#magic carpet theatre

[cruciatusforeplay]

Map Of Whickber Street (Good Omens Soho around the bookshop)

I had a lot of fun watching the entire series again and working out where all the shops were in relation to one another. Some of these are mentioned in canon, some are just shown. I've taken some liberties with scale and the like. It wasn't clear which of these streets is Whickber Street, but I suppose there must be some mystery left in the world.

I'm adding some photo references and some more information about the various shops below the cut. If you can make out any more names, I'd love to know.

It's possible the deli is also part of Francesco's as they're both Italian, but there is a front door by the awning that could lead to the restaurant (not an unusual set up for Soho). Francesco's awning is the victim of Crowley's rainstorm.

Between Francesco's and Give Me Coffee is a shop selling formal menswear that I couldn't make out the name of.

Next to that is the coffee shop, Arnold's (the musical instruments shop), Marguerite's (the French restaurant), and newsagency (the news agents). We get a lovely shot of them from the upstairs of the bookshop (newsagents just barely visible).

Opposite them, we obviously have the bookshop itself and down from that, the record shop (which is called The Small Back Room, presumably in reference to having started at the back of Aziraphale's bookshop). The record shop is the orange shop you can see below. (There's also a clearer view of the newsagents).

The shop one down from the record shop is currently a question mark, but it does have a very bold colour scheme, and at one point we are a candelabra and a piece of fabric in the window display. I can't make out the name of this one either.

Opposite the bookshop we have the pub, the Dirty Donkey, whose front door is also the lift to heaven when summoned. Next to the pub is the doorway that leads you to the brothel (I picked the colour on the map from the new model friendly hands sign on the door), and next to that is Will Goldstone's Magic Shop. The magic shop, bookshop and the pub can also be seen in 1941 London flashbacks. Opposite the magic shop and next to the bookshop is another unknown shop. My gut says it sells lighting or maybe more general electrics, but I couldn't get a good enough shot to really see it.

At the end of this street we can see the Lucky Snake which I believe is a Chinese Restaurant, and just to the left we can glimpse a yellow shop, that I suspect is the herbalist that we see mentioned on Aziraphale's list of local businesses. Soho and Chinatown are geographical neighbours, and it's not uncommon to see Chinese herbalist or health shops in Soho. The red lanterns from the Lucky Snake continue down over the yellow shop, which is what gave me the impression it might be the herbalist.

Directly across the crossroads from the bookshop we have a fruit and vegetable market, that has a flower stand on the corner. That's where the tomatoes roll from when Gabe is walking through naked. (The veggies are obscured in the shot below, but we do see them in general)

If we follow the road between the flower market and the newsagents, I've extrapolated that the stage entrance to The Windmill (the theatre that we see in 1941) is there. We get a moderately clear view of it during the flashback, and the Windmill is a real place (to my knowledge it's somewhere between a burlesque club and a strip club these days), so I figured it would still be standing here too. We get the briefest of glimpses of the stage door still standing in modern London.

If you care for real world geography, then The Windmill's main entrance is on Great Windmill Street, right off Shaftesbury Avenue, on the corner of Archer Street.

I could not for the life of me find Brown's World of Carpets anywhere. Maybe he's not even actually a local business. He seems the type to fake it.

Here's a view of the area from heaven.

[justbelievinginmagic]

ariadne's thread ⎯ pt. 1: a deal, a deal, a deal!!

pairing(s): hyunjin x fem!reader series summary: when tempted by an intoxicating offer by hyunjin the goblin king of the underground, you fight against him to find your own sense of self once more while in his labyrinth. glimpse: she said the words - "i wish . . . i wish the goblin king would save me." what is said has been said. nothing can take back a wish except for even more powerful magic - a fae deal. warnings/tags: inspired by the 1986' movie Labyrinth, follows majority of the movie's plot points with lore divergence, 3rd person POV, use of Y/N, pg-13 themes with no explicit smut, world building!!, strong language, suggestive language, faerie lore!!, tension, enemies to lovers, unequal power dynamics, manipulation, faerie glamour, implied kidnapping, blonde, long hair hyunjin being a beautiful faerie king. word count: 4.7k -> next chapter series masterlist

Y/N was floating through life with no goal in sight. Except to wander home to her small childhood bedroom after college courses and her job at the local supermarket to read her books. Vanilla-scented and yellow-tinted pages felt like heaven under her fingertips as she fell into her books’ world day after day.

Pages of books kept her company for many years – as the world spun past. Fantasy worlds that were pretty and dangerous and wild and dreamy. Worlds where the heroine wins and the damsel finds her true love. Admittedly, she wished for it. Wished for something far away – someone to twirl her into their arms and keep her safe and sound. Fantastical but safe. A place to be herself while someone loved her. Instead of facing the world, invisible as she greets the next customer and walks the halls of a university as another face of the hundred-person class and returns home as the adult daughter locked up in her bedroom.

Never did she imagine it’d happen – late at night, on a rain-soaked Sunday. Her family was away from home, and Y/N left alone in the darkness of her childhood home. It hadn’t bothered her. Not as long as she had her books.

There was a clatter of rain against the doors of her balcony. Her eyes flashed away from her book to look over at them. A rickety branch scratched at a door like an old witch’s finger prodding at the glass, casting an eerie shadow onto her carpeted floor. It was frightening in the orange-yellow light of the slowly-dying incandescent fluorescent lights of her childhood room. The ancient lights aching to be replaced painted the room in a sunset nostalgia most days, but, tonight, it was painted her bedroom in a grimy film of age. Everything felt eerie and old and off.

The wallpaper, a fading pink and white with soft bears painted by the baseboards, rotted into a yellow tinged thing. Her bed was a hand-me-down full bed of fluffy duvets and old laced comforters with her bed posts holding a long sagging canopy of white tulle she insisted upon a tween.  She had always favored the fantastical and soft and, despite aging, she had to admit she forgot how long ago it had been when she had chosen the sets of softened bedding and moth-eaten tulle.

Her knick-knacks were of the same theme, gentle and girly of old childhood memories she couldn’t bear to toss aside even in her young adult age. Beloved stuffed animals (some that were soft to the touch while others had hardened scratchy fur from sitting collecting dust on long forgotten shelves), sparkling shimmering water globes (of places she had never been), paint-chipped jewelry boxes on a creaking overfull vanity (the wooden boxes were full of costume bracelets, rings, and necklaces of theatre days long passed), crafts and hobbies piled in a plastic bin in the corner (from bracelet making tools to dried-out paints and moth-eaten yarn balls), and old piles of high school notebooks peaking out from underneath her bed skirt (something she kept in the phantom fear that she may need them for college courses.) College courses that she felt empty when attending. Everything felt fleeting yet not. It felt stupid and overwhelming and – she wished things could be easier.

Easier like diving into her books. With her favorite book in her grasp, the yellow old book crinkling in her hands, she sighed as she whispered to it.

“If I could be any place but here…” she hummed. “I don’t want to work tomorrow – especially with the rain.” A deep sigh escaped her. “I wish…”

There was a pause in her words as she settled back into comfortable pillows. The rustling of her sheets disguising a murmured ‘she’s going to say the words’ from under her bed, from her closet.

“I wish the Goblin King would save me – steal me away to be his and only his.”

It wasn’t said in agony to a lucky penny or in plea besides a wishing well. She had simply laughed a little laugh as she curled up in her bed, hugging the book closer to her face as she read on. It was almost her favorite part – the royal ball!

Now, wishes don’t care for rhyme or even sincerity. (Both were lacking from her plea.) However, it was the perfect time for a wish to be granted - the words have been spoken at the stroke of midnight on the highest of full moons on the first day of spring.

There is a shatter somewhere; the branches of the tree outside her window scraaattcching the glass with a shriek. The wind made the house tremble and rumble as energy flooded the air, tangible enough it made her eyes look up, before with a snap - the lights switch off.

A crash of lightning and a roar of thunder clashed louder than ever. There was no settling silence of electronics and fridges and fans. No, the world growled as the storm grew. Until in a whirl of sparkling shimmer star dust and a burst of cold storm air, the balcony doors flung open to reveal a man. No, not an ordinary man. He was far too ethereal to be a normal man. (The idea of it being a robber didn’t even flicker through her mind. Though, the possibility of this being a dream did.)

The soft chimes of bell rang in her ears as he took a step into the room. He was near glowing like an angel, haloed by some shimmering light. Blonde hair that tickled the back of his neck in long strands fluttered in the storm wind. Dark thick brows pursed, partially hidden by strands of his golden hair that framed his angular face, and striking blue eyes lazily stared at her from within the dark shadows of his brow. Poutful raspberry-kissed lips that smirked at her. Gilded chains hung around his lean neck, displaying his collarbones with a sharpness. Elaborate piercings decorated both of his curved elf-like ears; all gold chained, red jeweled, and shimmering from the distant amber streetlight.

He wore fine tailored dark clothes as if he were part of the night storm himself; leathered pants that gleamed in the light, a lacy sort of shirt that curved tightly over rounded muscles and sinewy tendons and shadowed by a heavy cloak made of oil-slick dark feathers. Darker than night and covered in that sparkly dust that had brought him into her bedroom. His hands were adorned in many rings and one hand that had twists of dark silver that formed a sort of claw, covering his knuckles and fingertips like a gauntlet. He had tawny-tan skin that glowed from the nearby streetlights, with an unnatural. . . gloss of sparkle. As if his skin was made of crushed starlight.

Beautiful. . . tempting. . . frighteningly ethereal.

