#bridegroom dance

[mega-hitech-hitesh-blog]

Online dance and fitness classes - DANCE ASIA PLUS

[nias-keca]

[is-it-sander-oclock-yet]

A very good friend of mine plays piano like a wonderful fairy and she made a beautiful music video together with a couple dancing and some other friends playing classical instruments. They worked their pretty asses off and it turned out fucking beautiful but they don’t really know how to promote so I’m secretly showing y’all. Please don’t out me as a tumblr user to them, I’m begging you! But if you want to: enjoy the beautiful music and video and maybe leave some lovely comments ☺️.

[jaioes]

The final of the triolgy, united in death for one last dance

“And i look upon time as no more than an idea,

And i consider enternity as another possibility,

And i think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,

And each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

Tending,as all music does, towards silence,

Each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, id dont wan to wonder

If i have made of my life something particular,and real.

I dont want to find myself signing and frightened,

Or full of argument.

I dont want to end up simply having visited this world”

-exert from Mary Oliver’s ‘when death comes’

[caimitos]

lil sketchdump for the silt verses because i miss them.....a lot.....

edit: added ID below, originally written by @princess-of-purple-prose, thank you so much!

[ID: Silt Verses fanart done in dark brown.

1. On the left, Carpenter’s narration hangs next to a portrait of Nana Glass, an older woman with fishhooks radiating around her face and curly hair tied in a high bun. Carpenter says, “Over the long years, she pierced her ears and cheeks and lips with seventeen barbed hooks of varying shapes and sizes in devotion to the Trawler-man.” A note says “*hair curls look like hooks.”

On the right, a young Em and Carpenter walk with Nana, who looks ahead as they stop to look at the corpse floating in the river. Carpenter’s narration says, “Em and I would run and play for hours in the waterlogged garden, dancing amongst the sweetgrass. Leaping over the bobbing buoys of the lifeless, sackcloth-covered heads that bobbed in rows along the shallows.”

2. The bride and bridegroom in a church. The bride is a towering hermit crab-like figure with a mostly-human torso that a long veil flows off the head of. The narration says, “And as the bridegroom staggers back, aghast, he sees the angels part, and his promised bride comes forward to the head of the procession. Swept inland upon new towering legs, smiling as she strides forwards to meet him.”

3. Mercer and Gage, smiling teens dressed in furs and skulls and carrying guns. As Gage says, “We dress in the things we kill, in sallow bone and in bloodied rough fur. Mercer's hood is topped with a goat skull; mine with the skull of a dog.”

4. Carpenter, Paige, and Faulkner in a car together. Carpenter looks tired as she drives, and Faulkner smiles in the passenger’s seat as he and a smiling Paige split a Kit-Kat. Text from the season one recap says: “MÉABH: Carpenter and Paige drag him to the car and the three best friends that there ever ever was... go on a roadtrip :)”. The words “go on a roadtrip” are handwritten in. End ID]

[farity]

Obsession, part 2

Part 1

He'd thought about her all week. During meetings, while driving, even while the Baratheon girl had her mouth around his cock. Now he smiled to himself because as he got ready for the stupid wedding his mother was making them all go to like good little children, he knew she'd be there.

She'd been in the same sorority as the bride, the daughter of his mother's cousin, who was marrying some guy from fucking Pentos of all places.

"I'm not driving."

He looked at his brother in the reflection of the mirror. "I know."

He glared at Aegon, already buzzed, and finished adjusting his tie before heading out to the car. Of course Aegon wouldn't be driving, he would not put his family's safety in his older brother's hands.

"You look very nice, Aem."

"And you look beautiful, Hel," he replied, kissing his sister's cheek. She twirled in her pretty pink dress and he thought for a moment about how close she'd come to dying. He'd added extra security, plainclothes because Helaena didn't like to have the usual guys around her.

The Boltons would pay. His earlier meeting had been with the other houses that supported his family. They had all agreed there needed to be retribution, and were it not for the stupid wedding, he would most likely already be on his way to mete out some punishment.

But for now he had to play nice and look forward to seeing one particular wedding guest.

* * * * *

You could do this.

You could walk into the massive sept and take your seat and watch as your sorority sister married that piece of shit scumbag asshole from the seven hells.

Easy peasy.

Despite your hints that the bridegroom was a nasty piece of crap, Ellie was in love and she was determined to marry him. You just smiled and decided you'd be there for her when she dumped his ass and divorced him.

He wasn't the love of your life or anything, but it still stung when you'd find out he'd been fucking two other girls on the side. Or maybe you were one of the side chicks. Who knew. It just sucked. And after getting tested and burning all the shit he'd kept at your place, you'd moved on.

Until he got Ellie to believe he was a changed man.

People didn't change.

Once an asshole, always an asshole.

You took a program from one of the ushers and took your seat, halfway down the right side of the sept, and opened up Candy Crush on your phone.

"Oh, there she is!"

You saw a blur of pink heading your way and looked up to see Helaena smiling at you.

And her brother was walking alongside her, smirking.

You hugged Helaena back while pretending you did not see Aemond standing three feet behind her.

"Oh my gosh, I've told everyone about how you saved my life!"

Before you could reply, she grabbed both of your hands in hers. "My mom really wants to meet you."

Out of the corner of your eye you could see Aemond smiling and you wanted to kick him. Hard.

"That would be delightful," you said as sincerely as you could, because one simply did not turn down a mafia wife, let alone THE mafia wife.

The septon walked out and much to your relief, everyone started heading to their seats.

"I will see you at the reception," Helaena whispered before heading off.

You nodded, and purposely avoided looking at Aemond as you sat back down. Candy Crush was just too damn interesting for you to pay attention to some mafia son who wasn't used to people saying no to him.

* * * * *

Aemond kept surveying the ballroom, making sure there was no one around who wasn't supposed to be there. But his gaze kept turning to the table across the dance floor, where a certain brunette in a sky blue dress sat chatting with the other guests.

It was time for the newlyweds to have their first dance, and everyone stood as the happy couple took to the floor. The lights dimmed, much to Aemond's irritation, and music faded in. He hadn't heard this song before, and the lyrics were kind of corny, if he was honest, but then he caught sight of her.

She was looking at the groom, her mouth open, her eyes distressed.

Aemond turned to look at the couple dancing, and when he turned to her, she was gone.

He caught a shimmer of movement towards the side door and immediately backed away from the dance floor. He signaled to the head bodyguard to keep an eye on things, and he made his way to the side door.

She was several yards ahead of him, walking fast, her hands on her ears. Aemond realized there were speakers throughout the property, every single one of them pumping out the corny song being played for the first dance, and then she started running.

When she reached the end of the corridor, she looked from one side to the other, and turned left, and he followed. Between his longer legs and the fact that she was wearing heels, he was catching up with her, but when he turned the corner he found her sitting on one of the benches lining the gardens. She was doubled over, her face in her hands, her clutch on the floor.

"Hey."

She looked up, startled.

"What is wrong?"

She looked at him. "Why the hell are you following me?"

"You were with him."

She looked like she was about to cry.

"Was that your song?"

