tunic as a dress

what makes war, if not love?

Ares and Aphrodite

The sun’s rays shone down onto the bed, bathing the small room in a golden, honeyed color. The linen blankets laid crumpled at the ends of their feet, his robe and tunic in a heap on the floor and her dress thrown wherever he had tossed it.

The God of War and the Goddess of Love had once again fallen under the influence of each other and spent night among night consumed in each other, never leaving the bed. But as Aphrodite, also known as (Y/N) woke in a start, she prayed her movements and rustling wouldn’t wake up Ares, or Harry, next to her. His golden arms wrapped around her waist but she delicately pulled them off, sitting upwards and holding the covers up to her naked chest. Her hair fell in tangled waves around her, and she stood with a wobble in her legs.

Being the Goddess of lust meant she never liked to stay after her affairs but as she turned around and looked at Harry, her heart did pirouettes. His own curly hair spilled around him, creating a halo of sorts. The muscles under his tanned skin moved as he shifted to lay on his stomach, hugging the pillow closer to his head with a sigh. (Y/N) turned around hastily, as she didn’t want to get use to any of this.

She leaned down and picked up her dress, slipping it on over her head and smoothing it down her body. She didn’t hesitate to stop and admire her reflection in the mirror, combing her hair with her fingers and examining the bruises and marks left by Harry. He was as rough on the battlefield as he was with her last night, the ache above her thighs being proof enough. She had just gotten done tying her second sandal on when a rough voice caused her to freeze.

“Leaving so soon?”

(Y/N) pursed her lips and slowly turned around. Harry still laid on his stomach with his head on the pillow yet his eyes were now open and trained on (Y/N). She shrugged and looked away, hoping her innocent expression would affect Harry in some way and cut her slack but it didn’t.

“You know I never stay in the mornings, Harry.”

His lips pulled into a smirk. “That’s arguable. This is, what? The fourth morning you’ve woken up to me? …Or is it the fifth?”

“I must be getting back to my husband Hephaestus.”

Harry huffed in humor and disbelief, as Hephaestus obviously hadn’t crossed her mind in days yet now when it’s convenient for her, he suddenly does.

Harry stood from the bed and stretched his arms over his head, silence filling the room. (Y/N) stood twiddling her fingers, avoiding the sight of his bare body. She knew that if he asked, she would’ve stay in a heartbeat. She would’ve thrown herself back under the covers with him and never wish to leave the warmth of his side but she knew that she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” (Y/N) spoke, her eyes freezing on the peach colored scratches left over on his shoulder blades.

Harry turned his head and caught her eyes with his, causing his smirk to reappear. He circled around the bed and up to her, taking her small hands in his. 

“There is only one thing I love more than battle and war,” He started with a low voice. “It is you, my goddess of beauty. When you want me again, you know where to find me.” Tears welled in the corners of her wide eyes and she pulled her hands from his.

“I’m sorry.” She repeated, backing away and out the bedroom door. Harry’s sharp jaw tensed as he listened to the sounds of her running footsteps through his marble palace.

Ares was always notorious for starting and fighting the best wars. He decided, he just might have to start one for her.

Where Manon makes a promise and intends to keep it.

Title: Promise
Word Count: 1973
Pairing: Manorian (plus one!)


Princess Sorrin Blackbeak-Havilliard rushed through the hallways of her father’s large castle with a half-eaten cookie in one hand and a wooden practice dagger in the other. As she ran in her light blue summer dress, the five-year old glanced through the windows, catching the sight of three wyverns ready to fly on the eastern courtyard.

The witchling panted as her gold eyes took in the open doors toward the gardens and she avoided servants left and right and jumped over tables to make it just in time. Her father was already there, dressed in the usual fighting leather tunic he donned for training. His wear wasn’t what caused Sorrin to frown however, it was the fact that her mother was in full flying gear, Wing Cleaver strapped to her back and Abraxos fully saddled and ready to go.

She didn’t care what her parents were talking about as she bounded toward them, wisps of dark blue-black hair falling into her cherub face. “You’re leaving?”