He stole her breath away and he knew it as he stared at her. The look in his eyes… it was like nothing  she’d ever seen in someone’s gaze towards her before. Dark and broody and yet something sharply cutting in his eyes. It wasn’t adoration. It wasn’t jealous or anger or frustration. Magnetic. Possession, yearning, power. He was powerful. He demanded attention, no – he demanded her attention. His head tilted as he looked on at her. Her gaze trickled down the fine tendons of his neck to realize he hadn’t taken a breath since entering – his chest did not rise or fall as he stared on at her with dark storm eyes. Her legs curled closer to her chest as the old book tumbled from her grasp, falling to the floor. Forgotten.

He didn’t move and, for a moment, she didn’t either. Her heart rushed in her head like the ocean; the rhythm a calling drum to his ears. She took a shuddering breath as she spoke.

“You’re him . . . aren’t you?” Y/N breathed. Realizing, he felt familiar. Not in the sense that she had seen him before– she’d remember someone so handsome. But rather it was like déjà vu. A familiarity with someone you’ve never seen before. But she had read of him over and over and over. He wasn’t what she pictured but maybe it was because she couldn’t imagine someone so hauntingly striking. She scrambled from her bed, almost tripping over the plentiful blankets and comforters.

“You’re the Goblin King.” she clarified.

That was the only explanation. He wore no crown, but she realized he didn’t need it. The power that radiated from him felt tangible like static before a lightning strike. She had read about him in her storybooks for years – folklore of faerie and the Underground something that had always intrigued her but. . . she had never thought it real. Not in reality. It was just a fantasy. A dream that she had wished upon many times before.

He didn’t smile at her, but his petaled lips twitched. His lips were so beautiful and soft looking (she wanted to kiss them, dedicate herself to making the soft flesh swollen and red from nips and kisses. She needed to. She had to.) The thought made her eyes widen in surprise at herself. Swallowing, she blinked glancing away from him.

He smiled then, the curve of his lips forming a sneer of sorts as he watched her with his engulfing eyes.

“Why are you here?” she queried out, hand reaching for the bedpost of her bed for support as she raised her gaze again.

Red-cheeked, she tried to maintain his hypnotic gaze. Was this a dream? She saw a man appear out of nowhere, so, maybe it was. She had been reading more romance books recently. . .

“Think closely, Y/N,” the fae finally spoke, voice low.

It felt like it shook her bones despite its strange gentility compared to the storm that still roared behind him.

Think closely. . .

She had been reading his book but… she had…

“I wished for you,” Y/N queried.

It wasn’t quite a question but it felt… not enough. How could a simple wish of him come true? If that was the case, wouldn’t fae be stealing women and men left and right? She had said those words before over the years (especially as a child)… so why now??

“I’ve come for you; to save you, dear thing,” he agreed.

“It was – I’m sor- I didn’t think you were real,” Y/N babbled, brows pursed almost painfully so.

“I am, just for you,” he replied as his hand rose to flick with grandiose. The balcony doors tumbled shut with a slam.

Silence. Darkness.. Just him and her…

“I don’t mean to be rude but—I can’t really, uh, go with you?” she said, still wrapped around her bed post.

His brows crinkled into a furrow beautifully like a Greek statue. Brows of agony and despair, beautiful despite its emotion. But just like a marble statue, his darkened blue eyes were inhuman. Like obsidian glass or a creature’s eyes, reflective and eerie. Angered. Betrayed even. Before they rose to meet yours once more. And like a façade, his eyes gleamed with light, sparkling and enchanting sea blue rather than the crashing waves before.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” he tempted instead, stepping closer into the room. Closer to her.  

His smile was one of sweet temptation, almost candy-sweet with his soft lips and pearly teeth, as he prowled closer. A part of her wished that if fae stories were true that other tall tales – such as the vampiric tale of the supernatural being unable to enter one’s home without permission – were true too. A chill climbed up her back as he inched closer to her.

(Little did Y/N know that she had given him permission. Not, just now with her conversation, her wish, but when she read her little Labyrinth book ‘til it was worn soft and yellowed from the oils of her fingertips. Devotion and curiosity were all the fae needed to make a link.)

He lifted something up between them – something that he hadn’t had in his hands before. An orb of some sort. Crystalline and faintly glowing in the moonlight that poured into the room. The metallic-claws that decorated his fingers in rows of rings didn’t graze the thing nor did they reflect in the perfectly clear orb. The man’s hand wasn’t visible through it either– like he was a ghost or a vampire in a mirror. A perfect bubble of gleaming light, crystalline and shining with chromatic aberrations. Her ears rung as she looked at it.

“What is that?” she queried carefully, stepping away from the safety of the bedpost to get a closer look.

“It’s a crystal – nothing more,” his voice was low as thunder, rumbling and grumbling like a tiger’s purr as she watched him.

With grace, the orb danced upon his hand, rolling this way and that with the fae never dropping the thing. It didn’t even look difficult for him. Y/N kept her gaze on the crystal for a moment, getting dizzy as he continued to shift it over his hand like it was a boat fighting the tides.

“But –” he tossed the crystal up.

Y/N followed the orb’s trajectory only to be spooked when there was a presence behind her rather than in front of her. The King – through some sort of magic – was beside her, a hand outstretched to catch the orb right beside her face. Y/N startled jumping away a bit, into his chest. She felt caged in by him. His proximity was frightening tempting.

When she breathed in, his smell engulfed her; there was something ancient in his scent. Not like old perfume but something like earthly old. He smelled of fire-smoke, damp moss after a rainshower, something deeper like rosemary or thyme, and something sweet like. . . honey? She wanted to lean back into it, rub her face into his neck like a cat would preen against their owner. She wanted to decipher each scent, find its earthly copy and make a cologne just so she’d never leave its whirlwind of comfort.

Instead, she froze against his cold form.

She knew the Goblin King in her books was tricky - fae often were. There were a handful of types – from those who stole away women from their husbands, to those who caused mischief, and to those who would serve but at a price. It was easy enough to read, not easy to live. She couldn’t tell why she felt this way – sure, he was handsome but… she had control. She wasn’t some teenager. The fact she kept falling into these daydreams of him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him – it scared her. Not knowing where the faerie traps were and how to evade them was scary for her.

The Goblin King smiled; cold snow-sky eyes met crinkled before he raised the crystal up to her eye level.

“But, if you turn it this way,” his hand tilted the orb, as did her head as if she were a puppet on a string, “look into it; it will show you your dreams.”

There was a beat as a hand rose to rest on her hip, cold as ice through her white long-sleeved shirt.

“I’ve seen them.” He whispered tauntingly.

Y/N did not look into the orb. Her eyes remained locked on his. His cruel eyes. How could he have such a sweet smile, and yet the deep blue sea of his eyes felt bottomless, cold and dark?

“But this is not a gift for an ordinary girl.” He chided, tilting his head to lean closer to her. “Who works a job at the store and lives trapped in her childhood home.”

It was cruel – a cruel reminder of the words that those around her all say. How she is stuck in time, stuck in her hometown, stuck, stuck, stuck. Ordinary girl, ordinary town, ordinary job. Nothing like the faerie in front of her.

There was a snicker in her room, and her head whipped around to look about the dark space. It was empty.

He yanked his hand away from her, drawing her attention to him once more. Her eyes steeled at his words, and the king’s smirk grew. He hummed a melody, familiar and distant. It was almost a pleased tone before he stepped in front of her once more. He was taller than her – especially when she saw he wore heeled boots.

“Do you want it?” he offered, the orb held out once more.

The words were said almost kindly. Knowing if she took it, it’d be taking an apple from a serpent.

“It’s tempting. . . but what is the catch?” she finally said, swallowing as she looked at the crystal once more.

His smile was sharp then, and she saw fangs then.

“Your loyalty, your belief, you.” He listed. “You. Everything from you. Your mortality will be mine and you’ll never see this place again, these people again, this dwelling again.”

There was a tenderness to his face as he continued. “I’ll save you, sweet thing. You can live in your dreams with me – beyond this realm.”

“No.”

It was an easy answer. No. She would not devote herself to someone so wholly. A fae of a man especially. Y/N read all the fairy tales out there – all the romance novels and stories of love, deceit, devotion, and betrayal. This would take and take and take. She could see her future – a shell of herself. Hell, she had seen it in the moments of delusion tonight where she wanted nothing but him.

“Don’t defy me.” he warned, so gently. Almost helpfully.  

Defy. This was not being saved. This was no prince riding on a stallion and climbing to her balcony to steal her away. No. . . no, this man was no savior. She had read the fairytale he was from – read it from cover to cover more than she could count. The Goblin King – cruel as he is merciful - will grant your wish for a price.

“I do not want to be saved then. I take back my wish.”

“What is said has been said,” he stated with a chuckle.

He was laughing at her. In fact, she heard a chitter in her room like a guffaw behind her bed skirt. Her head whipped around to look.

The corner of her duvet swayed in the wind. Nothing was out of the ordinary again.

“I don’t care – I say no.” she claimed, glancing back him.

“The words have been spoken,” he claimed again as he bent down to whisper to her.

“You’re no match for me, Y/N. I will treat you well, little thing.”

Thing. It ached of ownership. Of possession rather than protection or freedom.

“I don’t want to be your thing.”

“You should’ve thought of that before making such a wish. What do I gain in saving you otherwise, hm?” he retorted, as if explaining something to a child. “I want you – or another human for my trouble.”

No way! She’d never sacrifice someone for a wish! Her eyes widened at the very thought before her brows furrowed. What could she do? What could she do?

“What if we made a deal?” She fought back.