She grabbed her clutch and stood, turning away from him and starting to walk again. There was another speaker high up on the wall, and she groaned. "Is there nowhere I can get away from this fucking song?"

He ran up to her and grabbed her free hand. "My car's right up there."

* * * * *

What the fuck was wrong with people to have the fucking music piped all over the fucking property?

You had to get away, you couldn't listen to this fucking song for another fucking minute.

Looking down at Aemond's hand wrapped around yours, you made your decision. Turning to him, you said, "let's go."

He hadn't been lying, his car was parked away from where the other guests had left their cars, and you figured it was so he could get away quickly if he needed to.

Right now you didn't care, it was bad enough being at this fucking wedding and then the stupid song, it was like it was chasing you, not giving you a second of peace.

You let Aemond open the passenger door, let him walk around and get in, let him drive away, and only then did your breathing start to slow down from the frenzied pace it had been keeping.

"It was your song, wasn't it?" he asked again, "yours and that fuckface's?

You took a deep breath. "Not exactly."

He gave you time to compose yourself, let you gather your thoughts before you started to speak. "He used to write me these stupid poems. They were so cringe, but whatever, you know?"

Aemond looked at you, nodding.

"This was the last one he gave me," you said quietly. "Hey, at least he recycles, right?"

"I am sorry."

"I don't even know why I'm so upset, it's not like he left me for her. He was an asshole."

He said nothing, and you felt like even a bigger fucking idiot. Why were you telling your girl problems to this guy, of all people? Just shut the fuck up and let him drop you off.

"Oh, I should give you my address."

"Sure."

* * * * *

He was already driving that way, but she probably hadn't noticed because she was so upset. She lived in a tiny house that had probably been someone's guest house or in-law unit, and judging from her social media posts, it was just her living there.

He wouldn't feel bad for finding things out. For all he knew, she was part of the whole attempt on Helaena, someone placed there to "save" his sister and become her friend that way.

Except this girl didn't seem to want anything to do with him or Hel. She'd been pleasant enough but he could read people, and after Helaena had spoken to her, she'd scurried off as quickly as she could.

"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly, "you didn't have dinner."

"Oh shit," she said, pressing a hand to her mouth, "neither did you, I'm sorry."

"Do you want to go somewhere?"

She glanced down at her gown and raised an eyebrow. "Um, no, I'm okay. I have food at home."

It had been ingrained in him since he was a child. He protected the women in the family.

Keep them warm, keep them fed.

"We can do a drive-through."

Her stomach rumbled loudly and he almost laughed. "We're doing a drive-through."

* * * * *

He parked in front of your house after picking up food, and while part of you was appalled at eating a messy burger and fries in your gorgeous rented gown, the smell was just too damn good and you dove in. Because you were not inviting him in.

"Thank you," you said after wiping your mouth. "For the food and the rescue."

And now you owed him. Maybe he'd consider it even with you saving his sister because you really did not want to owe him anything.

"No problem." He took all the wrappers and placed them into the paper bag, placed it in the back. "Do you like your job?"

Here we go. This is where he offers me a job and I'm indebted for fucking life.

"I do, actually."

"You seem much too smart to be doing what you do."

When you glared at him for a) knowing what you did, and b) having a fucking opinion about it, he shrugged.

"It's my job to know who comes into our lives, and I'm very good at my job."

"I am paid very well, and I like the people I work with."

"But you could be doing something so much more interesting."

You took a deep breath, because you'd had this same conversation with your brother, the last time you'd heard from him.

"Look, I get that to you-, I mean, to some people," you amended, not wanting to offend him, "a job like mine, doing peon shit for a random company might seem ridiculous."

"I didn't say that, I just think you could be doing-"

"And maybe it is," you continued, "and you've known me for a grand total of what, forty minutes, and no, I don't spend my life chasing wealth and power like, again, other people, but neither am I walking into coffee shops where men are waiting to shoot at me."

His face was unreadable, but he'd gone very, very still, and you were fucking tired and again, your fucking mouth had to keep going.

"Can your sister date whoever she wants?"

A muscle twitched in his cheek and you knew you'd hit a nerve.

Nodding smugly, you grabbed your clutch and opened your door. "Thanks again for everything. Take care."

You were surprised, because you were shaking so badly, that you managed to get out of the car and thank the fucking gods the key fob worked on the first try so you could get in your house and close the door and be done with everything.

You headed to your bedroom to change your clothes, pulling on one of your old concert shirts and some soft shorts before heading back to the living area.

When the front door opened, you shrieked and jumped back before seeing Aemond at the doorway, his hand on the lock.

"What the hell?"

He stared at you, his face unreadable. "You think you know me," he said softly, "you think you know everything. "

Anger surged in your chest. At his audacity. At the fact that he could so easily get into your home. "You mean like I just knew you were the type of guy who breaks into a woman's home so he can get the last word?" Your hands were fisted at your side and you swore to the new gods and the old if he took another step you were going to rip out his good eye with your own fingers.

He started to take a step toward you, but you pointed at him.

"Get out. I don't care you who are, I don't care who you know. Get. Out."

You turned around, tears beginning to fill your eyes. You went into the bathroom and locked the door, until you heard the front door close.

You waited a few seconds before you went back out. Your heart was beating so hard you thought you were going to pass out.

* * * * *

How the hell had things gone so wrong so quickly?

I'm sorry.

Aemond drove home, angry with himself. He'd wanted to explain, to tell her he wasn't a fucking asshole, and for some gods-awful reason had decided to crack the lock on her door?

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

He'd probably terrified her. Which was his usual intent when he broke into people's houses but he hadn't thought it through, had he?

The next morning he was still seething at his own stupidity, and didn't notice Helaena walking in.

"Are you okay?"

He looked up to find her staring at him, her eyes wide.

"Yeah, why?"

"You disappeared from the wedding, for one, and now you look pissed off."

"I'm fine."

Helaena walked over and kissed his cheek, then grabbed her favorite butterfly mug from the cabinet and poured herself some coffee. "I'm going to call her. The girl from the cafe. Ask her to lunch, ya know?"

Aemond closed his eyes, sighing, "Hel, just leave her alone."

"What do you mean leave her alone, lunch is a nice thing, I want to say thank you properly."

"Just don't."

She was silent and when he looked back up from his coffee, she had tears in her eyes.

"I can't see the Snow boy because he's a bastard, I can't have lunch with the girl who saved my life, because what?"

He shook his head. "Hel, it's just not-"

"Not a good idea, yeah, I know, Aemond. Nothing is ever a good idea for me, I'm going to die alone!"

"Oh sheesh, sorry!" Aegon pressed himself against the wall as Helaena stomped away, crying. "What the fuck did you do to her?"

"Nothing."

Aegon walked behind his brother and smacked Aemond's head on his way to getting his own coffee. "Go clean that up and tell me what the fuck is wrong with Helaena. Today, I mean."

Aemond groaned and grabbed paper towels, smacking Aegon's head as he went to clean up the mess his sister had made. "She wants to be friends with the girl from the cafe."

"Is she hot?"

Aemond shot his brother a dirty look.

"Hey, I might want to be her friend, too."

