#raucous carnival

[almostlookedhuman]

[rotworld]

7: Night Shift

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you work in one of the tourist traps along a popular beach pier known for its party scene. it's a night like any other. you have no idea about the unusual party crashers who are about to show up and ruin everything.

->original work. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, feral behavior, hard vore, mind control, terato, non-human genitalia.

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Last week, it was “Greek Gods of the Sea.” Togas and tridents, mostly, some seashell bikinis, a few fake beards stuffed with plastic starfish. They drank too much and cranked the music too loud, but that’s nothing new. Everyone knows what to expect from the Lucky Rock Pier Party People Association (“Lurpppa” to the local news, “Trouble at Ten O’Clock” to your fellow boardwalk employees, “Those Fucking Kids” to beachfront property owners). 

You wear headphones most nights anyway, desperate to keep the shrill, repetitive carnival songs of the pier funhouse from being seared into your brain. They don’t bother you much because the sign at the front says there’s no bathroom and all the hot dogs and funnel cakes are further down the boardwalk, but a few will trickle in just for something to do. If they spot the freezer, they’ll huddle around the glass and stare like the Mona Lisa’s in there, agonizing over a choice between an ice cream sandwich or fruit pops. 

Tonight, it’s a glow party. Neon beach balls and glow stick arches. You can’t hear the noise they’re making through your headphones but you can feel the bass throbbing through your feet. Someone’s probably going to call the cops again. The tourist family population retreats this time of night so it’s just you, the handful of shops still open this late, and Trouble at Ten O’Clock. This one’s more fun to watch, at least, bright and colorful like the spill of noctiluca. They’re vivid in glow-in-the-dark body paint, covered in luminescent stripes, swirls and splatters. 

A few of them come stumbling up the pier earlier than usual. Three women in different halter tops, painted with matching curly cues and butterflies on their faces. One of them wanders off to look at the tote bags. Another, much more inebriated, leans heavily against her friend. The designated driver, you assume, who drags her to the freezer to pick out something to eat. You glance down at the beach and see one of them sitting on Lucky Rock, the jagged chunk of stone sticking out of the water not far from shore. You’re not sure how he climbed up the slippery, steep sides but he’s definitely not supposed to be up there. The people on the beach are way too excited about it, gathered around cheering and hollering. 

Three ice cream sandwiches are dropped on the counter in front of you. You lift one side of your headphones and shrieking noise rushes in, the glow party just as raucous as you expected. “Will that be all?” you ask. The woman nods. Her friend starts to fall over and she has to support her weight against her shoulder. You ring up the total and she groans. Everything on the boardwalk is three times the price it should be, but she adds a tote bag when the other woman wanders back with one and tosses their ice cream inside. “Thanks, come again,” you call, sliding your headphones back on.

Ten minutes until closing time. Not much to do but sweep out the sand gathered in the doorway and tidy up the disaster zone a horde of children made of the stuffed animal section. Sharks and dolphins on the top shelf, turtles on the second, fish and starfish on the third—

Something moves in the corner of your eye. Startled, you turn and find a man ambling slowly through the store. A stray from the glow party, you think at first. Then you look again, paying attention this time. He looks like all the partygoers down on the beach, a silhouette with luminescent edges, but he shouldn’t. Not under the store lights. He’s midnight blue from head to toe beneath intricate glowing patterns, chest and shoulders speckled with small dots like cyan freckles with larger spots along his sides. Thin stripes trace the outlines of muscle beneath the skin, turning into a spiral pattern at his hips. 

Which you can see, you realize, because he’s naked. No swim trunks. No speedo. He’s wet and dripping all over the floor like he just crawled out of the water, a puddle slowly growing beneath his feet, and you can follow the course of every droplet as they roll slowly down curves and valleys of lithe swimmer’s muscles. Some of the lines on his torso are moving, you realize. Horizontal squiggles on either side of his abdomen flinch and pulsate. 

Gills, you realize. The pieces come together all at once in your mind. Despite working the boardwalk as long as you have, you’ve never seen a sea muse before. Most people haven’t. They’re skittish, you’ve heard. They prefer quiet coves and grottos, places humans have a harder time reaching. Safer that way if they decide to shed their tail and sun themselves for a while. This one certainly doesn’t seem bothered by the commotion down at the beach, poking through the t-shirt rack with long, clawed fingers. He doesn’t look much like the pictures you’ve seen, either, but all the pictures are of muses lurking in tropical reefs, big-finned and colorful like bettas. Beautiful like him, but not bioluminescent and not quite so large. He must come from deeper, colder waters. 

You set down a stuffed octopus as gently as you can but he hears it, turning swiftly to face you. Your heart races. He has the large, eerie eyes of an abyssal creature, glowing half-moons gleaming underneath wide silver irises and black sclera. Nobody prepared you for what to do in this situation. Do you play dead? Raise your arms and make noise to scare him off? What you mistook for slicked back hair is some kind of shimmery membrane. It flares out like the neck flap of a cobra in a threat display, but it starts to sag and flatten the longer you stare at each other. His eyes move slightly in their wide sockets, looking you over head to toe. 

An uncannily human smile spreads across his face. He makes some odd gestures towards you. His mouth moves. He’s talking, you realize, trying to communicate. You almost lift your headphones off but your brain catches up at the last second. You don’t know a lot about sea muses but you know enough to keep your ears covered. 

He blinks, staring at you in almost comical wide-eyed confusion. Then he smirks, his gills fluttering with laughter. He starts pacing back and forth, slowly inching closer like a shark circling prey in the water. He’s between you and the door so you inch towards the register counter instead. Maybe you can slip out the back? 

He stops suddenly, leaving some distance between you. He speaks again, tapping the side of his head and pointing at you. You shake your head and he frowns, but he doesn’t give up. You watch, morbid curiosity overpowering your fear, as he starts to move in a slow, seductive manner. It’s some kind of dance, you think, arching his back and extending the membrane on his head again, bioluminescence glittering on thin, translucent flesh. He holds your gaze as he runs a hand down the center of his chest, over his stomach, down to his pelvis and—

You’re not entirely sure what you expected to see between his legs, but it’s still a bit of a shock. The thick, jutting member is deep indigo at the base and a lighter aquamarine down the length. It barely resembles a human cock except in its vaguely phallic silhouette, oozing from an engorged sheath that dribbles cloudy slime. The shaft is smooth with a gentle upward curve, thick and shuddering with unnatural flexibility. It narrows to a soft triangular tip. Two additional appendages unfold from his hips. They remind you of crustacean legs, rigid and insectoid. They bend along two joints, pawing at the air with their sharp claw tips. 

The sea muse makes a thrusting motion. The tentacle-cock wraps around his hand, drooling like a tongue. His bioluminescent patches flash and dim like a flickering candle. You’re no marine biologist but it feels safe to assume this is a mating display.

“Uh. No? No thanks,” you say.

He grins. You see a row of daggers for teeth. He speaks slowly and your heart skips a beat when you clearly read the words, Are you sure? on his lips. 

“I’m sure. Thanks anyway.” Maybe you should be flattered. You’ve never heard of anyone getting hit on by a sea muse. He lets out a big, disappointed sigh, extra dramatic so you can’t miss it, and gives himself one last stroke before he moves on. You half-expect the cock to slither back into its sheath, but it stays obscenely hard and straining upright between his legs.

To your dismay, he doesn’t leave but instead pokes around the shop some more. He wanders to the left, examining surfboard keychains and hibiscus shot glasses. He wanders to the right, squinting at the postcards. Eventually, he makes his way to the freezer and slides it open with some difficulty. His head membrane flares out wider than you’ve ever seen it the first time he sticks his hand inside. You wonder if he hissed. He tries again, pinching a fruit pop in its colorful package between his claws. He rips the plastic open.

“Hey!” you say. “You can’t just—”

He looks back over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowed and membrane spread in warning. You turn away and continue to mind your own business. 

The glow party seems to be winding down. The beach balls are all sitting in a pile. Some of the glow stick arches have toppled over. The pounding bass isn’t shaking the pier anymore. You see a lot of people lounging in the sand, rolling around, stretched out together, a bunch of them writhing—

Oh, you think. That’s bold, even for Trouble at Ten O’Clock. There’s no mistaking those thrusting, grinding, back and forth movements for anything else. There are a few couples scattered around but most of them have settled into a spot worryingly close to the water, seafoam rushing around them whenever the waves come surging up the beach. They tangle together in passionate motion, kissing and caressing and fucking like it’s the last night of their lives.

Something about it unsettles you. They’re being so rough with each other. This isn’t a slow, sensual orgy but a frenzy. Mindless, animalistic rutting and forceful movements. You see mouths open in silent screams. Some of them aren’t moving. Some of them are trying to crawl away but they’re being dragged back by the ankle, the hair, the arm, pulled through the dark sand. Why is the sand so dark? And wet, glistening where the tide hasn’t risen yet. 

The horrific realization grips you slowly. You’re in denial. You must be having a nightmare. A man tries to claw his way up the beach but someone else pins him down, straddles his back. You don’t see what happens, can’t make it out in the dark, but the paint on his body stretches and splits, and the sand darkens in a liquid motion under him. A woman arches her back in the throes of ecstasy, surrounded on all sides by eager, thrusting bodies. They’re biting her, you realize. Their heads lower and blood splashes the sand. Through all of it, she squirms and rakes her fingers through the sound as though she’s never felt pleasure like this before. Someone crawls between her legs and she opens them eagerly, loops them around the waist of something that is not human, you realize. None of the ones surrounding her are. They glow more brightly in more precise patterns, membranes pulsating, gills fluttering.

Your headphones are ripped away, clattering uselessly to the floor. You hear an awful cacophony of moaning, screaming, begging, and weeping. You think, for just a second, about running. Your muscles tense and your heart races. Where? For how long? You don’t know but you’re willing to try. 

“Where are you going?” says the sea muse and you can’t move a muscle. His voice is low and melodic. You hear the ocean when he speaks; the hiss and splash of the shallows, the heavy drone of the deep. “Hm? Do you want to join them?” You hear the wet slap of his footsteps for the first time as he comes closer. His hand grasps your chin lightly, barely applying any pressure, but you feel compelled to turn around. To look up at his sharp-toothed smile and the gentle pulse of his bioluminescence. “My shiver is down there. Frenzying,” he says. He turns your head to the side, just far enough to glimpse the gruesome scene on the beach, then returns your gaze to him. 