Her question made a crack of thunder rumble the house like an electric field. It buzzed and hummed… or maybe it wasn’t thunder at all, but voices. She heard them then. Chittering and chattering. Low hums of interest and the haunting chants of “a deal, a deal, a deal!!” Little voices, squeaky and animalistic chant in excitement. It was then she finally saw a goblin’s head from within her closet. One and then another and another. Too many as if her room was nothing but a zoo to the creatures. A crowded room of voyeurs, an unknown audience to her and the King’s dispute.

Long limbed apparitions clung to her white and pink walls with spindly hands. A monstrous thing under her bed with glowing eyes heaved a rumble, the bed skirt fluttering. A winged creature on her tulled canopy swayed with the buzzing excitement of a cicada. Little things peering out at her with wings and horns and fangs and yellowed eyes and radioactive red pupils.  

It was a thing out of nightmares. She yelped a bit, eyes widening in fear.

There was a tsk from the King, and the creatures disappeared into their hiding spots in a rush and a huff. Like they were playing hide and seek. Her room looked normal again but she could feel their pupils trained on her back now. Her gaze settled back onto the Goblin King. Annoyance lingered on the corner of his mouth, the pouty thing twitching faintly before he asked: “You’d like to make a deal instead of seeing your dreams come true?”

A faerie deal never meant anything good. But neither was losing herself for a man, no, a creature of another world with far too many secrets as shown by the creatures prowling under her bed and in her wardrobe.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. Any way to have this wish be forgotten.”

The King sneered. The flash of emotion so quick she almost didn’t spot it.

He was insulted by this human. How dare she be so outlandish… special but if she so wished to be rebellious. He’d give her a challenge fit for such insult.

“A faerie deal is serious matter, Y/N.” He warned before, with an air of nonchalance, he moved aside.

Circling her once more like she was nothing but a soon-to-be carcass and him a vulture bird.

“The terms shall be this. If you can defeat my labyrinth and reach my true throne in the castle beyond the Goblin City within 13 hours, you will no longer be mine; my claim will be relinquished. Your will shall be your own once more. You will be a human.”

He said the final words like they were sickly – he couldn’t imagine wanting a human life when high fae have everything. (But she wouldn’t be a high fae, would she? No, a human became a changeling if caught or stolen away. And that was different.)

 Y/N had no choice but to agree. She had read faerie tales. Humans and faeries didn’t mix – they weren’t meant to. If she followed her wish, if she went with him, she really feared what would become of herself. The idea of forever as someone’s is only good when there is trust. And she couldn’t trust him. A stranger, a king of magnetic power, a faerie. Someone who wished to own her for his own gain. Not out of affection or respect.

“And if you do not succeed,” he continued on with a laugh at the tips of his words. (The goblins echoed him with chortles that crawled up her spine.) “You are mine – as promised by the power of the Wish. All of you. Soul, mind, and form.”

He was behind her again, his words soft in her hair as he brushed it aside observingly. His fingers chilled her throat; his touch felt icy cold.

“Do you agree, Y/N? If you break this contract by your own will or demise,” It was formally said as he placed his hands on her shoulders. Caging her in his arms as she heard the hum of anticipation from the ghouls and goblins in her room. “You shall be mine.”

She didn’t hesitate even as her form shuddered. “I agree.” Y/N said.

There was a change in the wind outside; a flash of lightning blinded her as a deal was struck.

“Pity,” he murmured, low in his throat as he let go of her.

As he passed her, she saw the world in front of her melt away in a wash of watercolor blurs. No longer was she in her childhood bedroom with the comfort of her novels and objects. No, now it was a desert. An orange-purple atmosphere like a distant fire roared over the sea of sand. Rolling sand dunes tumbled towards a grand darkened maze. The Labyrinth. A twisting series of winding paths that seemed endless, all leading to a far-in-the-distance castle. It looked impossible. Dead-ends galore and sections that seemed to be completely unrelated to one another. 13 hours. How was she to get through this in less than a day! A clash of despair rattled her bones – especially when a damp chill danced over her skin. A suffocating heaviness was in the air, as well as the realization, she was underground. Dust and dirt and old air from centuries past lingered.

Looking up, there was no sky, no stars, nor moon above but a darkened cave ceiling full of stalactites and in some cases large sky lights – or cracks in the ground. These cracks let spots of sunlight in, shining over the desert sea in pools of light. Where there was no sunshine pouring down on the maze, there was a haunting golden glow from roaring fire pits high above the maze in watch-out points and floating candles she noted. Squinting her eyes, she could make out thousands of candles decorating the rocky labyrinth. It made everything look orange-red hazy. Shadows cast into the maze making it look even more confusing.

In each of these sunspots away from the Labyrinth, there were different things flourishing outside the maze she noticed– some sunspots were home to a jungle of vegetation; others were conveniently where rain-water ponds appeared; most had small huts and communities.  

She and the Goblin King were in one of those sky lights’ brightness now, sunshine cascading over the pair of them. Half dead foliage and trees curled up from the barren sand, with long tendrils of rotting vines and branches twisting out. The bark and rockwork, despite its dead nature had the same type of glimmer to them as the fae man. It sparkled in the sunlight like someone dropped glitter on it. Magic thrived here – even in the dead and inanimate.

The King looked out of place in such a desolate land – his desolate land. Something beautiful around such emptiness and darkness. His form seemed to glow in the natural light, especially when shadowed by such darkness in the Underground, but Y/N’s gaze focused on the daunting path ahead instead of his angelic beauty.

How could he be so beautiful? It was unnatural.

Her eyes tried to map out a path, only to find no true path to the distant grand castle. The world seemed to curve and prevent her from following a straight line to the grand dark castle. It seemed hopeless. Surely there was a way to plot a way onwards, but the Labyrinth didn’t deal in kindnesses it seemed.

“Turn back,” his voice startled her as he encouraged from her side. “While you still can, my dear Runner.”

Biting her lip, she swallowed as she looked between him and his castle.

“It doesn’t look that far,” she commented, her back turning to him.

(Bravado.)

The King lurched forward, his own back bending to be beside her ear once more.

“It’s further than you think,” he taunted, almost sing-song in tune. “And time is short.”

With a flick of his hand, a grand clock appeared floating in mid-air. She startled, jolting back. Her back settling into his broad chest. His smirk was in her hair as a metal claw-tipped hand steadied her.

The clock – the grand clock of the Underground - was haunting as it was magical. It was a golden shade of wood and its clockface made of intricately ornate stained glass. Its numbers were curled and elegant, counting from 1 to 13. As of now, it was at the top of the 13th hour.

“13 hours, as promised,” he cooed. “13 hours and, then, you are mine, dear Y/N.”

And in an icy rush of wind and soft chimes in the air, her hair was pushed forward, blowing into her eyes, and his form, once lurking over her shoulder, was gone.

“Such a pity I must wait for you,” his voice hummed in the cold.

Then, Y/N, the Labyrinth Runner, was alone in a different realm she heard of in storybooks, but, unlike her many books, she didn’t know how the story would end.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Chapter 6 - picks up from the Autumn King cliffhanger

This was bad. This was fucking bad.

It felt like ice crawled through the room, seeping along the velvet carpet and up the walls as they stood at their impasse. Nesta had been curious about their world, but never this obstinate refusal. She faced Einar Danaan with an unbending spine even under his intense scrutiny.

The chill was radiating from her, Ruhn realised.

In the face of the king’s burning stare, she was responding with her own endless cold. Ruhn risked a glance to her and – shit. Her eyes swirled like silver flames trapped beneath glass. He had to release his fingers from her wrist before she froze them.

‘We have not met,’ his father said, voice quiet enough that only they would hear it. There was no mistaking the razor-sharp edge in it though.

Nesta raised her chin half an inch, pushing him further.

Did Athalar tell him who she was back in her world? Not just a pretty face, surely. No, this female had balls of steels or just didn’t give a shit about the Autumn King’s power.

‘Then that ought to be remedied,’ she replied, voice sultry.

Her hand reached out expectantly.

Was she- was she flirting with him?

To Ruhn’s surprise, his father took it – and didn’t snap her fingers. No, the king submitted to her. Kissed the top of her hand. And Ruhn swore that when he pulled away, his father brushed his thumb against her slender fingers.

‘Name?’

The flames subsided from Nesta’s eyes. ‘Clare. Clare Vanserra.’

‘It cannot be a well-known family,’ he said.

‘We decide who are worth knowing.’

Silver flames slithered around Nesta’s hand like twin snakes until she absorbed them back into herself. That had his father practically salivating. Fire was his family’s gift, but not this. Nesta’s fire was different; cold and aching. He would want to add it to their arsenal. In Einar Danaan’s eyes, Nesta was a prize brood mare whose magic needed to be introduced to their line. He knew his father well. He had one heir, but constantly told Ruhn what a disappointment he was. A second heir with Nesta’s fire would be far more appealing.

At that moment, an attendant announced over the speaker that all were to take their seats ready for the performance.

Without a word, the king swept away towards the royal box.

Ruhn released a breath. His shirt was clinging to his sweat-soaked back.

Many eyes were cast their way as they sought seats, but Ruhn called for a final shot of whiskey to celebrate that they had survived that.

‘What are you?’

Nesta set her jaw. ‘Something wrong.’

‘No,’ he said, frowning. ‘Your power. What do you do in Prythian? You’re not just a wife expected to produce an heir.’

Nesta gave a bitter laugh. ‘I think I am.’ Under his stare, she shrugged. ‘I am a tool to be used when the high lord sees fit. That is all I am, Ruhn. All I will ever be.’