"She wants nothing to do with us, I just don't want Hel to get her feelings hurt." When he looked up, Aegon was watching him with eyes narrowed. He fucking hated how perceptive Aegon was when he wasn't drunk. He gathered all the shards of the mug and threw them in the trash, wiped off the floor and threw the paper towels in the trash, too. He looked back at Aegon, who was smiling at him. "What's wrong with you?"

"You did something." Aegon laughed out loud. "Oh, I fucking love this. The perfect son fucked something up. You did, didn't you?"

"Shut up."

"Yeah, how would you know the girl wants nothing to do with us?" Aegon raised an eyebrow, "unless you talked to her?"

"Of course I talked to her, I needed to know who she was. She might have been planted into playing the 'savior' to get in with Hel."

Aegon sipped his coffee, stood up to add more milk. "Yeah yeah, but something else happened," he kept watching Aemond, who was almost squirming under his brother's scrutiny. "You didn't fuck her, because you hardly ever fuck anyone, let alone someone who might be a plant, so what? Tell me, or I will find her and ask her myself."

For fuck's sake, Aegon would. And he would make everything even worse.

"She was at the wedding. Left suddenly and I followed her, found her crying because she used to date the groom and the fucker used some song or something he'd given her as the first dance yesterday."

"That's a dick move."

"Anyway, I drove her home and might have let on I thought she was wasting her time at that stupid job she has."

"Aemond, what the fuck." Aegon pinched the bridge of his nose.

Aemond shrugged. "She took offense, said people like us didn't get people like her or some shit, and got out and went inside her house."

A huge smile appeared on Aegon's face. "And you couldn't let it go, could you?" When Aemond said nothing, Aegon barked out a laugh. "You're pathologically unable to let anyone else have the last word."

"Fuck off."

"Yeah yeah, sure, so what, you broke into her house?"

"I'm going to break your fucking face if you don't fuck right off."

"Oh I'm going, I got people to call."

* * * * *

On Monday, you arrived at the office and found two bouquets of flowers waiting for you.

"Someone had a great time at that wedding."

You ignored your boss's voice and hauled the vases to your desk, taking out the little cards from each.

The one that came with the pink roses read I meant to explain myself and ended up scaring you. I truly am sorry. A

The one with the rather gynecological-looking orchids read I can tell you anything you want to know about Aemond, I'm his brother and I know everything. Aegon II Targaryen

There was also a phone number on Aegon's card and you laughed to yourself.

"My dear girl, did we have two foxes in that henhouse?"

You ran into your boss's office and closed the door before she could continue speculating loudly enough for the whole floor to hear.

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My Ko-fi

[princesssarisa]

If there's any character from Sleeping Beauty from whose viewpoint I might like to write a poem or short fic, it would be one of the four princes from Act I of Tchaikovsky's ballet.

Other, later retellings of the tale have also given Sleeping Beauty a suitor before she succumbs to the curse, but those princes are usually portrayed negatively, as silly fops in contrast to the charming prince who ultimately wakes her. The four suitors in the ballet, on the other hand, are perfectly nice, handsome, gallant young men. Aurora dances the famous Rose Adagio with them, and while she doesn't choose one of them to marry, she seems to like them well enough. Yet after sharing that beautiful moment of dance with her, with every reason to hope that one of them will soon be her bridegroom, they have to witness her fall under the spell.

Aurora's finger-pricking doesn't happen in a secluded tower in Tchaikovsky's ballet. The evil fairy Carabosse comes to her 16th birthday feast disguised as an old beggar woman, and (depending on the production) either gives her a drop spindle as a gift, which she takes naïvely because she's never seen one before, or gives her a bouquet of roses with a spindle hidden inside. Then she pricks her finger and collapses in front of the whole court and all the party guests, including the four princes. In some productions, one of the princes catches Aurora in his arms as she falls, and when Carabosse jubilantly reveals her identity, many productions have the four of them rush at her with their swords just before she vanishes. Then, after the Lilac Fairy arrives to assure everyone that Aurora is only sleeping, not dead, and to put the King and Queen and all the rest of the court to sleep too, in some productions it's the four princes who carry Aurora into the castle to her bed.

Even though Aurora doesn't fall in love with any of those princes, they still share something meaningful. When Aurora enters, her music and dancing is all childlike exuberance and innocence. But in the grand Rose Adagio – one of the most demanding showcases for a ballerina – she comes into her own both as a dancer and as a young woman receiving courtship for the first time. Arguably, the dance she shares with the four princes serves as her coming-of-age moment, which prepares her for her ultimate marriage to Prince Désiré/Florimund a hundred years later.

Yet there's no happy ending for those four young men. They have to watch Aurora succumb to the curse, fail to take down Carabosse, and then learn from the Lilac Fairy that Aurora is lost to them, destined to sleep until another prince finds her long after they're all dead. All they can do is reverently lay her to rest, then go back to their own lands, presumably to tell the rest of the world what happened.

I'd like to imagine that Prince Désiré/Florimund is the grandson or great-grandson of one of Aurora's four original suitors. A few other adaptations have the Prince who wakes Sleeping Beauty be descended from an earlier suitor of hers, so I'll imagine that's the case in the ballet too.

[theharddeck]

the best me has his arms around you (jake x f!reader)

pairing: Jake Hangman Seresin x fem!reader

summary: after a long deployment, Jake and his girlfriend share a slowdance after Javy's wedding. this fic was created as a part of @roosterforme 's #love is in the air tgm challenge 💕based off the song yours, by russell dickerson

warnings: none! just some soft, wedding-provoked, feelings if y'all want a part 2 with welcome home smut, do lmk

wc: 1.3k

It was a beautiful wedding.

The evening was cool, illuminated by twinkling lights strung around the courtyard of a historic hotel in Old Town San Diego, weaving among colorful strands of papel picado. Coyote and Cross had said their vows in the golden afternoon and the party had been going strong ever since. You were now at the point in the night where jackets were draped across the backs of chairs, beside high heels that had been unbuckled and abandoned, as guests were too tired to keep up appearances, but having too good of a time to call it a night. 

You liked the height that your heels had given you, but your arches were suffering the consequences; Jake had known you would want to stay on the floor so he’d pulled you into his arms and balanced your bare feet on top of his cowboy boots. The thick leather was sturdy under your toes, and you locked your elbows around his neck and let your boyfriend dance for the both of you. It was more a sway than a dance, a soft and comfortable rocking as Jake moved you around the courtyard. You pressed your face into the soft material of his dress shirt still somewhat disbelieving that he was back. 

He and Javy had been deployed at the worst time, the two of them barely making it back overseas in time for rehearsal dinner. You’d seen Jake last night, but they’d both been exhausted from the travel, and bridesmaids and groomsmen were bunking together anyway, so tonight was the first time you really felt like you had your boyfriend back. 

“You wanna sit down?” Jake asked quietly, his voice rumbling against your cheek. You shook your head against his chest, not wanting to break the moment. To be here, to hold him, to be held—it didn’t matter if your feet were bleeding raw, you’d have stayed. 

So you did stay. 

The DJ wound down, reading the energy shift, moving to softer songs, even taking slow dance requests. Older couples were drifting away, the bride and bridegroom quietly bidding everyone goodnight, until the only ones left were the ones who needed the quietness more than they needed the tradition. Jake’s hand was smoothing up your back slowly, playing with the chiffon gathered at the small of your back. 