“Please don’t,” you say hoarsely, your throat constricted. “Don’t make me, don’t—” 

“It’s been so long,” he says, and your mouth snaps shut. “Since I last came ashore.” He walks backwards, his fingers still ghosting against your chin, and you follow. You don’t want to but your legs move on their own. His voice is addictive. You hang on every word and you hope he never stops talking. The silence between makes you tremble. “Even longer since I last mated. You can see it. You can tell how long I’ve waited, if you look.” 

You don’t want to look but your eyes betray you, gaze lowering to the slithering thing between his legs. It curls around itself impatiently like a snake. Another glob of slime slides slowly from its sheath and dribbles on the floor. The way it moves frightens you, the base twitching and undulating, slug-like. 

“You want this,” he says. He takes another step back and you rush forward. He strokes beneath your chin. 

You shake your head desperately. Your mouth is trying to shape the word “yes.”

“You do. You want this.” His back hits the register counter and he leans against it, spreading his legs wide. “You want to taste me,” he says, his voice dipping lower. 

You drop to your knees so fast it hurts, feeling the blooming sting of new bruises. It doesn’t matter that you’re terrified. It doesn’t matter that the thing bobbing in your face is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. You open your mouth and suck the strange, pointed head without hesitation. The sea muse moans and your thighs quiver, inner muscles clenching on nothing. You have to hear it again. 

“You need it,” he purrs, thrusting shallowly. You bob your head, taking him deeper every time. He hits the back of your throat quickly, his cock eager and probing at the inside of your mouth. “You need me to spill inside you. You need everything I have to give.” You moan and choke around his length. His hand rests on the back of your head, forcing you down further. His thrusts get harder and faster, crushing your nose against his slick abdomen. 

Some part of you is screaming at the alien movements of his cock, how it nudges and prods and tries to snake down your throat, but you can’t focus on that. He doesn’t let you. Every grunt and moan, every hiss of praise, makes the fear even more distant. 

“You need—oh, yes,” he groans, clutching your head with both hands as he pounds into your mouth. “You need to mate with me. You need—mm, suck on me, suck on the tip—fuck, you need my milt. I have so much and you need all of it.” 

You make a humiliating, needy sound when he suddenly pulls you off of his cock. It slips out of your mouth reluctantly, the tip sliding back and forth against your lips. He drags you to your feet by the forearm, shoving you against the register counter. He bends you over it, tearing at your clothes with his claws. You cum when he blows softly against your ear. You’re still shivering, clawing mindlessly at the counter when he kisses and licks the shell, sliding his tongue into every little dip and groove. 

“Do you want me?” he whispers. You hear a slick sound, a grunt, and then his hand is at your entrance. He uses the pads of his fingers but he’s not very careful. His claws prick your thighs as ass while he smears thick, warm globs between your legs. “Hm? Do you want me?” 

“Yes,” you sob. You arch your back and try to press your hips back against him. He makes a growling sound against your ear that makes your knees buckle, nipping the lobe playfully. 

“You want to be fucked?” One hand reaches around and roughly works your sex, spreading a warm, tingling sensation. “Want to be filled with milt?” 

“Yes!” 

His cock slides along the curve of your ass, teasing you. Then it slithers down, sliding into just the right angle with the tip pushed against your entrance. “Good human,” he purrs, and your eyes roll back in your head. His tip presses inside and then he’s thrusting hard and fast without warning. More slime drips from his sheath and slides down his length, the tingling slickness easing his punishing rhythm. It wouldn’t matter if the lubrication wasn’t there. You can’t do anything but lay there and gasp and meet his thrusts, needing his cock inside you more than you need to breathe. 

Those sharp, grasping appendages hook around your thighs. You feel them lock into place, their grip tightening until you’re right up against the sea muse’s body. His thrusts don’t slow at all. If anything, he’s even rougher and faster, deep humping thrusts that make you tremble and scream. He keeps talking through all of it no matter how winded and breathless he gets, keeping you right on the precipice of orgasm after orgasm with filthy whispers and wet, open-mouthed kisses against your ear. 

“So tight,” he hisses. “You feel so good, squeezing me like that. You want it so much. I’m going to give you everything. You’re going to be so fucking full.” His hips stutter, losing rhythm. You cum again just as a rush of warm wetness pulses inside you, spurting every time the sea muse thrusts. Thick, creamy liquid churns and foams at your entrance, a trickle dribbling down your thigh. You hear a few drops hit the floor under you. The sea muse rides out his orgasm with long, loud moans that send you over the edge again and again. He crushes you against the counter, hips rolling. One last, slow thrust fills you with another hot gush of his strange cum. 

He breathes heavily. His hips sway while he’s still sheathed inside you and his cock curls just the right way to make you sob for mercy. “Hm? You think we’re done?” he murmurs. “I told you. It’s been a long time. I still have so much more to give you. And you want it, don’t you? You need it?” 

“Yes,” you say, your voice quivering and broken. The sea muse starts to fuck you again and all you can do is let him.

You don’t know when it ends. It could be minutes, or hours, or days. The passage of time is measured in breaths and heartbeats and orgasm after orgasm. The floor is slick and sticky under you, a white puddle of milt steadily growing. You think he bites you but you don’t know. It all feels good, especially when he tells you how perfect you are, how sweet and submissive, how well you’re milking his cock of everything he’s saved for this moment. He makes you ride him once, seated on the counter while he bounces you in his lap. He digs his claws into the meat of your ass and leaves marks. 

You don’t know who finds you. Someone else who works the pier, probably, too horrified and embarrassed for both of you to stick around. The Coast Guard sweeps the water but the sea muses are long gone, leaving nothing behind but the mangled leftovers of their frenzy. The bodies glisten in the sand, torn to shreds like a burst whale carcass. By sunrise, the flies and the seagulls are swarming. You’re escorted to an ambulance with a blanket over your shoulders. The first person to look you in the eyes tells you, very quietly, that you might want to quit your job and consider moving inland. 

“Those are mating marks,” he says. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, given that they’re everywhere. Jagged, oozing circles dot your shoulders, arms, thighs and back. “Because they’re at a very precise depth. Meant to scar, not to kill. That means it’s going to come back.” They tell you not to look at the water but you do, one last time, before you leave. You don’t see anything. That doesn’t mean anything. The water’s deep and it seems to go on forever.

That night, in a hospital bed, you have a dream of someone singing to you. It sounds like the ocean filling your ears.

[justforbooks]

The Dead of Winter by Sarah Clegg

From the devilish Krampus legend to a spot of disembowelment, the author takes us on a scary romp through Europe’s most disturbing festive folklore

Shaggy figures with snarling masks and metre-long horns, scenes of wild drunkenness, random assaults on strangers, witches winding your intestines out on a stick, a giant “Yule Cat” who will eat you if you’ve failed to put on new clothes for the day – no, it’s not your annual family get-together, at least I hope not. It’s a compendium of European seasonal lore from the dark side, as explored in this excellent short book by historian and folklorist Sarah Clegg. She combines a trove of good stories with a serious critique of earlier mythographers’ ideas about them, and also takes us on adventures ranging from pre-dawn graveyard walks to the terrors of Salzburg’s pre-Christmas “Krampus night”, named for the monstrous masked figures who prowl its streets on 5 December.

Clegg approaches Christmas by a broad avenue, so we get chapters on Venice’s carnival, Saturnalia festivals in ancient Rome, the witchy shenanigans of Epiphany Eve (also known as Twelfth Night), and the wassails of January, in which good health is wished to apple trees by waving horses’ skulls at them. What all these celebrations share is a mood of maniacal excess and social exuberance. Practices include “guising”, or putting on animal disguises; “mumming”, or enacting plays; and “knocking” – going around banging on doors, asking for treats, and even dragging out unwilling residents to join the merriment. The mayhem can spill over into violence, especially in the town of Matrei in Austria, where the Krampus-like “Klaubauf” figures barge into houses and fight in the streets, to the extent that local authorities advise tourists to stay away and the hospital’s emergency department prepares for an influx of injured people. Even Clegg does not venture to Matrei, but the Krampus night she attends in Salzburg is only slightly less extreme. As she strolls amid the usual market scenes of fairy lights and glühwein stands, she is set upon by a Krampus who whacks her with two sticks. It’s all good festive fun – except that she still has the bruises and welts far into January.

Krampus is traditionally an assistant to Saint Nicholas, or Santa Claus, and even the white-bearded chuckling one himself can be less pleasant than we might think. His punitive side now survives mainly in the idea that he will bring no gifts if you’ve been naughty. That’s nothing compared with the punishments inflicted by other characters in the winter-festival tradition. In northern Europe, Saint Lucy is usually visualised as a gentle, white-clad maiden with a feast day on 13 December. But she can turn from sweetness to savagery in an instant if she catches you going to work instead of celebrating on that day, or if you have forgotten to put out snacks for her and her friends. She is the one who likes winching out your intestines, but for variety she sometimes also seizes children, removes their internal organs, stuffs them with straw, and sews them up again.

In the 19th century, a shift took place towards more polite Christmas behaviour, especially in Victorian Britain. Santa Claus became portly and took to riding around with reindeer. The feasting became less about chaotic public drinking sessions and more about a family dinner presided over by the master of the house: it affirmed the hierarchy rather than upending it. The topsy-turvy elements of the season were transferred to other celebrations such as carnivals and pantomimes, and door-to-door knocking and treating became more associated with Halloween. In England today, the tradition of raucous Christmas home intrusions survives only in the (slightly) less scary form of doorstep carol singers.

Where the wilder rituals remain, they have become more self-consciously folkloric. Clegg introduces us to the wassailers of Chepstow, with their horses’ skulls on poles, and the Marshfield Mummers of Gloucestershire, who dress up like giant ragged mops and put on a play. These events are well-attended, suggesting a revival of interest; Krampus runs have even become popular in parts of the US. Clegg suggests that this might reflect an increasing disenchantment with the tame, Victorian-style Christmas, especially now that it’s so commercialised. The frenzies of last-minute gift shopping or trying to get a train or plane ticket home can’t compete with the frenzy of running around with an animal head.

If so, these mixed feelings about the 19th-century family Christmas were there from the start. Clegg notes that the century that created that kind of Christmas also created a new kind of historian, keen to find dark and ghastly “pagan” rituals lurking behind the politer ones. In 1890, James Frazer’s The Golden Bough sought a key to all mythologies in a supposed long-lost midwinter rite, during which a king was killed so as to be reborn as a new king in spring. The idea was exciting, and the book became a bestseller. The problem, says Clegg, is that there was no good reason to think any such rite ever existed. The book was “a collection of wild, unsubstantiated statements”, built upon a titillating fantasy of “primitive” fertility rituals.

