#raucous carnival

[almostlookedhuman]

[sunday-bug]

Would you be willing to write a fic where reader and Steve kemp have a carnival date?

This is so fun and has the potential to be unhinged-absolutely! This went off the rails as I was writing it! 🥵 🔥 🎡

18+ Minors DNI

Pea gravel crunches underfoot as you walk through the raucous crowd with Steve. He holds one of your hands behind your back and guides you through the mass of sweating, loud, sometimes smelly people.

"Of all the nice places we could have gone for a date, you chose the county carnival," Steve says with a sneer, squeezing your hand.

"Oh, lighten up, it's fun. Eat some popcorn. Enjoy the sunshine. Oooh, ride the Ferris wheel with me!" You squeal as you drag him to the decrepit ride and look up.

"No way," he mutters, dropping your hand. "That looks like a death trap."

"Pretty please?" You plead with wide eyes.

"Jesus," he huffs. "Let me go buy some tickets."

"Thank you!" You singsong, standing in line for the ride with the other carnival-goers. You watch as Steve stands in line for tickets. He's hands-down the most gorgeous person here, and he's getting a lot of attention from the people around him. A large man passing by trips over his own feet, sending his corndog sailing out of his hand and right onto Steve before landing on the ground. You do your best not to let out a giggle, watching as Steve looks at the corndog on the ground and then back up to his shirt, noticing the mustard stain starting to set in.

He steps up to the counter and buys your tickets for the ride, walking back with a look of disgust on his face.

"You owe me, little girl. Big time," he growls, pointing to his stained shirt.

"I was standing over here. I had nothing to do with that," you nod toward his shirt and roll your eyes.

"I'm here because it was your idea to come," he bitches.

You both move up in line, and Steve hands the tickets to the carny. He leads you both to the next open cart and pulls the door shut behind you. The pods are enclosed, but the windows don't have glass, so there's a nice breeze blowing through as you make your way to the top slowly. You glance over at Steve's pissed off expression.

"Next time you can pick the date, asshole," you grumble, crossing your arms and looking out the open window.

He scoffs, eyes darkening, "You have-"

His comeback is cut off as you find yourselves at the top of the Ferris wheel, a loud grinding sound coming from below like the scream of metal on metal. The car lurches forward a few inches before stopping again, swinging lightly in the air.

"Fuck this," Steve says, looking down. "I told you this was a death trap."

The carny announces from below with a megaphone, "Should just be a few minutes, folks. Nothing to worry about!"

Steve looks at you like he could murder you. You hear some teenage girls a few pods down start to scream in fearful excitement at the prospect of being stuck on the ride.

"Like I knew this was going to happen!" You defend yourself, putting up your hands in mock surrender.

He just smirks and sits back, spreading his legs and arms, relaxing into the seat. He won't stop staring at you, but now his gaze isn't lethal, it's more... hungry.

"What?" You ask warily.

"You know what," he purrs, leaning forward so he's inches away from your face.

"Here…?" You whisper, eyes wide.

"Knees. Now," he demands, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants.

You get on your knees and situate yourself between his legs as he pulls his half-hardened cock out.

"Now be a good girl and suck it," he orders, pupils blown wide.

You put him in your mouth in one swift motion, feeling him lengthen and harden at the feel of your tongue and cheeks around him.

"There ya go," he whispers, leaning back and spreading his arm across the back of the seat. "You keep going until I tell you to stop, understand?"

You nod, unable to say anything with your mouth full. The pod starts to rock subtly with the motion. Steve lays his head back, luxuriating in the feeling. You keep working on him, using your hands and mouth in unison. His hands find their way into your hair and he guides you, silently teaching you how he likes it best. He lets out the most delicious moan and you feel a zing of pleasure in between your legs at the sound. He pushes your head down onto his length, making you gag as tears fill your ears.

"Just like that. You like when I fuck your face, huh?" He whispers, the muscles in his thighs tightening under your palms. "You fucking ready for it?"

He stands up slightly, pushing deeper into your throat as he cums, holding on to the side of the pod for support. You swallow it all as you look up at him, tears streaking down your face. He removes his dick from your mouth with a pop and closes your jaw with a snap before slapping the side of your cheek, "Good fucking girl."

You both sit back down, Steve sighing contently. The pod moves with a lurch and you slowly descend back to the safety of the ground. Once you're off the ride, Steve guides you out of the carnival.

