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shadowdaddies · 2 months

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Open Books

Nesta x Reader modern AU

A/N: just a little drabble about meeting Nesta in modern London, where you own a bookshop, on rainy day

warnings: none

A sigh left your lips, frustrated air leaving your lungs as you looked out the window - or tried to - at the rainy London streets. Heavy droplets of water pounded against the windows of your cozy bookstore, nearly drowning out the peaceful music from the record player in the corner.

Sliding a stack of books from the counter, you scooped them in your arms, humming quietly as you maneuvered through stacks of books, towards the back of the store. Searching the shelves, you carefully set up the display of romance books, laughing softly at the cheesy title when you heard the shop door’s bell ring.

Muffled curses sounded from the entry as you moved swiftly to greet whatever customer had braved the storm to come inside. Your breath caught in your throat seeing the striking woman at the door, her golden brown hair in braids as she shivered from the cold and gloomy weather.

Stormy blue eyes that matched the squall outside locked with yours, a slight smirk crossing her lips as she closed her umbrella, rising to her full height to reveal a tall, toned figure.

“Welcome in,” you greeted. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

A wry chuckle left her full lips, drawing you to stare at the smile that spread there as the woman spoke. “Sorry, I just popped in because of the rain. I teach self-defense down the road, but couldn’t even make it to the tube station with it beating down out there.”

She scanned the room, seemingly pleased with the dark, wooden walls and warm lighting as she looked at you once more. A light blush crossed her features, adding a youthful appearance as she flashed a small smile. “I wouldn’t mind taking a peek at the romance section while I’m here, though.”

You bit your lip to hold in the slight laugh that threatened to escape, a warmth flushing over your own cheeks as you motioned her towards the back where you’d been arranging the romance novels.

“We have this new Sellyn Drake, if that’s what you are interested in,” you murmured, voice fading on the last part as you knew how smutty those books could get. To your surprise, she nodded, braids loosening as she eagerly reached for the book on display, flipping it over as she scanned the back cover.

“I love this author,” she murmured, gaze focused on the writing as she grinned impishly. Those startling blue eyes flashed to yours as the smile spread. “Do you like her books?” she questioned, the breath stilling in your lungs at the sight of her. Her smirk turned knowing, feline amusement dancing across her sharp features as the woman watched you.

Clearing your throat, you felt the flush deepen across your cheeks, eyes flitting between her and the display. “I haven’t read much by her, to be honest,” you admitted, but the growing ache in your core as the beautiful stranger stared at you told you that you should.

She hummed, tapping a finger thoughtfully against full lips as her long lashes flicked down, and then up to you. “Well, I will take this book,” she whispered, voice hardly above the music and patter of rain as she held the book for you to take.

You held back a gasp as her fingers brushed yours, heart pounding as you silently took the book and led her towards the register. You looked towards the windows - seeing the storm clear into a light drizzle - finding yourself sad to see her go.

“This one is on me,” you nodded, urging the woman to put her card back into her wallet. She grinned gratefully at you, her own smile faltering slightly as she noticed the clear skies.

“Thank you,” she muttered, looking at your name tag before adding your name - your toes curling at how it sounded from her lips. She dug into her bag, pulling out a card that she handed to you.

“I’ll make you a deal. You read the Sellyn Drake novel, and I’ll give you a free private class.” Your breath caught as her silvery gaze tracked you up and down.

You held the card tight in your hand, as though it might disappear should you let go. “Thank you,” you glanced down at the paper, “Nesta.”

With that, Nesta gave you a wink, striding out the door into the rain, leaving you desperate to see her again.

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umipuppy · 4 months

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Underwater

famous choreographer!bada x idol!fem oc

synopsis/venom presentation - street woman figther + others

Beware of our poison! we are venom !

sm entertainment's newest girl group VENOM, presented on February 26, 2021, what this group does is no joke…called the girl group of the 4th and of the nation

what would happen if an idol began to have feelings for a famous choreographer who was also a choreographer in her own group?

VENOM !

Nishimura Sora ( Sora )

Nishimura Sora ( 26 years old ) is the group's main vocalist, lead dancer and visual artist, and she is the older sister of Nishimura Riki, born in 98 in the city of Kyoto, Japan…she was raised in Japan but at the age of 17 she moved to Korea with her parents and her younger brother, Nishimura Sora was once part of Iz*one but in 2020 the South Korean group disbanded…and she also participated in operas when she still lived in Japan

Song Haewon ( Celeste )

Song Haewon or better known as celeste ( 23 years old ) is the maknae center, lead vocal and sub rapper of the group, before she debuted she lived on the coast of south korea being the youngest of her two siblings, she has already taken some dance classes at 1million and has prosperous friendships within that dance academy

Han Jiwoo ( Jiwoo )

Han Jiwoo ( 25 years old ) is the main rapper, lead dancer and the leader of the group! Before she debuted, she worked as a stylist in a large clothing store in downtown Seoul. In her spare time, she participated in some rap battles and she also became known for being the younger sister of actress Han Sohee.

Choi London ( L )

Choi London (28) is the prodigy of the group, also lead rapper and sub vocalist, she is the oldest of the group, she lived in California with her parents and her 3 brothers… she moved to Korea when she was only 16 because she was a trainee at sm ent.

Kang Areum ( Laylah )

Kang Areum ( 24 years old ) is the main dancer, sub vocal, photg of the group, before coming to korea she lived with her family in hawaii she studied in a dance academy being one of the best in hawaii…she moved to korea at the age of 16 also to become a trainee…she has always been very good friends with London because they are already online friends…

#bada imagine #bada x reader #bada lee #bada fanfic #bada lee smut #swf2 #swf2 x reader #gxg #gxg imagine #monika shin #redy shin #team bebe #street woman fighter 2 #bada lee swf2 #chocol swf2 #swf2 smut #kpop smau #smau #lee bada

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no-saints-around-here · 1 year

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Eyes on Me

Yandere TR Harry Potter AU with Muggle!Reader

Masterlist

‎

Recommended Readings: Sorting Ceremony, Family

many thanks to @trashybandit for beta-reading! nothing too depraved, just something mild, happy holidays and a happy new year!

‎

tw: reader has female parts and pronouns, dubcon/noncon, exhibitionism, fingering, public masturbation, molestation

You've always preferred to keep your eyes down. Be it in a past life as just another regular non-magical person, walking the streets of a gloomy, cloudy London just trying to get by, or hiding in plain sight in this oversized magical school you hesitantly called home, drawing attention to your quiet self was the last thing you wanted. But this time, more so than anytime in your past, was one time you wished you could lift your gaze up, to look at anything else, anyone else even. Anything but being forced to watch Mikey’s hand that disappeared under the hem of your skirt between your thighs as you tried to direct your attention to your book of charms, all the while the same boy was pressed tight against your side, head nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

The Great Hall around you was bustling with people, students of every grade gathering for lunch, books tucked haphazardly under their arms as they breezed past behind the two of you in groups of three or more, the chatter over classes, home and other more personal matters mixing in a light draft that drifted the hum of the crowd up towards the high ceiling. The afternoon sunlight poured in through giant windows that lined both sides of the gargantuan room, bathing everything under the high ceiling in a gentle light, All you could hope was that no one cared to look too closely at you, just two students sitting here innocently reading -

A harsh grind of his fingers against your clothed clit, and you were instantly wrenched from your thoughts, your gaze snapping to meet Mikey’s abyss eyes as you bit your lip in a bid to muffle the whine you felt in your throat. Too late, and you felt the panic start to bubble up in your gut as your nearest table neighbor more than two seats away raised a suspicious eyebrow in your direction, though one look from the Sano heir was enough to have them minding their own business. “Why are you looking at them?” He grumbled into your skin, attempting to snuggle ever so closer to you. “Keep reading.”

“Okay Mikey,” you whispered back, trying to turn your attention back to your book, to focus on the dancing words even as the blond-haired boy teased you; Mikey had assigned it as compulsory reading after the unmitigated disaster that was your practical magical lessons since you started at Hogwarts. You understood why you needed the extra study to the point of reading during what should have been your lunch break, what with the lack of control over your wand and your borrowed magic, as told to you by Mikey, but you were a lot less certain why this included the need to touch you like…this. Inappropriately, publicly. You would never live down the humiliation if you were caught, yet - you didn’t have the heart to stop him. Not with the certain vulnerability you could see he carried in his usually unreadable eyes and posture today, an anxiety almost; unusual for someone as strong as Mikey.

He hated it. He hated every second of your attention you wasted on these plebeian nobodies. Your hushed voice straining not to waver as he swiped the crotch of your soaked underwear aside, your sensitive clit now pinched and rolled between his calloused fingers, your voice just barely loud enough to reach his ears over the growing crowd as you read those twisting, foreign words out to him. Why couldn't you just keep your attention on him like you were supposed to?

Your teeth came down harder as deft fingers teased the hem of your panties, dipping to test the wetness of your folds before once more pulling away, though his free hand was quick to attempt to relieve your lips from the bite pressure, drawing one thumb over soft, reddened lips. “Stop that, it’ll bleed,” he scolded, and you shivered as the Slytherin pulled himself up from where he was slumped against you. “Read the first paragraph out loud to me, then we will try the spell again.”

