#sprout swan

[trash-llama]

Nickel is a little suspicious, and based on Sprout jump-scary face, I can't blame him.

[whipedcream]

them.. <3

Rbs > likes

[mercless]

🗡 this art is big insp for hc tal...

[rococo-unofficial]

oh i meant funfair booth.. silly me! this swan is rather tame... i fed it the hotdog and it hasnt tried to rip me limb from limb since!

-Randy Jade

"...Oh! I have tofu... Maybe it'll appreciate the tofu? But Milkbones needs food too!!! And so do I..."

[missmoonfrost]

McGonagall's no-sleeping policy - a wolfstar microfic

@wolfstarmicrofic - November 20: Transfiguration Classroom - Words: 607

“You need to eat,” Sirius growls through gritted teeth.

“I am eating”, Remus snaps back, stirring his scrambled eggs around on his plate with one hand and leaning his head heavily in the other.

“If you are too tired to eat you should have stayed in bed.”

“I said, I am eating!”

Sirius forces himself to take a deep breath. He doesn’t want to fight with Remus. Especially not the day after a moon night. But the wanker is being impossible.

They sit in stubborn silence until they have to leave for class. Remus may have put a few bites in his mouth, but his plate can still be considered full when he pulls himself up to standing with a lot more grunting and hissing than Sirius thinks is acceptable for someone set on taking on a full school day.

They take their seats in the Transfigurations classroom, Sirius and James on either side of Remus.

There are a few minutes before class starts and Remus lays his head down on the table in front of him and closes his eyes.

“I don’t know how Madam Pomfrey let you out”, Sirius grumbles.

“I’m fine.” Remus mumbles without opening his eyes. “Besides, there are exams coming up soon.”

When Professor McGonagall walks in, Remus immediately sits up straight. Sirius doesn’t miss the surprised and slightly disapproving glance she shoots their way, though. Surely, she too thinks he should be in bed.

Todays lesson is fur, scales and feathers. Before Professor McGonagall has got the snake out, the she intends to transform into a swan, they hear Remus stomach rumble.

James sticks him a piece of toast he apparently brought from breakfast. Sirius wishes he had thought of that.

“No,” Remus whispers, “you know McGonagall has a strict no-eating policy.”

James rolls his eyes. Remus' stomach rumbles again. He sighs and accepts the toast. As he takes a small bite McGonagall turns towards them and they all freeze. With a minuscule press of the lips, she pointedly looks the other away and continues her lecture.

Sirius has seldom been so thankful to a teacher. He should be thankful to James too, he supposes, who thought of bringing not only the toast but apparently a boiled egg and two slices of bacon too. He is thankful. It’s just that Remus would have never accepted it from Sirius that stings. Why can’t Remus see how much he cares?

Remus as discreetly as he can licks the crumbs off his fingers and wipes his mouth. Sirius tries to pay attention to how the wand movements can affect the thickness of the fur and not think about how much he and Remus have argued lately. If it’s not Remus being absurd in his refusal to accept help it is him insisting Sirius do something boringly wise and sensible. As Sirius watches the snake turn white and sprout a beautiful plumage he gets hit by a clichéd sudden realisation. Those arguments can just as easily be called Sirius refusing help and Sirius wanting Remus to do something he knew is sensible but still for some reason doesn’t want to. Thinking about it that way, Remus seems to care a great deal, after all.

A sudden thud on Sirius' shoulder jolts him. Remus' head. He smiles as he sees Remus' face relaxed in sleep and carefully brings an arm around his back to hold him steady. He bets McGonagall would even allow sleeping in her classroom on this one occasion. If not, Sirius is fully prepared to use whatever charm or threats or bargains he can to not have to wake him up just yet.

[regal-bones]

“Stolen Egg.” Blaise Yvankowsky, 2053. Mixed media. “Bleeding Mother.” Blaise Yvankowsky, 2053. Mixed media. Of Yvankowsky final set of paintings. It is hard to ignore the grisly, bloody nature of his final works. A sad, solemn cry for help? Or an angry, passionate swan song? The viewer is viscerally aware of the shift in Blaise’s work in his final years. Blood and guts seemed to fill his mind in the last few months before his disappearance. Researchers are still debating what these final paintings could have meant, but they all agree that the impact they have is palpable. The true intention of these paintings (if there were any) are lost with him.

Watch the trailer for Last Sprout: A Seedling of Hope at this link! 🌱

You can support me on Patreon for £1 and see concept art, assets, and snippets of story for the game!

[hyukascampfire]

˓꒰ 𝓣𝑯𝑬 𝓣𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑽𝑬 𝓓𝑨𝒀𝑺 𝓞𝓯 𝓒𝑯𝑹𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑴𝑨𝑺 ꒱٫

﹙🕯️﹚ hi everybody!! welcome to ashlynn’s 12 days of christmas. i think this will be a super fun way to get into the christmas spirit and explore a bunch of different ways to tell a christmas story! ࣭ ˓ ࣪. ׄ⸝⸝℘

˓ ࣪ ( 📜 ) find a spot by the fireplace! join the event taglist here.

──── 𝓖uidlines

𐔌𝟷. half of the gifts will be requests, which you can send here, and the other half will be gifts wrapped by me! so, 6 requests and 6 of my own. 𐔌𝟸. the requests have got to be christmas/holiday theme! new years is also welcomed. they can be smutty of course, i welcome that with open arms!! 𐔌𝟹. these are going to be more like drabbles. some might definitely end up longer, but i want to release TSFAWC on christmas as the final day! 𐔌𝟺. you can request any member from either txt or ateez!

 ‧𝑜n 𝓉he 𝒻irst 𝒹ay of 𝒸hristmas, 𝓂y 𝓉rue 𝓁ove gave to 𝓂e

𝒜 partridge in a pear tree 𝜗 c.sb

milk with your cookies? ･ anon request

too excited to sleep on christmas night, the last thing you might've expected was to find a very tall, very handsome man with arms full of gifts broken into your home. also, for him to claim himself to be santa claus.

𝒯wo turtle doves 𝜚 c.yj & c.bg

krampusnacht ･ @thetxtdevil & @miukuui

krampus, creatures of european folklore, come one winter’s night every year with exactly one duty: to punish the naughty, who they are said to either eat or drag down to the hell from which they came. assigned to you this year are two of krampus' most revered helpers. they adore their purpose. come december 5th, they make their march through the snow and toward the sweetest treat that they might ever have the opportunity to crack.

𝒯hree french hens 𝜗 h.k

velvet fuzz ･ anon request

it’s strange that you come home to a teary-eyed, pink-nosed man outside your home while coming home on christmas eve. even stranger that he’s got antlers sprouting up from his head.

𝒻our calling birds 𝜚 h.k

the frost remembers ･ @aduh0308

artblock has one weakness: creation. it just so happens that you decide to make your final hurrah, the greatest work of your life, out of winter’s most gentle gift. and, the frost remembers.

𝒻ive golden rings 𝜗 c.sb

gift wrapping ･ @biteyoubiteme

it’s a shame that soobin has to work on christmas eve, but coming home to a fire-toasted home and his little family is enough to make up for it.

