestled into the pillows, laying on your side and pulling a soft blanket up to your chin. The low sound of the infomercial was making your eyes droop, and you were so hoping it would lull you to sleep.

Your eyes snapped open at the sound of someone padding into the room. The couch was facing away from the entrance, so whoever had come in couldn’t see you in your nest. They rummaged around for a bit, looking for a late-night snack you assumed. You hoped they would get on with it and leave soon, sleep was so close you could feel it, and this blender was the key. The footsteps started up again, this time on their way out.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., turn the TV off. Hate when folks leave those on.” a low voice carried through the darkness.

“Please don’t F.R.I.D.A.Y., I need to hear more about this blender.” you countered. Sitting up, you peered over the back of the couch and your heart dropped. This is the last thing you needed right now. Bucky was standing in the doorway, a plum in his hand, wearing only his infuriatingly adorable bedhead and a pair of gym shorts.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was awake.” he rubbed the back of his head with his right hand, obviously a little embarrassed at his state of undress. “What are you doing up anyway?” Much to your chagrin, he was making his was over to the couch, leaning over the back of it and waiting on your answer. He took a bite of his plum, full lips wrapping around the fruit as he sunk his teeth into its flesh. Juice ran down his chin, and you couldn’t help but stare as his tongue swiped at his bottom lip to catch the moisture. He smirked at your intense studying, breaking your trance. You shook your head, trying to dislodge the image and get your bearings.

“If you must know, I can’t sleep, haven’t been able to for awhile now. Figured I’d just watch bad TV until I could drift off.” you trained your focus on the salesman listing the finer details of the blender. Huh, it was portable and rechargable.

“Think you’ll find answers at the bottom of a blender, doll?” he huffed a laugh at his own dumb joke, but you were entirely too thrown off by the pet name he had used. You stared at him, completely confused at his sudden change in demeanor. Why was he being so friendly to you after months of the cold shoulder? You squinted your eyes suspiciously.

“Why are you being so buddy-buddy with me all of a sudden?” the question just slipped out. You hadn’t intended it to be so straight-forward, but lack of sleep had broken your filter. Bucky widened his eyes and looked a little offended. You turned back to the TV and continued, “I mean, you always seem like you can’t get away from me fast enough, and now you want to crack blender jokes with me. I’m just confused. Or maybe I’m dreaming.” you were rambling now.

“Do you dream of me often?” and of course Bucky would latch onto that part.

“Entirely too much if I’m being honest.” You were so tired you might as well have been drunk. If you weren’t careful, too much truth would come tumbling out and you’d make a gigantic fool of yourself. You stole a glance of Bucky and were surprised to see color rising in his cheeks, he was actually blushing. “It’s only because I have a huge crush on you, and I think about you a lot, but you seem to hate me. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure you’re the reason I can’t sleep. So, thanks for that.” you slapped a hand over your mouth as soon as the words left it, giggling like a madwoman. That was it, you had to die of embarrassment now.

Bucky was completely taken aback at your words, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, grappling for his words. The sight made you giggle a little, which just made Bucky flounder more. He closed his mouth and blinked a few times, shaking his head slightly to regain his senses. He straightened up from the back of the couch, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly as he seemed to debate on what to say next. You could feel the warmth in your chest as you watched his brow furrow and lips purse, his fingers rolling the plum over and over as if he’d find the words he was looking for written somewhere on the skin. Finally, he abruptly turned tail to leave the room, pausing in the doorway to look at you over his shoulder.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, so quiet you had to strain to hear, “I don’t hate you at all.” Then he was gone. You popped the last pretzel in your mouth, and settled back into the couch. Some part of you knew you should be unsettled by the whole exchange, but the sleepier part of you decided to save that thought for later. As soon as the salesman started talking about the five easy payments, you were sucked into a dreamless sleep.

[h1ra1s]

3:33 am in a hotel room in Berlin

idk. there’s just so much going through my head at the moment. not just this moment though, every waking moment. there is so much to think about and my mind will not shut the fuck up. mostly i think about you, which of course you’re not bad. you’re so lovely and precious to me and the thought of you makes me so incredibly happy. i love you, i really do, and i am not afraid to tell you that. but i am just trying to navigate my way through a relationship. i thought i knew what i was doing, but as it turns out i know nothing. which is fine, i love to learn but also learning comes from mistakes and i have already made too many of them. i am still amazed that you took me back. after everything i said, all those terrible words that were written in a delusional anger-induced state of mind. i would’ve hated me. but you don’t. in fact you say you love me. that shows the difference between you and me. i have so much to learn from you and i hope i am worth it. i know i think way too much and my anxiety is very bothersome, but please bear with me. the feelings i have for you and the amount of love in my heart dedicated just for you is incredible. i know i have fucked up so bad in the past, but it’s in the past. and now i am not going to hurt you like that again. i am going to love you and cherish you and support you and give you all the affection you want/need/deserve. i promise.

my ramblings sound like one of a lovesick madwoman but the insomnia is kicking and you’re farther away then ever before and i miss you and your voice and your laugh and the late nights i would spend hearing those instead of the deafening silence i hear now.

anyways. i love you.