"For the record, I hate carnivals, but you may have changed my mind about Ferris wheels," he growls with a smirk.

-the end-

Taglist: @ruexj283 @sebastianstan0813

[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!

┍━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┑

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.

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[hibiscusangel15]

Midsummer Night's Dream

Here's my contribution for the @madetobezine! It's packed full of so many fun OC x Canon ships and fandoms. Hope you enjoy! Spot illustrations by the fantastic @hannahspoonsart! They also have a fun One Piece piece in this 'zine :D

You can read the full 'zine PDF here for free:

Summary: Traversing the Sword Coast to unravel the machinations of a fiendish cult was all well and good, but camping in the dirt could only remain novel for so long. Frankly, Astarion had had enough.

The Midsummer Night festival has finally arrived in Baldur's Gate and Astarion intends to revel in every bit of glory he can. Leviathala has other plans.

Originally written for the Made to Be: OC x Canon Seasons 'zine!

Rating: Teen and Up

Category: Astarion/Tav, Astarion/Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Midsummer, Midsummer Night (Dungeons and Dragons), Festivals, Jousting, Injury, Carnival Games, Fireworks, Established Relationship, Romance, Fluff, Named Tav (Baldur's Gate), Tiefling Tav (Baldur's Gate), Fighter Tav (Baldur's Gate)

Also available on AO3!

Traversing the Sword Coast to unravel the machinations of a fiendish cult was all well and good, but camping in the dirt could only remain novel for so long. Frankly, Astarion had had enough. He needed a proper bed to sleep in. He needed to bask in the glow of being a Saviour of Baldur’s Gate. Hells, he needed to party.

Baldur’s Gate’s annual Midsummer Festival was just the occasion to sate his ever-gluttonous appetite. Raucous celebrations rang out from every corner. Even the outskirts of Rivington had something to offer. They held two jousting tournaments, one in the early afternoon and another in the evening. As the sun set and Astarion could safely walk the city streets without fear of burning, he and Leviathala made a beeline for the sign-ups.

It’d taken a lot of willpower to ignore the rest of the city’s revelries to head here first. Magnificent games and tournaments of all kinds, merchant booths full of handmade wares and trinkets, and food stalls selling fresh-baked treats wrapped in wax paper went on for blocks in the Lower City and beyond.

Leviathala’s tail swung happily behind her as they fell in line. He sidestepped yet another unintentional swish at his thigh. “Excited, love?”

“I never made it past the first couple rounds in the years prior. I wonder if I’ve gotten any better since then.”

“Oh, surely killing the Dead Three’s Chosen and destroying a Nether Brain has to count for something.”

The sign-up line was crowded with drunks and the untrained. The organizers selected the few true jousters, Leviathala among them. Her participation stirred a flutter of whispers around the crowd. A lifetime of being treated as devilkin instinctively raised her hackles. It would not be the first time others booed her performance and cut her down before she had the chance to prove herself.

“‘Scuse me, but you’re the Saviours of Baldur’s Gate, right?” one of the participants asked. He was a young, well-strapped half-elf at least half a head taller than her. Dark brown eyes glittered against even darker skin, a charming, if starstruck smile tugging at his lips.

“Guilty as charged.” Astarion spread his arms out wide, but the half-elf was staring right at Leviathala.

“Sorry to bother you. Name’s Borealis. Borealis Stormseeker, ma’am. Castor’s gonna be so happy to watch this match. That’s my partner, they’re a tiefling, too. They’re a huge fan of yours, Miss Leviathala. Really wants to tell your tale someday. Bard-in-training, they are,” he went on.

Even through the navy blue of Leviathala’s skin, Astarion could spot the sudden flush rushing to her cheeks. “Oh, um, I’m glad I could inspire them. I could speak with them a little after the match, if they’d like. Get the story from the source.”

“Oh, they’d love that! I’d really appreciate it. Almost makes me feel bad for trying to knock you off your horse.”

At this, she let out an uproarious laugh. “Don’t hold back now, Borealis. Give it all you’ve got.”

“Aye, ma’am, I will. Thank you so much.”

The organizers set Astarion up in one of the VIP box suites built atop the bleachers. He swept the sawdust off the wooden bench as best he could before the games began.