***

Twice, Viktoria had smacked him on the back of the head for having – as she called it – his head in the clouds during their shift. Nothing had happened in it anyway, so why couldn’t Hunt daydream? For once, his fantasies didn’t include wrapping his hands around Micah’s throat until the archangel stopped breathing. No, this time Hunt’s dreams involved Nesta. No matter how fleeting their time together, he’d never forget the care she offered him last night. Or really any of the moments that they had shared.

When Hunt thought of a future, Nesta was there.

She had him dreaming of a future, one that was good, one he wanted to be there for. The promise of a life without shackles had always been a farfetched imagining because he was too valuable to let go – but Nesta had made him dream.

At the end of his long shift – he’d taken a double to have more time with Nesta the next day – Hunt flexed his wings while rolling his shoulders. There were a couple of messages from Ruhn Danaan. One said he was on the way to collect Nesta. The second had him stilling.

Your faerie girlfriend is INSANE.

Hunt hauled his ass over to the theatre just as the patrons were spilling out at the end of the ballet. He took flight again to scan faces easier, hoping to Luna that Nesta was alright. There’d been no news report or summons for the 33rd.

Finally, he caught a glimpse of her with Danaan but any joy soon turned to ash as he landed.

Nesta was engaged with the Autumn King. A close-lipped smile was on her face but there was no warmth to her expression. In fact, she was sizing him up like a predator. It wouldn’t have surprised Hunt if she prowled around Einar Danaan to measure him.

Hunt kept to the shadows, ready to spring into action if the situation changed. He didn’t know what he’d do against one of the heads of the city. The king could call for his head and Micah would serve it on a platter. But if Nesta needed him, Hunt would be there.

‘I hope to see you again, Clare Vanserra.’

‘Likewise,’ she purred in response.

When the king made to leave, Ruhn bowed low at the waist then gave an imploring look to Nesta. Ever so slightly, she inclined her head – but that was all she offered in terms of respect.

As the Autumn King strolled to an awaiting car, Hunt spied a hungry grin on his face.

Once the car was out of view, Hunt approached. His stomach was knotted with nerves from Ruhn’s text and what he’d just seen; the Autumn King would see Nesta as an asset and males like him wouldn’t stop until they got what they wanted. The quicker Nesta was away to safety, the better. His dreams died a fiery death.

‘Everything alright?’

At the sound of his voice, Nesta turned with the most beautiful smile spreading across her face. ‘Orion.’

Then, as if checking herself around Danaan, a mask quickly went on. Her smile was locked away behind a carefully polished veneer – although her eyes remained soft as they canvassed his face.

‘Yeah,’ said Ruhn, nodding emphatically. ‘Ballet was great. Especially when Nesta decided to stare down my father then flirt with him.’

Nesta offered Ruhn an expression that he hadn’t seen since her interrogation with Isaiah. ‘It was either do battle there, Ruhn, or dissolve the tension.’

‘And why was there tension, Nesta?’ Ruhn shook his head. ‘Next time, just bow or curtsey or salute. Whatever. Just keep your head down. He’s not a male to fuck with.’

With every word, Hunt felt more sick. He’d wanted Nesta to have a lovely evening, listen to music and be enraptured by dance. Not this. Not dip her into trouble.

‘I know plenty of males like him,’ she replied. ‘I am the rock against which the surf crashes.’

‘You’re fucking nuts is what you are.’

‘Hey,’ Hunt cut in sharply. ‘Don’t call her that.’

An involuntary crackle of lightning encircled his witch-ink halo, making Ruhn Danaan take a step back with his own shadows coming to life. One of the wolves on patrol cast them a look. Not one of Sabine’s or the devils thankfully.

‘Just because your daddy is a fucking creep who thinks the world should kiss his ass, doesn’t mean Nesta has to.’

‘I’ll leave you to play nanny,’ said Ruhn, without a goodbye to either of them.

Hunt watched him go, wondering whether that night had been a disastrous decision on his part. He’d pissed off the prince of the fae, dangled Nesta in front of the king, and now wanted to hurry her out of Crescent City before Einar Danaan got his filthy hands on her.

Before Hunt could even speak to Nesta, she was upon him. Arms went tight around his neck so he enveloped her in his own. Her nose burrowed against his neck, breathing in his scent deeply. He could feel a tremor rocking through her.

‘You okay? They didn’t hurt you?’

She shook her head.

‘I’m with you,’ he said. ‘Forget what Ruhn said.’

Nesta peeled away just enough for him to see her face which was illuminated by the street lights. There was so much of his world that he’d wanted to show her and now all he wanted was to keep her somewhere safe. He hated to see the worry nibbling her expression.

‘I was stupid not to bow but he just reminded me so much of… I couldn’t.’

Her voice broke on the last word so Hunt pulled her in again, holding her tightly. ‘Did you eat?’

‘Earlier.’

‘Do you want ice cream?’

Surprising him, Nesta kissed his cheek. ‘I- I missed your company today.’

They turned to stroll down the quiet street and Hunt kept his arm around her. ‘I did too. Time seemed to stand still without you.’

Beneath the starry sky, he took a moment to admire Nesta in her long, dark gown. She really was stunning. Although night had swept in, it wasn’t too late and Crescent City never truly slept so there were still street vendors out selling their wares. He opted for a scoop of pistachio and one of vanilla while Nesta had a tower of strawberry, chocolate, and mint piled one on top of the other with a chocolate stick stuck in it and raspberry sauce drizzled all over it. Those mixtures of flavours should have been illegal, Hunt thought. And, despite her own, Nesta still begged for a taste of his ice cream too.

‘What did you do today?’

‘I had a fantastic day,’ she said brightly. ‘I took a bus around the city. I went to a laundrette which was thrilling, by the way. I visited the university. This is my fourth ice cream of the day; I had one earlier, then a waffle, and Ruhn bought me ice cream during the interval of the ballet. Oh, and I also purchased a dildo so thank you for the recommendation.’

Hunt almost choked.

‘You did? Actually?’ He tried to stop himself from grinning. ‘Did you really?’

‘I did,’ she replied, lips twitching. ‘I’m only here once, aren’t I? It’s a vibrator. With three different speed settings. I was also advised to buy a bottle of lubrication so I opted for cherry flavouring.’

He couldn’t stop staring at her. Nesta Archeron was his dream female.

‘Have you, uh, used it yet?’

Nesta chose that moment to pluck the chocolate fudge stick from the top scoop and lick it clean of ice cream. ‘That’s a personal question, Orion.’

‘That’s a yes.’

‘I haven’t had the time,’ she sniped. ‘What with attending ballets and staring down kings.’

Hunt was practically salivating. ‘We should fix that. Immediately.’

‘I believe it’s a solo activity.’

‘Definitely not,’ he said, shaking his head with fervour. ‘The more the merrier.’

Her lip curled into a smile then she returned to licking her ice cream in that same, tantalising way as they continued down Lunathion’s lanes.

It shouldn’t have been this easy to talk to her, he thought. Shouldn’t be able to have such a teasing conversation whilst walking beneath the stars eating fucking ice cream. He was the Umbra Mortis.

Hunt would be a wreck when she returned to Prythian.

‘Can I take you somewhere?’

‘At this time?’

Hunt laughed, ‘What, past your bedtime?’

‘I just thought,’ Nesta began. She fell silent, eye shuttering closed then she forced out a breath. ‘Maybe we could go to my hotel room to watch television.’

She couldn’t invite him there after telling him that she’d bought a vibrator. Despite himself, Hunt gave an empathic nod and let her lead the way; she’d done well to learn the way so quickly.

‘I drove Ruhn Danaan’s car today. Briefly but I did it,’ she said.

Hunt let out a whistle. ‘Look at you, all modern now.’

***

In a few short days, there was one male who Nesta could not stop thinking about. And it wasn’t Cassian.

Hunt was the flame she wanted to be devoured by. There were no males like him. As they finished off their ice creams on the walk, Nesta couldn’t help but gaze at him in admiration. He’d leapt into her conversation with Ruhn to defend her. Hadn’t said she was a fool for standing up to Ruhn’s father. Hadn’t berated her for it.

He was on her side.

‘I spoke with Vik today. You can get your stuff back the day after tomorrow.’

Hunt stopped, gaging her reaction as they entered the elevator. She hadn’t done well trying to hide her disappointment. Having the Harp meant returning to Prythian. There was no reason to stay – but it felt like there was no reason to return either. As her face fell, Hunt reeled her in with an arm around her shoulders. Nesta breathed his scent in deeply as she nuzzled into him. It shouldn’t have been so easy to do it. She was never this way with anybody, had never felt so comfortable.

‘This has been the quickest week of my life,’ Hunt murmured against her hair.

‘It’s not fair,’ she whispered.

The muffled speaker announced their floor number then Hunt guided them out towards her room. She still found the little card that allowed her entry to be a marvel, but her wonder had dulled with the realisation that it was all limited. There were only a couple of days left to experience Lunathion.

‘Nesta.’ Hunt held her hand with reverence with the door slightly ajar. He swallowed. ‘I hate saying goodbye.’

‘Not tonight. There are no goodbyes tonight.’

Before the door had been opened fully, Hunt’s fingers canvassed her neck. They kissed knowing their opportunities were dwindling. That soft press of his lips, the heat of his body, Nesta wanted all of it.

Hunt lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her over the threshold. A wing hit the light switch, illuminating the room in a yellow glow then Hunt lay her down gently on the bed, his body coming to cover her. In the cradle of his grey wings, Nesta was safe.

Her fingers snaked into his top then tugged it over his head so she could feel his bare skin against her. The heat of Hunt’s body had Nesta raising herself upwards. She wanted to feel it. Feel him. Feel the hurried beating of his heart.

