blue and golden gown

anonymous asked:

Different anon. What do you mean about the marriage symbols in Brienne's chapters? I didn't see any?

In the mêlée at Bitterbridge she had sought out her suitors and battered them one by one, Farrow and Ambrose and Bushy, Mark Mullendore and Raymond Nayland and Will the Stork. She had ridden over Harry Sawyer and broken Robin Potter’s helm, giving him a nasty scar. And when the last of them had fallen, the Mother had delivered Connington to her. This time Ser Ronnet held a sword and not a rose. Every blow she dealt him was sweeter than a kiss.
Loras Tyrell had been the last to face her wroth that day. He’d never courted her, had hardly looked at her at all, but he bore three golden roses on his shield that day, and Brienne hated roses. The sight of them had given her a furious strength. She went to sleep dreaming of the fight they’d had, and of Ser Jaime fastening a rainbow cloak about her shoulders.

She was dressed in silk brocade, a quartered gown of blue and red decorated with golden suns and silver crescent moons. On another girl it might have been a pretty gown, but not on her. She was twelve, ungainly and uncomfortable, waiting to meet the young knight her father had arranged for her to marry, a boy six years her senior, sure to be a famous champion one day. She dreaded his arrival. Her bosom was too small, her hands and feet too big. Her hair kept sticking up, and there was a pimple nestled in the fold beside her nose. “He will bring a rose for you,” her father promised her, but a rose was no good, a rose could not keep her safe. It was a sword she wanted. Oathkeeper. I have to find the girl. I have to find his honor.
Finally the doors opened, and her betrothed strode into her father’s hall. She tried to greet him as she had been instructed, only to have blood come pouring from her mouth. She had bitten her tongue off as she waited. She spat it at the young knight’s feet, and saw the disgust on his face. “Brienne the Beauty,” he said in a mocking tone. “I have seen sows more beautiful than you.” He tossed the rose in her face. As he walked away, the griffins on his cloak rippled and blurred and changed to lions. Jaime! she wanted to cry. Jaime, come back for me! But her tongue lay on the floor by the rose, drowned in blood.
Brienne woke suddenly, gasping.

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in the sensation of warm grainy sand beneath his feet. lost in the glory of a beaming sun that made the sky forget it was blue – it wore golden now, like its favorite gown.

his hazel gaze was lost at sea. gaze full of ocean, glimmering in teals. gentle waves rustled forward, slowly racing towards his heels.

as the cool water kissed his toes, a warm kiss pressed itself to his cheek. a familiar weight fell upon his hand, strong fingers settling over his own. he gripped back tight, feeling the cool metal of rings slotted between his fingers and the warmth of magnus’ palm.

“ready to go?” magnus’ quiet voice reeled him back to land. alec turned to him, memorizing the serenity painted across his beloved’s face. how it had smoothed over all the creases from past weeks of stress.

they had portalled to the remote island by “accident” (not without an amused “oops” from magnus). the high warlock of brooklyn and the head of the new york institute had experienced too few breaths with the accords undergoing revision. there had been pockets of stubborn resistance to proposed amendments, causing mayhem.

it was time for a break, magnus resolved, sinking into the sand with his husband, taking in the tall rock formations ahead, the large palms dancing with drooping leaves in the breeze. no straining meetings, no needless fighting. no office to be barged into, and no people to do the barging. no one at all. just the man who was part of his soul. pure bliss.

“anywhere with you,” alec finally replied with a smile, a little smug.

strokes of amber light filled magnus’ cheekbones, painting all the way above his brow. he pressed forward for a kiss and god, catching those lips was like the horizon catching the sun. alec felt gilded with gold, light singing through his bones, as he moved his mouth against magnus’, soft and slow. he shuddered a sigh, the scrape of magnus’ goatee making the experience nothing less than holy.