𝒮ix geese a-laying 𝜚 k.th

it will come back ･ anon request

it’s a small world. you knew this, but you came to really believe it when you ran into an old classmate at the grocery store on a snowy vacation. how strange is that? even more so when he shows up once more at the door of your cabin, frozen from the cold and needing your help.

𝒮even swans a-swimming 𝜗 c.bg

at swan lake ･ @hmusunoo

as both equals and opposites, white swan and black swan, it is paramount that you and choi beomgyu do not touch. the curse of your natures did not even make exception for incidental brushes. that was never an issue for you—not until the day the prince took it upon himself to break every rule you’d ever known.

ℰight maids a-milking 𝜚 OT5/c.bg

let it snow! ･ @hmusunoo

choi beomgyu and you are best at one thing: getting on yeonjun's nerves. going out for a snowball fight on the first winter snow, he has the perfect plan.

𝒩ine ladies dancing 𝜗 h.k

@hyukaluver

𝒯en lords a-leaping 𝜚 c.yj

@izzyy-stuff

ℰleven pipers piping 𝜗 c.yj

@prince-jjae

𝒯welve drummers drumming 𝜚 k.th

ginger & snap ･ @thetxtdevil

you were the last person taehyun expected to appear on his doorstep. sweet and fluffy and oh-so-proper; he never thought he’d see you again. but... there you stand. and, much to his own chagrin, he fears that nobody else could get him more bothered.

happy holidays, from me! here’s my gift to you all for welcoming me so kindly. (ｰ ｰ;)

[solreino]

Swan Song

Chapter 1: Taking Flight

Summary: In preparation for your debut as Odette in Swan Lake, you encounter a few bumps in the road. Little do you know this is just the start.

Pairings: TF 141 x Reader

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: Eating Disorders, Toxic Beauty Standards, Creepy/Unwanted Behaviour, Period-Typical Attitudes (1910's), Innacurate Translations.

A/N: I'm not well informed about ballet, I have never danced it before, so I apologize for any inaccuracy regarding terminology. Also, the story is set mainly in Russia, so the reader is presumed to be of Russian origin.

MASTERLIST Next➔

[November 11th 1911, The Bolshoi Ballet Academy, Russia]

"1 and 2 and 3 and 4!”

Your eyebrows furrow in concentration as Mr. Lenkov begins to play Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Suite, Op. 20a: I. Scene "Swan Theme" for what feels like the sixth time this hour. His nimble fingers dance across the ivory keys once again as the composition presumes its macabre melody.  

To say the last few weeks have been stressful would be a dire understatement. Since taking up the role of Odette in Autumn, you’ve yet to recall the last time you’d had the pleasure of succumbing to the sanctity of slumber, nor rest altogether for that matter. From dawn to dusk, you’ve found the studio becoming a second home to you; like an ever-so gracious host with a tendency for passive-aggressive hospitality, who coaxes you from the front door in promise of warm tea and a place to rest your head, insisting you stay "just one more hour". You know better, well at least you think you do, because beyond the studio door you know there’ll be no rest awaiting you, only relentless recital. Still, you don’t look back as you accept its welcoming embrace. Because- 

Anything but perfection would not suffice. You see, back-breaking discipline; impeccable precision; artistic competence; meticulous dedication, it’s nothing new to ballet and in turn, it’s nothing new to you, either. To be a ballerina means to surrender yourself to the artistry, and let your body become its mindless muse.

The Ballet industry is an anomaly compared to other artistic sectors. Unlike others, it subverges from the ideals of ‘beauty in the eye of the beholder’. Conformity is key. There are strict standards to be met and an unquestionable quota to be completed. Anything but, will not do. It disregards the need to sugarcoat its shallow requirements; skinnier, sharper, prettier, thinner; if it fulfills the requirements, it will suffice. 

Image is everything. It’s a shallow, superficial sentiment that directors set upon budding ballerinas like hounds to hares. From day one, they plant it into the impressionable minds of aspiring dancers. Uncontrollably, self-doubt sprouts like a stubborn weed. Each off-hand comment or direct dig, whether it be about a girl’s weight of en pointe form, encourages the festering parasite to root itself deeper into her mind. Then she grows older - it’s too late - and the parasitic thought has poisoned her once innocent outlook on life and has rotted it right to its roots. For the rest of her tragic life, the girl will only know the number on the scales, the image in the mirror, and the misery in her mind. 

You’ve seen it happen to others. You’ve seen it happen to you, because-  

Ballet has ensnared you - mind, body, and soul. Over the years, you’ve felt its callous claws dig deeper and deeper into your flesh, leaving scars so severe - both physically and mentally - sometimes the pretty pink ribbons you adorn your feet with prove futile in the bid to cover them. Prodding and poking and probing; fingers jabbing mercilessly into your sides, accompanying a doubly ruthless "you'll need to lose this extra weight if you want a spot on my stage". For a sport so vain, you ought to think it would go easy on its victims. A session of self-reflection proves otherwise.

You learn to bear and grin through it all. You don’t have much of a choice anyways. After all, many before you have suffered the same, and those who come after you will too. Because after many years of being a ballerina-

You learn to see beauty in the pain. 

The blood you bleed makes the red roses you receive at curtain call worthwhile; the sadistically sweat-inducing masterclasses make the shining smiles and standing ovations from awestruck audiences worthwhile; the tears make the champagne chutes you get to drink at the expense of your company worthwhile. You chase these highs like you do with stardom.  

All you've ever dreamed of since a little girl was to be a ballerina. Perhaps, it was the beautiful dresses a child of your class could only dream of back then, or how pretty the woman on the front page of your father’s newspaper looked posing on the tip of her toes. You don’t know for certain what exactly it was that enthralled you with it all. Sometimes, you wish you had never boarded that train to Moscow, never bothered with all that came with being a ballerina. It’s a selfish and self-deprecating thought, for you know if you were to stay on that homestead, there was an imminent chance you would have succumbed to the troubles of poverty you had faced back home. Admittedly, there are times you miss your life before coming to the city. None can be done about that, however.

Now, you have to push your body to its limits and beyond. Daily, you trespass boundaries you had once believed your body did not possess the ability to, reciting the same sequences endlessly, over and over again, until you physically can’t pursue your practice further that day. Even then, you find yourself persevering through the pain and fatigue; limbs heavy like lead; a mind strong like steel. If you knew your efforts were futile in the bid to rid yourself of any flaws in your dance, you would be wrong because-    

Ultimately, you knew no matter how much effort you exerted, the Dance Principal; Ballet Mistress; the reputable Madame Orlova would not miss a single thing.

For decades, word has circled Moscow of the cold-hearted, quick-witted, sharp-tongued old woman who ran the prestigious academy with an iron fist. It was just your luck that she had taken you under her wing as one of her pupils. You dare say she had taken a liking to you, though, she did have a tough way of showing her fondness onto others. 

Never a day was there without some sort of mistake to be mended by her recognition. At times you think God had cursed her to be forever unfulfilled in her outlook of life. The others in the Troupe seem to think so too. 

You dread to think of how much Mr Lenkov’s fingers must be hurting from playing the same melody over and over again for this past hour. It wouldn’t surprise you if the composition begins to haunt your dreams like a creaky, broken music box. You’ve never had the pleasure of owning one, though you had seen one in the window of a repair shop one time and-

And, as the Ballet Mistress shouts at Mr Lenkov to cease his playing, you know she has once more found a flaw in your dancing. 

