#gold circle garland

[paperstreetdolls]

Handmade Recycled Paper Baubles - Metallic hand-painted Christmas bauble pack

🎄 Our hand-painted paper baubles are a fantastic way to celebrate in an eco conscious way this festive season! We create each of our hand-painted baubles by painting gold, silver and copper onto a thin 100% recycled cardstock (made from old coffee cups! ♻️) which has a great twinkle in the light. We have created three complementary designs which look great together and with other decor - one is a striped design, one with zigzags and one with texture.

Check out our shop for more handmade, eco-friendly decor like our HOLLY large tassel garland, gold circle garland and DIY Christmas star garland kit pictured here!

#christmas #handmade recycled paper baubles #paper baubles #bauble pack #hanging decoration #handpainted #3d decoration #holly #holly large tassel garland #gold circle garland #diy #diy christmas star garland #cosmic #large tassel garland #eco friendly decor #recycled decor

[valkyrayn]

marius x reader | may all your christmases be white

tags: teasing. clothed sex. dirty talk. orgasm denial. pathetic & begging marius. marius is the christmas gift. handjob. blowjob. dick riding. overstimulation - mission to drain his balls basically. shameless porn. breeding kink (?) yes breeding kink. creampies. yes plural. unprotected sex. squirting. wet and messy. traumatising and defiling the christmas tree. i need church. 

------

“Babe, come look!”

Marius' voice, filled with excitement, echoes from the living room. You quickly wipe your hands on the apron, then slip it over your head.

After a brief inspection of the cookies through the oven window, you smile to yourself before turning on your heel to exit the kitchen, wondering what your fiance is so excited about. 

You both had spent the evening decorating the living room with Christmas decorations, giving the living space the festive vibe that it needed. Tinsels and garlands draped along the mantelpiece, framing the modern fireplace with stockings with his name and yours embroidered on them in gold thread. The plush sofa beside it is draped in red throws and dark green pillows, its cosiness inviting you to lie in it. 

And then there’s the scented candles filling the air with the comforting fragrance of spiced apples, now mingling with the scent of your cookies, wafting in from the kitchen. 

Finally, your gaze settles on the six-foot Christmas tree, standing in the middle of the room. Once adorned with traditional red and green ornaments and tinsels from when you decorated it together—now carries subtle touches of purple, courtesy of your husband-to-be. 

You circle it, taking in the enchanting view, and that's when you find him, reclining sideways beneath the tree. 

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he smiles, innocently—all for two seconds before it turns into his signature smirk. 

He's presented like a gift, much too sinful for Christmas—enveloped in stripes of red and green ribbons, complete with a bow. The silk ribbons wind around his torso, thighs, and neck, snug but impressively tight enough to secure his own wrists behind his back. 

Leave it to Marius to take gift wrapping seriously. 

You sink to your knees beside him, tugging lightly onto one of the loose ribbons, looking at him in curious amusement. “Are we unwrapping gifts tonight? Isn’t it a bit too early?”

With a smug smile, he winks and wiggles his body to move nearer to you. “You can open this one a bit earlier, I don’t mind.” 

You raise an eyebrow, a matching smirk playing on your lips.

“Hmmmm…but what if I don’t want to?” You reach forward to play with the top button of his shirt, before popping it open. “What if I want to keep it all wrapped up?” You love that shirt on him—he looks so good in it because it hugs his body perfectly, accentuating his firm chest and arm muscles. 

But then again, he looks good in anything, especially with nothing on.

“But jiejie…where’s the fun in that?” Marius attempts to sit up, but your palm abruptly stops him, pushing hard against his chest until his back is flat on the floor. 

“Oh…there’s lots of fun in that.”

You lick your lips when his muscle flexes underneath your touch. 

Shifting to straddle his thighs, your fingers tug at the tail of his shirt, freeing them from his pants before pushing it up his body. You trace your nails gently along his exposed skin, easily leaving red lines from how sensitive it is—while you relish in the sight of his abs rippling in response to your touch. 

“Jiejie…?” he chuckles nervously, eyes narrowing as he watches your fingers move towards his zipper. With deft fingers, you reach in and pull his cock out of its confines—earning you a sharp hiss from him. 

With his wrists pinned behind him, he struggles to free himself and you giggle in amusement at how he has put himself in that predicament. The frown on his face shows how frustrated he is with himself and you’re determined to add just a bit more to the madness. 

It doesn’t take long for his cock to stiffen in your grasp, the head pink and leaking with pre-cum, begging to be licked. You wipe it with your thumb, smearing it down his length as you tighten your fist around him and begin stroking—gently, torturously slow. 

Marius groans at the sight, eyes fixated on your small hand, pumping him up and down at that deliberate pace that drives him insane. 

Briefly removing your hand from him, you spit into your palm before wrapping your hand around him again—the new wet and warm sensation makes his hips buck upwards involuntarily. You can see the desperation in his eyes, clouded with lustful urges to take control. 

Patience has never been his strong suit, at least not when it comes to sex. Especially not when he’s on the receiving end of the teasing. 

“How long do you think you can hold yourself back?”

He hisses at the feeling of your thumb tracing the vein on the underside of his cock. “Hold…myself?”

You give him a hard tug. 

Marius’ eyes snap up to meet yours then, eyebrows raised. 

“You’re always telling me not to cum…only when you tell me to…” you trail off, voice low, carrying a seductive lilt. “So…” You reach into his pants to knead his balls, heavy and twitching against your fingers. 

“I wonder how long you’ll last…” You shift backwards, making space to lean forward—giving his swollen tip a teasing lick. “...before you break for me.”

“Fuck.”

His hips jerk upwards when your lips close around him. The warmth of your mouth welcomes his cock as it slides all the way in with practised ease, bumping against the back of your throat. 

From both the suction of your mouth and your fingers pumping him, it’s impressive how he has not immediately exploded down your throat.

But there’s something about denying his orgasm that makes the experience so sexy. The desperation is etched on his face, aching to give in to the pleasure but also restraining himself, eager to please—or fearing to lose. 

You did not miss the mumbled pleas leaving his lips.

“Did I just hear you beg, baby?” You tilt your head sideways teasingly, kissing the head of his cock before wrapping your lips tight around it. “Mmmmmm…” You moan deliberately, sending delicious vibrations through his body, making his cock throb against your tongue. 

“…please—please…”

“Please what, Marius?” You pump his cock faster, watching as more pre-cum leak from the tip and mingling with your spit. 

Gripping the base of his cock, you wrap your mouth around him again. The sudden warmth enveloping him made him throw his head back against the floor, hips arching towards the ceiling, shoving deeper into your mouth. Your saliva trails down his length and pools at the base. 

“Fuck..please…please let me cum. Babe—”

Besides the sound of wet sucking and gags as you deepthroat him, you can also hear his ragged breathing and choked pleas. The obscenity of it all makes you cum untouched before you even realise it.

Releasing him with a pop, you give him a hard tug as you simultaneously shove your other hand down your skirt—flicking furiously at your aching clit with your fingers as you come apart before him. 

“Oh—I’m cumm—Marius, cum for me. Cum, now.” 

He came with a roar, body jerking uncontrollably against you while your fingers continue to pump his cock, feeling it violently twitch as he unloads all over your hand. 

Ribbons of hot white semen shoot from the tip, and with no target lock, it gets everywhere—decorating your fingers, lips, his abs, chest and everything in the radius, including the poor Christmas tree, with his fluids. There’s so much of it, and your hand continues to milk him, even opening your mouth to capture some of it on your tongue. 

Marius looks positively debauched beneath you; covered in his own cum, skin glistening with sweat, hair unkempt—and the once pretty bow, now crooked beyond repair. His eyes are clenched shut, jaw slack, as he releases a shuddering breath. 

With no intention to let him rest, as he has done the same to you more times than you can count—you tug his pants down, shove your skirt and panties to your ankles then swiftly climb up his body. Marius' eyes widen as he watches you straddle him, your hair falling messily in front of you as you reach for him.

His barely softening cock stands fully erect once again when you grab him to line him up against your wet cunt. 

“Babe…wait—”

The walls of your cunt stretch deliciously around his thick cock as you sink down onto his body—dragging another involuntary moan out of him. His eyes roll to the back of his head at the feeling of your tight walls gripping his overstimulated cock. He has barely recovered from his last orgasm, the final spurts still shooting from his tip, splashing against your walls. 

The air feels too hot so you quickly fumble to unbutton your blouse, tugging it open to free your tits. He groans at the sight of your exposed breasts, your nipples harden under his hungry stare, feral and bordering on unhinged. 

The absence of control takes its toll on a man, particularly on one Marius von Hagen.

Wonder what the employees of Pax would think if they ever saw their precious young CEO like this. The pretty flush on his cheeks, the narrow slits of his eyes as he wills himself from blacking out from overstimulation and the occasional whining sounds leaving his lips, pleading for your mercy. 

You take a mental picture, carving it into your memory for future use when he leaves for yet another week-long business trip. 

Planting your palms against his chest, you roll your hips against him to take him deeper. With some effort, he props his arms against the floor to arch his hips upwards to meet yours, pumping his cock into you until you both find a rhythm. 

His eyes are fixated on your joined bodies—every sheathe and pull coats his cock with more of your cream, now mixing with some of his fluids. Its messy and erotic sight is an invitation for him to succumb to another brain-numbing release but a brief snap of reality suddenly kicks in, even though he’s barely keeping it together to form coherent words. 

“Baby, fuck. We didn’t use a condom—”

You slam yourself down onto him, dragging a choked groan from him and cutting him off mid-sentence. You lean forward, pressing your tits against his clothed chest and kisses the underside of his jaw.  

“It’s okay.” You press a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. “You can cum inside.”

Marius tilts his head slightly to meet your gaze, looking for confirmation, almost in disbelief, only because he knows you’re not on the pill as you normally are. 

“…you sure?” 

“Marius, I want to feel you inside me.” The words leave you with no hesitation. “No barriers. It’s umm–my Christmas gift to you…” You trail, rubbing your thumb across his lower lip. “Breed me like you always said you would.”

“Oh fuck…” 

His chest heaves, mind reeling at your request of which he is more than happy to oblige. He wrestles with the ribbons around him, loosening them just enough so he can adjust himself to an angle that allows him to fuck you deeper. 

“I can’t believe you’re asking me to breed you while I’m all tied up…this isn’t fair.”

You chuckle, trailing your nails down his firm chest, and deftly undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt. You grab onto the ribbons around his neck, holding onto them like reins as you settle back into your seating position. 

“You tied yourself up, Marius.”