Her mother blinked, but it was her father who spoke. “Hey, sweetheart, I thought you were still eating breakfast.”

Sorrin’s frown deepened as she walked straight to her mother. “You’re leaving?!” She repeated, louder than before.

Manon crossed her arms. “I’m needed at the Wastes-”

“No!”

Dorian cleared his throat. “Sorrin, we’ve talked about this, baby-”

The little girl growled, the sound reminiscent of her mother. “No! And I’m not a baby!” She didn’t catch the knowing look Manon gave Dorian or his subsequent huff.

“Sorrin,” her mother called and the little girl looked up at her. “I’m sorry I can’t stay, but I’m needed-”

“You said you would go to my recital!” The witchling exclaimed, referring to the dance recital she had been practicing for the past few months. “If you don’t go that means you lied to me!”

The few guards and courtiers walking along the courtyard turned to stare and the King and Queen shared a look. Dorian stepped back, allowing Manon to take over while the witch thought over her next words carefully. “Sorrin,” she said and her daughter pouted, her dark brows coming together in an exaggerated way. “There is an emergency I need to take care of in the west. We have talked about how this can happen.”

The frown turned sad and Sorrin’s bottom lip trembled with barely any restraint. “You said you would go.”

Manon had the decency to look apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I can’t assure you I will be back by then.”

“But you said-” a hiccup, “I want you to go.” She had been practicing really really hard just so her mother would see her and now it had all been for nothing.

“I’m sorry,” the Queen repeated. Tears fell down the witchling’s face and her mother stepped closer. “I’ll make it up to you, alright? We’ll do something together when I get back.”

“No!” She wailed, and for the first time in a long time, Sorrin threw a fit. She kicked and screamed and cried, all the while grabbing her mother’s leg or edge of the cape or whatever she could get her hands on. It was not fair. It was not fair that she had done all this for her mother and she wouldn’t even be there to see it.

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Things You Said - 24.

Recommended Listening: Written on the Sky - Max Richter

things you said that didn’t make any sense


The sun shines warm on his skin, and he finds it’s easier than usual to hide within the crowd of the market. He does not wear his armor, he does not bring his sword. He’s simply dressed in his tunic, his leggings, standing by Hawke’s side. She tucks hair behind her ear as she bends over, inhaling deeply the medley of spices in the stall before her. She too is dressed simply, without her staff, without all that marks her as Champion. She’s still recognized occasionally, of course, and she greets all with a smile and cheerful words.

It’s been a few months since the Qunari, since the Arishok, since Hawke was unable to sit up in bed without assistance. He knows the pain still lurks inside of her, a scar that’s only just healed. It’s barely noticeable, the occasional glower and a hand pressed to her belly. He’s hardly left her side since. She needs to be protected. With new fame comes new danger.

She’s speaking cordially with the shopkeeper, pointing at exactly what she wants. Fenris half turns while she speaks, his eyes moving from person to person to person until his breath his stolen from his lungs. He stiffens, eyes fixed, mind racing. It can’t be. All noise is swept away, and he’s left with only a buzzing that rings in his ears. “Fenris,” a hand on his arm, gentle pressure, Hawke’s light voice, “what is it?” He forces himself to breathe out.

“That man,” he nods his head in the direction, “I believe he is a magister from Tevinter.” Fenris knows he is. He’s seem him before, at one of Danarius’s countless parties. He goes through the motions of reaching for his sword, hand grasping at empty air. How could he have ever thought – he should not be – he’s going to – thoughts swept away as Hawke takes his hand, begins to drag him away.

She leads him to one of the tight alleyways, presses him against the wall, covering him with herself. It’s colder in the shade, in the shadow between buildings. Her eyes narrow as she watches the crowd, shielding Fenris from view. A bag of apples is held loosely in her other hand, the other still holding tight to his. His mind races, heart beating equally fast. He groans to himself, presses his free hand against his temple, hunches over.