Leviathala and Borealis were queued for the second round, so he busied himself stealing from the drunken patriar next to him in the meantime. Once the winner of the first round revealed himself, the crowd went wild. He was a grizzled human with a bushy black beard and a long scar running down past his right eye to the curve of his jaw. Apparently, he was a regular winner at these annual tournaments.

Astarion scoffed as he pocketed the patriar’s coin purse. Tough competition to be sure, but nothing their party hadn’t handled before.

Finally, his girlfriend strolled out on a brown-and-white horse alongside that half-elf fan of hers. The staff had graciously poked holes through the top of her helmet to let her teal horns curl up and through.

Astarion gripped the railing and cheered for her at the top of his lungs, lobbing exaggerated (if a tad gory) wishes for her opponent’s swift demise.

“Presenting Borealis Stormseeker, a newcomer to the tournament. Versus! Leviathala Taelis, one of the Saviours of Baldur’s Gate!”

Astarion preened as the crowd cheered even louder than before. That human who won the first round might be impressive locally, but saving the entire world from a mindflayer invasion boasted far more longevity. Legends only grew bigger every time they were retold, after all.

The horses thundered forth. As the two closed in, they lowered their lances. It happened in a split second. The moment their lances slammed into each other’s thick shoulder plates, they both cracked into pieces. Leviathala leaned back from the blow but stayed atop her horse. Borealis tipped violently to the left then quickly righted himself as his horse sped off to the edge of the field.

Astarion grit his teeth when she hunched over, clutching her shoulder. The referees rushed over to each competitor with a healing potion in hand. They both took a moment to drink then test that their shoulders were good to go. Two thumbs-up from each side made the crowd cheer.

They readied themselves for another go. And then…time slowed. Each hoofbeat drummed against his ears as though his own heart had resurrected. He leaned as far off the banister as he dared, unblinking.

In the next moment, Borealis was knocked right off his horse. The crowd roared as Leviathala rose a victorious fist in the air. Astarion was louder than all the rest.

More matches went on, with Leviathala winning all of hers until the very last round. Her opponent was that same grizzled human from the first match. Astarion leaned back in his seat, smirking. The poor man didn’t stand a chance.

Leviathala was nearly knocked off her horse the very first round. His easygoing smile fell. It wasn’t the first scare he’d had watching the tournament, but she bested all her opponents thus far.

“Go for the throat, darling! Knock him down!” he shouted as the horses trotted to their marks. A couple onlookers eyed him warily. He ignored them.

The referees signaled for them to go again. They shot down the path, lances lowered at the last possible second and—

Leviathala flew off her horse. Her opponent’s lance hit her in the dead center of her shoulder armor, knocking her prone. Her own lance grazed the top of his armor before falling unceremoniously to the ground.

The stunned hush of the crowd swelled.

“Winner for the tenth year in a row: Fabian Hazermourn!” the referee cried out.

Astarion collapsed in his seat, stricken with grief as the quiet bubble burst at last and everyone cheered for Lev’s downfall. It took him a moment to scrape himself out of his seat.

He found Leviathala chatting with Fabian, Borealis, and another tiefling casting Cure Wounds on Lev’s shoulder. The half-elf bent to plant a kiss on the other tiefling’s head.

Ah. His bard partner. Probably busy memorizing every detail they could to add to Leviathala’s song. It would be better than that blasted book Volo wrote about them at any rate.

“Next time yer in the Gate, swing by this field again. I’ll teach ya a thing or two about jousting. Might even win next year’s tournament, if yer lucky,” Fabian said, touting his trophy under an arm.

Leviathala’s radiant smile almost made up for the loss. Almost. “That’s very nice of you, Mr. Hazermourn. Thank you.”

“Ol’ Fabian’s a sweetheart. Taught me the jousting ropes about a year ago now. I owe him a lot,” Borealis piped up. 

Fabian grunted once then stalked off. The very tips of his ears were red.

Leviathala seemed more chipper than before she’d entered the tournament. Astarion couldn’t fathom why considering the result, but she was happy, so what was the harm?

He’d make it up to her in his own way. The carnival booths scattered about the Lower City would have to do. As she marveled at the larger plush toy prizes on display, he vowed to win them all. Not through legitimate means, obviously. What kind of rogue would he be if he didn’t cheat a little?