‎

A clop of footsteps in your direction, and you instantly froze around him, that voice of yours that he enjoyed so much that could turn the most dull magical theories into wondrous tales, fading away into nothing. A nervous wreck of a Ravenclaw - Lee or Lemon or something Mikey never cared to remember - who clearly didn’t want to be confronting the notoriously hot-tempered Slytherin, turning back one more time at his group that voted to send him before finally piping up, already shaking under the icy glare leveled his way by the Sano heir. “Hey Sano, could you turn it-”

“Sod. Off.” But his fingers continued exploring your private area between your legs even as the other scampered off like a kicked dog, firmly circling your pussy like a vulture waiting for the last gasp of its victim.

You hesitated, eyes following the fleeing figure, your hand lifting from where it had been holding down your skirt towards your book. "Mikey, m-maybe we should read this later."

A light sting to your hand had it quickly replaced on your lap. "Keep reading."

There was no doubt the other saw everything; Mikey's hand up your skirt, the vulgar movements of his fingers as he toyed with the apex of your legs under the thin black cloth. What did it matter - what did it matter if everyone knew you belonged to him? It wasn’t like he hadn’t already noticed the other students trying their best to pretend they weren’t watching the show happening under the table from across the hall, averting their eyes only when they felt him lift his - he knew they were watching. Why would that be a problem? After all, he was the one that blessed you with the ability to use magic, taking you, a mere muggle, under his wing out of the kindness of his heart. Teaching you the ways of his family that were steeped in generations of tradition and history, stepping out to shield you from the harsh words and ways of the world.

"The spell caster must keep in mind at all times that charms-"

And you couldn’t even return his small request of having you focus solely on him; to pamper only him with your love and attention. Instead here you were, losing yourself to your anxiety over the opinions of lesser scum, letting Izana get near to you and toy with you the moment his back was turned. Your stabilizing voice began to quaver once more, back straightening as he pushed one digit into you, your warm walls instantly clamping down on the offending digit in a bid to push him out. Around him, the smell of baked potatoes and chicken wafted down from further up the table, the rest of his house blissfully unaware despite your flushing cheeks and constant shifting.

Barely muffling the whimper that escaped your throat in the crook of your elbow as the tip of his finger ever so expertly pressed into that spot that made you see stars, it was that dark tint of unrestrained pleasure sullying your innocent doe eyes, mixed with a touch of horror and ever-present anxiety that had Mikey engrossed. Hooked like a drug addict after experiencing his first high - he needed to see more. More of what only those expressive eyes could show him.

“Oh, it seems like I’m missing the party.”

Whiplash, the world seemed to almost rollover with how quickly Mikey pulled his gaze up and away from where he had been fixated on your face, only for black abyss eyes to land on a dreaded familiar face seated to your right, chin rested atop his open palm, having slid onto the bench unnoticed. Where did-

But Izana already had those empty violet eyes fixed on you, one tanned hand reaching out to tilt your chin down. “If you wanted to fuck, my room is always open,” he muttered, lips quirking into a smirk as his gaze roamed over your reddening expression as you desperately tried to avoid eye contact. “You could have just asked.”

Rage. Boiling rage that churned in his gut. How dare he. How fucking dare he.

Pulling away from you, it was the first time Izana bothered to meet his younger sibling’s raging ones, lazily drawling out his words as he threw one arm over you casually, as if he wasn’t facing down an incoming hurricane head on. “You still don’t pay much attention, Mikey. I did say I’ll be here for a research study.”

Touching you right in his face, and you barely put up a struggle. How dare you. “Fuck off!” Mikey hissed, free hand snatching his wand from his pocket, though the older of the two looked barely intimidated having the business end of a wand pointing straight at him, eyes instead now following the black-clad arm of Mikey under your skirt. “What are you still doing here?”

‎

And apparently that was that, with no further information offered, and the white-haired boy once more turned his attention back to you, leaning over once more to press his lips to you, now trapped between the two Sanos. "Has he still not made you cum?" Came his teasing question breathed straight into your ear, hot breath brushing against your skin as he nibbled lightly on its sensitive shell, wandering fingers tapping their way down your shoulder, the other hand nimbly popping open one shirt button to reveal the center gore of your bra underneath.

“I said-” A threatening flair of magic bursting forth from Mikey that dropped the surrounding air by several degrees, the few remaining schoolmates that still dared loiter along the aisles that ran parallel to the Slytherin table beating a hasty retreat. “Fuck off.” You definitely felt that a lot more than he did, shivering as you were caught off guard by the ripple of magic through the air, the family magic granted to you by Mikey, the same one that now ran through your blood, reacting to his anger.

Izana raised one slender eyebrow. “Ah ah,” he tutted, the Durmstrang student momentarily looking over at the table at the head of the Great Hall, where a scattering of professors had gathered for their lunch. “Unless you’re interested in calling your professors over to enjoy the show, reconsider what you’re about to do.”

Despite your nervously glances between the two brothers, attempting to make use of the animosity to inch your way away from the relaxed Izana and towards the safety of Mikey, Izana wasn’t quite done with you yet, nimble fingers slipping under the cup of your bra to pinch your nipple. You winced, instantly freezing. “Not so fast.” He hadn’t even gotten to enjoy those panicked eyes yet, the shame and humiliation from having parts so personal of being exposed to him and the world, followed by the inevitable pleasure that would set in. Izana couldn’t wait to get started, rolling the captured bud between his fingers, tugging at it slightly as his other hand pulled open your shirt further, popping your breast free from its constraint. If it was possible, your face looked like it flushed even further. “I’m not that cruel, let’s make you cum baby girl.”

“No- Izana, please-” Swallowing heavily, you could barely lift your gaze from your lap to meet him, your whisper soft like a breeze. “They can see.”

“So what? All they can do is watch.” Unlike him, that is - you would never have to worry about lesser trash sullying you with him around. You couldn’t stop yourself, letting out a cry of pain as you hunched over the dining table, two tanned slender fingers having forced their way into you alongside Mikey’s. Despite being very obviously drenched, the feeling of soaked cotton rubbing at his fingers as Izana pushed his way past the younger Sano’s, it was clear that he was stretching you beyond what you had ever taken. Far from concerned with what was going to be your momentary pain, a smug smirk tugged his lips upwards at the flash of blond from behind your figure; Mikey had been awfully quiet, hasn’t he? “I remember how good you tasted the first time,“ the white-haired boy all but sang, and you whimpered as if on cue, though in large part encouraged by the harsh pinch he delivered to your breast.

Amusement was what washed over the older of the two when Mikey immediately snapped back to reality, abyss eyes narrowing at the sudden tautness of your pussy. “Liar, you’ve never touched her.” Ahh, always so protective of the Sano heir - but then again, so would he if he had a little pet like you to take care of, Izana would imagine.

“And how would you know that?” He always thought you would taste like honey, or something equally sweet; how could a shy little thing like you not?

Wand disappearing back up the sleeve of his Hogwart robes, those black, bottomless eyes snapped to you, and you couldn’t hold back the yelp at the sting delivered to your backside even as Mikey’s fingers inside of you began to pump, a tiny spark of red that Izana would have missed if he hadn’t known where to look. “Tell him.”

When you failed to respond, another sting, and all you responded with this time was a muffled whimper to which the older of the two simply ignored, more focused on exploring your soft walls that wrapped around his digits. Utterly delightful, a warmness that Izana couldn’t explain - would you feel this good when he bounces you on his cock? Perhaps even better - you would be a sight for sore eyes, stretched to your limits as he sinks himself into you, watery eyes begging him silently for mercy.

It was a small mewl that snapped their attention back onto you, a warning a moment before your walls clamped down, spazzing around their fingers, thighs quivering as you came. Glazed eyes turned towards the ceiling, your mouth hung slightly open, panting with the euphoric high, though the trail that the tears burned down your cheeks just minutes earlier still visibility shimmering in the gentle afternoon light - oh how Izana loved the sight.

You slumped sideways into Mikey, the last remaining energy you had sapped out of you. Barely acknowledging the fingers that were now retreating from you, let alone the words that seemed to be spoken at you, all you seemed to be capable of doing was trying to remember to breathe.

A sharp sting, and the reality around you came straight back into focus, you shooting back up vertically on the bench, though the movement didn’t affect Izana as he tucked your boobs back into your bra. “Give me your panties.”

“Hu-h?”

Another sting, this time harsher, and you winced. “I said take it off.” Mikey snarled out through gritted teeth, his hand now wrapped around your delicate wrists never grew any tighter. A wave of the Durmstrang student’s wand, and your shirt buttoned back up, tidying and straightening itself, though his efforts were in vain as your gaze once more fell away, shaking hands jerking as they hesitantly reached under your skirt. You didn’t want to, but under your friend’s steely glare and clenched fist, you obliged anyway, tears once more welling up at the corners of those doe eyes. And inch by inch, the drenched cotton, cutely patterned with a print of small flowers, came into view, falling down your legs, only to be immediately snatched away as soon as you could bear to step out of them, disappearing into one robe pocket.

Ah, such a pity - Mikey owning such a cute little pet but not knowing how to care for it. The older boy produced a handkerchief.

"Lift up. There we go." Biting back the shame-filled tears, you couldn’t bear to watch Izana pushing apart your legs, pressing your face into Mikey’s jacket as your most private parts were revealed to his violet eyes. Spreading your lips wide with two fingers, he proceeded to firmly press the silk cloth down, wiping your still drooling pussy down several times even as Mikey watched on disinterestedly - Izana was sure you would be punished further later for letting him get away with that. “Can’t have you leaking all over the place.”