He lets out a frustrated grunt, and thrusts up into you, shoving his cock right against your cervix. You scream at the rough intrusion, driving you close to another orgasm.

Your tits bounce wildly as he starts fucking you faster and he savours the sight of your lewd body, naked and slick with sweat and cum—and he’s desperate to taste you. With a press of his palms against the floor, he pushes himself up into a seating position and then greedily latches onto your nipple. 

“Marius…oh…” Your body jerks against him, pressing yourself further into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around your stiff peak, tugging it gently between his teeth then releasing it with a wet pop before giving the other the same attention until they’re both red and swollen.

“Marius…I’m going to—cum…” With his mouth sucking on your tits, swollen clit rubbing against him and thick cock pumping in and out of you in quick hard thrusts, it’s nearly impossible not to come undone again so soon after the last one. 

“I want to feel your cunt squeeze me when you cum. Do it now,  baby…now.” He takes your nipple in his mouth again in one hard suck, it sends you hurtling towards a screaming orgasm. 

“Yessss…just like that baby….”

His name echoes into the ceiling, moans morphing into unrestrained, loud screams. 

“I’m gonna—fucking cum too—holy shit!” A deep rumbling groan escapes his throat, as you cum together, fluids gushing out of you while he empties every single drop inside you in hot spurts. 

You collapse onto him, moaning into his mouth as you continue to ride the euphoria—your body trembling uncontrollably, pussy throbbing and squeezing around him, coaxing more cum from him.

Fluids, yours and his, pool beneath you, leaking messily past your joined flesh,  and onto the, fuck, carpet. You roll your hips against him, clenching your walls deliberately around his cock and he halts mid-kiss to hiss against your lips. 

“Are you trying to drain me?” He asks between ragged breaths, chest heaving and pressing against your oversensitive nipples.  

“Mm-hmm. Every single drop.” 

“Fuck…” 

You raise your hips until his cock slips out of you.  

Through half-lidded eyes, he watches as you spread your folds apart with your fingers, letting the combined release drip onto his navel and slide down his skin. You start fingering yourself and making a show of dipping your fingers inside and pushing it deeper. 

A breathless ‘fuck’ leave his lips and he slams his head back onto the floor, eyes rolling back. 

His cock, despite twitching and weeping from overstimulation, is still stiff—to no one’s surprise. Two is a weak number by his standards. His love for extreme sports is really just a facade for his deep-seated obsession with having more. More adrenaline, more thrill, excitement, and more release—from rounds of vigorous fucking.

So despite the risk of a chafed cock, his greediness to fill you to the brim ultimately consumes him. With your combined fluids as lube, he starts fucking you again—starting with slow thrusting until his strength finds him once more. 

You turn around until your back is to him, settling on your knees again to straddle his thighs. 

The loosening ribbons around him allow him some space to move. He struggles out of the restraints, not completely but just enough to free his arms from under him. You feel him grab your ass cheeks, spreading them to watch his cock sink into you. The first sheathe will never fail to drag that sexy, rumbling groan out of him—music to your ears. 

You pull out completely, leaving only his tip in and then slowly, in a teasing, undulating motion, sink back onto his cock in one quick swoop.

The final thread of his patience snaps. 

And suddenly he’s slamming into you with a speed you aren’t prepared for. 

Rough.

Frenzied. 

You gasp, his hard thrusts send you lurching forward onto his knees, clutching onto his legs, nails sinking into his skin. 

“You’re fucking me so good…Marius—yes…yes!”

“Jiejie…shit—your pussy is squeezing me so tight.”

The fat of your ass smacks loudly against his pelvis, cum pulling and snapping, making a mess on his thighs. He inserts a thumb into your hole, joining his thrusting cock. Your body jolts at the fullness, feeling stretched to the limit as if he’s going to rip you apart. 

“I’m going to fill this hole until you can’t take any more…”

“Yes please…”

The smell of sweat-slicked bodies and sex fills the air, overpowering the smell of scented candles.

Marius raises his knees to force you to lie on your back, flat against his chest. One hand snakes up your front to squeeze your breast while the other finds your throat, fingers wrapping themselves around your neck.

Anchoring his strong legs on the floor, he finally finds an angle that allows him to penetrate his cock even deeper that you can almost feel him in your lungs. 

“Oh—you’re so deep inside me.”

He hisses through gritted teeth. “You’re gonna kill me, babe. You’re so fucking horny…” 

“It’s your…fault…nngghh…”

“Your pussy is gonna feel this tomorrow morning.” He whispers, dipping his mouth near you to lick the skin beneath your earlobe. 

“Mmm...so is your dick.”

Your tits bounce heavily from his hard pounding, with no signs of him faltering—determined to drag more orgasms out of you, until your eyes cross.

The frenzied fucking seem to have moved you both further across the floor, closer to the Christmas tree. The soft tinkling and jingling noises that you hear are coming from the ornaments colliding and brushing against each other, stirred by the movement of the carpet beneath it.

The lewd sound of his balls slapping against your skin drags another lusty moan out of you. You feel drenched and filthy from the cum leaking messily between your bodies.  

“Babe—turn around, please. Want to see—your face when I—cum inside you.” 

Everything happens in quick succession. You turn around and impale yourself with him, he arches his back and slams back into your sex in hard thrusts.

The jingling sounds of ornaments and the loud wet smacking of skin mingle and reverberate throughout the room. Your jaw slack, stuck open in a silent scream—body thrashing above him as your walls clench him in a vice grip. 

His hard fast fucking is too much—the restraints starting to loosen and fall around him at his harsh movement. You can feel his cock pound straight into your cervix.

With one final strength, you pin his arms against the floor on either side of him, putting your weight on his body and start slamming your ass down to meet his thrusts, fighting for dominance. 

Marius curses into the ceiling. You lunge forward and slam your mouth against his in a bruising kiss—a clashing of teeth and tongue, tugging of lips until they’re swollen. Strands of saliva hang between you as you briefly part, gasping for air, breathing into each other. 

“Baby...say it—again. Please…want to—hear you—say it.” He whispers, half whining in broken sentences, hot breath brushing against your chin.

“Cum inside me. Fill me up, Marius.”

“Oh—god…”

Loud moans leave your mouths in unison as he slams into you in quick punishing thrusts before coming straight into your womb, cock twitching and pulsing, cum spurting and coating your walls.

Wild overwhelming pleasure courses through you like fucking electric. And with your inhibition out the window, you lean back and circle your throbbing clit rapidly, pushing to the edge. You come squirting all over him, harder than before—messier than before. 

Holy fuck.

“Oh fuck—babe! Oh shit—cum all over me…yes. Fuck!” Marius' vision blurs as he watches the fluids gush out of you. He’s drenched. His expensive shirt is soaked with your juices, sticking to his skin. 

The obscene amount of fluids combined leaves a huge mess between you, skin and thighs sticking together. The lewd squelching sounds of your absolutely drenched cunt lull your brain back to life, after what seemed like a whole body shut-down. 

La petite mort. The French knew what they were talking about because it does in fact, feel like little death.

The minutes feel like hours as you lay there on top of him, calmed by the rise and fall of his chest. Struggling against the ribbons, he manages to sit up, bringing you with him with arms wrapped around your limp body. He presses his forehead against yours, breath and sweat mingling. 

Marius captures your lips in a soft kiss. You sigh contentedly into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as you bask in the bliss of the aftermath. He’s always gentle at the after, peppering kisses and whispering sweet nothings against your skin, ever the lovesick fool. Your lovesick fool. 

“Best Christmas gift ever.” You hum against his lips. He hums back in agreement, dipping his head to nip at your jaw.

“The poor Christmas tree though. We defiled it, babe.” 

Your head jerks to look at it. A few of the ornaments, tinsel, and an angel had fallen off the branches, now strewn across the carpet amongst the heap of other messes that your rough sex left in its wake. The carpet is—ruined. At least not in a way where outsiders would know, oh but you, you would know.

Some of the leaves are still dripping with fluids and at that point, you can’t even tell whose anymore. Horrified yet amused—you bury your face against his neck and laugh.

“We’ll have to redecorate. And replace some of these, don’t we?” You say, picking up the angel with your fingers. 

“I say it’s worth it. Fuckin’ around the Christmas tree…even the song tells you to do it.” 

“Marius…it’s ‘rockin’ around.’

He shrugs, grinning. Potay-to po-ta-to.

You groan against his skin in both frustration and embarrassment. He laughs but it quickly dies down. Your eyes widen to find him tilting his head to the side, eyes narrowed in slits at the ceiling. 

“Babe…do I smell burning?”

“THE COOKIES!”

#brainrot #brainrotdump #tears of themis smut #marius von hagen smut #lu jinghe smut

[ramayantika]

Sakal Ban

Oh look how the streets have been adorned with colourful banners and flower boughs. The flags of my kingdom fly high on the beautiful carved towers, showing the grandeur of my city.

It's the time of the Spring festival. The fields look as golden as the sun with mustard flowers sprouting from the brown soil, their slender stalks flowing in the flower-laden spring breeze, and maidens wearing colourful robes with chiming anklets on soft red-dyed feet run through the golden fields.

I used to be one of them ages ago. These young girls donned in light shaded robes look as beautiful blooms of the royal garden, which used to be a place for my secret trysts with the handsome young lover, who is still elegant and regal as ever, but alas, no longer mine.

Mango buds hang from the branches, and little children play with stones and pebbles under the young tree. Somewhere in the distance, in the extravagant places of the courtly dancers and musicians, I see a lovely maiden adorn flowers in her braid.

Oh, honeybees, you traverse in circles

around the lone nectar-filled bloom in vain.

When you have the whole garden behind her head

Why go for the single little flower of a shrub?

I make my way through the crowded colourful streets once again like I do every Spring Festival, every year and pay my respects at the Nizamudin's shrine.

Dusty paths permeate with a fragrance of jasmine and lavender, and the bazaars are teeming with sweet shops, with small vendors selling savoury snacks. A husband gently feeds a milk sweet to his wife who glows with the little child growing inside her.

I clutch my stomach, and my heart grows fond but also silently weeps at the fate that I was shown but mercilessly snatched away from.

The chitter-chatter of the streets grow louder. In every courtyard, poets and singers sing verses of lovers and romantic union in spring. The patronisers of art fling their gold and silver in fine silk bundles.

And finally the Royal trumpet blows. The crowd stills. The garden girls with large flower garlands stand on the sides, their smiley faces glowing under the pleasant sun. I smile too.

The palanquin bearing the queen enters the street to the shrine. I caress the ring on my finger, a metallic symbol of a broken promise of yesteryears.

