#-set in ye olde britain

[lab-gr0wn-lambs]

Been reading through Howl's Moving Castle for the first time and Howl himself is just an entirely different dude. Miyazaki said "oh fuck this guy" and made an OC

#hes welsh also? like hes from modern day wales. he has a car and makes video games for his nephews #thats where the ominous black void leads to. fucking wales. #the two book series I've read in the past 4 years are set in ye olde fantasy worlds that have portals to regular-ass britain

[nerdykeppie]

Launching Tuesday - Historically Queer, our next enamel pin collection!

We Have Always Been Here.

Ten pins - two pairs, five single pins, and the La Maupin mega pin (she needed extra room for her headdress) - each with multiple unlockable colorways.

We launch Tuesday, 9/12, at 3PM Eastern, noon Pacific. Follow us on Kickstarter to be notified when we launch -- or just to help out! The visibility to Kickstarter from having followers on our campaign helps a lot. :D

Featured in this campaign:

Enheduanna, oldest named author. Incorporating trans themes into writing thousands of years old.

David & Jonathan, king & prince whose love surpassed the love of women.

Sappho, Lesbian poet. She should need no other introduction.

La Maupin, also known as Julie d'Aubigny. The original disaster bisexual. Opera singer, swordswoman. May have burned down a convent.

Publick Universal Friend, American religious figure. Going by gender-neutral pronouns since the year the Declaration of Independence was written.

Anne Lister & Ann Walker, the Gentleman Jack & her wife. Acknowledged as the first same-gender marriage in modern Britain.

Dr. James Barry, British surgeon. A transgender man, Dr. Barry performed the first C-section done by a European in Africa in which both mother & child survived. He is also credited with vastly improving conditions for wounded soldiers in the British military.

Nikola Tesla, Serbian-American genius. Listing Tesla's inventions would take a series of posts. Liked pigeons better than people.

If you don't see your favorite historical figure, don't fret! We've planned multiple sets of Historically Queer figures. We can't use them all up at once. :) Help ensure we can make future sets by helping us create this one!

Frequently Asked Questions under the cut.

Hey, what flag is that on Sappho?

That's the Sapphic flag, created by @tepkunset. NerdyKeppie's owner, Spider, is a butch lesbian who uses that flag for their art.

Hey - what about [historical figure]? How could you forget [historical figure]? This is erasure!

We didn't forget, we promise - this is the first of several installments of this project. After the absolute stress of the last Kickstarter when we had 300+ different SKUs by the end of the project, we decided to take a more focused approach to Historically Queer. We attempted to provide a good cross-section of identities, and will continue to expand in future projects. Spider has a huge folder on his computer full of planned pins and reference images.  

But historically...

Yes, we know that it isn't totally proper to use today's terms to discuss people who lived a long time ago. But also, how else do we talk about our community history in a way that's understood, and celebrate our shared queerness, other than to use the words and iconography which are understandable to us now? We celebrate our shared history with the words and understandings most accessible to all of us, and we hope that by providing not just the pins but a few elementary facts about these historical figures, we'll encourage people to read more about them in their original context.

#nerdykeppie #lgbtq #queer pride #trans pride #enamel pins #update #lgbt #pride #news #kickstarter #kickstarters #crowdfunding

[aspiringhorrorauthor]

As is tradition with Dracula Daily, let me give you today’s Cultural Lesson Based On Today’s Entry. Let’s talk about money.

See, if you’re thinking Dracula and the characters are handling what we see today as British money, don’t be fooled! Dracula is set in the 1890s, and they use an entirely different money system to what we use now, it just seems on the surface that it’s the same.

For context, if you didn’t know, Britain uses pounds (£) and pence (p) as the currency now, with 100p to £1. This is called decimalisation, and has been in practice since the 1970s. Before then, we were the last country in the world to still use the Roman monetary system.

In the Victorian era, there were 3 used measurements of currency: Pounds (L), Shillings (s) and pence (d), which was written in that order: l.s.d, so a sink in a shop may list the price as 1.7.2, which would be 1 pound, 7 shillings and 2 pence.

Now lets break those down a little more. There are 240 pennies to the pound, and 12 pence to the shilling. That makes 20 shillings to the pound. Most working class laborers would be using shillings as their highest coin in day-to-day living. You could get a pint of beer for a couple of pence. A pound was an incredible amount of money to your average person (maybe less so to the fancy characters of Dracula).

But I want to talk about the coins.

See, a penny was not the lowest coin in circulation. That was a farthing, which was worth ¼ (a quarter) of a penny. Then next was a half penny (or ha’penny if you prefer). Of course there was the penny. Then there was a two pence (tuppence) and a three pence (thrupence) piece. Then you had your half shilling (sixpence, pronounced more like sixpunce, with a ‘u’ rather than an ‘e’), and the shilling itself (twelve pence, remember? Also known colloquially as ‘bob’). Then you had the florin, which was 2 shillings exactly (24 pence). From there you had your half crown, which was worth 2 shillings and six pence, for a total of 30 pence (though you’d never call it that), and then a crown, which was 5 shillings. From there the next step is the half-sovereign, worth half a pound (120 pence, or 10 shillings), and finally the gold sovereign coin, worth £1, or 240 pennys, or 20 shillings.

Yes, that’s genuinely the method of money these characters are using. Some old people insist it was easier than the current system.

Here’s some more fun money facts in case they come up later!

A guinea is a pound and a shilling (1.1.0, or 252 pence), and was used to make things seem a little cheaper to wealthy buyers. It’s used from time to time in Victorian books so it’s worth knowing.

The correct way to read out prices is ‘[x] and [y]’, so say you were selling something and wanted a shilling and fivepence for it, you’d ask for “1 and 5”. This is often used for the stereotypical cost of a half a crown, so when someone in a period drama asks for “2 and 6”, what they’re asking for is 2 shillings and sixpence.

There is a fairly obscure coin that I’m not sure was in circulation at this time which was nicknamed ‘The Barmaid’s grief’, it was only used for a few years. This was worth 4 shillings and was the same shape and (very nearly) size as a crown (5 shillings). So people would buy a pint of beer, the barmaid would pick up the coin in a hurry and not realise that it wasn’t a crown, and give 4 shillings back along with change from a shilling for the beer. So people made money from buying beer. It was not a good time to be a barmaid.

#Dracula daily #money #british money #Yes I also laughed when i found out old british money was written as Lsd #For someone who is not all that interested in coin collecting I love knowing about the old coins! #My dad was a bairn when they changed the coins around. His dad used to keep the old coins for him from the shop and give out the new coinage #Some people of a certain age get the value of shillings mixed up because post decimilsation a shilling could still be used and was worth 5p. #I worked as a social historian for one summer can you tell? I was paid £8.75 an hour to tell people this. So you guys owe me like £3.50 #For my work here.

[stirringwinds]

Your thoughts on Alfreds similarity to Arthur, their dynamic and their father-son relationshio is incredible and so very enjoyable! The way Arthur sees Alfred; his hyperindependent son who rejects his fathers ideas and uplifts his own ambitions, not understanding that while his own ambition and view of the world is not completely identical to his fathers, it's a mirror image in scale and vigour. It is the same old tale of the prince beheading the king, taking the crown and vowing to never become his father, only to come full circle and have his enemies tell him "you're just like him."

Alfred may be the "black sheep" of the family, but not even Arthur can hide his favoritism for the lad. His firstborn is more like him than anyone of his children, and that bears pride, yet fear as well.

Im just trying to say that if you had a million fans, I am one of them, if you had one fan, its me, if you had zero fans im dead. <3

thank you so much! (: in return, i have to say how much i love your art, especially of the pacific siblings + the old man. you bring them to life really beautifully.

and yes! i just love the excellent contradictions that come out when digging into arthur and alfred as a father-and-son dynamic. i enjoy putting a twist on the usual tropes of the 'black sheep' and 'golden boy/crown prince', where it's often two different siblings. here, out of the 🇺🇸🇨🇦🇦🇺🇳🇿 siblings, alfred is the black sheep and the crown prince. he is the estranged eldest brother who seemingly does whatever the hell he wants. he overshadows them all even in his absence. like, for Jack and Zee especially, it's not a flattering picture of Alfred they get from Arthur. Ungrateful wretch, fool of a lad, hotheaded and arrogant, a flash in the pan...etc etc. but even quite young, before WWI or WWII, they realise that Alfred is the only one of them Arthur truly sees as anything close to an equal. that contrast is sharpened by how Arthur treats Matt—who was the 'older brother' they actually knew: the otherwise competent shocktroop of empire and first dominion shouldering various responsibilities. to defy Arthur is to earn his enmity, but also the only way to earn his respect.

like most other nations who become empires—Arthur doesn't truly believe in heirs: the sun never sets on the british empire, no? and when you are an eldritch being given life by the power of human ideas, immortality is a possibility they can't help aspiring to, no matter how much history is littered with the rise and fall of nations once arrogant enough to believe themselves invincible. and Arthur, at the height of British power, allows himself to believe that. for all his shrewdness and study of history, he's not immune to being seduced by that possibility. why shouldn't his empire be different? driven by the power of industrial civilisation that Rome could never dream of. Arthur never wanted Alfred to be his heir because he would never relinquish power willingly (just as the British Empire did not give itself up until the combined weight of world war two, anti-colonial movements and bankruptcy broke its back), but with his defiance, Alfred is the only kind of heir he would respect.

It is the same old tale of the prince beheading the king, taking the crown and vowing to never become his father, only to come full circle and have his enemies tell him "you're just like him."

indeed! i always see a real Titanomachy theme between Arthur and Alfred for that reason; the British and American empires certainly loved to perceive themselves as heirs to classical antiquity after all. the Greek story of the war between the younger generation of Olympian gods and Titans to determine who would have dominion over the universe. Zeus, with his siblings, overthrows his father Cronus— in a manner of speaking, that is what happens with WWII. Alfred is both Arthur's deliverance (lend lease, d-day...) and the one who usurps him: America replacing Britain's prime role in the Pacific, reshaping and redefining alliances with Australia, New Zealand and Canada. in the eyes of many of the Old World nations, Alfred is his father's heir. to end off, here's a short snippet from a WIP i'm working on set during the American Civil War:

Arthur laughs. “Do I make you do anything anymore, Alfred? Didn't you throw away my name almost a century ago? Did you not loudly announce yourself as a maritime power? That huge uproar you created in the Far East? Bragging to me how you’d done what I failed, dragging another Old World nation out of isolation to rejoin the international community on the threat of war and glories of foreign commerce?” Alfred opens his mouth—to say something self-righteous and hypocritical, Arthur is certain—but then he lifts his chin coolly. “As opposed to the actual war you started in China? If anything, with the Treaty of Kanagawa, I proved how one could secure foreign trading interests with both firmness but far more civilisation. You and I," Alfred sneers, “are not the same.” “An unequal treaty is an unequal treaty— that I will not deny even if I will not give up its benefits. This world is not for soft men or women, and the old warlord that Yao is—he knows that well.” Arthur smiles sharply. “Do you hate the fact that when the other Old World nations look at you, they see my blood running in your veins?"

Arthur imo, is definitely that father who plays favourites. Alfred is his greatest disappointment but also the one he loves the most—in the dysfunctional way that a man who is an empire comes closest to loving the son who mirrors him the most in his pitiless ambition and cunning. Alfred sees himself as a genuine idealist, as someone struggling to be free of his father and all his bad traits, but when Alfred rises to power, Arthur believes he's the only one who truly understands him the most. It's almost the possessive element of 'I gave you life, I named you and made you what you are, and no matter how much you scorn my name, my influence will define you forever.' Father and son, king and crown prince, regicide and patricide—but also creator and his creation made in his image.

#hetalia #hws america #hws england #hws canada #hws australia #hws new zealand #hetalia headcanons

[sugaimhome]

country house setting - kth - part one

pairing: 19th century taehyung x reader

minors do not interact!!!

warnings (this part): age gap (10 years, readers 18, he’s 28), masturbation (v brief), loads of smut in the next chapter hold ye horses, yandere (? he’s very obsessed with her and her innocence lol), hints towards previous abuse, distant father figure, the messed up society of 19th century britain, biscuits.

part summary: taehyung wasn't looking forward to the isolation of his fathers manor, when you knock his door, that isolation is shattered, he has a new obsession. When taehyung visits your father to introduce himself as his a new neighbor, he makes you an offer you just can not decline.

words: 4.4k

series summary: your isolated manor house has nothing interesting going on. but when the abandoned manor near to yours has a new occupant, things change. taehyung is obsessed with you from the day you first knock his door. he’d do anything for you, even if it meant going against your father’s wishes, even if it meant you losing something very important to your future marriage on the way, something that would force your fathers hand.

part one  part two  part three  masterlist 

explanation of the title: a literacy genre where fictional characters are often isolated and alone living in a country house.