Nesta would never kiss him enough. Two days wasn’t enough. She needed more time, more time to kiss him, to hold him. To love him.

In a sudden movement, Hunt broke their kiss. He braced his weight on his forearms either side of her.

‘Nesta, can you tell me why Luna’s Horn is on the desk?’

She craned her neck past the curve of his wing to catch a glimpse of the desk where – sure enough – that strange, glowing horn was resting on the desk.

Her fingers wrapped around his muscled arm. ‘How bad is this?’

‘Did you steal it?’

‘No. I’m as shocked as you are that it’s here. Is it bad, Hunt?’

Hunt leaned forwards to kiss her forehead. ‘I’ll sort it.’

From the terror soaking into his expression, Nesta surmised that it was very, very bad. While Hunt paced in the cramped room, he explained what the item was and how it had come to their land when fae made a crossing. Could it be part of the Dread Trove? It called to Nesta in the same way.

‘I’ll sneak it back in,’ Hunt said finally. He gave a resounding nod. ‘I’ll cause a diversion and put it back. In and out. At this time, there won’t be many guards. I can probably get past them.’

Nesta gripped his wrist. ‘Why are you putting yourself in danger for me?’

Hunt took a step back, examining her. His fingers stroked down her face. ‘I won at bowling. This is my favour.’

‘That’s not. That’s ridiculous. Your favour can’t be helping me.’

Some light came back into his brown eyes. ‘Fine. I’ll do this because I like you. My favour will be you showing me those speed settings on your new toy. If I don’t get flayed by the Asteri.’

‘Orion, there’s not a single star like you in the sky.’

Nerves tangled in Nesta’s chest as she watched Hunt fly across the city from the window until she could no longer track him by eye. The Horn had been wrapped carefully by him then tucked inside his jacket before his departure.

These gestures by him, the willingness to help, to be fully on her team, left Nesta adrift. She didn’t have this in Prythian. Cassian would always choose Rhys or Mor or Feyre over her. Feyre would choose Rhys. Elain would choose Feyre. Nesta was never anybody’s first choice… until now.

At one point, all of the electrical items in the room flared; the lights flickered, the television turned off, and one of the alarms in the building then began blaring.

That must have been the diversion.

It took a while but then there was a knock on the door.

Nesta leapt off the bed to haul it wide.

Ruhn Danaan stood opposite her, brandishing a bunch of flowers.

‘Hey.’

‘Oh. Good evening.’

The bouquet of sunflowers and lavender was offered to her. ‘I, uh, wanted to say sorry. My father is an awful male, Nesta. I didn’t mean to take my fear out on you. Sorry.’

It was so unexpected that Nesta wasn’t quite sure how to react. Her mouth had gone slack, opening slightly, as she held the flowers a foot from her body.

‘I thought Athalar would be here,’ he added, casting a not-so-subtle look over her shoulder into the room.  

‘He’s um… He’s.’

‘Needed to dash out for more milk for tea,’ came Hunt’s voice from down the corridor as he shook a pint of milk. His face was slightly flushed; a pink tinge to his brown cheeks. ‘Those flowers for me, Danaan?’

‘Imagine roses are more your style,’ replied Ruhn.

Sweat dampened Hunt’s top and tension had him clenching his jaw from his bolt across the city.

‘Thank you for the flowers, Ruhn. It’s a kind gesture – I appreciate it.’

The prince of the Valbaran fae said his goodnights to them then departed. He’d changed in Nesta’s opinion. It was difficult to break the mould and not be the same male that a father was, but she could see that Ruhn was trying.

Hunt followed her into the bedroom then heaved a sigh.

‘Thank you, my beautiful angel.’

The colour drained from Hunt’s face as he looked across the room. ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me.’

There, on the desk, the Horn had returned of its own accord.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Summon Undead [Undead will attack you for summoning them. Sapient undead will talk to you then attack you, and you need to have something in place to get them to agree to work with you. Like magic, threats or bribery] 'In truly rare circumstances (for instance, if the spell is cast near a creature's lair), this spell might attract the attention of a more powerful undead, such as a death knight, vampire, or even a lich. These beings will seldom arrive in a predictable fashion and are the most likely to demand some form of nasty retribution or lavish sacrifice to appease.' - The Complete Book of Necromancers

There's probably some interesting ways to do that. Some priest (it's a cleric spell) accidentally summons the local vampire lord who 12 minutes later rolls out in a really fancy carriage with dark fanfare just to bitch about how you interrupted their favourite play at the theatre you filthy peasant. They do this by waiting until you're asleep and then waking you at the crack of dawn, or sabotage some critical event in your life just to drive the point home.

Vampire agrees to spare you and maybe engage in some kind of deal for being an errand boy (ranging from 'sabotage/kill my rival,' 'get rid of these good-aligned priests who thwart my plans,' 'fetch me virgin sacrifices to consume,' to 'go pick up my dry cleaning,' 'get rid of these corpses and clean the blood out of the carpets,' to 'sit there and listen to me whine about how ungrateful my spawn/children/slaves are for the next five hours, I need a shoulder to cry on.')

...honestly there's potential for a warlock character in this. VtM ghouldom, but it's DnD.

[back2bluesidex]

No one asked but here I am with my...

5 most favourite Hoseok Looks of all time: -

1. MAMA 2022 Red carpet look

No question asked. This look was absolutely stunning and pussy pleasing.

2. Outro Tear Dior outfit

This Hoseok still haunts me in my dreams and wakes me up abruptly in middle of the nights.

3. YTC Busan 2022

Trust me when I say I screamed my lungs out in theatre when this Hoseok walked in. And I still watch the video of me going nuts that @phenomenalgirl9 took. (Sorry bae, I was a menace that day but the blame is on this man and this look.)

4. 5th Muster Magic Shop Osaka

This particular shirt! GOSH! This is one of the finest piece of clothing I have ever seen and Hoseok wearing this? There's nothing more beautiful in this world!

5. Fake Love Music Show Performance

White is my favourite colour. And Hoseok wearing white along with black harness? Are you kidding me??? He's the sexiest human being EVER!!!

If you have reached down here then I want you to know that you are working hard and I hope you have a great day ahead! 💜

[nerdysleepybunny]

Hey it's the [insert clutch heart] person from that bendy post. Was wondering if you could do more fluff stuff with the ink demon but reader knew him as a child wandering around the studio when it was still alive and kicking.

(ps. For some reason I imagined reader playing hide and seek with bendy and imagining the ink demon voice saying 'GOTYOU!' in a semi playful manner before chuckling which made me clutch my chest again from wholesome ink demon overload)

This is a cute idea! Thanks for the request, hope you enjoy!

🩷☁️N E R D Y S L E E P Y B U N N Y☁️🩷

Fandom(s): BATIM/BATDR

Character(s): Bendy/Ink Demon

Reader: Gender neutral (they/you)

TW: N/A

Style: Hcs

Summary: You were a big fan of Bendy as a child, but eventually forgot about him over the years, until you one day happened to stumble upon the old studio.

🩷☁️N E R D Y S L E E P Y B U N N Y☁️🩷

You were absolutely obsessed with the famous Bendy show! You watched every single episode that came out, and begged your parents to take you to the theatre whenever a play was featured there.

When news came around Joey Drew was accepting visitors into his studio, you begged and begged for weeks to be able to go. And finally, one day, they agreed! Your parents dropped you off at the studio before heading off to work, where they’d pick you up again once their shift was over, meaning you could do whatever for all the hours you had to yourself!

You saw so many amazing things, but the thing you were most excited to see was the little dancing devil himself. Whilst Joey was touring all the guests, he pointed out a door with a plate that had the word “Bendy” printed on it, explaining that Bendy was inside getting ready to preform for everyone! You couldn’t believe it, you’d be able to see Bendy! In real life! But Joey said nobody was allowed to see him yet, and that just didn’t sit well with you. So as the rest of the group walked off, you waited until their footsteps were no longer audible before going onto your tippy toes, reaching and turning the rounded handle.

As the door creaked open, inside was a small vanity, a carpet, a couch, and posters all along the walls. There was some music playing, and in the center of the room was the demon himself, dancing along to the tune. You watched in awe as he worked him magic, and as the song ended, he gave a bow, and you clapped and giggled. Bendy jumped up, not knowing anyone was present in the room with him. You closed the door and ran inside, giving Bendy a hug.

“You did great!!” The demon was shocked but accepted the hug, until his face became one of worry and he began to push you towards the door, making you whine.

“I don’t care about the tour, I just wanna see you!” Bendy frowned and shook his head, pointing to a poster of Joey Drew and making a mad expression.

“I know he’ll be mad, but I wanna be your friend!” The demon froze. Friend? He’s never had a friend before. You smiled as the demon tilted his head to the side and stared at you with a confused expression. You gently pushed Bendy out the way and took your spot on the carpet, recreating one of Bendy’s old dances. The demon smiled as he remembered making that scene, it was a bit difficult for him to learn, yet you seemed to do it so naturally.

“See? I’ve watched all your shows and plays! I’ve been begging to meet you for so long!” Bendy walked back over to the carpet and sat down, you sitting across from him. The two of you chatted (or, you chatted, and Bendy listened or did his best to answer without having the ability to speak) until you both heard a knock on the door. Bendy stood up and grabbed your hand, rushing you over to the couch and pushing you behind it, where you’d be completely out of sight.

The door opened, revealing Joey Drew himself.

“Bendy, have you memorized your dance?” The demon smiled and nodded up at the man, to which he gave out a satisfied hum and grabbed the ink creature’s hand, walking out the room with him.