The soldiers cheering the empress's name flank the palanquin. Her maidservants and handmaidens donning simple shades and cotton skirts that lightly flutter in the wind walk by. The crowd amazed at all the riches, power and grandeur swoon in delight.

And then the announcer announces the arrival of the empress. He rules over everyone. He rules over our hearts and souls, but foremost mine, even when I can no longer claim his heart, forget the soul anymore, but some springs before, he was all mine, body, heart and soul, where we claimed each other in the golden fields of mustard blooms.

And fate is a popular jester, its jabs hurt the heart at times, but you have to keep smiling, keep laughing, for the show must go on. Life must go on.

An old singer sings:

woh mohe awan keh gaye ashiq rang aur beet gaye barson, sakal ban, phool rahi sarson sakal ban

The emperor hasn't once seen my eyes in all these years, and I never crossed my fate with his. Not all wishes come true at the shrine, and not all promises can be kept.

For some hearts, there is never warm beautiful spring

All they get is a merciless cold winter until death claims their breath,

With Death granting an illusionary hope of a sweet union in the afterlife...

Fate, a cruel jester! The emperor's eyes meet my steely ones. A lone drop falls and I drag the thin veil around my face. The Spring breeze burns my flesh, it's cool winds freezing my once warm and hopeful heart.

But the show must go on, and the Emperor of my city, the lovely Prince of my youth, the sole Ruler of my heart walks away majestically on the royal elephant.

Not once does he turn back and I feel the sharp chilly winds of winter enter my heart.

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊**＊✿❀　❀✿＊**＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

Tags: @alhad-si-simran @houseofbreadpakoda @swayamev @arachneofthoughts @krishna-priyatama @navaratna @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @madoucesouffrance @jessbeinme15 @kaal-naagin @aesthetic-aryavartik @krsnaradhika @krishnaaradhika .

Um so I have been listening to Sakal ban from heeramandi. Looked up to the translation a little and I am writing this inside my Pharmaceutical analysis lab before viva which I am actually not prepared for but we ball.

Please please tell me how it was okay. I haven't written, read and danced due to this continuous shower of exams and it feels so restless and suffocating. I was desperate so wrote this on my phone. So, yes, do leave reviews, comments etc.

Maybe I will post a dance cover after internals later on.

Also, if there are others who wsnt to be included in my writing taglist, do let me knowm

#samridhi writes #desiblr #sakal ban #stories

[theladyofbloodshed]

You're The Closest To Heaven I'll Ever Be - Chapter 24

Splitting the high lord's meeting into two parts

Their delegate arrived beneath the dusky pink skies of the Dawn Court, once he’d inspected the area for a trap. The heat hit Azriel like a slap. On the short walk up the polished, marble stairs leading to the palace, his leathers stuck to his skin.

Whether Nesta intended to or not, she kept close by. Occasionally, her elbow knocked against him as she pinched her skirts to keep from tripping. Twice, she stumbled – not from the skirts, but her gaze was fixed upon the soft clouds tinged by the rosy dawn and gilded with dawn’s light.

‘Look at the palace,’ Azriel murmured.

Nesta turned her face upwards then stopped walking. Her lips parted at the sight of the near-opalescent golden stone. It was littered with balconies and verandas that were linked by bridges. Periwinkle flowers clambered up the many towers.

He couldn’t read the emotion on her face. There was so much to their world that she hadn’t experienced yet. He hoped, one day, Nesta would see it all with him.

An attendant wearing the gold and ruby livery of the court saw them to their rooms which were reached by a spiralling staircase. The too-near edge fell away into warm-coloured rock below with clusters of pale peonies growing between the cracks.

Azriel fell back to be closer to Nesta. She was already trembling from the height without even stepping onto the first one.

‘I’ll be with you,’ he said softly, as the others disappeared from view.

Nesta braced herself with a stiff nod then took the first steps as close as possible to the inside as she could without banging her head on the ones above. With his wings splayed out, just in case, Azriel stayed close by and kept his hand on her spine for support. But she did well. Nesta forced herself on without ever looking over the edge. It was how she approached everything.

‘Your rooms,’ the attendant said, with a deep bow at the waist. ‘As requested, the meeting will be held in the great chamber in fifteen minutes.’

‘And how do we reach it?’ drawled Rhys.

The attendant gestured to the left of the corridor that they were in. ‘It is the first door.’

Fantastic, Azriel thought. They were put there to be spied upon. To get to other rooms, everybody would need to pass theirs. It was a sign that they were not truly welcomed there.

There was little time to gather themselves. Rhys had already used his powers to discover that winter was the only seasonal court in attendance. Day had also arrived, so Helion would no doubt be charming Thesan.

Azriel looked to Nesta. She was pale like the magnitude of her decision to come with them had only just landed. He tried to catch her eye, but she was fussing with her skirts, ensuring they were sleek about her legs. Instead, he sent a shadow to coil around her wrist. She didn’t look at him still, but her thumb brushed against its spiralling body in answer.

The chamber had been arranged so that deep-cushioned oak chairs made a circle in the heart of the room around the shallow, circular reflection pool which was carved into the polished, marble floor. The sun streamed through the open archways, catching the dark water which was laden with pink and gold water lilies. Fish darted beneath, hiding in the shadows. Platters of food had been lain out between the wisteria-twined pillars although nobody had dared touched a bite. The cured meats, pastries and garlands of fruits lay undisturbed with the memory of Amarantha still fresh in everybody’s minds.

‘Welcome,’ greeted Thesan, eyes flitting to them all. ‘Or, since you’ve called this meeting, perhaps you should be doing the welcoming?’

A faint smile touched Rhys’ lips. ‘I may have requested the meeting, Thesan, but you were the one gracious enough to offer up your beautiful residence.’

The other pair came to preen like a pair of peacocks puffing up their feathers. Kallias had barely moved his chin an inch before Mor was squealing loud enough to draw the room’s attention. She flung herself at Viviane. Their conversation was rapid and neither minded as they cut into each other’s speech.

Never one to deny attention, Helion strode over. His entourage matched their own for size – and power. He threw himself into the throng, dominating the conversation with his words.

Azriel simply kept his eyes on Nesta. Kept close. Let shadows twine their hands together.

Then, Helion noticed her. Like a fucking wolf scenting a lamb. His attention lingered on her. It was too long to be considered polite. But Nesta stared right back at him. Unruffled. Unimpressed.

Good.

‘Who is your guest?’

‘She is my sister and our emissary to the human lands,’ said Feyre, stepping back so she could stand at Nesta’s side. ‘And she will tell her story when the others are here.’

‘She is fae.’

‘No shit,’ muttered Viviane.

Thesan angled his head slightly, inspecting Nesta. ‘Who made her?’

Nesta surveyed them all, one by one. He was wrong to think of her as a lamb. Nesta had never been a quivering, meek thing that hid. She stood tall, not a flicker of fear in her eyes as she said, ‘Hybern did.’

‘They threw her in the Cauldron,’ Feyre explained. ‘Along with my other sister, Elain. After the High Priestess Ianthe and Tamlin sold out Prythian and my family to them.’

Helion’s eyes blazed like a forge. ‘That’s a heavy accusation to make – especially of your former lover.’

Feyre took a seat then folded her hands in her lap. ‘It is not an accusation. We were all there. And now we’re going to do something about it.’

***

Despite the tardiness of the remaining courts, the frost did not abate in the room, even as attendants carried platters around the room of food and wine was offered. Only when the Dawn Court delegate began eating did other courts follow suit although Nesta could not. Her stomach churned with worry and adding food to the mix seemed too great a risk. Azriel did not spare her a glance; the focused spy-master had become his shield, but often she felt a shadow twining itself around her ankle beneath her skirt as if that was the most he could offer in comfort without openly revealing their bond. One male who was unable to take her eyes from Nesta was the high lord of the Day Court. Nesta ignored him. He watched her constantly like a hawk. His gaze trailed her fingers when she twisted them in her skirts, her tongue when she traced her lips. The stare was enough to burn, but she refused to acknowledge him. To acknowledge any of them.

When the Summer Court arrived, Nesta thought the atmosphere could not be more tense. Kallias, the Winter Court high lord, had grown even colder. Then, the Autumn Court arrived. Morrigan’s easy smile dried up. Beron was slender-faced and brown haired, his wife stood beside him, glancing briefly to Helion before averting her gaze. His sons sneered at the room; each one wore rich clothing gilded with golden threads or brocade vests. They were by far the most elegantly dressed, Nesta had to admit. 

‘Enough,’ murmured the eldest one, Eris, to bring his younger brothers into line.

With the tension mounting, Thesan cut in. ‘Rhysand, you have called this meeting. Pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.’

Rhysand blinked, slowly. ‘Surely the invading armies landing on our shores explain enough.’

‘So you have called us to do what, exactly?’ Helion challenged, bracing his muscled forearms on his gleaming thighs. ‘Raise a unified army?’

‘Among other things. We-’

It was exactly like that night in the cottage when the door had shattered and the freezing cold had roared at them. Like a crack of lightning, as vicious as a spring storm, Tamlin winnowed into the chamber and smiled like a wolf.

Only the soothing stroke of a shadow against her ankle kept Nesta in the room. There had been so many fae in her life since that day, but he – the High Lord of Spring – had left his mark. Elain had been crying in a ball on the floor. Father had not moved from his cradle by the fire, too shocked to speak. And Nesta had tried and tried to put the ruined door back onto its hinges even as the rain blew in because that seemed the only normality after he stole Feyre.

Kallias asked, ‘Why are you here, Tamlin?’

Tamlin’s claw dug into the wood, puncturing deep even as his voice remained mild. Nesta knew what those claws could do.  ‘I bartered access to my lands to get back the woman I love from a sadist who plays with minds as if they are toys. I meant to fight Hybern—to find a way around the bargain I made with the king once she was back. Only Rhysand and his cabal had turned her into one of them. And she delighted in ripping open my territory for Hybern to invade. All for a petty grudge—either her own or her … master’s.’

Strange words, Nesta thought. But, something in them tugged at Nesta’s attention. Feyre had returned for this one. Had sworn she loved him. They’d painted together beneath the sun as Feyre told her everything. But it had been Rhysand who she returned with. What had happened in those weeks beneath the mountain? Nobody ever mentioned them as if to do so was to spill a secret too terrible for the world to know.

‘You don’t get to rewrite the narrative,’ Feyre breathed. ‘You don’t get to spin this to your advantage.’

Tamlin only angled his head at Rhysand. ‘When you fuck her, have you ever noticed that little noise she makes right before she climaxes?’