The symphony stops abruptly with a garble of incoherent notes before it can reach its crescendo. Inwardly, you sigh. 

"No, no, no!" She scolds.

Her boney fingers rub feverishly against her temple in frustration. Rising slowly from her chair before you, her walking cane thumps anticipating against the studio’s oakwood floor as she ambles towards you. Wrinkled eyes bore into you; you struggle to withstand the urge not to writhe under the intensity of her stare.

"Your arms,” She begins slowly, her gaze raking over you in scrutiny, “They are stiff.” 

“From the shoulder to the fingertips,” She gestures with her hand down the length of your arm as she speaks. “It must flow, like the wing of a swan.”

She uses the moment of silence as you take on the command to survey your form, prodding and poking your stance to adjust it to her liking. 

“Do not forget this.” She finishes. 

"Yes, Madame Orlova," You nod in acknowledgment, wincing slightly each time her finger jabs into your shoulder blades and readjust your position to better suit her expectations. 

She huffs a breath in what you can only presume is somewhat satisfaction, signaling for Mr Lenovo to resume playing.

“Again!”

The song resumes its somber sound, and you take heed to the Ballet Mistress’ words. Flowing from your shoulder blades to your fingertips, you encapture the essence of the White Swan; melancholy in her mourning of a lover whose heart he had promised to another. She is vulnerable in her virtue, and she shows that in her final flight. Odette longs for the skies, for an escape from the betrayal of who she had held dear, but her wings fail her. In desperation, she flexes and flaps her wings, but alas, she cannot take flight. And so-

You spiral in a presession of slow spins, arms portraying the anguished attempt the Swan Queen takes to take flight for the final time before decelerating into a despairing descent as Odette. The tune tumbles to its end from beneath Mr. Lenkov’s fingers as you complete your practiced plummet to the studio floor, encasing your body with your arms the wings of the white swan, as the grief-stricken creature takes its final breath. 

You raise your head to look at Madame Orlova.

And, for the first time in your decade-long enrollment at the Bolshoi Ballet School, you think you see the infamously stone-faced stone-hearted ballet mistress smile. 

It's a cold evening in Moscow tonight. The winter winds thrash ferociously at the loose and unraveling threads of your scarf. Whilst it does little to protect you from the frigid frost lingering in the air, you wear it anyways as any warmth you can garner to combat the icy environment is, in your eyes, worthwhile.

Snowflakes dust your hair with specks of glistening white, gathering upon the crown of your head where you have neglected to put on a hat. They tickle your nose and gently brush against your rosy cheeks as you tilt your head back. Your face turned towards the sky; watching as the snow twirls and tumbles from the clouds above, gradually blanketing the ground ahead in a pristine carpet of soft white. It crunches as you walk towards the theatre, leaving footsteps on the once-untouched landscape. You take extra caution not to slip on any hidden ice - an injury is the last thing you needed on a day as imperative as this. 

Somewhere in the far distance, the Kremlin bells ring. 

Thirteen mighty chimes thunder throughout the city. You feel the ground rumble in response beneath your feet - a reminder to hurry.

Rushing up the snowy steps of the Bolshoi Ballet Theatre, you quickly let yourself inside in an attempt to escape the chilling temperatures of the Moscovian evening - and to avoid running behind schedule. 

The warm air inside greets you welcomingly. You eagerly pull off your gloves in its presence to soak up the heat it has to offer. Slowly, you begin to regain feeling into your fingers. Sighing a relieved breath, you make your way backstage as the marble floor of the foyer echoes noisily beneath your shoes.

There, you receive a not-so-calm yet begrudgingly familiar greeting. 

Pre-performance is usually like this; congested backstage corridors; a cacophony of frantic demands and directions; boxes of overflowing props and costumes rushed up and down the hall; the deafening pounding of ballerinas breaking in their pointe shoes;  dim lighting making it near impossible to navigate. However today, with your debut as the company’s newly appointed principal dancer just hours away, it feels even more nerve-wrackingly overwhelming. 

You brace yourself as you get swept away in the havoc of opening night, tangled in the rambunctious crowd as it traverses through the labyrinth of backstage passageways.

Despite the absurd amount of people crammed in corridors unable to withstand even a fraction of their current capacity, you miraculously manage to maneuver your way to the dressing room; elbow-to-rib style, ducking under boxes and weaving past those racing in the opposite direction. 

Relief hits you as you swing open the dressing room door, closing it quickly behind you as your eyes blink rapidly to adjust to the bright lighting inside. The much more quieter, yet seemingly livelier chatter of friendly conversation and girlish giggles encompasses you as you move further into the dressing room. You shrug off your coat, laying it to rest on the coathanger and take your seat in front of your dresser.

Tranquility seeps into your bones as you slouch against the chair’s backrest momentarily, soaking up the opportunity of rest no matter how short-lived the moment may be. Mentally, you take the moment to prepare yourself for the evening, and all the chaos and calamity it is sure to bring. 

Sighing, you straighten yourself up in your seat, glancing at your reflection in the mirror as you do so. 

"I didn't know you had a secret admirer.” 

You don’t turn around as the voice chimes up from behind you. You of all people know better than to entertain her playful antics. 

The voice reveals itself from its lurking in the background, resting her chin just above your collarbone and draping her arms over your shoulder. 

Your eyes meet hers in the reflection. She grins back at you.

“Valeria.” You sigh, patting the hand resting around your shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

Valeria, crowned tonight’s Black Swan, is one of the company’s longer-serving principal dancers and has self-appointed herself as your tutor and friend as of late. Graciously, she has taken you under her wing these past couple of months as you have gradually adjusted to your newly bestowed title, joining her amongst the Bolshoi’s most prestigious ranks. 

“You too,” She smirks, a little too suspiciously for your liking, pecking your cheek in greeting before returning to her seat at her vanity next to you. “You too.”

You begin to rummage through your stage makeup, tilting the mirror toward you so you can better see, before laying out your needed products on the desk space. You pay no mind to her mischievous staring as you do so. But, as you have learned over your time acquainted with Valeria, nothing can deter her from getting what she wants. And right now, that is to find out who this supposed ‘secret admirer’ is.

"So tell us then," She drawls teasingly, "Who's the lucky boy?"

The edge of your desk presses uncomfortably into your side as you turn to give her your attention. For the time being, anyways. You yourself are somewhat curious as to what she is talking about. But the sooner you can resolve this suppositious accusation, the sooner you can resume to the real issue at hand - getting ready for Swan Lake. 

Confusion stirs at her question, and you tilt your head to the side, urging her to explain further.

A ribbon-wrapped gift box is pushed toward you. You watch on, confused. 

Valeria’s legs swing idly back and fro as she gazes at you expectantly. The corners of her lips tug further into a grin at the silence that ensues and at the completely dumbfounded expression on your face. When you give her no answer, her Cheshire-cat-like grin falters. 

The girls around you giggle, peering over from their makeup stations to indulge in the drama unfolding. Valeria shoots them a look from over your shoulder, one you cannot decipher, but it quietens them down. 

“For me?” you ask doubtfully, slightly stumbling over your words as you take the generous gift into your hands. “Oh Valeria, you shouldn’t have-”

“Not from me.” She huffs.