Frazer has been demolished many times before, but Clegg sees his ideas living on in our tendency, even now, to assume that modern practices are rooted in a timeless hinterland of mysterious, pagan antiquity. This is misleading in several ways, she argues. First, we know too little about what really went on in the undocumented past. Second, it casts the people of long-ago Europe as passive transmitters of tradition, rather than as active agents who reimagined and adapted their celebrations through time. “Never mistake folklore for something ancient and unvarying,” she writes. Like most of what humans do, it is “creative and dynamic”.

Also, the notion of solemn and ancient mysteries ignores the idea of having fun. When the fifth-century Bishop of Ravenna, Peter Chrysologus, inquired into local festivities, people assured him that it was all “just for fun”. He thought they were putting him off the scent of something more sinister. For Clegg, they were probably telling the truth. If people, given a day off work and a good excuse, choose to race around dressed as animals, drink a lot and bash each other with sticks, perhaps they do it because it’s a holiday and it’s a laugh.

I’m not surprised Clegg is so attuned to the possibility of fun as a major cultural force, because she has a strong sense of it herself. Her book is both thought-provoking and filled with amusing asides and quips. Like Gibbon, but with more brevity, she puts many of her best jokes in footnotes. We need all the fun we can get, because, as she reminds us in one of her own more serious moments at the end of the book, “beyond the glow of firelight, the shadows are waiting”.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[love-minor-poltergeist]

Hello Ghost! First of all, I just want to say I fell in love with your writing and use of words (they’re simple but they carry a strange energy -in a positive way- with them)

Second of all, can I request what would be like to be in a platonic relationship with King Dice and Devil would be?

A/N: Ahh this compliment means a lot!!! 

I tend to fret over how to phrase certain things. It feels really reassuring to hear that about my work! Please do forgive me for taking so long to get to your request, and please do not be afraid to reach out to me to make any adjustments!!

A side note: I wasn’t quite sure which portrayal of the characters you would’ve preferred, so I did my best to borrow traits from both the game and the show!

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Platonic! King Dice Relationship Hcs:

Oh, boy. Between his job as Inkwell Hell Casino’s manager, The Devil’s right hand man, and media darling, a day off for King Dice is as rare as a blue moon. Both of your schedules hardly ever align, leaving you to not hear much from the man until maybe about a week or even months. 

And yet, the minute the two of you do find the time, it’s as if only a day has passed by. Thanks to years of maintaining and polishing his public appearance, King Dice is able to pick up where you both last left off with ease. He’ll gladly recount any gossip or this month’s paramour– going into every scandalous detail and relishing your raucous laughter as he goes on about some poor schmuck that tried to roll his dice, if you could catch his meaning. 

Granted, if you’re the less talkative type, it’ll throw him for a loop in the first stages of your friendship. He’s so used to coworkers, reporters, and adoring fans clamoring to speak to him– desperate to know him that he’s forgotten what silence was like. Of course, once he’s past that stage and grown comfortable, it turns out King Dice could happily speak for the both of you. So much so that there are times you think the man just loves the sound of his own voice. 

He does, but that’s besides the point. 

Time spent together is usually over the phone.  With the aforementioned work schedule and a paparazzi that’s so eager to stir the pot if Dice so much as breathes, he’ll usually cold call you while he’s poring over paperwork– eager for someone normal to talk to lest he go mad. 

The conversation doesn’t end when he’s done with work, either. He’s most certainly the type of person to walk about his office, phone in hand and the earpiece tucked against his shoulder while he idly walks around. 

Being famous has its perks. King Dice would use his popularity and status to share some of the high life with you. Oh, he’s gotten a gift from some overpriced luxury brand or a pompous admirer? Babes, you could probably use it more than he can– sell it, keep it, he doesn’t mind either way. You want the chance to try out the food from the new exclusive restaurant in town? Get your things, he could make a reservation for dinner for the two of you in thirty minutes.

While the allure of the glitz and glam of fame is what he’s used to, King Dice can’t help but feel oddly sentimental over the small gifts or gestures you send his way. You once won a little teddy bear with a purple tie from the carnival, and when you proudly presented your gifted trophy, he’ll huff and roll his eyes; his chalk-white face steadily growing pinker by the second while his lips wobble between a frown and dorky little smile. He’s too old for that!

He’s a liar. He loves it. Dice has a little shelf where Bear Dice lives on. Any imp that touches it will immediately get a fancy dress shoe rammed into their ugly mug. 

Listen, he’s a lovely friend to have, but he’s brutally honest. Even when it’s inappropriate to do so. Dice values the truth and expects you to be as honest with him. 

“Doll. I respect you, but you dress like a middle-aged lawyer going through her third divorce.”

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Platonic! Devil Relationship Hcs:

Truth be told, the fact that you’re still alive and not some soulless husk is proof enough that The Devil likes you. You’re one of the few souls unafraid of him and one of the even fewer that don’t annoy him. 

Can and will appear in your home unannounced. There are countless times where you’ve woken up in the dead of night to loud crashes in your kitchen, where you’ll find the demon raiding your fridge (you’re out of milk, by the way). Or during the times when you find yourself drifting in and out of sleep, chest tight and lungs fit to burst. You slowly open your eyes– 

Only to be met with the distorted face of the Devil. Eyes wide, hollow, and pupils blown out as he stands over you in bed.

You now made it mandatory for him to announce when he’ll be coming over. Bastard still keeps it ominous as possible by only leaving notes as warnings. 

The Devil hates it when people try to touch him yet he has no qualms invading your personal space. He’s used his height to intimidate people for so long that it just becomes second nature to lean over you or stand uncomfortably close. 

Speaking of said height, he’s a complete shithead about it, too. If the Devil feels like you’ve talked enough, he’ll just take his hand and envelop your entire face. Bite him and he’ll curse you out. 

Vulnerability is a weakness that others can take advantage of in Hell. Though the demon does enjoy your presence, he can’t find it in himself to let himself be sappy or sentimental. Any sweet gestures are almost always followed by some insult to mask his true emotions.

Think that one incorrect quote meme/textpost from a while ago: “I missed you. I thought your lil’ ugly ass went and joined the soul circus.” 

The Devil can’t help but feel frustrated with himself for feeling his traitorous heart flutter whenever you casually refer to him as your friend. He’s got all the power in the world and is free to do what he wishes with it, but it could get lonely at the top. 

All too eager to offer to kill anyone that even slightly inconveniences you. You may snort and try to laugh it off, but the blank stare that he gives you in return can’t help but unnerve you. He’s not joking. 

He’s an enabler at heart and will encourage you to be irresponsible, consequences be damned. If anything, you’re probably going to have to be the mom friend here.

┕━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┙

[missacidburn928]

While you wait on Moonlight and Fang...

Enjoy some deviance I wrote last year...

Divider by @unowakot

“Come one! Come all! To Sins Debaucherous Carnival!” Your voice proclaims across the entryway, out into the autumn air where a line has formed as far as around the corner. The video continues, your voice entrancing the waiting patrons. 

“Tis Hallows Eve and the night is young. Prepare yourselves for a night of raucous fun! From spooky sexy skeletons, to our sirens sensual song, let your darkness be your guide as you travel the sins of the flesh we provide. Muahahaha.” 

The team, having decided to celebrate, take in the entryway and swarm of bodies as they make their way to the main stage, where your act for the night is set to begin.

The atmosphere in the club is a bit darker tonight. The lights are dimmer and the wait staff look ghoulishly delicious, in varying shades of death. They arrive at their booth and settle in, anxious to see what you have in store for the audience tonight.

El Tango de Roxanne begins to play as the curtains open and a lone red spotlight centers on a single bed. The only other light comes from a lone window, in which the shadow of a well built man can be seen.

LUNATIC Ch. 3

[itsguysnightitsironic]

INDEX

Once upon a Witchlight -- THE TITLE OF THE EP.

EXTRA CONTENT: . ILLUSTRATION (🧁) . COMIC (🎃) . VIDEO / ANIMATIC (🦢) . SHITPOST (🧚) If emojis are fuss together it's the two things ---> example: (🧚 / 🧁 ) SHITPOST AND ILLUSTRATION. If it's surrender by stars (⭐) it means it's an official LOA short that I was commissioned to animate.

We need some order in our life, not context, just order in the chaos.

EP. 1 CIRCUS TO CIRCUS

Remy Bonnaire from Tiger, Tiger comic??? In the dnd campaign? (🧚) ⭐Madryck Roslof living room. (🧁/🦢) ⭐

EP. 2 REQUIEM FOR A CLOWN

⭐ A little angry man in the void, what will he do? (🦢/🧚) ⭐

EP. 3 LET THEM EAT CAKE

A very out-of-context Ep 3: Let them Eat Cake (🧚/🎃) ⭐ The Furries and Gideon (🦢/🧚) ⭐

EP. 4 LOSE YOUR ILLUSION

EP. 5 BIG TOP BOP

The Only One (PART 1) (🦢 / 🧁) Gondolas are supposed to be calm and relaxing not.. Whatever this was. (🦢 / 🧚) A little angry man in the void, what will he do? (🦢 / 🧚) The Only One (PART 2) (🦢 / 🧁)

EP. 6 GUY'S NIGHT

Guys night! IT'S IRONIC, WE SWEAR-- (🧁/🧚) The Kremy's crew (🧚) They put a foot into the carnival and the Fae magic when: We need to be gay! Trust me gay is in, gay is hot, I want some gay, gay it's gonna be, NANDOR-- (🧚/🎃)

EP. 7 TAINTED LOVE

Would you blink already?!" (🎃) ⭐ A bright mind makes quicker hands (🦢/🧚) ⭐

EP. 8 AT A SNAIL'S RACE

EP. 9 WHEN THE WAGON'S A ROCKIN'

EP. 10 RAUCOUS REVELRY

EP. 11 THE PIXIE DUST PLOT

EP. 12 SCARY MONSTERS AND SUPER CREEPS

EP. 13 AN ELF FOR ALL SEASONS

EP. 14 SASHAY AWAY

EP. 15 FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL

Payasos de rodeo (🧁) I'm sure the wedding was passed as a business expense. (🎃/🧁)

