#the unknown marionette

[yumeko2sevilla]

Amaterasu_ unknown marionette

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ

"I am not a human after all, what do you mean."

_The Unknwon Marionette

Full Name: 'Amaterasu'

⤿Amaterasu (天照大御神): Formally known as Amaterasu Ōmikami. She is the goddess of the sun and universe in Japanese mythology.

Japanese: 天照大御神

Other Names:

╰┈➤Amaterasu-san_ Prefect-san

╰┈➤Monsieur Marionette (Rook Hunt)

╰┈➤Crystal Jellyfish-chan_ Kurisutarukurage-chan (Floyd Leech)

╰┈➤Mindless Puppet (Airin Tojinomi)

╰┈➤Darling (Divianta)

╰┈➤Ama (Tsukuyomi)

Title(s):

╰┈➤Prefect of Night Raven College

Twisted From: Jackpot Sad Girl+ Bitter Choco Decoration_ syudou_ Vocaloid- Project Sekai

Voice Actor(s):

╰┈➤Japanese_ Yūko Kaida_ Tsubomi Kido_ Kagerou Project- Mekakushi Actors

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

Age: 20 (Appearance Wise_ Forever)

Gender: Unknown (They/Them)

Species: Conscious Marionette

Birthday: August 13_ Leo

Height: 183 cm_ Marionette Form, 192 cm_ Human Form.

Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous

Hair Color: Quinacridone Magenta_ Crimson Red

Eye Color: Crimson Red

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

Homeland:__

『Family:

╰┈➤Divianta ("Mother"; Phantom of Vengence)

╰┈➤Tsukuyomi (Younger Brother; Human?)

╰┈➤KAFU(Youngest Sibling; Human?)』

Dormitory: Heartslabyul_ Ramshackle (Unofficial)

Occupation(s):

╰┈➤ Prefect of Night Raven College

╰┈➤ Bartender_ Unofficial Diva of Light Music Club

Grade: Freshman

Class: 1-A_ No. 9

Club: Light Music Club

Hobbies: Dealing with works, staring at the aquarium, observing.

Favorite Food(s): Don't know.

Least Favorite Food(s): Tsukuyomi's cookings.

Talent(s): Archery, Acting.

"One of the Prefects of Night Raven College. A reliable, yet unnerving and emotionless marionette that gains the trust of every students. What lies behind those eyes, were left unknown."

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

┌──═━┈━═──┐

ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ

"I have played well, as a fool. Have I?"

╰┈➤An Obedient Maiden: Amaterasu is,, quite obedient. Polite yet distant, they always call others "Master" in a neutral tone. Rules and orders are in Amaterasu's following list, despite how cruel it may be for themself. And when it comes to tasks that related to people, they are a marionette that would want to know everything.

╰┈➤A Clockwork Heart: Emotionally apethetic and distant, Amaterasu came out as dispassionate, largely lacking in interests especially to humans. Prefer to state the fact than smoothering others with lies, their words are always straightforward and blunt. Whilist it seems to come out insenstive, maybe they mean it in a good way. It's quite ironic, considering how they always lie.

╰┈➤Guilding to An Alive Memory: When ask for their opinions, Amaterasu always says they don't know, yet desperately searching for the answers. In the rare cases where Amaterasu feels emotions, it were memories that were intense. Yet overtime, Amaterasu has became more rebellious, although they're still keep their obedient nature.

†•°•══════ஓ๑✬๑ஓ══════•°•†

✬Unique Magic: Views of The Spider Threads (蜘蛛の糸の眺め)

"In the demise of the fallen world, I embrace the continous redness. Views of The Spider Thread."

╰┈➤The user is capable of seeing everything. From the past to the future, from the reality to concepts, there are almost nothing that they couldn't see. All you need is tell them, and they will seek it for you. But beware, if you change the future with bad intentions, the consequences will strike back to you.

†•°•══════ஓ๑✬๑ஓ══════•°•†

╰┈➤ Backstory: •°•[ A Lost Child and The Witch]•°•

╰┈➤ Amaterasu once punched a Savanaclaw senior, due to how he insulted KAFU and Yukiharu. Later, the senior is known as Leona.

╰┈➤ In the Light Music Club, Amaterasu is known as the Diva of the Club. This is mainly due to how they have a good voice, and know many metal songs. (Quite the contrast of their nature.)

╰┈➤ Amaterasu is the Host of Anbelrona Hansel, the Phantom of Controlling.

╰┈➤ Logically, Amaterasu doesn't really belong to any dorms, even Ramshackle. But due to Crowley's wish, they got sorted unofficially to Heartslabyul and Ramshackle. They also have a Heartslabyul's dorm uniform.

╰┈➤ Their marionette form is actually at the same height of an average human.

╰┈➤ Their voice are distorting, and husky with no emotions in it much. It was kind of robotic.

@anxious-twisted-vampire @writing-heiress @achy-boo @yukii0nna

[fnafshiz]

Security puppets minigame puppet

Lore

[svtimagination]

the stranger in my phone | jeon jungkook | eyes in the dark series

✦ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook × Female Reader ✦ Genre: Dark Angst, Fluff, Smut (18+) ✦ AUs: Stalker AU, Obsession AU, Hidden Identity, Texting Stranger → Dark Romance ✦ Chapter Warnings: Stalking, Harassment, Abduction, Aggression, Psychological Manipulation, Blood Mentions, Possessiveness, Non-consensual Undertones, Forced Intimacy, Obsessive Love, Trauma, Mental Instability ✦ Word Count: 3.1K ✦ Summary: A drunken text to a stranger draws Y/N into a flirty, thrilling exchange—unaware that the charming man on the other end is already watching her from the shadows.

MINORS DONT INTERACT

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The bar hummed with life — the music low but steady, the clink of glasses blending with the sound of carefree laughter. The air smelled of liquor and a hint of mischief as you leaned back into the worn leather seat, your head just a little too light, your cheeks warm from the alcohol.

"Truth or dare, Y/N?" your friend teased, her voice lilting with the unmistakable glee of someone who'd had one too many drinks.

You grinned, biting your lower lip. "Dare."

A collective "ooooh" echoed around the table, your friends exchanging mischievous glances. That was your first mistake.

"Text a random number and flirt with them," one of your friends declared, a wicked smirk spreading across her face.

Your eyes widened, but the alcohol buzzing in your system made you bold. "Easy," you slurred with a laugh, unlocking your phone and randomly typing in a string of digits. No thought, no hesitation. Just reckless fun.

You: Hey there, handsome… are you this hot, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Your friends roared with laughter as you hit send. The screen blurred slightly before your eyes, but you kept going, spamming the number with playful, flirty texts.

You: I bet you look like a Greek god. Or maybe you're just a nerd in glasses… But hey, I like nerds.

Minutes passed. You were already moving on to another round of shots when your phone vibrated — once, then twice.

Unknown Number: Are you always this bold, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Your jaw dropped. "He replied!" you blurted, shoving the phone in your friends' faces. They cheered. "Ask him his name!" one of them giggled.

Your fingers moved quickly.

You: And who do I have the pleasure of drunkenly seducing tonight?

A pause.

Unknown Number: Jeon Jungkook.

The name made you blink. "Jeon Jungkook?" you muttered aloud. "Sounds… fancy." Your friends howled. "Maybe he's a CEO or something," one teased.

You shook your head, amused.

You: Ohhh, a full name? Classy. Let me guess — you're some hotshot businessman sitting in a glass office right now, counting your millions?

A longer pause this time. Your heart thudded lightly in your chest, the alcohol heightening every emotion.

Jungkook: Something like that.

You bit your lip. His responses were smooth, confident, but not pushy. It was… fun.

You: Well, Mr. Jeon, hope I'm not distracting you from making your next billion.

Jungkook: Trust me, sweetheart. You have all of my attention.

The words made your stomach flip — a dangerous mix of drunken courage and the thrill of talking to a stranger who seemed both charming and… intense.

What you didn't know was that Jeon Jungkook wasn't just some random businessman.

He was your stalker. And tonight, you had unknowingly handed him the perfect excuse to slip further into your life — all because of a silly, drunken dare.

-JEON JUNGKOOK POV-

The city glittered beneath the towering glass windows of my office, a perfect blend of cold steel and distant lights. Papers were scattered across my desk — contracts worth millions, deals that would make or break lesser men — but my mind was only half on the numbers. It always was these days.

The other half of me was… elsewhere. With her.

My Marionette.

The phone beside me buzzed, a single sharp ding slicing through the silence. I didn't expect a message — not at this hour — but when I glanced at the screen and saw the unfamiliar string of digits, a smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.

Her. My Y/N. My marionette I give her this name

I knew her number by heart — I'd memorized it long ago — but seeing her text me without realizing who I was? It was almost too perfect.

Marionette: Hey there, handsome… are you this hot, or is it just the alcohol talking?

The boldness of her words made me chuckle, a low sound that echoed in the empty office. Was she drunk? Probably. She only ever let her guard down when she thought no one was watching.

But I was always watching. Fingers steady, I let the moment simmer before replying.

Me: Are you always this bold, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Her response was quick — playful, teasing — her usual sharpness dulled by liquor, but the fire in her personality still sparked through the screen. I liked her like this. Vulnerable. Open. Unaware that she was texting the very man who watched her from the shadows.

She asked for my name.

Me: Jeon Jungkook.

I didn't lie — there was no need. My name meant nothing to her, not yet. To her, I was just a random businessman on the other end of a dare.

Marionette: Ohhh, a full name? Classy. Let me guess — you're some hotshot businessman sitting in a glass office right now, counting your millions?

If only she knew. I leaned back in my chair, my thumb brushing the edge of the phone as I stared at her message. She was teasing, playing, unaware that her every move — every smile, every drunken text — was threading deeper into the web I'd spun around her.