And it was like this for a long time, you’d watch everything Joey Drew Studios produced, buy all the merch, and even see the demon himself up close and personal. But eventually, school became a hassle, and you had better things to focus on than a dancing demon. And after a few years, you completely forgot about him. In fact, everyone did. The studio stopped producing, and the people stopped questioning. Over time, nobody even recognized the name Bendy. And neither would you, until one day.

You had moved out of your childhood home ages ago, but your parents had gone through your old room and found posters, plushies, cd’s/dvd’s (I don’t know what kind of technology they had during the time 😭) and much more, just sitting and collecting dust. Your parents thought it’d be nice for you to go back down memory lane, and sent all the stuff over to you. And as you held the objects in your hands, a few tears rolled down your face as you finally remembered your inky friend. You wondered what happened to him and the studio, and decided to go back to your childhood town, for memory’s sake.

🩷☁️N E R D Y S L E E P Y B U N N Y☁️🩷

[bestmusicalworldcup]

As of yesterday, Aladdin has ran on Broadway for a decade, having opened at the New Amsterdam Theatre on March 20, 2014. It is currently the 15th longest running Broadway show in history, having played 3,513 performances so far.

[jgroffdaily]

Video from the red carpet at the world premiere of 'A Nice Indian Boy' and the full Q&A after the screening. Highlights:

Karan Soni at 1.34 is asked what it was like working opposite Jonathan:

"It was incredible. We had met once before. We had a dinner about a year before we started filming when we didn't know if the movie was going to happen. It was with Roshan, my partner, and we just had this four hour dinner and we were like, oh man, if we get to hang out with him and make this movie it would be perfect. It ended up being exactly that.

We got along really well. I'm joking, but it's kind of true, but I keep saying Jonathan is like Roshan and my third, emotionally, if not sexually. So we are an emotional throuple. We really became very close. He's on Broadway right now so he can't be here today but we are excited to watch the movie with him too at some point."

Sas Goldberg at 10.46 says she plays a very close friend of Jonathan:

"I'm friends with Jonathan in real life before this, so this was sort of like a little bit of a summer camp moment shooting this up in Vancouver."

In the Q&A after the film, a guest around 26.47 talks about Jonathan singing an Indian song during key moment and director Roshan Sethi responds:

"Jonathan Groff is very sad he couldn't be here because he is singing on Broadway. Jonathan singing [spoiler] is... I did not see that coming. Something about that song. That didn't happen exactly as scripted but Jonathan really committed to it in a way that only a theatre kid could."

[Host asks if Jonathan was the first person considered and how Jonathan got involved]

Roshan: "He was the first and only. We approached him shortly after I came on board and Karan came on board. We sent him 'Seven Days'. He really loved 'Seven Days' and Karan is the star of 'Seven Days' so he said 'That guy is obviously straight but could he play gay?'I am Karan's romantic partner so I was like 'He is gay. Like, he's gay.' But then we ended up getting him on board very shortly after.

We made the movie and it was just a magical experience with him, in particular. He is on Merrily We Roll Along on Broadway now and Jonathan is so committed to his performances in general that he has not missed a single night or performance of that show. Many of the other people in the cast have but he hasn't missed a single one. So I think that says a lot about Jonathan."

[macybeckham7]

Your three kids and Lewis all attending the big World premiere for your latest movie and they are all super excited for you

The car pulled up with everyone poised and ready to see which actor was going to step out the car and what they were wearing to the premiere. You look at Lewis before you give him a soft kiss trying to not exchange your lipstick. Then you look at Cairo and straighten his bow tie with Lewis fixing both Azalea and Gisela big bows in their hair. Lewis opens the door and then the three kids jump out, the two oldest going either side of their little sister then you step out. You pose on the red carpet and then go for an interview, you speak about how excited you were for fans to see the movie, you talk about how attached you feel to them and your character and you are excited to see the finished product as you often felt a little silly on set. They turned their attention to your little fan club, ‘My favourite super hero is BlackPanther and Thor!’ Cairo says before Gisela beams that it was you. Lewis then sings your praises throughout the whole making of the movie and still be an amazing mother. ‘I am excited to see this new chapter of her career and I hope everyone is ready for it’ he smiles. You all go into the theatre, the kids on your laps and had their treats as the starting credits start. You looking around the theatre and watching your kids and Lewis during your scenes and seeing the magic in their eyes.

[paralleljulieverse]

Headline: Iconic Street Artist Unmasked: Dame Julie Andrews Revealed as the Mastermind Behind Banksy's Artistry

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

LONDON, April 1, 2024 (PJV NEWSWIRE) -- In an astonishing turn of events that has rocked the art world to its core, Dame Julie Andrews, the celebrated singer, actress and star of family classics like Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music, has been unveiled as the creative mastermind behind the enigmatic street artist, Banksy.

The shock revelation was announced by a team of international researchers at the Tate Modern in London. Head researcher and world-renowned Banksy expert, Professor Savant of Whangdoodle University, explained that the team initially set out to map the geographical patterns of Banksy's work, but noticed an intriguing overlap with the locations of Dame Julie's UK appearances over the years.

Further investigation uncovered a series of coded messages hidden within Banksy's artworks that, when deciphered, spelled out various Andrews references. The celebrated Bansky stencil "Girl with Balloon" revealed a sequence of tiny numbers in the balloon string that corresponded to ASCII values spelling "How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?". "Kissing Coppers" contained an anagrammatic mix of letters on the policemen's epaulettes that unscrambled to read, "The constable's responstable..." The smoking gun came when researchers discovered a hidden subterranean studio deep beneath the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, containing stencils, spray cans, and a collection of Andrews' vinyl records. Here the team located an early draft version of Banksy's "Flower Thrower" where the famous bouquet was a posy of edelweiss.

The revelation that Dame Julie is the hand behind the elusive graffiti superstar has stunned the entertainment and art worlds alike with critics scrambling to reevaluate the combined Andrews-Banksy oeuvre. Professor Savant discerns a deep, thematic link between Banksy's provocative street murals and Andrews' film characters, both of which challenge societal norms with a mix of whimsy and sharp commentary.

And the Banksy pseudonym? Savant believes it is a nod to the name of the family transformed by Andrews as the eponymous flying nanny in Mary Poppins. Just as Poppins upended the repressive Edwardian world of Mr Banks with her magical carpet bag of tricks, Andrews as Banksy has been sprinkling another brand of subversive mischief across the urban landscapes of the modern world.

Dame Julie Andrews has yet to make an official statement, but a source close to the star says, "Julie has always had a flair for the dramatic and she constantly seeks new outlets for her creative voice, so it's not all that surprising that she would take it to the streets!" THIS IS A BREAKING NEWS STORY. FURTHER DETAILS TO FOLLOW.

[sxnyarostova]

symbiosis

do i put this on ao3. anyways this is my velma/roxie fic i hope you enjoy i love them

Roxie Hart reckons that she’s going crazy. Consistently oscillating between this ingenious high and manic low, she never stays in either mood long enough to feel comfortable, to feel like she’s riding the wave of life. Touring’s hard work, something that takes a toll on both the mind and the body– Velma’s words, not hers–, but there’s typically no problem she can’t deal with when she’s got liquor on her hands. 

A glass of gin and a splash of icy water on clammy cheeks usually calm her right down: the combination doesn’t help her very much anymore, though. She’s taken this remedy a little too many times, which explains her growing resistance to its calming properties. These days, the only thing that truly ties off the frayed ends of her psyche with a pretty little ribbon is, well… Velma. 

Roxie doesn’t love her: it’s become a mantra over these past months spent ducking in and out of hotel after hotel and theatre after theatre. There’s the occasional pharmacist and gin joint as well, but that doesn’t count. 

Instead of doing whatever love entails– because how the hell is Roxie supposed to know what love is when she’s never seen it in action?–, they kiss, they fuck, and Velma disappears somewhere between midnight and eleven in the morning, or at whatever ungodly hour Roxie wakes up after a night of debauchery. It’s an understanding they’ve reached, something as sure as the lacquered planks beneath her feet, an aspirin tablet swallowed dry that leaves an indent in her throat long after it's worked its magic. It is not love. 

Roxie never did very well in school, but she’s making up for lost time. Touring means that she spends a lot of time in a train carriage with Velma, who smokes, drinks, stretches, and reads magazines: there isn’t exactly a way for Roxie to kindle a conversation when Velma gets all quiet like that, so she’d gotten her hands on a book about animal behaviour, of all things, from a dressing room somewhere in Illinois

It’s interesting, with little tidbits about interspecies relationships. Take predator-prey, for example; it’s one she’d known all about even before she cracked open the dusty tome. It’s kill or get killed in America, after all: a girl has gotta have learned something after she’s fended for herself in this cesspool of a country for this long. 

But symbiosis is something she’s never heard of before, and she reckons after a brief skim of the chapter that Velma Kelly excels at whatever this professor is banging on about. Somehow, regardless of how the other is involved in her affairs, Velma Kelly always, always comes out on top; she’s the symbiote, the organism that gains something even if she’s leeching blood, leaving trails of her venom in somebody else’s blood, or spreading diseases left, right and centre.

It’s infuriating, but Roxie finds herself crawling back to Velma’s bed anyway. When you’re desperate for something to curb the restless ticks that haunt your head, you’ll do anything.

(She still remembers the panic that had risen in her throat after that first night, when she’d woken swaddled in sheets, sitting in the most fragrant viper’s nest known to man. Roxie had always known that she was going to spend her days scorching in hellfire– murder didn’t grant you a seat by Jesus– but she wasn’t ready to be indicted into the Devil’s inner circle. Surely there was something wrong and sinful about what she’d done with Velma the night before; surely there were scriptures in the Bible that forbade women from touching like that. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Velma had asked as Roxie scrambled for her robe, which lay in a crumpled heap of velvet on the hotel carpet. Despite her casual tone, an undercurrent of venom lazed beneath Velma’s words. “Were you faking those giggles last night, Roxie Hart? Are you considering leaving vaudeville and busting into Hollywood with your affected little squeals?” 