Cross had done well in picking bridesmaid dresses that weren’t awful, and you felt more like a Grecian goddess rather than a bridesmaid cliche. You felt Jake’s hand lift, and turned your head to see Harvard and his girl waving goodbye to him as they headed out. Brigham tipped his hat—his actual stetson, since apparently your boyfriend wasn’t the only cowboy in this place—at Jake and when the DJ’s next pick sounded notably more country than the previous selection, you knew it was Brigham’s doing. 

Jake’s arms tightened around you as a steel guitar echoed around the courtyard, and you settled back into him. You’d probably need to call it a night soon; it’d been a long couple of days, and you needed to get back into a rhythm before rejoining the real world after the haze of reunions and the wedding. But for now, this moment was perfect, and you didn’t want to end it. 

Jake coughed quietly, like he had something stuck in his throat but was trying to be quiet about it. Your hand slipped from around the back of his neck to his upper back when he kept coughing, and your brow wrinkled as you pulled back, the peace of the moment evaporating when you saw Jake’s face was red. 

“Let me get you some water—” you started, but Jake didn’t let go of you.

“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely, trying to pull you back into him, but you shook your head, stepping off his shoes. 

“Jake, it’s not; let me—”

Jake huffed, running a hand over his chin, smiling sheepishly at you. His eyes were watery, and you were wondering if you should grab something other than water, when he let out a long breath through his nose.

“It’s the song, honey,” he said, voice gravelly, and you blinked at him. 

“What?” you asked, reaching up to push some of his hair out of his face. As he looked down at you, you realized him clearing his throat was to hide a rush of emotion. Jake pulled at you gently, asking, and you stepped back into his arms, giving him the space he needed to tell you what was going on. 

“Just glad I’m yours, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair, turning you slowly around the floor.

Your heart clenched at his simple words, overflowing at having him here, having him at all. It was always hard for him to be away, it always hurt, but this sweet man? Made it all worth it.

And he’d scoff at the adjective, probably pull up his shirt to flex his abs or wiggle his eyebrows suggestively while reminding you of his other winning attributes. 

But past all his bravado and charm, past the way he seemed determined to keep people at arm’s length to protect them, past his need to remind people of how good he was, worried they wouldn’t think it unless he told them, past it all, he was a good man. You were just grateful you were the one he let close enough to find it out. 

You wrapped your arms around him again, letting the lyrics of the song settle over you as Jake swayed both of you. 

I came to life when I first kissed you

The best me has his arms around you

You make me better than I was before

Thank God I’m yours

Jake was humming along to the song, and you felt the vibration through his chest. You tightened your arms around him, your eyes closing as you leaned into his chest. 

It felt like peace, being here with him. 

Rocking slowly, held in the cradle of his arms. If you breathed deep, you could catch the remains of his cologne, determinedly lingering hours after it’d been applied, but stronger was the smell of his sweat. Soft and sweet, the familiar scent that’d long washed off the sheets and pillowcases in your shared home. 

The thought of it sent a wave of deep contentment through you and you pulled up to look at Jake. Both of your eyes were a little misty, and as the last notes of the song faded out, you leaned up to brush a soft kiss to his lips. Jake’s hands tightened slightly around your waist, but his lips were gentle as he returned your kiss, like he also felt the reverence in this moment. 

You pulled back, heart nearly bursting at the sight of him this close. The soft shadow of his lashes, the way his nostrils flared as he pulled in a deep breath, the way his once-perfectly-styled hair now fell slightly in his eyes.

You reached up to brush the golden strands away from his face, your fingers tracing from his cheekbone down to his Cary Grant chin, teasingly poking at the divet there. Jake’s mouth twitched into a smile, before he caught your hand in one of his, brushing a soft kiss against your knuckles. It was your turn to smile, then, a reaction you couldn’t stop any more than you could your next breath. 

“Take me home, Lieutenant?” you asked softly, and Jake lowered your hand from his lips, but his fingers stayed entwined in yours. You walked around the few couples remaining on the floor, and when you got to your table, you picked up your heels while Jake draped his suit jacket over your shoulders. 

The cobblestones were cold under your feet as you walked back to the car, but your hand was held warmly in Jake’s, his jacket settled on your shoulders, and you knew it was you—you were the lucky one, to be his. 

//

smutty part two (please check your warnings and minors DNI!)

//

tagging: @bradshawsbitch @callsign-fangirl @laracrofted @mxgyver @princessphilly @hangmanbrainrot @wildbornsiren @datemephoenix @fuckyeahhangman @lt-bradshaw @double-j @teacupsandtopgun @gigisimsonmars

[lizzybeth1986]

Laylat al-Henna

Book: The Royal Romance

Rating: PG

Pairing: Kiara Theron x Hana Lee

Word Count: 1, 882 words

Summary: It's the night before Kiara and Hana's wedding! What fun things do Kiara's cousins from Fes have in store for their henna night?

A/N: You'll find details and visuals on the fashion and henna designs (as well as faceclaims for the OCs!) in this post.

Tagging @kiaratheronappreciationweek for KTAW Day 1: Culture, @choicesficwriterscreations for FoTW/LGBTQ Archive, @choicespride as well even though it may be a bit early for the pride event.

It is tradition - Kiara has been told over and over, wedding after wedding, from the time she was twelve - for a woman to have her bridegroom's name hidden in the designs of her henna.

Their families back in Fes would make a game of it on their wedding night; the groom could touch his bride only when he found his name, tiny and dark and perfect - leaving the most beautiful stain on her palms.

At least four (well...three, really) of those cousins had giggled over how it all went down at their own wedding nights. Nour's henna had her husband's name written in extremely small print, squirreled away among a row of curls. Imane's flowed along the curves of a large, floral paisley. Nissrine's husband was rumoured to have taken hours searching for his name in her henna and poor Fatimazahra's collapsed into an eight-hour slumber before he could even truly try.

All four of them laughed even harder when they were told that Kiara would be marrying a woman.

At first Kiara assumed it had to be the fun of celebrating two brides rather than just one. Double the joy, double the dancing, double the bridal henna!

Should've known better, Kiara mutters to herself as her eyes search frantically for telltale signs of calligraphy along the darkened vines on Hana's palm.

She almost lets out a triumphant yell when she catches a lovingly inscribed kaaf, deceptively mirroring the vines. That's before she realises the other four letters are scattered in Arabic all over Hana's palm.

Kiara purses her lips, immensely annoyed. Why did she think this to be so romantic in the first place?

"Oh!" Hana whispers in delight, "Look! I've found mine." Her finger lightly traces the soft skin underneath Kiara's little finger, caressing the spot where her own name is inscribed, in Mandarin....as a whole word. Her eyes sparkle in childlike glee.

Kiara manages to catche an alif peeking out from behind a flower on the soft skin just below Hana's thumb. She lets out a small huff of laughter, shaking her head.

Perhaps she should thank every deity of every faith that her parents' gave her a name as short as Kiara. Imagine her plight if it had been as long as Fatimazahra's, zut alors.