She wasn't just texting a random man tonight. She was texting the one pulling her strings.

My Marionette.

Me: Trust me, sweetheart. You have all of my attention.

Because she did. Always.

Her reply came almost instantly.

Marionette: Oof, smooth talker alert. I bet you say that to all the girls, Mr. Jeon.

I chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the silent office. She thought this was a game — a harmless, drunken exchange with a stranger.

If only she knew how long I'd been watching her, how many times I'd crafted scenarios like this in my head. Tonight, luck had simply handed me the perfect excuse to slip into her life without suspicion.

She chose me. Or at least, she thought she did. My Marionette had unknowingly tangled herself deeper into the strings I held.

Me: I don't talk to just any girl, Y/N.

I imagined her reaction — the way her lips would part slightly in surprise, wondering how I knew her name. She hadn't given it to me yet, and I didn't plan to explain how I knew. I wanted to see if she'd question it — if her gut would whisper that something was wrong.

Seconds ticked by. My fingers drummed against the dark wood of my desk, anticipation simmering in my chest.

Then — three dots appeared. She was typing.

Marionette: Wait… did I tell you my name?

Smart girl. But drunk. Vulnerable.

Me: It showed up with your number.

A lie — effortless, smooth. She wouldn't question it, not when she was tipsy and playing a silly dare. The perfect alibi. Her response came slower this time, and I imagined her biting her bottom lip, trying to piece together whether or not she'd slipped up.

Marionette: Weird… but okay. Guess you have me at a disadvantage now, Mr. Jeon.

My tongue ran along the inside of my cheek, my jaw tightening at her words. Disadvantage? If only she knew just how deep that disadvantage ran.

I knew where she lived. What time she left for class every morning. The caf�� she liked to study at. The perfume she wore — soft and sweet, like vanilla and a hint of jasmine. The way she smiled when she thought no one was looking.

She wasn't at a disadvantage. She was utterly, completely in my grasp — and the best part? She had no idea.

Me: I like having the upper hand, Y/N. Don't worry — I'll be gentle.

The words hung between us — a playful threat masked as a flirtation.

Would she catch it? Would her heart stutter in her chest the way mine did every time I thought of her — every time I saw her through the lens of my carefully hidden obsession?

Another pause. Then…

Marionette: Gosh… you're good at this. Are you sure you're not secretly a heartbreaker?

I smiled.

Oh, sweetheart. I wasn't here to break your heart. I was here to own it.

The seconds stretched between her last message and my next move. I could almost picture her now — sitting in that dimly lit bar, a half-empty glass clutched between her fingers, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the attention of a so-called stranger.

A soft smile playing at her lips as she waited for my reply, completely unaware she was toying with the man who had already mapped every inch of her life.

She didn't even realize the spider she was flirting with was the one who had been weaving her into his web for months.

My Marionette.

The phone buzzed again.

Marionette: So you're sure you're not drunk too? Because I swear, no sober man flirts this good.

I let out a low chuckle, running my thumb over my bottom lip as I leaned back in my chair. The city lights reflected off the glass walls of my office, the stark contrast between my world and hers glaringly obvious. She was there — carefree, drunk, laughing with her friends.

And I was here — cold, calculating, yet sickeningly infatuated with the girl on the other end of the phone.

Me: Not drunk, sweetheart. Just interested.

Simple. Friendly. A lie wrapped in a golden bow.

Because my interest wasn't the fleeting kind she thought it was — the kind of attention that burned fast and faded faster. No, my obsession was a slow, simmering ache. A carefully curated madness.

She had no idea that I knew she preferred red wine over cocktails. That I knew which sweater she wore when it rained.

That I'd watched her through the café window for hours as she studied, chewing the tip of her pen when she got stuck.

To her, I was a random number. A stranger. To me, she was everything.

The three dots appeared again. My jaw clenched — not out of frustration, but anticipation. Every text from her was like gasoline on the fire already raging inside me.

Marionette: Interested? What's a hotshot businessman like you doing talking to a tipsy college girl like me?

I smirked. Cute. She thought she was playing the game. But I was the one who created the board.

Me: Maybe I like tipsy college girls.

I let the words linger — just enough innuendo to keep her hooked, but not enough to scare her off. It was a delicate balance — push, but not too far. Pull, but not too hard. Not yet.

Another buzz.

Marionette: You're dangerous, Mr. Jeon.

I let out a dark chuckle. Oh, sweetheart… You don't know the half of it.

-Y/N POV-

The bar felt warmer now — the lights a little blurrier, the music a little louder. Or maybe that was just the alcohol humming through my veins. Either way, I was drunk. Properly drunk.

Another shot slid down my throat, burning for half a second before settling into a warm buzz in my chest. My friends were still howling with laughter over something stupid, but my attention was glued to my phone — to him.

Jeon Jungkook.

The random guy I'd just been dared to text was… surprisingly fun. Smooth, confident — dangerously so — but not in a way that screamed creep. If anything, he was playing along with my drunken flirting, matching my energy. It felt harmless. Silly.

Or maybe the liquor was making me too bold to care.

Me: Jungkook… sounds too serious. What if I call you… Jumpy JK?

I giggled to myself, biting my bottom lip to stifle the sound. God, I was embarrassing.

The three dots appeared immediately. He was quick — too quick for someone who was "busy counting millions" like I'd joked earlier.

Jungkook: Jumpy JK? Sweetheart, I don't think anyone's dared to call me that.

I could almost hear the smirk in his text. It made my stomach flip for some reason — that stupid, annoying flip that happens when someone attractive pays a little too much attention to you.

Which was ridiculous. I didn't even know what he looked like.

Me: Well, there's a first time for everything, Jumpy JK. Consider me the trendsetter.

Another giggle escaped me. God, I was so drunk. He replied again — smooth as ever.

Jungkook: A trendsetter, huh? Should I be worried about what nickname you'll come up with next?

I grinned, my fingers moving faster than my brain.

Me: Hmm… how about Mr. Billionaire Bunny? Rich, smooth talker… but I bet you're secretly soft.

I didn't even know why I said that — something about the name "Jungkook" felt… youthful.

Like he was too polished on the surface but maybe — just maybe — there was something warmer underneath. Or maybe that was just the tequila thinking for me.

The dots appeared. Vanished. Appeared again. Was I throwing him off? Good.

Jungkook: Billionaire Bunny? Careful, sweetheart — you might be onto something.

Something about the way he called me sweetheart made my skin tingle — too warm, too familiar for someone I didn't even know. But I brushed it off. It was just flirting. Nothing more.

Right? I took another shot. The room spun a little, and my thumbs danced clumsily over the screen.

Me: If you're a billionaire, shouldn't you be doing… billionaire things? Not texting drunk girls in bars?

I expected him to deflect again, to play it off like he had before — light, flirty. But his next text felt heavier.

Jungkook: Maybe drunk girls in bars are more interesting than business meetings.

My heart thudded. It shouldn't have. It was just a text. Just a game. Right?

-JEON JUNGKOOK POV-

Billionaire Bunny.

The name shouldn't have amused me, but it did — not because it was clever, but because it was her. She could've called me anything, could've laughed at her own drunken jokes like she just did, and I still would've hung onto every word like a man starved.

Because it was Y/N. My Marionette. The girl who had unknowingly spun herself into my web long before tonight.

I leaned back in my chair, the city lights casting a cold glow across my office. My fingers tightened around the phone, the smooth surface suddenly too small — too fragile — for the weight of my obsession.

She thought this was a game. A drunken dare. A harmless flirtation with a stranger. But to me? It was a door she'd just opened — wide enough for me to step through, to slip further into her life with a smile and a name she didn't yet fear.

Jeon Jungkook.

Not her stalker. Not the shadow who followed her home. Not the man who memorized the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous.

Just a random businessman who happened to text back.

I was playing the role perfectly — friendly, flirty, a touch mysterious. Careful not to push too far too fast. She didn't know that every word she sent fueled something far darker inside me — an obsession that had grown roots so deep, even I couldn't cut them loose.

Her latest message blinked on my screen.

Marionette: If you're a billionaire, shouldn't you be doing… billionaire things? Not texting drunk girls in bars?

I smirked.

Me: Maybe drunk girls in bars are more interesting than business meetings.

It was a simple line — light, teasing — but I wondered if she felt the shift like I did. If she noticed how easily I turned the conversation back to her.

Would her friends tease her about it? Would she glance at her phone and feel the tiniest flicker of intrigue — wondering why a rich, successful man was bothering with someone like her?

Good. Let her wonder. Let the doubt creep in. Because that was the key to this game — not chasing her, but making her step closer. Making her want to know me. To trust me.

Even if that trust was built on nothing but lies. The dots appeared again.

Marionette: Oh? So you're saying I'm more fun than your boring billionaire life?

Me: Much more fun, sweetheart.

The word sweetheart lingered in my mind — a dangerous pet name, too familiar, too intimate — but I liked it. I liked the way I could slip it into conversation and feel her hesitation, the slight pause before she replied.

She noticed. Even if she didn't fully realize it yet — she noticed. And that was enough. For now.

The seconds dragged into minutes.

Her texts — the playful, drunken nonsense that had me grinning like a fool in this cold, sterile office — suddenly stopped.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, waiting for those familiar three dots to pop back up. They didn't.

Me: What's wrong, sweetheart?

Nothing. Unseen. Another minute passed. Then two. Then five. The small flame of amusement in my chest flickered — twisting into something darker. Colder.

She didn't just lose interest. No, not Y/N. She was drunk, still giddy and playful just minutes ago — and now, nothing?

Did she pass out?

The thought gnawed at me. The idea of her — slumped over at some dimly lit bar, surrounded by people who didn't know her like I did — was enough to set my jaw tight. She was too careless tonight. Too trusting.

Her friends were probably just as drunk — laughing, dancing, not watching over her the way I would have.