EP. 16 MONARCH FOR A DAY

Never forget what Prismir took from us. (🦢 / 🧚) "We have been, Carnival Lecroux. I love unicorns, and y'all own me one." (🦢) The Only One (PART 3) (🦢 / 🧁)

EP. 17 WHEN THE HARES GO MARCHING IN

What 24h in a carnival does to a man, ah? (🧚/ 🧁) The Only One (PART 4) (🦢 / 🧁)

EP. 18 SNAKES AND BURROWS

The Only One (PART 5) (🦢 / 🧁) Worse found (kidnapped into) family ever. (🧚 / 🎃) The Only One (PART 6) (🦢 / 🧁)

EP. 19 BUMP IN THE NIGHT

Lost things find their way into Prismir (🧚 / 🎃) Drink your fey milk (🦢 / 🧚) The inn on the end of the Road. (🧚) POV: You're getting adopted into a polycube after trying to murder them while on drugs (🧚)

EP. 20 HOT JONES

Fur coats and pumpkin labyrinths. (🎃)

EP. 21 RUNNING UP THAT HILL

EP. 22 HARE TODAY, GONE TOMORROW

New phone, who diss? (🧁) H E R. (🦢 / 🧚)

EP. 23 STUMPED

EP.24 SLIPPERY WHEN WET

EP.25 THE ONE WHERE FIRE GETS PURGED

EP. 26 DON'T LOSE YOUR HEAD

EP. 27 LORD OF FLIES

EP. 28 A COMEDY OF ERRORS

The cookie of true (🧚 / 🎃) ⭐ An animation is here. (🦢/🧚) ⭐

EP. 29 THE SHOPPING EPISODE

Frankenstein of your own making. (🧁) Give that genasi a stick! A SEXY ONE! (🧚 / 🎃)

EP. 30 PHANTOM OF THE HOPPERA

EP. 31 ELECTRUM CHEF

EP. 32 A FEAST FOR FROGS

EP. 33 UP THE WRONG TREE

EP. 34 A CHANGE OF HEART

"¿Y cuáles deseos me was a dar?" (🧚 / 🎃)

EP. 35 BEWARE THE FOREST MUSHROOMS

"What's your favourite scary movie? Boo, you whore. That's not... That's not a scary movie" (🧁)

EP. 36 THE ROOM WHERE IT HAPPENED

EP. 37 DREAD, BATH AND BEYOND

EP. 38 UNCLOG THE BOG

EP. 39 TOO MANY COOKS

EP. 40 STILL LIFE

EP. 41 THROWING SHADE

"That's life, That's what all the people say, You're riding high in April, shot down in May" (🦢)

EP. 42 ALL DOLLED UP

EP. 43 FUNGI'S NIGHT

EP. 44 MUSHROOM SAMBA

EP. 45 THROUGH THE HOURGLASS

"Eat your young before they eat you." (🎃)

EP. 46 THE JAWS THAT BITE

"Gresca i destrucció, riurem i ens penedirem, el cremarem el dimarts i patirem fins el diumenge." (🎃)

EP. 47 PLOT OF GREED

EP. 48 UP SHADE'S CREEK

EP. 49 THE LAST UNICORN

EP. 50

EP. 51

EP. 52

EP. 53

EP. 54

EP. 55

Born Guilty (🎃 / 🧁 )

🧚🧚🧚OH NO! 🧚🧚🧚🧚

🧚🧚Pixies are covering the way!🧚🧚🧚

OUTSIDE THE LOOP.

It takes two to trust, but only one to bleed. (🧁) Feliç dia de la Mercè, the weird sketchy carnival is in town. (🦢 / 🧚) What crisis are you on? (🧚) Kith and kin. /Aromantic week 2024/ (🎃) ---->ft. 🪻🪻BENEATH DARK WINGS🪻🪻 ---> ft. 💠💠ICEBOUND💠💠 ---> ft. 🥀🥀 EDGE OF MIDNIGHT🥀🥀 ---> ft.🌹CURSE OF STRAHDANYA🌹 ---> ft.✨✨STARDUST RHAPSODY ✨✨ ---> ft. 🌻🌻PRIME 🌻🌻 ⭐ They put the clown in the convention? (🦢 / 🧚) ⭐ If I don't go to hell when I die I might go to heaven (🎃) Te estoy amando locamente, Pero no sé cómo te lo voy a decir - LAS GRECAS (🧁) back to the office, baby (the last shift looks traumatized) (🧚/🎃) ---->ft. 🥀🥀 EDGE OF MIDNIGHT🥀🥀 It's pride month, baby! (2023) (🧚) Just, just don't go shopping, EVER (🧚/🎃) ---->ft. 🥀🥀 EDGE OF MIDNIGHT🥀🥀 Big Cat -- MORNING FROST (🧁) Some very out-of-context shitpost's. (🧚 / 🎃) A saint garden of lies and bones. (🎃 /🧁) Gideon Coal walked so buses would run (🧚) The 87 faces of a wagon. I PART 1I (🧁) Dental hygiene. (🧚 / 🎃) A blaze (🧁) OUT, just get out (🦢/🧚) "You made Uncle Kremy disappear? You took Uncle Kremy from Hootsie and left behind a doppelganger? OH, OH! JAIL FOR FATHER! JAIL FOR FATHER FOR ONE THOUSAND YEARS!" (🧚) Falling into the background. (🧁) THE WAGON AT THE END OF THE ROAD (🧚 / 🎃) ---> ft.🌹CURSE OF STRAHDANYA🌹 Cold-Blooded surrounded by heat lamps (🧚 / 🎃) Some human skin and bone (🧁) Surviving enough to start living again. (🎃) RIP the OUAW gang, they would have loved Eurovision 2023. (🧚 /🧁) There's some video in the funny pictures (🧚 / 🦢) Have more of these charts, but the conflict edition (🧚) My favourite part of Once Upon a Witchlight was when the Witchlight said "Once Upon a Wicthlight!" and Oncing Uponing a Witchlighting all around. (🧚) "Would you so kindly call the accused not guilty?" (🧚/🎃/🦢)

[razzberrydazz]

OC Meme - get to know Rana

Got tagged by @mynthara to do this oc info meme, tagging uhhh anyone else who wants to do this if ya want (@larissel I choose you if ya wanna blab about Nashira :3)

I put a readmore for possible game spoilers ahead for BG3, and for potential content warnings (mentions of Dark Urge antics, kink dynamics, and brief mentions of SA), cuz Rana's life pre-tadpole was Not a happy one. Enjoy all the pics of Rana I stuffed into this!

BASICS

Full Name (pre-tadpole): Rana the Gray, ie the Bladedancer, ie The Dark Urge, ie The Red-Eyed Dagger

(Rana loosely translates to Lesser End/Minor Destruction in Drow)

Full Name (post-tadpole): Rana'rox La'Rouge, ie Rana, ie Durge

Gender: Nonbinary/Agender

Sexuality: Pan

Pronouns: They/It (They/Them for Rana, it/its for their Urge)

Age: Mid 40s? Rana doesn't quite remember how old they are.

OTHER

Family: Bhaal (progenitor), Orin the Red (Half-Sister, Bhaalspawn Bloodkin), Mala (Rana's daughter - a product of SA and incest - that they had smuggled away as soon as she was weaned, in order to protect her from the Bhaalist cult and from their Dark Urge; Mala ended up adopted by Jaheira and her family. Mala loosely translates to Secret Breaker in Drow)

Other family: Adopted drow (seldarine) mother called Rox La'Rouge (deceased, killed by the Dark Urge), a pet Displacer Beast called Chewy (deceased), a human man called Rook Haven (deceased, killed by the Dark Urge) who was the ringleader for a traveling circus called the Raucous Rooks (all members killed by the Dark Urge when the Urge first fully manifested in Rana), and several unnamed children both deceased and surviving as Bhaalists (Rana doesn't remember them, the Brain Trauma is Strong).

Birthplace: Spawned in the Cloakwood forest near Baldur's Gate, then found and raised by Rox La'Rouge and the Raucous Rooks circus shortly after.

Job: Originally a bard and acrobat in the Raucous Rooks circus, then became a Bhaalist assassin, then the leader of the Bhaalist cult in Baldur's Gate, then during the events of BG3 acts as an altruistic adventurer. Rana hopes to one day join a new carnival or circus as a clown or daredevil acrobat.

Phobias: Succumbing to the Urge, Pregnancy (Ironically has a breeding kink), The color Red (specifically when it's the Urge), loss of control, succumbing to insanity.

Hobbies: Rana works to teach themself Drow (they never learned to speak it fluently as a kid, and are trying to catch up in adulthood), and other languages in their free time, and write in their journal extensively. They enjoy collecting and sharpening daggers, sword swallowing, juggling, reading, dancing, singing, and playing instruments such as the lyre and lute. They also like trying new clothes and learning new rope-tying techniques.

MORALS

Alignment: Chaotic Good - Rana will go out of their way to do what they believe is good, laws and consequences be damned, if only to counteract their Urges. Sometimes that involves killing someone doing a great wrong, or breaking into buildings to steal food to feed the hungry, or intimidating guards into turning a blind eye to someone just trying to survive, or purposely isolating themselves from others so as to not hurt anyone.

Sins: Wrath (the Urge), Lust, Envy

Virtues: Patience, Courage, Kindness

Introvert / Extrovert / Ambivert

Organized / Disorganized (memory problems)

Close-minded / Open-minded

Calm / Anxious / Restless

Disagreeable / Agreeable / In between

Cautious / Reckless / In between (save yourself I'll hold them back)

Patient / Impatient / In between

Outspoken / Reserved / In between

Leader / Follower / Flexible

Empathetic / Unempathetic / In between

Optimist / Pessimist / Realist

Traditional / Modern / In between

Hard-working / Lazy

OTP: Shadowheart, Minthara, and Lae'Zel (Rana is polyamorous and kinky, and wants to share and be shared with their partners. In an ideal situation, they act as service top and Submissive in a D/S dynamic with Minthara, Shadowheart, and Lae'Zel; Minthara also acts as the Domme of Shadowheart, Lae'Zel, and Karlach. Minthara only agrees to this dynamic if it's a Hierarchical relationship with her at the top.)