Nesta felt herself go still, appalled by his words. Hearts were easily broken things, but to parade such an intimate moment was a low blow. She stared at the male, hate burning in her eyes. Nobody else was smiling except the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A voice as cold as death spoke beside Nesta, ‘Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.’

Azriel’s words settled around the room. She felt a surge of pride that he had been the one to defend her sister. Amongst the high lords who looked upon him with a mixture of wariness and revulsion, it had been Azriel who stepped up for Feyre.

Tamlin only laughed. ‘They peddle tales of defending our land and peace. And yet she came to my lands and laid them bare for Hybern. She took my High Priestess and warped her mind—after she shattered her bones for spite. And if you are asking yourself what happened to that human girl who went Under the Mountain to save us … Look to the male sitting beside her. Ask what he stands to gain—what they stand to gain from this war, or lack of it. Would we fight Hybern, only to find ourselves with a Queen and King of Prythian? She’s proved her ambition—and you saw how he was more than happy to serve Amarantha to remain unscathed.’

Rhys let out his own dark laugh as if the words meant nothing. ‘Well played, Tamlin. You’re learning.’

The High Lord of Spring looked at Rhysand a moment longer then dismissed him. His gaze went to Kallias. ‘You asked why I’m here? I might ask the same of you.’ He jerked his chin at the High Lord of Winter, at Viviane—the few other members of their retinue who had remained silent. ‘You mean to tell me that after Under the Mountain, you can stomach working with him?’

What had happened, Nesta wondered, to cast such a shadow on Rhysand? What had happened to her sister? She caught the uncomfortable glances passed between delegates, the neutral expressions on Cassian and Morrigan’s faces. Colour botted on Feyre’s cheeks, but she held her chin up in defiance.

It was Rhysand who spoke, breaking the terse silence. ‘I had no involvement in that. None.’

Kallias’s eyes flared like blue flame. ‘You stood beside her throne while the order was given.’

His skin paled. ‘I tried to stop it.’

‘Tell that to the parents of the two dozen younglings she butchered,’ Kallias spat. ‘That you tried.’

They bartered more words at Rhysand – ones that Nesta didn’t understand the context of. Whatever had occurred under the mountain had been an awful secret. The reluctance to befriend Rhysand seemed to have valid reasoning though. She watched him scramble for words, to defend and explain actions. Even Feyre jumped to his defence, placing a hand on his arm and saying, ‘I believe you.’

‘Says the woman,’ countered Beron Vanserra, ‘who gave an innocent girl’s name in her stead for Amarantha to butcher as well.’

Nesta went cold. She leaned forwards in her chair trying to gage Feyre’s reaction, but her sister had gone pale. Her fingers tightened on Rhysand’s arm.

Clare.

Clare Beddor.

Had Feyre given her friend’s name? Was Feyre the reason the Beddors were murdered?

Her ears were ringing. She could smell the smoke from that morning. Feel the cold ground on her bare feet as she ran through the village to the smouldering ruin. Watched in numb disbelief as bodies were pulled from the wreckage. Only four bodies. A mother. A father. Two younger brothers. No Clare. She remembered Elain pulling a threadbare blanket on her shoulders and guiding her back home before the village could call her a madwoman for going without shoes.

Her Clare. Clare who carried the burden of her family as much as Nesta did. Clare who had been her friend without money and with it. Clever, quiet Clare who yearned for so much more than life had offered them.

‘Hybern turned my sisters fae after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!’

Nesta felt the attention in the room turn to her, but she was elsewhere. She was in a field with Clare, counting clouds, wishing they were on a boat to the Continent where they could be so much more. Clare’s fingers entwined with hers as they spoke of the boys in the village – the lack of prospects that the village offered. Clare who had seized her by the cheeks and kissed her squarely on the mouth one day within an orchard, leaving them both in fits of giggles. She had been Nesta’s only friend. Her Clare.

The shadow on her ankle pulled tight, sensing her distress. Nesta did not hear the argument raging around her between the High Lord of Spring and her sister. Her sister had murdered Clare Beddor.

#a few nesta x clare crumbs #nezriel

[asha-mage]

Mat/Rand. Prince

[Send me a character or pairing, and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!]

There is a small grassy glade in the Waterwood, nestled between two oddly shaped boulders that at one point in history, might have been something more. The huge willows of the Waterwood, with their spreading branches and tangling winding roots flank it on all sides and make the place almost invisible, if you do not know the trick of finding the path.

Rand can no longer remember if he or Mat was the first to discover it- the first to wander into that hidden place, always a little shadowy and damp with dew, even at mid noon in summer. But he knows that it was just their place: for the two of them to lay back in the grass and reach up for the branches, to laugh and joke and share secrets together. To talk of the adventures they would have when they where big enough to no longer be told no but their families or the Wisdom, or the Women’s Circle.

It wasn’t like the pond where they would go sometimes, with Perrin and Egwene to swim in the boiling heat of summer. Or like the trips down to idle by the river with other village youths. Something unspoken held it just between them, as if sharing knowledge of it would shatter something fragile and brittle and shinning kept there, between their laughs and games of make-believe.

Once, when they where eight, Mat had made a crown. With his clumsy fingers he had woven starburst and morning glory with loose garlands from the willows, twinning them around broken branches and loose sticks until he had made a rough ring of white and gold and bright orange.

He had bowed elaborately when he was done and presented the crown to Rand with a flourish.

“My prince.” Mat had said with exaggerated deference spoiled only a little by the fox like grin on lips. Rand couldn’t help but laugh as he had taken it and placed it onto his head. He had known it would look foolish, but something had shinned in Mat’s eyes as Rand had fixed it in place, something for which Rand had no name at the time.

“And what am I prince of exactly?” Rand had teased when the crown was settled. “Where is my kingdom?”

“You are standing in it!” Mat had laughed and gestured at the glade. “Prince of the hidden grove! Lord of the Waterwood, etc etc.”

Rand had smirked back. “Master of all the castles in the air? And served by soldiers armored in gossamer steel?” He teased. “And who is my general then? A puppet made of glass?”

Mat had whooped but shaken his head, plucking up another stick to hold like a General’s rod. “No puppets for the Prince of the Morning. I am your general, leader of your loyal hawks, and dogs and foxes. All the carrion eaters, all the foul things can oppose you if they wish-“ He winked. “I will drive them all back with sword and shield and catapult. Let the beetles and the snakes, the rats and the ravens try. I will chase them all away from you, Highness.”

He had said it with such solemnity, such stiff lipped strength that Rand couldn’t help but burst into laughter, and Mat had followed suit soon after. They had ended up laying on their backs staring at the sky and joking about the campaigns they would wage, and the laws they would enact in their new realm (beginning with no bed times of course, and descending in importance from there).

At some point Mat’s hand had found it’s way into Rand’s, and stayed there, until it was to late for them to remain, and they had no choice but to head back to the village.

My general of the hawks and the dogs and the foxes. Rand thought as he watched Mat ride ahead of him. That was years ago no, more then a decade gone. All around them, the crowds of Cairhien citizens cheered and sang, trying to press in on Rand’s small party, held back by the Maidens and the Tearians alike.

And Mat rode ahead, not looking back. Afraid to even stare into Rand’s eyes for to long. Lieutenants and officers from the Band of the Red Hand surrounded him on all sides, and more soldiers marched, rank on rank ahead of them, basking in the accolades of their victory.

The Band of the Red Hand. Not the Band of the Dragon, or the Legion of Al’Thor. The Band of the Red Hand, named for a long dead army of mercenaries, and likely to be just the same.

Rand felt his eyes sweep up to the spires of the Sun Palace in the distance. He was more then any Prince now, more then any King, probably more even then long dead Artur Hawkwing. His name would be writ across history in fire, and their where thousands ready to march at his word, to die for him.

He felt the never healing wound in his side throb in dull agony.

His eyes sank back to Mat, to the sight of the nape of his neck, just visible above the collar of his coat.

And I would trade it all, to be in our grove again. I would give it all away for our castles in the air, for our army of hawks and dogs and foxes.

Better to be a prince with a flower crown, then the Dragon Reborn. Better by miles.

#WoT #Wheel of Time #WoT Book Spoilers #TFOH Spoilers #Rand al'thor #Mat Cauthon #Cauthor #Rat #WoT Fanfic #WoT On Prime #Wheel of Time on Prime #Rand x Mat #Drabble Challenge

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Deep End - Mal de Mer

On mind-tricks and mothers.

Mal de Mer on AO3

Snippet:

"You're shaking," Silco says. His left palm lifts to curve itself over her bare shoulder. The thumb strokes a soft circle into the skin. "Let's get you inside."

"Inside?"

"The villa's only a short distance from the pier. There are guards stationed to escort us."

Mel nods. She absorbs little—but the warmth of his hand, she understands. The guests, in her peripheral vision, have begun to stir to their senses. She can sense the confusion that permeates the airwaves. The same emotions that cling to her, miasmic. 

None of them, she thinks, were ready. Now, they've crossed the threshold to No Return.

"Are you able to stand?" Silco asks.

Mel nods again.

"Take my arm."

"I—I can walk on my own."

"Take it."

His tone brooks no argument. In a strange way, it's reassuring. The Crossing has altered everything. But not Silco. Wherever he goes, he remains the same.

The tide: immutable.

Taking a steadying breath, Mel straightens. The night wind whips at her hair, her dress. Her limbs seem to be made of gelatin; her mind a slurry of conflicting impulses.

But, also: exhilarated.

A strange subspecies of joy is spreading through her. Not the kind she experiences when her schemes are playing out to fine-tuned perfection. Something brighter, purer, undiluted.

A sense of homecoming.

As if reading her thoughts, Silco says, "A mild euphoria can follow the first Crossing. It will fade soon. Until then, I'd advise against letting the eyes wander." 

"Why?"

"Hallucinations." He takes her elbow. "Best not to tempt fate."

"I—I see."

Mel wills the world back into focus. The guests, herded by the crew, have been ushered to the pier's end. Mel makes out the shape of a long rowboat, bobbing gently on the white-capped waves. The guests are being bundled into it. Blankets are distributed; thermoses of hot tea passed out.

Silco, his hand a loose latch on Mel's arm, leads her forward.

"Stay close," he cautions, "the boards are slippery."

Carefully, Mel wends her way along the pier. The path before her has a rippling quality: her balance is off. She focuses on mimicking Silco's sure-footed tread. Glimpsed from behind, she is struck by the slenderness of his silhouette. The spare cut of his torso; the tidy nip of his waist; the lithe swimmer's legs.

He's not a large man. And because he's not, he's always had to assert himself. To stay braced, every moment, against a world that will never be forgiving to those with less.