If I were there… I shut my eyes for a beat, breathing slow. I wasn't there — because she didn't want me there. Not yet. Not in the way I needed to be.

She still thought I was just a name on her screen — a random man she stumbled into by chance. Not the man who already knew the bar she was at.

The man who had followed her there once or twice before, lingering in the shadows just long enough to make sure she got home safe.

My fingers tightened around the phone, the plastic and glass creaking under the pressure.

I should leave it alone. Let her wake up tomorrow with a headache and a blurry memory of texting some smooth-talking "billionaire" — let her reach out first.

But the idea of her unconscious — vulnerable — made my skin itch. I had to know. I had to see. With a slow exhale, I typed one last message.

Me: Falling asleep on me already? Or did someone steal your attention, sweetheart?

No response. Unseen.

My jaw clenched.

I leaned back in my chair, the cold glass of the skyscraper window reflecting the dark smirk tugging at my lips. It was fine. Let her sleep. Because tonight was just the beginning.

She'd opened the door — and now, I wasn't going anywhere.

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A/N: How was the story, do tell me.... Also, if you want to be tagged, please feel free to drop a comment or send an ask<3

– DO NOT: repost, translate, copy, continue, or reimagine my work, and upload on different sites. this is mine. let it rest here.

[metamatronic]

Any chance of this au's animatronic creators? That was worded badly but. Which animatronics did William make, Henry made, and which did they collaborate on?

In terms of actually constructing the animatronics, nearly all the early animatronics were built by William and Henry together, since Henry was secretly installing murder tech in nearly all of them. In terms of character design, though…

Designed by William:

Spring Bonnie, Bonnie, Foxy, Toy Freddy, Toy Bonnie, Toy Chica, Mangle, Circus Baby, Ballora, Funtime Freddy, Bon Bon, & Funtime Foxy

Designed by Henry:

Fredbear, Freddy Fazbear, Chica, The Marionette, Balloon Boy, JJ, Bidibabs, Minireenas, Funtime Chica, & Glitchtrap

Designed by Michael:

Helpy, Lolbit, Trash and the Gang, The Rockstar Animatronics, Music Man, & Candy Cadet

Other:

- The Nightmare Animatronics (David)

- Ennard (Ennard)

- Lefty (Charlie and Michael)

- The Mediocre Melodies (These were built by Michael, but were based on characters made by the MCI Brigade)

- Dee Dee (Cassidy)

- Vanny (Vanessa)

- The Glamrock Animatronics, Sun/Moon, & the Staffbots (Unknown)

[noneorother]

Oh my god, season 2 is The Tales of Crowley Hoffmann

I guess this has to be a series now too. Part 1 l Part 2

When Aziraphale wants to perform a show-stopping magic trick in S2E4, he is shown the "Professor's Nightmare," a rope trick, and references "Prof Hoff himself" at the end of the minisode.

Because we love double meanings so much around here, I decided to actually watch the Powell & Pressburger epic opera film "The Tales of Hoffmann," assuming it was the another P&P easter egg and the other Hoffmann (not the magician) that was being referenced.

One, this movie is unhinged. Two, this season IS The Tales of Hoffmann. Allow me to explain...

There are shot for shot quotes literally everywhere throughout the season.

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Automaton Ball) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Ball"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Hoffmann watches Stella perform) & Good Omens Season 2 "The one with the zombies"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Clerk in Automaton Ball) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Ball"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Tale of Antonia, Hoffman & Antonia) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Clue Crowley & Aziraphale"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Prologue) & Good Omens Season 2 "The one with the Zombies"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Tale of Giulietta Banquet scene) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Clue Banquet scene" *By the way Hoffmann wears a goatee for this tale

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Prologue "Dragonfly dance") & Good Omens Season 2 Prologue "Before the Beginning" *This is Stella and un unknown devil drangonfly, NOT Hoffmann

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Tale of Antonia) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Clue"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Tale of Antonia) & Good Omens Season 2 "The one with the Zombies"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Automaton Ball) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Ball"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (End credits through Hoffman's glasses) & Good Omens Season 2 end credit scene.

Stella & Aziraphale. This one makes me laugh.

There are SO MANY MORE, but tumblr has an image limit. Seriously, it's nuts.

2. It seems simple and straightforward, but it's not at all

" Why would ambitious filmmakers simply film an opera? Many admirers of the work of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger have assumed that their decision to make The Tales of Hoffmann (...) was in some way an admission(...) that they couldn’t go on making their edgy, over-the-top melodramas after the rejection and interference they’d suffered (but) there’s a case for considering The Tales of Hoffmann as one of the finest and boldest works that Powell and Pressburger produced, so far ahead of its time as a wholly “composed” film, combining visual and musical elements, that it has still not been fully appreciated... Late in his life, Powell himself said that he thought it was one of the best films that he and Pressburger had made. What makes the film so remarkable is a series of paradoxes: the fact that it virtually reinvented the freedom and fantasy of silent cinema while making full use of Technicolor and a stellar cast of dancers and singers..." - Criterion, The lives of marionettes

3. The structure of the story is the same as the show

Here is the story of the Movie** (Not really the Opera that inspired it) In the prologue, we see the dance of the dragonflies onstage at a ballet. Count Lindoff (very bad dude) is spying on both the principal dancer Stella, and the audience member Hoffmann (who's admiring her). Lindoff is behind the scenery. During her dance, Stella passes a love note to her assistant for Hoffmann. The bad dude intercepts it out of jealousy. During the intermission, Hoffmann goes down to the tavern next door, watched by his sort of buddy in red, Nicklaus. People ask him to tell stories to while away the time, and so he tells 3 stories (actually four but we'll get back to that).

We launch into 3 tales/minisodes in other times and places : 1. The Tale of the Ball of the Automaton where he falls in love with a robot. He is humiliated. 2. The tale of Venice (Giulietta) where he falls in love with a courtesan/double agent who crosses him. 3. The tale of Antonia, where he falls in love with a girl who feels trapped by her living dad, her dead mom and a mysterious bad dude (Lindoff). She is murdered in a ring of fire, but becomes a ghost and is resurrected and sent back to earth. At the end, we snap back to the tavern in the real world. Hoffmann reveals that these three women are all metaphors for how he feels about Stella, his true love. He's drunk and depressed now, thinking she never sent for him after the show. Stella arrives in the tavern looking for Hoffmann, ready to run away, but now accompanied by Lindoff (dressed as an angelic figure) who followed her. She looks to Hoffmann to save her, but he's too blinded by the fact that he doesn't think she loves him back to pick up on the signal. He gives up, and she goes back up the stairs guided by Lindoff. Her assistant (who was bribed by Lindoff at the beginning) is given the go ahead by Lindoff to go back to the tavern and taker over. They close the door to the tavern, while she walks up ethereal stairs with the bad dude. THE END.

The one story that doesn't fit into the minisodes and is told in the real world is Kleinzach. We understand by the end of this one that this is Hoffmann's self loathing about never being good enough for Stella, because Stella is perfect and Hoffmann is ugly and deformed. The main love interest attempts to steal Kleinzach's essence through a mirror by the end. 4. Powell & Pressburger recast four actors in new roles In The Tales of Hoffmann, P&P decided to recast four of the principal actors/dancers from the film The Red Shoes in new roles, wanting to recreate the magic that they brought to the first ballet film. Sound familiar?

5. Crowley is Hoffmann

"The Tales of Hoffmann" original 1881 costume concept for Hoffmann & Crowley costume sketch for S2E3 1827 Edinburgh. Glasses are a really important aspect for Hoffmann in both the opera and the movie versions of The Tales of Hoffmann. Hoffmann is gifted metaphorical magic glasses that he wears to be able to perceive his love in a way they aren't really in real life. In the opera, he wears dark glasses to shut out the real world, not just as a metaphor. Check out a modern day version of the opera's Hoffmann costume :

He's french and slamming a beer but you get it. Crowley also canonically loves watching movies. It would make so much sense that his minisode recountings with him and Aziraphale would resemble different styles of movie that he loves. Seeing as we see him drive away at the end as the last character, an argument could be made for him being the ultimate narrator of the story in season 2.

6. The original American release of The Tales of Hoffman had 14ish minutes cut out of it by the studio. So we all know by now that whole debacle about having the clocks jump 14-15ish minutes during the kiss?

"The Tales of Hoffmann found an audience far wider than expected, despite Korda’s misgivings about the movie’s running time and his decision to cut 14 minutes out of the film for its American release." - Criterion, The Tales of Hoffman

I have been unable to unearth what the difference between the American & British versions of the P&P Tales of Hoffmann is, if you know let ME know. I want to know! _____________________________________

And I HAVE SO MUCH MORE. This is long enough already so I'll save the more detailed stuff for a new post.

**The opera is a whole other beast. You can read about it here, but basically there's a lot more going on in the opera because the composer died before finishing it, and multiple versions exist after the original uncompleted score got lost IN A FIRE. Anyway. Here's part 2

[faithschaffer]

Day 26- Sword of the Artificer

Sword- The Lucky Strike

This artificer is known for her work with automatons, most infamously a commissioned spy network of marionettes. Her creations always have a signature playing card symbol (like diamonds) to indicate their model. Her sword, like her outfit, has all the symbols and serves as an accessory at court. The blade hums with a faint whirring sound, as if it contains unknown machinery for untold purpose.

[skf-fineart]

Marionette of a clown, unknown maker, 1880–89, England

[queef-of-fortune]

Marionette (Doflamingo X Reader)

Chapter Forty-four:

Plot: When the Straw Hat crew got separated, Kuma sent her to the kingdom of Dressrosa. Unfortunately for her, she caught the eye of none other than the king himself. Donquixote Doflamingo.