Acceptable Ships: Karlach, Halsin, Astarion, Dame Aylin and Isobel, and Abdirak (If Shadowheart and/or Minthara give Rana permission, they'll happily be with other people)

OT3: In a polycule with the entire party (Rana wants to get passed around like a blunt)

Brotp: Karlach, Wyll, Minsc, Astarion, Gale

Notps: Jaheira (sees Jaheira as a mother/grandmother/mentor figure, but is entirely willing to platonically help Jaheira with her kids, considering they find out Jaheira's the one who adopted Mala ie Rana's daughter),

Gortash (Rana's ex-boyfriend from before the tadpole amnesia, whom enabled their Urges and vices. Rana wishes things could have gone differently, they saw potential in Gortash, and mourn what could have been had he not turned to tyranny and extortion. They resent him for what he did to Karlach, but can't bring themself to hate him, because in his own ways he managed to help them by crafting a prosthetic eye specially made for them, and they at one point held some strange distorted love for each other),

Orin (not only did Orin give Rana the brain trauma and tadpole that resulted in their amnesia, but Orin also SA'd Rana during the time before they became head of the Bhaalist cult, which resulted in Rana going into hiding for a year and a half to have their daughter Mala and smuggle her away to a family that would protect her. Rana feared what would've happened if they raised a child within the cult, knowing the traumatic hell of Orin's own incestuous conception and cult upbringing. There was a high likelihood they would have killed the child due to the Urge, if they kept Mala within the cult. Even so, the good still in Rana wanted to find a way to forgive Orin, and drag her out of the cult kicking and screaming. If they could have found a way to renounce Bhaal without being forced to kill Orin, they would. Alas, they couldn't find a way to save their bloodkin from the lash of Bhaal.)

Raphael (Rana already felt like their soul was forfeit by virtue of being a Bhaalspawn, they're loathe to chain themself to a manipulative devil as well, even though they find his honeyed words alluring and the idea of being a devil's plaything is...not entirely unappealing for someone who enjoys being a service submissive like Rana.)

Link to the lil dagger dividers I used for this post

[rinwellisathing]

Get to know my OCs: Love Test Reactions:

Sentry Ojeda:

Partnered: "Heh...a little tame for me, but I'll do it for you, love."

High approval: "Eh...sure, why not? If for no other reason it'll be hilarious."

Medium approval: "Nah... I don't really feel like it...seems kinda twee..."

Low approval: (Sentry bursts out laughing, nearly coming to tears.) "Oh god....really? Fucking really? Ohhh fuck me...no...absolutely not."

Questions : Sentry can be brutal, visceral, but inside of him lies an artist's soul. What is Sentry's truest expression?

Answer: painting sweeping scenes of horror and bloodshed

A paladin is a paragon of faith, devoted wholly to a cause or a being. From what does Sentry draw his power?

Answer: Vengeance for himself and for those he loves. He is their justice.

Born to the cold stone and high walls of the city, Sentry is a Solitary creature very often. For whom does he set aside his solitude?

Answer: animals, especially those forgotten and unnoticed by most. He feels a kinship.

Jaina Thalassia:

Partnered: "Of course! But be warned, a captain knows her crew better than any."

High approval: "Sure, why not? Carnival games are always a treat."

Medium approval: "Whoa! Easy there sailor, I don't think so..."

Low approval: "Reel yourself in, mate, you're not quite the catch you think you are. No thank you. "

Questions: A storm at sea, Maiden of the Tempest. Jaina's heart and mind rage like an angry tide...What calms her storm?

Answer: music, the songs of her people from haunting siren song to raucous shanties.

The past haunts us all, like a ghost from the deep. What haunts the captain's daughter?

Her near inevitable death from her illness once the tadpole no longer suppresses it.

A captain is only strong as her crew. Who does Jaina trust most in hardship?

Her family.

Kroger of Creche K'liir:

Partnered: "As you say, my love. Let's test our mettle."

High approval: "I suppose I can spare the time."

Medium approval: "oh....no....I really don't want to, actually."

Low approval: "I can cure so many things, but evidently not your delusions."

Question: Kroger unites magic with the natural world to strengthen his healing abilities, to strengthen his knowledge...but what is his greatest weakness?

Answer: not understanding hidden meanings others seem to grasp so easily.

Kroger, a devoted healer and man of faith. What is his greatest regret?

Not seeing through Vlaakith's lies sooner.

What does Ghustil Kroger consider his greatest honor?

Healing the sick and saving lives.

Octavia of Creche K'liir:

Partnered: "Yes! I believe my notes on you are most thorough, my love!"

High approval: "Have you been studying me? How exciting!"

Medium approval: "oh....um...huh? I wasn't paying attention..."

Low approval: "you are not a subject I'm interested in studying."

Questions: Octavia dwells on her research most heavily, what is her favorite area of study?

Answer: the Weave and it's wonders.

The scholar is a gifted, studious person...What is Octavia's greatest goal in life?

To bring knowledge to her people and better their lives beyond just warfare

They say knowledge is the enemy of fear, but all beings fear something...what is Octavia's greatest fear?

Being useless to her people.

Jackal Silk:

Partnered: "Oh anything you say, my master!"

High approval: "what, me? You're sure?"

Medium approval: "Not really my cuppa, boss..."

Low approval: "I should gut you for that. Find someone else, you insect."

Questions: Jackal, a predator hunting his quarry in the dark...what hunting ground does he prefer?

The dark alleys of the city are his home.

Even a creature of rage and hate wants for something, what is Jackal's greatest ambition?

To become a terror enough to strike fear into the matriarchs of Menzoberranzan

Even a predator feels fear, what quickens the heartbeat of the proud Gloomstalker?

The asylum walls

[corneliastreetapartment]

Only You

Masterlist for this fic

Chapter 1 : Who the hell is Damon Bradley?

In a dimly lit living room, bathed in the silver glow of a summer moon, the scene unfolds. The moonlight spills through a window, casting an ethereal glow on the surroundings.

A pair of candles cast a warm light upon old family photos. These photos capture weddings from generations past—brides in pristine white gowns, their youthful grooms standing proudly beside them, frozen in time. Two voices emerge.

Regulus, an earnest voice, breaks the silence, his tone filled with admonition.

"Stop pushing it. You're not supposed to force it. You're supposed to just let it happen," he chides.

Sirius, a voice exuding a hint of impatience, responds in defense.

"I'm not pushing it; you're pushing it."

Regulus counters, his voice growing firmer.

"I am not."

A moment of silence descends until Regulus's voice breaks it again.

"You're pushing it again."

Sirius sighs in exasperation.

"Well, hurry up. My foot's falling asleep."

Regulus playfully accuses his mother in the next room.

"Mo-mmm. Sirius is pushing it. Mom?"

From the adjoining room, Mom's voice offers advice.

"Sirius, don't push it."

They are playing with a Ouija board. To clarify, the players are Regulus, a stubborn  eleven-year-old, and his older brother Sirius, an even more stubborn boy, aged ten.

Sirius, now defending himself, asserts

"I'M NOT PUSHING IT."

Regulus, seemingly undistracted, says "Wait. I have to write this down."

An annoyed groan escapes Sirius as Regulus grabs a piece of paper and begins scribbling a series of letters.

Regulus's voice, still busy writing, continues with a sense of wonder.

"Aunt Druella told me everybody has a soulmate."

Regulus's voice shifts, conveying determination.

"But most people never find theirs, most people settle. I'm never gonna settle."

Regulus looks up at the summer moon, now obscured by passing clouds.

"This way I'll know the name of the Woman I'm supposed to wait for."

The Ouija board's planchette continues to move around, stopping at various letters that Regulus carefully records.

Sirius, ever the skeptic, raises a perplexing scenario.

"Yeah, but what if she lived a billion, trillion years ago? Like, what if she was a caveman, and now she’s dead?"

Regulus dismisses his brother's idea with a touch of impatience.

"Don't be stupid, Sirius. If She’s my destiny, then obviously, she has to be alive."

Another letter on the board.

"Yeah, but what if She doesn't live here? Like, what if She’s a cannibal in New Guinea or something?"

Regulus asserts his belief.

"If I live here, then she lives here. Fate wouldn't make a mistake like that."

After a pause and another letter, Sirius continues his questioning, adopting the role of the devil's advocate.

"Yeah, but... but, Regulus, what if she does live here, and one day you just walk past her on the street? I mean, you don't hear her name, you don't get a chance to introduce yourselves. You practically bump straight into each other, but you never even know it?"

Regulus, resolute, declares with certainty.

"We'll KNOW."

Sirius, conceding, replies with a hint of sarcasm.

"Okaaaaayyyy."

As the planchette on the Ouija board comes to a halt, Regulus writes down the final letter. The moon reemerges from behind the clouds, casting a bright white beam of light onto the name revealed on the board.

Regulus, his voice now barely a whisper, utters the name with awe.

"Damon Bradley."

Regulus looks up, completely spellbound.

Regulus Is confused at the fact that its a man whereas Sirius isn't very much confused at all. He’s know for a while now, much long ago about himself.

"He’s the one?" regulus questions to himself, confused

A beat of silence follows, broken by Sirius's sarcastic comment.

"Goodie. Can I ask about the Series now?"

---

THREE YEARS LATER.

Amidst the cacophony of a local carnival, with whirling lights and the raucous laughter of attendees, the scene unfolds.

Up on the towering ferris wheel, a group of junior high school boys distinguish themselves by gleefully hurling water balloons down at the carnival-goers. Among these mischievous participants is Lucius Malfoy.

Clustered in front of the booth "MADAME DIVINA'S FORTUNE TELLING BOOTH" with a sign that reads "Know Your Fate" are a group of junior high school students.

Among the girls, Regulus, stands out. His cousin, Andy, prods another girl playfully.

"Go on, go on... She wants to know if she's gonna marry Rodolphus."

The girl in question, Bellatrix, vehemently denies the suggestion.

"I do not. I'm not gonna marry Rodolphus. He doesn't even have a car."

Emmeline Vance chimes in, offering her perspective.

"But he's got pretty eyes. That means your kids would have pretty eyes. You can always get a car later, but you can't always find pretty eyes. You gotta think ahead."

Dorcas interjects with financial wisdom.

"Who cares about pretty eyes, Emmeline? I'm telling you, stocks, bonds, real estate—that's what you wanna look for in a man."

Pandora, a thoughtful voice, contributes her own views.

"My mom told me you gotta want the same things out of life. Have the same values, be able to communicate."

The girls collectively look at Pandora, puzzled.

Pandora quickly backpedals.

"I'm just telling you what she said."

The girls continue to regard her with bemusement.

"It's not like I believed her or anything..."

Regulus, standing nearby, offers his own perspective when asked by Andy.

"I think you're all wrong."

Andy, intrigued, probes further.