«A fine family you have,” I said to the Duchess of Bedford as she and her husband took their places alongside the dowager Duchess of Somerset, the Duke and Duchess of Buckingham, and the Duke and Duchess of York in the stand erected at the Tower. The seats around us overflowed with Beaufort, Stafford, and York offspring, but the Woodvilles put them to shame in sheer numerosity. I indicated Elizabeth, the eldest and the prettiest of the Woodville girls sitting below me, who wore a sky-blue gown that matched her eyes and complimented her golden hair and fair complexion. “Lady Grey in particular is quite the beauty.
«My Elizabeth may have the looks of a seductress, but she is remarkably prim, and very attached to her John. Not even a king could tempt her to stray.” She smiled mischievously at her own handsome husband, who thanks to his marriage and his faithful service to Henry had become Lord Rivers and a Knight of the Garter. “They say children of unconventional matches are always the most conventional themselves.”
“You have raised her well, madam,” Henry put in. “It is good to see young ladies who are not only beautiful but virtuous.” He smiled at me. “Like the queen.»
I squeezed Henry’s hand and shifted my position so I could better see around York’s son Edward, the sixteen-year-old Earl of March, who himself was admiring the profile of Lady Grey. Finding a vantage point that did not include the young earl was a difficult task: the boy was six feet tall and showed every sign of growing taller. He bore not the slightest resemblance to the Duke of York; his good looks must have come from further back along the generations.
Sensing my difficulty in seeing the jousting, Edward moved over and flashed me a charming smile. “I am surprised you do not joust, my lord,” I said after thanking him. “I should think that with—”
“My size, your grace?” The Earl of March’s teeth shone in the sun as I nodded. “I do suppose I’d be a natural, but the truth is I just never had any interest in participating in a joust. Watching is good enough for me.”
“You mean to say, you just never had any interest in practicing,” the Duke of York said. Throughout the jousting, and especially when Hal had ridden out, he had worn a look of grim endurance. “Lazy.“
«Quite true,” conceded the Earl of March. “But you’ll find me active enough when it suits my purposes, Father, never fear.”
York harrumphed, and the Earl of March returned to his former occupation of eyeing Lady Grey, who was utterly oblivious to this male attention.
—  1458 Loveday tournament, Edward and Elizabeth from Susan Higginbotham. «The Queen of Last Hopes»

anonymous asked:

Cait has two looks. Urban Sophisticate and Toddlers and Tiaras. I much prefer the former over the latter.

Well Anon, it’s Friday so let’s spice things up around here.  As I type this I know that I will cause angst among some, but, here goes.  I hate most of clothing pieces she choses to wear. I do.  I can’t stand the tiered ones. She looks like all she is missing is her staff and sheep.  The tiered sundress she wore for the W shoot: put a floppy hat on her and she looks like Rachel Zoe.  Now, I said I hate most of the pieces not all.  I have loved some of her evening gown choices. The purple dress, the black and silver Cannes gown, and the blue & orange Golden Globes gown were fabulous.  I guess I would rather she her dress a little more Duchess of Cambridge than Carrie from Sex and the City.


A/N: A short drabble based on the promo images and what we already know about season 3. Please excuse any mistakes, I’m really sick right now haha! Hope you enjoy xo


After a refreshing ride along the coastline to calm his nerves, Dwight disembarked his horse and tied him to the fence outside the church. He could do nothing to prevent his smile nor the almost painful butterflies in his stomach. The church was empty save the minister and two people Dwight did not know, just like they had arranged it in the good old days.
He took his place and waited for her. He did not have to wait long. She walked gracefully on her own, wearing a fine satin gown with blue flowers decorating her golden hair. He noted that he would die soon if he did not regain his breath. She took her place beside him, where it would now always be, and smiled.
The entire ceremony was a blur. Soon it was over and the moment he had been long waiting for had arrived. He savoured it: the feel of her soft red lips, the ever-present taste of honey and sugared almonds, the sight of his ring as he touched her porcelain face. The minister had subtly cleared his throat twice but Dwight did not care. He could not stop. He could not let her go. He would not let her go.


The force of the blow seared his face. His dream had allowed him a few moments escape but he was now forced to face his grim reality.
His arms ached as they were hastily pulled along, his legs tore through his uniform as they skidded along the uneven ground, his nose and eyes burned from the rank seawater, his head was cold as if it had suffered some sort of injury.

As he came face to face with a large iron gate, the two accompanying soldiers muttered something in French which Dwight could not understand.
The gate flew open and Dwight gasped in horror at the sight before him: an impossibly large building, the grounds of which were peppered with numerous dead men who adorned the same uniform as Dwight.
He stared emptily at the intimidating building, the agonising screams from within pierced his ears and scarred his soul.
His entire being filled with dread. He now doubted his dream would ever come true.

anonymous asked:

Could you write some more daisuga with a protective Daichi?

“If you will excuse us, but the prince is needed elsewhere. Let go of him.”

Koushi feels the warm hand slide over his lower back before he even hears the dark voice by his side. The nobleman in front of him jolts when he sees the young guard appear by Koushi’s side, and his filthy hand jerks away from where it dared to touch the hem of Koushi’s sleeve. As always, the timing is perfect.

“My prince. Your father has asked for you.” The hand spreading on Koushi’s back is a low flare, fire trickling down his spine and curling around his heart, as if Daichi can light sparks on his skin and a smile on his lips with a mere touch. He can do much more than that, Koushi thinks and tilts his head at the nobleman who is still standing there, staring at both of them. 

