Hey!

It's Maggie, or Mag, or Maggie Beauty... whomever you are. I'm not in at the moment, if it's an emergency call Marni Frazer or Nathan Wallace, they probably know where I am. If it's a real emergency, as in involving the end of the world or squirrels, contact Rotti Largo. If no squirrels are involved, just leave your name, number, and a message, and I'll ge back to you as soon as I can.

*beep*

Pick ANY of my muses, ANY pairing/scene/prompt, ANY song. I'll see if I can write a drabble or so.
[and yes, you can pick more than one]

( 20 or so songs. )
cross posted like woah.

If you woke up one morning and found me in your bed, what's the first thing you'd think or say?

If you could associate me with one song, what would it be?

From this meme.

( as follows )

The bird sings free, it’s voice echoing throughout the world. Her voice is that on radios, TVs, billborads and mothers humming the tunes to aid their babe’s sleep.

The bird sings as if her life is that of her voice, as if she is no more than such, that The Voice is free. That all whom listen, do so in joy, for that is how the bird feels.
The bird sings.


The cage closes in, the golden gilded bars trapping, suffocating, and killing the bird.
Everyone watches.

The bird finds rope, a desperate rope of a final song. She stands and takes the stage, her make-up painted, her dress tightened. She opens her mouth, and the music fills the room, world, and far beyond that.

The rope breaks, the bird falls.


The bird swings free.

Blind Mag
Repo! The Genetic Opera
135

It’s always dark in her dreams, never a star, nor a light flickering in the distance. It’s safe in the dark. One of the few times Mag ever, truly, feels safe. She knows, that when she opens her eyes, be it in five minutes, hours, or when the horn is blown. The light will be there, the staring, gawking, and crowded masses will be there.

There is a brush against her cheek, the worn, callused hand holding it as it was some precious vase. It brushes away a tear she didn’t know she had. He loves her. He may have never said it, he may have simply hoped she knew, and she did. It was enough. The hand stays, and she lifts her own to hold his. A thumb brushes against the stubble, it must be early morning, as he hasn’t shaved yet. The texture brings a smile and he kisses the side of her lips, stealing it and keeping it for his own.

The darkness is warmer, he is hugging her, the buttons of his shirt pressing into her chest in such a small detail that none sighted would think of it. Neither let go, they stay like this for the entire night, holding to each other, clinging for each other’s safety and sanity.

Mag mumbles softly, I love you into his shirt, and waits to see how he reacts, in what way his face would tell his emotions under her fingertips. Nothing is said, but he pulls back, and bends down to reach her ears. His breath is warm, and he begins to mumble into her ears.


The light is fighting against the curtains, showing the girl that the sun has risen, and has been so for a while. It takes her a minute, and she closes her eyes, holding her own face, desperately searching for what he said.
Maybe he’ll tell her tomorrow.


Blind Mag
Repo! The Genetic Opera
316

Write a personal ad for yourself (in which you assume that you are single or otherwise available).

1) It has to make you sound as unappealing as possible
2) It has to be honest - you can't lie at all
3) It can't sound as though you're deliberately making yourself sound unappealing.

A-type personality 20 yr old single opera singer seeks male companion, prefers older men, especially those in power, or heirs to such, and has a tendency to cheat. Will likely leave you for someone who can advance her career even further, pretty, if blind and insecure. Back ground check will be required, as will a physical.
Please contact agent for more info.

[[picture prompt: cometary]]

One by one, the pieces fall into place. One by one, it all makes sense.
And it is one by one, we lose that piece of ourselves.

That laughter, that we hold so dear, that smile, slowly is painted on thicker, and thicker.
It becomes pained... cracked, and with over bright eyes we see the world. But that isn't what matters, it's that one can see. So, we forget that what is seen, is an ailing world, spray-painted lies and blood in the streets. We forget that, because we can see.

Slowly, one by one it is realized that what is seen, what we see, is no longer of the streets, and lives of the people around, but of fans, seen from the golden stage, and gilded cage. One by one the freedom is taken away.
But it doesn't matter, because it is sight.

And sight... is what truly matters.
Even if all that is seen, is the graves.

Pick one of my characters and I'll tell you...

→ why I decided to play this character
→ my favorite scene or bit of interaction concerning this character to date
→ my favorite original aspect about this character (world-building for ocs or head-canon for fcs)
→ the last thing they did "off screen"
→ what their last words would be if they died tomorrow
→ what the next thing I'm doing for them is (narrative, post, shelving, whatever)

BONUS ROUND:
» I will tell you what character of yours I'd like to play mine against
» you may ask me a free question ♥

My father was a senator. Democrat and proud of it.
He loved to read biographies, said that he should know where he was coming from in order to vote on what was going to happen.

He loved the rain, a good wine, and the smell of leather after it had been cleaned.
His hands were calloused, from what I'll never know.
He was always clean shaven, and I 'm told he was handsome.


for years I thought about politics, about trying to get into that, for him.
He died when I was eight, failed heart. He wasn't even fifty.

So dad? Senator DeFoe?
I'm reading this one for you.

happy father's day.

 

"I..I think it's over" She started to sob into his shoulder, another wave of tears staining his shirt, "He...he, he said" Mag whimpered, clinging, and unable to voice the argument and a calm hand rested on her back.
( ... )

For some the bedroom is a retreat, a place to rest or share intimate moments, songs have been written about it, and lovers memories made and lost in it, but this was only for some. For Shawn and Mag, it was a fort, a castle, a ship and a place to play board games and eat pineapple, so much pineapple.
( ... )

Blind Mag
482

If you want to have your pup have some sort of sexual relations with mine, comment here! I'll write a drabble makin' it happen! Cause sex + drinking = ALWAYS GOOD. Okay, not always good. But in my imagination there are no alcoholic side effects.

Oh okay fine-

Thus: The Snuggle Meme. Because everyone can use a snuggle now and again.

If your muse has ever wanted a good snuggle/cuddle/hug with my muse, comment here.

For both memes
I'll write at least 250 words with the pairing.

Every fic is to be considered just that, fanfiction, and not actually RP history. You're welcome to leave any sort of suggestions for the fics you want, be it genre, a prompt or scenario. Things can be platonic or romantic, just let me know which one you’d prefer.

eta: I'm NOT listing all of mine, but if there is another of them that you want, feel free to ask for it.
except Papa Ge` Jenn has to do that. one.
</span></span>