A/N: i’ve been so excited to post this, then suddenly, min yoongi decides to post a picture with the same vibes... least to say I changed some names around to better suit next chapters 😫😫 he will be appearing more than once in this story. this hasn’t been proof read by anyone but me so sorry about that 😶‍🌫️ i love reader so much i just want to protect her 🥺 also the writing on the banner is jane austens writing, what a queen. I did try and copy the speaking of the time a little but I think I failed 😀

“A ball?” you ask, hope filling every inch of your heart, you’d never been to a ball, you were dying to go “Oh, father, we must go” It had been over two months since you’d properly left the house, and that had only been to the local market. You could only paint the garden so many times before going mad.

“We won’t be going to Min Yoongi’s ball” he replies, not looking up from the letter he’s holding. He sounds so resigned you wonder if he even heard you. 

“But father-” you begin, hoping to say your piece to him.

“No Y/N” his answer is blunt, you know it was final; there's no point arguing with him when he’s in one of these moods, it will only end with you getting hurt. 

“Okay”. This had been the third ball invitation this week and the third rejection from your father. You sigh. How were you ever to find a husband if you didn’t socialise? All the rich men would have found young brides now, and you, at the age of 18 would be seen as too old. The two of you stand in awkward silence for a while as he flips through his letters. 

“Someone is making residence in the manor beyond the brook.” he tells you, licking his finger to separate two pieces of paper from each other. 

“Really?” you ask. “I hope it’s a family, I would love a friend so close!”

“It’s a single man, according to the Park family, they are acquaintances with him in London.”

“London!?” you exclaim, you had been disappointed by the lack of friends the move in would bring but a new excitement had begun with the aspect of the man being from London. You had so many questions about the place. It was another world to you. “When does he move in?”

“You must not bombard him with your incessant questions.” he complains, wiggling a finger at you without looking up at you.

“I only wish to make him a cake, or maybe some biscuits” you admit, trying to lace honesty into your voice.

Your father sighs, putting down his papers and turning to you. “The 10th”

“But father, that is today!” you think he’s playing with you. “Don’t be mean”

“Read the letter if you do not believe your own father.”

The letter did in fact say the 10th. You’re almost jumping on your feet, but that would be impolite so instead you pull the letter, signed by the park jimin your father had always spoken about to your chest. “What great news” you say, trying to hide the excitement in your voice. “If you don’t mind, father, I will begin to make biscuits for him now”

“Do as you please” he replies, not really listening, still flicking through the pages in front of him. Curtsying you leave the room, the letter balled up in your fist. You make a bee-line for the kitchen, you’d get Annie to put the oven on straight away.

*** 

Taehyung had been hesitant to move back to the country. When his father had died 4 years ago he’d left his childhood home in his inheritance. Taehyung had decided that after so long it was time to return home after nearly 10 years in London. Home was a loose term. The manor had been miss kept, the garden overgrown, the surfaces dusty. Upon his early morning entrance to the house he had been ushered in by an elderly maid, Victoria was her name, he only vaguely remembered her. Apparently, he'd been paying her a monthly wage to maintain the place since his father had died. She hadn't been doing a too-great job. Though he was grateful that the house wasn't entirely empty when he arrived. Victoria had made him tea, lit his fire and explained to him that she was happy someone was living in the house again. She left, explaining she lived in the town across and had a family now. He granted her a smile as she went.

With the door locked shut and Victoria gone the only sound the house offered was the low snapping and crackling of the flames. It was so different to London, there was always something going on, someone coming to visit him, a servant cleaning or, even in the silent moments, the sound of the street at the end of his carriage-way. He missed it already. 

Yet the quiet of the house offered an odd privacy and an odd tranquility that he had missed. It dawned on him that he could do anything here and the only witness would be the flames of this fire and the wildflowers that had overtaken the garden. It gave him a sense of freedom.

Leaning back in his chair, cup of tea in one hand the other lying across his thigh. He relaxed in the blissful, slightly creepy, silence until the door knocked. He sighs. Maybe he wasn't as isolated as he thought. Nearly forgetting that no one is here to open the door for him as he had been so used to in London he quickly shoots from his chair. For a moment he struggled to open the front door, Victoria had locked him in it seemed. 

"Give me a moment!" he shouts, hoping his visitor hasn't already left.

He finds a key hanging from one of the plant pots. What an odd place. The door unlocks with relative ease and as he pulls it open he peeks his head around the door.

A teenager. He has opened the door to an unaccompanied female teenager who seems to have a box of biscuits. "Good Evening" she curtsies, the too small corset she's wearing almost over spilling her breasts. He gulps. "I live in the manor across the brook" she explains to him, he can hear the unease in her voice. The naivety and innocence. "I brought you biscuits."

She extends the box to him at arms length, squeezing her breasts together in the process. Was she doing this on purpose? "Thank you," he smiles, taking the box from her. "Would you like to come in?" When she nods he pulls the door open entirely, displaying the very dusty entryway. "Do excuse the disorder, as you can imagine it hasn't been well looked after" 

"I wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't said" she admits, purposely keeping her eyes away from the dust. He appreciates the small action. She scans the reception hall, obviously waiting for him to lead her through to a social area. "My name is Y/N" she tells him as he leads her into the living area. When he doesn’t immediately reply she asks, "Would it be impolite to ask yours?"

She's oddly quiet, he probably wouldn't have heard her voice if he were in the hustle of London "Taehyung" he replies. "My father used to own this manor. He died four years ago, would you have known him?" 

"I would have been 14 then, with little consideration of what was going on around me" Y/N replies. "I am sorry for your loss"

She was 18. Many questions filled his head. "Is your father a respectable man?" He asks her. "Is that whom you live with?"

"Oh, yes, as respectable as yours once was I should imagine" she replies, he turns to look at her, a little blush covers her cheeks.

"Then you would have been in London for the season this year" he asks, wondering if he had ever crossed paths with her.

"I have never been to London," she replies. "Though, I have heard it is exquisite."

An Eighteen year-old who has never seen London. "Then you must have an arranged marriage with a local man. I hope that is going well for you"

There is a pause between his statement and her reply. "My father does not have time to threat over my marital arrangements"

He is shocked, he had not heard of such a scandalous thing in his life. He feels sorry for her. Puzzled, he leads her into the living room where she gently sits down on a sofa he desperately hopes is not dusty. When no little particles rise to meet the sun he assumes he is safe. "I assume you'd like one of these biscuits" he asks her, turning around to place them on the small, delicately decorated table. When he turned around she'd moved, as quietly as a mouse, to the fireplace. Her dress was so close to the flames. Y/N's attention does not seem to be upon the fire though but more towards the painting placed above him. 

"This is not an appropriate place for such a lovely painting." she turns to him. Instinctively he walks up beside her, looking at the painting. "The heat will ruin the watercolour" 

There's a pout on her lips, this was obviously something she was very passionate about. "This is Thomas Girtin" she comments, reaching out and ghosting the frame of the painting with her fingers, above her finger is the signature of this Thomas Girtin. "It is a rare and expensive piece."

Taehyung is no longer staring at the painting but rather at her. He was surprised at her confidence to come into a strangers house and advise them on both the placement of their paintings and the stupidly of it. He smirks. "I'll have it moved at soon as possible, Miss Y/N. I am sure it will look a lot nicer in your premises"

"No, sir" she exclaims, stepping back from the painting and turning to look at him. "That is not what my intentions were when telling you about this piece."

"Perhaps it will persuade you to bring me more of those biscuits," Taehyung replies. He thought of his moment on the chair earlier, when he had the small epiphany of the freedom this house would bring him, how he could get away with anything. He places a hand on the small of her back and leads her back towards the front door. Grabbing two biscuits on his way past and passing one to her. With the hand on her back, she seems to have silenced a bit. "It's nearly dark, I would like to walk you back across the brook." 

"You do too much, Sir. I grew up here. I know quite well my way across the brook" Y/N defends. Taehyung is adamant as he places his boots on, and his overcoat. 

"So did I. I insist" he replies. "I left only 10 years ago, at your age. I'm sure I will find my way back quite safely." She doesn't reply, just stands in front of him with her arms crossed. "If you'd had a season in London you'd know well this is what a true gentleman is supposed to do." 

She blushes at the mention of a season in London. It only gives Taehyung an inflated feeling of power. It is clear that this young woman had no idea how to navigate herself around men, or perhaps other humans. She was as isolated as he was when he had lived in this place. He felt an unwelcome feeling of wanting to show her everything.

*** 

Taehyung had, clearly, known his way around the grounds of both his and your land. As he left you at the bottom of the steps to your mansion, offering you a little smile and a wave as you climbed the steps, he had mentioned something about the biscuits running out soon, his maid had family and once he had shared with them, he'd need more in at least two days' time. You reached the top, turning to see if he'd moved away, he had not. He bows and you curtsy before you slip into the warmth of your home.

As soon as you close the door you place your back against it, as if to block him out. That was not what you had imagined him to look like, you had expected a man in his early forties, perhaps a similar age to your father. You had not expected a young man, a man who's waistcoat fit snugly around his figure, a man who had beautiful fluffy hair. With eyes as dark as the chocolate you so rarely had. Your heart had been beating too fast the whole time you were there, that's what happened to all the women in the books you read when they loved someone, but surely that was over dramatic? Too soon? You wished you had someone to ask but it was just you and your father here now and you doubted he had the answer to this. 

The real problem did not lie in your beating heart, nor in the new strange emotion you felt but rather in the fact that when he had asked you if you'd bring more biscuits, you'd said you could bring some the very next day. And after all of that, you hadn't asked him a single question about London. Sighing, you make sure your door is locked before heading up to your chamber. The rest of the house is dead quiet, you can’t bring yourself to care anyways. You didn’t particularly want to see your father. You'd get up early in the morning and make more biscuits.

***

When Taehyung woke up the next morning he realised two things.

that it would be rude of him to not go introduce himself to Y/N's father, they were neighbors now after all.

that he had some very interesting dreams last night and the majority of them involved Y/N. He had woken up with a very prominent erection. He would need to see her again and soon.

He sat up in bed, having disregarded the bedclothes last night. He was alone, it wasn't like there was a risk of being indecent, plus he'd needed to touch himself. Taehyung could see his reflection in the mirror opposite the bed. Whilst looking at himself he wonders if she'd be able to handle the size of him. He places his hand around his dick, dragging it up and down in a loose grip- pretending his hand is Y/N. He assumes she is a virgin - only tightening his grip with this thought. He tries to imagine how she'd sound, but that's something he won't be able to tell until the moment comes, he would make that moment happen, he'd do anything to insure it. What would he have to do, and to what extent, to make Y/N his? The movement of his hand along his dick is almost painful now. Balls tightening more and more with every thrust his hips make into his hand. He cums, shooting white liquid up his stomach. It runs through the valley of his abdominal muscles like a river between two mountains. He would never look at Y/N the same again. In less than an hour he would be introducing himself to her father with the traces of his cum on his stomach the thought of it oddly turned him on. Instead, he headed for the bathroom where he would wash it off. There were times for such things and they weren't for when he was introducing himself to an elder.

***  

An hour after you'd baked the biscuits you were standing in your chamber, paintbrush between your teeth, painting a figure into one of your old landscape photos of the house across the brook. You hated to admit that the figure was Taehyung, but it only made sense, you hadn't stopped thinking of him.

You step back from the painting, wondering what it was that was missing exactly. There was Taehyung in his blue overcoat as he had been yesterday. It doesn’t seem enough. You can hardly tell it's him in the picture but if you had studied his figure, as you had plenty of times in the hour you had with him, you would know it was him.

There's a knocking at the door downstairs, it echoes around the whole mansion like the chiming of bells. Climbing over the pots and brushes you have thrown across your room, you hang your head from the open window. From this angle you can't see the front door but you can see the carriage drive. It's empty. Who would visit who didn't have a carriage?

Not caring much about your paint splattered dress you step from your room. Vaguely aware of the paint on your face, you choose to ignore it as you race down the stairs. At the door is your father, who is just opening it as you make it to the landing. However you're much more interested in what's behind the door. Your father obviously doesn't connect the dots as he sees the young man standing at the top of your steps. You, however, become much more worried about the current state of your appearance. "Good morning sir, I'm Kim Taehyung" 

Your father stares at him blankly as Taehyung offers his hand to shake. "The new gentleman across the brook?" He asks. Nodding Taehyung smiles at your father, perfectly white teeth on show. From where you're standing he can't seem to see you. You debate running back upstairs before your father lets him in. But you're too late, your father's shaking his hand and pulling him through the door at the same time. There's no hiding now. "My God Y/N!" your father exclaims at seeing you. "I told you not to wear such disgraceful garments out of your room! you'll have to excuse her" he turns to Taehyung, "she's not very well socialised."