“I don’t understand,” you mumble, eyes scanning over the gift as you look for a label, a note, a letter, anything that may reveal the gifter’s identity. “Who could this be from?”

She shrugs indifferently, turning to focus on her reflection in the mirror, transfixed on getting the edges of her lipstick just right. 

“The girls who were here before me said it came delivered to the dressing rooms earlier this hour-” She smiles at her appearance, appreciating her flawless makeup in the mirror. Placing the lipstick tube down with a quiet thump, she turns to focus her attention on you once more. 

She pokes a finger at you in playful accusation. “-Asking for you specifically!” 

It’s your turn to shrug your shoulders, unable to give her the answer she craves, for what reason, is beyond you.  

She eyes you incredulously, before returning her attention to her mirror seemingly unable to neglect her reflection for just a moment longer.

“Well,” She gestures toward the ribbon-wrapped gift with her free hand, playing an unbothered facade. You know full well she is practically itching to uncover this mystery. “Are you going to open it?”

Your eyes dart between her and the suspicious box, almost expecting this to be some sort of ruse, perhaps she had given you a jack-in-the-box and was waiting for you to get the fright of your life; her idea of fun.

Hesitantly, you begin the unravel the sheer ribbon keeping the box from opening. The fabric rubs soothingly against your fingertips, a luxury fabric you have not had the experience of touching before. It was clear that whoever had purchased this was of a wealthy background.  Perhaps, you think, you could make this into a bow to wear. 

You don’t know what you were expecting when you lifted its lid, but you definitely were not expecting a pair of .

“Aye chingao!” Valeria startles as she leans over your shoulder to get a better look.

Nestled between a blanket of draped deluxe fabric, a pearlescent pink, almost winter-white, pair of the most exquisitely crafted pointe shoes lie. You fail to restrain the exasperated sigh of awe at the sight, carefully grazing your fingertips over its silky satin finish as if the slightest touch could possibly damage them. You can confidently say, they are the most beautiful gift you have ever had the pleasure of receiving. 

“No secret admirer,” she says.” Valeria quirks an eyebrow up at you.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's probably just costuming.” You dismiss her far-fetched conspiracies, though, you find it hard to draw your eyes away from the pair of shoes, and the fact that this had definitely not come from the costume department. So who had sent you these?

"Ha, as if Mr. Baryshev would ever allow the budget given to costuming to be used for anything but lining his own pockets!” She laughs bitterly. 

“I’ve been-” Valeria exhales out a frustrated breath, “-trabajando como un burro to afford the means to get wear this!” She growls, her hands gesturing to the coal-coloured feathered fabric of her intricate bodice and tutu. 

You open your mouth to give her your consolation before a knock comes to the door. You, Valeria, and the rest of the room quieten into hushed murmuring - just for a moment. Then-

“On in 30, Ladies!” A gruff voice hollers from the other side of the door.

The room erupts into chaos.

A tsunami of frantic ballerinas surge forward towards the row of dressers, crashing against each other like the tides of a raging sea you had heard many-medal adorning men recount about in tales of some distant land. The only redeeming thing about conducting post-performance business is the stories and tales you overhear; the rest, you are not so keen on.

You take the distraction in stride, shoving the pair of shoes more like semi-worn in pointe hand-me-downs from costuming somewhere under your vanity, and replacing them with your newly acquired gift.

“You’re going to wear them?!” Valeria hisses incredulously. 

You glance at her sideways, smirking back at the priceless expression of amused disbelief on her face.

“Well, they’re shoes, aren’t they?” You jest, grinning at her mischievously. “It would be a shame not to.”

She shakes her head in mock-dissappointment, haphazardously stuffing her stage makeup in its designated drawer before firmly slamming it shut. 

“I fear my mischief is rubbing off on you too much.” She mumbles as she looks up at you, feigning a tone of dismay, only to be betrayed by the growing smirk on her face. 

“Well,” She smoothes her hands over her slicked-back bun of cropped raven hair, "I'll see you out there." 

You give her your goodbyes as she pats you on the shoulder, rising from her chair and making her way toward the dressing room’s door. 

“Don’t let the Director find out,” Valeria whisper-shouts from over her shoulder. “You know what he’s like.”

She ushers the remaining lingering corps-de-ballet girls out of the changing rooms, winking at you as she closes the door gently behind her. 

You listen as the chatter slowly retreats from beneath the doorframe, Valeria’s distinct, accented laughter mingled with that of fast-paced Russian retreating down the echoey corridor ‘till you could hear it no more. A serene silence hugs the now-semi abandoned dressing room; those, including you, who aren’t to appear until later acts remain, a more pacific atmosphere stirs, with subdued gossiping, softer laughter, and a more slowing-encroaching sense of time.

You slump in your chair. 

You have a long evening ahead of you.

The rear of house is relatively quieter now.

You can no longer hear the lively chatter associated with the pre-performance buzz, only the occasional hushed conversation resurfacing through the suffocating silence as people pass by. Walking backstage is always an awkward feat, your pointe shoes make an unpleasantly loud noise against the cold concrete floor with each precarious step you take. 

You had felt bad for having to break them in; they were an extraordinaryly well-crafted pair of pointé shoes, they fit perfectly too, and you were certain the price tag was even more extravagant. You still hadn’t resolved the identity of the mystery gifter, but you’d make sure to thank them profusely for their kindness. For now, however, you have a debut to make. 

Your feet thump rapidly as you semi-rush toward the entrance to the left wing. The further you near, the more people it seems are gathered in anticipation for their appearances onstage. The conversation is greater here than that of in the deeper bowels of the theatre where the dressing room had been. Mingling herds of ballerinas and dancers lean idle against the walls, stretching in preparation for their scenes, and chatting amongst themselves, but done so in more gentle, lower tones so as not to alert the audience of their presence a mere wall away. 

They regard you with reassuring smiles and words of good luck as you briskly waddle by; you reciprocate them with a short-but-sweet smile. 

The music grows in amplitude as you enter the left wing officially; the once gentle thrumming is replaced with an all-encompassing eruption of expertly strung-together instruments. The welcoming embrace of the song is quickly diminished though, much to your dismay because-

The rafters here have always given you the creeps. With no help from Valeria either, who  divulges in gossip of the ‘ballerina’ who had been ‘crushed to death’ by a poorly-secured light fixture on the theatre’s proscenium arch each time she catches you gazing nervously upwards at the looming space. You know it’s mainly just the technicians who lurk up in the rafters, commandeering light cues and stage transformation sequences as the ballet progresses. 

‘You have nothing to fear’, you admonish yourself. 

Still, that doesn’t stop the hair on the back of your neck from standing up as you approach the left stage-side.

Your presence goes unnoticed for not even a second. 

Someone speaks your name in a hushed whisper.

You peer over your shoulder at the source of the sound; the silhouette of a stout-statured man emerges from the left-wing doorway. He seizes you suddenly by the shoulders before you even have time to recognise the overly-touchy-friendly Mr. Ustrashkin.

You stagger at the sudden force with which he embraces you, regaining your balance with an awkward squeak. It is only then do you see the disconcerted look that his face has taken on.

“Mr Ustrashkin?” You begin hesitantly. “Is something the matter?”