After all, the only thing you should be trailing is his cum, marking you as his.

A scrunch of a forehead, and on instinct, the blond-haired Slyntherin turned, and it was to the dreadful sight of a professor sweeping his way down the Slytherin table aisle in your direction, unpleasant frown on his face as students whispered and pointed at a trembling, crying you. Seems like they were too jealous of the little show. Izana sighed, drawing his wand under the table - Hogwarts students, really. A loud bang from the Gryffindor table, and a student rocketing off their seat meters into the air quickly drew away the professor’s attention.

“I’ll see you later.” He hummed, disappearing into the growing crowd.

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pinkbrries · 9 months

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𝐀 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝.

➞ SUMMARY. Maybe making new friends wasn’t that bad at all, right?

↳ TW: nothing? as far as i know

↳ WORD COUNT: 1.7k words

➞ ERA: PRE-DEBUT

↳ [a/n: here is full scenario for june!! we love to see it<3 finally we know who is the best friend june was referring to👁👁 hope u enjoy this one !!] // bold words are in english // this is not proofread

SUMMER OF 2012

“Can you please hurry up, Junnie? We’re gonna be late!” A scoff is heard and then, the woman part of the staff gasps in feigned shock, “ya! don’t give me that attitude, young lady!”

One small chuckle can be heard, followed by the sound of light steps making their way to the front door: a ten-year-old june appears on the sight of the woman, the usual bright smile she always wears is adorning her face.

“Sorry unnie! I was just trying really hard to make my ponytail look good,” she pouts as she walks out of the room and closes the door behind her, seeing that her friends were already walking towards the elevator and pressing the button to call the metallic box over. “You know how ugly can get after the dance class!”

The woman slightly laughs, patting her shoulder and nodding. “You’re right, Minjun.”

Entering the elevator and hearing her friends talk, June starts wondering what she was going to be learning in today’s class, a tingle of excitement spreads through her tiny body and she can’t help but smile again at the thought.

This was her second year as a trainee, but she was the youngest out of the selected group to travel to Los Angeles and train there for a month during summer to refine their skills.

Minjun always wanted to go on a summer camp just like her friends back in England, and even if the experience wasn’t even a close one (because her friends would play around and Minjun would have to train from early morning until seven p.m), it was good enough for her.

Stretching has always been the easiest part for June, it was as if she was born to do this.

People around her that would also take the class were always nagging about stretching, but to her, it was her favorite part.

It allowed June to think about stuff like, how the weather was so hot in Los Angeles and how she preferred the cold season because it reminded her of the white-ish snow falling on the green, pine trees outside her house back in London, or how people here didn’t say ‘pardon’ and instead said ‘sorry’ if someone accidentally crashed with you on the busy downtown streets.

Or how there was a boy sitting on the other side of the busting room, a slight older boy that she hasn’t seen before (and well, it’s not like she has been in LA for a lot of days, since they had arrived like, four days ago) but it definitely sparked curiosity in her since… well,

He looked like he knew what he was actually doing.

“Okay, perfect! Let’s take a break,” the choreographer claps while turning around to face the class, “we’ll start filming in five, okay?”

She hears humming and more affirmative responses around her, the choreographer walks away and June takes this little time given to steal some more glances at the newcomer without getting distracted.

“—He looks korean,” she hears one of the trainees sitting beside her whispering and nodding, “I think Yoonah said she heard him talking in korean.”

“He’s a trainee… and I think he’s the only one from his company, I saw him entering with two persons, they told him they would be waiting outside—“

“How do you know that, Minkyu!?”

The boy raises both shoulders, a cheeky smile adorning his face. “I don’t know, maybe I just overheard a little.”

“Maybe you’re just nosy,” Moon, another girl there, rolls her eyes. And while the group of trainees starts discussing and laughing, June decides on taking mental notes about the lonely boy sitting in a corner of the crowded room.

He looked like he was kinda the same age as her, maybe a little bit older like the trainees that were with her, he had dark hair and kind but shy brown eyes, and he looked pretty tall.

Pouting in thought, she glances at the group of people beside her, and then she returns her eyes towards the stranger.

Yeah, June liked the other trainees, but they were… not her type of people at all. Sometimes they were a little too competitive with each other, and while Minjun tried to keep it friendly with all of them, she knew she couldn’t trust them since they always bad mouthed each other at their backs, as if that would make them debut or something.

Sigh. Maybe making new friends wasn’t that bad at all, right?

Standing from her seat, she makes her direction towards the stranger that captivated her curiosity, smiling a little when he looks up and locks eyes with her.

“Hi, hello!” Minjun says with an excited tone, standing in front of the boy and waving her hand in enthusiasm.

The boy went from confused, to nervous, to confused again, the timid boy blinks twice and mutters a greeting back, his hesitant hands doing an awkward gesture, making June smile.

In less than five seconds, June decides that she likes him because he seemed kind enough for her, and yeah, she might be ten and maybe she didn’t not know a lot about life, but this young stranger seemed nice.

Sitting in front of him and crossing her legs, Minjun beams brightly at him, extending a hand to greet him.

“Hi! My name is June, what’s your name?” Before the boy can answer, June gasps when she suddenly remembers something, “oh wait, do you speak korean? Because I do. Do you want us to speak in korean or english?”

Stunned by the sudden words coming quickly by the shorter girl’s mouth, the dark haired boy can’t help but let out a giggle.

“Uhm—,” he smiles slightly, extending his hand too so he can answer the greeting. “Yes, I’m korean, I don’t know a lot of english, so—“

“It’s okay! I’m korean too!” June interrupts again, and just like that, she starts making small conversation with the boy.

To the boy, there was something peculiar about how the girl talked with him with so much emotion: as if the both of them have been friends of each other for years and they just met after so long. It was a pleasing feeling; it made him feel comfortable and like home.

That afternoon, Minjun spends her time getting to know someone new, and when her time of training that day is almost over, she realizes that maybe she just found someone that really understands her.

The dark haired boy is four years older than her, he’s from Busan, and he’s also a trainee (so the information she overheard by her fellow company trainees was right) from a small company, the company’s name not really sticking to her.

“So, you’re debuting in a year?” June asks, eyes widening at the new information she just discovered. The boy nods.

“Yeah, I started training some months ago but my dance skills are… not that advanced,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck in slight embarrassment, June giggles at that. “So my company decided on sending me here to take some lessons.”

June hums, pouting, deep in thought.

Walking together to where their water bottles were located, June grabs her drink but doesn’t open it, instead, she just admires the object between both of her hands.

“Debut”; a word that every single trainee gets prepared to hear, and it usually means good news. It means that your hard work has finally paid off, that you’re going to show the world what you’re capable of.

A word that Minjun only has heard, but it was never directed to her.

He’s debuting in a year, and he just trained for months… must be nice.

“What about you, June?”

“Hmm?”

Taking her out of her deep thoughts, the boy gulps down the rest of his water and cleans his mouth with the back of his hand, a sheepish smile adorning his lips.

“What about you?” he repeats the same question, tilting his head a little, “when are you debuting?”

“Oh–“

Yeah, “oh.”

“–Uhm,” the girl hesitates for a second, shrugging and trying to smile again, “I don’t know, uhm, actually this is my second year as a trainee, but— but I’m sure that, maybe when I go back to Korea, I’ll get put in a line-up!”

The boy nods excitedly, giving her a thumbs up. “I’m sure your company will debut you soon! You’re really talented!”

June lights up upon hearing this, and before she can answer, a call of her name makes the both of them turn their gazes to where the voice is coming from.

It was Minjun’s manager.

“Minjun-ah, it’s time to go!”

She looks up at the clock hanging up on the wall, widening her eyes at seeing that her lessons are already over. She sighs.

“Coming!”

“We’ll be waiting for you outside!”

She just nods, looking again at the taller boy in front of her. He gives her a toothy grin, nodding.

“I guess we’ll keep seeing each other, right?”

She giggles, “I come to this studio three times a week, tomorrow I have lessons on a different one,” she adds, the boy’s shoulders dropping at hearing that. “But! wait, does your company let you use a phone?” He nods, “give me your number and your kakaotalk id! We can keep communicating there!”

“Of course!”

Minjun runs towards her bag, takes out a tiny notebook and her glittery gel pink pen and hands it out to the boy, making him laugh.

After the exchange of numbers, she waves goodbye to the boy and high-fives with him, making a promise on seeing each other again.

Minjun starts walking away, eyeing the boy’s cute handwriting and— wait.

She doesn’t even know his name!

“Hey!” She runs back quickly, taking out the pen, the boy looking at her in expectation. “What’s your name?”

The boy can’t help but start laughing, realizing that he never gave her his name, but they spent all day talking and laughing together.

“Jungkook. My name is Jeon Jungkook.”

Scribbling it down, she nods and gives him a thumbs up.

“Nice to meet you Jungkook oppa!” Minjun says enthusiastically, walking backwards while waving him goodbye, “hope we can meet again soon!”

And just like that, the girl turns around and starts running towards the main gate, a 14-year-old Jungkook watching her disappear with a smile adorning his features.

taglist: @curly-fr13s

#enhypen 8th member #enhypen addition #kpop female addition #kpop addition #enhypen female addition #enhypen au #enhypen female member #kpop added member #enhypen female oc #enhypen oc #enhypen x oc

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in-death-we-fall · 9 months

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The Ultimate Rockstar Test

This week: Wednesday 13

Bands like to think they’re badass, but who’s truly the most rock’n’roll of them all? We test them and find out who’s top of the class for chaos!