“Fenris,” almost a whisper. She drops the apples, hand moving to his face, fingertips against his cheek. “Fenris, it’s alright. You’re safe. I’ll protect you.” What? That’s not – he’s supposed to be protecting her. Her hands drop to his waist as she tugs him closer, arms tight around him. Oh. Oh. He’s never allowed himself this close, not since… not since. Hands shaking, winding in her tunic, face in the crook of her neck.

This close, every word she speaks is like a shout. She’s rubbing soft circles onto his back. “I love you, Fen.” That doesn’t – that doesn’t make any sense. He squeezes his eyes closed, hugs her harder. He left her, he was a fool, he is weak, he is – “I love you.” An unsteady breath. His hands shake less. He doesn’t want to open his eyes.

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Sam Cortland watching over Celaena and seeing her visit his grave. insp / some direct quotes from Queen of Shadows 

Seeing her dressed in that tunic of spring grass he knows, knows what it means for them, who were clothed far too often in black, in death, to dress in a color so full of life. So full of life, she is now, and his heart aches with the happiness of that realization. She burns with it.  

He watches her place the stones, three of them, and they sparkle in the sunlight against the grass. 

She whispers then, “Hello, Sam.”

He wants to reach out from the Afterworld and grasp her and never let go. 

“I miss you. Every day, I miss you. And I wonder what you would have made of all this. Made of me.”

His lips form the prayer that she is wondrous, he loves her. 

“I think-I think you would have been a wonderful king. I think they would have liked you more than me.”

His tears fall down his cheeks that she used to cup in her hands. They dance down across his lips that miss hers against them. He tastes salt, but he still smells lavender soap. 

“I never told you-how I felt. But I loved you, and I think a part of me might always love you.”

I love you, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, it’s the ultimate truth to him in this moment.  

“Maybe you were my mate, and I never knew it. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering about that. Maybe I’ll see you again in the Afterworld, and then I’ll know for sure. But until then … until then I’ll miss you, and I’ll wish you were here.” 

I’m waiting, I’m here. His words are lost to her, he knows. He misses her too, but he does not wish her here. Watching her rattle the stars and find herself, he never knew the depth of her strength or the amount of fire in her heart.

He watches the warrior approach behind her, and his heart’s ache lessens because she isn’t alone anymore.  

A quote from ACOTAR

I refused Alis’s offer and dressed myself in another exquisite tunic—this one of purple so deep it could have been black. I wished I knew the name for the color, but cataloged it anyway.


Anyone ever notice that on just her second day in the spring court she wore something could probably be compared to the color or Rhys’ eyes? Or just a color to represent night itself? There was way more foreshadowing to Feysand than I thought (although some may not consider this real foreshadowing)

2

From the Historical Museum of Shkodra, Albania 

  • The muslim woman dress -  In addition to long breeches made of manufactured silk in multicoloured patterns of flowers, the Muslim women wore a long sleeved tunic. 
  • The catholic woman dress - Catholic women wore wider and looser breeches, made of a thin black fabric bought in Western markets.They wore silk chemises with very wide sleeves.

anonymous asked:

Umm...you still take fan fic requests, right? If so, may I request one? SorMik, namely Mikleo and Sorey getting into a tickle fight, with Sorey being on the losing end of it, and the two of them just being cute and sweet in general. Thanks in advance!

sorry this is a little late, anon! i don’t ever mind doing requests.

Sorey had had his fair share of perfect evenings growing up in Elysia, and this one was set to join the ranks. The night air drifted lazily through the curtains, just cool enough to need a blanket or two – or someone to cuddle up with. Preferably, someone dressed in a cozy oversized tunic; the sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he worked on their latest nature scrapbook. Preferably, someone with eyes like the twilight sky and moon-white skin and hair soft and pale as mist.

Mikleo re-crossed his ankles, and resumed idly kicking his feet as he worked. Preferably, someone with ten perfect little toes that were just begging to be tickled.