For the first time, Mel is hit by the full force of his fragility. How little of it he lets her see. How much of it she still doesn't know.

And how much, if she's honest, she longs to find out.

Then it happens.

A cry, loud and shrill, splits the night. Mel falters mid-step. In the frothing darkness of the waves, she catches a flash of dark flesh: a hand, clawing wildly up the pier's planks. Then a figure surges out in slithering increments. The moonlight, ghostly, traps itself in the bronzed contours of her musculature. Her eyes, a fiery gold, are locked on Mel. Her teeth, bared, are the color of old ivory.

Ambessa.

Her uniform is studded with pale encrustations of barnacles. The armor drips, water pattering across the floorboards. The wild gray corona of her hair is plastered to her skull. The rest of her: waterlogged as a sunken ship. 

It's as if she's been dragged across the seven seas.

As if she's a revenant, risen from the dead.

At her throat, a necklace—the one belonging to the Ionian chieftain's daughter—jangles like a garland of bones. The dark glisten of blood limns the coral ornaments. Her features are streaked with it. Her expression: a naked rictus of bloodlust.

Half kraken, half killer.

"You," she spits.

Then she's lunging for Silco.

Mel acts on reflex. Her body shoves his aside. Cursing, Silco staggers off-kilter. His hand drops from Mel's arm. The moment it does, the planks skid from under her boots. Her thighs collide with the railing. Then she is toppling backward.

For a moment, she is weightless. Her body caught in zero gravity. Her mind, a free-floating mote.

Mel registers the details in a series of suspended snapshots: the moon, a hypnagogic smile, pinwheeling above; the stars, a thousand eyes, blinking in and out; Ambessa, a raging Fury, bearing down. Then gravity pulls. Mel's stomach plunges into her heels. Her arms fly outward. Her fingers claw empty air.

There is nothing to hold on to.

Only the Void's hungry inverse.

The Deep End.

Then, with a giddy quiver of gelatinous peristalsis, the moment erupts.

Mel, a shriek ripped from her lungs, drops.

The plunge is an instant; an eternity. The waves are a frenzied churn. The chill radiates, shockingly cold, and seizes her breath.

Mel has one final cogent thought: Silco.

Then, the water rises up, and swallows her whole.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane mel #mel medarda #ambessa medarda #arcane ambessa #melco #silco x mel #mal de mer #snippet

[leezlelatch]

The Christmas Waltz

The Christmas Waltz sung by Frank Sinatra is my favorite Christmas carol, and while it may be a little early, I'm feeling particularly festive, and it's always been my dream to dance with someone to it. Please enjoy.

The fireplace crackles merrily in the papal office of Papa Emeritus IV. Just above the dancing flames rests a string of golden tinsel and artificial pine, wrapped together to create a very pretty garland stretched whimsically across the mantle. Several tall candles sit within the garland, unburnt, in various reds and greens, and a funny group of nutcrackers marches through the festive décor, their hand-painted features beginning to crack from age.

Hanging from a crooked nail beneath the mantle is a long, patched stocking, an embroidered "C" on the soft fabric. You smile as you imagine it bursting with all the little gifts waiting patiently in your room under your bed, your eyes landing on the stocking owner in question who works diligently at his desk, hand sweeping across a document as he signs his name. Carols play from an old radio atop his desk.

Copia. You wonder if he realizes how beautiful he is. Not simply in the furrow of his brow or the quirk of his lips as he concentrates, but the grace of his being. The way he speaks. The smile that lights his face, and the terrible jokes he makes when he's nervous. His confidence on stage, and the red track suit he refuses to change out of when he's off duty. All of these little idiosyncrasies make him unapologetically himself, and you love him for it.

"Something you need, cara?" His voice startles you out of your thoughts.

"Oh," you breathe with an embarrassed smile. "No, Papa."

He scoffs, laying his pen down and wagging a finger at you, "None of that Papa business, yes? We're here...alone. Va bene."

"Yes, Copia," you turn back to the yule tree you spent the better part of an hour decorating.

"Amata mia."

"Copia."

You hide a smile as you hear him sigh behind you. His chair creaks as he sits back, and you glance over your shoulder to see him pinning you with an unamused glare. An ornament dangling from your fingertips, you turn to regard him with a raised brow.

"Whatever is the matter?" You tease.

“You’re not supposed to say it like that,” he pouts. 

Pretending to think, you hang the ornament off a branch, admiring the blues and golds you’re incorporating into the tree to reflect Copia’s papal colors.

“Say what in which way?”

Copia shifts in his seat, looking off to the side with a grumbled, “Comportandosa come se non lo sapesse,” and leaning his arm on his desk says, “You’re not supposed to say my name like it’s a place holder for ‘Papa,’ cara mia.”

“And how am I supposed to say your name?” You ask.

You can’t help the smile that plays around your lips, a hum escaping Copia as he takes in your expression.

“In the way that makes my very heart tremble, huh?” He places a hand on his chest, a vulnerable look filling his eyes as his voice goes very soft on the last syllable.

Stepping over to his desk, you place your hands on the wood, leaning toward him. A flush spreading across your cheeks, your lips part as Copia nearly closes the space between you, his own expression enraptured, waiting for what he craves so deeply.

“Copia,” you say with all the adoration and love you can muster. “I thought you liked when I called you Papa.”

Copia’s hands gently cup your face, his thumbs drawing circles against your skin as he pulls you forward to place the daintiest kiss against your nose.

“There is a time and place for that, topolina.”

A familiar tune croons from the radio and you pull away to smile widely, reaching down to turn it up, and forgetting your Papa’s subtle reminder of where he likes you to use his title.

“This is my favorite carol!” You gasp, your eyes wide and bright as the chorus gently leads Frank Sinatra into the classic song.

You look back at Copia with a most endearing look, your excitement palpable. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s called the Christmas Waltz. I’ve always thought it would be lovely to dance to.”

Copia’s eyes shine as he watches you sway to the holiday carol, leaning his chin on his hand while the fingers of his other dive beneath your sleeve to stroke gently against your wrist. He didn’t think it was possible to be more in love with a person than how incredibly in love he is with you. Papa Emeritus IV is utterly lost to you.

“We shall dance, then, hmm?” He says softly, standing and quickly making his way around the desk to place eager hands at your waist. Your joy is infectious to him, and the idea of having you in his arms, a sweet song playing while surrounded by holiday cheer is too tempting to him.

Copia does so love the holidays, now that he has someone to share it with.

You look at each other. There is hardly a breath that you do not share as he guides you so closely, so gently around the room. His hand holds yours as if letting go means you’ll disappear forever, and his grip on your waist tightens as he attempts to pull you closer than you already are. You think at one point you’re crying, but so is he, overwhelmed by the incredible joy that comes with being wholly and completely wanted.

Overcome by a feeling for a holiday…you haven’t felt in such a long time.

It’s back.

You both giggle, sniffling, and Copia lovingly nuzzles his nose against yours before dipping his head to press such a beautiful kiss to your lips as the song fades into the quiet crackling of the fire.

Merry Christmas. Merry Yule. May your every new year dream come true.

#the band ghost #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #copia #ghost #ghost bc #impera #papa iv #prequelle #papa emeritus x reader #cardinal copia x reader #reader insert #reader fic #female reader #slightly suggestive #poorly translated Italian #Christmas fic

[rang-lo]

Temple

(Based on a scene from Ponniyin Selvan: II not present in the book - at the Durgai temple)

Durgai stands tall as the formidable Goddess of War and the universal Mother, wielding a weapon in each of her sixteen hands and adorned with a garland of limes. The crimson-coloured dot on her forehead complements her fiery, wide eyes that offer warmth and comfort to her devotees and instill fear in their enemies.

Vanathi watches from a corner of the sanctum as the priest circles a plate of kungumam around the goddess's statue, and temple bells chime in the distance. A heat pervades the air around her that Vanathi tells herself is probably due to the burning incense and the sizeable crowd cramped closely in the small room. But when she feels his steady breathing almost fanning her earlobe, she catches a glimpse of familiar white and gold robes in the corner of her eye.

Before she can help it, her heart picks up pace. Right behind her, she can sense his gold bangles clink together as he folds his palms in prayer. She redirects her focus back to the image of the goddess before her, or at least she tries, because her mind is insistent on reminding her the one she has given her heart away to is standing right behind her, the distance between them just mere inches.

"Durgadeviye! Why do you torment me like this? Why couldn't I have lost my heart to any other soul in this vast Chola land? I would have at least been able to look them in the eye and show them my affection without having to overthink what the other women of Pazhaiyarai would say, or whether the man of my affections would even reciprocate my love. Why was it my fate to have fallen for Ponniyin Selvar of them all?" Waves of questions crash on the shore of Vanathi's heart when she closes her eyes and thinks of the goddess. Her heart twists with the pangs of longing mixed with resignation, and she has to swallow back the emotions that come bubbling up her throat.

Upon opening her eyes, she feels the warmth of a pair of eyes gazing down at her from over her shoulder. She can almost hear his heartbeat against her arm from how close they are. Mustering up all the courage she can, she lifts her head slowly to meet his gaze, and her heart sings with joy at the gentleness in his eyes. It is both alluring and comforting at once, and she can't help the smile that works its way onto her lips when he looks down at her so fondly. 

She turns back to face the front before anyone spots the pair of them stealing glances at each other like this. The subtle movement causes her long braid to brush against his elbows and her shoulder to gently graze his fingertips. Little does she know the effect it has on him, despite the sharp intake of his breath that would have been a giveaway. Arunmozhi closes his eyes to meditate on the goddess for a minute. He tries to narrow his focus onto the image of Durgai, but all he sees is Vanathi's face, her starry eyes looking back at him, like a glass mirror reflecting her heart's wishes. All he sees is the way she holds his gaze with utmost truthfulness, before she turns away shyly. And when he tries to concentrate on listening to the prayers to Durgai that the priest is reciting, Vanathi's musical and heartfelt laugh is what echoes in his mind. 

"Durgadeviye!" He thinks, "what is happening to me? Years ago my brother lost his heart to a girl and let his love for her engulf his thoughts and purpose. Thaaye, do not take me down that path too. What if our love weakens me? Distracts me from my purpose?" Endless questions rise and fall in Arunmozhi's mind. 

Imploring the goddess to bestow him with some clarity, he opens his eyes to the royal priest offering him holy ash and smearing a thilagam of kungumam on his forehead. “Ilavarase,” the priest fixes the prince with a reassuring gaze, “Kavalaiyai vidavum. Unmai enrum vetriyaiye tharum.”