"My darling cousins," she says, her eyes still roaming over Hana's palms. Now...now she understands all those hearty cackles Nour seemed to be making, at the idea of arranging a henna party for two women. "Elles me conduiront à ma tombe!"

--

Every woman at the henna party in Castelserraillan that night shared very knowing grins as Kiara and Hana entered - completely blissed out, skin dewy and aglow, a mixture of a french lavender scent and the earthy aroma of ghassoul clay emanating from their bodies.

They'd been brought into the hall like princesses of old, carried in jewelled palanquins, dressed in caftans and takchitas whose golden threads reflected the soft light of the hall, the candles that seemed to receive their own henna treatment in tones of pink, purple and rose gold, and their light glowed softly in trays of pure gold.

Having experienced the joys of the pre-henna night hammam baths themselves, most of Kiara's aunts and cousins could tell how good the treatments must have been within the first ten minutes of a bride entering the ceremony.

Beneath her golden veil, Kiara's eyes roamed around the hall, in awe of the sheer love and detail that must have gone into planning this party alone. Both women being daughters to a multitude of cultures meant that Kiara and Hana had to pay their respects to several of their homes - Bethulia. Castelserraillan. Udvada. Orleans. Fes. Shanghai. Cordonia. - in different ceremonies, and include a multitude of relatives.

Which meant that Kiara's aunts and cousins knew this night was their moment to shine.

Hana was whisked to another corner of the room before Kiara could even get a chance to speak to her - a bevy of ladies already surrounding her to fulfill requests, give her mint tea, admire the henna's artist's craft or just for a small chat. Anything and everything Hana wanted. Tonight (and this was exactly how Kiara wanted it) Hana was going to be treated like a queen.

From under her lashes, Kiara sneaked a look at Hana. The woman she would call her wife tomorrow. Listening, nodding, her silken brown hair catching the glow of the lights as she threw her head back at a joke her aunt Hala said.

"If you stare any harder you'll bore a hole in the wall behind her," Nissrine came to her, grinning as she followed Kiara's gaze. She looked around the hall, slightly doubtful. "How did we do?"

Kiara laughed, placing her free hand on her cousin's arm, reassuring her with the word they would all use to describe something as beautiful. "Zwina."

Fatimazahra - who had been minding the caterers this whole time - seemed to appear out of nowhere, chukling. "Tomorrow is her wedding night. Of course everything will be zwina. The macroute will be zwina, her henna will be zwina, her wife will be the most zwina."

Kiara moved her gaze from Hana to her own palms, admiring the naqasha's speed and precision. The henna felt cool on her left palm, the designs on her arms already beginning to dry a little and the paste itself smelling pleasant and earthy - the way real henna should.

The naqasha - an experienced henna artist from their hometown whose team had become popular among the family circles for their vast knowledge of different henna styles (Indian, Pakistani, Khaleeji, Fassi, Marrakechi, Meknessi, Saharawi - you name it) - had finished making a beautiful dome at the centre of Kiara's palm, and was now referring to a tiny piece of paper Imane seemed to have given her before carefully writing out Méihuā - the name Hana's paternal family often used for her - in Hànzì script.

Kiara smiles mistily as she watches Soraya, the naqasha, labour over each character of the script, making sure she never got a single line or slant wrong. Hana often told her that that name reminded her of happier times, far more than her own birth name did. It meant plum blossom - the flower that grew fragrant and resilient in the snow, China's national flower. Her Năinai's favourite flower.

And over the past year...she'd begun to answer to it a little more too.

Kiara mouthed a silent "thank you" to Imane as she sauntered to her side, looking very pleased with herself.

"Wonderful work, Soraya," she patted the naqasha lightly on her shoulder, "What oils did you add in the henna paste this time?"

"Tea tree, geranium and lavender," Soraya said, smiling, "She can hold her hands in front of some herbal incense later. A lovely rich colour and the scent will be incredible."

"Ohhh...what a deep stain it'll leave behind when the henna comes off!" Imane looked back at Kiara, winking. "Remember what our aunts used to tell us, Kiara? The darker the stain of the henna, the deeper the essence of his love. Or her's, in this case."

Kiara was grateful for her golden veil as heat creeped up her neck. Maman loved that adage, ever since her own wedding where - if Kiara's aunts were to be believed - her henna deepened to a dark, rich brown without even holding her hands to a brazier like everyone else did.

Kiara always liked to call herself a practical woman. But this didn't stop her from dreaming of showing Hana her palms, rich and deep brown from both henna and their love.

"Is Hana liking her designs?" Kiara asked Imane.

"Iyyeh," Imane nodded. "Soraya's girls have really outdone themselves. Indian designs are usually very elaborate, but Hana wanted something simple, a little floral."

She gave Kiara a wolfish grin, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "I think you're going to love it."

Kiara narrowed her eyes at Imane. She knew that look. It was the kind she would give all her cousins when, as children, she was about to do skin her knees climbing the branches of a fig tree.

Kiara was going to open her mouth to ask what Imane had in mind, when the low, deep strains of the guembri rang throughout the room.

It was Nissrine's younger sister Nour, closing her eyes in reverence and plucking the strings of the family guembri - a legacy from her father, a renowned Gnawa master himself. The guembri had been in the family for generations, itself decorated with henna patterns so intricate it would amaze even the best of naqashas.

As the women in her family got up to dance to "Toura Toura", a song Kiara would listen to and relish in 12 hour lilas every year in Fes (singing in Bambara - a language neither she nor her cousins truly understood but loved to hear), she found herself somehow dancing next to the woman she had been craving to see for the last few hours.

"Well, hello there," Kiara said, sneaking a kiss to Hana's cheek.

Hana giggled. "Fancy running into you."

They danced until their feet were sore, until their eyes begged for sleep, until their henna dried - leaving behind a stain that was a deep, dark, rich brown.

--

"They did that on purpose!" Kiara huffs, ten minutes after she has triumphantly shown Hana the final letter - the rāy curling at the base of her wrist. "They were planning to annoy and vex me this entire time. If they were here right now I'd tell them to go cook themselves an egg."

For all her grumbling, however, Kiara was quite overjoyed. She had hoped that her extended family in Fes would adore Hana just as much as she did, that they would love her and pamper her silly. They went above and beyond; they made Hana's first real experience of Morocco practically unforgettable.

It was. In every sense of the word. Even if that involved secretly pulling Kiara's leg.

Hana pouts, her fingers still tracing the name on Kiara's palm. "I wish they scattered letters for me too. Seems like more of a challenge." She shifts a little more into Kiara's arms, turning her gaze to her own palms. "Not that I don't love your henna already. It's gorgeous; look at these curls in the center! They remind me of a compass rose."

Hana runs her fingers purposefully along the length of Kiara's body. She presses five tiny kisses along her face.

"A kiss for each letter," she hums happily against Kiara's skin, "A just reward for your hard work."

Laughter bubbles in Kiara's throat. "Only five?"

"Kiara Yasmine Thorne," Hana's voice takes on a raspy, sultry quality, "Don't be greedy."

"Ma moitie," she whispers back, "I believe tonight's the one night when greed is allowed."