He let her spend a few fruitless coins on unsuccessful attempts before he stepped up to try his hand. The fish bowl toss, bean bag throw, and skee ball he won with relative ease thanks to his invisible Mage Hand. Each win offered a new, ridiculously large prize: plenty of gold, a beautiful decorative longsword, and a plush dog that looked an awful lot like Scratch.

By the time they reached the ring toss, Leviathala caught on to his scheme. He expected her to scold him for swindling the petty Guild thieves in charge of these so-called games. Instead, she hid her laugh behind a hand as he directed his poorly-thrown rings onto the bottles to win her an enormous owlbear plush. She squished the plush in her arms, kissing it once on the head before tucking it away in her Bag of Holding.

The fireworks show was set to begin close to midnight, a tradition that had been around since before even he was born. Before Leviathala wandered off to join everyone else, he pulled her down a shadowy alley to the base of a clock tower in the Wide.

“Astarion, we’ll miss the fireworks,” she said as he picked the lock. “What are we doing here?”

The door creaked on its unoiled hinges, revealing a dark stairway. “You want to watch them in that dingy crowd? Or would you rather we have our own view of the show?”

Without waiting for an answer, he melted into the shadows and ascended the steps. A massive bell loomed at the top. The slightly chill air here was a welcome change of pace from the warm hum of bodies below.

“You’re right. This is a better spot,” Leviathala sighed, leaning against the railing. Her tail swung to and fro behind her. “Thank you. Today was a lot of fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you thought so. Mage Hand took a lot out of me,” he teased. “I’m still a little sour that brute won the tournament, but I’ll get over it.”

The first fireworks soared into the sky and burst right in front of their faces. Astarion swore violently as he dodged firework after firework. Lev clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing as they danced away from the sparks hissing at their heels.

He vowed revenge on whoever had set up these fireworks. A major oversight on the organizers’ part to not think two lovebirds would sneak off to the highest clock tower in the Gate to watch the show from afar.

After huddling under the pewter bell for a few minutes, it seemed someone thought to course-correct the show at last. The next batch of fireworks were shot out over the bay.

Leviathala pinched out a tiny flame at the end of his hair. “Are you okay, darling?”

“Of course not! Whichever bastard set this up is going to pay.”

“You say that as though it was an intentional hit on our lives.”

“Maybe it was! Who’s to say it wasn’t some leftover Bhaal cultists?”

Her laugh was cut out by the fireworks finale roaring overhead. Taking him gently by the hand, she led him back out into a flurry of lights. Blue and red and green and white floated across the sky. It was a cacophony of crashes and chaos, a stark contrast to her much quieter smile as she leaned against him.

A soft smile graced his own lips as he turned his gaze upwards. For now, he could forego parties and revelry and even the spare bit of adoration if it meant staying here with her. He was happy just like this, and really, what more could he ask for?

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Huh.. so this is what they call a manwhore, you’re cool hahahah

- Lila 💜

Well!

Manwhoring is no mere dalliance—it is a majestic performance, an operatic crescendo of charm, wit, and unabashed self-indulgence. It is the fine art of being irresistibly unmanageable, a dashing rogue galloping through a garden of lust and laughter, leaving behind a trail of broken hearts and bewildered admirers like confetti at a particularly raucous carnival.

Picture, if you will, a manwhore in his natural habitat: the candlelit drawing room where whispered secrets coil like smoke, where a flick of a luscious curl or a perfectly timed smirk sends aristocrats and artists alike into delirium. It is the domain where the manwhore reigns supreme—gloved fingers tracing invisible symphonies upon the necks of entranced debutantes, where every glance is a gambit, every touch a declaration of delightful anarchy.

But beware! Manwhoring is no idle sport for the faint-hearted. It demands precision—a practiced, devilish grace akin to juggling flaming torches while reciting Byron’s poetry backwards. It requires the stamina to navigate a labyrinth of scandalous encounters, from moonlit escapades in Venice to clandestine soirées in smoky Parisian salons. One must possess the agility to switch from the gallant lover whispering sonnets to the mischievous libertine who sneers at convention with a raised eyebrow and a glass of good wine.

And yet, manwhoring is not merely physical—it is intellectual, emotional, even spiritual. It is the exquisite paradox of seeking connection while reveling in delightful detachment, of commanding adoration yet eluding possession. The manwhore is a connoisseur of chaos, a maestro of mischief, a virtuoso of vulnerability masked behind a fortress of flamboyance.