“I– no!” Roxie mumbled, blindly throwing her arms through their respective sleeves. “I’m fine. I really am fine. Last night was… new, that’s all.” She blinked, brushed a flyaway curl back into place, and offered Velma a blinding smile. 

“I thought new things didn’t scare you: always considered you a modern girl.” Velma raised an eyebrow as she stopped in front of the vanity, fingers deftly securing a double string of pearls around her neck. She fixed the clasp before latching her eyes onto Roxie’s ruddy complexion, her bob swishing by her ears like a beaded curtain. “I know what this is. You’re thinking about sinning, ain’t you?”

Roxie hated how Velma seemed to have her entire world and all its inhabitants figured out. Life was nothing but a jigsaw puzzle to Miss Velma Kelly, and every piece she put down always managed to lock into place. “...Well, don’t you ever think about sinning?” Roxie said, fiddling with the sash of her robe. “I don’t know how often you fuck blonde girls who you met in a jail cell, but—”

Velma guffawed. “I stopped repenting when I was twelve, sweetheart. The only compass I’ve got is my heart.” She gave her chest a gentle thump. “Whichever way it aims is where I’ll go, and if it’s pointing in your direction—” she threw her hands up as if to say ‘what the Hell’ “—then that’s where I’m headed ‘til it tells me otherwise.” 

“Oh,” Roxie said, brows furrowing. “Well, I– I don’t know. I–”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Roxie nodded, platinum hair bouncing earnestly around her face. 

“And did you feel like it was wrong when it happened?” 

Despite the condescension in Velma’s tone, Roxie found it in her to respond, shaking her head no. 

“I don’t see what the problem is, then,” Velma said, sitting primly atop the vanity. “You see, sex is a little like murder. If you felt justified when you did it, you don’t have to worry your pretty little head off about it.” She held up a flask, glinting silver in the noontime sun. “Care for a little pick-me-up?” )

Roxie wonders if Velma’s a drug of sorts or an exorcist with the blessing of some twisted God who likes helping murderesses stave off their guilty consciences. She’ll be tearing out her hair one moment and laughing the next: as soon as Velma’s teeth meet the lobe of her ear, the crowding voices that haunt Roxie’s head dissipate into nothing but malevolent spirits, melding into the atmosphere. 

She sighs, pulling another cigarette from the open box in her robe pocket and slipping it into her mouth. Velma, Roxie muses, needs her for the success of their marquee-lining act: she needs Velma for all the wrong reasons. Roxie uncaps the lipstick on her bureau, gives the base a tiny twist, and begins absentmindedly applying another layer: she doesn’t know why she bothers. Her lips are plump and red enough, and Velma’s practised lips remove any traces left after a night of performing. It’s just therapeutic, she supposes, the feeling of wax sliding across her lips. 

“You ready?”

The lipstick in her hand deviates from its trajectory and streaks across her face. “Jesus, Vel,” Roxie hisses, hastily rushing to a mirror and rubbing away the runaway line of red. “You ever learned to knock?”

“What difference would it make? I’d still come in regardless of your response,” Velma shrugs. She grins, pulls out a tissue from a nearby box, and passes it into Roxie’s waiting hands. She is striking in her costume, kitted out in a dark leotard with obsidian garters that blossom against her skin. “Well? Are you ready, kid?”

“Yeah,” Roxie grumbles. She gives her curls one last fluff, readjusts her own pearly pair of stockings, and tosses the tissue into the bin. “But– Velma? Before we go? Can you–?”

Her mind is running circles at the thought of performing. If she thinks long and hard about it, Roxie’s been a performer her whole life. She’s acted for her parents from the age of five and for her prospective beaus from the age of fifteen, doing the former out of fear and the latter out of a deep-seated desire for security. She’d acted when she was on trial, too, and frankly speaking, Roxie’s exhausted. 

She needs someone to remind her that she’s Roxie Hart, and the only person who can do that is Velma, with her kisses and brass comments and the behavior that she only displays when she’s around Roxie. Velma Kelly is Roxie’s savior; the lighthouse in the distance, the shore that Roxie longs to find after hours spent in the water. This is symbiosis. 

Velma pecks Roxie on the cheek without another word. 

[llolianarchives]

Boggart: Internal

Defense Against the Dark Arts: Learning how to counter a boggart is taught within a Fifth-year's first semester. Yet when Genevieve is required to face it again for her exams, it seems that her fears have taken a new form.

(A/N: Genevieve Myra Moxie is an original character and MC stand-in of mine for the game and its storyline.)

A boggart is a non-being, deemed harmless by the textbooks. Harmless, it claims, as if psychological damage has the worth of that of a paper cut's. Bitter as she can be, in truth, Genevieve knows that her fears are not suited for her kind — for her classmates who dread spiders and acne and loud storms. She's almost tempted to give Professor Hecat a look if it weren't for the sheer confidence the woman has in her capabilities. (And who is she dissapoint? She, Hero of Hogwarts, Wielder of Ancient Magic.)

The staccatto of her heart is in her ears. The thought hurts: She's caused many, their own hearts, to stop beating. Would they crawl out that wardrobe, shrieking of their sorrows and her sins? Would it pour a stream of thick velvet, flooding the room and staining her hands red? It takes the form of your fears. The book had not been so specific. Make a mockery out of your nightmares and the boggart shall be defeated. She wants to spit venom and ask how does one make a mockery of the dead and the disappointed.

It is she who is next in line.

"Miss Moxie, if you could please come forward."

Judgement, a part of her whispers. This is judgement. Condemnation for your crimes. I had done it all for the sake of good. Look at how happy we were just moments ago. It is a demonstration of today's DADA curriculum. I'll succeed.

Professor Hecat meets her eyes.

The crowd eyes her like a spectacle, dispersing from the center as if to form a makeshift carpet. Since the events of the attempted Goblin Rebellion, most have begun to see her as a walking, talking theatre, moreso than they did when she first arrived as the 'Mysterious Fifth-Year'.

Genevieve steps forward, her wand held firm in her hand.

"You know the counter, dear girl. Think it amusing. Do not let it rule you," she urges. "I know you of all people, Miss Moxie, will persevere."

Hecat's hand on the knob hesitates, waiting for Genevieve's signal. Her classmates turn silent in raw anticipation.

She nods.

And the doors creak open.

"Is that—?!"

Something descends from the darkness — a shoe that matches her's in all its customized cobblerly. Another steps out and fear grabs her by the throat when it dawns upon the girl that the boggart is her.

Wrong.

A mirror image of her own but unlike her in so many ways.

Its facing this way, standing as a mannequin for whatever evil wracks within, limbs looking wrong, disjointed, longer somehow. Once dainty-skin painted purple and bruised, pale like a corpse, like the ones she's seen and killed. The same curved jaw, straight nose, llight hair, but this isn't her. It's not. It can't be.

With its chapped lips and sunken cheeks, its fingers flex around a familiar wand of intertwined wood–

Run.

and raises it to–

No. Fight it. It'll kill...

– her.

"Riddikulus!"

"The lesson ends here! Miss Onai, kindly guide Miss Moxie to the infirmary."

It should be that simple.

It should be, watching Hecat subdue the creature.

It's that simple: a play of one's wand and the boggart's visage contorts, a grotesque parody of fears both imagined and real. Hecat stands in between the girl and the wardrobe. With a final whimper, it dissolves into a haze. The room, previously thick with dread, shares an exhale.

Her legs are trembling, or is her body entirely? The world sways and Genevieve can't see anyone past the blur of her vision.

"Off now, everyone! Well done!"

She can't feel herself. Is she still alive?

"Vivi," calls a familiar, accented voice.

Natty places a hand on her shoulder, tugging Genevieve into a hug that's botj solid and warm and she yields. Her head falls against the crook of Natty's neck. She submits to being pampered, submits to letting the tremors of her body wash away.

It looked at her.

Eyes hollowed and dark, pupils slit like some semblance of composed insanity.

"It's alright now..."

A lighter voice, this time — Poppy's. Genevieve feels circles rubbed against her back as Poppy whispers words of encouragement. Sweet nothings. Empty promises of assurance.

Her friends know nothing of the truth. She ensured it. She's done well in keeping them at an arm's length. Only Sebastian had broken through her walls, tethered closely to her side, created a home in her heart, yet look now where he stands.

They cannot- should not see the blood on her hands, nor the scars strewn about her body like a heinous frankenstein. They cannot know of the crown placed upon her head and the thorns that dig in, of her duties and failures.

It reeks of copper and soil.

To what lengths are you willing to go?

It hurts that her friends don't feel real.

Are you a hero or a monster?

The repository calls her name.

Are you even Genevieve Moxie?

Her friends guide a husk to the infirmary, not without a string of kind words and gentle touches to her skin.

"It's alright."

But she knows, it's not.

[droughtofapathy]

"Welcome to the Theatre": Diary of a Broadway Baby

Broadway Backwards 2024

March 11, 2024 | Special | BC/EFA | Evening | Concert | 2H | Fundraiser

I've already complained in detail about the lack of women, specifically old broads, in Broadway Backwards this year, so I won't repeat all that here. Overall, a solid night with some entertaining sketches. They've moved away from the overly sentimental things they've had in the past, and that's a relief. I do tire of the same sketch where a young queer twink has an unsupportive family with a shrewish bigoted mother and a sympathetic yet henpecked father. After the third year in a row, do something new. Why are women always your villains?