“Walk with me, dear.” He requests, but he has already pulled you into motion with the firm grip of his hand on your shoulder.

The two of you trail off to the side to make way for the group of pas de corps, and for the privacy of what you can only assume to be bad news. The ballerinas smile respectfully at you, lowering their heads slightly as they account for your company before skittering off, their ghostly white tutus fluttering by behind them like swirling snowflakes. 

When the last of the dancers had passed by, Mr. Ustrashkin speaks again. You take the small queue of silence to compose yourself exteriorly for what is to come. 

“Something..." He stalls, theatrically contemplating the correct word to use before resuming. "...unexpected came up within these previous hours. A true shame it is, but Fyodor, your dance partner, has sustained an ankle injury. As you can understand, he will be out of commission for the foreseeable future, and unfortunately is unable to perform with you tonight." 

Your heart sinks. It collapses from your chest cavity like a marionette doll on snapped strings; as its puppet master surveilled with cruel glee from above. You wonder what you had done to anger God, for him to administer such a thing onto you. On today of all days too. 

“Oh, um, I-” You stumble over your words in a tangled array of shock, panic, disbelief and uncertainty.  

“None of that now, little swan.” Mr. Ustrashkin tuts, almost as one would scold a misbehaving child. 

You recoil at the unwanted nickname, but are too overcome with internal panic at the newly arisen situation to pay it much mind. Saying anything anyways will get you in trouble, and you have climbed too far into the good graces of the executives of the company to fall out of favour for something so insignificant. 

You struggle to maintain your composure, hanging on the thread of internal and external unbridled alarm. You bite the inside of your cheek to withhold any curses from escaping your mouth.

‘On all days this could have possibly happened on.’ You mumble to yourself mentally. 

“So, if Fyodor isn’t dancing tonight..” Your eyebrows scrunch up in confusion, eyes trailing from Mr. Ustrashkin and the conversation at hand to the semi-concealed view of the stage. “Who is dancing Prince Siegfried onstage as we speak?”

Swan Lake has been going for around an hour by now, but with your appearance not until the second act, you needn’t be in as much of a rush as those in the first. You had spent that time responsibly; the majority of which was in the dressing room ensuring the costuming was to standard and ogling over the anonymous gift. Much to your displeasure, that also meant you didn’t have the pleasure of seeing everyone off at curtain opening, and you hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of this ‘Mactavish’ Mr Ustrashkin had been singing his praises about to you. 

"Do not fret that pretty little head," The plump man quips. Mr. Ustrashkin pats your back, presumably in an act of reassurance, but the force which he uses almost sends you stumbling forward. "His understudy, Mactavish, has taken up his role."

“Mactavish?” Your head tilts to the side as the syllables of the foreign-sounding name roll off your tongue with a questioning implication. 

“Oh yes!” He startles with a cheery smile. “A wonderful dancer through and through. We scouted his talent in London and had him transferred from The Royal Ballet to dance for us instead.” He rambles on in recollection. “Though the two of you aren’t properly acquainted yet, I’m sure he’ll be substantial as a dance partner in Fyodor’s absence.”

All you can do is nod your head absentmindedly, hoping to be relieved of his unwanted presence. And, like all men are, his attention is quickly drawn to another. 

A loud laugh barks out from across in the right wing. 

“Valeria!” The now-agitated man growls lowly, his teeth grinding together as he storms toward her as quickly as his little legs can carry him. 

‘So that’s where she went,’ you think, half-bemused, half-concerned. You also thank her in your head for unknowingly getting you out of a conversation you no longer had any interest in being involved in.

Rolling your shoulders to relieve some tension that had been building up, your eyes search diligently for someplace to stretch before your presence on stage is needed. Finding one, you make sure to apply an ample amount of rosin to the bottom of your shoes before skittering your way over. 

The minutes pass by neither quickly nor slowly, more like a muddled mixture of the two. Your body moves without control, years and years of dedicated practice leading up to this much anticipated moment allowing your body to memorize the moves. Your thoughts, however, are the fore-focus of your attention. They rumble through your mind like a blinding blizzard, burying any logical thought with a suffocating, unmoveable barrier of bleak snow and amounting stage fright. 

The Pit Orchestra unleashes Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, Op. 20, Act 1: No. 9, Finale Andante’s crescendo upon the awestricken audience as such Zeus would do to the land below Mount. Olympus with his thunderbolts. If you dare a glance, you may manage to see Mr. Lenkov strumming his harp melodically, or his musical protégé he can’t help himself but boast about day in-day out. 

The floor beneath your feet vibrates as the composition reverberates deafeningly throughout the auditorium; you would struggle to believe the crystal chandelier that looms overhead is not swinging violently nor the champagne glasses the aristocrats’ cradle has not shattered at the absurd volume. Though, it could just be the nervous shaking of your legs.

You catch fleeting visions of the dancers on stage; their shadows flickering in and out of view like the dimming flame of candlelight. Your thoughts are once again drawn back to Fyodor’s supposed understudy. Not once had you had a recital with him, and so you could only hope he was adequately practiced for his role. 

The melody of Act 1’s final act concludes with the triumphant trill of the violin ensemble. The audience erupts into an oscillating ovation; cheering, clapping, whistling; at a volume so loud it could rival its predecessor. Your doubts about Mactavish’s adequacy are quickly disproven. 

It only brings a sliver of comfort, however. 

You linger in the shadows for a moment, trembling fingers brushing hesitantly against the fabric before you. Then, cautiously, you peer out from behind the safety of the illustrious velvet curtains. Your jittery hands fiddle with their golden tassels as you gaze at the exceedingly large audience. The auditorium of the theatre had never been so full.

You try not to let the sheer amount of people overwhelm you; a thousand thousand faces staring stagebound.

You fail.

And as the announcer commences the beginning of tonight's performance, you also fail to notice the man watching you from across the other side of the stage.

 “Bolshoi Ballet proudly presents Swan Lake!”

[rotworld]

26: Swan Song

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

the sorcerer-king of the fallows is neither alive nor dead. he's the only one who can help you now. you just hope he isn't holding a grudge from the last time you saw each other.

->original work. contains graphic descriptions of gore and decay, forced/political marriage, mass murder, memory loss.

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No one would believe you if you told them that the Fallows were once the gem of Tiralossa. They would question if this twisted, sickly swampland is really known by such a pastoral name.

But it was, and it is. The trees were not always jagged, malformed things, pale like bone. The grasses were green and gold and swayed gently in the wind, unlike this sparse gray prickliness jutting from the mud. Where there is now turbid water and soggy peat, there was once a small kingdom in its budding springtime youth. The boughs of orchard trees grew heavy with succulent fruit and petals danced in the Meadowlands on sweet-smelling breezes. 

There are few who remember it and many who are eager to forget. A curse lingers here. You can feel it the moment your shoes sink into the damp, clinging muck and the chilly fog curls around your skin. The wind carries the sound of distant screams and the scent of blood. No birds sing and no beasts graze. The Fallows hunger for anything that dares to live with a lover’s eagerness. Bodies claimed by the mire remain where they fell years after, preserved in grim, gaunt-faced stillness by the murky waters of the bog. 