You blush, Taehyung must notice you backing away. "It's really not a worry sir, I am already acquaintances with your daughter, she brought me biscuits yesterday evening, I suppose under your instructions"

If your father was to take credit for your ideas, you would have cried, instead your father explodes "I did not advise such an act! I apologise for her rogue mannerisms." You knew he had not been listening to you yesterday. As the pair walk past the bottom of the stairs, therefore past you, Taehyung rolls his eyes and then winks at you. 

"I very much enjoyed the biscuits" he announces, it's a response to your father, but he's looking at you as he says it. Tickling erupts on the inside of your stomach. You place a hand on it, having never felt this feeling before. Taehyung watches your hand as it lands on your abdomen. You don't understand why but he's smirking as he follows your father into the study. It dawns upon you that you do not have a great understanding of the outside world nor the feelings that Taehyung has brung with it. The two men disappear behind the study door, and you run over to place your ear to the key-hole.

“Does she paint?” he asks your father, why this isn’t a question he can just ask you is unbeknownst to you.

“I believe so” your father mumbles, the topic of his daughter seems to put him in a foul mood.

“You believe so?” Taehyung sounds upset, as if the response he had received wasn’t enough.

“There becomes a stage in a man's life when he stops caring about the women around him. He stops caring about silly things like paintings. You understand me don’t you.”

“I don’t believe I do, sir,” Taehyung replies. There's a harshness to his voice you had yet to have heard. You bring a hand up to cover the huff of surprise your mouth admits. If you were to talk back to your father like that you’d be slapped and denied food for a day. When your father doesn’t reply Taehyung continues. “I would like to view her paintings if you would permit it.”

“Of course,” Your father replies, annoyed. Then he asks Taehyung a question using so many business words you give up trying to listen to their conversation and focus more, or panic more, on the fact Taehyung was coming to view your paintings. There seems to be no other option than to sprint up the stairs and at least try to tidy it up a little. 

You’re in the middle of stuffing an old awful painting under your bed when the door knocks. “Give me a moment father and I’ll be out!” you shout, trying to be oblivious after eavesdropping.

“It’s Taehyung,” he replies. “May I come in”

You pause before answering. You could probably tell him to go away and he would. “Oh! Come in!” You’re up from under your bed now. Currently the main painting on display was the one with him in, you figured that he wouldn’t have looked in a mirror long enough to tell that it was his figure anyway. It was still slightly embarrassing. The door knob twisted and he filled the doorway with his figure.

“This is your chamber and workroom?!” was the first thing he asked, you blush, embarrassed both with the fact he was in the only place you stood naked each night, and that he was judging your way of life.

“It’s not ideal.” you reply, deciding to go for the truth. “I tried painting in the parlor but father was not best pleased.”

He nods his head but doesn’t reply to you, beginning to walk around your room of paintings. Wildflowers. Your father at his desk. A deer in snow. The view of the fields beyond from your window. You're shaking. Stopping at the painting you were most dreading, he tilts his head.

“Are they...” he pauses and his lip curves to the side, “kissing?”

"Um" you begin. "Is it off?" no longer caring that it's him and more concerned with your painting. "Her neck is at the wrong angle isn't it!" you exclaim, you're next to him now contemplating the painting together, as you had done with the portrait over his fireplace. This had been one of your very first paintings of people, you’d read from a men's guide to kissing that you had brought from one of the second hand stores in the town. It was the best you could do, you’d never seen two people kiss before. 

Taehyung moves on from that painting to the next, your most recent painting, the one with him in it. You daren’t look at him to see his reaction, instead you wipe a little paint off the bottom of the frame, hoping to distract him from, well, himself.

“I like this one” he smiles, “though I think it's missing something”

You’re too scared to reply to him so instead you just nod your head. It’s funny how he thought the same as you. “You capture the house really well, and the blue of my coat.”

Hands shaking you go to apologise to him. It wasn’t fair of you to paint him without his permission, but he’s moving back to the kissing scene again. Following behind him like a shadow you both end up staring at the painting. You’re aware of him looking at you from the corner of his eye. Your breath catches in your throat. Down the stairs you can hear your father moving about in his study. The rest of the house seems to be in an anxious science, holding its breath, as if it expects something to happen. Do you expect something to happen? He fully turns to you, his focus no longer on the painting, placing one of his hands on your shoulder. Your body freezes, though warmth spreads down your arm and into your body where his hand touches your dress. “Taehyung?” you're aware that your voice sounds so quiet in the greatness of the room. 

He pushes your shoulder slightly so you’re facing him. The whole room blurs and it's only him that you can see. He's like an angel sent from God, his bright light blinds you. “I could show you, Y/N”

Show you what? There's so much in this world that you want to see, want to experience. “Show me what?��� you ask him, your brain is too innocent, too behind to pick up on what Taehyung really means. 

“How to kiss, then after that” he pauses, looking at his small figure in the picture behind you. “I could show you anything” lessening the grip he has on your shoulders. You feel no pressure in your answer, you could say no, he’s so close to you. 

“I’d like that” you reply, your mouth staying slightly agape at the eagerness in your tone, you hadn’t realised you were so keen. Smiling, Taehyung brings his thumb up to his mouth, he runs it between his lips, as if to wet them with his spit, then he’s bringing it to your face. This wasn’t how you imagined a kiss to be and, instinctively, step back. 

“Don’t worry Y/N, this isn’t a kiss, I am wiping paint off your cheek” his thumb makes contact with your skin and a blush rushes up to your cheeks. Why were you so responsive to his touch? “I won’t kiss you today”

Your lip sticks out in immediate disappointment, “I want you to think on it more” he admits. “You only get one first kiss.” 

“How long do I have to think about it?” you ask, you were hit by the insufferable feeling of being so naïve, so behind where you should be in the experience of your life, that it was embarrassing. You’re sure a kiss will solve this. You’re sure Taehyung will solve this.

“Tomorrow” he has removed his thumb from your cheek now, but his other hand is caressing your face. He runs slow circles between your eye and your hair and, nature guiding you, you lean into his touch further. This, you realise, is what intimacy was. You had once read the definition in a dictionary

close familiarity or friendship.

When you had first read it, you had realised that you had never had any intimacy with anyone. It was as foreign to you as flying was to a dog, or walking was to a baby. Your eyes are wide in shock, your legs only just holding your weight up. Taehyung is smiling at you softly when he removes his hand. Your body is as attached to this area of your floor as a tree to soil. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow” he steps over a paint brush and pot, you want to stop him but your tongue has been stolen from you. He’s at your door now, pulling it shut behind him. He’s hidden behind the near closed door when he softly says “I’ll show you everything, Y/N”

Then he’s gone. 

You hear the front door shut. 

Without his biscuits. 

thank you for reading!

#kim taehyung #kim taehyung smut #taehyung #taehyung smut #bts #bts smut #bts kth #kth smut

[cillianmesoftlyyy]

In Love, in War Pt. 1 | Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary | She (the reader) comes from a wealthy family in Birmingham, England and he (Thomas Shelby) comes from a family of no-good troublemakers in Small Heath. Their worlds finally collide when Thomas lands himself in the triage tent of a nearby hospital camp during the battle of the Somme with a neck wound. Past traumas and heavy-handed words open old wounds, and yet, they always find their way back to Birmingham.

Warnings | Blood, gore, mentions of sex (not yet explicit), war, death, and out-dated language ("Gypsies").

Hey- Pixies 🎶

Bodysnatchers- Radiohead 🎵

Word count: 1812k

Not proofread- my b, folks!

..............................................................................................................

Yes, she knew of the Shelbys, who didn’t? She just didn’t really care. She kept her life away from the dark underbelly of Birmingham, and more focused on the bright future in front of her. She was born into a good family with sterling silver spoons in their tea set and barbs strung into their pearls. She was destined for great things, good houses, and well-groomed men with boring Christian names. That was until the beginning of the Great War and most of those men died in the pits of France and Germany. She was engaged once too, to one of those men. 

His name was Frances Gild Jr. and he loved her. He was the heir to a banking fortune with a passion for the arts. He was beyond beautiful with short blonde ringlets and blue eyes. Her daddy loved him and blessed the union when Francis asked for her hand, sliding a large diamond engagement ring onto her finger. That was two months before Britain joined the war. They were still naive enough to sneak behind the kitchen into the distant sheds to have their way with one another. They were young and prudent so their kisses were prideful and polite. Their love-making was brief and unexceptional, legs splayed in the air and fine silk ripped by old sawdust. When the war began, Francis was 20, two years her senior and assumed he was ready for war because his daddy was a Lieutenant. 

There was no time for a wedding, at least that’s what Francis said as he rushed to the front. To wait for his return and to do her part in the war effort, she trained as a nurse. Was she a good nurse? Not particularly. She often fainted from the sight of blood which brought discomfort simply from her period much less an amputated appendage. But she learned how to cope, mostly. The smell of blood was the hardest to ignore. It seemed to never wash out as much as she scrubbed beneath the beds of her nails and behind her ears, the smell was a constant companion. 

It took her a couple of months to complete the basic training course but soon after she was sent to a hospital in London to work on more serious injuries before going directly into the field. She was allowed to go home on the weekends to visit her parents in Birmingham’s wealthier neighborhoods. The job was hard and it didn’t pay well but it afforded her a bit of peace in the whole ordeal, knowing that she was helping English soldiers in some small way. She felt like she could reach Frances through these patients who came in for breaks and fractures, not gunshots or paranoia. It was during one of these long night shifts that she received the telegram postmarked from Frances Gild. She opened the envelope without concern, having received one a week since the beginning of April. That is the night she learned that Francis Gild jr. had died somewhere on the western front, spoiling in mud like old fruit. She’d overlooked the postage from Birmingham, assuming it was just another letter from her fiance, which it wasn’t. It bore his death in plain script, emotionless and frigid. 

“FRANCIS DEAD STOP KILLED IN ACTION STOP WILL SEND NEWS STOP GOD BLESS STOP.” 

She dropped the yellow paper on the clean linoleum floor and felt her jaw fall open in a shocked gasp. Nurses on the night shift rushed to quiet her or comfort her. She paled and clutched the sharp edge of the desk for support. 

“It will be ok.” Voices whispered in her ear. 

“You poor soul.” Others crossed themselves like preventing a bad curse, a hex. A dead fiance disease that carries onto young well-meaning women in close proximity; more always follow the first. 

Francis was the first for her. He was many of her firsts. In a cab back to Birmingham, she thought of the first time they had made-love. He’d finished in a matter of minutes, panting against her chest like a puppy. His eyes bore into her with more passion than his thrusts. He was her first kiss, stolen after dinner behind the china cabinet when the adults had gone through to tea and brandy. That man was dead now, and she imagined his beautiful blue eyes closed forever under the casket’s heavy lid, buried somewhere in his family’s mausoleum outside Birmingham. And what did this leave her? Not a widow, and yet, she believed in a way, she was. 

She was excused from service for three months, allotting her the same mourning period as a widow though she officially lacked the title. She was nearly two years into her training when Francis died and the war waged on in countries that seemed so far away from her house on Claremont. When she was called back to service, she went with a black armband and her light blue uniform. She was dispatched to France and left right away with a British medical unit, relieving the unit stationed at the Somme. During her months of mourning, she had avoided newspapers and prints about the war in France, so the Somme meant nothing to her. They were escorted in large covered trucks with heavy trunks of supplies and rations. Americans followed behind, whistling after the young nurses like the warning knell of a whizbang. 

The medical camp was a shock for her in sight, smell, and noise. Distant bombing and gunfire rang in her ears and vibrated the very pit of her soul. Blood and the threat of blood was as thick as the mud encircling the camp. She thought back to the sterling silver spoons of her youth as she waded through the fecal matter and mud to the office tent. She was assigned to triage. 

“Just assess the situation. Write down the serious injuries, treat the basics, and set those aside who will live for the next few hours. Use your judgment, girls.” The head nurse directed them, holding the girl back as the others hurried to the triage tent. “Word of advice?” The head nurse pursed her lips. 

“Yes, ma’am?” The girl responded. 

“Take off the armband, you’ll look like the Angel of Death out there.” 

She removed the armband strapped around her arm as she moved to the triage tent. Soldiers screamed and pleaded for assistance while others lay dying and without the strength to speak. She followed the movements of the other nurses, checking the bodies and scrambling for pencils and paper dotting with blood and mud. 

“Please help me!” One boy cried and grabbed her sleeve. She recorded his injuries and sent him to the hospital tent. 

“You’ll be fine.” She called after him as he disappeared through the thick canvas drapes. 

She marked down the men she saw who could not be saved and passed them along with a sorrowful shake of her head. The men she saw passed her by in blurs of colors and sounds like silent films in fast motion, a puppet book whose pages flip so fast that a story appears between them. 

The second week she was moved to the hospital tent which doubled as the operation theater. She was not formally trained in surgery but had picked it up in the months of study and shadowing she managed to procure in London. As long as her patients didn’t die, the doctors were willing to let nurses take over due to the lack of helpful hands and skill. Her long habit-like nurse’s cap was pinned up to her head to prevent the veil from falling into open wounds. She washed her hands as another patient was carried into the tent.  