“I should take my leave, then,” Koushi says. His voice is silk, soft and dangerous. “I must go see my father. Though I believe my faithful guard has a piece of advice for you. I would suggest you take it and never forget it.”

He turns around. Daichi’s hand is off his lower back as fast and quiet as a forbidden kiss. Koushi doesn’t hear what Daichi tells the man, but he can imagine the sharp gasp and widening eyes of a terrified nobleman shrinking into himself, stuttering and swearing to “n-never touch him again, yes, I understand, m-my apologies” because if Koushi’s personal guard is one thing, it is protective. There is more to Daichi, though, but if Koushi was to remember just how much this man means to him, what place in Koushi’s heart he has conquered with kindness and unbroken promises and his warm, rough hands, then Koushi would never find a way out of this unpleasant ball his father had invited half the kingdom to. 

The palace garden whispers wind and desert sand into Koushi’s skin when he sneaks out of the throne room. A world of quiet lies before him, and as Koushi passes through the blooming labyrinth of flowers and emerald-leaved trees, he sheds his golden slippers along the way. The grass snuggles against his feet as if it is welcoming him. His journey guides him towards the oldest tree, higher than any other plant his father brought from far-away countries to fill his only son’s heart with joy and laughter. 

Koushi knows the palace in blindness and dream, and his fingers find the indents along the bark with ease. He has just seated himself in the crown when soft footsteps approach. Koushi closes his eyes and leans back, smiling when the tree shivers below him as another weight climbs up its strong trunk. 

“My prince.” The kiss onto his mouth is tender, breath hotter than the desert’s wind stroking over his naked arms. Daichi’s scent is musk and sandelwood and the iron of the sword strapped against his hip, and Koushi reaches to touch his cheeks without opening his eyes. 

“I hope you did not scare the man too much. He barely touched me.” 

“But he tried to,” Daichi mumbles against his lips. His teeth touch Koushi’s mouth, and one sharp breath later, they close over his bottom lip and suck a dark, pulsing bruise into his skin. 

“Dai - oh. Mhm, ohh.” There is no chance for Koushi to speak because Daichi slowly lowers himself down onto him and presses a hard kiss against his neck, hand pulling down the collar of his golden-blue gown, teeth sinking into his skin. 

“Daichi.” The name is a wish, a plea on Koushi’s lips. 

“I will always protect you,” is the growled response into the vulnerable skin of his collarbone. And then, softer, a promise: “And if I have to be your secret forever, I will still be your shadow and shield and bring those down that wish you harm, my prince.”

Painted Wings

Dust clung to every surface, cobwebs weaving over the scattered paintings, lending a haunted atmosphere to the abandoned palace. The once-polished gold accents in the ballroom were dirty and faded, their luster lost to the years. 

Molly ran her finger along the railing as she slowly ascended the staircase, her steps echoing in the cavernous room, and came to a stop below a massive portrait. A family stared down at her, their smiles warm and welcoming. Something tugged in her heart and she tilted her head as she examined the painted family that seemed to look back at her. 

The mother, her brilliant red hair piled into a braided bun upon which sat a glittering silver crown and wearing a gown of rich blue with golden threads woven throughout, had rested her gloved hand atop her husband’s, which gripped the hilt of his sword. His royal uniform was cut along his strong figure, the only accents a braid of gold looping from one shoulder across his chest to a medal above his heart and a blue sash that crossed his chest and tied at his hip. At their feet, two children stood. The tallest girl came barely to her father’s hip, his other hand resting on her shoulder, and wore a dress of soft blue, her brown locks the exact shade as her father’s. 

But it was the youngest child in the soft yellow dress that brought Molly up short. The girl was perhaps a year younger than her sister, but while the eldest was a mirror image of their father, the youngest was a replica of their mother. Her red hair was a bit darker, but the upturned nose, brown eyes, and soft face were identical. And there was something so familiar about the child that unsettled Molly and she turned away, feeling one of her headaches coming. They always happened when she couldn’t remember why something seemed familiar, as though her mind was blocking something painful from her.

Visions of glittering gowns, snippets of orchestral songs, laughter, the tinkling of glasses, and a sea of twirling people crisscrossing in dance flashed through her mind. But each time she tried to follow the memory, the memory vanished, leaving her swimming in a vast sea of unknown loss and pain.

The strength of this headache was making her feel lightheaded and she hurriedly made her way back the way she came. She needed to get to Paris and the lady at the ticket counter had said William at the old palace could help. But he wasn’t here, apparently, and she needed to get out. There was something about this place that was familiar, but instead of feeling safe, she felt terrified and knew she needed to leave. Immediately.