It wants you, too. The land fights you for every step. The mud suckles at your shoes and sloshes around the ends of your cloak, trying to drag you into the embrace of the swamp. The trees sway towards you with their twisted, grasping limbs. You trudge through fog that sticks like cobwebs. The wind is cold breath on the back of your neck and a ceaseless, seductive whisper.

“Rest your head, lovely one,” it purrs purrs. “Come back into my arms.” Several times, your feet are caught in a snare of tangled, waterlogged grasses that feel like hands wrapped around your ankles. But you move slowly and calmly, trudging onward through the gloom. The Fallows coos and sighs your name. It will not try to trap you in earnest yet, not while you walk deeper into its forever decaying heart.

You walk until you find the ruins. Only the strongest stonework has survived the ravages of time, crumbling pillars and lone, lichen-speckled arches half-sunken in the mud. There is a circular patch of rough, weatherbeaten flooring that was once fine terrazzo marble, the colorful speckles dulled and covered in moss. The air feels different here. You stand in the center and you think you can hear the clink of crystal goblets and the distant laughter. With a deep breath and great reluctance, you lift your hand and cast the sigils of beckoning. 

“I seek an audience with Erazem, Sorcerer-King of the Fallows,” you declare. Your magic is a weak, strangled trickle, barely enough to conjure a sprout to bloom, but it doesn’t matter. Your call doesn’t have to reach the far side of the Veil. 

The air shifts when you speak the words. You hear music and clattering footsteps, the sounds of a ballroom. Stone scrapes stone and walls rebuild. The old palace does not appear in its former glory but as a decrepit phantom. Torches burn with eerie blue flame and climbing vines snake through the spaces in the walls and floor. 

You see silhouettes, the layered gowns and puffed doublets of courtiers slipping past the corner of your vision. They slink just beyond the grasp of shadows but you glimpse them in those fleeting moments when they dance close. Glassy eyes and blue lips. Ragged silks and water-stained cloaks. Desiccation and decay. Their steps are squelching, leaving muddy footprints behind. Some are missing hands, or eyes, or lower jaws. Are they ghosts or restless corpses? They watch you and whisper. 

“Do my eyes deceive me?” 

The darkness churns. A shadow slips free, inky tendrils falling away to reveal a tall figure in a trailing robe of black and indigo. It was a beautiful garment once, each draping layer glimmering softly as if woven from the night sky, but its luster has faded. The long sleeves hang limp and tattered. The cinching sash at the waist is gone and it hangs open, revealing not flesh but the pale line of a sternum and the delicate curl of a ribcage. Behind bars of bone, a still heart emanates a sickly green glow.

The Sorcerer-King steps forward gracefully, the ragged black train of his robe crusted and dragging with moss and filth. Glowing emerald eyes peer at you from behind a curtain of long, unkempt hair, black as ink and flat with dampness as if he just crawled out of a watery grave. He draws closer, stopping on the other side of a circular tile in the center of the floor with the floral crest of his fallen kingdom adorning the stone. Close enough to reach out and touch. You watch each other carefully.

“Erazem,” you greet him.

He nods. “Consort.” His lips don’t move when he speaks and his voice is an echo, a sound that fills your head.

“I’m not your consort.” 

“You would have been,” he says wistfully. “You nearly were. And here, where time does not truly pass, you nearly are forevermore. The anticipation grows unbearable at times.” He glances down and presses a hand to his ribs, the ghostly light of his frozen heart glimmering between his slender fingers. 

“I need your help,” you admit. 

Erazem’s gaze meets yours.  His lips, dry, cracked and bloodlessly pale, stretch into a smile. “My help?” he echoes, savoring the word. “How curious. Do tell. Would you like to sit?” 

He gestures to an armchair that wasn’t there before, shiny red velvet on a wooden frame. It’s situated beside a tall arched window. Beyond the glass, a raging inferno runs wild across the Fallows. It’s not a natural fire but a magical one, vivid green and moving with predatory intent. It races across the hills and tears through the orchards, snatching birds from the air and slithering up the walls of half-timbered houses to crawl through the windows. 

It does not burn what it catches. It rots them. Skin turns loose and sloughing, spotted with mold and festering necrosis. Joints soften, hands falling apart one finger at a time. Eyes dribble liquid from drooping sockets and hair falls out in scalp-sticky clumps. And they won’t die. The fire won’t let them. They will rot, they will fall apart, they will writhe in the mud and scream until their lungs are shriveled, but they will not die. 

One cannot risk a killing curse against a conjurer, for every conjurer is capable of retaliating with a curse of their own at the moment of their death. And so the fire binds but does not burn, rots but does not kill, and the Fallows becomes both alive and dead, kingdom and prison, for all of time.

Your stomach churns and you turn away from the window. The haunting glow of the curse-fire flickers against Erazem’s face. 

“We are a fickle people, are we not?” he muses. “One day, I am the true king and chosen one. The next, I am a tyrant deserving of an execution that never ends.” 

“You’re missing several steps in the middle,” you tell him.

His shoulders shake with soft laughter. “There is that blistering honesty I have missed so terribly. Tell me, what became of the one who destroyed my fledgling kingdom?” 

You swallow hard. “He was pardoned.” 

“Perhaps I should be flattered,” Erazem says. “To be hated so terribly that the Conclave could excuse the undeath of everyone unfortunate to live under my rule—”

“He wants to marry me.” 

Erazem says nothing for a moment. Eerie, unnatural silence fills the air. His court is motionless and speechless, even the softest scandalized whisper suddenly gone, the dark droplets hanging from the tips of their hair refusing to fall. The air is frigid. The oppressive damp stench of the swamp fills your lungs. He reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek no more firmly than spider’s silk. Curtains peel back and a new window opens on your other side, the light pouring through it almost blindingly bright. You don’t look because you don’t have to. You know what he sees. 

That’s the rosy glow of a castle dining hall you know all too well. You’ve served there for several years now, a royal conjurer in the court of its king. You owe him. You have ever since you fled the Fallows years ago, stealing away in the night to escape a king who grew ever more covetous and an engagement you did not want. Most would not have accepted you upon hearing where you’d come from. Most would have turned you away, not willing to risk the ire of the Sorcerer-King. But there was great need for a conjurer and you would do anything asked of you. Anything at all.

Anything but this. 

“A political marriage.” Erazem’s gaze as he looked through the window frightens you. He could be warm and kind and endlessly charming, but he could also be unfathomably cold and cruel. He liked to hold you when he returned from the dungeons, still drenched in the blood and viscera of those who displeased him. “Ironic. What drove you to him now drives you back to me. And your groom-to-be, skilled cursewielder that he is…” He pauses, turning his cold gaze upon you. Before you can shrink away, he rips at your cloak and the robes underneath. He clicks his tongue when you fight and struggle against him and flicks his fingers, his magic sapping away your strength. 

He is your opposite, as always. Your magic is beckoning and growth, the swell of life. 

His is banishment and withering, the void of death. 

You sag in his arms and he wraps an arm around you as though to dip you in a waltz. He leans in, his hair falling in a black curtain that blocks out everything but the curse-fire green of his eyes. His other hand tugs at the neckline of your clothes until he finds what he was looking for—a mark of binding, raised and discolored like a scar, seared into your chest. “I wondered why your call to me was such a faint whisper. Your magic is trapped.” He traces the mark with his thumb, smiling bitterly. “Why did I never think of that?”

