The Hausa- Fulani people are on of the largest ethnic groups in Nigeria, a country with over 300 ethnic groups. The group is a fusion of the Hausa and Fulani people, whose cultures have become intertwined.
Silk faille, velvet, cord, jet beads and African starling
“This toque–or small woman’s hat with a narrow brim–is decorated with tiny, shimmering beads and a real African starling carcass. The starling features iridescent plumage in a range of blue, green, and violet. Starlings were well-known for their beautiful feathers, and imported to Paris from France’s African colonies, particularly Senegal and the French Congo (now the Republic of the Congo, Gabon, and the Central African Republic), for use in the millinery trade.
Degas, Impressionism, and the Paris Millinery Trade
Request: “newt and reader
who are best friends, become friends with benefits after both of them recently
got out of relationships?”
Pairing: Newt Scamander x Reader
Word Count: 1459
A/n: this had a pretty fluffy ending, so if u guys would prefer I could totally do another fic where the reader n newt stay just friends and stuff :)
Your body was cold. Your face like ice, in both temperature and
appearance. The tears that ran down your face were the only form of movement
that surrounded you. You sat, staring at the still framed picture of you, and
who you thought was your “one true love”. The smiling faces that stared back
tore through your soul, a deep anguish gripping you as you remembered the last
conversation you had.
“You’re too close to that Scamander guy, have you not seen the way
he looks at you?”
“What are you talking about? He’s my best friend!”
“Then go be with your best
The shouting had ended abruptly with a slammed door, and then the
room fell so silent that you swore you could hear your heart snapping in two.
The small hope that you would get a phone call someday had diminished, along
with your positive attitude towards the word “love”.
“(Y/n)?” a soft calling made you turn your head, but not without
great difficulty. You had no idea how long you’d been just sitting there,
completely still while silently crying, but you knew it was for at least an
Newt came beside you, sitting on your bed. Something about his
normally comforting demeanour had changed, as he trembled slightly. You turned
your gaze to land on his face now, and you saw an almost mirror like image of
His normally pink lips had lost all their colour, eyes drained to
a weary grey version of his usually bright green irises. His face was white as
snow, eyelashes wet with sorrow.
“Are you alright?” You asked, voice barely audible as it cracked
from its lack of use.
He just shook his head a bit, trying to contain himself. “She… she
said she could never love me.”
There was the word again. You almost recoiled as it was spoken,
the single syllable ripping into you like a bullet. As Newt had vocalized his
pain, the veil of constraint had been torn, and he collapsed, throwing his arms
around you as his body was racked with sobs. His sudden breakdown then affected
you like a domino, and now you were crying loudly into his shoulder.
Part 3 of my ongoing birthday fic for my dear friend @kliomuse, who is always there when I need a sounding board (or just to listen to me rant). She’s been a huge cheerleader for BH&H since the very beginning, and she wanted to see a 1920s New Orleans scene in this verse, so that’s what she got! Flapper dresses and bathtub gin, where a desperate young woman seeks a deal with the devil
but in the city of sinners and saints anything can happen, and while a demons answers, an angel listens and the souls of two young lovers hang in the balance between heaven and hell.
This is only posted on Tumblr while it’s a WIP, will be added to AO3 and ff.net when complete.
The infernal demon known only as Monsieur K. St. Jean to most of New Orleans sat at a table in a small nightclub called Le Bijou, that was tucked away down a narrow side street and hidden behind a plain, unmarked door. On the inside it more than lived up to its name, it was a jewelbox of plush velvet and cut crystal, where every surface was polished to a mirror shine and glittered like gemstones through the haze of blue smoke. He was alone, cigarette in hand and a bottle of fine cognac waiting unopened on the table while he watched the stage where a beautiful quadroon in a dress that was a sliver of moonlight and a scatter of diamonds sang into the microphone, accompanied by a pianist in black tie. The song was a rather mournful ode to an absent lover, sung to an audience of one.