Arunmozhi smiles to himself. He was sure the priest was offering him words of encouragement in the face of the threats and conspiracies looming above the Chola throne and its subjects. But for now, he decides to take the words as advice for his heart. The starry-eyed Vanathi has only offered him nothing but her most truthful, open heart at every step; and as he turns to catch her eye again and relish in the shy smile she returns him, he quietly vows to offer the same to her. 

(Tagging @thatacademic for being my no. 1 enabler and some other friends on here whose love for PS i absolutely adore as well! @thelekhikawrites @vibishalakshman)

#ponniyin selvan #my writing

[gatheringfiki]

The following ficlet was written by @marigoldvance​ based on this photoset.

Fili/Kili, Gen, Boy King AU

You might also be able to read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3. :)

Gingerbread Men

---

Kíli sat on his pile of hides, shoved his feet into his boots and reached for the coat his father had given him some days before. It was brown leather and trimmed in fur, the lining thick and warm; much larger than his old one, fitted to accommodate the growth he’d undergone since the last cold season.

He stood and padded over the layers of rugs to the closed flaps of his family’s wide, vaulted yurt tent. Behind him, his grandmother slept, snoring softly under a mound of blankets. She was more becoming more frail, hunched, awake for shorter pockets of time. Kíli felt her loss as if it was already upon him.

Bracing himself for the cold morning that awaited him beyond the tent, Kíli pulled open the flaps and stepped outside. Snow drifted from above, dusting the trees and ground in a thin layer of white. It wasn’t sticky yet, mostly melting, but what stayed made the slumbering forest feel less eerie.

Kíli was barely thirteen, new to his long limbs and thickening muscles, moving somewhat awkwardly though with an air of confidence.

At the center of the caravan—the circle of large and small tents and wagons—his mother stoked the cooking fire, quietly instructing Fíli to hand her items one at a time and guiding him through her actions.

After Kíli had closed and wrapped the tent flaps, he stood, watching his mother and Fíli prepare a wide cast-iron pan, rubbing oil into its pores.

It had been three years since Kíli’s father had found Fíli, caught and swaying upside-down, in one of the noose traps Kíli’s father had set the day before. Fíli, the Lost Prince of Erebor, never uttering a word.

No one knew apart from Kíli who Fíli was. It was a secret Kíli held close to his heart and he was determined never to betray Fíli’s trust. He’d promised, after all, out loud and to Fíli’s face.

A flicker of movement in the corner of Kíli’s eye caught his attention and he turned to see a little girl skipping along, her hand in her mother’s. Lana, the girl, tugged her mother’s arm, clearly signalling her mother to stop where they were since her mother did so. Lana dug into a basket her mother had hooked over one elbow, and pulled out a shiny, tin bauble painted a brilliant red.

Lana’s mother placed the basket down at her feet and then lifted the girl into her arms so that Lana could reach a thin, low-hanging branch on one of the trees. Lana hung the bauble there and gestured for another, her mother obliging, crouching down and plucking another decoration from the basket. They continued like this under there was a string of baubles along the branch, and then they moved on.

As Kíli looked around, he noticed several trees surrounded their camp were adorned with baubles in various shapes and colors—some gold or silver, others bright green and red. Nested in the firs were ropes of dyed, burlap garland, and polished holders with unlit beeswax-yellow candles.  

            “Plannin’ to stand there all day, boy, or can you make yourself useful?” The sound of Kíli’s mother’s rich mahogany voice spurred Kíli into action.

He moved toward his mother and Fíli, who greeted Kíli with a demure smile.

            “Sorry Ma,” Kíli said, settling on the low, thin working bench and pressing himself flush against Fíli’s side. “I forgot it’s almost Christmas!”   

            “That it is, my love.” His mother gave Kíli a warm look, reach across Fíli to rake a hand through Kíli’s hair fondly. “And now you’re going to help Fíli with these biscuits. We need enough for everyone, so no pilfering any before it’s time.”

Kíli’s mother stared at him with warning before standing, brushing of her skirts, and stepping around the bench to stand behind Kíli. She dipped forward and pressed a kiss to Kíli’s head, saying in a whisper, “Show him how it’s done.”

And then she spun around and walked to her sister’s wagon. Likely to take inventory of their herbs and healing tinctures. His mother, Dis, and her coven managed their camp’s healing and care, a more pressing issue in the winter months. And, of course, since the War of All Lands began three years ago, on the night before they recovered Fíli from the trap.  

Kíli felt a hand squeeze his knee and was brought back to the present, Fíli bopping his forehead against Kíli’s in a gesture Kíli had learned meant Fíli wanted his attention. Kíli grinned and set to work, asked Fíli for the bowl of dough he’d spotted before he sat down.

He showed Fíli how to warm the dough, rolling small globs of his between their hands, before flattening their pieces on the floured wooden trays they’d put in their laps. They cut the dough into different shapes using tools one of the camp’s crafters formed for Kíli’s mother as a gift after he’d been taking in—another refugee of the war.

Little men and sharp trees and perfect circles Kíli would drizzle the shape of a snowflake on after the biscuits were cooked and cooled.

Fíli and Kíli worked together most of the day, bumping elbows and shoving each other when Kíli told a particularly exaggerated story. It was peaceful and pleasant, and Kíli yearned for every day to be like this with Fíli.

But he knew, one day, things would change. Fíli was the Lost Prince and until the Bone Soldiers found him, the war would never end. Rumours had already spread that the Usurper King had sent out a special party to capture and kill Fíli, former kings twisted by evil and turned into sinister things for the Usurper King to use.

Kíli didn’t tell Fíli any of this, though he knew Fíli had some idea, alert and wary at the rustle of leaves or the snap of every twig in the distance.

Things couldn’t be like this, traveling as a merry troupe across the land, baking ginger biscuits and hanging baubles in trees and—their happiness would end one day.

Kíli watched Fíli flatten more dough under his palm, his golden hair braided away from his face, a face that looked sharper and more grown up than Kíli remembered it. Like Kíli, he had grown, his body thicker and broader and more mature. Not the soft, pink child he’d been when he and Kíli met.

Fíli must have felt Kíli’s eyes on him because he paused in his motions and turned his head to meet Kíli’s eyes, blue-grey eyes searching Kíli’s. He was beautiful, Kíli realized, a strange warmth stirring in his belly.

As before, Fíli leaned forward to bump his forehead against Kíli’s, but Kíli stopped him with a hand to Fíli’s chest.

They stared at each other, Fíli questioningly, Kíli a little uncertain. And then Kíli swept in, quick as you please, and brushed a faint kiss to Fíli’s lips. Nothing meaningful or profound. Just a light touching of skin.

Fíli’s blinked at Kíli afterward and, for a few mortifying moments, Kíli felt that he’d made a huge mistake. That is until a joyous smile spread across Fíli’s face and he nodded. Kíli had no idea why he was nodding, however, he nodded back, chuckling with nerves.

They turned their attention back to the biscuits and continued their work, accepting praise from Kíli’s mother when she came to inspect how they were getting on.

She knelt on Fíli’s other side, picking up a few of the gingerbread men one at a time, and gave both boys a proud look. Fíli beamed back, glancing between Kíli and Kíli’s mother, happy as could be, everything he’d lost, all the terror and pain he’d endured, a distant memory.

And Kíli decided that he would forever more do his best to bring that happiness to Fíli. No matter what nasty king or evil power tried to rip it away from Fíli, Kíli would be there to remind Fíli that happiness existed.

Always.

#submission #Gathering 12 Days 2023 #Fili/Kili #FiKi #Durincest #the Hobbit

[paperstreetdolls]

DIY Christmas Star garland kit!

Getting classic Christmas vibes with our new star garland kit colours on pearlised paper. Picture here alongside our HOLLY large tassel garland and our gold circle garland.

We know the amount of joy & wellbeing making something for yourself can provide (especially in the winter months) so we hope you enjoy the DIYs we have in our online shop!

#star garland #diy christmas star garland #cosmic #christmas #diy #holly #large tassel garland #holly large tassel garland #gold circle garland

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 17, 27 avril 1901, Paris. No. 1. — Groupe de toilettes et manteau de promenade pour dames. Bibliothèque nationale de France

(1) Toilette de ville pour jeune femme, en cachemire grenat clair. La jupe est faite de trois volants en forme superposés, cousus au dessous de la partie plate enserrant les hanches. Ces volants à plat, sont cerclés d'un biais étroit de taffetas noir ou de satin. Le premier est surmonté de trois biais. Corsage drapé de côté et rentré dans la jupe sous une ceinture noire. Grand col en forme bordé d'un biais, ouvert sur un plastron croisé en façon de gilet de taffetas blanc. Petit col et revers en taffetas blanc liseré de satin noir. Guimpe et col plissé en soie blanche. La draperie du corsage est retenue par des choux de satin. Manche plate, cerclée de trois biais.

Matériaux: 7 mètres cachemire; 1m,25 taffetas blanc; 2 mètres taffetas ou satin noir.

Toque de paille satin noir, enguirlandée de pavots noirs à cœur d'or. Nœud aigrette en tulle noir.

(1) City ensemble for young women, in light garnet cashmere. The skirt is made of three superimposed shaped flounces, sewn below the flat part enclosing the hips. These flat ruffles are encircled with a narrow bias of black taffeta or satin. The first is surmounted by three biases. Bodice draped aside and tucked into the skirt under a black belt. Large shaped collar bordered with a bias, open on a crossed plastron in the style of a white taffeta waistcoat. Small collar and lapel in white taffeta trimmed with black satin. White silk pleated skirt and collar. The drapery of the bodice is held back by satin puffs. Flat sleeve, circled with three biases.

Materials: 7 meters cashmere; 1m,25 white taffeta; 2 meters taffeta or black satin.

Black satin straw toque, garlanded with black poppies with gold hearts. Egret bow in black tulle.

—

(2) Manteau de promenade pour jeune femme ou dame d'âge moyen, en drap beige. Paletot droit, ample, à demi recouvert par une longue pèlerine que des pinces ajustent exactement aux épaules. Autour du vêtement et de la pèlerine biais ou straps piqués. Grand col revers à la pèlerine, au paletot, revers découpés en arrondi; col roulant.

Matériaux: 4 mètres de drap.

La robe est en lainage aubergine.

Le chapeau est un canotier de paille blé, enroulé d'un ruban blanc liseré de velours noir et d'une touffe de plumes de coq.

(2) Walking coat for a young woman or middle-aged lady, in beige cloth. Straight, ample overcoat, half covered by a long pelerine which darts adjust exactly to the shoulders. Around the garment and the bias cape or stitched straps. Large lapel collar with pelerine, overcoat, rounded lapels; roll neck.