You fight not to shiver when his eyes flick up to your face. You knew the risks when you came here. If you had any other choice, you would’ve taken it. But the binding is unbreakable, as absolute and endless as the fire that claimed the Fallows. You would rather lose your magic entirely than have to coax it from the whims of a mercurial, kingdom-annihilating husband. 

Erazem chuckles. “I jest,” he says. He covers the mark and lets you go, watching with faint amusement as you stagger and fight to stay on your feet. “Such a thing is beneath me. I would have had your heart in time.” He paces, his hands clasped behind his back, circling you slowly. “You were right to come to me. No other can aid you. Even in life, I may have lacked the power to fully remove such a curse. But now…” He shuts the window to your loathsome past with the flick of his rest. Green light sizzles around his fingers and his skin grows translucent. 

You watch him warily, clutching your torn clothes together to shield your skin from the chilly air. “And in return?” you ask.

He chuckles and the sound echoes in your head. “What do you think I might ask for in return, my consort?” 

“Isn’t there anything else I can give you? Anything else you want?” 

He turns towards the other window, watching the Fallows die and live and die again. “I have my kingdom. I have my courtiers and my subjects. I have power unlike anything I could even imagine before. I have life everlasting, such as it is. There is only one thing I yearn for.” He looks back at you and your heart skips a beat.

There he is, just as you remember him. That’s the kind face that greeted you when you first arrived, trembling and afraid in the back of a carriage. Those are the lips that kissed the back of your hand and spoke an oath that you would be free here, unbound by any obligation. He was a conjurer, too. He understood what hardship you had faced, how you had been used and traded and sent into battle. It would not happen again.

“We are fallow,” said the Sorcerer-King, your husband to be, as he tucked a flower plucked from the Meadowlands behind your ear. “We have been pruned and prodded and beaten down to give them what they desire. This is our season of rest, my treasure. You will bloom when you are ready, not before.”

Tears sting your eyes. You love him almost as much as you fear him. “Will it hurt?” you ask hoarsely.

Erazem smiles softly. “It will sting for a moment. A prick to the skin, over the mark. You will not feel the rest.” He holds out his hand, flames swirling around his fingers and dancing in his palm. “I will be gentle. I always am, with you.” 

Your hand is shaking. The air above his palm is frigid and frost kisses your skin. When you touch him, he closes his fingers gently around yours and pulls you into his arms. You squeeze your eyes shut but the pain never comes. For a time, he just holds you. He buries his face against your neck, breathing in your scent. One of his hands drifts down to your back and he starts to move slowly, his other hand still clasping yours. He encourages you to move with him. To come forward when he steps back. To follow his gentle swaying. 

He’s dancing, you realize. Leading you in the smooth, romantic steps he taught you years ago, a waltz unique to the Fallows. His smile brightens when you meet his gaze almost shyly, self-conscious just like you were the first time he brought you to the ballroom for a private lesson. You press close together, chest to chest. You close your eyes and breathe deeply.

You smell flowers. 

Startled, you open your eyes to the silvery glint of starlight. Erazem spins you and your steps click smoothly over a smooth, polished stone floor. You’re surrounded by the revelry and excitement of a grand ball, colorful tapestries hanging on the walls. A star-conjurer has lit the tall, muraled ceiling with constellations and a false moon and everything is deep, midnight blue. Through the stone-framed rounded windows, you see the Fallows—rolling hills and lush, verdant trees, sparkling lakes and thatch-roof houses. 

“Love?” 

You look up into soft hazel eyes. He’s wearing his finest robes, the starry ones that fold across his body with elegant, billowing sleeves and a sash at his waist with silver embroidery, but his hair is unruly as always. It’s coming loose from the single long braid he tied it in earlier, unraveling on his shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

Your face feels unbearably hot and your eyes are stinging like you’re about to cry. You look around the ballroom, trying to get your bearings. When did you get here? “I don’t know,” you say, your throat constricted and your voice thin. “I…I feel like I just woke up. Like I was having a nightmare.” 

His expression softens. “Would you like to sit down?” 

“No.” You hold onto him tightly. “Please. Just hold onto me.” 

“Of course.” He sways gently, keeping you close. “Is there something on your mind?” he asks, his voice quiet and gentle. Your heart is racing and your palms are slick with sweat. “You can tell me. I will listen, I promise. I would do anything to put your mind at ease.”

“Would you wait?” you whisper.

Erazem tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. “Wait?” 

“Would you…” You look around nervously. At the tapestries with the royal crest, and the false moonlight, and the courtiers gathered with smiles and congratulations on their lips. “Would you postpone the wedding?” Erazem doesn’t answer and your fear builds to shivering panic. “I always knew this would happen to me,” you admit, the words coming quick and quivering with fresh tears. “I’m a conjurer. Of course I knew. This is what happens to us, we get traded around and married off and whatever else we have to do. And this is the best thing I could ever hope for, marrying a king who’s like me. But I’m still sad, and I’m still afraid. You scare me sometimes. I don’t think you mean to, but you do. And I just, I don’t—”

“Love.” Erazem cradles your face in his hands, his thumb swiping away a tear just as it starts to fall. His eyes are shining like he’s about to cry, too. “Of course I can wait.” 

You inhale shakily. Your heart feels lighter. Why were you so sure he would refuse? You had the strangest feeling of deja vu until just a moment ago. “Really?” you ask sheepishly. 

“Yes,” he says. He really is crying. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him do that before. His tears keep coming, sliding down his cheeks and gathering on his chin. “Darling, I will wait as long as you want me to. We…” He stops, swallows, and wipes his face with his hand. “We have all the time in the world.”

No one would have believed you if you told them that the Fallows was once the gem of Tiralossa before, but for just one night, they would. Tonight, for just a moment, they say the fog cleared and the gloom lifted. The thin, crooked trees were great giants with fruit so plentiful it weighed down their leafy branches. The grass was golden and green and pillow-soft, and the green hills seemed to stretch on forever. They say the Meadowlands bloomed beneath the full moon in such joyous splendor that it smelled like spring for miles.

[tragedy-of-commons]

Prompt For Everybody Talks: “I may not be a formal therapist, but perhaps a guide through your memories can help with your trauma. Facing your past can be therapeutic, after all.” + Black Swan + Queer platonic (Aro Ace Reader)

"I may not be a formal therapist, but perhaps a guide through your memories can help with your trauma. Facing your past can be therapeutic, after all."

As respectfully as you're able, you stare at Black Swan like she's sprouted another head.

"How long have you been planning this?" you ask skeptically, eyes raking over her form which is gracefully taking up the expanse of the doorway. You're so tired - you feel it in the creaking of your bones as you graze right past her, making a beeline for the kitchen counter. Getting home from work is always an ordeal.

Too many people have fought over your attention today, which is not as fun as it sounds. Your manager wants you to put in more hours, the rest of your coworkers keep trying to build meaningless bridges, and you fight demons (the urge to clock out early) every shift.

You dump your wallet and keys onto the tile with a clatter, pinching the bridge of your nose. Soft footsteps follow and watch your every movement - she's always been an observer.

"You make it sound like I've been scheming," Black Swan chuckles.

