Our teachers were Russians: exotic and glamorous ballerinas from another era. Felia Doubrovska had been born in Russia in the 19th century and had danced at the Maryinsky Theatre in Imperial St. Petersburg in the years before the Russian Revolution. She later joined the Ballets Russes in Europe and eventually settled in New York City to teach, but we all knew that some part of her was still elsewhere, in a world far from ours. Everything about her was different. She worse heavy makeup, long fake eyelashes, and sickly sweet perfumes, and I remember her bejewelled and dressed in a deep royal blue leotard with matching scarf, chiffon skirt, and pink tights that showed off her unusually long and still impressively muscular legs. Her movements, even when she wasn’t dancing, were gracious and ornamented, elegantly conveyed in ways that we American teenagers could never quite replicate.
Melton, who is also a best-selling author, posted a intimate snap of the couple’s wedding day, which took place on Sunday as reported by People.com. The adorable pair stood against a beautiful, fairytale forest-looking backdrop while locked in a tight embrace and sharing a kiss. Abby looked dapper in a red velvet suit jacket, while her gorgeous wife dazzled in a silver bejeweled dress.
But don’t just take our word for it — see the sweet Instagram posts below.
A post shared by Mary Wambach (@abbywambach) on May 15, 2017 at 11:40am PDT
In a second shot shared by Glennon, we see Abby looking super adorable in a black hoodie with the words “Christian Mommy Blogger’s Wife” and a timely reminder for anyone who might be down on their luck in love.
A post shared by Glennon Doyle Melton (@glennondoylemelton) on May 15, 2017 at 7:00am PDT
My beloveds – please never give up on love. Life could surprise the hell out of you. Trust me- you might just wake up one morning and find yourself smackdab in the middle of heaven. I love my wife. LOVE WINS.
We are absolutely loving these two and all the positive, loving vibes they are putting out into the world. They serve as a living, breathing reminder that love is real and that we often find it in the most unexpected places. Life’s a crazy, wonderful journey, people!
I want to
write an epic novel-length fic in which Alec and Hannah meet way before
Broadchurch, before she even becomes an escort actually. Around the same time
he meets Tess, he’s still just a constable and she’s on the verge of quitting
school. It’s at a time when the age difference matters. He’s thinking about marriage and babies and she’s thinking about her next flatmate. And yet they stick
together, undeniably attracted, physically and emotionally, by the other.
Tess is the right choice. The reasonable choice.
becomes an escort, it confirms his choice. They fight terribly, call each other
names and fall out. “That’s it,” they think, the end of their friendship.
first one to give in. Months later he calls, he’s drunk and it’s his bachelor
party, and “I miss you, Han.” “But I’m still an escort.”
walks down the aisle, when they welcome Daisy to the world, there’s a pang of
jealousy in her heart, but mostly she’s happy. Happy that her best mate gets
what he wants and what he deserves. In the end, she’s getting what she wants
too, doing a job she loves.
in touch despite the distance and their hectic lives. Because what separates
them is also what brings them together. They’re different and therefore
challenge each other’s view of the world.
and later, criminals— keep
him awake at night, he knows she’ll be awake too. And he’s the first person she wants to call when she gets a good news or when she’s feeling blue.
person she calls, sitting on a bench by the Thames in a bejeweled yellow dress
with mascara running down her cheeks. “I’m here,” he says just a few hours
later. He holds her. And when she kisses him, she thinks she’s done it again,
she’s fucked up a friendship. But he’s different.
writes about him in her book, journalists ask her about “the one that got
witnesses his transformation from a caring and warm person into a hardened and
cold detective. She doesn’t recognize him and it hurts. When he discovers Tess’
betrayal, he’s free, they’re more mature, maybe the timing is finally right.
But he doesn’t let Hannah comfort him. He shouts at her. He sleeps on the
divorce and a relocation, and a heart that beats erratically. When she sees him
on the news, she decides to help him. Whether he likes it or not. She’s at the
Trader’s and at the hospital. She calls him stupid, reckless, he calls her
selfish and opportunistic. And he kisses her with salty lips and hands carding
through windswept hair.
there’s a tiny blue house, and lazy morning, and she’s still there. And when he
thinks he’s about to fall back into old patterns, in the madness of an unsolved
case that haunts him, she keeps him afloat. She’s still there.
London x UK:Alexander McQueen’s Savage Beauty at the Victoria & Albert Museum, London [More London]
The most breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful exhibit I have ever seen in my life. After having watched his collections on video, looked through the tiniest details of his dresses from high quality pictures, memorized each show name by heart, it was such an honor to see the collections in person at the exhibit at the V&A. From the legendary flower dress from Sarabande to the bejeweled dresses from The Girl Who Lived in a Tree, I stood in the dark, cool air and held my breath, unable to bridge the gap between dream and reality. The room dripped with jewels, dried flowers and magic, and for a moment I lived in a world of fantasy and haunting beauty.