“God dammit.” One boy cursed loudly, clutching his neck with a dirty palm. She scanned his body for further damage and accessed the neck wound. 

“Large cut from metal shrapnel. Some kind of grenade.” A second nurse who had followed the stretcher with the patient. 

“Thank you, Mandy.” She nodded to the nurse. “Sir, I need you to move your hand from the cut.” She spoke loudly over the man’s curses.

“Fuck that. I’m gonna bleed out.” He growled through his heaving breaths. 

“You’ll bleed out if you don’t move your bloody hand.” She retorted, her hand full of gauze. “I’ll pack the wound so that I can look at it, ok?” 

“Fuck me!” He yelled at the tent’s ceiling and reluctantly moved his hand. Blood spurted out from his neck before she could clamp the clean gauze down on the agitated wound.

“Ok, ok.” She soothed, frantically applying pressure and wiping the area with strong alcohol. “Mandy, hold this against the wound, I need to close it.” She ordered and switched with Mandy, rummaging through a cart of supplies with bloody hands. She removed a surgeon’s needle and thread for stitches. 

“She threaded the needle and pierced the skin around the wound with the needle, pulling the two sides of flesh together with quick movements. 

The soldier screamed and thrashed on the ground. 

“I need help over here!” She yelled over her shoulder. Two men ran over and held his arms down as she tried to finish quickly. 

“I’m sorry, sir!” She weaved the needle through one last time and tied it off. Pouring alcohol on the finished stitches, she caught her breath. “It’s done.” She gasped out and nodded to the men. They released the soldier who looked to be on the verge of unconsciousness. Mandy removed the bloody gauze and moved to the next patient.

“Give us some of that.” He panted and pointed weakly to the bottle of gin she’d been using to clean wounds. She handed it over and he took a strong swig of the horrible drink. 

“I hope,” he panted, “that I never have to see you again.” He handed back the bottle. 

“I wish the same, sir.” She nodded and stood. His hand shot out from his side and gripped her wrist with renewed strength. 

“What’s your name, nurse?” He tried to smirk. She noticed his large blue eyes as she told him. He loosened his grip on her wrist and gave a nod. 

“Thomas.” He swallowed. She paused for a moment, registering his clipt cocky accent. “Pleased to meet you.” He added when she said nothing. 

“You’ll be taken back to the infirmary to rest. Try not to move your neck because you may loosen the stitches. Don’t waste the stitches, Thomas.” She joked lightly. 

“Is that what you care about then?” He smiled. 

“What?” 

“The stitches.” 

“Yes, and you by extension. Your life is my responsibility but stitches cost money.” She laughed and stood again. 

“Good to know where we stand.” He called softly from the ground and she allowed herself to smile as she met the next group of patients.

...................

End part 1 :)

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy #cillian x y/n #cillian x reader #smut #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #cillian fluff

[amasugiyuusaku]

Ace Attorney Prosecutor Headcanons: Which Ones Would I Let Babysit My Child

What it says on the tin. Unhinged ramblings

Miles Edgeworth? No, probably not. It would depend on what point in the timeline, but likely a no. He is just too likely to get entirely absorbed in something and not notice your kid falling in the toilet or sticking forks into electrical appliances. Maybe for just a couple hours. It'd be funny to watch him playing, like, Candy Land.

Franziska Von Karma? Actually, depending on the kid, sure. I bet she's better with kids than you think. She would probably take them horseback riding or something really cool and rich person that they would remember forever. However she would also 100% make your kid tuna salad and when they complained about it, she'd be like THEN STARVE!

Godot? No. Nope. Absolutely not. He would literally immediately forget the child existed. If he did happen to remember he would forget they are a child and let them just like, attempt to fry bacon on the stove at age 5. The house would be burned to the ground when you got back and he would just be like How morbid a sight when the flames from Hell encroach upon our mortal plane. Almost as dark as my coffee

Klavier? Yes! Yes, absolutely! Klavier would be the kind of babysitter kids adore and call their friend. I mean come on who wouldn't love to hang out with a rock star while your parents are away? And bonus for the parents, he's actually responsible?? Fantastic. He would teach the kids to play guitar and they would write songs together and he'd put them all on an EP for their birthdays.

Simon Blackquill? For an older child, I actually wouldn't be too against it. He's snarky and not particularly tender, but he is a very caring person and I also think he would be enjoyable to converse with if you were old enough to keep up with him. He would put on old-timey samurai movies when they got tired of talking. Also, if a burglar broke in, he would absolutely kick that burglar's ass.

Nahyuta Sahdmadhi? Nope. No thank you. Those kids would be in bed with lights out at 7pm, all vegetables eaten, and crayons put away in the order of the rainbow, and the kids would HATE him for it. Definitely the type of sitter to pull out the big lectures when kids are misbehaving rather than save it for the parents to deal with. Also, I do NOT trust him not to make a child cry. Like what if the kid was like HEy wHy aReN'T yOu mArRieD yET??? You CANNOT tell me nahyuta wouldn't just be like Idk timothy, why do you still wear diapers? 🤭🤭oop! In his defense though he would absolutely play Candy Land with enthusiasm

Sebastian Debeste is the baby

Barok van Zieks? I can't decide. I think he would do his best but the unfortunate reality is that his sheer presence might traumatize a child for life. Also since he is from you know 20th century Britain I feel like his bar is kind of low for caretaking and he'd probably be like Oh yes i let her go across town a couple hours ago, i gave her money, she will be home before the sun sets! However at the same time I also feel like he's secretly a hobbyist cook and makes them a nice dinner and then afterward stokes a roaring fire in the hearth and reads Grimms' Fairy Tales

#ace attorney #hcs #headcanons #ace attorney headcanons #babysitting #miles edgeworth #franziska von karma #godot #klavier gavin #simon blackquill #nahyuta sahdmadhi #sebastian debeste #barok van zieks #this is so goofy

[denaliwrites]

An Art to Life's Distractions

Alec Hardy x GN!Reader

Summary: Alec finds your secret stash while helping you move and has a word with you about what he's seen.

Soundtrack: Someone New by Hozier

Requests: Open!

Warnings: Alec has Silly Guy Syndrome, again.

Moving into a new home had maybe not been your best idea, but it had ultimately been rather necessary -- neither your previous place nor Alec's really had the space for three people, and although Daisy didn't live with her father full time, it was still important for her to have a room of her own. So, the two of you had decided on a nice little four-bedroom cottage on the outskirts of Broadchurch.

Alec and Daisy had been the first to move their things in, mostly because Daisy was out of school for the summer and had nothing better to do (well, besides hang with friends). Alec did what he could in the little free time he had. You, too, worked a full-time job, making it hard to set aside time to pack and take things over to the new place.

Eventually, though, it was your turn to gather your boxes up and get them to your new home. Alec, thankfully, had a weekend off and offered to help you move your things. You accepted gratefully, and for the most part, everything went rather smoothly.

That was until it came to the unpacking bit.

You'd left Alec alone in the room that you'd designated as the office, and you didn't think anything of it as you grabbed a bottle of water and a sandwich you'd had the blessed foresight to pack ahead of time. You continued not to think anything of it as you went back upstairs, and as you turned into the office.

You only thought something of it -- and something bad, at that -- as you realized mid-bite that Alec was holding a handful of extremely old, battered crime novels.

Mouth suddenly dry, you swallowed your bite of sandwich with difficulty and rushed to grab the books from him.

He jerked his hands out of your reach, looking up at your blushing face with a bemused expression.

"Crime novels? Really?" he asked.

You blinked with owlishly wide eyes before giving a slight nod. "Th-they, erm..."

"Ye?"

"They... they're fun, okay?" you whined, expression falling into a pout. "I like them..."

"Oh, darlin'," he said with a chuckle, pushing forward to plant a kiss to your lips. "Ye could just ask me to tell ye about some of my cases."

"I don't want real stakes," you said, motioning to the books he held, and the books still in the box. "No real people get hurt, no real evil people get away with horrible crimes. Even when the story doesn't go the way you want or expect, it's... it's not real, so it doesn't matter. It's just a fun read in the end. Harmless."

His expression softened, seemed even to be understanding, and when he kissed you again it was much gentler. "I see," was all he said at first.

The two of you fell into silence, with him putting your books up onto one of the shelves and you finishing your lunch.

When he finally spoke again, he looked thoughtful. "Y'ken, maybe I should read some of these."

"Why would you do that?" you asked, looking up at him with a blink.

"Well, maybe I'll be a better cop for it," he said with a smile.

You couldn't help but laugh delightedly. "What, and give up your title of Britain's Worst Cop?"

"Hey, now, I didn't say they'd fix me!"

#alec hardy x reader #alec hardy x you #alec hardy fanfic #alec hardy #david tennant #broadchurch #broadchurch fanfic

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today - March 12th, 1974 - Queen Story!

Interview with Freddie Mercury – NME

by Julie Webb

It was clear for all to see that Queen’s Freddie Mercury wasn’t in the best of health. His hair lacked the recent attention of heated curling tongs; a cold sore was erupting above his upper lip; and horror – seems he’d not been able to summon enough strength to apply Biba black nail polish to more than one hand.

Mercury was worried as the camera lens zoomed in on him. He beseeched us to “touch up the picture to remove the cold sore if you can.”

I know it sounds like we’re setting the guy up, but he takes it all in good heart. Why, last time we met he stated he was “gay as a daffodil” – and here he was, willingly holding a daffodil in hand, outside Buckingham Palace. He posed regally, shirt temporarily coming unhitched from his trousers, revealing a hairy chest.

The British tour sapped most of the Mercury energy. Bedridden with laryngitis when it finished, he had just a few free days to repair any mental or physical damage before Queen joined Mott The Hoople on their two-month tour of America.

He is, in short pretty knackered – and if the American tour seems to be happening too soon after Britain, there’s no way he can change things.

I’d like a couple of weeks off, but you’ve got to push yourself. But we’re at a stage in our careers, my dear, where it’s just got to be done. I shall be resting on my laurels soon…”

He stops, considers the last remark and realises he may have said the wrong thing. Hurriedly he comes in with, “To put it another way, I shall try and reap my profits. I’ve worked my ass off these past few months. I’ve worked till I’ve dropped and after a while you physically can’t do it.”

Didn’t he think the British tour was a bit too busy, what with so many gigs included. “Yes it was a heavy tour, but it put us in a different bracket overnight. It’s a tour we had to do and I think now we’ve done it we can do the next British tour on our own terms, exactly how we like.

“With this tour we were booked in well beforehand at semi-big venues and, by the time we came to doing them, we had the album out, we’d got a bit of TV exposure and everything escalated. I think if we’d waited we could have done all the big venues – it’s just a matter of timing. But I’m glad we did the tour when we did. Even though there was a lot of physical and mental strain – so many things to worry about other than the music.”

A situation not improved by the fact that all members of Queen are, according to Mercury, “very highly strung”. Add to that his admitted bad temper. “I’m very emotional. Whereas before, I was given time to make my decisions, now nearly all of us are so highly strung we just snap. We always argue but I think it’s a healthy sign because we get to the root of the matter and squeeze the best out. But lately so much is happening, it’s escalating so fast that everybody wants to know almost instantly, and I certainly get very temperamental.”

“You’ve got to know where to draw the line. But the public always come first – it’s a corny thing to say but I mean it. Lately I’ve been throwing things around which is very unlike me. I threw a glass at someone the other day. I think I’m going to go mad in a few years time; I’m going to be one of those insane musicians.”

It’s at this point that I begin to wonder about Mercury. On stage he lords it around like some old slag. Offstage, he’s vain, camp – yet a nice enough dude.

He just has an unfortunate way with him during interviews, coming out with quotes and stories that are bound to be misconstrued or lay him wide open to mickey-taking. This could well account for some of the unkind press the band have received.

“I think, to an extent, we are a sitting target because we gained popularity quicker than most bands and we’ve been talked about more than any other band in the last month, so it’s inevitable. Briefly, I’d be the first one to accept fair criticism. I think it would be wrong if all we got were good reviews – but it’s when you get unfair, dishonest reviews where people haven’t done their homework that I get annoyed.” Unlike many British bands, they’ve waited until the time was right and are appearing on the same bill as Mott, who will assuredly pull in large crowds.

So the present and the future seem well assured I enquire about the past – like, what kind of family background does a guy like Mercury have?

“Middle-class. Musicians aren’t social rejects any more. If you mean; Have I got upper class parents who put a lot of money into me? Was I spoilt? – no. My parents were very strict. I wasn’t the only one, I’ve got a sister, I was at boarding school for nine years so I didn’t see my parents that often. That background helped me a lot because it taught me to fend for myself.”

Boarding school… if we are to believe stories that circulate about boarding schools – brutish behaviour, homosexual goings-on – well, the mind positively boggles in Freddie Mercury’s case.