"What do you think the most important thing is, Regulus?"

Regulus, without a hint of doubt, states his belief firmly.

"True love. I believe there's one special person out there who's meant for each of us. And when your eyes meet, it'll be magic, and you'll both know it instantly."

everyone rolls their eyes at Regulus's romantic notion.

Regulus turns to his cousin who’s more like a best friend to him, Narcissa, seeking her opinion.

"Don't you think so, Narcissa?"

Narcissa, seemingly disinterested, gazes at the ground as she replies.

"I don't know, I guess I never really thought about it... Is Lucius Malfoy here?"

Regulus, realizing she's not particularly invested in the conversation, responds nonchalantly.

"Yeah, he's around somewhere."

Above them, Lucius Malfoy carefully aims and launches a water balloon that hurtles towards the group, hitting the ground with a resounding SPLAT. The group scream in surprise.

---

Inside of Madame Divina's fortune-telling booth.Tthrough a beaded curtain, is a disheveled older woman, MADAME DIVINA, engrossed in a copy of "Scientific American."

Suddenly, there's a loud KNOCK at the back door, and Regulus startles.

Madame Divina, flustered, quickly hides the magazine in a drawer and places a bowling ball, the kind with iridescent swirls, on a central opening in the table. She positions it to conceal the three holes and turns on a flashlight above it, creating the illusion of a crystal ball.

Outside, the girl everyone thinks will marry Rodolphus appears nervous.

"But what if she tells me something bad? I don't want to hear anything bad..."

Narcissa tries to reassure her.

"They never tell you anything bad. Nobody'd ever go to them if they did."

The door to the booth creaks open, and Madame Divina's imposing figure casts a shadow over the girls. They look up, apprehensive.

Bellatrix, pointing at Narcissa, deflects responsibility.

"She did."

Narcissa, pointing at Bellatrix, does the same.

"She did."

A standoff ensues until Regulus, ever the peacemaker, takes the blame.

"I did."

Regulus looks at his friends, shrugs, and enters the booth past the beaded curtain, taking a seat.

Madame Divina inquires.

"What's your name?"

"Regulus."

Madame Divina proceeds to light a candle, setting an ambiance for the session.

"What do you wanna know, Regulus?"

Regulus, feeling the gravity of the moment, replies hesitantly.

"Um, just basic destiny stuff, I guess. But—I don't want to hear anything bad. If that's okay."

Madame Divina begins laying out a series of tarot cards. Suddenly, there's a loud KNOCK at the back door, and Regulus jumps in his seat.

Madame Divina attributes it to spirits and continues laying out cards.

Regulus, now nervously eying the cards, sees his friend Narcissa peeking in through the beads.

Narcissa, mouthing words and pointing, asks if that's a bowling ball. Regulus doesn't understand, so Narcissa mimes a bowling motion with her arm. Regulus shrugs, still bewildered. From outside, we overhear...

"Hey, Narcissa. Lucius Malfoy wants you," says a boy's voice.

Lucius Malfoy, defending himself, chimes in, "I do not."

Narcissa grins, ducks out of the booth, and leaves Madame Divina's gaze on Regulus, who remains captivated by the cards.

Madame Divina, now deeply engrossed in her act, sits up straight and closes her eyes. She reaches for the bowling ball, carefully positioning it to hide the holes, and flicks on a flashlight above it, creating the illusion of a crystal ball.

"Spirits," she mutters.

Regulus watches as she lays down a few more cards.

Regulus, still nervous, leans forward. Madame Divina seems to be in a trance.

Madame Divina, straining for clarity, starts to reveal something important.

"Something is coming to me. I'm getting... a name."

Regulus leans in even closer, eager to hear more.

"This name is very important to you... Da-- David. No-- no..."

A faint breeze wafts through the room, causing the candle to flicker.

"Damon."

Regulus's heart skips a beat as he listens intently.

Madame Divina, eyes wide with intensity, continues.

"His name is... Damon Bradley."

It's the same name Regulus had found on the Ouija board.

Regulus, overwhelmed, mutters in disbelief.

"Omigod. Omigod."

He gets up from his seat, feeling the need to leave.

Madame Divina seizes Regulus's hand, stopping him in his tracks.

"Just a minute—"

Regulus freezes, his curiosity piqued.

Madame Divina pulls him closer and imparts a solemn message, making it clear that this is not part of her act—it's genuine advice.

"The truth is, no matter what the cards say, you make your own destiny. Don't wait for it to come to you. You understand?"

Regulus nods, still in a state of shock.

"Can I be excused now?" he asks.

Madame Divina lets him go but not before delivering one last piece of wisdom.

"Your destiny's two dollars."

Regulus quickly pulls out two bills and drops them on the table, then rushes for the exit. But Madame Divina stops him once more.

"Hey—"

She leans in, pulling Regulus closer. This time, it's a personal, heartfelt message, not a performance.

"The truth is, no matter what the cards say, you make your own destiny. Don't wait for it to come to you. You understand?"

Regulus nods, still processing the profound encounter.

Madame Divina lets him go, and Regulus, still in a daze, hurriedly exits the booth.

Twenty years had passed since that fateful Saturday night, and the memories of that evening still lingered in the minds of those who were there. Mitzi Gaynor's voice filled the room as she sang, the shower mimicking the sound of pouring rain. "SOUTH PACIFIC" played on the television screen, casting a nostalgic atmosphere.

In the dimly lit apartment, three individuals sat together, sharing a big Saturday night. Chocolate adorned the table, setting the mood. The first person was Regulus, an attractive and somewhat dreamy adult. His apartment walls were adorned with reproductions of famous works featuring themes like Rodin's "The Kiss" and Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." He idly plucked petals from a bouquet of flowers on the table.

Next to him was Narcissa, his cousin and childhood friend, now a frustrated housewife. She clipped coupons from the newspaper as they watched TV. And finally, there was Andy, a woman with big hair and a good heart, a staunch feminist. 

As the movie cut to a commercial break, Andy began to speak her mind.

"I'm just saying I think it would be a good idea," she said.

Narcissa responded dubiously, "Date police..."

Andy persisted, "Yes. A guy who says he's gonna call, then doesn't, ought to get slapped with a citation, that's all."

Regulus glanced at Narcissa, clearly used to Andy's unique perspectives.

"Anyway," Andy continued, "like I said, I've given it a lot of thought and I've finally narrowed it down." After a pause, she added, "A heterosexual with a job."

Regulus chimed in, "Well, I don't think it's asking too much to want to feel it in my head and my heart and my body and my soul all at the same time, and to have that feeling to be mutual. Pass the M&Ms, please."

Regulus's cousins groaned, having heard this type of conversation before. Narcissa handed over the candy.

"Not as long as you're not hoping to find it on planet Earth," Andy quipped.

Narcissa chimed in, "Andy's right, Regulus. You've got to start being more practical. Do you know what the statistics are, the marriage odds for women your age?"

Regulus was dismissive, saying, "I don't believe in statistics."

Narcissa retorted, "You're an accountant for crying out loud."

Regulus gestured with his palms, as if making a point with his silence.

Narcissa pressed further, "What about that guy you work with, Mike what's-his-name?"

Regulus shook his head, "No. He smokes. And Mom doesn't know I'm half gay, or else I'm kicked out."

Narcissa persisted, "How about the other one? His friend."

Regulus replied, "Just moved in with his girlfriend. And also hello, Mom??"

Narcissa, undeterred, added cheerfully, "How about that guy at the bank?"

Regulus popped another M&M into his mouth, saying, "Scientologist. I feel like you're not hearing me at all."

Narcissa deflated, "Oh."

After a beat, she tried another approach, "So, you've got to be a little flexible. Look at Lucius and me. Lucius's not perfect, neither am I. But we work it out. We're not unrealistic in our expectations, and we have each other." She set down her scissors.

Regulus, still resistant, responded, "Don't tell me Oprah did a show--"

Andy interjected, "Yeah, I saw that. Like on Let's Make A Deal. You've got the Amana freezer and you can keep it, or risk it on what's behind Door Number Three. Which usually turns out to be a donkey."

Regulus looked at Narcissa, seemingly missing the metaphorical point.

"I don't have an Amana freezer," he quipped.

Narcissa explained, "It's a metaphor. It's women who always think there's something unknown out there that's going to be better than what's in front of them. And instead, wind up with nothing."

Regulus maintained his stance, "Metaphorically, I still don't have an Amana freezer."

Narcissa continued, "I think if you're honest with yourself, you'll admit you've had a chance at a number of Amana appliances in your lifetime."

Regulus knew there was some truth in what she said, but he didn't want to admit it. Just then, the phone rang, providing him with a momentary escape from the conversation.

"Hello? Hi, Lucius," Regulus answered the phone. "Yeah, she's here. Hold on." He turned to Narcissa and informed her, "It's your husband."

In Lucius's kitchen, Lucius himself was at the table, munching on the last crumbs of a bag of potato chips and watching television. He spoke to Narcissa over the phone, "Narcissa, you're still there? I thought you'd be on your way home by now."

Narcissa replied, "You miss me?"

Lucius hesitated, then replied, "Uh, yeah. Sure." He seemed a bit forlorn as he gazed into the refrigerator. "Honey, did you forget the guys are coming over tonight?"

Narcissa inquired, "No, why?"

Lucius, helpless, explained, "Well, there's nothing here to eat."

Back in Regulus's living room, the movie continued in the background as they heard Narcissa's side of the conversation. The receiver slammed down, and Narcissa returned to the room. "Is everything okay?" Regulus asked.

Narcissa responded, annoyed, "Yes. You know all the shrinks on Donahue say that all those love songs about 'some enchanted evening' are just a cruel hoax that feeds people's fantasies."

Regulus, a little plaintive, replied, "But somebody wrote those songs."

Narcissa retorted, "So, what's your point?"

Regulus explained, "Just that they came out of somebody's experience is all."

Narcissa didn't seem convinced, "No, Regulus. They came out of somebody's imagination."

Outside Regulus's apartment door, the hallways were silent, and a slight, nondescript girl passed by and entered her apartment. She greeted them, "How's it going?"

Regulus replied, "Pretty well, Emma. How about you?"

Emma responded, "Can't complain," and closed her door. Narcissa glanced at Regulus, who shook his head.

Regulus clarified, "No."

Narcissa pressed, "Is she married?"

Regulus answered, "No."

Narcissa continued, "Is she gay?"

Regulus admitted, "I don't know. I don't think so."