Is bits of ash crackling from suffering wood and fire. The warm embers hot from delight, dancing at midnight. 36.28 percent different, different from society- hated, despised, dirty, filth…She’s an orange light in the corner of her eye. A blink, a scan, a machine, an ugly machine. Discrimination, standing up to her stepmother’s whims, and not being able to cry over a peony’s petals.
Is dresses and bodice and lace wounded so tight she can barely breathe. Promiscuous fashions and big floppy hats and kisses under moonlight. Grace, beauty at it’s peak, just like her pretty mommy. Long braids and high cheekbones. The one that never happened, only found in a fantasy. Courts every gentleman known to Lunar-kind.
Is her Grand-mere’s precious, her beloved scar. She’s crazy, off her rocker like her grandma, but she’s different somehow- she’s…pretty, they laugh, they catcall at night. Her beautiful face and robust, lacy curls of red, bloody red, and curves that sway just right. She’s a hard worker, bravery winning under a shield of hate at night. Secrets in a box, and a gun beneath her hoodie.
Is a descendant from a Lunar. She’s Lunar. A Lunar, the men in the moon, they jeer at her, she’s one of them, but what can she do. She’s not a Benoit after all, no, she’s got silver blood. Her hair is not red, it’s blue with the thousands of sorrowful stars, and everything she thought was true…was a lie…but she’s got support, and she’ll build herself up. She always does, always have. Gritting her teeth, guns, and gusto.
Is swirls of light pastels. A harsh tug of hair, in the darkest of nights. Constellations align to burst bits of love and passion for her; the world is her blanket, the world is her cover- she’ll tuck herself in at night and hum a melody so sweet. Afraid of the monstrosity she’s caused. Worked for Mistress for a decade- the pain, the sorrow, the damage she’s done…
Is a friend to many. Her bright yellow laughter, her wit, the risk she has placed herself in. A star, an independent beauty of a sun, in the sky, working for freedom, what she believes in. She’s no one’s little worker, no one’s little servant or slave. She’s sand and tears, don’t waste tears dear, and she’s sleepy faces and soft eyelids.
Princess Winter Hayle-Blackburn
Is burdened with fear. There’s the creep Aimery, her delusional brain, the servant who wants to die and fall…her father, dead….Never officially meet the mother she had for mere seconds…Princess, stay with me, are the only words she wants to hear. Soft nectar in her ears. Scars on her face. There’s the palace guard she’s infatuated with. Firecrackers and big eyes and long walks. Pirouettes, but only when step-mother isn’t looking.
Is a season of cold. Survival through everything, through Death itself. She’s a cousin, a friend, maybe even a girlfriend. Her wolf cries without her, she misses some things, but not everything is perfect, little ambassador. Taut, corkscrew curls of tresses and gauzy, bejeweled dresses. Giggling, grinning, and gaining sanity.
Congrats on your fanniversary! My two years'll be in the fall-- crazy how time flies! Prompt for ya: Fitz and Jemma at a fancy pants dinner "somewhere nice" (in Seychelles or otherwise) but they just can't seem to keep their hands off each other.
awww fanniversary! what a perfect word for it! and I remember when you joined us - we’ve been so lucky to have you. <3 Anniversary Drabble 4/10. Rated light M. FitzSimmons. 3x22 canon-compliant, Seychelles.
The restaurant at the sand’s edge was lit with muted strings of electric lanterns, a live band and singer serenading the guests. Most of the women were wearing dresses and bejeweled flip-flops, with some men in blazers and others only in their shirtsleeves, in keeping with the beach-adjacent atmosphere. Guests were encouraged to meander onto the sand after their meals, although most just enjoyed the tranquil view from their seats.
Jemma held daintily onto Fitz’s arm as their waiter led them to their table, her buzz from their afternoon imbibing having long since worn off, and felt rather like she’d stepped into a fairytale. Having always wanted to be swept off her feet had been something that occasionally warred with her own inherently practical nature. When she was younger she used to fight against it, but as an adult, she’d long since learned that it was perfectly acceptable to be both analytical and romantic. Fortunately for her, she’d also found both qualities in her best friend, although she hadn’t realized quite the degree that he embodied the latter until recently. His own proclivity towards literal thinking notwithstanding, Fitz was excellent in sweeping Jemma off her feet - both literally and figuratively.
Cast off the feelings you felt, as if they were a garment, the color of which does not suit your taste anymore. Dress bejeweled, over your temperment, which is dazzling, and see whether or not the stars fall to touch you, and your enemies smile and bow.