Hana bites her lower lip to stem her own laughter, then lets her lips roam free over Kiara's face.

"Fine, then," Hana huffs in mock-petulance, only too happy to go along with the joke, "Eighteen kisses it is."

Kiara buries her hands in Hana's hair as she breathes in the fragrance from between her shoulder and neck. "I won't mind if you give me more...but alright. Eighteen's a start."

Translation -

Darija:

Kaaf (ك), yaa (ي), alif (ا)(twice), rāy (ر) are the isolated letters that - I think - will form Kiara's name in Arabic. I believe that it may look somewhat like this (كيارا) when written as one word, but the letters are meant to be scattered around Hana's henna just to tease Kiara.

Ghassoul/Rhassoul clay - a type of clay that some people use as a cosmetic product for their skin and hair. It’s a brown clay only found in a valley in the Atlas mountains of Morocco. The term “rhassoul” comes from an Arabic word that means “to wash.” Typically used in hammam baths.

Zwina - a compliment, literal meaning is beautiful or good.

Macroute - a diamond shaped sweet cookie filled with dates and nuts or almond paste.

Naqasha - Henna artist

Guembri - a three stringed skin-covered bass plucked lute used by the Gnawa people

Lila - a rich ceremony in the Gnawa community, of song, music, dance, costume, and incense that takes place over the course of an entire night, ending around dawn. Learn more here.

Toura Toura - Popular Gnawa song. Here is a version by Innov Gnawa.

French:

zut alors - an expression of annoyance, like saying "darn!" or "damn!", mostly used in non-serious instances.

Elles me conduiront à ma tombe! - They will lead me to my grave!

Va te faire cuire un œuf! - Literally, "go cook yourself an egg!". An expression of annoyance, similar to "go take a hike!" or "leave me alone!"

[ilynpilled]

"The world is full of horrors, Tommen. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing . . . go away inside."

There was very little that Jaime took seriously. Tyrion knew that about his brother

Jaime never thinks, he laughs at everything and everyone and says whatever comes into his head.

“You should think less about the future and more about the pleasures at hand.” “Stop that!” the woman said. Bran heard the sudden slap of flesh on flesh, then the man's laughter.

Tyrion Lannister was as good as his word. He left the rest unsaid; that King Robert would ignore him, Lord Tywin would ask if he had taken leave of his senses, and Jaime would only laugh.

I stopped in front of the throne, looking up at him. His golden sword was across his legs, its edge red with a king's blood. My men were filling the room behind me. Lannister's men drew back. I never said a word. I looked at him seated there on the throne, and I waited. At last Jaime laughed and got up.

“…and death is all around you but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them laughing.”

Laughing, he dropped to his knees, plunged his head under the water, and came up drenched and dripping.

"Oh, very good." Jaime laughed. "Your wits are quicker than mine, I confess it. When they found me standing over my dead king, I never thought to say, 'No, no, it wasn't me, it was a shadow, a terrible cold shadow.'" He laughed again.

The pool from which the town took its name, where legend said that Florian the Fool had first glimpsed Jonquil bathing with her sisters, was so choked with rotting corpses that the water had turned into a murky grey-green soup. “Care for a bath, Brienne?” He laughed. “You're a maiden and there's the pool. I'll wash your back.”

Jaime sang "Six Maids in a Pool," and laughed when I begged him to be quiet

Steel met steel with a ringing, bone-jarring clang. Somehow Brienne had gotten her own blade out in time. Jaime laughed.

He laughed a ragged, breathless laugh. “Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music's still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?”

“No,” she said, “no, you must live.” He wanted to laugh. “Stop telling me what do, wench. I'll die if it pleases me.” “Are you so craven?”

Harrenhal, and remembered that was to be their destination. That made him laugh aloud, and that made Timeon slash his face with a long thin whip. The cut bled, but beside his hand he scarcely felt it. “Why did you laugh?”

“Harrenhal was where they gave me the white cloak,” […] Aerys never let me joust.” He laughed again. “He sent me away. But now I'm coming back.”

Jaime had to laugh, no matter how it hurt.

"The knights of the Kingsguard are sworn to keep the king's secrets. Would you have me break my oath?" Jaime laughed.

Jaime had to laugh.

He turned his head to look, but the sound was only his own laughter coming back at him. He closed his eyes, and just as quickly snapped them open. I must not sleep. If he slept, he might dream.

Every crow in the Seven Kingdoms should pay homage to you, Father. From Castamere to the Blackwater, you fed them well. That notion pleased Lord Tywin; his smile widened further. Bloody hell, he's grinning like a bridegroom at his bedding. That was so grotesque it made Jaime laugh aloud.

Jaime had to laugh.

But when the Piper boy started calling them Honor and Glory, he laughed and let the names stand.

Jaime had to laugh.

“. . . the sight of Brienne naked might have made the bear flee in terror.” Connington laughed. Jaime did not.

Piety and devotion. It was all he could do not to laugh.

Jaime did not know whether to laugh or weep.

For honor, Jaime might have said. For glory. That would have been a lie, though. Honor and glory had played their parts, but most of it had been for Cersei. A laugh escaped his lips.

“Hear us roar.” Jaime grinned. “Next you'll be telling me how much he liked to laugh.” “No. Tywin mistrusted laughter. He heard too many people laughing at your grandsire.”

Jaime had to laugh.

[henry-fox-biggest-stan]

Was anybody going to tell me than in some versions, both Achilles and Patroklos have sisters?

@t0yearnf0r made me discover Patroklos’ sister, through my little research I found out about Achilles’.

Polydora (Achilles’ sister) do is mentioned in one passing line during the iliad (which I can’t believe I forgot) but it’s have been up for debate. The line is

"Menestheus of the dancing-breastplate led one contingent, son of the swift-flowing river Sperkheios whom the daughter of Peleus, beautiful Poludôrê bore when she shared the bed with the indomitable river-god, Sperkheios, although by reputation he was the son of Boros, the son of Periêrês who wooed her openly by offering countless gifts."

-Iliad. 16.173-178

(No idea who the translator is, I got that passage from the internet + my copy of the iliad is not in English)

Some say she’s the daughter of another Peleus, that’s she’s a bastard child and she’s just never mentioned because her birth is shameful, or that Achilles never mentions her because she’s dead.

What’s more confusing, she has different possible mothers regarding who you ask (she might be a child of Peleus, but certainly not of Thetis). Some say her mother was Antigone (not our tragic girl Antigone, but Antigone, supposed wife of Peleus and daughter of Eurytion).

She must have been a bit older than Achilles since by all accounts Peleus fathered her before (1) the Kalydonian Boar Hunt, (2) the sacking of Iolkos and (3) the Voyage of the Argo. She would likely have been raised in a separate household from Achilles and married off before he went to study with the centaur Chiron!

Excerpt from this article

Another version makes her the daughter of Patroklos' mother and Peleus. Which makes her both Achilles and Patroklos’ half sister. Wtf happened over there.

We know less about Myrto (Patroklos’ sister), but she’s mentioned once by Plutarch.