I broach the subject…

“it’s stupid to say there is no such thing in boarding schools. All the things they say about them are more or less true. All the bullying and everything else. I’ve had the odd schoolmaster chasing me. It didn’t shock me because somehow boarding schools… you’re not confronted by it, you are just slowly aware of it. It’s going through life.”

So was he the pretty boy who everyone wanted to lay?

“Funnily enough, yes. Anybody goes through that. I was considered the arch poof.”

So how about being bent?

“You’re a crafty cow. Let’s put it this way, there were times when I was young and green. It’s a thing schoolboys go through. I’ve had my share of schoolboy pranks. I’m not going to elaborate further.”

Oh dear. And just when we were doing so well.

📸 Pic: 1974 - Freddie Mercury posing

#nme magazine #freddie mercury interview 1974 #1974 #interview #julie webb #freddie mercury #queen band #london #zanzibar #legend #queen #brian may #john deacon #freddiebulsara #roger taylor

[agendabymooner]

colour me your colour || toto w. x ofc (6)

Summary: Tilly Marie nearly loses faith in her passion as she refuses to listen to everyone who told her to quit. Everyone but one. And it’s the man she met years ago at a racing event she didn’t want to attend. Who would have thought that her father’s partial ownership of three brands could take her to the zone of Mercedes and meet the love of her life?

Chapter summary: Toto makes it harder for her to not flirt in front of the cameras, and with the comfort that came with it, Tilly doesn’t even see the bad parts of the media. Not until the next day.

Content warning: Age-gap, mention of Kimi Raikkonen flirting, whipped!Tilly and Toto caught in 4K, touchy feely vibes, brief use of explicit language

Note: We getting that communications studies degree starting this fall 😩 omw to bag that f1 money ykwim 🙈

Also, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 140 FOLLOWERS?! You guys are batshit crazy and I love you all for it. I hope my cracked-out thoughts somehow made your day… or more. Here’s another chapter for our dearly beloved Toto. Enjoy xx

masterlist

vi. love on camera

   I’ve been with the sky sports people for almost three hours now. My feet are thankful for sticking to a pair of low pump heels instead of running around the paddock and garage with a five inch heel. 

And I’ve been thanking myself for dressing well enough today. It doesn’t even look like I’m here as a support for Red Bull. My linen shirt is loosely tucked in my bell-bottom jeans, two buttons are undone to allow the air to flow freely through my body. The Chanel belt hugs me so tight, I feel as if I have little to no oxygen to breathe in. A Red Bull jacket is worn over my shirt, and I left it unzipped as I feel warm. 

I had never worked on a full live set before. It was nerve wracking to say the least. But after finding out that my father practically sold me, I feel as if I have nothing to lose. Suddenly I’m worse than a pessimist. 

My sisters made sure to tell me that I’m live on television by sending filtered photos of myself. Our youngest sister is the one having the field day with the group chat. She’s been showing her friends that I’m on television. She better be thankful I love her. I never enjoyed being the topic of a discussion. I’ve heard enough from Christian, thank you.

So far, I haven’t thrown up nor fainted. That counts right? That means that my first two interviews went alright. I just have to laugh along. That’s what I did with Fernando and Kimi. They just laughed along, and flirted a little with me.

Or rather, Fernando joked and Kimi flirted; something about going for a drink? Yeah, certainly. The man doesn’t even talk much, but the Iceman definitely suggested we went for a drink (the right words were: “There’s a bar downstairs at the hotel that you may like.”) Fernando’s married and has a nearly year old baby— I would really hate to do something demoralizing.

It turns out, laughing along with their banter will bite me in the ass. Because I know my sisters will be the ones laughing at the television. 

The cameras are already recording and I can’t hear myself speaking as I introduce Lewis and Nico Rosberg to the camera as if I’m speaking to an audience. Then I remember talking about the qualifying today, asking Nico about taking the pole for tomorrow. 

My words are simply flowing out of my mouth as the interview goes on.

“Are you excited?” Few minutes passed by, I then turned to ask Lewis a question.

“For wha’?” He asks, obviously confused as he zoned out during my conversation with Nico. 

“Home race? You coming from Britain and representing the country?” I remind him before joking, “Or did you forget you’re British too?”

“I certainly did,” he realizes what I meant just about now, “but yes. I’m very excited. If the weather treats me right tomorrow, I’m confident that I’ll be able to make it to somewhere of a higher rank.”

“It’s okay, Lewis,” I chuckle, Nico rolls his eyes beside me. “You can say P1. No one’s going to be against that.” 

“You want me to get P1?” He teases me.

My face gives an incredulous expression, making him laugh. I joke, “I feel like I’ve told you this a million times now, Lewis. Do you want me to whisper it in your ears while you sleep too?” 

“God, no,” he shakes his head with a laugh, “your support is highly appreciated, Tils. I am so glad you’re here.”

“That’s why you should go for P1 tomorrow,” I nudged him, microphone still in hand. 

“Only for you, lovely,” he lips pucker up as I roll my eyes and place my flat palm against it. He murmurs against my palm, making people around us giggle. 

Nico adds, “I think you shouldn’t appreciate her support that much, mate. She still works at Red Bull.” 

Lewis finally pulls away and gives me a mocking dirty look, “Right. I knew there’s something dodgy about you.” 

“Thanks Nico, for turning my own best friend against me,” I exclaim in a cheery tone, a smile still in my face as there’s a voice incoming. There he is. 

My smile widens, I feel like I’ll have wrinkles at this early age. The space immediately shrunk when Toto stepped into the scene. He stands a few inches taller than me, interrupting his drivers’ interviews. 

“And here we have,” I introduce him to the camera and ask him about his thoughts on his drivers’ positions for tomorrow. I absentmindedly nod, looking at Lewis and Nico here and there to avoid being caught staring at the tall bloke. Have you ever seen someone so fit you’d continuously waffle on about them until he gives you the chance to snog you? This certainly isn’t me talking.

“Are you supporting Lewis tomorrow?” He asks me with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Surely you are, right?” 

“I’m wearing a Red Bull jacket, guys,” their voices let out the heaviest laughter I have ever heard. “I’m certainly supporting Lewis, a Mercedes driver, to win tomorrow. Me, someone who’s wearing a Red Bull jacket.” 

Then, as I was chatting with the drivers, Toto pulls his sleeves up and takes off his black jacket, the three pointed star and his name embroidered. His outstretched hand holds the jacket in my direction as I pause from talking.

“What, what is this?” I ask, almost playfully. What’s he doing?

“You said you can’t support Lewis because you’re wearing a Red Bull jacket,” Toto shrugs with a cheeky smile, “you can have my Mercedes one. It’s a bit big but so is your jacket.”

“I really am jesting, Toto,” I giggle, watching him pull his hand back with a little smile. “I’ve said that I won’t be playing favourites so I will stick to my neutral place.”

Lewis reaches for the microphone and speaks over it, “She’s lying. She’ll support me regardless of what jacket she wears. Us Brits have to stick together.” 

“There you have it, folks,” I gesture at Lewis, “he’s explained it perfectly well. Us Brits have to stick together, indeed. I hope I don’t get banned from my own workplace after this— if I did, thanks Mercedes.”

“Well we told you that we’d be more than willing to take you in,” I look at Toto as he smirks, “it would be a shame for their part if they let you go.” 

“You lads flatter me so much,” I roll my eyes mockingly, grinning at the three as I say, “As I said, I’m supporting Lewis because it’s Lewis. I did not say I favour one team over the other.”

“You will, soon enough,” Nico chuckles. 

Lewis pulls me in and says, “If I win tomorrow you should do what you have to do.” 

“What do I have to do?” I ask him, wondering what he’s hinting at.

He shrugs and whispers to my ear, “Go on a date with Toto.”

I pull back and stare at him for a second. I really considered that huh. As if I hadn’t gone already.

“I have already. So don’t get too cocky, eh,” I tell him, his eyes widening as he eyes Toto for a second, my nudge tells him to stop as I dismiss the matter, “having an ego can get you places. But not P1.”

“Watch me,” Lewis grins at me. Like a piece of shit. His eyes also are asking me to tell him more about what was just revealed. I nod briefly, excited to tell him about it.

“Well,” I look at the camera, “that’s it for today. Tomorrow will be the 9th race of the 2014 FIA World Championship and we cannot wait to see how these drivers perform in such weather conditions. Best of luck to all. My name is Tilly and I hope you have a good night. Thank you once again, guys.” 

It didn’t take long until the wires on my body were taken off by Lydia, their media pen assistant. Nico and Lewis had already left. Toto waits for me until I start walking off the scene. 

We walk all the way to the motorhomes, silence shared between the two of us. 

“You left quite fast earlier,” Toto utters. This is the first time we’ve walked together since earlier this morning, and this is the first time he’s spoken to me after I’ve managed to avoid him hours after the breakfast date. I look at him. 

Then I remember walking away from the scene after arriving at the venue. Now I know what to tell him after seeing me speed walk from the sight of him and the journalists.

“Some of the reporters in there were the same people who harass me whenever I’m out and about,” I explain, not wanting to make a big deal out of it as I continue, “I didn’t want to be the centre of the attention today especially now that… yeah.” 

“With you interviewing the drivers for Sky Sports, I can assume Christian told you about Julius’ promotion?” 

I let out a heavy sigh, shutting my eyes close for a moment as I tuck my hands into the pockets. How do I not lose my shit?

“It’s something Julius needs to speak to me about,” I grimace, “if he wants me to do this then he’ll have to tell me upfront.” 

But it’s not like he’ll ever show up. I’ve never seen him since the day I was called to his office building. That was when I was told about this role that I didn’t think would be… important and big. 

“He’s a bit more involved than I thought,” I laugh humourlessly, “I don’t even know how to start with it. I don’t know how you do it.” 

“You’re just handling however much you can,” he tells me, “Christian and the others are more than happy to help you get a head start. You don’t have to get yourself involved with the engineering and strategy part.” 

“I have three degrees,” I deadpan, “three of which have nothing to do with building a car, let alone know the full terminologies. So between my father and I, I think I have less advantage in this field and he’ll most likely fail if I’m the one taking care of it.”

He pauses for a second, making me stop walking as well. My eyes are staring at his dark ones, my brows quirked at his sudden pause. 

“You are confident in front of a camera,” he starts, “I think you should be confident with how you will handle the business passed on to you, no?”

“Yeah I suppose,” I sigh, putting my head down as I keep my hands tucked into my pockets.  “I need to stop being sad.” 

But his chuckle did it for me. That and the way his heavy hand reached to mess with my hair. “Come on, let’s go.” 

“Where?” I ask him, looking up at him once more only to witness his eyes twinkling. 

“Back to the hotel because we all have a long day tomorrow,” he tells me, “that, and I do not exactly wish to have a conversation with any other people at the moment.” 

“Pshh,” I scoff with a grin, nudging him while I wag my eyebrows,  “I have heard a lot about you from Christian.” 

“Huh? Really?” He asks, his face has a mischievous smile that I’ll never mistake for someone else’s. I’ve seen him smile a lot. It’s quite a shame other people never did. He’s handsome and not many people have seen it. Too bloody blind, if they haven’t. 

Or he needs to smile more. But that’ll only scare people off.

“Yeah,” I nod, “something about you deliberately approaching him yesterday?” I raise a brow, still not letting go of my shit eating grin. I then notice the collar of his jacket and reach out to fix it as I playfully say, “Some may say that you’re interested in their acting Liaison.” 

“Hmm,” he hums as if he’s considering it, “did I not show you that earlier today at breakfast?” 

I burst into a fit of laughter as I shake my head, as if I’m telling him, “Unbelievable.”

Have I ever mentioned that this is happening around other people? People with cameras? 

And here I am whining about adding fuel to the fire. It’s quite difficult not to if the man in front of me continues on doing what he does best. Existing.

#formula one fanfiction #formula one fic #formula one imagine #formula one x oc #f1 imagine #f1 fic #toto wolff fluff #toto wolff imagine #toto wolff x oc #toto wolff fic #toto wolff fanfiction #mercedes amg imagine #formula one fluff #f1 fiction #f1 fluff #f1 fanfic

[sergeantbuckybarnes]

you belong with me (part 3) // fred weasley

Summary: You’re stubborn, so when your best friend tries to convince you that Bucky Barnes isn’t the right guy for you, you try to prove him wrong. In the process, you end up in a place you thought only existed in books, where you meet the one.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader (eventually)

Word count: 4k

Warnings: angst, mentions of past bullying

A/N: As always, remember English is not my first language. Also, thanks to @error501beta​ for proofreading this!

main masterlist  |  series masterlist

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland, Great Britain, 1994

It had been a few weeks since you had unexpectedly landed in this reality, and you might say things were going well for you.

The arrival of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students and the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament had set Hogwarts ablaze with liveliness. The halls were teeming with excitement, as everyone busily prepared for the grand event.