So, when you label me manwhore, dear Lila, know that you name me a curator of human experience in its most decadent, dazzling form. I am the glorious contradiction wrapped in a Hungarian cape—part siren, part storm, and entirely unapologetic.

There is also a secret handshake of the manwhoring elite, fyi.

[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

[clxuds-are-nice]

ONCE BITTEN || SYZOTH & READER

-

words :: 1.2k

pair :: syzoth x original character (zyo; referred to with they/them pronouns).

overview :: zyo has had enough of seeing syzoth in captivity. tonight, they're setting him free.

-

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and smoldering embers, the remnants of the evening’s festivities still lingering in the air. The carnival had long since quieted, the raucous laughter and off-key music fading into uneasy stillness. Most of the performers had retired to their tents, bellies full of cheap ale and minds clouded with exhaustion. But Zyo was wide awake.

They stuck to the edges of the camp, moving between wagons and supply crates with practiced precision. The flickering torchlight cast long, jagged shadows, stretching like grasping fingers across the ground. Every step felt deafening in the silence, every shift of the gravel beneath their boots a reminder of how close they were to being caught. They weren’t a thief, weren’t a criminal—but what they were about to do would damn them all the same.

Zyo’s breath came in shallow, controlled exhales as they neared their destination. The cage stood on the outskirts of the carnival, half-hidden behind a battered tent. It was just another attraction to the people here—something to gawk at, to whisper about, to fear. They called him ‘The Lizard Man,’ some exotic creature meant to dazzle and terrify, as if he weren’t flesh and blood like the rest of them. As if he weren’t a living being.

Their grip tightened around the small dagger hidden in their sleeve. It wasn’t meant for fighting, only as a last resort. If someone saw them, if they had to run... No. They wouldn’t think about that now. Syzoth needed to be free. Whatever happened after, they’d deal with it.

Taking a final breath, Zyo slipped closer, pressing themselves against the wooden bars of the cage. The figure inside was still, hunched over, his arms resting against his knees. His vibrant green eyes, usually so sharp and aware, were dimmed with exhaustion. He looked thinner than the last time they’d seen him. Had they cut his rations again?

"Syzoth," they whispered, but he didn't stir. Not at first.

Then, a flicker of movement. A shift of his shoulders. His head lifted, his reptilian gaze snapping toward them, pupils narrowing in the dark.

"You-? What are y—..."

The Zaterran man's eyes flickered with recognition as a cloaked figure approached his cell in the dead of night. Zyo swiftly picked at the cage's locks, hardly sparing the man inside a glance. They were bent on freeing him. No one deserved to be locked in a cage, subject to mockery for what Syzoth once saw as a gift- his shapeshifting abilities. He repeated their name in a desperate, hushed hiss. They wouldn't listen.

"Leave me, damnit!"

He demanded with a look of anguish in his deep, green eyes as he grabbed their wrist, briefly interrupting their lockpicking.

 "Don't you dare do this. Leave while you still can." 

Syzoth demanded, voice raw with something between anger and fear. He was unable to keep his voice stable as Zyo pulled their wrist away, hurriedly picking the lock. They'd talked plenty of his treatment of a member of the traveling carnival; Of how he joined in a moment of desperation after fleeing his home. He was still a poor outcast, a laughing stock. But the one freeing him saw more than that. They'd gotten to know each other plenty in their time together. He knew that they wouldn't stop. Not until he was free.

The lock finally gave out with a soft click, and the door creaked open. Cool night air rushed into the cramped space, but Syzoth didn’t move. His fingers curled into the straw-littered floor, claws sinking into the dirt beneath.

"Go," he rasped. "Before someone sees you."

"No," Zyo whispered. "Not without you."

Syzoth exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression twisting as if pained. For weeks, Zyo had been slipping him food, coin—offering what little comfort they could in this wretched place. He hadn’t wanted their kindness, but they had given it anyway. And now, they were risking their life for him.

"I don't need saving."

"I know," Zyo admitted. "But you deserve to be free."

For a long, agonizing second, Syzoth just stared at them, his reptilian eyes unreadable in the dim light. Then, somewhere in the camp, a door slammed. Voices—drunken, sluggish, but nearing.

Zyo swallowed. "We have to go."

Still, he hesitated. He had spent so long in this cage, so long being ridiculed, reduced to a spectacle. Stepping out meant uncertainty. It meant danger. But staying? That meant surrender.