Now Eucleia is regarded by most as Artemis, and is so addressed; but some say she was a daughter of Heracles and of that Myrto who was daughter of Menoetius and sister of Patroclus, and that, dying in virginity, she received divine honors among the Boeotians and Locrians. For she has an altar and an image built in every market place, and receives preliminary sacrifices from would-be brides and bridegrooms.

-Plutarch, Life of Aristides 20. 5

(Don’t know the translator either)

She was apparently one of herakles’ lovers, and mothered a daughter who is pretty successful (has an altar and image in every market place and is regarded by most as artemis).

I don’t know if she’s related to Patroklos’ by mother too

[forthegothicheroine]

Top 13 fairy tales?

The Frog Princess

Gold Tree and Silver Tree

Bluebeard

Grandmother's Tale

Alice in Wonderland

The Death of Koschei the Deathless

The Robber Bridegroom

Molly Whupee

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

The Snow Queen

The Juniper Tree

The Crane Wife

Vassilisa the Wise

[rmelster]

INTROITUS: THE FAREWELL OF A DAUGHTER, 1444.

Many years later, Isabelle would recall the only occasion she had seen her mother weep. It happened a forgotten day of the year 1444, and the memory of her tears would follow her to the grave that she untimely came to rest in.

That fateful night, she was eight years of age and her heart was heavy with anguish as she restlessly laid on her bed; her beloved sister, Marie, had been wed to Jean, the young Duke of Calabria, and parted with him to his domains, leaving a void where she had once been that Isabelle felt like a grievous wound. Even at that young age, the little girl knew what it meant: Her sister would never see Bourbonnais again.

The betrothal and wedding had been result of the Duchess of Bourbon’s cunning. Seven years had passed since she had offered the hand of her firstborn daughter to the heir of the Duchess of Calabria; seven years until both the bride and the bridegroom grew to an agreeable age to be wed. Isabelle had never thought that a wedding would occur; but it did. The bride was fifteen and, dressed in a heavy dress of golden cloth and a cloak ribbed with marten, she proved the fairest of all the daughters of Bourbon; the feast, the merriment, the dances… It had all all passed like a hazy dream, until Marie had came to kiss all her siblings goodbye.

When it came time for her to bid farewell, Isabelle had pulled her sister into an embrace; her eyes were full of tears.

“Promise me that you won’t forget us.”

A sad smile curved the lips of the now Duchess of Calabria: “I promise” she had said, pinning in her hair one of the flowers of the wedding, as red as the blood of a dragon, “And hereby I make the oath that, if it is in me, my first daughter shall have your name.”

And, just as she had been by her side for years, she left.

That night, Isabelle couldn’t sleep. Dream refused to free her from the sorrows of the vigil and, after what seemed like centuries, she decided not to wait, She had slipped off the bed, light like a young bird, wrapped in her nightshirt, tiptoeing out of her bedchamber, careful not to awake her maid.

The little Isabelle found his mother in a chamber, far from her own. She wandered through the solitary halls of the castle, looking for her mother. Duchess Agnès was, together with the guards, the first in rising from bed, and the last to return to the bedchamber for the night; in light nights like those, one could see her dwelling in a empty chamber, reading her precious book of prayers, making arrangements and reading letters, or silently embroidering near the fire; she was the image of virtue and dedication, of what a duchess had to be.

She still wore the beautiful gray gown ribbed in ermine fur and embroidered in silver thread that she had worn during the ceremony, but her necklace was resting over the table, and she had made her old maid disassemble the complicated veiled headdress that she used to wear, her long, flowing auburn mane falling gloomily on her back. At her feet, a little black-wooled lap dog slept soundly. Her white hands, those hands that Marie had too, with thin and agile fingers, were eagerly embroidering a delicate piece of tapestry.

"What death doesn't take away from me, a man will do," she heard her murmur.

Her father entered the room, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers; he no longer could be considered a young man, for his black hair was now stricken with silver, and wrinkles had made their nest around his raven eyes, but he still presented himself formidable like an oak and healthy as a man younger that his years. The shadow of concern veiled his ruddy face as he inched closer to the women with whom he had shared his life.

"My lady” he said, “The hour is late, and the day has been long. Thou must return to the bedchamber.”

The duchess denied.

“The Duke of Burgundy has sent a herald to Bourbonnais today. He says that his wife is looking for girls and maidens of serving age, so that she can foster them in their court. I have to send our Isabelle; I am aware that doing so, I am giving her so many opportunities and yet...”

A long, woeful silence followed; Isabelle tiptoed closer and pressed her cheek against the wall, her heart fast with inquiry. Even though she had never met him, she knew who her noble mother alluded; Philippe, the Duke of Burgundy, who the duchess’ brother, and the master of one of the wealthiest courts in Europe; fair and wise like none other, it was no surprise that his courtiers, from the Burgundian France to the Netherlands, had given him the name le Bon, “the Good”. His duchess, Isabel de Portugal, was also very known among their subjects, for she was not only a capable lady, but a famed matchmaker; any lady that came to her court and earned her favour could expect to be married to the best eligible prospect, from counts to rich merchants, and even kings and emperors.

That was a great opportunity, indeed; but the Duchess of Bourbon looked as if grief and exhaustion were breaking her will.

"I'm exhausted, Charles” she had finally said, and Isabelle had flinched; never had she heard her mother call her father’s name, not even once, “I feel like my strength is failing. I have handed over a very young daughter, and now I hand over another, knowing that she will never be mine anymore, that once de comes to Burgundy…”

The orderly Duchess Agnès, daughter, wife and mother of dukes, who had given birth to ten children of Bourbon in twenty years, and that was with child for the eleventh time; she, who had kept the estate when the duke had sunk in sorrow after the untimely death of their beloved son Philip, who had kept her head high when the constant disagreements of her lord husband with the king had despoiled them of lands and honours that had belonged to their lineage since centuries; she, who was the pillar where the family relied, she collapsed on the duke’s arms.

Troubled, the duke had held his weeping wife between his arms, and pressed in her brow a kiss so light it would had flown with the nightly breeze.

"Here, my lady, thou must not weep" he had cooed, “If thou cannot keep your courage, then I shall give thee mine. Our Isabelle shall be in her court, and we shall visit her as often as we can; we won’t lose her, my lady. We won’t lose any.”

Before Isabelle could even stomach what she was hearing, someone grasped her arm; her maid, Bonne, looked at her with a weary face, as of she was fresh from slumber.

“What are you doing out of bed so late, petite?” she inquired in a whisper, a soft note of concern in her voice. Isabelle looked down.

“I got lost” she lied. Her Bonne seemed not to believe her, but she decided not to disturb her masters with complaints at their young daughter’s behaviour, for she read the sadness in her eyes; instead, she raised in her robust arms, and carried her back to bed.

At last, Isabelle de Bourbon rested.

@lordbettany / @catherinemybeloved / @ricardian-werewolf

[deathlessathanasia]

How do you view relationship and dynamic between Hera and Dionysus after the Hephaestus throne incident? Do you think they reconcile and bury the hatchet or is there still animosity? Do you know of any evidence of how their relationship was treated in ancient worship? Sorry for a barrage of questions, I’m just curious about the relationship between these two gods given how connected she seems to be in most versions of his origin story.