All of Mikleo begged to be tickled at any given time, really – and it was not within human capability to resist such temptation. Sorey didn’t know if that corset he’d started wearing recently was an attempt to armor his torso against the assault of the tickle hellion, or if it was just to accentuate his already-gorgeous figure and drive the tickle hellion into an even greater tickle frenzy. Whatever the underlying thought process, here, tonight, Mikleo was lying unguarded in the heart of the tickle hellion’s lair – and Sorey did not know how much longer he could hold in that most base of his instincts.

The clouds moved in the night sky, and the moon shone down. Mikleo shifted, and Sorey could see right down the oversized collar of his tunic; collarbones and the fine lines of his chest. He could no longer control it. The beast cometh.

Sorey would have to work on his sneak attacks – he was getting too predictable. Mikleo rolled out of the way before Sorey could flop down on him, and hurled a pillow in his face to hamper his pursuit as Mikleo tumbled off the bed. Sorey flailed out a hand blindly, and managed to get a grip on Mikleo’s tunic before he could retreat too far. Mikleo squawked as Sorey dragged him back into bed and attempted to pin him underneath him. Sorey only managed a few brief jabs at Mikleo’s sides before he eeled away – Sorey might have the advantage of size and strength, but trying to pin down Mikleo was like trying to hold a fish.

Before Sorey could properly react, there came a flurry of strikes at his sides and armpits. In a matter of moments, he found himself on his back, begging for a truce as Mikleo rained down holy justice upon the base tickle hellion. The sides of Mikleo’s mouth curved into a wicked little smile, and he spread out his fingers underneath Sorey’s shirt. He smoothed them up his sides, and stopped when they rested on his chest.

Sorey wheezed, trying to catch his breath. His red cheeks were a lost cause.

“And so, the tickle hellion was thoroughly defeated – the seraph’s strikes had gone straight to his heart,” Sorey finally managed to get out. “How’s that; should I write a book?”

Mikleo groaned and rolled his eyes. “Don’t quit your day job.”

“I don’t know why you don’t like this outfit on you. You look splendid.” Legolas x reader

“No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’? You can’t go looking like that.”
You scowled at the dress hanging from Legolas’ hands. He had a point though, you really couldn’t go to an important meeting in the mud-encrusted tunic you were currently wearing.
“I don’t like dresses.”
Legolas sighed. “You only have to wear it for one evening, and besides, it’s a lovely dress.”
“If you like it so much, why don’t you wear it?”
Legolas grinned, and rolled his eyes.
“Look,” he started, taking your hand, “You have to wear something respectable, just while the high elves are here, and this dress is beautiful.”
“Fine.” You gasped exasperatedly. “But only this once.”
————
You trudged down the winding staircase, your face the picture of frustration, to where Legolas was waiting for you. His eyes met yours, and he smirked at your expression. He took your hand, and leant in, planting a kiss on your cheek.
“I don’t know why you don’t like this outfit on you. You look splendid.“
You smiled up at him, not able to keep your glare.
"That doesn’t mean I’m wearing it again.”

SVT - Click a Prince: Jun

Originally posted by changkyu-n

Series: Click a Prince (intro)

Member/s: OT13 - Jun x Reader 

Words: 1155 


The warmth of the sun seeping through the folds of the curtain seemed like a great reason to stay inside, tucked under the covers. It didn’t even matter that it was probably already late in the afternoon.

It didn’t matter - as long as you got to avoid picking your future husband.

But your body was starting to say otherwise. After so many days of staying in bed, your legs were begging for a walk, or maybe a dance.

With a groan you stood up and dressed yourself in a simple white and gold tunic dress. Quietly you sneaked out the door and headed down to the ballroom, hoping you’d be able to dance around until your feet cared no more. Or maybe you’d scream into the void, as if your life depended on it and let out all your feelings.

You made it to the doors before you heard any noise. As fast you could, you opened the door wide enough for you to pass through then closed them silently behind you. You pressed an ear to the door, listening as the footsteps faded away.

“I take it you are avoid us?” A flirty voice called your attention making you stiffen.