Zyo extended their hand. "Please, Syzoth."

His jaw clenched. And then, with a slow, measured movement, he took their hand and stepped out of the cage. His legs were unsteady, muscles stiff from confinement, but there was no time to falter.

A voice rang out in the distance. “Hey! Who’s there?!”

Zyo cursed. "We need to move—"

"No."

Syzoth yanked his hand free, taking a shaky breath. Then, before Zyo could react, his form shifted. His skin rippled, scales overtaking flesh, bones elongating, limbs thinning. In mere seconds, the man before them had vanished, replaced by something faster, leaner, built for escape. His reptilian body gleamed under the moonlight, eyes flashing with urgency.

"Hold on." His voice was lower now, rough, but unwavering.

Zyo didn't hesitate. They scrambled onto his back, gripping tightly as Syzoth propelled forward, darting through the carnival’s outskirts with inhuman speed. Tents and wagons blurred past. The shouts behind them grew frantic—someone had noticed his cage was empty. Someone was searching.

Syzoth didn't stop. He raced toward the forest, weaving through towering trees as branches whipped past them. Zyo could feel the raw power in his limbs, the way his muscles coiled and sprang with every movement. He was fast—faster than any human should be.

Then—

A snap. A sharp, strangled hiss.

Syzoth faltered. His body twisted mid-stride, his weight suddenly shifting too heavily to one side. Zyo barely had time to react before he stumbled, nearly toppling over.

"Syzoth—?"

He growled in frustration but didn't stop moving, even as his steps became uneven. It was only when they were deep enough into the woods that he collapsed onto his knees, his body trembling as he shifted back into human form.

Moonlight spilled through the canopy, revealing the dark stain spreading down his side. A wound. He had been hit—an arrow? A stray knife? Zyo’s stomach twisted.

"You’re hurt."

"It’s nothing." His breathing was ragged, sweat beading at his brow.

Zyo wasn’t convinced. They dropped to their knees beside him, already reaching for their pack. "We need to stop the bleeding."

"No time," Syzoth gritted out, trying to push himself up. But his limbs betrayed him, and he sank back down with a hiss of pain.

Zyo’s jaw clenched. They knew the carnival would send people after them. They knew staying here was a death sentence. But letting Syzoth bleed out? That wasn’t an option.

"We’re not stopping," they said firmly. "But we’re not leaving you like this, either."

They hooked their arm under his, hauling him up with effort. He was heavy, but he didn’t fight them. His pride was wounded, but so was his body. He needed them—just this once.

Zyo glanced deeper into the woods, toward the unknown. Toward safety.

"Come on," they murmured. "I know a place."

And together, they disappeared into the trees.

[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.

[newssphere0]

Clowns and musicians bring the joy of Carnival to sick children in a Rio hospital

RIO DE JANEIRO (AP) — Clowns complete with red noses and tutus delivered the joy of Carnival to sick children in a Rio de Janeiro hospital on Tuesday, bringing the ebullient festivities normally found on the streets straight to the young patients and their caregivers. Street parties, known as blocos, are a fixture of Rio’s Carnival celebrations. They’re raucous, rambunctious romps with thousands,…

[portable-cdplayer-album-reviews]

alt-j : 'relaxer'

9/10

audio whiplash of the finest variety, only held back by the brief quiet moments that made me worry my CD player's batteries had run out.

if you're looking for an album to both boost you up and calm you down like the constant bipolar cycle that haunts your mind... boy, have i got the recommendation for you. this was truly a religious experience for my workday morning. i felt like one of those people that stands at the front of the service with their hands raised to the lord, just relishing in the beauty of London public transport. which, as anyone that lives here would know, is not exactly a commonplace thought.

but from the ravishing take on 'house of the rising sun' - reminiscently depressing and brilliant as an art student in finals season - to the raucous slap of 'hit me like that snare' and 'deadcrush', I had the time of my life.

while there were moments near the end in which the strings turned more into the plucking of a haunted carnival, it truly brought sunshine to the start of my day. my heart was calm, my mind less filled with its usual dread, as though I'd taken confessional on my work route. there was a moment that I felt like crying, so utterly moved by the sermon of the symphony. and then, as the chorus swelled to a halt, I came back to my train ride with a shudder and a smile.

all in all, it made me almost want to be religious.