Words: Dan Slessor

(drive link)(Joey's Rockstar Test)

What’s the worst condition you’ve left a hotel room in? “I was 17 when a venue I was playing first offered up a hotel room to stay in after the show. Having read up on all the excesses of classic bands, I was excited. So, we took all the towels in the room, soaked them in water, jammed them in the fridge, and whacked it to its coldest so they all froze into a block of ice. We also glued the Bible to the table – dumb shit like that. The owners were so pissed, and luckily we got away before they could sue us!” Frozen towels? Well, that’s a surprisingly inventive pass ✔

Have you ever shed blood in the name of rock’n’roll? “Oh yeah, teeth, too, and there have been a couple of broken bones along the way. I have a fake front tooth and half of one, too, and I must have broken those 10 or 15 times on microphones and guitars. I busted my head on a monitor once and bled through a show, and I also fractured my ankle on the first night of a tour and spent the next two months dancing and wiggling away on it.” Have you ever thought about investing in a gumshield? Pass ✔

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen a bandmate do? “It used to ve strange seeing your bandmate taking a shit in public, but it’s funny how you get used to that. On Murderdolls’ first tour, Kerrang! Came out and were taunting us, saying we should be more crazy. The next thing you know, Joey [Jordison, Murderdolls guitarist] is taking a shit right there in the street. Later on, we were making tonnes of noise in the parking lot, and this old lady came out of her house and yelled at us, and I ended up throwing a bottle at the wall by her and she called the cops. Shitting in the street may actually have been the nicest thing to happen that night…” When public defecation is the nicest part, you know it’s bad. Pass ✔

Have you ever thrown a diva-esque tantrum? “There was one time on tour with Murderdolls when a local band who were opening one of the shows kept coming into our dressing room uninvited. It wasn’t just that they were coming in all the time, they were drinking our booze as well! After it happened the first time I was like, ‘Alright, okay, whatever.’ But then they came back and did it again, just coming into our dressing room and helping themselves to our booze. So I ended up losing it at them. I actually think it was kind of justified – you don’t touch my alcohol, man!” You yelled at the support band. But it was sort of reasonable. And divas aren’t reasonable. Fail ✘

Have you ever broken an instrument in anger? “Not actually in anger, but I’ve broken stuff in the spirit of rock’n’roll. At a London show, I had a guitar I’d been playing for four or five years, and in the last song I threw it as high as I could while it was still plugged in. When it finally hit the stage, it made one of the coolest sounds I’ve ever heard!” You intended to do it = more rock’n’roll = pass ✔

What’s been you craziest rider request? “In Germany, we sent this runner out to get us a (sic) McDonald’s. I wrote down everyone’s order, and at the bottom I added 25 vanilla ice cream cones. He gets to McDonald’s and calls our tour manager and says, ‘I can’t carry all the ice cream cones, I’m going to have to make two trips!’ I kinda laughed at that…” Ice cream is a rubbish rider request. However, you did make some poor lackey go and get it like a proper diva, so pass ✔

What’s the strangest place you’ve ever woken up? “In the woods, in Germany. We’d played Rock Am Ring the same day as Slipknot headlined, and it was the first time I’d seen Joey in years. Having played at 1pm, I got completely hammered, sprayed a fire extinguisher at Randy Blythe [Lamb Of God] and trashed Slipknot’s dressing room with a tree. It was in a pot in the corridor, and I thought it was artificial, so I picked it up, walked in, and called, ‘Hey Joey!’ I threw it at him, and I may as well have thrown a giant bucket of dirt in there. So, I fled before Slipknot killed me, and some hours later I woke up in the woods…” …and that was the last time Slipknot threw you a surprise party. Pass ✔

Wednesday scored 82% Wednesday’s always seemed like a pretty good rockstar to us. So we expected good things from his turn at The Test. But it was his imagination more than his antics that did him well here – frozen towels, glued Bibles and the cunning use of a tree. Even the ice cream request was amusing, although, next time, maybe ask for something a little bit more glamorous. Like, we dunno, peacocks. Or Kinder Surprise.

2013 Leaderboard ↑Perry Farrell, Jane’s Addiction - 98% Nikki Sixx, Mötley Crüe - 91% Mike Shinoda, Linkin Park - 81% ↓Winston McCall, Parkway Drive - 58%

#wednesday 13 #murderdolls #interview #*extremely deep sigh*#'i just worked out all my shit with joey. now i'm gonna throw a tree at him'

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vulpes-fennec · 1 year

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Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 1)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Friday, March 8th, 1889

***Nesta***

The rain had let up by the time 25-year old Nesta Archeron stepped out of the St. John’s Wood Road station. Taking the family carriage was preferable to clustering with all the grimy plebeians, but riding the Metropolitan Railway was considered en vogue for young adults in 1889. Besides, showing up to a suffragist meeting in a fancy carriage wasn’t very humble.

Political disagreements—revolving around Prime Minister Gladstone and Irish Home Rule—had left the budding suffragist movement in disarray. Still, Nesta’s particular group of women’s activists managed to meet every Friday. Which was why, even on freezing March days like this, Nesta was committed to trekking out to central London.

Central London itself was a veritable sludge of shit, coal soot, and rot. But she’d rather be wading through the mucky Victorian streets than walking up the front steps of the Archerons’ house. Nesta didn’t have issues with the four-story building crafted from warm red brick, with its ample windows and three full-time staff to attend to their needs. The home was even outfitted with running water—what more could she ask for?

Nesta had issues with her mother’s disagreeable presence.

Nesta hadn’t minded being her mother’s favorite child when she was younger, for it meant receiving pretty dresses, compliments, and plenty of dance lessons. But as Nesta grew older, she realized Isabella Archeron cared only about social status. And once Nesta joined the suffragist movement, it became abundantly clear that her mother saw her as a marriage mart project—and never as an actual person.

Isabella Archeron had fallen ill last spring. Her health failed to improve at their country home, at the southern coast, and even at the hands of their family doctor. So shortly before Christmas, Nesta’s father returned the family to London.

“The pollution is not ideal, but there will be better doctors in London,” he’d reasoned. “And better chances of finding a husband for you, Nesta.” Nesta had agreed to the move, but not because she wanted to get married. If she couldn’t go to Manchester, where the beating heart of the suffrage movement lay, she would find like-minded women in London.

Society in the country moved at a snail’s pace, as things often did when the closest neighbors were a carriage ride away. Women’s suffrage was met with blank stares, and then revulsion once Nesta explained it in simple terms. Really, did no one find it illogical that in a family with three daughters, the father was the only individual with any say in matters of politics? The women in the family outnumbered him four to one!

“Miss Archeron.” A maid dusting the vases in the front foyer gave a little bow as Nesta entered. Her brown eyes lingered on Nesta’s muddy boots. Though the servants turned a blind eye to Nesta’s comings and goings, she was certain they gossiped amongst themselves.

“Hello, Bridley.” Nesta gave the maid a nod. Poor, poor Bridley, a sweet girl married at such a young age to a boorish man who drank and gambled away into the night. This was precisely why Nesta had no intention of getting married, for upper-class men were hardly any better.

“Your mother called for you several minutes ago. I tried to borrow time, saying you were in a bath, but—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I must make haste.” Nesta waved Bridley off and ran up the stairs. She felt a bit guilty for tracking in street grime, but her mother was a woman who did not appreciate being kept waiting.

Nesta hastily threw on a tea gown and undid her braid, making sure there was no dirt on her face before opening the door to her mother’s bedroom. “You called, Mother?” Nesta greeted cautiously.

“Nesta, dear.” Only Isabella Archeron could make terms of endearment sound unpleasantly cold. “Come, sit by me.” Nesta entered and perched delicately on the edge of the four-poster bed. “Sit up straight, Nesta. You won’t attract any aristocrats with that slouch. And goodness, I know you just got out of the bath, but there is no reason for your hair to be undone,” her mother chided sharply.

Nesta automatically tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. Surely even Queen Victoria would not meet her mother’s standards for appearances and proper etiquette. “My apologies,” Nesta gritted out.

“Hmm…I just purchased the scarlet dress for you from the catalog.” Her mother’s attention flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly, and she waved a ladies’ fashion pamphlet at Nesta.

“Mother, I have five dresses that have not been worn in public yet. The scarlet dress is hardly a necessary purchase,” Nesta protested. Prices in those catalogs were astronomically expensive, but of course Isabella Archeron loved spending money like it grew on trees.

Nesta refused to balk at her mother’s icy look. “Yet two of those dresses have already fallen out of fashion! You must make a stunning entrance at the Beddor’s gala next week. It’s the debut event of the season, and I heard that several families from the House of Lords will be there, with sons of marrying age.”

Nesta suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s obsession with marrying up in society. Didn’t she realize that most courtships these days were based on love—not social and economic value? Did she ever think about how much potential was wasted when women were limited to marriage, children, and managing households? Clearly not.

Her mother continued chatting. “...and Tomas Mandray should be a fine option. Did you know that Lord Mandray’s wealth increased by 40 percent since last year? He was so smart for investing in those railways…”

“With the Beddors hosting, it would be poor taste for me to upstage Clare,” Nesta said carefully.