Materials: 4 meters of sheet.

The dress is in aubergine wool.

The hat is a wheat straw canoe hat, wrapped in a white ribbon trimmed with black velvet and a tuft of rooster feathers.

—

(3) Toilette de visites pour jeune femme, en foulard saphir clair. Tunique bordée de rubans de velours blanc disposés en échelle et ouvrant sur un dessous dont le devant est uni et les côtés à plis couchés. Boléro ras à la taille, en pointe devant, garni de rubans en échelle et ouvert sur une chemisette en mousseline de soie blanche. Col revers découpé et incrusté de guipure blanche; col Marceau en guipure et cravate de soie bleue. Manches à parements découpés et rayés de blanc.

Matériaux: 14 mètres de foulard.

Grand chapeau auréole en yeddo gris perle, enroulé de panne bleu clair; sur les cheveux, chiffonné de panne; sur le chapeau nœud de panne traversé d'une frégate gris sombre.

(3) Visiting ensemble for a young woman, in light sapphire foulard. Tunic lined with white velvet ribbons arranged in a ladder and opening on an underside whose front is plain and the sides with flat pleats. Bolero close to the waist, peaked in front, trimmed with ladder ribbons and open on a white silk chiffon shirt. Lapel collar cut out and inlaid with white guipure; Marceau collar in guipure and blue silk tie. Sleeves with cut facings and white stripes.

Materials: 14 meters of scarf.

Large halo hat in pearl gray yeddo, wrapped in light blue panne; on the hair, crumpled with breakdown; on the purlin hat crossed by a dark gray frigate.

#La Mode nationale #20th century #1900s #1901 #periodical #fashion #fashion plate #color #cover #description #Forney #dress #toilette #ensemble #visiting #cape #collar #pelerine #bow

[malulls]

Under the mistletoe

Manorian Christmas one shot

The world through the windows seemed to have been painted in white. Snow had begun to fall at dawn, and now covered Rifthold completely. Manon sighed, making the glass in front of her blurry.

The queen had arrived just before the storm, and the weather was already unbearable. Even being more resistant to the cold than any mortal she didn't want to go outside now. Manon's bare toes curved on the cold stone floor. The chambers separated for her were directly connected to the ones she was in, so she hadn't bothered to put anything on or change the clothes she had worn to sleep, all she had done was braid her hair.

Which turned out not to be a good decision, as the fire in the hearth was low and not warming the room enough. Manon curled her finger around a silver string hanging from the window frame, trying to ignore the cold. The place, like the rest of the castle, was covered in Yule decorations, with ornaments and candles scattered all over the furniture.

No one would fail to recognize the way even that small room was a display of Adarlan's riches. It looked beautiful, though she didn't think it was worth so many hours of work. The sound of footsteps, followed by a turning knob, reached her ears before the door suddenly opened, causing her to turn to face the king standing in the doorway.

— Is that my shirt?

Dorian looked at her with his head slightly bowed, wearing only gray sleep pants and a few gold rings on his left hand. His dark hair was messy, as if he had just got up. He was handsome.

Manon almost rolled her eyes at the thought. And at the smirk on his face. Stupid male arrogance. The witch crossed her arms.

— I didn't notice what I was wearing when I went to sleep. Do not think it has anything to do with you.

His smile narrowed a little, and he raised his eyebrows.

— You didn't come to see me yesterday.

When the witch had arrived — with her clothes half-frozen and her muscles completely sore — she would have rather collapsed on the bed with him. But she knew that if she had done that she would want to talk to Dorian, probably take off his clothes as well, so she had preferred to stay in her own rooms — which she almost never used.

— It was late when I arrived. I'm sure it was past your bedtime.

He tilted his head back and laughed at her answer, and that lightness, which had only appeared after the war, only made him more handsome. Dorian took a step toward her, and Manon quickly moved out of his reach. He always seemed to forget that he wasn't the only one who could be annoying.

The queen turned away and stopped at the door to the dining room, on the soft carpet instead of the icy floor. He didn't roll his eyes, nor did he tease her back as she had expected. Dorian smiled, looking almost content as he began to walk closer to her. He was not looking at Manon, but at something above her.

The queen followed the direction of his gaze. There was a small ornament in a garland on the door, a mistletoe, hanging right above her. The king was no longer looking up when Manon looked back at him to ask what was so interesting about the plant. He held her face and surprised her with a kiss.

She widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows for a second before kissing Dorian back. It wasn't the kind of kiss that had them both ripping each other's clothes off in seconds. This one was almost amused, as if he was claiming victory for catching her by surprise. Dorian pulled away faster than she expected, leaving her breathless.

— It's a Yule tradition. Two people must kiss if they are under a mistletoe.

She frowned at the explanation. He still had his hands on her cheeks.

— That doesn't make any sense. —He shrugged, as if to say that he did not create the rules. — Was that just an excuse to kiss me?

— Do I need one?

She didn't even try to argue, and that seemed to make his smile grow wider. They both knew he didn't need it. He began to draw circles with his thumb on her skin.

— I missed you.

Manon looked away. She always tensed up when Dorian said that sort of thing. Not because she didn't like it, but because she mostly didn't know how to respond. She couldn't say what she was feeling so easily. A bitter taste spread in her mouth. It must be the result of spending a hundred years being forced to act as if she felt nothing but hate. As if he had heard her thoughts, he pulled the conversation back to teasing.

— I know you miss me too, witchling. Don't waste your time trying to pretend otherwise.

— I wouldn't be so sure, princeling. — She let the same smile reach her face, though she was pretty sure it was much more thankful than sarcastic.

— I notice, you know. When you lay with me while I'm reading. You are wearing my clothes. — She rolled her eyes, and he poked the tip of her nose in response. — Don't think that I don't know this is what you mean when you do these things. I don't need a dramatic declaration.

She didn't pull away when he put his arms around her. He always, even when the two of them barely knew each other, seemed to easily understand what she was feeling. Even when the rest of the people thought she didn't feel anything. That could be annoying sometimes, but it was a relief when it was hard for the her to even accept that she was feeling something, so showing it could be worse.

She wouldn't have minded staying there longer, if the icy morning breeze hadn't started to come in through the gaps in the window.

— It's cold.

Immediately, the flames in the fireplace rose and his magic enveloped them both in a comfortable warmth. Indeed, everyone should have the luck to have a king with pure magic as a lover.

— Good thing I have the most beautiful queen in the world to warm my bed, then.

— You're the one warming my bed.

He pulled away, but not far enough to let go of her waist. Dorian pointed to the room behind the half-opened door.

— The bed is mine.

She raised an eyebrow.

— Is it ?

Manon turned away before he could see she was smiling. The witch started to walk toward the room, but didn't even make it past the doorway before Dorian grabbed her hand and turned her around again. He was pointing upwards with a grin in his face.

There was another mistletoe in the door frame.

— How many damn decorations-

He interrupted Manon with another kiss. This time, neither of them pulled away.

Inspired by this perfect fanart by @mellendraws

#manorian #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #throne of glass #sarah j maas #dorian x manon #writing #one shot #christmas #christmas one shots

[gendertarot]

Invicircstream / Invistrecent: An inviane identity that can only be described by this specific version of Strength, by Madam Clara. This card is found in the 5-cent Tarot and the Alleyman's Tarot. This may be used on its own, or as a gender, aldern, or any other aspect of identity.

[ID: two rectangular flags with 5 horizontal stripes. The stripes from top to bottom are falu red, dark sand, medium grey, darker sand, pale gold. In the middle of the first flag, there is a Strength tarot card. The card depicts a seal standing upright on an armadillo's back. The seal is balancing a red and gold striped ball on its nose. Overlaid on the seal is a banded ouroboros in the shape of a figure 8, which itself is overlaid with the word Strength. The background is a pale brown starburst, with flowers in each corner of the flag. Dangling down from the top corners is a flower garland. Written in a circle around the seal are the words control, discipline, helplessness, and insecurity. At the top of the flag is the roman numeral 8, which is overlaid with a banner with the word self-mastery. At the bottom of the flag is a banner reading weakness. End ID.]

#mogai term #mogai coining #liom term #liom coining #inviane #tarotgender #deck: alleyman's #deck: 5-cent #major arcana #card: strength

[amaurotine-daydreaming]

VI. Ring

The ringing of the Sanctum’s bells pealed throughout the Twelveswood, a clear and bright call to celebration. The doors of the sanctuary had been flung wide, and all along the outside steps and the wide promenade spilled dozens of well-wishers and partygoers in the wake of the ceremony. 

It was chatter and cheer, spontaneous shouts of laughter and handfuls of flowers flung from baskets passed out by the attendant moogles. Along the flanks of the promenade, large round banquet tables had been set with pristine tablecloths and piled high with fruits, meats, breads, and cheeses. At one of these, a group of companions settled into each of twelve chairs.

“What a lovely arrangement they’ve made for their guests,” a viera woman dressed in a billowy spring dress said, looking around admiringly at the spires and banisters festooned with flower garlands and streamers. 

“Aye,” agreed the high-cheekboned elezen woman across from her. She inspected the many neatly arrayed pieces of cutlery and plates at her place setting. “‘Twould seem we are in for a grand feast, as well.” 

“The happy couple do not strike me as one of the elite, but ‘tis clear for this day they spared no expense,” said a dark-skinned lalafell three seats down, dressed in the tunic and sarouel that marked him as an Ul’dahn merchant. 

“I was speaking to some of the guests, and learned that while the bride and groom are not from families of great means, their friends and companions pooled their time and talents,” the tall and fiery-haired miqo'te Seeker next to him said, tapping her closed fan against her cheek. 

“Ever the gossip,” softly laughed a lalafellin man opposite. He was dressed in traveler’s clothes, and among the lot of them looked most as if he had been swept right off the street into the gaiety. “Or I would say, if I did not have the feeling you at least knew something of the bride.”

The Seeker simply opened her fan and hid her smile behind it.

“Well, I think it’s lovely the couple has in turn opened their ceremony for all to delight in,” said a young miqo'te Keeper as she slipped a morsel under the table to the dog settled at her feet. 

“Indeed,” came the pleased rumble from the Hellsguard roegadyn who sat next to a wizened hyur. “‘Tis always a joy to have an opportunity to attend these events.” 

A cowled lalafell laughed behind her hand as she watched the knot of people cheering and embracing the miqo’te bride and groom at their center. “A shame we can but come to these–with all of us in attendance–only rarely.” 