[featherwurm]

What would happen if McMenamin's owned the Winchester Mystery House, still occupied by its batty creator, who had acquired strange and bizarre artifacts throughout her long life, even more than the Mystery Shack, and continued on her mad construction?  How would such a place run?

Here’s a dream I had the other night.

Along the Oregon coast, just south of Astoria, there are some 500+ acres of utterly untouched wilderness, once owned by what is now described as a madwoman.  I say untouched, but there is a building deep within the heart of it, a giant rambling construction dictated only by the whims of a spiritualist trying to avoid the wrath of a self-imposed curse.  She filled this building with her long lifetime's worth of artifacts, bizarre and arcane, filled with spirits and spiritual energies beyond the ability of any one person to control.  It would sound the start of some great horror story or murder mystery but no, what the hotel chain that bought it out saw was a financial opportunity.

It is a grand establishment, with so many secret passages, bizarre architectural flourishes, ghosts, and utterly eccentric décor and effects it couldn't be anything but one of the most fascinating establishments in all of Oregon.  It's original owner, now into her hundreds has stayed on living there, as part of the purchase agreement.  She is allowed to continue her procurement of magic and unusual artifacts, and so long as the hotel can operate, continue her rambling construction (never ending, to stave of that which she fears hunts her).  The hotel chain has fixed up the place a treat, covering it in beautiful artwork, adding amenities galore, and making it an incredible destination.  But it wasn't a purchase without risk.

The place is deeply haunted.  Like a spiritual magnet, it has drawn all sorts of entities, ghostly, magical, arcane, and otherwise, to it.  While many of these apparitions are harmless and only add to the allure, some are very dangerous, and could cause trouble for patrons.  Therefore, in addition to the usual hotel, restaurant, and sales staff of front desk, office managers, cooks, housekeeping, bartenders, servers, sales associates, and so on, there are three classes of spiritual workers employed:

Exorcists – Considered the most important (or at least the most self-important) these workers are the last to deal with any given situation.  Through their spiritual and magical prowess they are capable of purging magical entities from our dimension back to their home plane.  Their work is violent and dangerous, and they oversee the care and maintenance of the spiritual energy of the building – never too much, always just enough.

Brutes – Below the Exorcists are the Brutes, the physical bouncers of this ghostly place.  They are, through grace or training, able to physically beat the stuffing out of anything magical or ectoplasmic that comes their way.  When more severe means aren't needed, they pitch out the ghostly riff-raff.

Empaths – Considered the most lowly of the spiritualists, these people, through their own skills are able to diffuse conflict with ghosts and other magical entities.  They are first to be called, and are the ones with the most paperwork to deal with as they ensure that any claim of malicious spiritual activity is, in fact, ghosts and not rowdy patrons.  They are the talkers of the bunch, and work to peaceful resolutions of conflict, moving artifacts when needed to cleanse their energies, finding out the requests and needs of ghosts that are reasonable to work with, and meeting them, and otherwise working to keep the prestige of the strange nature of the place while avoiding conflict between the mundane and the magical.

I work as an Empath.  I have, throughout my life, been privy and partial to the strange, and yet, generally most sympathetic to it.  I find no need to kill the spiders in my home, but to find the best means that we can all live together. I, along with my fellows, am considered soft, but valuable at least. Although I deal with a lot of paperwork, constantly writing and filing reports of minor spiritual mischief and ensuring that it is dealt with or moved up the chain accordingly.  Patrons sign a waiver which states that if they attribute ghosts to their own wrongdoings, they are subject to significant fines, and follow up on those thankfully isn't my job, but I do have to ensure that everything in that regard is written up correctly if the Exorcists find no spiritual causes of destruction.

All of us spiritualists have a particular sort of uniform.  We all – no matter our class, wear the same clothes, meant to protect us from malicious entities; heavy boots with iron toes, a black jumpsuit with copper piping details, thick leather gloves, bags and satchels full of our various effects. It is both practical, and meant to keep us as indistinguishable from one another as possible, apart from the mask, which is unique to any of us, and can be dropped or traded off at any point to prevent further distinction among us in a crisis situation (you might know the one with the elk skull did something, but now there are just six humans in the room).  Sometimes you need to be one of many – sometimes you need to stand out to avoid dangerous spiritual situations, and this is the best compromise so far.

Each mask is generally skeletal in form, and made of a light and robust material.  It comprises a breathing apparatus in the front, which may be needed if an entity turns particularly hostile, or if work is needed in the pools and lake on the grounds.  Decorated with arcane symbols, there is some personalization allowed here, as the form must follow function, and each spiritual worker has their own little means of making it through the labyrinth of magical manipulation.