“Clare? Upstage her? Why, Nesta, that poor girl is so plain, even Bridley could upstage her in last season’s frock.” Her mother chuckled cruelly. “Oh, don’t give me that cross look. You know it’s true.”

Nesta suppressed the urge to defend Clare. Perhaps Clare lacked remarkable features, but at least she didn’t possess a nasty personality like her stunning mother. Besides, vying for attention from men was as close to pathetic as one could get. “But Mother, how am I to attend the gala if you are unwell and Father is still away?”

Isabella Archeron bristled. “Unwell? My dear girl, I am just a bit under the weather. I will be in perfect health to accompany you to the Beddors.”

Nesta highly doubted her mother’s chronic illness would magically clear up in a week, but she chose not to say anything.

Her mother pressed a pair of garnet and gold earrings into Nesta’s hand. “Wear these earrings to the gala, Nesta. They were your grandmother’s, and they will surely catch the eye of every man in the room. I know this to be true, because your father asked me for our first dance when I wore these 27 years ago.” Icy gray-blue eyes glinted with cunning.

It was nauseating. What kind of mother expressed affection in the form of social-climbing strategy and materialistic goods? Where were the hugs, kisses, or warm words of comfort? Although the earrings were beautiful, they reminded Nesta of her fate: you will marry, just like the generations of women who came before you.

“Thank you,” Nesta managed to say, closing her fist.

“You may take your leave now, my dear. And tell your sister Feyre to join me for afternoon tea.” Isabella Archeron’s placid tone indicated she’d grown bored already.

“Yes, Mother.” Nesta closed the door, gripping the earrings so tightly that the metal backings left pricks of pain in her palm. Days like this drove her to dance away her self-loathing in the parlor downstairs. The waltz, the tango, the metal pole…Nesta was a master—or should she say, mistress—of these forms. But first, Nesta needed to find Feyre.

***Elain***

A colossal structure of wrought-iron stretched up, up, and up into the twinkling night sky. What a magnificent building! If Elain craned her neck, she could barely make out the tricolor flag of France fluttering from the upper viewing terrace. The grand lawn before her, a bursting promenade of shops, exhibits, and worldly wonders, invited her to explore at a leisurely pace.

A solid arm looped over her shoulder, drawing her close to a warm body. Elain gasped, startled at the rush of sensations he—for the person was definitely a man—elicited. She felt warm, like she was sitting by a toasty fire. Secure, as if she’d come home. Elated, like champagne bubbles rushing through her body. Elain glanced to her right, trying to see who the stranger was…

Knock, knock, knock. Sharp raps on her door woke Elain from her nap. “Elain! Elain!” Her younger sister’s muffled cries sounded from the hall. “Are you in there?”

Elain stifled the urge to snap at Feyre when she opened the door. She was fairly certain her dream had featured the Tour Eiffel: the architectural wonder waiting to be unveiled this summer at the Exposition Universelle. Photographs of the attraction had been kept hush hush, but if Elain had just seen it in its full glory…that meant it wasn’t just any dream. It was a premonition.

“Elain, look what I managed to get!” Feyre was excitedly waving three slips of paper in Elain’s face. With her mismatched servant’s clothes and faint smell of coal, Feyre must have been wandering the slums of London again.

Elain blinked, trying to regain her post-nap bearings. “What is that?” She took the shimmering crimson slips of paper from Feyre’s hands. In gold lettering, the paper read:

Admit One | Prythian’s Fantasia

A magical night awaits you at the greatest show this side of Earth…

“Three tickets to see Prythian’s Fantasia!” Feyre gushed breathlessly, her blue-gray eyes shining with excitement. “Remember, the circus that arrived last week?” Ah, yes. The circus that Feyre had been raving about every spare minute.

“This side of earth?” Elain repeated. A craggy mountain with two branches of magenta amaranth flowers crossing below it was printed on the ticket. A strange choice of imagery for a circus. “What does that even mean?”

Nesta’s angular face appeared behind Feyre like a ghostly apparition. “Feyre! You’ve been out of the house again, haven’t you?” Nesta accused sharply. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been robbed, stabbed, kidnapped, or caught some venereal disease!”

Feyre’s expression soured. “Says the one who went to a suffragist meeting today!”

“Be quiet.” Nesta whipped her head around anxiously. “Unless you want me telling Mother about your dalliances.”

“Look, Nesta,” Elain tried to diffuse the situation. “Feyre got us tickets to Prythian’s Fantasia.”

Nesta’s icy eyes narrowed at Elain’s hand. “Where’d you get those from? Isaac Hale?” She spat his name like a bitter root on her tongue. Elain winced. Isaac Hale, the butcher’s son in the seedier side of town, was Feyre’s paramour. She’d met the man once, and found him relatively handsome and well-mannered. But she privately agreed with Nesta: Feyre could do better.

“He gave them to me for free.” Feyre crossed her arms indignantly. “Why are you in such a mood today?”

“Nothing in this world is free. Especially between men and women,” Nesta scoffed.

“Well, they’re for tonight’s show. Eight o’clock. Do you want to go or not?” Feyre jutted her chin out stubbornly. Eldest and youngest Archeron sisters faced off, like a viper versus a wolf, their matching blue eyes blazing. Elain held her breath, preparing to intervene again.

“Fine.” Nesta was the one who relented. “By the way, Mother asked to see you for afternoon tea.”

“How is she?” Feyre asked, cooling down quickly from their verbal exchange.

“As superficial as she always is.” With that, Nesta turned and left. She didn’t have to specify that their mother only wanted to see Feyre. Isabella Archeron rarely asked for Elain.

Perhaps all middle children were simply doomed to be forgotten.

It was always like this: Elain meekly sandwiched between Nesta and Feyre, the two rebellious and squabbling women of the Archeron house. Nesta, who openly derided the male species and passionately spoke about women's rights. Feyre, who renounced high society by excelling at archery and sneaking off to the seedier parts of London.

While Feyre’s artistic talent was her only refined hobby, Elain seemed the perfect lady, all agreeable manners and poised like a princess.

But it was all a defense mechanism. Excelling as a high society lady prevented her cruel mother’s scrutiny. And if the peerage saw Elain as a docile, conventional woman, they would not suspect her of seeing the future. For what man would marry a woman who fell into fitful dreams, one who could predict his death and misfortunes?

At least Elain’s visions only came when she lulled herself into a meditative state or dreamed. If she fell into random, episodic trances, she would definitely be sent off to an asylum for insanity. The future came in flashes and snippets, always cryptic but never subject to change. And with the number of startling—and sometimes horrific—premonitions she received outnumbering the pleasant ones, Elain would hardly call her ability a “gift”.

“Any news from Papa?” Feyre asked Elain. Reginald Archeron, a renowned merchant who sailed to the four corners of the earth to do business, had set off for Continental Europe just after Christmas. He still had not returned.

Elain shook her head. “The postman didn’t have any correspondence.”

“It’s unusual for him to be gone so long, and not send any word.” Feyre chewed her lip worriedly. “Perhaps we should alert the authorities?”

“What good will that do?” Elain replied shortly. “We don’t even know what country Father is in.”

“I don’t see how you can be so calm about this.”

Elain blinked, trying to keep her expression neutral. Why worry about her father, when he was probably having the time of his life cheating on their mother? The terrible premonition arrived three years ago: Reginald Archeron kissing a woman with dark hair and emerald green eyes in a continental-style opera house. Possibly in Moscow. Or perhaps it was Berlin.

The most striking detail was the ornate golden locket that had glinted in the woman’s hands. Elain went rooting through her father’s study when he returned from his trip, and she found the exact same locket, complete with the woman’s picture in it. Holding the offensive jewelry piece in her very hands had Elain tasting bile.

Elain had been 21 years old and well aware that not all marriages were pleasant. Still, the realization that her own father was unfaithful had been a shock. That her loving Papa was one of those types of husbands. But Elain didn’t dare breathe a word of her findings to her sisters, who knew nothing of her abilities. Nesta…Nesta would probably tear their father apart with words alone. Feyre…Feyre, who valued their family unit more than anything, would be crushed.

Feyre sighed, not waiting to hear Elain’s response. “Well, I’ll see what Mother wants. Be ready for the circus by seven. We need to travel to the south bank.” Elain nodded, closing the door distractedly.

Elain’s mind returned to that mysterious man from her vision. Oh, how she longed to return to that hazy dream, so warm and tantalizing it was! He existed somewhere. He had to. Elain didn’t catch any of his features, but she felt so sure that he wasn’t anyone she knew at that moment. The man was waiting for her in the future. In Paris, too!

Oh, Paris! The Continent! As her father’s favorite child, Elain was shown the goods he’d help procure, like beautiful fabrics, spices, rough-cut gems, and wood carvings. She had fond memories of spending hours in his office, staring at the large maps on the walls and devouring books about foreign lands. “I’ll bring you to the continent next year, Elain,” Reginald Archeron had promised. Then he promised again, the next year. And again, the following. Many years passed, a slew of broken promises in their wake.

Not that she would ever want to explore the continent with her father now, knowing that he spent those trips canoodling with mysterious women. But the London gloom outside her window had Elain wishing her life was different.

If Nesta and Feyre were shamelessly carving their own unconventional paths, why couldn’t she do the same? She didn’t need to wait for her father to take her to the continent; she was 24 years old, a modern woman with the means to travel the world.