Narcissa pushed, "So?"

Regulus finally explained, "So, she's not my type." After a brief pause, he added, "Let me walk you to the elevator."

As they walked, Narcissa continued her inquiry, "What does she do?"

Regulus admitted, "I don't know, Narcissa."

Narcissa and Andy both asked in unison, "She's a doctor?"

Regulus clarified, "Look, there's no chemistry there, okay? There's no... thrill."

Narcissa challenged him, " 'Thrills'? That's what you're waiting for? You know how long that lasts? Besides, how do you know? Have you ever been out with her?"

Regulus conceded, "No. She's never asked me."

Narcissa suggested, "Why don't you ask her?"

Regulus responded, "Why should I ask someone out who I don't want to go out with in the first place?"

Narcissa pointed out, "If you've never been out with her, how do you know you don't want to go out with her?"

Andy chimed in, "I thought she was kinda cute..."

Regulus sighed, and as the elevator doors finally opened, he looked at Narcissa, who said, "Take a chance, Regulus... None of us is getting any younger."

Regulus returned to his apartment, replaying the evening's events in his mind. The answering machine light blinked, indicating a new message. Regulus played it as he prepared for bed.

The voice on the answering machine was familiar. "Hi, honey. It's Mom. I just wanted to apologize if I upset you at brunch today."

Regulus couldn't help but react with amusement, muttering to himself in front of the bathroom mirror, "If you upset me at brunch today?"

The voice on the machine corrected itself, "For upsetting you at brunch today. Now, you know I don't think you're a failure. And if you never get married, that's perfectly fine with your father and me."

As Regulus applied eye cream, he couldn't help but scrutinize the lines around his eyes.

The message continued, "Of course you're not a freak. You're right, plenty of people aren't married. The woman who cuts my hair isn't married. Hey... maybe you tw--" Then, another voice in the background interrupted, "She's gay." The mother amended her statement, "Oh. Never mind. Anyway, if you want to spend the rest of your life alone, well, that's your choice. And I respect it. I just want you to be happy, that's all." Finally, the father added, "Don't be gay like your brother, Regulus."

The answering machine message ended, and Regulus was left pondering his family's views on his life choices. He climbed into bed and reached for the light switch but then hesitated, recalling something. He got up and walked over to his dresser, where a daily calendar lay. He tore off the top page, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it into the wastebasket.

With that symbolic act, he turned out the light and settled into bed, the events of the night still echoing in his mind.

On the cusp of sleep, Regulus found himself in a dream, surrounded by a vast audience dressed in absurd costumes. He, too, was dressed as a chicken. His mother appeared as an octopus, Narcissa and Lucius as Siamese twins, and Andy as a radish. Monty Hall, the game show host, approached Regulus.

"So, which one is it gonna be, Regulus? Will it be... Door Number One?"

Emma, the podiatrist, peeked out from behind Door Number One and waved. The crowd erupted in excitement.

Monty Hall continued, "Door Number Two?"

A distinct braying of a donkey could be heard from behind Door Number Two.

Monty Hall posed the final option, "Or Door Number Three?"

The audience chanted, "Take Emma! Take Emma!" as Monty sensuously ran his arm along Door Number One.

Nervously, Regulus asked, "Door Number Three?"

The crowd was disappointed, and the curtains parted to reveal a shriveled old crone covered in cobwebs, bearing an unsettling resemblance to Regulus. The crowd booed.

Regulus jolted awake in his bed, sweating and filled with a sense of foreboding.

The next morning, Regulus left his apartment and headed down the hallway, carrying a wastebasket filled with crumpled pages. He opened the garbage chute but lost control, causing the crumpled balls to scatter across the floor. As he stood there, unsure of what to do, a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You need some help?"

Regulus looked up to see Emma, the podiatrist, standing there, offering assistance.

Regulus suddenly blurts out

“I do “

CC SPEAKS: OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS, FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DONT KNOW THIS IS A JEGULUS REWRITE OF THE MOVIE ONLY YOU WITH ROBERT DOWNEY JR. i adoreee that movie

[cityofdreamsrp]

THINGS TO DO: LET’S EXPLORE NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA!

New Orleans is a Louisiana city on the Mississippi River, near the Gulf of Mexico. Nicknamed the "Big Easy," it's known for its round-the-clock nightlife, vibrant live-music scene and spicy, singular cuisine reflecting its history as a melting pot of French, African and American cultures. Embodying its festive spirit is Mardi Gras, the late-winter carnival famed for raucous costumed parades and street parties. 

Explore the Historic French Quarter

The French Quarter is always a must-do, any time of year. As the city’s oldest neighborhood, the Vieux Carre is packed with gorgeous architecture, loads of history, a wealth of food and music, and a cast of characters including long-time residents, chatty tour guides, and talented street performers

Take a History Tour of the Garden District

Upriver from the French Quarter lies the Garden District. Take a tour of this neighborhood’s grand mansions and historic cemeteries. The houses and history are a draw, but the neighborhood also offers a wealth of shops and cafes, as well as Commander’s Palace, one of New Orleans’ best restaurants.

Relax at the New Orleans City Park & Art Museum

New Orleans City Park offers a lovely respite from the city and is a great place to spend an afternoon, according to recent visitors. Take a nature stroll through the 10-acre New Orleans Botanical Garden (which boasts 2,000 different varieties of plants) or peruse the art hanging in the adjacent New Orleans Museum of Art.

Tour the New Orleans Jazz Museum

It's only logical for New Orleans to be home to a jazz museum, for this is the city where the musical genre was born. At this comprehensive repository of artifacts from the very beginning of the 20th century, you'll see and hear the history of jazz. The museum also presents more than 365 concerts a year and hosts educational programs on the city's legends, from Louis Armstrong to Al Hirt, Louis Prima and more.

Catch a Ride on the Algiers Ferry

Hop aboard the historic Algiers Ferry to feel the power of the Mississippi firsthand. The short ride on this commuter ferry will give you an amazing view of the city and a few minutes to be one with the river.

See the City on the Streetcars

New Orleans’ streetcar system has been rolling since 1835. While you can no longer ride the Desire line made famous by Tennessee Williams, the existing lines offer a great way to see the city. The newer red streetcars run out to Mid-City, while the older, original green cars take you down historic St. Charles Avenue, past beautiful houses in the famed Garden District and Audubon Park.

Cool-off at the Aubodon Zoo

Spend an afternoon at one of the top zoos in the country. The Audubon Zoo has world-class exhibits featuring animals from Asia, Africa, and South America. You’ll also see seals, reptiles, and a glimpse of the Louisiana swamp. Located behind Audubon Park, the zoo is dotted with majestic oak trees (keep an eye out for resident peacocks). In the summer, the Cool Zoo water park offers a respite from the heat.

Get Classic New Orleans Fair at Cafe Du Monde

The Original Cafe Du Monde Coffee Stand was established in 1862 in the New Orleans French Market. From beignets to café au lait, Café Du Monde is a New Orleans tradition.

Shop the French Market at the Colonnade

The French Market is a market and series of commercial buildings spanning six blocks in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana. It is one of the oldest trading posts in the US. Get your milk, bread,and  eggs, along with unique souvenirs. 

Check out Faulkner Books

Faulkner House Books is located in the heart of New Orleans’ beautiful and historic French Quarter, just off Jackson Square, behind the Cabildo and opposite St. Louis Cathedral’s rear garden. Founded in 1988 by attorney Joseph J. DeSalvo Jr. and his wife Rosemary James, Faulkner House Books is a sanctuary for fine literature and rare editions, including, of course, books by and about Mr. Faulkner.

Get Adventurous with the Swamp Kayak Tour

The Manchac Swamp tour is a secluded, calm, and pristine tour. If you are searching for a gorgeous, natural, and picturesque kayak swamp tour – this is your tour! Deep in New Orleans bordering swamps enjoy calm waters with maybe the occasional wildlife spotting.

Join a Alligator Tour

Jean Lafitte Swamp Tours is located just 15 minutes from New Orleans and offers swamp and airboat tours of Louisiana's back country. They guarantee you will get upclose with the swamp’s best residents, alligators.

Dare Yourself with the Voodoo Mystery and Paranormal Tour

This New Orleans voodoo and mystery tour takes you into the Big Easy's history of vampirism, occult activity, paranormal occurrences and even piracy. Hear tales of haunted buildings, lost treasure and documented sightings of ghosts and vampires as you explore. Use of pro ghost-hunting equipment is also included.

Get in on a Pub Crawl

Explore the famous Magazine street pubs and bars with this one of a kind pub crawl. Come with your walking shoes and an excitement for the nightlife. Open 7 days a week.

[pargolettasworld]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZLKz1wo37M

What is the holiday of Purim like?  Well, I could answer this one of two ways.  I could point you to the very academic project I did in grad school, analyzing the ritual and folkloric aspects of Purim and documenting a Purim carnival at a local synagogue according to U.S. government-sponsored folklore documentation standards.

Or I could show you this video, in which Dovid Mordachai kind of sums up the spirit of Purim in eight raucous guitar-filled minutes.  I know which one of these options I’d rather experience!

[gretchensinister]

See what happens when I don't confine myself to a form? The carnival's arrival is so ambiguous when compared to the ending. I must poke at it.

Text of poem under read more.

Arrival

Printed words! Only black and white!

And they’ve got to hold a carnival!

The sights and smells and the calliope shriek!

Impossible enough! But wait—

These words aren’t just holding a carnival

They’re calling up the carnival

The one reality will always crawl beside

The one memory will call truer than the truth.

How’d you do it? How?

Let the words spill out and leap about,

The ones that rumbled, roared, and screamed

In with that midnight train:

dragon-glide

grieving to itself

lovely snail-gleam

lemon or cherry-colored semaphore

small steam feather

all-asleep-and-slumbering-dreamfilled cars

firefly-sparked churn

drowsy autumn hearthfire roar

hellfires

black meteor falls of coal

off in night country

funeral train all black plumed cars

licorice-colored cages

three different hymns mixed and lost, maybe not there at all

Closer it comes and closer!

calliope pipes shimmered with star explosions

sluicing ice-water air

howl of moon-dreamed dogs

the protests of a billion people dead or dying, not wanting to be dead

black confetti lost on its own sick-sweet candy wind

And then, when the carnival finally nests?

At last there was the clear-water sound of vast flags blowing.

What can I make of all of this, dazzled as I am?