(Y/N) laid awake for hours that night, tossing and turning as she thought about the contents of the room. About the CDs. The key sat on the nightstand, its metallic gold coating shimmering in the moonlight. She wanted to go back. To ask more questions but it would only make him suspicious. Maybe it’d be best if she just told him. No. She shut that thought down immediately. 

How could she possibly tell him that she somehow managed to die, potentially by her own hand, and ended up a thousand years into the future. There was so much about this world that was unknown to her. Regardless she made it her home and had no intentions of ever returning home. She loved her crew and couldn’t wait for these two years of life with Doflamingo to be over. 

Over the next week, she hardly got to go see the contents of the room. Doflamingo had kept her clung to his side. Why? Because New Year’s Eve was approaching and of course he’d be throwing one of the biggest parties in all of the world. Or so he claimed. It was the only night that the citizens of Dressrosa were allowed to stay out past midnight. Everyone was always excited for his parties, everyone was invited to this one. That was only because he turned the entire country into one big party for New Year’s. 

Doflamingo didn’t want (Y/N) to feel left out like he thought she had during the preparation for his birthday party. He wanted to make it up to her. He wanted her to be involved this time. His idea of involvement however was dragging her around everywhere and insisting she pick out the color scheme (Hot pink and turquoise). 

She was sick to her stomach with remembrance of his last party. How she had hidden from him and how he bawled at her feet, begging for her to not leave him. She’d never forget the way his tears clung to the fabric of her dress, how his saliva pooled at her skirt, his white knuckles grasped at her flesh. She shuddered at the thought. 

“Cold?” He said, breaking her from her thoughts. 

She shook her head quickly, “No, I’m fine.” 

It was late at night, who knows what time. Doflamingo was scribbling on some parchment while he pretended to be busy. (Y/N) was lounging in her swing, wrapped up in his feathered coat reading a book. The Devil Fruit encyclopedia to be exact. She had enough time the other day to go in and grab it before he came searching for her again. 

He couldn’t help but watch her from the corner of his eye as he pretended to work. Her presence was illuminating. The way her hair framed her face, how her eyes glossed over when she was sleepy. Even the way she curled up in a ball in her swing, covered in his garment. As far as he was concerned, she was the only star in the sky. And she thought he was an animal, a monster even. He loved and loathed it all at once. 

Just then as he watched her, he felt something in him ignite. He was utterly inspired by her. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to scrawl across the paper. She clearly didn’t like his last letter and now he understood why. She was a hauntingly profound woman. She wasn’t moved by sexual desire and raw power like most of the women he’d been with. And that’s partially what drew him to her. 

(Y/N) remained unaware as she began to doze off in the swing. His heart swelled as he watched her chest slowly rise and fall. How her eyes fluttered as she fought hard to keep her eyes open as the book in her lap began to slip. A small, real smile graced his features as he watched her. He wanted to scoop her up from the swing and cradle her in his arms while he lulled her to sleep. Instead, he continued to write. He couldn’t put her to bed yet, not while she was busy being his muse. 

Once he had finished his new letter, he folded it up, he didn’t put it in an envelope this time. As she snoozed in the swing, he gently took the book from her hands marking her place with the letter before closing it back. Then with ease he lifted her from her seat. Of course it woke her up, not that she’d let him know. She was too tired to care or argue so she allowed him to carry her to bed. 

(Y/N) didn’t touch the book again for days. She didn’t have the time considering how much planning he had her doing. He wanted her opinion on everything. He claimed it was to make up for missing her birthday. Not like she even cared. Doflamingo knew she hadn’t read the letter yet. He wanted to shove it in her face and watch her unfold as she read, but he knew it was best to just allow her to find it for herself. He knew this one would do the trick. It’d slide her right out of her panties and into his lap. 

It was now New Year’s Eve, and the party was to begin in an hour. He had himself dressed in a confident, glimmering, magenta suit. The suit itself was like a raging disco ball. It looked almost metallic, and it shined and sparkled in the light. His outfit screamed ‘80’s coke dealer’. He of course had it paired with his white framed sunglasses and small golden hoops in his ears. As well as pristine, shiny black, dress shoes. 

He picked out (Y/N)’s outfit as well. Her dress shined but not like his outfit, it was a hot pink in color and God was it tight. It was sparkly and stopped just above the ankles. The hem of the dress was adorned with light pink feathers that matched his usual coat. He also paired it with a pair of pink heels to match. For accessories he put her in a pearl choker with a bracelet to match. Her makeup was soft yet sexy with darker eyeshadow and rosy tones. 

She stared at herself in the mirror. Stoned and drunk already. she could hear the party roaring from downstairs already. It took her longer than she expected to get ready. Doflamingo was of course already downstairs greeting his guests. She was stressed about this party. She didn’t want him to act a fool again. He scared her when he was desperate like that. Yet she couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of him begging at her feet once more. 

She took one last puff of her joint before putting it out in a nearby ashtray. Taking a big deep breath, she pulled herself from the mirror and decided to make her way downstairs to meet the man of the hour. 

The ballroom was filled to the brim with guests of all different shapes and sizes. Some were even as big as Diamanté. The crowd poured from the room and into the corridors and even out front. She had never seen anything like it before. People were everywhere, even dancing in the streets. However, she did notice that only certain guests were allowed inside the palace. His personal guests she assumed. 

She moved gracefully throughout the room despite her inebriated state. She scanned each towering face as she passed. There were so many people it was almost hard to find him. But of course, there he was, standing in the center of the room, basking in his own glory. Soaking up all the attention he could get. 

As soon as he spotted her, his face lit up, “There she is!” He bellowed, reaching out with one hand and a drink in the other.  

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her against his side roughly. He had clearly already had enough to drink and it wasn’t even midnight yet. Doflamingo kept his hand firmly around her waist, practically swallowing her whole. 

“This here,” He slurred, “Is my new favorite toy.” He chuckled.

(Y/N) grimaced, groaning in irritation. The group of men before her had no intentions of hiding their hungry gaze. Doflamingo of course noticed. 

“Watch it boys, you can look but don’t touch. I don’t share my toys. Especially this one.” He said teasingly, giving her ass a firm squeeze. 

It caused her to jump and writhe from his grasp, clearly pissed. The men just laughed heartily at her response, as did Doflamingo. She stayed by his side for as long as she could stand. That was until he made a rather off-color remark—

“I mean look at her, look at those tits! Have you ever seen a prettier pair?” He gloated, staring down at her ravenously. 

“Okay,” she said calmly, removing his hand from around her waist, letting it drop to his side. “We’re done here.” 

And with that she walked away proudly, trying her hardest to not cause a scene. The men just giggled and waved as she headed for the bar. She was already hammered but what would one more drink hurt? She went ahead and ordered herself piña colada and watched him show his ass from afar. 

(Y/N) sipped on her fruity little drink and observed the crowd mindlessly. That was until a voice from behind startled her out of her dissociative thoughts—

“Well, I didn’t think I’d see you here.” A deep familiar voice spoke from behind. 

With eyes wide she wiped around. There stood a tall man, damn near as big as Doflamingo. His hair was black and slicked back, a cigar hanging from his lips. Her heart dropped to her stomach instantly. She recognized the man alright. Crocodile. 

Her heart throbbed in her ears along with the music. She remembered him. Of course she did, how could she not? Luffy took him down. He was arrested. He should be locked away right now. Did Doflamingo know he was here? I mean they were both warlords, maybe they had ties together. 

(Y/N) didn’t say a word at first, just stared wide eyed and lips parted in surprise. He wouldn’t dare attack her here. Right? There’s no way he’d try and get revenge in the middle of a party, would he?

“H-how did…?” She trailed off, sweating and clenching her drink. 

“You don’t know?” He chuckled, shaking his head as he removed the cigar from his mouth, “You haven’t seen your captain in some time, have you?” He said, taking a seat beside her as he ordered himself a drink. 

(Y/N) shook her head as she eyed him suspiciously. He didn’t seem like a threat… Yet. She glanced back over her shoulder at Doflamingo who was now gambling with a different group of men at a far-off table in the corner, hidden behind the sea of gyrating bodies. She then turned her attention back to Crocodile and her drink, stirring it idly. 

“What are you doing here?” (Y/N) asked. 

His sideways smile never left as he spoke, cigar hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth. “Your captain helped free me. How about that?” He ashed his cigar. 

“What? Why would he do that?” She asked, brows furrowed in confusion. 

“You don’t know much about what happened at Marineford that day, do you?” He said, looking almost equally as confused. 

She shook her head no again. 

Instead of informing her on the missed-out information, he asked a question of his own. “What the hell happened to you? I know the Strawhats got split up, but there’s no way Kuma sent you here.” 

(Y/N) sighed, ruffling her hair in exhaustion. “Sure did. Don’t know why either. Now I’m stuck with… him…” She pointed a shaky finger over at the man himself, Doflamingo, who was cackling loudly across the room. 

Crocodile tsked, shaking his head. “I feel bad for you kid. I wouldn’t wanna be stuck here with that flamboyant moron.”

(Y/N) covered her mouth, stifling a laugh. 

“You never answered my question, why are you here, like at this party?” She asked, sipping from her cup. 

“I was invited of course.” He replied, swirling the contents of his glass. “Tell me, what’s the deal between you and Joker?” He leaned forwards almost a little too eager. 

“Joker?” She cocked her head to the side in confusion. “You mean Doflamingo?” 

“Oh, you don’t know that either, huh?” He scoffed. 

“Know what?” She asked before cutting herself and him off, “You know what, I don’t even care. I don’t need to be mixed up in any more of his shit.” She waved her hand dismissively. 

“So, what are you to him then? His pet? Prisoner?” Crocodile smirked as he puffed smoke into her face. 

“Both.” She huffed out, clearly displeased with her current situation. 

He couldn’t help but laugh under his breath before downing his drink. “Another.” He said to the bartender, slamming his glass down. 