You'd become close to Hermione and spent nearly all of your time with her. It felt good to have a genuine girlfriend; while you were very fond of Peter and treasured your friendship with him, but sometimes you just needed a girl — who wasn’t your sister– on whom you could rely, and sadly you didn’t have that back at home.

“Hey, America,” you sighed in annoyance when you heard the voice you'd –unwillingly– become accustomed to calling you from the end of the corridor.

When you turned your head, you saw a pair of indistinguishable figures with bright red hair. “Yes?” You asked with a forced smile.

“Is it true that you can see the future?” This question does come out of George’s mouth.

You knew it was George and not Fred, because you had since learned all the subtle differences between the twins. They were minimal, but they were there. Also, you were proud to say that you had a keen eye.

You rolled your eyes, recognizing the source of that strange query, “No, I’m not.”

Since you mentioned Ludovic Bagman and the letter to Fred on your first day at Hogwarts, he'd been bugging you, speculating that you were a seer. It wasn't your intention to be serious about it, you just wanted to mess with him, but your "prediction" of what would happen later in the story had stuck with the curious redhead.

“Fred says you are.”

You squinted at him, “And do you believe all the bullshit that comes out your brother’s mouth?”

“Hey!” the aforementioned brother exclaimed, offended.

You just shrugged, not regretting your words. It's not as if you had lied.

“You’re a seer!” He declared with unwavering conviction. Very sure of his words. Something that did not surprise you, because Fred Weasley was defined by his self-assurance.

“What makes you believe she's a seer?” Fred looked at his brother as if he was being incredibly stupid.  

“I already told you!” He threw his arms up in frustration. “She knows stuff,” he mumbled under his breath, not wanting to be heard; something improbable given that you three were the only ones in the corridor, everyone else being in the Great Hall since it was dinner time.  

Your stomach rumbled. You hadn’t eaten since noon, which was hours ago. Eating at set times is something you hadn’t done since your days at the orphanage. Living in the Avengers Compound came with various perks, including the freedom to indulge in any food item at any given hour.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied with a puzzled expression on your face.

You would never want someone to be falsely accused of lying, but you and Fred had gotten off to a bad start, and it must be confessed that you were a little spiteful.

Fred widened his eyes, “You told me about Mr. Bagman!”

“Who?”

“Fred, she can’t know about Bagman because she doesn’t even know who he is,” George pointed out. Oh, the voice of the reason.

“But she knows,” Fred insisted, stomping his foot on the floor like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum

“I don’t have time for this. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have dinner.”

You left the twins behind as you made your way to the Great Hall. Their voices were faintly audible in the distance, as the Weasley boys continued to debate whether or not you were a seer.

“Well, the goblet is nearly ready to make its choice,” Dumbledore explained. “I believe it will take another minute. “Now, when the champions' names are announced, I would direct them to come to the top of the Hall, go along the staff table, and enter the next chamber,” he pointed to the door behind the staff table, “where they will receive their first instructions.”

He drew out his wand and swung it in a graceful motion, causing all the candles in the room to be snuffed out except for the ones inside the intricately carved pumpkins. The sudden lack of light left the space shrouded in a dim and eerie atmosphere. The Goblet of Fire now shone brighter than anything else in the Hall. The flames within flickered a vibrant, electric blue and white that burned so brightly it was almost painful to look at.

“Hope it’s Angelina,” Fred said.

“So do I.” Hermione agreed with a nod.

Oh, boy, if they only knew…

The flames within the goblet burst into an intense crimson hue once again. Small sparks began shooting out of it. Then a flicker of flame suddenly shot up, followed quickly by a scorched piece of parchment – the entire room gasped. Dumbledore quickly grabbed the parchment and held it out in front of him, the flames flickering white and blue again. Raising his voice so that everyone could hear, he read out loud, “The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum.”

“No surprises there!” Ron screamed as the hall erupted in applause and cheers.

Viktor Krum slouched up from the Slytherin table towards Dumbledore, turned right, strolled along the staff table, and disappeared through the entrance into the next chamber.

The room fell silent as everyone's focus shifted back to the goblet, which rapidly transformed back into a vibrant red color. Suddenly, the flames erupted once more and a second parchment shot out of it. “The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!”

Hermione, amidst the bustling commotion, gestured towards the remaining Beauxbatons group and said, “Oh look, they’re all disappointed.”

“‘Disappointed’ was a bit of an understatement,” you thought. The girls who hadn't been selected appeared utterly devastated; two of them were now crying uncontrollably and hiding their tear-streaked faces in their arms. Seeing such raw emotion on display made it clear just how much this opportunity had meant to them.

When Fleur Delacour disappeared into the adjacent room, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion was about to be announced next…

Your stomach had knotted up for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was the anticipation of what was to come.  You knew everything would be okay –except for Cedric– but the terrible taste in your mouth would not disappear.

Although you had only been here for a short while, you had grown fond of these people. You cared about them even before you knew they were real and they were just characters in the pages of a book.

You got attached to people fast, which could be an issue here given what was to come.

Once again, the Goblet of Fire turned red and emitted sparks, shooting a large flame into the air from its tip. Dumbledore retrieved the third piece of parchment and announced with enthusiasm, “The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!”

As Cedric strode towards the chamber behind the teachers' table, every Hufflepuff student sprang up from their seats, cheering and pounding their feet in excitement. The ovation went on for so long that Dumbledore was forced to pause briefly before he could speak again.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore exclaimed with joy once the noise settled. "So, we now have three champions. “I am confident that I can count on all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions all of your support. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —”

However, as Dumbledore cut himself off mid-sentence, it became evident to those present what had diverted his attention.

The fire within the goblet had once again flared red and tiny flames were bursting from it in various directions. A lengthy flame shot upwards, bearing along an additional piece of parchment.

Dumbledore extended his hand and seized the parchment, raising it aloft as he scrutinized the name inscribed upon it. As the room waited in silence, Dumbledore contemplatively examined the note in his grasp, while all eyes remained fixed upon him. Ultimately, with a throat-clearing, Dumbledore readout —

“Harry Potter.”

You already knew how everything had gone down. Harry was forced to participate in the tournament, and Ron was fuming with him as he had not believed his friend's denial of putting his name in the goblet. Since then, he had been giving him the silent treatment.

The rest of Hogwarts seemed to be against him as well, and they took every opportunity they had to make it clear that they supported Cedric and not him.

This behavior did remind you of your high school in New York. Apparently, fiction was not far detached from reality.

“Hey, America,” you rolled your eyes at the nickname.

“What do you want?” You were surprised, when you turned around, to only see one redhead. You wonder where George was, or if he was hidden somewhere nearby and you were about to be pranked.

“No pranks for the lady today.”

You wanted to smack your face for speaking your mind aloud. Instead, you repeated your question, “What do you want?”

Fred’s face morphed into a serious expression. “I want you to be honest with me. How did you know about Bagman, and why did you lie to George about it? You made me look like a liar.”

“Why are you still sulking on this? It’s been weeks, let it go.”

“I won’t let it go.”

As you let out a deep breath, you rubbed the bridge of your nose with your fingers in frustration. You knew he was tenacious, and he wouldn't let go of the issue until you provided him with a satisfactory answer. You'd always been a brilliant girl, so you had to think of something. And fast.

“I already told you. I have a gift,” you reiterated with a confident tone.

Fred's eyes rolled in a show of disbelief at your feeble excuse.

“No. Listen, it’s true,” you said as convincingly as you could. “It’s been a thing in our family for decades. My sister has it. My mother had it, pretty sure grandma had it as well,” you mused. “It's a gift that every Maximoff woman is born with.”

Oh my… The whopper you were dropping on him.  You didn’t even believe yourself, so how could you expect him to?

When you caught Fred's blank stare, you figured he wasn't going to buy your story. Without hesitation, you spiced up the lie to make it sound more convincing.  “When we touch someone, we can glimpse inside their soul and thoughts. When I held your hand at the Black Lake I saw you and George at the World Cup, I saw the bet you made with Bagman. I saw how he duped you.”

Fred's face began to show an increasing sense of surprise with each word you said.

“I’m not a seer. I cannot see the future.”

Despite everything you had unfolded, the older twin remained unsatisfied with your answer and pressed for more proof to be presented.

“What do you want me to do?”

He reached out his hand for you. You gazed at it, then at him, perplexed. “Take my hand. I want you to tell me what more you see.”

You lifted your brow at his mistrust, but you took his hand nonetheless. Your small hand was wrapped around his large fingers once again. You shut your eyes and began to perform your role.

While you pretended to be focusing, your thoughts were actually buzzing with potential things to say to him. This time you weren't messing with him; instead, you wanted him to believe you had a gift.

A moment later, your eyes fluttered open and you released his hand.

“Well?”

“You dropped one of your and George’s ton-tongue toffees on the Dursley’s floor and Harry’s cousin picked it up and ate it. His tongue looked like a great python,” you smiled, “Nice one, by the way.”

Fred's eyes grew wide. “Oh, and I know your mom isn’t very fond of — what was it the name?” you pretended to think about it, “Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes! I'm sure she'll change her mind once she sees the amazing things you and George have invented.”

“How do you even —”

“And, I know you put bulbadox powder in Keeneth Towler’s pajamas last year. He erupted into boils! Honestly, Fred. What did the poor guy do to you?”

Fred found himself at a loss for words.

“Do you believe me now?”

He nodded quietly, his gaze fixed on you.

“Good.”

You were ready to leave when Fred grabbed your arm. Obviously, this conversation wasn’t done for him.

“And now what?”

“Why did you not admit this to George?”

“Because it’s meant to be a secret. I can't go around shouting it from the rooftops.”

“You told me.”

“Yeah, Because you can be so incredibly annoying.”

That made him smile broadly. Not taking it as an insult but as a compliment.

“I guess you expect me to keep your secret.”

“That would be very thoughtful of you.”

But you knew it wouldn’t be that simple. It never was when it came to Fred Weasley.

Avengers Compound, New York City, USA, 2016

You strode into the room with anger bubbling inside, and hurled your backpack carelessly onto the floor. You slammed the door shut, not caring that your sister was coming up behind you.

You were seething with anger. Angry at the stupid people in high school, angry at that entitled brat Ashley Miller, and you were especially angry at Wanda.

Without even bothering to knock, your sister stormed into the room, a matching angry expression visible on her face.

“Like she had a reason to be mad,” you thought.

She just stood there, without saying anything or moving a muscle. Her arms were tightly folded across her chest, and her gaze was unwaveringly focused on you. If she was expecting an apology from you, she had another thing coming.

She looked at you expectantly. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

You shrugged, indifferently. “What do you want me to say?”

“Are you serious right now, Y/N?” she asked you incredulously. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

There it was again. ‘What you’ve done’. It was always what you had done. Never what others had done to you. That never seemed to matter to her. Or to anyone else.

“She deserved it.”

Wanda gave you a disappointed look, and even though you didn’t show it, it pierced you.

“Why can’t you just behave for once?”

“I have to behave?” you snapped. “What about them? Why do they have to be a bunch of assholes?”

“Same old story again, the world is to blame, and you’re the victim.” Wanda’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, hitting the perfect note of mockery you knew she was clearly aiming for.

“You didn’t even care to ask me what happened.”

“I couldn't care less what happened, Y/N. Nothing justifies what you did.”

“Yes it does!”

“I will not justify your actions any longer. You’re not a child anymore, so quit acting like one.”  Wanda’s words were sharp. And they hurt. They hurt a lot.

You bit your cheek. You weren’t going to cry. Crying is for weak people who lack emotional control.

You were unbreakable.

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not the perfect sister you wished for. But what I’m not sorry for is not letting a bunch of spoiled morons treat me as if I’m less than them, 'cause I’m not.”

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland, Great Britain, 1994

You caught up with Ron and Harry as they were exiting Trelawny’s class, and a few seconds later Hermione joined the group.

“How are classes going, Y/N?” she asked you brightly. “Are you adapting well?”

“Oh yeah, I adapt very easily to changes.”

Lie.

You arrived at the entrance hall, which was crowded with people queuing for dinner. You and the Golden Trio had just joined the end of the line when a loud voice rang out behind you.

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!”

When you turned around, your eyes fell upon Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle who were all standing there, each with a look of utter delight on their faces.

“What?” Ron asked.

“Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” Malfoy said, waving a copy of the Daily Prophet and speaking loudly enough for everyone in the crowded entry hall to hear. Malfoy straightened the paper with a flourish and read on:

ᴀʀɴᴏʟᴅ ᴡᴇᴀꜱʟᴇʏ, ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ

ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜰʟʏɪɴɢ ᴄᴀʀ ᴛᴡᴏ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀɢᴏ, ᴡᴀꜱ ʏᴇꜱᴛᴇʀᴅᴀʏ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ

ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛᴜꜱꜱʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ᴍᴜɢɢʟᴇ ʟᴀᴡ-ᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀꜱ

(“ᴘᴏʟɪᴄᴇᴍᴇɴ”) ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʜɪɢʜʟʏ ᴀɢɢʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ

ᴅᴜꜱᴛʙɪɴꜱ. ᴍʀ. ᴡᴇᴀꜱʟᴇʏ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʀᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪᴅ ᴏꜰ “ᴍᴀᴅ-ᴇʏᴇ” ᴍᴏᴏᴅʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɢᴇᴅ ᴇx-ᴀᴜʀᴏʀ

ᴡʜᴏ ʀᴇᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪɴɪꜱᴛʀʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴀʙʟᴇ

ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱʜᴀᴋᴇ ᴀɴᴅ

ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ. ᴜɴꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱɪɴɢʟʏ, ᴍʀ. ᴡᴇᴀꜱʟᴇʏ

ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ, ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ  ᴀᴛ ᴍʀ. ᴍᴏᴏᴅʏ’ꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴠɪʟʏ ɢᴜᴀʀᴅᴇᴅ

ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍʀ. ᴍᴏᴏᴅʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ʀᴀɪꜱᴇᴅ ᴀ ꜰᴀʟꜱᴇ ᴀʟᴀʀᴍ.

ᴍʀ. ᴡᴇᴀꜱʟᴇʏ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴅɪꜰʏ ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ

ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏʟɪᴄᴇᴍᴇɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ʀᴇꜰᴜꜱᴇᴅ

ᴛᴏ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ ᴅᴀɪʟʏ ᴘʀᴏᴘʜᴇᴛ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜʏ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ 

ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪɴɪꜱᴛʀʏ ɪɴ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴅɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴇᴍʙᴀʀʀᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ.

“There’s even a picture!” Malfoy stated as he flipped the page over and held it up. “A picture of your parents outside their house — if it can be called that! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?”

Ron was trembling with rage. Everyone in the room was staring at him.

“Stuff it, Malfoy,” Harry said, “Come on, Ron…”

“Oh yeah, you stayed with them this summer, didn't you, Potter?” Malfoy sneered, “So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?”

“You know your mother, Malfoy?” Harry said — both he and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy — “That expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?”

Malfoy’s pallid face went slightly pink.

“Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.”

“Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” Harry snarled as he turned away.

BANG!

Several people screamed, and Harry felt something white-hot scratch the side of his face. He reached inside his robes for his wand, but before he could touch it, he heard a second tremendous BANG, and a roar that rang throughout the entrance hall.

When Harry looked around, his gaze was drawn to a pure white ferret shivering on the stone-flagged floor, right where Malfoy had been standing.

There was a frightened hush in the entrance hall. Nobody knew what had happened.

You had distanced yourself from the trio at some point when the argument started, and by staying back, you blended into the sea of students and went unnoticed. As you delicately flicked your fingers, the ferret took off, soaring through the air with ease, before crashing down onto the ground with an audible thud. Despite the impact, you weren't deterred and the furry creature sprang back up into the air once again. As you persisted with your action, the sound of the ferret's painful shrieks filled the air. It bounced relentlessly, reaching higher and higher heights.

“Stinky, cowardly, scumbag asshole,” you muttered under your breath. You were sick of bullies.

The ferret haphazardly soared through the skies, with its legs and tail flailing about uncontrollably.

“What is going on here?” a shocked voice inquired.

Professor McGonagall descended the marble stairwell, her arms laden with books. She watched as the ferret leaped and jumped through the air before her eyes eventually landed on yours. As soon as she caught sight of you, your hand stopped moving and the ferret slipped out of it, hitting the ground with a thud.

She drew her wand, and with a loud snapping noise, Draco Malfoy returned, laying in a heap on the floor, his sleek blond hair all over his now vividly pink face. He winced in pain as he slowly got up on his feet.

He, Crabble, and Goyle ran off immediately, streaking for the dungeons.

“Miss Maximoff,” Professor McGonagall's harsh voice summoning you drew the undesired attention of the entire hall, which was now fixated on you. “My office. Now.”

Peter Parker and May Parker’s Apartment, New York City, USA, 2016

“You know she didn’t mean it, right?” Peter spoke, “She was just upset.”

“I was upset too. And she didn’t even bother asking me what happened,” you settled onto Peter's bed, expressing your frustration. “She just put the blame on me.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you looked at your best friend, and you felt so lucky to have him in your life.

You and Peter had a connection you had never experienced with anyone else before. He was your first real friend, the one person who truly understood you and whom you could count on for anything.

“I would have reacted the same way if someone had insulted my mother,” he continued.

You let out a humorous laugh, “Would you have turned Flash into a rat?”

You knew Flash usually picked on Peter, but you were sure he would never stoop so low as to make a hurtful remark about Peter's deceased mother. And even if he was, Peter would never have lost control of himself as you had.

“I would have.”

You gazed at him with a puzzled expression.

“I would have!”

“You’re too nice to hurt anyone, Peter.”

And you believed this. Peter Parker was kind and caring, known for his selfless and generous nature. Throughout his life, he was always eager to help others, never once displaying any malice or ill will.

“You’re nice, too.”

“You've got to be the only one who thinks that.”

“Hey,” Peter said, placing his hand on top of yours, “Ashley had it coming. You never let anyone walk all over you, and you always protect the ones you love. That’s so freaking admirable. You are admirable.”

“You know, Wanda is everything I aspire to be one day. And I want her to be proud of me, but I just feel like I’m a constant disappointment to her. No matter how hard I try, it seems like she only sees my flaws,” you swallow the lump in your throat, chest trembling in anticipation at the words you’re going to utter, “Sometimes… Sometimes I think she wishes I was the one who died that day, instead of Pietro.”

“Don’t say that, Y/N,” Peter gasped, his face contorting into a horrid expression of shock and disbelief.

“It’s true,” you said, “They were twins. They had a special bond that she and I would never share.”

“Wanda loves you, Y/N,” Peter tried to reassure you. He was determined not to allow any doubt to arise in your mind regarding the love that your sister has for you. He knew Wanda wasn't perfect and she had messed up by refusing to listen to your version of the story. However, that didn't mean she didn't care about you, or that she hoped you'd died instead of Pietro. “You’re her whole world. You’re the only family she has left. You’re her little sister.”

“A child she has to keep justifying actions for.”

The echoes of her words reverberated in your mind, leaving a lasting impression.

“No. A little sister she feels she must protect and for whom she wishes the best,” Peter interjected, kindly correcting your statement. “She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

You shifted your gaze towards your friend, the realization dawned upon you that Peter had your best interests at heart. His genuine concern for your well-being touched you deeply, prompting you to open up after all these years of shielding yourself from emotional vulnerability. As the overwhelming wave of emotions crashed down upon you, a sob escaped your lips, highlighted by shimmering rivulets of tears flowing down your face.

Peter swiftly embraced you, and you clung onto him as if he were your sole anchor for survival. You buried your teary face into his chest, releasing all the emotions you'd been repressing for who knows how long.

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley fic #fred and george weasley #harry potter imagine #marvel imagine

[blueshistorysims]

July 1923, London, England

Jack Porter’s birthday party was very large and very loud. People crammed every part of their house, from the first floor to the third, and it was amusing to watch as Wilhelmina and her husband scrambled around their house, trying to speak to all the people they invited. 

“Byron! You’re just standing there looking like a wallflower when I know you’re not,” Wilhelmina exclaimed, moseying her way over to him. 

“I’m just observing the crowd. He nodded his head toward the tall red-haired man. “I’ve not seen that man at any of the parties you’ve hosted or any I’ve attended recently. Who is he?”

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to introduce you, he and Jack were flatmates back before he made it as a poet, and he was still in medical school. They’ve been friends longer than I’ve known Jack. Dr. MacGregor has been traveling the world since his wife died, and he’s only recently returned to London. You two would get along greatly—you’re both arguers.”

Byron froze. “I’m sorry, did you say his name was MacGregor? Montgomery MacGregor? From Perthshire, Scotland? The Scottish communist Montgomery MacGregor?”

“You know him?”

He gulped, nodding slowly. “He… he was… he’s my late sister’s husband.”

Wilhelmina looked equally shocked. “...Edeline was your sister?”

“Yes. You knew her?”

“We were friends, my god, I had no idea you were related. I’m so sorry.”

“You weren’t at their wedding or her funeral.”

She frowned. “Jack couldn’t get leave, and Joel had just returned home when they were married.” She bit her lip. “And Jack was still getting over the flu when she passed.”

“I… I think I am going to speak to him.”

Byron swallowed as he made his way over to the bar. It had been over four years since he last saw Montgomery, not since his father’s and sister’s funeral. He was clean-shaven, his hair was shorter, his glasses different, and if Wilhelmina hadn’t pointed him out, he doubted he would have recognized him.

“You look very different without a mustache.”

He turned around, and his eyes widened behind his frames. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ! Byr—no, it would be yer grace now, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t fucking call me that. My god, it is you.”

He set his drink down. “Jesus. Ho-how are ya? How do ya know the Porters?”

“Divorced. Wilhelmina’s late brother and I were roommates in boarding school, and… we were sweethearts for a summer when I was younger.”

“...Ya look well. Better than the last time I saw ya.”

Byron looked at his feet. “You as well. Where have you been? It’s been four fucking years.”

Montgomery shrugged, pushing up his glasses. “Everywhere.”

They spent hours talking (and drinking). Byron told him everything he’d done in the last four years, excluding his sexual escapades with men while Montgomery described the last four years of his life. He had traveled all over the world as a way to grieve. He’d been from everywhere from Tibet to the northernmost point of Alaska, which impressed Byron greatly. He’d helped organize the British Communist Party but had only recently left it after a spat with the general secretary and a trip to Russia, and how he’d become disillusioned with the political ideology he once held to heart, and its lack of choice and democracy.

“Democratic socialist I suppose I am now, but I dinna ken.”

He’d only returned to Britain from his travels a month ago, and had moved into an old house that had been converted into three townhouses, smaller than his old one. It was difficult to be in Edinburgh, so he’d returned to London, working as both a private physician and part-time instructor at a teaching hospital.

“I have an old whiskey me mother gave me when I turned 30. Never opened. Fancy it? Me place is only a block away, straight down the road.” His accent had grown nearly twice as thick.

Byron looked around at the dwindling party. “Sure, I’d rather not be a straggler.”

It was well decorated, which immediately gave a clue that Elspeth had been the one to do his house. He watched as Montgomery disappeared into the kitchen, and he sat on the sofa, staring at the photographs of his late sister, who stared right back. It was uncomfortable, though he couldn’t place why. 

It wasn’t until half the bottle was gone, and Byron and Montgomery were both properly drunk, when he glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was past one in the morning. 

“Oh fuck, it’s late.”

Montgomery blinked, slowly turning his toward the clock. “Aye, yer right.”

Slowly, Byron stood up, looking around for his overcoat. “Thank you for the whiskey. Do you think taxis operate this late?”

“Where are ya stayin’?”

“The Ritz.”

“Shite, that’s the other side of town. No taxi is available now.” He waved upstairs. “Take me bed, I dinna care. I can sleep on the sofa.”

“No, I can take the sofa, I don’t want to impose on your hospitality.”

“A duke on me fuckin’ sofa?”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

The older man shook his head firmly. “I insist. Me bed feels like heaven.”

Byron shrugged, deciding he’d rather not argue with the Scotsman.

When Byron stepped inside the bedroom, a pang of sadness hit him. The way the room was decorated, shades of green and florals reminded him of Edeline, who adored green and decorated any space with it when she was able to. He wondered if Elspeth had done this for her brother on purpose. 

He sat on the bed, feeling the mattress sink. He felt awkward, and things around him had begun to blur. Byron looked up to Montgomery had gotten closer, to the point where their feet were almost touching. There was a glossy look in his eyes as they made eye contact and all of a sudden, the room grew very quiet. 

“Byron?” Montgomery whispered after minutes.

He licked his lips. “...You’re quite attractive, you know that?”

The Scot bent down and grabbed his face, and not much was said after their lips touched. 

#i didnt tag this as mature but if you couldn't tell #tw sex #sorry i know this was long lmao but its one my fave posts #the walshes #the walsh legacy #sims 4 decades #sims 4 historical #ts4 #sims 4 decades challenge #ts4 1920s #1920s #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 history challenge #ts4 historical #tw alcohol #byron walsh #montgomery macgregor #the sims 4

[inlovewithregencyera]

HEY YOU!!!

down here...allow me to present to you:

Theme song: ♫♫♫!!!!!!!!

As midnight's shroud envelops Auglire castle, its timeworn stones seem to exhale the whispers of a ghastly past.

The flickering candlelight casts elongated shadows that dance along the walls like moths to flame.

The air, heavy with the weight of centuries-old secrets, echoes with the ghostly moans of the forsaken.

Blood has stained the very stones upon which this noble abode stands, each echoing corridor a silent witness to the sins buried in the family's coffers. Even the creaking floorboards tell tales of unspeakable deeds that have seeped into the very essence of the ancestral halls. Curse is the Castle, and damned are the Greys.