For all I am on a low rung and do more paperwork than I care for, I do enjoy my job.  The facilities are amazing, exciting, and unique, and even after a long hard day of work, they still provide surprises and enjoyment for most of us working here.  The building's original owner is fascinating, and there are seemingly no end to the magical creatures, artifacts, and events one might encounter on a daily basis.  The grounds are lush and extensive, and we are allowed use of them within reason, wandering the gardens or trekking through the libraries and museum-like portions of the building are always soothing on the nerves.

The woods are full of fair folk, drawn to the ancient and untouched wilderness beyond the hotel grounds, and they are as fascinating and beautiful as one would expect.  They glitter in a myriad of colors, and have the lingering countenance and bearing of wild animals in their 'human' forms.  They look different from us, yet compelling.  We've found so long as you don't eat their food or give them your name they are harmless to us, and sometimes will even enjoy our company.  It's generally considered a right of passage among the folk working here to have some sort of close encounter with them.  Some get a bit caught up in this; as time slows among the fair folk, your 15 minute break might turn into a long screw and a good nap if you time things out right, and you won't even be late back to work.

My fiance works as a bartender here, both to the human patrons and serving the spirits of spirits to the spirits.  Ghosts may not pay well (they don't have to, running a bar for those that drink the actual alcohol is profitable enough) but they do tip strange.  Any number of kinds of currency, barter, or artifacts may show up in the jar when you serve them.  There have been a few previous bartenders and servers who have retired happily at an early age due to a particularly generous patron.  We're trying not to directly hope – it's all up to chance, but you never know. We have acquired an alarming number of teeth though.  They'll probably turn into an art project.

I've not been working here as long as my fiance, but I've been working long enough to become pretty well accustomed to my job.  In any given day I'll make my rounds, investigate anything I've been delegated based on customer complaint, speak with whatever entities and creatures I can work with, and file the relevant paperwork.  Even for my rank I'm toward the bottom, and I receive the more simple and often dull jobs.  Most of what I work with is the leftovers of rowdy patrons, chasing unicorns out of the gardens (they're goats... they're fancy goats), and patrolling the lesser haunted halls and ensuring the usual activities are up to snuff (moving pictures,  floating candles, hot and cold spots, vaguely disquieting noises, the usual.  In addition to asking ghosts to leave, we also ask them to step up their act at times too).  I know it will get more involved with time, and I have patience.

It's one day when I'm almost off my shift and I'm being harassed by a Brute about how I've filed my paperwork for the day in regards to some patrons who have broken a stored Christmas tree and attributed it to ghosts (I KNOW I've done it correctly, don't tell me how to do my job when the only paperwork you have to file is 'found relevant ghost, punched it in face, it left') that we all get a very interesting call over our coms.  We're asked to assemble in the attic space (one of many) where an Egyptian Sarcophagus has been kept for almost as long as the building has been around. The Brute and I are closest, and therefore I'm handed a job I'm not sure is entirely within my scope.

It would seem the eclectic owner has had some sort of epiphany recently, and desires the sarcophagus, it's effects and its contents to be moved to a new area of the building, however, it's occupant, a mummy of the 6th dynasty, has been rousted by the move.  He is not in a bad mood, but is stalling movement awaiting someone to hear out his demands.  While this would often be an Exorcists work, he is peaceful in his protest, and I'm the first Empath to get there.  He is almost immediately forthcoming with me – he wants to go home.  He doesn’t belong here, and never did, of course, and has been quiet and patient but enough is too much and he's quite done.  There is, as I convey this to those around me, the immediate question of how much of the very valuable artifacts associated with him he will take with, I see greed in the eyes of the managers I work with, but... it is all for naught.  He doesn’t want anything but to go, not to move on, but simply to go back to Egypt and find his way there.  Having not moved on as expected, he would at least like to go somewhere which must be somewhat more familiar.  He knows time has passed, but he can't simply wait around as an exhibit for whatever is to happen to him next.

It is surprising to see such animation – he has not been active ever, to anyone's knowledge, yet speaking here amongst us he begins to take back the trappings of life.  He is between, we understand him for he is not living, and the language of death is universal, but he is not a ghost either, a living construct. If what inhabits him now is the same spirit he had living, or if he has simply taken on a life of his own in death is unclear, but there are physical flashes in his withered form of the person he once was. There is some hemming an hawing, a real live mummy after all, but it is agreed that I am to serve as diplomat, as he has immediately taken to my straightforward and curious way of speaking to him, and get him on home, wherever that may be, expenses paid, of course (it is definitely good PR to return artifacts of certain provenance to their homelands, no one is so pig-headedly greedy here as to not see that). The hotel has had to deal with reparations before, not all artifacts here were attained through legitimate or kind means, and this, well, if only the being wishes to go, and the rest is still up to the estate here, it can be managed.  It's a frustratingly corporate world, and this is beyond anything I've dealt with, but I'm ready to make do.

With my fiance, a mummy, and my spiritualist know-how, we're somehow going to navigate all this to a better end, and, eventually, get back to work.