(Y/N) watched as the woman poured the amber liquid over the ice cubes in his glass. He held up a hand, signaling her that that was enough. 

“So, you used to be a Strawhat and now you’re a pet of the Donquixote family?” He teased. 

“It’s not like that,” (Y/N) protested. “I didn’t leave. I was forced here and then taken against my will. Now I’m just trying to live out the next two years in peace.” 

“Peace? With that guy? Good luck.” He raised his glass to her before downing its contents. “Nice talking to you, but I have some business to attend to.” And with that he stood and disappeared into the crowd, only leaving his empty glass as proof that he was there.

(Y/N) sat dumbfounded by the man. He was the last person she expected to see here. Did Doflamingo invite him here? What business did he have with him? She peered back over her shoulder to see what Doflamingo was up to just to find that he was gone from his previous spot. She scanned the room for him and Crocodile. They two of them were nowhere to be found. She couldn’t even sense his presence, and for once, she finally felt at ease, like she could finally enjoy the party. 

[vivalas-vega]

fine line / part seven

a moment we've been waiting for!! chapter eight is still in the works, hopefully I'll have that out in the next few days. please let me know what you think! comments & reblogs make my day, and I read every one (multiple times) giggling and kicking my feet.

fine line / mcu x reader / part six

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six

summary: Three kids from Brooklyn. A war that asks too much. And a woman with secrets stitched into every seam.

to be tagged in future works, please turn on post notifications for @vegaslibrary

word count: 2.6k

warnings: (not specific to this part, but for the series as a whole. this fic is 18+, you are responsible for your own media consumption). language, angst, drinking, smut, violence, references (and descriptions) of bucky's abuse within hydra, canon-typical situations - this is the mcu y'all, shit will get a little crazy, and a little devastating

part seven: 2012

The Quinjet’s hum faded into nothing as black boots sank into fresh white snow. The mountain didn’t make a sound. The sun hung overhead like a watchful eye, but its light was diffused through pale fog, casting everything in a silver hush. Natasha stepped lightly, her breath curling like smoke as she moved through the trees toward the bunker embedded in the rockface ahead.

She scanned the slope as she descended. No fresh tracks. No guards. No chatter on the comms to intercept. Just an eerie silence that felt too loud.

“Romanoff, you getting anything?” Tony’s voice crackled in her ear.

“Not yet,” she murmured. “Either this place is empty or someone cleaned up real well.”

“Or you’re about to take a lovely hike through a glacier full of human rights violations.”

She didn’t respond, she didn’t need to. The door to the outpost was already visible, hanging slightly ajar, like someone had walked out and never come back. 

Inside, the air was colder. Still.  No machines humming. No overhead lights. Just the cold and the quiet. She moved slowly, methodically, her steps nearly soundless against concrete slick with meltwater.

She passed empty rooms, remnants of file cabinets pried open, computers smashed, terminals charred black. Something had gone wrong—badly—but there were no scorch marks, no bullet holes. No  sign of resistance. Nothing she could really pick up on at all… until the scent hit her. Blood. Not fresh, but not old either, metallic and sharp. She followed it to Sublevel 3, where the walls opened into what had once been a control room.

You were kneeling like a statue, motionless but not unconscious. There was a ribbon wrapped around your ponytail, tied into a neat little bow… it didn’t fit, but Natasha knew better. She knew what it did. Blood soaked through your uniform and your hair. It slicked the floor beneath your knees, but you didn’t even seem to notice. Your hands were folded behind your back and your eyes were open.

Watching.

Waiting.... but for what, Natasha couldn't see.

Natasha raised her weapon on instinct. “Marionette.”

You blinked.

“Do you know that name?”

A pause. You tilted your head slightly, as if trying to recall something you hadn’t used in years. “I… think so,” you said softly. “It was used. Once. Often.” Your voice was unsteady. Not shaken–simply unused.

Natasha stepped closer. Not enough to close the distance, but enough to read the vacancy behind your eyes. It wasn’t apathy, it wasn’t fear. It was a void.

“Who gave you your last order?”

Another pause. Longer. You were still processing.

“There has been… no instruction in an unknown number of days.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Waiting.” You glanced to the floor, to the wall, like answers might be hidden in the cracks. “Protocol requires standby until further directive.”

Nataha’s grip tightened around her gun. You weren’t lying, you weren’t even trying to sound human. It was mechanical, like no one had taught you how to improvise.

“You were Hydra.”

A slow blink. “Yes.”

“You did this?” she asked, motioning around you.

“They attempted shut down.” You didn’t look at the bodies, you didn’t seem to register them at all. “Their command phrases were incorrect. Protocol stated any hostile interference be terminated.”

There was a beat. Natasha said nothing, just studied you.

You didn’t seem to understand the silence.

“Handler designation?” you asked. “Do you require identification?”

Her chest ached. “No,” she said. “I’m not here for that.”

You tilted your head again, eyes catching hers like a mirror held at a strange angle. She saw something familiar in you, something that reminded her of her. The quiet between your sentences, the way you braced every time she moved… like you expected pain, and were ready for it.

“What do you want?” she asked.

You blinked slowly again, like each word she spoke was difficult for you to understand when not accompanied by force. “I… don’t know.” 

It wasn’t a deflection. It was honesty.

She lowered her gun. Not all the way, but enough. “There’s no more orders coming,” she said. “You’re done.”

You repeated the word. It sounded foreign in your mouth. Not wrong—just oddly distant. Like trying to speak in a language you used to know.

Natasha watched you carefully. You didn’t move, didn’t argue, but the tension in your shoulders said something was shifting, something small and uncertain, like ice cracking beneath weight.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said. “I’m taking you with me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere safe.”

You stared.

Not at her eyes, not her face, but at her hand. It was outstretched now, open and steady, like a peace offering. Like trust.

You didn’t take it right away.

You stared at her hand like it might vanish. Like this was a trick. Minutes passed before your fingers moved, hesitant, joints stiff from disuse. Her warmth startled you, but you didn’t pull away.

She helped you to your feet and you followed without resistance.

She led you onto the Quinjet where you boarded like someone reporting for duty. The door sealed shut behind you, and Natasha strapped in across from you, watching the way you sat–back ramrod straight, hands clasped loosely in your lap, eyes vacant and unfocused.

“Romanoff,” Tony’s voice came through again. “Target neutralized?”

She looked at you. You hadn’t moved.

“Not exactly,” she said. “She’s coming with me.”

“She’s Hydra. She’s dangerous, a loaded gun with a heartbeat.”

“She doesn’t know who she is,” Natasha replied. “Not yet.”

Tony took a beat before replying, considering all the implications of what Natasha was doing. “You think this is smart?”

“No,” she sighed. “But it’s right.”

The hangar was still as the Quinjet settled, the hydraulic hiss of landing gear muffled by the vast emptiness of concrete and shadow. Steve was already waiting, arms folded tight against his chest like he was bracing for impact. Tony hadn’t told him anything. Just said: ask Nat. That was enough to plant him right at the edge of the ramp, pulse heavy in his throat.

The first one off the jet was Natasha–her gait sharp and purposeful as always–but something about the way she turned back stopped Steve cold. She extended a hand. Waited.

Then you stepped into view.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. The face that haunted his dreams stepped out of the dark—and it was almost right. Almost. The mouth, the shape of your eyes. But the soul was missing. Hollowed out. He took a step back, instinctively, the air suddenly too thin around him.

You were wearing a hoodie far too big for you–Tony’s, he realized—and pants that must have belonged to Natasha. They hung off you like someone had tried to dress up a battered blade. Wrong. All wrong. But that wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was you were alive.

He remembered combing through crumbling mission files when he came out of the ice, digging through redacted reports and dead ends. One flimsy folder. One name. Missing in action. Presumed dead. Some part of him hoped you'd moved on after the war. Moved on from him and Bucky. He hoped to find a marriage certificate, maybe even birth certificates of your children. He wanted to track you down, old and gray, sit with you and hear all about the life you'd led.

He carried the weight of knowing that wasn't the ending you got everyday, of knowing he lost you just like he had lost Bucky.

But now you were here.

Natasha approached, slow but certain, and Steve moved to meet her. “Mission didn’t go to plan,” Natasha said, voice even, measured. “Facility was mostly empty. I found her in a control room on Sublevel Three.”

Steve’s eyes didn’t leave her face, but something about her tone made his stomach tighten.

“I couldn’t do it,” she added.

He blinked. “Do what?”

“Neutralize her,” she said simply, as if she were reporting on the weather.

The world lurched sideways, words landing like a gut punch, and Steve took another step back without realizing it. His breath stalled.

He looked past Natasha, to the figure standing just behind her. To you.

You, who’d once made him a suit from scratch when he couldn’t find any that fit with steady fingers and a tired smile. You, who vanished into the war like smoke through cracks. Who lingered in footnotes, a ghost sealed into forgotten files. One of the faces that haunted him every night when he tried to find rest.

His jaw clenched. “You were going to…” His voice trailed off, thin and strained. He couldn’t stomach it, the idea that you’d been right there, so close to coming back to him… only to be eliminated by Natasha. 

Natasha turned toward him slightly, eyebrows drawing together at the look on his face. “SHIELD classified her as an unresponsive Hydra asset. She was kneeling in a puddle of blood, waiting for someone to give her orders.”

Steve’s heart twisted. “And you were going to put her down.”

“I had no reason not to,” she replied calmly. “Until I looked at her.”

He swallowed hard, throat dry. “And?”

“She flinched when I moved, but she didn’t raise a hand to defend herself. She looked at me like I might hurt her.”

Steve’s voice was barely a whisper, “she’s not just anyone.”

Natasha watched him, brow furrowing slightly. “Clearly.”

He nodded once, a shaky breath escaping, and with it your name. “We grew up together. She was–” he stopped himself. “She mattered.”