Highlights:

Chip Zien and Len Cairou playing old geezer gays at a bus stop, singing the pineapple song from Cabaret. Baker and Barber was a ship you never thought you needed until now.

Julie Benko in a 1930s speakeasy flirting with twenty young female dancers.

Two former Jasmine actresses actually flying around on the magic carpet (because they do this show on the Aladdin set and stage) singing "A Whole New World."

Alex Newell's "Back to Before" - it doesn't come close to touching Marin's rendition, but then, no one can. And it was damn good.

Gay Godfather sketch.

Surprise guest Debra Monk showed up at the eleventh hour, told a dirty joke, wore this snazzy white suit, and gave a wonderful speech. Genuinely, I was going to rate this night a solid "enjoyable..." but surprise Debra Monk instantly bumps it up to "a lovely night."

In short, Broadway Backwards has been just okay these last two years after a triumphant post-COVID return in 2022. I am begging them to please just bring back old broads. Who are these performers they're bringing on who have never actually been on Broadway but are popular with the kids? I don't know that man. Please. Where are my Divas? Where's Bernadette Peters in a sparkly dress?

Verdict: A Lovely Night

A Note on Ratings

[techtow]

Unveiling the Glitz and Glamour: Oscars 2023 Recap and Oscar Awards Insights

The Oscars, also known as the Academy Awards, stand as the epitome of excellence in the realm of cinema. Every year, Hollywood's finest talents gather to celebrate outstanding achievements in filmmaking. The Oscars 2023 edition was no exception, as it dazzled audiences worldwide with its grandeur and sophistication.

Oscars 2023: A Night to Remember

The Oscars 2023 ceremony, held at the iconic Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles, was a spectacle to behold. A-list celebrities graced the red carpet in their most exquisite attire, setting the stage for an evening filled with anticipation and excitement.

Oscars Nomination 2023: The Best of the Best

Leading up to the main event, film enthusiasts eagerly awaited the announcement of Oscar nominations. The Oscars 2023 nominations showcased a diverse array of cinematic masterpieces, representing various genres and storytelling styles. From gripping dramas to captivating documentaries, each nominee exemplified the artistry and creativity prevalent in the film industry.

Oscars Winners 2023: Celebrating Excellence

As the night unfolded, stars took to the stage to claim their coveted Oscars trophies. The winners of Oscars 2023 represented a mix of seasoned veterans and emerging talents, all recognized for their exceptional contributions to cinema. From Best Picture to Best Director, each category honored the passion and dedication poured into bringing captivating stories to life on the silver screen.

Academy Awards 2023: A Platform for Diversity

One of the highlights of Oscars 2023 was its emphasis on diversity and inclusion. The Academy Awards celebrated filmmakers from various backgrounds, shining a spotlight on stories that resonate with audiences worldwide. From celebrating films that explore social issues to recognizing underrepresented voices, the Oscars underscored the importance of representation in storytelling.

Oscars Wins: Inspiring Future Generations

Beyond the glitz and glamour, the Oscars serve as a source of inspiration for aspiring filmmakers and artists. The wins at Oscars 2023 inspire a new generation of creatives to pursue their dreams and strive for excellence in their craft. The Academy Awards not only recognize outstanding achievements but also encourage innovation and experimentation in filmmaking.

Reflecting on Oscar Awards: A Legacy of Excellence

As we look back on Oscars 2023, we're reminded of the enduring legacy of the Academy Awards. For decades, the Oscars have celebrated the magic of cinema, uniting audiences around the world in appreciation of storytelling and artistry. As we eagerly anticipate the next chapter in Oscars history, we cherish the memories and moments that make the Academy Awards a true celebration of the silver screen.

In conclusion, Oscars 2023 was a testament to the power of film to entertain, enlighten, and inspire. As we celebrate the winners of Oscars and reflect on the achievements of the past year, we eagerly await the next installment of the Academy Awards, where new stories will be told, and new stars will shine bright on Hollywood's biggest night.

[jacuzzijesus]

I had a nice little red carpet moment tonight. I got to be an aerialist in a local theatre production of Pippin and the aerialists collectively won one of the seasons Perforcane Awards! I know it's silly and doesn't really mean much but it feels pretty cool and I will never get over how magical this show was and for my troupe members and myself to be recognized fills my heart so much.

So I guess to celebrate that tumblr can have some pictures of me all dressed up and feeling pretty good about myself!

[viadangelo]

➵  BASICS

NAME: Via D'Angelo GOES BY: V, Via. AGE / D.O.B. 3rd March, 1971 [ 53 yo ] FACECLAIM: Carla Gugino GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cisfemale. Bi. HOMETOWN: Los Angeles, CA. CURRENTLY: Brooklyn, NY. AFFILIATION: Syndicate. JOB POSITION: Retired Performer. Now Falcon. EDUCATION: High School Diploma RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Always single, if asked. CHILDREN: One. ➵ Hanna D'Angelo, 30, estranged.

➵  TRAITS

POSITIVE: Charismatic, conscientious, vivacious, imaginative, witty. NEGATIVE: Callous, compulsive, hedonistic, grim, cynical.

➵  BIOGRAPHY

Round and round, up and down. It's always a trick; a ploy; a deception. From every sharp knife thrown at a spinning wheel, to every saw through a box, to the famous Houdini and his masterful escapes. Everyone hears about the stories, not everyone has been witness. Reading it in the news the next day, is never the same as seeing the colour of blood freshly painted across skin. Knowing that everyone walks away unscathed is different to seeing it happen. Magic is always better seen, than believed. Product of an affair, Via was the bastard child of some Hollywood exec. An evening with too many drinks slammed; an Italian restaurant; a Thursday night. Something like that. Los Angeles was rife with unattainable standards, pretty woman, men, and too many vices in all the wrong pockets. By the eighties, D'Angelo's was a decrepit shell of a restaurant, it started with mass inflation. Expenses that put prices up that even the elite were refusing to pay. And the elite that stayed the elite, were the rising stars of the red carpets. The extravagance and elegance that was heavily in others' favours. Via's family were on the poverty line. And outside the doors, the outlandish scenes of LA thrived. It was magical, and it was a wistful dream to want to be one of them. A child turned teenager, rogue in the wilderness of the concrete jungle navigated her way into the backdoors of a theatre on one early evening. Adi Rosselli was in town, a magician that had the ears of all who mattered. He had Via's ear too, and her eyes when she peered from the corner of a packed theatre to witness the magic. As the children's books say, magic can change lives. It changed Via's. It changed D'Angelo's. One conversation. One break in. One door fumbled into with a hairpin. One good shot. Via swindled her way in, a second assistant. Rosselli already had one. One too many, most would comment. Years pass. Via spends her nights on the edge of death, and delight. She earns prestige, maybe as the pretty face; dolled up to look nice. But, eventually, it's something. It's steady and she learns everything. Cards, tricks, positions, how to make it look deceptive. The first tragedy was the vanishing act; it was so magical, it was real. One assistant again. Adi, confused, shocked - doubtful of his performances was comforted by a enthusiastic D'Angelo earning a name at his side. A tragedy could not stop it. A decade passes, Adi starts talking retirement. Via, still energetic with life, and a taste of the elite in LA as Rosselli talks about his final tour. They end in New York. It's the end of so many things. And the beginning of something more. She knows all the acts; the secrets; the whispers, the timings. The sleight of hand of the close up specialty. It took time, it took bruises, it took flesh, and broken parts. But, when Rosselli retired, Via D'Angelo began her solo act. That was the beginning of the end. She was not Adriel Rosselli, and she had aged beyond the standards of expectation. The elegance, grace and the exuberance that LA had taught her. New York was a ballgame she barely knew how to play. But she stayed. She had too. Where else would she pick up and go - back? To hear the rumours, and the whispers of the past greatness of Rosselli. No. Never. So, she got creative. Performed in smaller, nicher places where whispers had value. They meant something; they had names; prices attached. She could bet, and win against her card tricks, play the fool, the smart, the magician. Eventually, it struck someone; a Syndicate initiate, and then another and Via had a talent for deception that rivalled plenty actresses; smiles were dangerous. She could be anyone. But Via D'Angelo was anyone but the man who'd given her the taste of a life she was still chasing.

➵  CONNECTIONS

ADRIEL "ADI" ROSSELLI | MAGICIAN. MARC GILLESPIE | FATHER SARA D'ANGELO | MOTHER, deceased. PAOLO D'ANGELO | STEP-FATHER, deceased. GIOVANNI D'ANGELO | OLDER BROTHER, missing. HANNA D'ANGELO | DAUGHTER, estranged.

➵  HEADCANONS

Eats fruit off a butterfly.

Watch one's pockets. Wallets; watches; documents. It's a clever sleight of hand vanishing act.

One of her favourite throwing knives, often always on her person, she’s named Hecate.

Via had every part to do with Rosselli's assistant's accident. Sharing the spotlight had no longer been her angle. Incident of the vanishing act was '97.

Rosselli's final tour was in 2014, she has been in NYC since.

Shot some movies in her past, silver screen if someone asks. But don't ask.

Her daughter Hanna was a sad accident with another performer on a night in LA. She put Hanna into the system. Her career had no room for children; pregnancy almost ended it more than once. She got no information besides notification of her adoption. She doesn't know her daughter's new family name. Or where she is now. It is probably better that way.

Had on and off flings, never a relationship in any meaningful sense of the word. Performer lifestyle practically dictates illicit acts, vices and dalliances. But never committal.