They definitely reconcile. In one account Hera is even the one who convinces the other gods to accept him as a fellow god (X) and there was a tradition according to which the women of Naxos give birth before 9 months as a gift from Hera after her reconciliation with Dionysos,. There is a reference in the Palatine Anthology to Hera saying that she has more of a claim over Dionysos than his mother does, and in the Dionysiaca she breastfeeds him (as an adult, I must add 😬 though Zeus kinda forces her into it) and thinks that she would like him as a husband for Hebe.

But do they ever become particularly close or grow to actually like each other as people? Not sure. I tend to think not. They are on decent terms probably, but while we have a Hesiodic fragment claiming that Hera loves and honors Herakles second only to Zeus and a play by Sophokles where Herakles calls Hera the noblest of mothers, + an account of Hera literally adopting him and a reference to a hymn that called Herakles the son of Zeus and Hera, nothing similar really exists about Hera and Dionysos as far as I know.

As for their relationship in cult, it seems to have differed from place to place. On Lesbos, Hera, Zeus and Dionysos were worshipped together and at Olympia the same sixteen women who organized the games in honor of Hera and wove a robe for her also arranged a choral dance for a lover of Dionysos named Physcoa. On the other hand, Plutarch says the following about their cults in Athens:

„For instance, not to digress far from our present subjects, they do not suppose nor admit any intercourse between Hera and Dionysus; and they guard against combining their worship; and their priestesses at Athens, they say, do not speak to each other when they meet, nor is ivy ever brought into the precincts of Hera, not because of their fabulous and nonsensical jealousies, but because the goddess presides over marriage and bridal processions, and drunkenness is unbecoming to bridegrooms, and most unbefitting to a marriage feast …”

[liminal-zone]

little lady, we bid you very heartily welcome

I wrote a teeny thing! A million years ago (in 2006)! Slightly remixed. Just posting it here!

title: through a father’s eyes

fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia: The Horse and His Boy | characters: Kidrash Tarkaan, King Lune

rated: gen | tagged: dads gotta dad, heartache, canon-typical problematic word choice, drabble-ish

summary: a letter arrives for Kidrash Tarkaan, with news unexpected. 

The letter arrived mid-day, tucked in with the rest of the notices. Sorting through the pale papers of state and business, he chose first to open the one with strange lettering about it. The paper had a slight fragrance of honey and a perfume unknown to him. Within a moment he could tell that it was from those elusive barbarians in the North as the script and choice of words only mimicked that of the great scribes of the Tisroc (may he live forever), for the style was not quite right. 

But the style was close enough to be of great interest. 

He, who had so little to do with the affairs between nations, what sort of business would those barbarians have with him? Before reading, he took a sip of wine and spoke a prayer to Tash, dispelling the evil spirits that might inhabit the sheaf of paper.

And he read.

"Lune, by the gift of Aslan, by birth, by prescription, King over Archenland, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion to Kidrash Tarkaan, lord and master over the province of Calavar in the Realm of Calormen, our most glorious neighbor:

In the name of the Lion, be it known to you that my son and heir, Prince Cor, has signed a contract of marriage between himself and the Lady Aravis, known to you as your eldest daughter, Aravis Tarkeenna. Her remarkable valor, renowned intelligence, and beauty which illuminates the universe have proven her to be a worthy future queen over all my lands and peoples. The Great Lion has spoken the Words over her, and marked her as His people. The Lady Aravis is deeply loved by the prince, and I believe that she returns his love, thread for thread from her heart. Their happiness brings delight to my eyes and peace to my heart. 

May it be known that I do not ask for the dowry of your daughter, nor do I ask for your blessing over this marriage. 

However, I feel that is it most honorable to tell you the fortune of the eldest surviving issue of your flesh. I of all fathers know the cruel challenge when the fate of your offspring is unknown.

I commit you to the care of your gods and may the breath of Aslan be upon you and yours."

Within the envelope is a sheet of paper bearing a drawing in the Northern style, featuring a beautiful young woman. She is in strange clothing and she is dancing, her hands in the particular motion known to all who venerate Tash – the inexorable, the irresistible – as a joyous celebration of union. A wedding dance on foreign soil. The artist had drawn her merry, and her eyes are unmistakably those of Aravis, for they are identical to Kidrash’ first wife (may her soul find rest in the many arms of Tash). A crowned barbarian is drawn dancing with her in the stance of a Calormen bridegroom. 

He found it hard to look at. 

His daughter, his strange unknowable daughter. Lost to these people, to be their anointed queen. And yet, it is celebrated that she dances in this manner. Still a daughter of Great Calormen. 

Kidrash read the letter twice over before throwing it and the drawing into the fire. And in the morning, he had his war horse saddled and packed for long journey.

[oathkeeperoxas]

100 Kisses prompts

So for SaintSpy May (created with @adiduck) I've put together a list of 100 kisses 🥰 I'm going to use them as warm up prompts throughout the month, but if anyone wants to see one in particular, please let me know and I will see what I can do for you!!

Kiss on the lips

Forehead press

Forehead kiss

Hand kiss

Kiss on the wrist

Kiss on the fingers (theirs or their partner’s)

Kiss on the neck

Kiss on the nape of the neck

Kiss on the shoulder

Kiss on the nose

Kiss on the cheek

Kiss on top the head

Kiss on the stomach

Kiss on the back of the knee

Kiss on the ear

Kiss on the sole of the foot

Collarbone kiss

Kiss on the… ahem

Good morning kiss

Goodnight kiss

Kissing you awake

Bad kiss

Good kiss

First kiss

Thousandth kiss

French kiss

Bloody kiss

Kissing through tears

Kiss it better

Blowing a kiss

Sweet kiss

Sloppy kiss

Hungry kiss

Making out

Angry kiss

Fierce kiss

Dip kiss

Open mouthed kiss

Dry kiss

Tired kiss

Gross kiss

Married kiss

Quick kiss

Slow kiss

Gentle kiss

Reunion kiss

Rescue kiss

Hungry kiss

Accidental kiss

Leaving a hickey / leaving a mark

Kiss with teeth / biting kiss

Kiss in the air / unconnected kiss

Butterfly kisses

Spiderman kiss

Kiss of life

Kiss as a disguise

Indirect kiss

Kiss the bridegroom

Post-fight kiss

Spur of the moment kiss

Kiss hello

Kiss goodbye

Kiss under the mistletoe

New Year’s kiss

Kiss for luck

Kiss in the rain

Secret kiss

True love’s kiss

Stolen kiss

Celebratory kiss

Small kiss

“Kiss me”

Long kiss

Desperate kiss

Teasing kiss

Height difference kiss

Chaste kiss

Interrupted kiss

Tasty kiss

Deep kiss

Wet kiss

Lap kiss

Sweaty kiss

Unexpected kiss

Cleaning kiss

Kissing tears away

Tentative kiss

Kissing under the stars

Now-or-never kiss

Kiss while dancing

Kiss while someone is sleeping

"Thank God you're safe/alive" kiss

Kiss while being carried

Jealous kiss

Public kiss

Kiss while dressing

Kiss while undressing

Blind kiss

Kiss to stop someone talking

Kiss as a distraction