Something in Natasha’s posture softened, just a fraction. But her voice stayed level. “I didn’t know. You never mentioned her.”

“I couldn’t,” Steve said quietly. “If I said her name, it made it real. That she was gone.”

He didn’t realize he’d moved until he was already walking past her. He stepped forward like a man approaching a grave, not because he feared what he might find—but because some part of him already knew what had been buried even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.

“Are you my new handler?” you asked, the words so hollow they hit him like a blade between ribs.

Natasha hesitated. “This is Steve,” she said carefully. “He’s… a friend.”

“Friend.” You echoed the word like it didn’t belong to you. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Steve stepped closer, slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal. “Button,” he tried, soft and steady.

You flinched, subtly, and something behind your eyes shifted. 

“That name… do you remember it?”

You closed your eyes like you were rifling through a drawer in your mind that had already been emptied. “No,” you said, tone clipped. “Should I?”

Natasha gave him a look, a warning not to push, but he wasn’t sure he could help himself.

“You used to sew,” he said softly. “Fixed a button on Bucky’s coat once, while we listened to a game on the radio. He started calling you that. You hated it, said it made you sound small, but… we never meant it that way. You were the biggest part of both our lives.”

You were so still it was like the air had stopped moving around you.

“Button,” you repeated. “It feels… familiar.”

Steve swallowed hard. “You were a seamstress. A resistance courier. Smuggling intelligence through Europe when you were barely more than a kid, before you moved onto bigger fish...” His voice cracked. “You were brave, and reckless, and always five steps ahead of everyone else. And now…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

You watched him closely, something flickering behind your eyes—but it wouldn’t catch. “Is this where I receive my next orders?” you asked.

It shattered him.

Natasha laid a gentle hand on his shoulder as his face crumpled, just slightly. “They broke her,” she murmured.

Steve shook his head slowly. He saw something, even if it was barely there. “No,” he said. “They bent her until she forgot who she was. But she’s still in there. Somewhere.”

You were where Natasha had left you–in a quiet conference room, tucked away in the tower–and Steve stood just outside the glass. Watching. Hoping. Dreading.

“I can’t order her around,” he said. “Not after everything.”

“I know,” Natasha said quietly. “But right now, structure is the only thing she understands. If it helps her feel safe, maybe it’s worth it.”

He nodded, but the grief was still there, raw and blooming beneath his skin. “She looked at me like I was no one.”

“She looked at you like you were someone she wanted to remember,” Natasha corrected. “That’s something.”

Steve turned back toward you. You sat rigid in the chair, hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on the floor like you were waiting for a cue. No emotion. No hesitation.

Just waiting.

The silence was starting to suffocate when the elevator finally dinged.

Tony strolled in like he’d just come back from a press tour, not from tracking down an ex-Hydra kill site. “So,” he said, voice light but laced with curiosity. “Did we figure out if she’s a sleeper cell or just deeply committed to the bloodstained cryptid aesthetic?”

Steve didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.

Tony followed his line of sight through the conference room glass. “That's her?” he asked, a little quieter now. “The ghost in my hoodie?”

“She hasn’t moved,” Natasha said. “Not since I sat her down. It’s like she’s afraid to do anything without permission.”

Tony took a step closer, peering in with narrowed eyes. “You sure she’s not a mannequin? Because I’ve seen more life in my showroom armor.”

Steve bristled at that, and Tony caught it. “Kidding,” he added quickly. “Sort of.”

He went quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically so, and when he finally spoke again, it was subdued. “So what’s the game plan? We keeping her in glass like a museum piece or…?”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Natasha said firmly.

“She thought I was her handler,” Steve added, his voice thick.

“She asked if I was going to kill her, on the Quinjet,” Natasha said. “Like it would have made sense. Like it would’ve been routine.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus.” He glanced back toward the room. “And we’re sure she’s not gonna snap in the middle of the night and redecorate the walls with our internal organs?”

“She won’t,” Steve said quietly, and Natasha nodded in agreement.

“She’s disoriented, not dangerous. She’s not a threat right now–she’s a survivor who doesn’t know what surviving looks like anymore.”

“She’s one of ours,” Steve breathed out like the words were barbed wire. “Always was... long before the war ever took her.”

Tony let out a long breath. “Alright, so… we take her in. We don’t rush, we give her structure until she learns choice. Orders until she learns freedom. We teach her how to be a person again.”

There was a pause. Then Steve said it aloud, for all of them.

“We help her find her way back.” The words weren’t just hope. They were the promise he’d been waiting almost seventy years to make.

Tony tapped a finger against the glass. You heard the noise but you didn’t react. “Hope you’re ready for the long haul, Rogers. That’s a lot of ice to melt.” And still, Steve watched the glass like it might crack first. Like something might reach back.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve said. “And neither is she.”

Natasha looked at you again–still seated, still silent, eyes unfocused and distant… but there was something there now, just beneath the surface. A flicker. A thread.

They just had to pull gently enough not to snap it.

prev / next

[flurry-of-stars]

𝔖𝔨𝔢𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔉𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔬𝔪 - 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜

𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖎𝖚𝖒 ⋆｡°✩ 

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The Masquerade Circus

You never expected the place that once filled your dreams with joy and excitement to bring you so much pain. Once, you longed to be part of the performance—to be revered as a star, to dazzle the audience, and bring even just a shred of laughter to anyone who needed it. You should’ve been more careful about what you wished for on shooting stars and clover leaves.

Were it not for Nikolai and the rest of the circus troupe, your life would be unbearable.

With the crackling fire of rebellion in his heart and a thirst for freedom, Nikolai is determined to prove that forever has an expiration date and that the strings controlling him—and everyone he cares for—are as fragile as the cage holding them.

But change always begins with a single, uncertain step into the unknown. The question is…are you brave enough to take it, or will you allow fear to keep you a marionette forever?

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

⋆｡°✩ 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆𝔐𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔠𝔟𝔬𝔵⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝕹𝖎𝖐𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖎 𝕲𝖔𝖌𝖔𝖑 𝖝 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖓'𝖘 𝕬𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 ⋆｡°✩

⚠️ Dead Dove; Do Not Eat ⚠️

Multipart fic, Abilities AU, Dark Circus AU, found family, hurt/comfort romance subplot.

Content warnings: Child exploitation, manipulative behavior, violence, blood and wounds, misuse of power, child abuse, animal abuse/cruelty.

This story contains themes of suicide and self-harm.

Warnings and tags will be given at the start of each chapter. Please read them. If this fic is not to your taste, please do not read it. Future tags may be added if needed.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢: 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝓒𝓪𝓷𝓿𝓪𝓼

𝔒𝔫𝔢: 𝔏𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔢

𝔗𝔴𝔬

𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢

𝔉𝔬𝔲𝔯

𝔉𝔦𝔳𝔢

⋆｡°✩ 𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘 ⋆｡°✩ I STARTED THIS IN JUNE OF 2024 AKSSKSKDD. I was not expecting this to become another multichapter fic. I wanted this to be like a silly little two part thing, but here we are again. I just started having new ideas and new scenes and the characters started getting fleshed out and just...I had to make it a multichap fic. My original inspiration was the song and music video Itaino Itaino Tondeike by Tooboe. It was the very first inspiration for this fic. And since I did take such a long break from writing it due to life, alot of other things have added to my original inspiration and helped develop it into what it's become (❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ This story has honestly changed so much over the course of almost a year. I'm so excited to finally be sharing it. It literally devours my brain when I can't find the energy to be creative. I hope you all enjoy it!

⋆｡°✩ 𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖎𝖘: In progress~ ⋆｡°✩

© 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦-2025 Circus themed banners by @/dollywons Red dividers by @/cyberbeat

[catsarenotliquid]

Penny Lamb/Jane Doe design :p

Penny Lamb (Born in Elysium Community Farm, Age 17, Aries, Unknown favorite ride, possibly swing ride.)

Relatives: Ezra Lamb (Young Brother), Marie-Jose Blanche (Mother), Rudolf Lamb (Father)

Features: French braids, St. Cassian uniform, freckles.

Biography: Described as being "an immensely nervous and self-conscious teenager", Penny was a quiet introvert, yet creative, responsible and a rather fast-talking person. She was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. She also suffered from depression and was suicidal due to bullying. She was the last person to join the St. Cassian Chamber Choir, as a recommendation for socializing and making new friends, since Tammy Edwards, her friend, moved away from Uranium City.

Fate: Missing. She disappeared from the town after going to a fair with the Choir. Nobody knows what happened with her. However, her brother claims that she was the unidentified body of the Cyclone incident.

Fun fact:Before the accident, Penny was a puppeteer. She manipulated a marionette named Dolly, a porcelain (and creepy) doll, described by it's creator as a needy and lovely doll.

Unlike it's owner, that doll never disappeared after the Cyclone accident. It was found with it's head disconnected and broken, practically irreparable.

[cherrirui-official]

Friendlocke Violet Gijinkas (Part 4/7)

Hell yeah we're over halfway done! Isn't that crazy? I don't have too much to say here sooooooo onto the usual stuff

I plan on posting them in order by groups of three, so there's gonna be seven parts in total, all of which I'll be linking here when done vvv

(Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Five) (Part Six) (Part Seven)

!! These will contain personal headcanons I have for the cast, little fun facts, and also spoilers for Friendlocke Violet (for both the edited vids and the streams) !!

@saltydkart-reblogs

Designs under the cut!

VRISKA:

Vriska has an extra set of arms that they can retract and extract whenever they please. However, they usually keep those arms hidden.

The long needle she's holding is her trusty sword that she's used since her pirate days. She doesn't use it as much as she used too, but it's good to keep it on her for self defense in case of an emergency.

The marks on thier neck and shoulders aren't tattoos, they're birthmarks.

Good at sewing, as she often would have to fix her coat after getting into epic pirate sword fights. Sara and Vriska are sewing buddies!