You see, there are secrets within the Grey family that have been covered up for generations. Auglire Castle (their oldest estate) was built in 1593.

It came with a heavy price of the pockets as well as the labor of others. Their money is tainted, like most of the royalty and nobility in Isturia. But there's something different about their fortune. Mysterious circumstances started occurring there in the latter half of the 17th century after the death of the Duchess of Hollow and word soon got out that it was haunted...

This will be my official story (and I'll actually post quite frequently), and I've discontinued my other two. You may ask, why? Well for starters, if you read the first one, 'Those who have gone before me', that was a prequel to the events that were going to lead to this. I have been planning this story meticulously since January. I felt stuck with those who have gone before me, the prequel to this, as it was primarily in the Baroque Era for a good bit. Don't get me wrong, that era is loveliness in itself and I'm actually making a CC set for it right now, but I wanted to make my Regency-era story come to life sooner than later. But don't fear, there will be some Baroque era scenes for flashback purposes. I felt that if I continued my elonged duration of the Baroque Era I'd burn out and lose motivation, and I did for a while! That is why I came up with the concept of 'Amelie and Virginie', some Regency storytelling to fill the void (yes those hats I promised will still be released). It helped a bit, but I longed to be able to tell this story, as I have been planning it forever. So I came to the decision of just starting this one. Allow me to tell you what this will be about :)

This humongous continent? This is Euriria. It is heavily inspired by Europe during the early 19th century with some slight adjustments. All of my stories will essentially use this map as I like the country names I've come up with. If you read the country names, you can tell exactly which each one is based on (and if you know your geography well too). Now, let's discuss the country of Great Bremson. Great Bremson is obviously inspired by Great Britain, and Isturia is inspired by England. My story will take place in Isturia, and many of its cities! Allow me to show you the aesthetics of the 6 main cities displayed in my story out of the hundreds you'll hear about:

well, since I said this is set in the regency era, who is the protagonist??!? glad you asked

Meet Aurelia (uhh-reel-ee-uh) Jane Charlotte Grey. Born July 8th, 1798, she is the 3rd daughter of the current Duke and Duchess of Hollow. Her father is one of the most (if not the most) powerful nonroyal Dukes in Isturia. She is a few weeks shy of her 20th birthday when our story unfolds. Throughout this story, we will follow her throughout her life along with her siblings, her children, etc. until she dies! Aurelia is half Isturian but also half Incubinian (Based on Haiti but my other worldly maps aren't done). When her father marries her mother, ALL of Isturia talks about the marriage. Of course, slavery ended in Isturia in 1602, but most native Isturians married other native Isturians, not anyone else. In fact, Incubinians didn’t have the same rights as Isturians until 1679 (all except marrying someone of Isturian blood). In 1750, the law that had prevented Incubinians from marrying Isturians was lifted, so this wasn't an entirely new concept. Aurelia's identity is something that she struggles with a lot, but I won't go into that much detail with that just yet. Aurelia soon begins to believe the rumors circulating about her family after a traumatic event happens in 1807 which leads her to believe she is damned. Will Aurelia ever discover the truth of her family's past? Will she ever become secure in herself and her identity? Are the Greys truly damned and doomed or is it superstition? Find out and see. Here is the Family tree and the character page coming soon

#ts4 regency #regency sims 4 #sims 4 regency #sims 4 historical #sims 4 regency era #simblr #sims 4 story #historical sims #historical sims 4 #sims 4 baroque #baroque sims 4 #ts4 simblr #thecurseofthedamned #sims 4 historical story #regency ts4 #baroque ts4

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday Scottish actress Georgie Glen.

Georgie was born in Helensburgh on April 20th 1956 and as a child had little interest in appearing in school plays. She studied graphic design at Glasgow School of Art and moved to London in her mid-twenties to design book covers for the Thames and Hudson publishing house.

Looking for other interests she joined Floodlight Council, an organization set up to bring out adult’s artistic skills and then became part of the Questors Theatre Company in Ealing, West London. Here she met the late Alan Rickman - who, like Georgie, had a background in design before treading the boards - and he encouraged her to follow her acting ambitions. As a result she enrolled at the Bristol Old Vic drama school and on graduating had her first job at the Wolsey Theatre in Ipswich.

Even then she felt, somewhat modestly, that she did not have the looks for a leading lady but ever since her television debut in 1988 she has been a reliable supporting player in virtually every type of show from sketch comedy to period drama, notably in a recurring role as doughty Sergeant Jennifer Nokes in Heartbeat and the liberal, kindly teacher head of History, Audrey in'Waterloo Road - filmed in her native Scotland.

Indeed she may be said to be one of the first ladies of character acting and though her film roles have again always been in support of bigger names she has proved herself to be a scene- stealer par excellence, as one of the more enthusiastic in Calendar girls alongside Helen Mirren and Julie Walters.

As I said earlier she has been in every type of show, to name a few we have comedy roles in Harry Enfield and Friends, Alas Smith & Jones and Little Britain, drama series and films are two many to mention them all but there are dozens, the pick of them include Taggart, of course, Peak Practice, Doctor Findlay, Mrs Brown, Shakespeare in Love, Silent Witness, and I think a lot of you will maybe “say” oh yes, when I tell you that she was the Judge in The Victim in 2019, an excellent four part series set in Scotland also starring John Hannah and Kelly McDonald, and she was Denise in the brilliant Channel four show Damned!

#scotland #scottish #history #happy birthday #actress #theatre #television #cinema

[saintsenara]

still on my backdated @hprecfest grind with...

day five: favourite fics which aren't from ao3

the cactus and the toad by mirrormarie neville longbottom & severus snape teen | 73k words

why i recommend it:

i am, as regular readers of my ramblings will be aware, on the record that snape's treatment of neville is something we need to examine primarily as a narrative device - he's so cruel to him because he's a mean teacher in a children's story, that's the starting point - and this fic does just that, examining how neville comes to terms with his childhood experiences of snape as he looks at them from the other side of the war.

it also does something i always enjoy seeing - it examines how post-war closure looks to characters who aren't harry, and how their reckoning with snape (who is alive - very much against his will - in this story) will be very different than harry's own.

and it's a striking piece of writing in that it is one of the only fics i've seen which approaches a 'cure' for frank and alice longbottom that does not magically fix everything, but which has results which are only partial and which are only the beginning of a road to recovery. i think that's important.

snape stared at it, then at neville, and neville saw, with considerable glee, that snape's natural impulse to say something nasty was warring with his obvious worry that neville would take the cactus away if provoked.

come slowly, eden by paimpont molly weasley/lord voldemort mature | 3k words

why i recommend it:

yes, you've read the pairing right.

because it does what all rare pair fics seek to do, and takes two characters whom it should be impossible to imagine any sort of love story between and manages it, through a brilliantly skilful character study of molly and her hopes and her contradictions.

he sat perfectly still, immovable. molly turned slowly around and busied herself at the stove, stirring the soup with an unsteady hand. if only he would kill me right now and leave, she thought. before the others come back. she could feel his glance lingering on her as she worked. she moved more slowly than usual, stirring the fragrant soup that needed no more stirring and adding pinches of unnecessary spices.

he made a slight noise, a quiet rustling of his cloak. molly turned halfway around and caught a glimpse of the white expressionless face. and suddenly she knew: he was hungry. molly always knew when someone was hungry.

the english opening by lordrowantree fleur delacour/ron weasley teen | 55k words

why i recommend it:

because it respects ron's canonical rizz and asks the very important question: what would happen if fleur said yes when he asked her to the yule ball?

and, in doing so, it also respects all the rest of ron's canonical traits - his intelligence, his kindness, his big-picture thinking, his sense of daring - and uses them to offer an exploration of fleur's character which is considerably kinder and more nuanced than the one she receives in canon.

plus, it'll teach you something about chess, which is a bonus.

as ron pulled out the pieces, fleur looked out at the setting sun. it was just above the tops of the mountains and it painted the sky an incredible, vibrant red. it lit up ron's face and hair so that it looked like he was wreathed in flames like the gods of old. maybe, she admitted to herself, britain wasn't all bad.

#hp rec fest #asenora fic recs #neville longbottom #severus snape #molly weasley #lord voldemort #fleur delacour #ron weasley

[thembolaura2]

Babel is a book that came highly recommend to me from people I trust, and honestly I can see why. On it's surface, it should've been something I was really into - a book about anti-imperialism set against the backdrop of the Opium Wars while also being about etymology and the inherent imperfections of translating between two languages. Hell it even quotes Frantz Fanon at one point.

And yet.

I've been thinking about it a lot recently, and I think I've come to some conclusions of the things about it that really rubbed me the wrong way - major spoilers for the whole book follow.

Fundamentally, it comes down to one word: class. I think RF Kuang has a massive blindspot around class and classism, and it seeped through in this book in a way that I found quite aggravating.

I'll start by saying that the only working class characters that I can remember are Professor Lovell's housekeeper Mrs Piper, and the northern strikers. And kind of Griffin.

Mrs Piper is basically shown as a stereotypical loving, kindly housekeeper. She's Scottish and makes scones for Robin! That's...about all there is to her character, aside from one particular thing that sticks out to me - there's a bit early on where Robin gets beaten by Lovell for hyperfocusing and missing the start of his lesson, and Mrs Piper gets judged (not by Robin mind, by the book) for not acknowledging anything was wrong:

Some other child suited to better, kinder treatment might have realised that such nonchalance on the part of adults like Mrs Piper [...] to a badly bruised eleven-year-old was frightfully wrong

Now ignoring that this is a book set in 1830s Britain where this would have been a common occurrance anyway (yes it still would've been wrong back then but given the cultural context I don't think there were many other children "suited to a better, kinder treatment"), what grates me about this is that there's absolutely no interrogation of why she might not want to speak out about it. Her job is as a housekeeper. Presumably she is reliant on this job to survive. If she spoke out about this, chances are she'd both lose this job and potentially any future housekeeping jobs. And like, it's not a huge thing, but it's an early sign that the approach to class is at best, lacking.

So then we come to the northern strikers. First introduced as a rowdy, scary crowd - fine, it's from Robin's perspective and he's had a very bourgeois, sheltered upbringing after being picked up by Professor Lovell. They come back later, now on Robin's side, to act as. Uh. A barricade. Only one of them, Abel Goodfellow (lol) is the only one who gets any particuar characterisation, the rest are just a faceless crowd of people who the book doesn't seem to have any real interest in. The only reason they exist is to give the Oxford students and professors an extra layer of protection so none of the actual characters are in any sort of risk for a few chapters.[1]

Which brings me to one of my biggest issues. This whole book has been leading up to this "revolution" - but the revolution is a bunch of academics hiding in the big Colonialism Tower, while a bunch of proles are the ones who actually put themselves at risk. They are basically treated as cannon fodder to protect the brave academics, but then end up getting cold feet when it seems like they might be in some actual danger.

What the fuck.

What puts an even bigger point on this is knowing, throughout the entire book, that RF Kuang herself went to Oxford and pulled from her experiences. While this makes her exploration of the racism in the upper echelons of British society very real and is a legitimately good critique, it also makes the way she approaches the working class in this book feel extremely patronising - made worse by my recent discovery of just how bourgeois the rest of her background is (she went to a Greenhill School where each year costs upwards of $30k, Georgetown University which has a dispropotionately high ratio of students from wealthy families, studied at both Oxbrige unis, and finally an Ivy League uni in Yale.)

And I get it, I'm white, that is absolutely a privilege I have that she does not. I would never deny that, and I never want to talk over people who have experienced racism. But also, class-based oppression is very fucking real. So to have a literal Oxbridge scholar write a book decrying British imperialism and colonialism, criticising Oxford for being a racist driver of these things, while simultaneously glorifying the glamourous aspects of the institution [2] and just glossing over the intensity of classism in British society is, quite frankly, fucking galling.

Oh also, if you want me to be sympathetic to a character, maybe don't make them the fucking prince to another empire??? Utterly bizarre choice.

[1] As an aside, this section is another good example of her blindness towards class:

Despite all expectations, Abel's supporters grew in number over the following days. The workmen strikers were better at getting the message out than any of Robin's pamphlets. They spoke the same lanugage, after all. The British could identify with Abel in a way they could not with foreign-born translators.

The implication I get from this is that because they're foreign academics, those stupid, racist proles ignored them, but like. There is a long, storied history of solidarity across racial lines among the British working classes - admittedly my knowledge of this history doesn't go back as far as when this would have been taking place, but either way, the fact it's not mentioned that the British working class would see them primarily as Oxford toffs just seems like such a weird thing to skip over.

[2] Honestly my issue with all the anachronistic things like the oysters isn't that it's anachonistic but that it comes across as bragging about all the special things she got to experience at Oxford

#babel an arcane history #babel rf kuang #rf kuang #classism #colonialism