“Were we to do so more often, surely we would be in danger of arousing suspicion,” noted a Duskwight elezen in an elegant white chiton. He took a poised sip from his glass, but a hint of a smile crinkled the corners of his eyelids.

“Who would question us as a free company?” suggested the wiry Sea Wolf woman with dual tattoos of silver-scaled fish leaping along her collarbones. “Plenty of other merry bands gain an informal reputation across the realm for these sorts of things. We would not be unusual.”

A cheer suddenly went up from the crowd, catching the attention of all at the table. 

“May the Twelve bless their union!” cried the wedding guests, hoisting the bride and groom into the air onto their shoulders. Both looked abashed, but between one another shared a look abundant in joy and hope.

“Indeed,” said the Keeper, her pale blue eyes shining with mischief as the group of revelers paraded the couple around in a circle. “I think that’s a marvelous idea. Who would like to toast the happy couple first?”

“Now, now, we mustn’t choose favorites,” said the merchant, his mismatched eyes–one gold, one pale–serene. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” the Keeper pouted back, her tail swishing. “There’s no harm in simple well wishes. We would do the same for any other, given but the chance.”

“With our own toils nearing their end, let us share in the joy of these mortals in the time we have left among them,” suggested a man–a Midlander–who wore the purple robes of a mage but nevertheless had the muscled build of a warrior, and was greeted with nods all around. 

“Why don’t I begin,” said the Sea Wolf. She lifted her glass. “May the couple be blessed with fair skies and fair seas for all their days.” 

“Hear, hear,” said the Plainsfolk traveler, lifting his glass in turn. Each of the companions began to follow suit. “And the wind at their back, wheresoever they may go.”

“Let naught cast down their devotion,” declared the wizened Highlander.

“And the foundations of their bond remain strong,” boomed the Hellsguard.

“For all of time, in this life and beyond,” nodded the Midlander.

“And while they walk upon this earth, may they be blessed with a rich and full life,” the Rava beamed.

“And a warm hearth,” added the Seeker, setting her fan down on the table in order to lift her own glass with a flourish.

The Dunesfolk merchant bowed his head and placed a hand over his breast. “May they never be left wanting,” he murmured.

“Let wisdom guide their bonds, and peace and harmony reign,” spoke the Duskwight, his face haloed with long curls glowing in the sunlight.

“Fates smile upon them,” chimed in the Plainsfolk in the cowl, her own smile writ wide as she brushed the platinum blonde hair from her eyes.

“To a glorious union!” enthused the elezen woman, thrusting her glass skyward so sharply she nearly spilled its contents.

“My, after such beautiful proclamations, do I even have to say anything?” the instigating young Keeper said cheekily. A soft woof by her feet made her look down. “Oh, but of course I will, Dal!” she exclaimed, patting her dog’s head. 

She then stood, balancing one hand on the table while extending the other forward as far as it could go. “May their love inspire the realm! To love!”

“To love!” rang the chorus, and an answering cheer went up behind them.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023

[enchantedliving]

Night Of The Witch

BY SUSANN COKAL

Photographer/Creative Director: Natasha Wilson @natashawilson.co Models: Seema Hari @seemahari Sonaz Izadi @sonazizadi Asy Saavedra @asysaavedra Chloe Saavedra @chloesaavedra Maia Saavedra @maiasaavedra_photo Angel Lin @angelmydarling Four @4likefour Caris Kuhn @rakuhnn Mack @mackandgold Morgan Roberts @really.not.sure Jetta Juriansz @shmetta Michelle Hebért @michellehebertofficial

Gowns: Michelle Hebért @michellehebertofficial It begins in places of shadow, in woods and on the east sides of mountains, the far side of the beach’s sand: The air is getting softer, velvetier. The hard white light of afternoon is relaxing into gold, and darkness is starting to assert itself in a tapestry of pink and teal and Prussian blue, spangled with stars, lit again by the mirror of the moon—and then by elemental fire, a wheel of it, a blaze, a bank of candles.

This is Midsummer’s Eve. 

And you’re probably dancing by now.Maybe you’ve already been dancing all day, skipping as you weave long ribbons and flower garlands around the tallest tree or wooden pole within reach. But now it’s time to let go of the ribbons, gather your magic into both hands, let it make its bright way into the night. Tonight even the kindliest witch has a wild heart. So take off the apron; let down your hair. Your sisters are waiting.

The quick night falls amid the northern hemisphere’s longest days of the year. In the third week of June, as medieval poets described it, the jewel of the sun rests overhead and beams down on Earth.

We expect to go a bit mad in the sun—drunk with light. But Midsummer’s Eve, the shortest night, is even more intoxicating than the longest day, because witches thrive on imbalance. What throws ordinary mortals off kilter, confuses them, makes them lose sleep—all this only increases a witch’s power and sense of possibility. Forget the equinoxes, so tidily divided between light and dark; the imbalance of solstice gives us something we can really work with. And with so little darkness around, its magic is concentrated, palpable to any with the gift to recognize it.

So let’s dance till we’re giddy, and then dance even wilder. Share light within our circle of kindred spirits. Pluck a bride on her way to her wedding and make her dance till she forgets she ever felt any other arms around her. Conjure flames from the ground and use them for curing—or cursing, if we need to. We’ll fan the bonfire’s flames with our skirts; we’ll sing of the old gods and goddesses, and roar at mortals’ acts of daring. This is a night of courage and conjuring, summoning the power deepest within us and using it to call down the stars. In the hour of the witch, in the night of the Fire is transformative, and taming it is one of the witch’s first tasks. If it leaps beyond her control, it will gobble everything in its path. But in her wise-woman hands, it can burn off useless dead growth. She can rise from the ashes stronger than ever.

CONTINUE READING

#enchanted living magazine #magic #enchanting #faerie #fairy #fantasy #whimsical #witch #witchy #article #writing #books #author #reading #indie #art #artist #illustration

[ceekbee]

The Indian wedding ceremony is found within the pages of the ancient holy books known as the Vedas. It is the oldest wedding ceremony in the world and one that is beautiful and uplifting to witness. For thousands of years, couples have made their lasting promises to each other in this traditional way.

1. Sagai – Previous to the wedding, the bride’s father gives his permission and blessings, and sets the date for the wedding ceremony. The wedding ceremony is the fulfilment of his promise.

2. Mehndi, Pithi, and Manglik Shubh Prasango – The bride is beautified and blessed by her elders within the family home, worshipping Ganesh, the god of new beginnings, nine planets, and the family devas, teachers and saints.

3. Samayu – On the wedding day, the groom and his family are greeted at his carriage.

4. Milni – The groom is ceremonially greeted at the threshold, or at the gate leading to the sacred canopy. A blessing is made on his forehead, lamps are waved before him, a sweet is placed in his mouth, coconuts are exchanged, and a pot of seeds is crushed under his feet, signifying his new beginning.

5. Charana Snana – The groom’s feet are bathed and dried by the bride’s father. Today the groom represents God’s grace as from him will come much love and care for the bride.

6. Antarpat – A cloth is raised before the groom's eyes. He will see his bride only after the elders have blessed him and sung prayers for the good fortune of the couple.

7. Kanya Pravesh – Everyone rises for the bride, and she makes her beautiful entrance with uncle, brothers, and maids.

8. Jan Kanya Darshan - An ancient prayer is chanted, the cloth is slowly removed, and the couple see each other for the first time as bride and groom.

9. Achaman – A few drops of holy water from the Himalayan source of the Ganges River is sipped for purity.

10. Kumbha Puja – The bride’s parents worship Vishnu within a sacred pitcher of water, surmounted by coconut and leaves. Incense, lamp, and flowers are offered with Sanskrit prayers. Finally, a red

thread is tied to the parents’ wrists, and they also tie one to the wrist of the priest. The priest promises to assist the father in making the greatest gift of his life.

11. Pravachan – The priest gives a talk to the groom before his elders, reminding him of the duties of a husband: to always help his wife towards happiness; to adjust to her needs; to protect her; to

speak kindly; to forgive her when required; to ask her for forgiveness; and to walk with her as a companion on their spiritual journey.

12. Sankalpa – The priest reads out in Sanskrit the astrological time and date of the wedding, along with the geographical location, the family tree and other family details.

13. Kanya Dan and Pani Gruhanam - The Gift of a Daughter.

The bride’s right hand is joined with the groom’s and Ganges water is poured over their hands by her father after he makes his promise to the groom.

14. Vivaha Vrata - Vows are exchanged by the couple while holding hands.

15. Hara Danam – Flower garlands are exchanged to symbolise the exchange of hearts.

16. Cherra Gantha – A cloth is tied between them, symbolising the lasting bond between them.

17. Var Mala - A silken rope is lowered over their shoulders, symbolising the joining of their futures.

18. Havan – The sacred fire is kindled by the priest, the father makes the first offering, then the bride and groom offer barley grains, sesame seeds, and spices.

19. Mangal Fera - The couple circle the fire, each time the bride’s brothers or cousins giving her puffed grains to offer into the flames. These represent the brother’s love for his sister. During the last circle, the bride is asked by the groom to place her right toe on a stone. He then whispers in her ear: “May our marriage be as firm as this stone upon which you now stand.”

20. Mangal Sutra - The mother of the groom displays a gold necklace. She asks for blessings by family and friends. Then the groom places the necklace carefully on his bride. This act is just like

the placing of the wedding ring on the bride’s finger.

21. Sindhur Danam – A short line of red mineral is placed in the bride's hair parting.

22. Sapta Padi - They take seven steps together, receiving seven blessings from the assembled family and friends. At the end of the seventh step they are considered husband and wife.

23. Kansar - They feed each other, their first act of loving service to each other as husband and wife.

24. Akhand-saubhagyavati-bhava – Two married ladies from each family come and bless the new couple: “May you always dwell together; may you never be parted.”

25. Vidhai – Tears and songs as they are bid farewell. The bride’s brother gives his sister a shawl, some food for the journey, while the sisters and other friend’s try to stop the carriage from leaving.

The priest places a coconut under the front wheel and says prayers for the journey. The wheel crushes the nut and the bride is presented with a portion for good luck. Rice is thrown to bless the

couple on their journey – and the journey of life.

THE VOWS

I knowingly accept you as you knowingly accept me.

May we remain together and listen to joyous sounds together.

May we always experience well-being.

Speaking loving words, may we remain together for a hundred autumns.

I accept you as my partner in life.

I will not conceal anything from you.

I will share with you all that I enjoy.

Together we will persevere in the path of dharma (righteousness),

through this vehicle of householder life, we as an an example for all, will attain together, blissful consciousness.