It is unknown why they're unable to sleep, but while the rest of the team sleeps they often find themselves wandering around and doing whatever they want.

Artist's note: I based Vriska's design off the fact that I wanted to make her look like a bootleg version of the og Vriska. As in "Hey that's Vriska" but also "That's not VRISKA" if you get what I mean

MALL BINGO:

Trained herself to become resistant to poison (and by "trained" I mean she just ate a bunch of poison until her body became almost immune to it... please don't try this at home.)

Often goes scavenging for items when she's doesn't feel like robbing someone. If she's lucky enough she'll find some good items scattered around because "stupid trainers often leave good shit on the ground for some reason" (due to all the items you can pick up from the ground ingame lmao)

Mal lost her leg in one of her first heists, after she and another pawmi tried stealing from the wrong person at the worst possible time.

The gun she keeps with her wasn't originally hers, it belongs to someone else.

On a more positive note, Mal has plenty of stories and tall tales to share. She learned them from the eldest in her little pawmi group, as they would often tell her stories before going to sleep. Mal will often share those same stories with Peppy Jr and Mykyie Jr.

Can and will bite you. You won't be expecting it. Be warned.

GRUNPILO:

Due to his abundantly long hair, Grunpilo often lets Mal play around with it and style it however she wants.

It is unknown how or why he picked up on puppetry specifically, but it makes him happy so who are we to judge?

Speaking of which, he creates his own puppets by hand, from simple sock puppets to marionettes on strings. The two hand puppets shown are his favorite ones though.

Sometimes he'll be found speaking to them as if they're real.

Not good in social situations or confrontation, so Mal will sometimes have to speak for him. ("EXCUSE ME! He asked for no pickles!" /ref)

EXTREMELY light, very easy to pick up.

And that's all! Only three more batches left woo, hopefully I can finish them by the end of the year lol.

[itacats]

Rain of Shadows

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: Graphic depictions of torture and psychological trauma, References to past abuse and emotional manipulation, Themes of recovery and the struggle for hope, code name used for reader, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: We're diving deep into the aftermath of Rain’s torture and their fragile journey toward healing. As Rain battles within their fractured mind, reliving painful memories that blur the line between trauma and survival, TF141 executes a daring rescue mission. Simon becomes the anchor in Rain’s tumultuous world, offering not just physical rescue, but emotional solace.

A/N: This part was incredibly emotional to write, capturing the raw, disorienting experience of trauma and the slow, tentative process of rebuilding trust. Simon’s role as a quiet protector was especially significant—his actions were not just about saving a comrade, but offering the possibility of something more: connection. The transition from isolation to a fragile bond felt poignant and necessary for Rain's journey. 🌙❤️

Rain of Shadows Masterlist

Part 8 - The Fractured Mind

Weeks passed in a haze of torment, each day eroding more of who you were. Bound to a cold metal table beneath glaring fluorescent lights, you existed in a realm where pain blurred the lines of reality. The electric shocks weren’t just a weapon—they were a scalpel, carving into your memories, leaving jagged edges where certainty once lived.

Your mind had become a battlefield of clashing worlds. One moment, you felt the warmth of your father’s embrace, his voice whispering, “I love you.” But in the next breath, that warmth twisted into the grating bark of an unnamed authority figure: “You will take orders!” The slap of a hand echoed in your mind, unbidden, and you remembered a glass of water spilling to the floor. The lesson had been clear: obedience above all, even when it left you broken.

The electric surges wove agony into every memory, unraveling the few threads of solace you had clung to. A mother’s gentle kiss dissolved into the barked commands of a drill sergeant, urging you to run until your legs collapsed. You were a marionette, and the hands pulling the strings were as faceless as they were relentless.

In that prison of pain, the person you had once been disappeared. What remained was a hollow shell, splintered and unrecognizable, trapped in a void where even survival felt like surrender.

Beyond the walls of your captivity, Task Force 141 moved heaven and earth to find you. Price, Soap, Gaz, and Simon carried the weight of your absence like a second skin, each of them unwilling to let you fade into the shadows of war.

“We’ll get them back,” Soap swore, his voice laced with unwavering conviction. “No one gets left behind.”

Simon Riley’s silence was louder than any words. He carried his own scars, a past that mirrored the fractured pieces of your life. He saw himself in you—the broken child forced to grow into a soldier, the one who had never known peace. For Simon, this mission wasn’t just about rescue; it was about redemption.

The day they found you, the air was thick with dread. The stronghold was a labyrinth of despair, each step carrying them closer to the unknown. When they breached the final door, they were met with darkness—a reflection of the chaos within your mind.

You lay strapped to the table, trembling as the aftershocks of torture rippled through your body. Electrodes clung to your temples, their wires snaking across the floor like vines choking the life from a tree. Dirt streaked your face, and your eyes, half-lidded, gazed into nothingness.

Simon was the first to reach you. His voice, steady and firm, broke through the haze: “I’ve got you now.”

Carefully, he removed the nodes from your head, his hands gentle despite the urgency of the moment. Lifting you into his arms, he cradled you as if you were made of glass. The warmth of his embrace was startling, an anchor in the tempest of your fractured mind.

The helicopter blades roared as they carried you away from the nightmare. Simon’s arms remained around you, his presence a shield against the world that had tried to break you. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, a rhythm that spoke of survival, of hope.

“We’ve got you,” Price said, his voice carrying over the din. “You’re safe now.”

Soap and Gaz flanked Simon, their faces etched with concern. They weren’t just protecting you from the enemies that lingered outside—they were guarding you against the ghosts that would surely follow.

In Simon’s embrace, the numbness began to thaw. You clung to him, not out of fear, but because his warmth was a light in the endless dark. His touch didn’t just hold you—it tethered you to the present, pulling you from the abyss you had been drowning in for weeks.

As the helicopter rose into the sky, your mind drifted between memories—some real, others fabricated by the agony of your captivity. You saw glimpses of a childhood free of pain, a life untainted by war. They felt distant, like dreams slipping through your fingers, but they were enough to remind you of what could be.

Simon’s arms tightened around you, his voice a quiet promise: “You’re not alone anymore.”

For the first time in years, you believed it. In the chaos of your rescue, a fragile bond had taken root, one forged not in blood but in trust. You had been stripped of everything, but they had given you something you had never thought possible—connection.

As you leaned into Simon’s embrace, you felt the steady pulse of his heartbeat against your own. It wasn’t just the rhythm of life—it was a promise of something more. A future not defined by pain, but by the bonds you had begun to forge.

The world outside the helicopter was still broken, its shadows waiting to swallow you whole. But in that moment, you found strength in the arms of someone who understood your darkness.

And as the first rays of dawn pierced the horizon, you dared to hope. Not for the life you had lost, but for the one you might yet build—a life where scars didn’t define you, but shaped the person you were becoming.

Taglist:

If you would like to be tagged in this story, let me know!

@jessicab1991

@burningarcadething

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[collecting-stories]

Willow - Ivar the Boneless

Summary: Feast night in Kattegat, some pretty shameless flirting.

A/N: I haven't written vikings in forever but part of this was in my drafts from like, last year and I finally finished it this morning.

TS Anthology Masterlist | Vikings Masterlist

✰ wait for the signal and I'll meet you after dark ✰

The lanterns that lined the path from the village to the fjord were lit, glowing a warm orange beneath the ever darkening sky. There were soft sounds of a lyre playing somewhere just beyond your line of sight, settling a trance over the whole of the village as you made your way through smaller parties that gathered outside of the great hall, enchanted by the warm night. Feast nights were always your favorite, less of a formality than a festival or a celebration, you weren't so watched on a feast night as you were other times. 

"Have you come to join the dancing?"

Still, there were some whose gaze you never quite seemed to escape. As you addressed the rustling of bushes near your knees, you peered down in the dim light to find Ivar, stakes dug into the ground as he frowned up at you, obviously not amused by the playful teasing. 

"Perhaps someone could string me up like those nonsensical dolls they bring to market, wouldn't you enjoy that?" He retorted, thinking of the countless times he'd requested his mother have the man with the marionettes killed. Or punished violently, he wasn't picky. 

You bent your knees, squatting down so your butt hovered over the grass, reaching a hand out to stroke Ivar's cheek. He leaned his face into your touch, turning his head just so to brush his lips to your open palm.

"You think I am making fun of you? You forget then, I have felt the way you move against me when we are beneath the furs on your bed my love, there is no dance I long for more." You replied. 

Ivar huffed, tilting his head down just enough to nip at your exposed wrist, "now I know you are playing with me." He replied, "I should have you strung up like that marionettes."

When you smiled he couldn't deny the triumphant feeling that gripped his heart, as if some unknown force was saying 'look, you who is so plagued by hideous feelings and darkness, you have made the sun shine in the dead of night'. 

"You would enjoy that." You repeated his words back to him, a statement this time and not a question. 

Carefully, so that you didn't fall over completely, you stood back up, brushing your hands down the front of your clothing. Ivar watched you as the doors to the great hall sung open and more people filed out, shouting and laughing with each other. The lights inside the building and the ruckus had drawn your attention for a split second but then your gaze was back on Ivar, the soft light of the lanterns shining on his face and illuminating his blue eyes. 

"Shall we take our leave?" You asked, sounding somewhat conspiratorial as you watched him. 

Despite the informality of the feast, you were certain your parents would notice if you were gone for too long or if you left early. They'd been careful with you ever since you'd come of age, cautious of who took an interest in their youngest child. Though they knew better than to speak out of turn about the disabled son of Ragnar Lothbrok, you could see, and so could most everyone else, that he was not who they wanted you to spend time with. Ivar knew, certainly. He'd seen the disdainful looks but it rarely deterred him. Ivar had always been someone who got exactly what he wanted, whether through temper tantrums, deceit, manipulation, or someone's misguided pity. Still, he looked almost surprised at the suggestion, though it only showed for a split second before he was schooling his expression to a neutral one. 

