“Libra is an Air sign and represented by the symbol of the Balancing Scales.
They are often surrounded by art, music and beautiful places.
Libra-born prefer justice and equality, and they cannot tolerate injustice.
People born under this sign are considered to be attractive and fashion-conscious.”
Libra is the balanced, fair and lover of harmony and peace so I used neutral colors. The headdress contains Libra’s lucky stones/birthstones such as Moonstone, Smokey Quartz and Opal.
Summary:“This is still wrong,” Myasin interrupted. “I know it’s been forever
since we did this, but, as horrible as that man is, he doesn’t deserve to be
beaten and have all his belonging stolen.” Myasin gave her decision a final
thought. “Come on. Spots on Tikki.”
A/N: This is a headcanon by the
wonderful @new-life-means-new-chances that I saw like forever ago. I really
wanted to help bring it to life, so with their permission, I started this! I’m
so excited to be working on this project with them and hope you all love this just
as much as we do! And it would really mean a lot to me if you would also check
out the drawings they’ve done for this headcanon and help support them on their
blog as well!! And also, please, if you liked this, please also reblog it. I
worked really hard on this and would really like for people in the ML fandom to
see and enjoy this. No one will see it if you just like it. And lastly, I would
like to dedicate this to both @new-life-means-new-chances for letting me write it
and to @vicky-artist for being my 100th follower!!! <3 <3 <3
Also, thank you so much to @crmini and @samurithecat for beta reading this for
Bringing the Eid pics back for reclaim the bindi week, ft my mehndi.
In all honesty, I’ve been fighting my internalized racism ever since last year, and still am today. I would hide the fact that I was Pakistani, and it was a lot easier for me to do so because I’m light skinned. The last thing people would guess when they looked at me was that I was Pakistani. Unfortunately, I took pride in my pale skin, because I didn’t want to be associated with my people. Having a not so amazing upbringing and seeing only but the negatives of my South Asian community and culture, I hated being one of them. Even more not so amazing, I used to find white people better. I also had the similar phase where I would be agitated when my mother spoke urdu in front of white people. I would be ashamed to wear my Ethnic clothing at the supermarket or the shopping centres. And worst of all I was also the type to shame other South Asians for wearing their ethnic clothing, whether they were “freshies” or not, in white majority areas. Think of all those “freshie” jokes, I said all of them. I didn’t want to be mistaken as a “freshie”, I wanted people to see me as Scottish, and only that. I judged a whole race in one negative category.
Since last December, however, I’m really happy to say that I have been correcting myself, and constantly fighting the internalized racism, while checking and acknowledging my privilege as a lighter skinned Desi. I’ve learned so much, and to be honest I’m still learning and actively standing up for my people, calling out and talking about issues like shadism within my community and with those I talk to on a regular basis. Even though I’ve never been teased about my henna or my food, I only know too well about the racial tension and internalized shame of taking pride in our culture while we are constantly assimilated to Western culture in society. We grow up having this normalised idea that it’s better to hide and tuck away our culture, and to only open it up at certain places and events. Since when was our culture only to be flaunted at weddings and South Asian themed events?
With the stories I’ve read from other South Asians and what they had to go through growing up, only to break away from their culture and instead appeal to what Western society wants, its funny how history loves to repeat itself.
But really, whether our experiences were minor or extreme, the psychological impact on our lives have remained the same. From start to finish, we have constantly been judged, not as an individual person, but judged as a whole race and minority collectively. In the end, no matter how much we try to change ourselves to be treated better in the eyes of Western society, we would never be completely accepted. We would always be seen as different.
Despite what people think, reclaim the bindi week has given us South Asians a really good opportunity to let our voices be heard. When I first saw this happening on Tumblr, I felt so much pride. Since then I’ve wanted to always write something in contribution to this event. We as people who have suffered so much backlash and unneeded consequences just for trying to take back what was forced out of our hands for 200 years, have every right to call out people who steal it, who exploit it, who profit off of it, who use it for their own selfish, bigoted reasons, while walking over our voices and turning away from what we say.
So yes. Reclaim the bindi. Reclaim that god damn sari, the headpieces, the jewels, the shalwaar kameez, everything we created by us and for us as South Asians. 200+ years of exploitation, up until this day, and we’re still going strong despite it all. Good on us.
Portrait of Laura Pisani (1525). Gabriele Cappellini, called Calzolaretto (Italian, active c.1520). Oil on canvas. Inscribed and dated on the paper sheet on the table: LAV. PISI. / ANNOR / XX / MDXXV (1525). Oil on canvas.
Calzolaretto, who workied with and around Dosso Dossi, is the likeliest author. Pisani wears a diaphanous white blouse with ruching and black trim around the neck and cuffs under a voluminous black gown; she has a delicate gold chain around her neck and an elaborate jeweled headpiece, through which her dark hair is interwoven. Such costume was typical of Ferrarese women during the 1520s and 30s.
A/N: request from angel-starbeam, “Bellarke in Las Vegas”.
Of course, as soon as they entered the casino Clarke felt Bellamy’s warm breath on her ear, battling for dominance over the oppressive smoke and heat that affronted Clarke like acid, leaving her sputtering for the smog-fresh air from outside.
“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, princess.”
She didn’t turn- didn’t have to- and see the smirk on his face as those words rolled off his tongue like he knew the silk beneath her dress, and just how it too could tumble so delicately.
They were with the group, celebrating graduation, but no one existed outside of the smoke but them- and Clarke prayed to god that no one saw her shiver.
Laying there, weeks later, Clarke found herself trying to follow one blade around its orbit on her ceiling fan. I was set on high speed, and the pace was dizzying, reminding Clarke of cognac painted lips and the shake of dice spurring on another win or another loss.
She remembers shimmying against the barely-clad showgirls with their jeweled breasts and obnoxious headpieces, and the way Bellamy made her feel like the star of the show, keeping his eyes trained on her, his lips so still. He made her feel like the roulette ball, spinning and spinning until she couldn’t help but to stop and decide his fate.
His words at the beginning of the night taunt her.
What happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas. His fingers deep between her legs left ghosts in their wake that leave her trembling; his teeth bruised her lips and she can’t help but to want the tenderness to stay, to make their night more than just that.
For one night, Bellamy crawled into her heart.
It was just one night.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
Bellamy crawled into her heart and didn’t leave, but they were back home and there was no neon sign convincing her to give into sin.
It’s weeks later, and Clarke lays under the fan, trying to forget that wonderful, smoky heat.