As if an answer to her thoughts, the mystery man’s phantom touch seemed to linger on her shoulder, urging Elain to make her way to the Exposition Universelle. To find him in real life.

***Feyre***

Isabella Archeron had been a formidable woman just two years ago. Her golden-brown hair had been a luscious mane that shimmered even under England’s clouds. Her back had been ramrod straight, the sharp lines of her cheeks and jaw had nary a wrinkle. Flitting from one party to the next, Isabella Archeron was truly London’s finest social butterflies.

But her mother’s hair turned limpid, even gray. The pale hue of her skin was almost sickly, and the angles of her face only made her look hollowed out, older. Now, Isabella Archeron spent most of her time confined to the bed or the bath.

Watching her mother’s chest rattle with phlegm-filled coughs and her frail hands tremble, Feyre wondered if something swift and sure like cholera would have been better. It would’ve been better than this gradual chipping away at life over the months.

“How are you feeling, Mother?” Feyre asked cautiously when she entered the room. Although illness had dulled Isabella Archeron’s quick mind, it soured her temperament, leaving her prone to mood swings.

“Feyre. Pour me a cup of tea, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre dutifully placed a sugar cube into the dainty china cup, and poured steaming tea from the ornate teapot.

She was about to stir the sugar and cream with a spoon, when her mother snapped, “And do not stir the tea. I may be ill, but I am not invalid.” Feyre set the spoon down cautiously and dutifully walked towards her mother’s bed, hating how her shaky hands rattled the cup and saucer.

“Have you heard from your father?”

“No, Mother.”

The difficult pregnancy had meant that Feyre would be the last Archeron child. Feyre suspected her parents hoped she would be a son who could inherit the family business and lead the household while Reginald Archeron was away for work. Feyre wasn’t a son, but her parents still expected her to be the “most responsible” of her sisters since early childhood.

For example, ever since she was 16, her father assigned her to managing their bank statements while he was abroad. All Feyre had to do was sign the checks and record the transactions in the balance book, but at this point, she could forge Reginald Archeron’s signature in her sleep. Feyre had also tended her sisters whenever they got sick, bringing them warm soup and administering tonics. Thanks to those years of “experience”, Feyre was now charged with managing the rotating circle of doctors, household expenses, and servants ever since her mother fell ill.

Perhaps she was assigned this role of “caretaker” because her parents were reluctant to change their attitudes toward her sisters. Nesta, the first-born, could have easily been taught the tools of the trade. But Isabella Archeron was keen on shaping Nesta to be the wife of a lord or a prince, not a merchant’s apprentice. Then came Elain, who took after their father and automatically became his princess to dote on.

That left Feyre at the scrutiny of both, but without the love from either parent.

“Hmm. I’m feeling rather abysmal today. I fear these doctors are not helping me whatsoever.” Her mother gestured to the array of tonics and powders on the bedside table. Feyre’s eyes widened in alarm when she noticed a pile of brown-stained handkerchiefs.

“Are you coughing up blood?” she said in alarm.

“Don’t be silly. Why would I be coughing up blood? I just spilled my tea.” Her mother sounded like she even believed it herself. But Feyre was doubtful; she’d seen those tell-tale colors on Isaac’s work apron numerous times. “Do write to your Aunt Ripleigh and ask if she could send some more of that rose and daisy tea. It was delightful.”

Aunt Ripleigh had been dead for six years now. There was no rose and daisy tea in the house, either.

“Of course, Mother.” She made a mental note to ask Nesta if their mother had experienced another bout of memory loss during their session together. Isabella Archeron’s diminishing moments of lucidity were concerning.

“Well, Feyre. You’d better hurry along and get ready for Watson's charity ball. I’ve already told Mrs. Watson that I’ve fallen ill, but your father should be able to accompany you three.” Isabella Archeron’s blue-gray eyes closed, and within moments, she’d fallen asleep.

The charity ball her mother spoke of had occurred two seasons ago.

Hopefully she would sleep past supper and continue assuming her daughters were at a charity ball instead of a circus. Isabella Archeron considered anything below the opera or classical music hall a lowly performance unfit for their presence. Laughable, considering the Archerons were only wealthy merchants, not the aristocracy.

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre said, even though she couldn’t hear her. She touched her mother’s hand before she left the room. It was deathly cold. Feyre didn’t love her mother, but she didn’t want her to die. Despair rose within her like the tide, as if it was her fault Isabella Archeron wasn’t getting any better.

It was rumored that Amarantha, the circus ringmaster, was a powerful witch doctor. Apparently she learned her craft from the natives in the tropical latitudes and left a trail of miracles from town to town. Feyre had nearly laughed in Isaac’s face when he told her that.

A female ringmaster? Impossible. And a witch? Those were from the Dark Ages.

But now, Feyre was desperate. If modern science could not cure her mother, why not try other methods? The Archerons had money. Jewels. Exotic antiques. Feyre was quite confident she could pay Amarantha for a little healing spell.

Nesta was wholly focused on the suffragist movement. Elain was swept away by the pageantry of fancy dinners and shows in London. Both seemed rather ambivalent about their mother’s health and their father’s suspicious silence over the last few months. Once again, it fell on Feyre to do something, anything that would keep her dysfunctional family together.

Tonight, she would see for herself what this Amarantha was all about. Even if the ringmaster turned out to be a dud, at least she got a famed circus show out of it.

✨

Taglist: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo

#feysand #nessian #elucien #acotar #acotar fanfic #feysand fanfic #nessian fanfic #elucien fanfic #Prythian's Fantasia

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something-tragic-and-pretty · 1 year

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We’ve heard of Lily and Remus, but what about Evans and Lupin? We’ve heard studying in the library, prefect duty together, kind souls who help out younger students, smiles and encouraging nods but what happened to the two kids who grew up in London, exposed to the elements, Remus being battered to the ground every year, constantly an outcast, constantly different. Lily being catcalled on the street, ignored by her own sister, trapped in a world that she felt she had no place in. These were not soft kids, they were teenagers with harsh edges. They had gravitated to each other like James and Sirius had. Evans and Lupin smoked on prefect duty, staying out longer just to finish the packet. They spent evenings in the library, not studying but searching, trying to find some deeper meaning. Lupin would point out the first year who had fallen down the stairs and Evans would snigger. Classes in which they shared a desk, the work got done but so did the revenge plan on James and Sirius’ most recent prank. Tapping Morse code with quills. Teasing their partners by flirting. Walking through abandoned corridors, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. Evans dragged Lupin on the dance floor every night, swaying her hips. Lupin would keep the wine flowing, their glasses never empty. Order meetings, sat next to each other. When missions arose, nearly almost always partners. Behind the innocent smiles and the kind eyes, were two souls, like two sides of a coin, repeatedly dropped, and lost, fuelled by fire. If anything, they were kind because they knew what it was like to feel like an outcast, to feel alone.

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abijahfowler · 4 months

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i love 2 think that abijah knows how to be fancy and act like an upperclass socialite because he is an EXCELLENT con man but that in reality back in london he was a poor street rat common criminal who just so happened to meet the right (“right?”) group of men willing to hire him for help on their shady business adventure into colonizing the east because he is very adaptable, relatively well educated (or at least intelligent and able to pick up on information fast) and that he is just really.. really good at what he does (being a crimnimal)

i love thinking of him having knowledge on how to dance the minuet like he was ever frequently in high class ballrooms because he had to learn it to blend in to case a joint

#yapping #headcanon….? like it is one but it is not worded the most coherently #im still working on my actual post but hes in my brain and i had to share this #my little stinky stinker #i like to think he was a refugee in england but that literally everyone hated him for being irish LMAAAAOOOO #at least it was elizabeth in charge by thay time. and by that i mean the red hair was in fashion. otherwise everyone hated him #consider this: abijah teaching heiji how to ballroom dance #and heiji complaining that its stupid #and abijah laughing at him #because he thinks its funny

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scotianostra · 4 months

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15th January 1923 saw the birth of the wonderfully eccentric and very funny Ivor Cutler.

Born Isadore Cutler in Govan, Glasgow, into a middle-class Jewish family of Eastern European descent. His father Jack Moris Cutler was a wholesale jeweller and had premises at 85 Queen Street. He cited his childhood as the source of his artistic temperament, recalling a sense of displacement when his younger brother was born: "Without that I would not have been so screwed up as I am, and therefore not as creative." And creative he was!

Ivor was educated at the Shawlands Academy.[4] In 1939 Cutler was evacuated to Annan. He joined the Royal Air Force as a navigator in 1942 but was soon grounded for "dreaminess", apparently more interested in looking at the clouds from the cockpit window than locating a flight path, and worked as a storeman. After the war he studied at Glasgow School of Art and became a schoolteacher.

Working at a school in Paisley, however, did not agree with Cutler. He hated discipline that required the strap, having received it more than 200 times himself, and in a dramatic gesture took the instrument from his desk, cut it into pieces and dispensed them to the class.

Leaving Scotland was, he claimed, "the beginning of my life". He settled in London for a time teaching music, dance, drama and poetry to 7- to 11-year-olds. Oh how I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall in on of his classrooms.

His dour recordings bely his existence growing up in Glasgow and seeing his peers arriving at school with bare feet - a fact which, he later claimed, helped form his leftwing political views, aged five - appeared in his hilarious writings, Life in a Scotch Sitting Room Volume 2. With lines such as "Voiding bowels in those days was unheard of. People just kept it in," he used a string of fantastical untruths to expose the reality of his life and the Spartan - and sometimes sadistic - Scottish existence.