"I thought feast nights were your favorite? Don't you want to celebrate all who have returned from raiding?" He asked, shifting his weight so he could look up at you with more ease.

"Of course I want to," you replied, ignoring the first of his questions, "but I don't think I need anyone in there watching me celebrate your safe return."

Ivar's face flushed up to his ears and you smiled in satisfaction. "You are worse than Loki with your tricks." 

"What tricks?" You asked, sitting this time, your legs crossed in front of you and knees brushing against his hands. You leaned forward, your face as close to Ivar's as you could be without touching him, "don't you want to celebrate?" 

"What would your father say, hm?" Ivar hummed, secretly thrilled when your hand found its place cradling his face again, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. 

"Are you really more interested in discussing my father?" You asked, "when I am famished and have been waiting since the ships first crested the horizon to feast?"

"Were you not just in the great hall?" Ivar questioned, squinting in the dim lantern light so that he could appraise your words. 

"I was. You weren't though and I have been eager to sink my teeth into you," you teased, snapping playfully at him. 

The flush was back on Ivar's cheeks tenfold, flustered by the very suggestion that you wanted to be with him. It wasn't the first time you and he had laid together. Thank god for that, Ivar thought briefly as you stood again, stepping off the path and back toward the bushes that Ivar had come out of before. 

Your first time together had been awkward and slightly painful and he had been embarrassed for some weeks afterward that you would be hesitant to speak to him again, let alone allow him in your bed. Some goddess had blinded you with love or lust or adoration though because you seemed so taken with him from then on that you often sought him out, much to his own excitement. Ivar was just as adoring and in love as you were, if not more. While it was more than true that he got exactly what he wanted all the time, it was always better when he was wanted back. 

"Are you coming?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at him. 

"Yes. You'll notice it is a bit more difficult to turn around when you're unable to stand up." He grumbled, digging his stakes into the ground as he shifted himself around to follow you. 

"Perhaps, but I do so enjoy watching you."

"Humorous is it?" Ivar snapped, missing the way you smiled at his sour disposition. 

"Not the word I would use," you replied. "Is a snake in the grass humorous? Or is it beautiful? Dangerous? Exciting?" 

"I am a snake now?"

"Oh, most assuredly my love, you are full of venom. Though, I would gladly let you bite me." You teased, watching him as he caught up with you. 

"You have not let me yet," he replied, looking far more sour at that remark than at anything else you'd said all night.

"Patience."

He huffed, "I have endured a treacherous ocean, armies of men, illness, injury, near death...and you tell me to have patience?"

"Just for a simple kiss." You replied, as if it was nothing to him, "you have brought riches back with you...surely that means more than a simple kiss."

Ivar tugged your ankle as you stepped closer to him, knocking your legs out from under you and watching with satisfaction as you fell to the ground. 

"Ivar!" You laughed, uninjured and no less enamored with him than you had been before. He smiled, devious grin lighting up his features in the dark as he crawled over you, staking the ground over your sleeve so that you couldn't move away from him. "What are you doing?"

"I have no patience," he replied, "I shall have my feast here."

[tadc-harlequin-au]

God I'm way too invested in this au. Anyway I wanna hear more of the biology of the puppets and marionettes (might make fanart maybe)

I don't think I'm fully ready to delve into the topic of a Marionette because it reveals major story spoilers, for now just know that they are completely and utterly devoid of life, forever following an endless directive.

For the Puppets, I guess I can give a little bit more information about them, as long as I'm not crossing a personal story boundary I've set for myself lol

Once a Puppet reaches the first enlightenment stage, black tendrils begin to appear on their innermost structures slowly but steadily, as I've explained with Caine.

These things, these transformations... they can be jarring for the Puppet experiencing them for the first time especially when the Puppet starts to feel full sensations such as an electrifying jolt, a pain, or a touch, but make no mistake; aside from their weird alien appearance they mean no danger, and they can even come in pretty handy.

About half-way through the story, Pomni actually gains new abilities everytime she reaches a stage of enlightenment, and there are six steps to achieving the full process, and it may vary on how fast or slow these Puppets can achieve them.

Yeah, can you tell this is like, the leveling up system? lol

Firstly, let's start with Awareness.

Awareness is when a Puppet grows to think beyond their directive; their thoughts becomes separated from the imprinted norm that they used to know their whole existence.

Although, it's still the first stage, which means that even if a Puppet begins to think original thoughts for themselves, they'll still have a tendency to follow the original commands.

They'll just start thinking "hey, maybe I should stop and think about what exactly I'm doing for a second. Just for a second. Then I promise I'll go back to my routine."

At this rate, there's not much changes happening on the physical, except letting a Puppet feel physical touch, despite their mechanical body.

Secondly; Sentience

Sentience is when a Puppet grows... well, a genuine sentience, one that wasn't pseudo and pre-programmed into their very being.

They'll start exploring aspects that they haven't thought of exploring, and this is where creativity and imagination gets to shine a little more if the Puppet is on the creative side of things.

a Puppet may undergo a change of personality (not always guaranteed), so don't be surprised when the once-happy-go-lucky puppet starts crying out of nowhere.

black tendrils may seep out of an exposed joint or a cracked part, but they're only tiny little veins.

Thirdly; Conscience

Conscience is when a Puppet starts to feel emotions based on an inner moral system, that wasn't, again; pre-programmed into them.

they'll start to THINK what's right or wrong based on personal experiences, or maybe even remember their OWN former moral system from their past life, and even a combination of the two.

This is usually the part where they'll start to judge the directive imprinted into them, maybe bouts of unknown regrets will come too.

the veins become more noticeable at this stage, and can now be used for physical attributes/advantages.

Fourth; Reminiscence

This one is usually in tandem with the third, but not everyone can have the same case, since it always varies between all of them.

Reminiscence is when a Puppet remembers their past life prior to becoming what they are now; no strings holding them back from recalling anymore.

These come in the form of seeing major life events unfold right between your eyes; whereas before, there'll only be hazy glimpses.

Fifth; Persipience

Persipience is when a Puppet becomes wiser, and can now overcome the directive they were tasked with if they wished to.

This process can be agonizing for some because it is similar to the symptom of a withdrawal from an addiction.

Fortunately, once they've gotten over past that obstacle, they'll gain full automation over their bodies, the "itch" no longer as present as it used to be.

Sixth; Enlightenment

The final step.

A Puppet needs to come to terms with their new discovery.

They need to be at peace with the process of what had happened to them, accepting the progression from "Human" to "Puppet" as a part of their existence.

Final evolution takes place, and the Puppet can now fully utilize their soul magic to it's fullest extent.

Just like wisdom, not many are willing to go through this process/or can achieve this, since accepting the idea of "becoming a Puppet" like it's similar to the concept of growing up from adolescence to adulthood can be hard for some to fully stomach.

Although, it is considered as the "fully matured" process of the six stages.

Now, Madness takes just as much of steps as Enlightenment does. Only this time, you're on the wrong end of the stick.

Firstly; there's Isolation.

As the name itself applies, isolation is when a Puppet denies/is denied social interaction that their soul wants, prioritizing objectives over anything.

Subtle twitchiness may occur.

Secondly; Revelation

A revelation settles deep within a soul fragment laying inside a puppet's heart; they're trapped, and there's no escape.

Can also be called "entrapment", but revelation is cooler and sounds more fancy

Thirdly; Rebellion

Rebellion is when an attempt to rebel against the internal system of a Puppet takes place, but is not achieved due to the lack of free will and sentience on the physical and mental body.

The body becomes more uncontrollable, dangerously swinging and twisting.

the literal metaphor of an internal battle happening within oneself.

Fourth; Corruption

Another attempt is made by the soul energy, only this time, it's harnessing the worse aspects of a Puppet to propel itself and grow physically stronger, a desperate option.

large, black tendrils may burst through weaker parts and/or limbs; namely joints.

Repairs? What's that? Who even needs 'em lmaoooo

Fifth; Obsession

A Puppet begins to obsess over directives; a byproduct of the soul energy harnessing the negative traits that it's host was ingrained with.

The physical appearance of a Puppet becomes more grim, overexaggerated features that you'd only see in horror movies start to become more prominent.

Work is non-stop, no breaks. Liberation is irrelevant. The concept of humanity is irrelevant. They only exist to follow their directives now. If some shithead wants to tell you otherwise, they will fucking DIE.

Sixth; Madness

You've grown physically stronger. But at what cost?

ANYWAYS that was a massive infodump, what were talking about again?

Oh right. Puppet biology.

Uh, They're hella weird.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

NO STRINGS NO STRINGS

tied together. pulled each way. tighter, tighter. the chain goes on, mother, daughter, daughter, mother, again, again.

Puppet Pose Ref: AdorkaStock on DeviantArt, Angie Pose Ref: This Photo (original source unknown) Comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated, I read every response! Check under the read-more for notes on symbolism/details, plus the flat color version. Beware of spoilers for Angie's route!!

Notes on details:

From top to bottom, the flowers are: Dandelion (overcoming hardship), Prince's Feather Amaranth (immortality/unfading), Blackthorn (fate/protection/hope against adversity), and Lotus (rebirth)

Miranda's hand at the top wields the marionette rod (or whatever they're called), the strings connecting both to Angie + Donna's hands. Donna, in turn, has strings connected to puppet Angie, representing how Donna is responsible for keeping the puppet body going/active. She also has some control over Angie, trying to keep her safe without revealing what really happened after the car accident.

Half of Angie's face is her normal color, the other half (divided by something originally meant to mimic kintsugi) is her doll colors (seen during her cult ending).

Big circles on the sides, with the beams? Headlights. because car crash. because Idk felt like being a little evil I guess.