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9

It’s time again for FRIDAY FASHION FACT, and today features another designer bio! We’re talking about the self-proclaimed “King of Fashion” himself, Paul Poiret. Always ahead of his time, Poiret is remembered for his innovative, exotic, and often shocking designs.

Paul Poiret was born on April 20, 1879 in Paris. His father was a cloth merchant, and his family had very little money. From the time he was a small child, Poiret was obsessed with clothing. When he was just a child, Poiret was sent to work as an apprentice to an umbrella maker, where he would gather scraps to make clothing for his little wooden doll. By the time he was a teenager, Poiret was actively trying to break into the fashion industry. He went around the city peddling his sketches, eventually selling 12 to the prominent Parisian dressmaker Madeleine Chéruit.

Poiret continued selling sketches until, in 1896, he was hired by Jacques Doucet. Working his way through the ranks at Doucet, he was ultimately promoted to head tailor. The first Poiret design produced by Doucet, a red wool cloak, sold over 400 orders- an extremely impressive number for the time. Poiret was forced to leave Doucet to complete mandatory military service. When he completed service in 1901, Poiret was hired by House of Worth. He did not last there long, though. Poiret was tasked with creating simplistic pieces, deemed the “side dish” to the opulent designs the House was known for. Unfortunately, some of his designs were seen as too plain by some of Worth’s royal clientele, who where horrified by their starkness.

This extreme reaction did not deter Poiret. In fact, it spurred him to create his own design house. As soon as Poiret began creating designs for his own name in 1903, he broke convention. Poiret believed in the body shaping the clothes, rather than the reverse. He did away with petticoats, and in 1906, he rejected the corset, as well. Though he was not the only designer at the time to do so, his outlandish designs made him the most prominent. He used the theatre as his main platform, because by dressing actresses, Poiret could get away with creating more artistic or exotic styles. He credited a mantle that he made for the actress Réjane in the play Zaza as the piece which launched him into stardom.

Paul Poiret drew inspiration from across the globe. He is well known for dresses modeled after exotic costumes worn in the Russian ballet, kimono inspired robes and coats, and harem pants and lampshade tunics drawn from fashions worn in what is now Turkey. His goal was to “liberate” women from Western fashion, though with creations such as the hobble skirt, who can say how liberating his designs actually were. Beyond being an innovator in terms of style, Poiret was an innovator in terms of branding. In 1911, Poiret launched the École Martine, an interior design division of his fashion House. He was also the first French designer to create a fragrance line, Parfums de Rosine, launched that same year (London designer Lucile released a perfume line a few years earlier.)

Each of these lines were named after one of Poiret’s two daughters. His wife Denise, who Poiret married in 1905, served as his muse. Poiret stated that “My wife is the inspiration for all my creations; she is the expression of all my ideals.” It did not last, though, and the marriage ended in a messy divorce in 1928. Unfortunately, this was just a contributing factor to the downfall Paul Poiret faced in his later years. He was drafted back into the military during World War I, but when he returned in 1919, he was greeted by a company on the edge of bankruptcy. Designers like Chanel took over with their sleek and impeccably constructed fashions, while Poiret’s designs were intended to be impactful from afar. His designs were not as unique as they once were, as several designers built upon his creations. Also, the rise of the flapper meant that women no longer were in need of his “liberating” styles.

Ultimately, Poiret was unable to regain his popularity. He fell into debt, and had to leave the company he created. The House closed in 1929. He was forced to spend the remainder of his life working odd jobs, even resorting to being a street artist. He died in ruin in 1944, nearly completely forgotten. It was only thanks to his close friend Elsa Schiaparelli that saved him and his name from oblivion- she even paid for his funeral. Despite the sad end to his life, Paul Poiret remains one of the most iconic and influential designers of all time.

Want to learn more about Paul Poiret? Check out these book:

King of Fashion: The Autobiography of Paul Poiret, by Paul Poiret

Poiret, by Harold Koda

Have a question about fashion history that you want answered in the next FRIDAY FASHION FACT? Just click the ASK button at the top of the page!