He also taught for a time at A S Neil's Summerhill school. Dubbed a hippy academy where a different approach to education was fostered, Summerhill was run with rules agreed between staff and pupils, and the premise was to educate the whole person. This alternative philosophy appealed to Cutler. He lived in the grounds of the school. Ivor married for a time, but his parenting skills did not go down too well with his then wife, they had two sons, he sent one, on his first day at school wearing a kilt, I can see that going down well in England! His son remembers his father once taking him fake fishing,taking him out in the street, with a stick and bit of string and a fork tied on the end dangling in a puddle, being his fishing line, he also says "I couldn't say I was pleased when he felt the need to walk down the street with a carpet sample in place of a tie."

During the late 50's and into the 60's he mixed his teaching with that of entertainment, managing to secure a slot on Acker Bilk Show and Late Night Line-Up. On one such appearance he was spotted by Paul McCartney, who invited Cutler to appear in the Beatles' film Magical Mystery Tour where he played the bus conductor Buster Bloodvessel, and yes the lead singer of Bad Manners took his name from this and was also a fan of Cutler.

Through music, poetry and children’s books the songwriter, poet and “unjoiner” of thoughts perfected a brand of eccentric mischief that made him a favourite of many.

His absurdist songs – sung in dour Glaswegian tones with a wheezing harmonium for company – were an ever-present on John Peel’s radio shows, second only in rotation to The Fall. His darkly whimsical eye can be seen in contemporary British artists like David Shrigley and Martin Creed. And yet Cutler remains something of a marginal figure, known only to a devoted few.

For the latter part of his career, Cutler lived on his own in a flat on Parliament Hill Fields, north London, which he found by placing an ad in the New Statesman saying "Ivor Cutler seeks room near Heath. Cheap!". There he would receive visitors, and his companion Phyllis King, in a reception room filled with clutter, pictures and curios, including his harmonium, some ivory cutlery (a pun, of course) and a wax ear stapled to the wall with six-inch nails - proof of his dedication to the Noise Abatement Society, because of which he forbade his audience ever to whistle in appreciation at his work. The bicycle was his preferred mode of transport, its cow-horn handlebars in the sit-up-and-beg position in line with his Alexander technique practice.

He could quote from Homer, taught himself Chinese and was in the habit of frequenting Soho's Chinatown, where he could display his knowledge - although, typically, he chose Chinese above Japanese because the textbooks were cheaper. With the onset of old age he was increasingly worried about losing his memory, given that his father and brother had both developed Alzheimer's disease. It was a fear that was to be tragically fulfilled. He retired from the stage at the age of 82.

His main champion in the late 70's and 80's John Peel once remarked that Cutler was probably the only performer whose work had been featured on Radio 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Ivor Cutler died after a massive stroke on March 3rd 2006 aged 83.

I could no doubt find many stories about Ivor online but will give you some of his own whimsical word instead, first up is

I Ate a Lady’s Bun

I got taken to gaol.

I ate a lady’s bun.

On her head.

She got a fright.

It was a surprise.

Do not worry I said.

I am eating your bun.

I am hungry for a bun.

Police she cried a good

neighbour heard her

and phoned the

police.

You must not eat a lady’s bun even

if you are hungry.

And I am in jail.

And some of his advice......

5 Wise Saws

1. Do not kick a grocer

on the leg.

2. If you kick a grocer

on the leg, make sure

it’s not a green grocer.

3. If you throw a ball,

it moves in the air.

4. You can not erase a

love letter with a

nipple, no matter how

rubbery.

5. If you empty your bowels

at night, a shepherd

will have a red face

in the morning. -*

#scotland #scottish #history #tacher #poet #entertainer #makar #eccentric

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beck-beck-goose · 1 month

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Stuck in the car for a few hours, so here’s some little bits of Wolfstar from my fic “The Last Great Pureblood Dynasty” to bless your feed:

Remus is a head taller than Sirius, but he’s also a lanky lad, made up of mostly legs. Sirius, on the other hand, has broad shoulders, so when he steals Remus’s jumpers, they’re not too baggy. He does, however, struggle to keep the too-long sleeves from falling over his hands. Remus secretly loves when he rolls them up over his elbows.

Sirius gets his leather jacket in the summer before his sixth year, after he runs away to the Potters’. Effie takes him shopping in muggle London, since he had only grabbed a few things from Grimmauld Place. They go into a few of the more expensive stores downtown before Sirius spots a charity shop across the street with a leather motorcycle jacket displayed in the window.

For Remus’s 17th birthday, Sirius bought him tickets to see The Kinks and Tom Petty in Paris. They skipped class to go and were both sore the next morning from dancing. Remus doesn’t find out until he returns to Hogwarts to teach that McGonagall had known their plan to sneak out the entire time, but let them anyway. Sirius considers this to be one of the best days of his life.

Sirius’s first tattoo is the alchemical symbol for Antimony in the center of his sternum, also called Lupus Metallorum. It’s represented by the grey wolf, due to its Latin name, and has ties to the Philosopher’s Stone. Remus holds his hand the entire time and helps him take care of it after it heals.

#ao3 #fanfic #harry potter #lgbtq #marauders #remus lupin #sirius black #headcanon

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dailyanarchistposts · 2 days

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On Both Sides of the Atlantic

In England the attacks on May Day were a necessary part of the wearisome, unending attempt to establish industrial work discipline. The attempt was led by the Puritans with their belief that toil was godly and less toil wicked. Absolute surplus value could be increased only by increasing the hours of labor and abolishing holydays. A parson wrote a piece of work propaganda called Funebria Florae, Or the Downfall of the May Games. He attacked, "ignorants, atheists, papists, drunkards, swearers, swashbucklers, maid-marians, morrice-dancers, maskers, mummers, Maypole stealers, health-drinkers, together with a rapscallion rout of fiddlers, fools fighters, gamesters, lewd-women, light-women, contemmers of magistracy, affronters of ministry, disobedients to parents, misspenders of time, and abusers of the creature, &c."

At about this time, Isaac Newton, the gravitationist and machinist of time, said work was a law of planets and apples alike. Thus work ceased to be merely the ideology of the Puritans, it became a law of the universe. In 1717 Newton purchased London's hundred foot Maypole and used it to prop up his telescope.

Chimney sweeps and dairy maids led the resistance. The sweeps dressed up as women on May Day, or put on aristocratic perriwigs. They sang songs and collected money. When the Earl of Bute in 1763 refused to pay, the opprobrium was so great that he was forced to resign. Milk maids used to go a-Maying by dressing in floral garlands, dancing and getting the dairymen to distribute their milk-yield freely. Soot and milk workers thus helped to retain the holyday right into the industrial revolution.

The ruling class used the day for its own purposes. Thus, when Parliament was forced to abolish slavery in the British dominions, it did so on May Day 1807. In 1820 the Cato Street conspirators plotted to destroy the British cabinet while it was having dinner. Irish, Jamaican, and Cockney were hanged for the attempt on May Day 1820. A conspirator wrote his wife saying "justice and liberty have taken their flight... to other distant shores." He meant America, where Boston Brahmin, Robber Baron, and Southern Plantocrat divided and ruled an arching rainbow of people.

Two bands of that rainbow came from English and Irish islands. One was Green. Robert Owen, union leader, socialist, and founder of utopian communities in America, announced the beginning of the millennium after May Day 1833. The other was Red. On May Day 1830, a founder of the Knights of Labor, the United Mine Workers of America, and the Wobblies was born in Ireland, Mary Harris Jones, a.k.a., "Mother Jones." She was a Maia of the American working class.

May Day continued to be commemorated in America, one way or another, despite the victory of the Puritans at Merry Mount. On May Day 1779 the revolutionaries of Boston confiscated the estates of "enemies of Liberty." On May Day 1808 "twenty different dancing groups of the wretched Africans" in New Orleans danced to the tunes of their own drums until sunset when the slave patrols showed themselves with their cutlasses. "The principal dancers or leaders are dressed in a variety of wild and savage fashions, always ornamented with a number of tails of the small wild beasts," observed a strolling white man.

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itsthestutterforme · 1 year

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“Rules Are Overrated” (Modern!Tom x black!reader)

Summary: Tom is your brother’s friend that’s had his eye on you since you and your family moved to Manchester. He didn’t care about the rules. He knew that he just had to have you.

Notes: GIF is not mine, Modern High School AU, dancer!reader, sexual themes (dry humping, oral sex, p in v penetration, overstimulation), minors DNI

Your hips were swaying to the beat of the song on your speaker as you placed the middle of you box braid between you teeth, continuing the braid all the way down to the end. You had the speaker so loud, it vibrated the door of your room.

You couldn’t have heard the doorbell ringing and Tom knocking at the door. Tom was a friend of your brother’s. Your entire family moved to London from New York for a change, leaving behind your childhood friends and your close family.

To this day, you never understood the real reason. One day Dad came home with some news and by the end of the week, we were on a plane to London. You had two older siblings, Eloise and Wade. We were all still adapting to London but at least Wade was making friends. One of those friends being Tom Bennett.

Tom helps himself to the house. Wade said that it was cool to wait for him inside a few times before. His curiousity got the best of him and he followed the sound of the music. You had one braid left, taking a small scoop of edge control and putting it on your hair. You picked up some hair and braided down, feeding hair in periodically.