She was nearly halfway across the room when a voice bellowed out behind her. ‘Hey, you!’

Molly gasped and looked over her shoulder to see a pair of men at the top of the staircase, neither looking too happy to find her here. Panicking, she broke into a run and had just made it to the barred door she’d climbed through when a hand gripped her arm and whirled her about. She immediately began pounding against the firm chest she was being held against.

‘Let go of me!’ She demanded, but the man simply tightened his grip. His suit was tailored to his form and she absentmindedly blushed when she noticed how his shirt was much more snug that proper fashion dictated.

‘Not until you tell me why you are trespassing,’ his baritone voice replied.

She stopped her struggles and looked up into the man’s heart-stopping eyes. She swallowed and glanced over his shoulder to see the other man, a shorter blond man, approach at a slower pace. ‘I…I-I was looking for William.’

The man holding her stiffened and his nose twitched. ‘And what do you need from William?

Molly felt her fear fade and indignant anger rise. ‘I told you why I came, now let me go!’

To her surprise, and relief, her arm was released and she stumbled away from the man.

‘If you have come for assistance in solving a little domestic dispute, I’m afraid William cannot be bothered to waste his time on such a pitiful case. Be gone with you.’

‘Sherlock,’ the other man warned tiredly.

Molly drew herself up to her full height. She may be a penniless orphan wearing ratty clothes from the charity bin, but she would not be disrespected by this… this brute! 

‘I am seeking assistance, William, for an entirely different matter,’ she snapped, knowing full well the man who stood before her ‘Sherlock’ was the William she was looking for. His eyes widened and he blinked in surprise. ‘But I see I have come to the wrong place. I merely wanted a way to get to Paris, but now I wouldn’t take your help if you came to me on bended knee!’

With a regal lift of her chin, she glared at the man and spun on her heel. She may be clumsy normally, but when someone got her riled up, her confidence grew. She hadn’t taken more than three steps away when Sherlock’s voice pulled her up short.

‘Why Paris?’

Instead of scoffing, he actually sounded interested. Molly fingered the chain holding the pendant hidden beneath her dress. ‘Someone has been waiting for me.’


Turning, Molly felt the familiar, empty sorrow of a lonely past envelope her. ‘I don’t know.’

Sherlock looked her over carefully, as though reading her deepest secrets. He looked over his shoulder at the far end of the room, his eyes landing on the painting of the family. With a nod, he turned to the other man and grinned.

‘John, pack your coat tails. We’re going to Paris.’

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“Damn!” you exclaimed as the armful of books you’d been carrying toppled to the stone floor. They banged loudly against the ground, the sound echoing like a scream down the empty hallway. All that time spent browsing the forbidden section of the library only to have all your prizes dumped from your arms. It wasn’t until you bent to pick them up that you realized the problem.

Standing down the way was Draco Malfoy himself. He had his wand drawn and pointing toward you. He muttered something under his breath. As you reached for the first tomb it flung itself into the air, hovering just out of arm’s length. A huff of air left your lips, puffing up your bangs. The strands fell back into place in front of your eyes a second later. You straightened your spine and folded your arms across your chest in a posture that told the blond to keep his distance.

“Put the bloody book down, Malfoy,” you ordered.

“Make me, Klaudia,” he replied, a dark smirk on his face. “Besides, what are you doing at the library? The Yule Ball is scheduled to begin any time now.”

You scooped up the rest of the books. “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern.”

“Oh come on, love. I’m honestly curious.”

“And I honestly don’t care.” Abandoning the floating tomb, you tried to stalk past the boy, but he grabbed your elbow and hauled you to a stop.

At his touch your flesh tingled. Draco Malfoy was an absolute nightmare for girls like you, but at the same time you couldn’t help the attraction you felt for him. Though you weren’t certain if it was just physical appeal, anymore. You had watched his transgression throughout your time here at Hogwarts and in doing so you had come to realize you actually felt pity for the guy.

No, not pity. Concern.

There was a big difference between pity and concern.

Draco’s gaze roamed across your face before they settled on your hazel eyes. “You don’t have a date, do you?” he asked.

You scoffed, pretending to be insulted. “Of course I have a date. I-I-I have to go meet him now!” You lied, praying he wouldn’t pry further. You knew he was the one that had spread the rumors about Harry Potter with Rita Skeeter of the Daily Prophet. You didn’t want him to spread something awful about you the same way. Although, you had to admit going to the Yule Ball alone wasn’t exactly worthy of print. It would be more of a personal tragedy than anything. You didn’t need any more trouble from the “popular” students as they’d already made sure you understood you were inferior.