Wanting only to lick it up like melted ice-cream

And make it a part of myself—

These fragments and so many more—

My mind plunges into them

Like a hand into a bin of polished stones

With as little care for their true nature.

Let me think. Let me think.

I can see how it is sinister—

Hellfire and funerals and howling in night country

Death and dying and sweetness that’s sick

And broken, absent hymns

But

There’s more here, in this exuberance:

Firefly sparks and little feathers, lovely snail-gleams—

These things are of the carnival, too.

The sparks the train makes on the tracks—

Lemon and cherry! Not just yellow, not just red,

But sweet things, good things, bright growing things.

And where’s the rot in dreamfilled cars?

Think of sleeping on a train

Rocked to sleep, and then the magic

Closing eyes here, and waking up there.

Ah, but that’s for those on the train, and yet

Even off it, isn’t it lovely, isn’t it grand

When new wonders wake nearby?

And then the most curious note in all the tune,

drowsy autumn hearthfire roar

A hearthfire? Comfort-home-embrace,

In the engine of this train?

Was the sound too good to leave it out?

For as the book wends on, the hearthfire seems to go

And only hellfire lingers.

Hearthfire, hellfire: in arrival

Both bring in the carnival.

Hearthfire.

Hellfire.

The thread I want to pull frays to nothing in my hand

As ambiguity loses out to threat,

The question I feel I’m promised is rejected

As inky carnival terrors blot out any quiet grays,

And yet.

Hearthfire.

Hellfire.

The pairing strikes a bell, and I hear it raucous sing

Of sweet comfort and necessity

In the world’s disordering.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Brazil's Carnival finally reborn in full form after pandemic

Brazil’s Carnival is back.

Glittery and outrageous costumes are once again being prepared. Samba songs will ring out ‘til dawn at Rio de Janeiro’s sold-out parade grounds. Hundreds of raucous, roaming parties will flood the streets. And working-class communities will be buoyed, emotionally and economically, by the renewed revelry.

The COVID-19 pandemic last year prompted Rio to delay Carnival by two months, and watered down some of the fun, which was attended mostly by locals. This year, Brazil’s federal government expects 46 million people to join the festivities that officially begin Friday and run through Feb. 22. That includes visitors to cities that make Carnival a world-famous bash, especially Rio but also Salvador, Recife and metropolitan Sao Paulo, which has recently emerged as a hotspot.

These cities have already begun letting loose with street parties.

“We’ve waited for so long, we deserve this catharsis,” Thiago Varella, a 38-year-old engineer wearing a Hawaiian shirt drenched by the rain, said at a bash in Sao Paulo on Feb. 10.

Continue reading.

[fashionbooksmilano]

assume vivid astro focus

Eli Sudbrack

Rizzoli, New York 2011, 176 pages, 24 x 32 cm,  Hardcover with dust jacket, ISBN  978-0-8478-3305-4,  Out of Print at the Publisher

euro 35,00

email if you want to buy :booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

The first book on the artist collective known for their raucous multimedia installations. Founded by artist Eli Sudbrack, assume vivid astro focus has been dazzling the art world since 1994 with its exuberant, visually spectacular room-size installations.

Created out of recycled and appropriated imagery from a wide range of sources--such as unicorn tapestries, children's stickers, pages from gay porn magazines, album covers, Buddhist thangka paintings, and street graffiti, to name a few--the finished works can feel like a cross between a '70s disco, Brazilian Carnival, and a psychedelic version of Andy Warhol's Factory.

This volume, their first, will include many of the elements featured in their installations, which are known for the many "give-aways" the artists provide the visitors: a blow-in poster, postcard and sticker pages, and a pop-up, all designed by avaf.

07/01/23

orders to:     booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

ordini a:        booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

twitter:         @fashionbooksmi

instagram:   fashionbooksmilano, designbooksmilano tumblr:          fashionbooksmilano, designbooksmilano

[summer-fun-swim]

Jason O’Mally was no ordinary young man; in fact, he was an extraordinary blend of carefree spirit and peculiar habits. At twenty-three, he had mastered the fine art of splashing through life, often with a swath of denim and cotton soaked around him. While others meticulously packed their swimming trunks, Jason saw no reason to abandon the comfort of his everyday attire, be it the ever-familiar jeans, a graphic T-shirt, or even a mismatched sweatshirt that hung like a flag over his shoulders.

On a glorious Saturday morning in July, the sun beamed brightly, coaxing a colorful throng of go-getters to the local beach. The salty breeze rustled palm trees, while seagulls swooped overhead, cawing like old friends. Jason, arms akimbo and brimming with energy, strolled confidently towards the water. His ensemble consisted of a faded blue T-shirt that clung to his lanky frame and belted khaki shorts that ended just above his knees, defiantly soaked by the sea.

"Are you coming in, O'Mally, or just standing there looking ridiculous?" laughed his friend Kelly, who wore a bikini that gleamed under the sun.

Jason shrugged nonchalantly as he stepped into the waves, the cold water lapping against his calves. He began to plunge deeper, flinging water like a playful child. While most would recoil from such a strange practice, for Jason, swimming fully clothed felt genuine, almost like an extension of his identity. He reveled in that liberating rush, a feeling he could only describe as chaotic bliss, each droplet invigorating him as he swam with abandon.

His friends often exchanged glances, half bewildered and half entertained, never really understanding why he immersed himself in the ocean with his attire. But there was a thrill in the unconventional, and Jason embraced it, carving his own space in the world with each splash.

Yet his harmless quirk had unforeseen consequences, particularly in the wake of his not-so-intentional revelations. As the waves ebbed and flowed, so too did his thoughts wander. He'd come to discover that there was something about being wet in his clothes that sent his imagination reeling. It was more than just enjoyment; it was a tidal wave of sensation that coursed through him, igniting a softly simmering fire within.

When Jason was alone and ensconced in his shower at home, rain-like droplets cascading down around him, the steam would mingle with the scent of soap. In those moments, a heady mix of solitude and desire would consume him. Surrounded by the fabric of his clothes—wet, clinging, and intimate—his body would respond eagerly. A tightness in his chest brought forth waves of heat that matched the warmth of the water enveloping him.

Far from feeling ashamed, Jason allowed himself to be swept into these personal moments, where fantasies dripped like the water streaming from his hair. He didn’t just get off to the act; he craved the sensation of the fabric against his skin, the rush of fluidity that imbued life with its teasing pleasure.

Yet outside of his showers, in the realm of the living, he navigated life’s currents differently. Being an openly gay man searching for love and acceptance, he often felt more like a clown at a carnival than a romantic hero. While his friends chased after the ideal summer romance, Jason was content to play the part of the whimsical weirdo, the charmingly eccentric one who giggled at the absurdity of it all.

His close-knit crew included Kelly, who contrasted brightly with his enigmatic nature, always the pragmatist, and Ryan, the eternal skeptic, who seemed determined to untangle the charming enigma that was Jason. On that raucous beach day, as Jason chaotically paddled about, Ryan criticized, “You know, dude, one day someone is going to see you and it’ll be really awkward.”

“Awkward? Please, it’s just who I am!” Jason laughed, flicking water in Ryan’s direction. “Besides, if a guy can’t love himself and his clothes, what’s the point?”

As the sun began to descend, painting the sky in strokes of orange and gold, their day at the beach came to an end. Exhausted yet exhilarated, Jason trudged back home, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. He felt buoyant, light as air, ready to embrace whatever was next.

Yet, that night, a gentle shift in the universe prompted an encounter that would transform everything. While lounging in his living room clad in his favorite band T-shirt and lounge pants, the doorbell chimed unexpectedly. He opened it to find Lucas, a charismatic new neighbor who had recently moved into the apartment across the hall. With curly hair brushed back in a seemingly effortless style and a smile that could melt ice, Lucas radiated warmth.

“Hey! I just moved in,” he said, an unmistakable lilt in his voice. “I heard loud splashes from the beach earlier and didn’t realize it was you! You’re kind of legendary for frequenting the waves, huh?”

Jason felt his heart race as they chatted. There was something magnetic between them, a connection he hadn’t experienced before. They spoke of schools, work, and soon veered into their mutual love for the ocean and its myriad of wacky adventures.

As the door closed late that night, Lucas lingered, and Jason considered inviting him in for a joke or two, but it felt too intimate. Instead, he retreated to his sanctuary.

Clad in his bathroom, surrounded by the scent of soap and steam, Jason embraced the tender tug of desire that Lucas ignited within him. The fabric of his clothes became comforting, familiar, and appealing all at once, inspiring fantasies that took flight within his mind. As warm water cascaded over him and the echoes of their whimsical conversation danced in the air, he surrendered to pleasure, letting go of the day's excitements, diving deeper within himself.

In that moment of self-discovery, Jason realized that his wacky choice to swim fully clothed was more than a fun quirk; it was an embodiment of freedom, vulnerability, and acceptance. For in the end, whether submerged in water or standing on dry land, he could be unequivocally himself—trusting that somewhere, someone might just love him for it.

[missacidburn928]

Sins Debaucherous Carnival

PROLOGUE

Avengers x POC!Reader "Nyx"

Summary:

The team spends another year at Sins to celebrate All Hallows Eve. What goodies does "Nyx" have in store for them?

Warnings:

18+ Only MDNI, Smut and PWP going forward

Notes:

Hello Heathens! I recommend that you read LUNATIC first to get our base of characters. Then you can start with the Prologue. Pick an Avenger/s in any order you choose. Finish with the Epilogue. Happy Reading!

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Banner by @cafekitsune

“Come one! Come all! To Sins Debaucherous Carnival! Tis Hallows Eve and the night is young! Prepare yourselves for a night of raucous fun! From spooky sexy skeletons, to our Sirens' sensual song, let your darkness be your guide as you travel the sins of the flesh we provide.”

Sins, a den of iniquity where almost anything is on the table for the right price. A neutral hub for dark dealings and clandestine meetings between friends and foes alike. Providing entertainment to suit a range of tastes. 

Opulent doors lead onto our main floor. A grand room that houses a large stage and two bars that line the walls adorned in hues of blue, purple and red. Various forms of tables and seating are available, ranging from a standard table and chairs to privacy booths. 

Here is where Nyx and her vexing menagerie entice and ensnare patrons with the movement of their scantily clad bodies. It’s a feast for the eyes as the speakers pump out music showcasing the level of chaos one may engage in tonight. Complete with fire breathing, masked women yielding baseball bats, couples swinging from the trapeze in various states of undress and shirtless men wrestling.

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