“Ku Lo Sa” by Oxlade came on the speaker and you slowly whine to the beat of the song. You were still whining when Tom walked in. You made eye contact with him in the mirror and lowered the volume on the speaker as you turned around to face him. “I’m assuming you’re looking for Wade,” “I am. You happened to know where he is, love?”

“Wade and Eloise went to the arcade. You can find them there.” “And why aren’t you with them?” “Games bore me,” you continued to braid. “What were you just doing when I walked in? With your hips?” “It’s called whining. It’s from Central Africa,” “So you’re family is Central African?” “No, we’re Trinidadian.”

He hums in response, getting a good look at your room. “Um, excuse me?” “You’re excused,” he says, pushing the hair and clips on your bed to the side and lay down on your bed. “What are you doing?” “You haven’t seen a man lie down before?” “I’d hardly call you a man,” you scoff. You finished your braid and search through your basket for the setting mousse.

“Yeah you’re Wade’s sister alright,” “Oh please, I make Wade’s life interesting,” “Sure you do,” “Aren’t you supposed to be finding my brother? What are you still doing here?” “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, sweetheart. It makes it more enjoyable to piss you off,” he stands from the bed and gave your hair a playful tug.

You sent him a glare when he says, “See you around, sweetheart.” “I have a name,” you scold. “I know. It’s sweetheart.” He corrects, closing the door to your bedroom.

You ran to your bag to grab a drink of water. “Group A is up in five, Y/N. Make it quick.” Your dance coach calls. “I’m coming,” you take a swig of your water. The sound of your name catches Tom’s attention from the street. He was walking passed the studio to meet Lois and his father for dinner when he heard your name.

He opens the door to studio and watches as you and your group made your way to the center of the floor. The rest of the class sits on the side while you and your group waited for the music to cue on. The choreography was sensual because it matched the vibe from “Love Me Back” by Trinidad Cardona.

Tom’s lips part when he sees you in the center of the group doing the choreography. The dancers on the sidelines were cheering you guys on when it was the point of choreography where you went to the floor. You were on your hands and knees, slowly grinding on the floor and brought yourself up on your knees. And that was the end of the choreography.

The class clapped for you guys and you stand from the ground with a proud smile. That was, until you caught the gaze of a familiar pair of blue eyes. “And that’s a great way to end class. See everybody next week.” You packed up your bag and Tom made his way over to you with a smirk.

“Does your brother know you’ve been dancing like that?” He asks. “Why? You plan on snitching?” You throw the strap of the bag over your shoulder. You noticed the stares and giggles of your dance mates when they walk by Tom and you roll your eyes.

“Not at all. I’m no snitch. You’re not the only one who’s the trouble child.” He says when he follows you out of the dance studio. “Who says I’m the trouble child?” “Is that a trick question?” You scoffed and gave him a shove. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I have dinner with my family,” “Right. I’ll see you around then.” You opened the door to your car and threw your bag on the floor. “Wait, I can just.. rain check or something.” “Raincheck and do what exactly?” “I.. have a crush on a girl who knows how to dance like that. And I want to impress her.” Tom lies. He needed to think of something so he could see you again without using Wade as an excuse.

“You’re seeing someone?” You asked. “Awe, you jealous?” He says, smirking when he sees you roll your eyes. “I’ll help you.” “Really?” “I have nothing better to do. Hop in.” You walk around the car and slide into the drivers seat. “You might want to buckle up because I don’t slow down for anybody,” you say when he sits in the passenger side.

You smiled when he gripped the side handle when you revved the engine of your car before peeling off the curb.

“Remember to loosen your hips,” you looked down at his waist. “Careful, Y/N. It almost seems like you are looking at something else,” Tom teases. Your eyes shot up to his and his smirk widens. “Do you want me to teach you or not?” You snap.

“The women are in lead when it comes to whining. They are in front, moving, and the guy follows. He takes whatever she gives him.” “Would you say I need more practice?” He asks, thinking back to the first time you grinded on him. He got lost in the feeling of your body against him. How his hands felt holding your hips.

“I think we’ve practiced enough. You’re ready to ask out the girl you’re interested in.” You tucked your phone in your pocket and went to grab your bag when he says, “When were you going to tell me you got accepting into Kings College? How did you celebrate?” You stopped in your tracks and slowly turned around to face him.

“How did you know that?” “I have my sources.” You squint at him analytically. “Eloise told you, didn’t she?” “She did,” he says after a long pause. “Jesus, I need do tape her mouth shut.” “What’s so bad about her telling me?” “It’s not that. My parents believe that dancing isn’t a real job. They didn’t feel the need to celebrate,” “Kings College is the top three unis in London. That’s a big deal.”

You blinked at him a moment as you came to the realization of something. “There isn’t another girl, is there? It’s me you’re pursuing,” “Sharp as a whip, you are.” He says with a tongue click. “Isn’t there a bro code that says don’t mess with your friends sister?” You crossed your arms, yours eyes narrowing when he nears you.

“Rules are overrated. What do you say we celebrate in a way only a man and woman can?” You dropped your hands at your sides and lifted your chin to him. “Do it then,” he grips your chin so you are staring directly into his eyes. You maintained eye contact when you took his thumb into your mouth and swirled your tongue around it before pulling away.

“Fuckin hell,” you let out a squeak of surprise when he picks you up and wrapped your legs around his abdomen. You held his face to press a warm kiss on his lips. He held there a moment, relishing in your soft skin. You pulled away from the kiss to take off your shirt. He squeezed your ass as his gaze settled on your breasts.

He sits down on his bed and buries his face into your breasts, nipping at the swells propped up by your bra. You instinctively rock your hips against his crotch and he groans into your neck. “You’re so fucking hot, Y/N.” “Mm, I know.” “Fucking tease,” he gave your ass a slap and you chuckled.

He tossed you next to him, standing to pull off your shorts before taking off his shirt. You watched as he slide between your legs, his large hand traveling up your thigh. He left kisses on your inner thigh, making you slick with anticipation. “I did say it was a celebration, wasn’t it?” He whispers, noticing your thighs rubbing together.

“Look at you getting eager for it,” he adds with a chuckle. “Tom,” “Isn’t that such a pretty sound,” he kissed up your stomach until he got to your breasts. He unclipped your bra with ease and sucked on one of your nipples until your back arched. One hand traveled to your lower back, he pressed his crotch to yours and started rocking back and forth.

Your soft moans spurred him to hump you harder and faster until your body tensed with an orgasm. You gripped his forearm for dear life and waited until you could finally breathe. “Fuck,” you said. He pulled away from your breast with a pop.

He pulls your underwear off and moans at the sight. “You’re throbbing,” “Tom,” he groans at the way you moaned his name and sealed his mouth around your core. He explores all the different angle to suck and lick at your clit. “Fuck, Tom. That feels so- oh!” His hands come up and rubs your nipples, your body twisting away at the stimulation.

When he had enough of your squirming, he pressed a hand to your stomach to stead you and sucked harshly at your clit. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left a bruise on it. Stars clouded your vision, a whimper left you when you felt his weight leave you. He kissed your body while you came down from your high.

“You ready for any other one?” He asks and your eyes widen. He kissed you and you pulled him down so his chest was flushed against yours. “I need an answer, love.” He presses a kiss to your jawline. “Yes, keep going.” He pulled away to reach into the drawer next to his bed and pulled out a rubber.

He kicked off boxers and his trousers and slid the rubber on. You felt like a bitch in heat when you bucked your hips against him when he slides back in between your legs. “Tom, please.” “What do you want, baby?” “Fuck me,” “How do you want it?” He lifts your chin up with his nose and rubs the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“H-hard and fast,” “Is that right?” “Yes, please..” you begged. Your mouth fell open when he slides into you slowly so you could feel every inch. Your legs widen and he slowly thrusts into you until he saw your face relax as your body got used to his thickness. He chokes out a moan when you clenched around him. “Do that again and it’ll be over sooner that you’d like,”

He props one leg over his shoulder and rams into you hard and fast like he promised. When the vein of his cock rubs a gspot consistently, you pushed against his abs and tried to turn away from him. “Uh uh. Move your hand.” “Tom, please.” He pins your arms by your head and sent you a hard thrust in warning.

“S-sorry,” you apologized and he kissed you while rubbing quick circles on your clit. A gasp escaped you when another orgasm came over you. Tears swelled in your eyes and your body spasmed over and over again until the orgasm passed. Your walls clenching around his sporadically made him cum with a soft fuck.

He squeezed your wrists and kissed you once you both gained your breath back. Resting his forehead against you, he pulled out of you and tossed the rubber in the trash can.

“Should I leave.. then?” You asked, sitting up. “Why would I want you to do that?” He settled in next to you. “Because I thought you only wanted..” “I want you. All of you.” You laid back down and he holds your back to his chest, leaving kisses down the nape of your neck.

“Can I tell you something?” You hummed in response, enjoying his soft lips on your skin. “I only befriended Wade to get close to you,” he confessed. “Ouch, you better hope Wade doesn’t find out.” You said teasingly.

“Why? You plan on snitching?” He asked. You recalled having a similar conversation with him before so you decided to play along. “Not at all. I’m no snitch. You’re not the only one who’s the trouble child.” He wraps a hand around your throat with a gentle grip and pressed a warm kiss on your lips.

#tom bennett x black!reader #tom bennett x reader #ewan mitchell #world on fire

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