“Well,” he said, “Pansy canceled on me.”

“How awful,” you grumbled, rolling your eyes.

His lips quirked up in a grin. “Would you like to go with me?” he inquired.

Dumbfounded, all you could do was stare at him. Go to the Ball with Draco Malfoy? Not in a hundred years would you have guessed he’d say that. Your heart picked up speed at the idea. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go – quite the opposite – but you were afraid of what the other girls would do to you when they saw you on his arm. A number of them were quite vicious.

“I don’t have a dress,” you said. This part was true. You didn’t have a dress because you knew you wouldn’t have a date.

“I can fix that.”

With a wave of his wand and the magic words, your sweater and jeans transformed into a beautiful Prussian blue gown. Golden thread shimmered across the hems and wrapped around your waist, framing your figure. To top it off he’d even added a pair of black heels to the mix. You stared down at yourself in awe. You had never seen a gown more beautiful, though you couldn’t let him know you liked it.

“My hair is a mess,” you told him, eyes falling on his arrogant smirk.

Another wave. Another spell. Suddenly, your hair twisted itself out of its braid to fall elegantly across your shoulders. You ran your fingers through the multicolored locks, marveling at its silky texture. Okay, you had to admit he was good at this.

“Draco,” you murmured, gaze dropping to your feet, “listen. There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Hurry, love. We don’t have much time.”

“I care for you,” you heard yourself blurt. A part of you was relieved to have it out in the open, but the larger part of you was horrified. “I have since our first year. But I-I’m not Pansy. I’m not even a Slytherin! I’m a Ravenclaw!”

Draco dropped his hand from your elbow so he could reach out and touch your chin. With one finger he lifted your face so you were forced to look at him. You had seen many things in his eyes before – coldness, hatred, jealousy, sorrow – but the warmth was new. It completely washed over his features and transformed him into someone else. Someone you truly wanted to know.

“You are beautiful, Klaudia. More so than I ever thought possible. And I don’t want a Slytherin – despite what others may think. I want a girl that’s intelligent and crafty. I want a girl that’s not afraid to be herself. I want someone with a kind heart and a free mind. I want someone that’s not like me,” he murmured quietly. “I care for you, too.”

His words were said in such earnestness that you couldn’t very well deny his invitation. With the warmth from his eyes filling your heart, you linked your arm with his and he escorted you through the castle toward the Great Hall, where the two of you danced and you drank and for one night you made him forget about his destiny.

You made him forget about his curse.

The Choice: A Rumbelle TLK Fic

Power was a cold bedfellow, but it was always there. It didn’t walk away. It didn’t make demands. It served, it yielded, it stayed.

Summary: Exiling himself to New York City, a distraught Rumplestiltskin waits for news of Belle’s awakening from the sleeping curse. But an unexpected visit from Emma, Regina, and Henry calls him back to Storybrooke.
Rating: M
Word Count: 4,092
A/N: True Love’s Kiss what-if based on spoiler photos of Rumple in NYC with Regina, Emma, and Henry. Spoilers for 5B. Thanks to @pinchtheprincess for the quote and to @witchnova221 for listening to me whine.

On AO3 

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.” - Marianne Williamson

Rumplestiltskin hurled another plate across the galley kitchen, watching it ricochet off the window and splinter on the weathered floorboards. The crunch of broken ceramic offered fleeting satisfaction and he heaved another, then another, until the cupboards were empty and his knuckles were raw and oozing blood.

For the past 72 hours, he’d been holed up in Baelfire’s New York City apartment, now given into his care. With Hades defeated and his unborn child safe, Rumple was supposed to be gaining his bearings, moving on with life. Instead, he prowled in vicious circles around the small flat in a stained, ratty bathrobe, attire ill-suited to a dark lord, but ideal for torturing himself over could-have-beens.

As history’s most powerful Dark One, he retained his powers even here in the Land Without Magic. A simple incantation could heal his lanced hands, but he refused. The sting of the cuts reminded him of his stubborn pride, and was all that kept him from rushing back to Storybrooke to beg Belle’s forgiveness.

But what did he need to be sorry for? He had attempted True Love’s Kiss back in the Underworld, and it hadn’t worked. She didn’t believe in their love anymore, and the failed kiss was as much her fault as it was his. Or so he told himself.

Rumplestiltskin dragged his slipper-clad feet through the pile of broken dishes, kicking the shards around the living area. The shattered pieces dug a trail of gouges in the wood like the scars that scored his broken heart.

Selfish masochist that he was, he both longed for and loathed the moment when Henry called with the news that Belle was awake. He could hear the boy now, crowing his exuberance that True Love between parent and child had won the day.

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