You're fairly certain she has been scheming. She's been leaving out guided meditation pamphlets on your nightstand, depositing aromatherapy candles on the rim of the bathtub, and not to mention the wheedling - always picking apart your sentences, looking for something that'll only disappoint her.

Snorting, you shove your paraphernalia from the day's struggle into a random drawer. You'll probably forget where it is later, but you could care less right now. "When are you not, Swan?"

As you go about fixing yourself a snack, you catch glimpses of her watching you. Like always, she's beautiful; so much so that it takes your breath away.

While others may find beauty in symmetrical bone structure and specific body shapes (or just mountainous standards), you find it in the atmosphere surrounding your loved ones.

Everyone and everything yields to her touch willingly. If a bystander told you that Black Swan could part the sea and bring about salvation, you'd believe them without a second thought.

If another bystander told you that everything Black Swan touches turns to gold, you'd almost believe them. Because, really, you're the one exception there - no matter how she molds you in her hands, you remain dull clay.

Of course, you know better than to share the full extent of these insecurities with her. She's your partner (as loose of a term as that is), and you're lucky to have her as that much. But she's always been too keen for her own good, and she knows you too well. You're upset, and you suck at hiding it.

She's extending a peace offering out to you, and you'd be doing yourself no favors by refusing it.

As you panic in your head further, you barely realize the presence by your side. Swan retrieves the spices from the cabinet and sets them out for you, setting a timer on her phone - because of course she knows how long you like to heat up your leftovers. It's sweet and painful all the same, coexisting in the same kitchen with her.

"Just trust me on this," she cajoles, taking ahold of your hand while you stare into the bubbling pot. "If you want to stop at any time, we will. It's not what you're expecting."

Her various rings are cool against your flushed skin, grounding you. Some are silver and others are brass, each speckled with tiny designs. Your favorite one is adorned with a crescent moon, fun to fidget with when she's working.

Firmly in the present, you sigh. There's not much you can do but agree, even if you're so done for the day; Swan rarely pushes, so you give in.

"…what does this 'guide' entail, then? Is it like the things you do for clients?"

"Akin to that, yes," she starts, sensing your apprehension, "but I want to make it special for you."

You like special things made with love; trinkets and memories you squirrel away for later when life becomes too much. Special moments of braiding hair, bathing, and just talking. Snippets of a special bond that transcends conventional standards because you can just be close, no matter the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders.

You like special things.

"Okay, but I don't know why you're so insistent."

She smiles, coy. "You'll see."

You do, in fact, see. After your stomach is full and you can't avoid it any longer, you're walking down the hallway into the living room, led by your partner.

When you survey your surroundings, a laugh bubbles up the column of your throat for the first time today. The sofa cushions have been uprooted from their spot and positioned into a pantomime of a brick house.

"A couch fort?" you question, bemused.

Black Swan tugs you forward, ignoring your yelp, "Yes. Comfortable, don't you agree?"

When you stand in front of the rickety structure, topped off by a fleece blanket draped over its roof, you notice light spilling out from the cracks, soft and inviting. Without prompt, you wriggle your way inside, gaining entry after crouching down.

At first, you're completely blinded by a lamp, tucked away in a small alcove. There's just enough space in here for two people, objects of comfort and familiarity littered about where there's room for them; a jar of seashells and loose sand that you collected from the beach one year - which you still like to touch and revisit, some pencils and a sketchpad, and of course, pillows galore.

"I like where this is going," you tease, probably about to weep at the thoughtfulness of it all. She taps your back, and you feel her lavender tresses tickle your shoulder blade as she leans down to climb in beside you.

With you flush against one side, and her flush against the other, the space feels complete. Black Swan's eyes of mauve and the softest marigold observe you once more, filled with warmth.

Maybe it was because of your earlier stupor, but you'd hardly noticed that she also looks... spent. No, more than that, she looks ready to drop.

Discolored skin accentuates her bottom lashes, her lips are chapped and dry. Usually at home, she'll have her hair tied back, but now it's hanging down limply with knotted ends. How could you have missed that?

How long has she also needed a break? Your heart clenches painfully, tongue ready to voice these concerns--

Swan holds up a hand, effectively cutting you off. "That's what we're here to talk about. No need to panic. I'm only a bit worn out, I'm sure you know the feeling; I've been… worrying about you, and some other circumstances regarding my mother lately. I think this 'guided meditation' is what we both need."

Blinking, you tamp down your initial spiraling. You do both require relaxation and connection - being stretched thin is inevitable, but you've failed to realize how bad it's gotten.

You're also relieved she went about it this way, attuned to both of your needs, ever genteel in her approach. You watch your partner pick up a loose pencil from the wayward pile, retrieving her beloved sketchbook with her other hand.

Recognizing the routine immediately, you reach for your jar of shells. You pop open the lid and run the pads of your fingers over chipped sand dollars and jagged sea glass, soothed further by the sound of her scratching against the surface of paper.

Sometimes, Swan shows you what she creates; charcoal images of bygone days, hopeful glimpses of the future. On the contrary, there are other times where she'll guard her art close to her chest, for her eyes only.

"Yeah," you swallow, closing your eyes. In the background, somewhere, you hear the crashing of waves and the lullaby of soft melodies. "Did you want to go first? Also, this is really nice… thank you."

She hums. "Doesn't matter to me."

You wonder why that is. Even so, comfortable silence save for your shared ministrations fill the void. When your thumb catches on something obtrusive, something that's definitely not supposed to be in your beach jar, you pause. Peering into the glass to find the culprit, warmth floods your chest.

It's one of Black Swan's various crystals - the ones with supposed properties you don't fully understand - tucked strangely among your collection. Smooth and without grooves to run your fingers through, a pretty orange-red color… you think it's carnelian, if your recollection is to be trusted.

All of a sudden, there are hot tears springing up in your eyes. Something about Swan's presence being in a place so intimate, even in the form of an object, stokes a flame that warms every cold and vacant part of your being - nurturing those spots until something greater can flourish there.

You love her with all of your might - but you don't need to tell her so.

There just so happens to be tissues nestled between the pillows stacked up high on your right. You snatch the box, wiping your face and blowing your nose.

Quirking your chin upward a smidge, Swan seems unaffected, but the pinch between her brows gives her away; she's struggling with getting something down the way she wants to. You're not exactly an artist, but you know what it's like to be frustratingly inarticulate.

It's time to push forward. Just a little.

"Maybe, instead of right now…" you sniffle, "we could talk tomorrow? I'd feel up to it then." When she meets your eyes and smirks, you feel your cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Only if that's okay with you, I mean."

Black Swan nods, always considerate. "I don't mind that one bit, but would it be too much trouble to ask you to stay with me?"

"I-I wasn't planning on leaving!"

"Good," she laughs, full of mirth and everything genuine. "I was scared you'd leave me all alone in this patchwork settlement, cold and afraid."

Even if she's kidding now, you know she has fears. She'll admit them to you just like this, in a safe bubble, confessing them aloud so subtly that you'd almost miss them. But you don't, not a chance.

Tomorrow, you'll let Swan talk as much as she needs to. Perhaps then, her fears won't consume her as readily.

This is the dynamic you know, even if you feel like you don't deserve to reap its benefits. Black Swan supports you, and you support her in return, often wordlessly. This is the love you've grown accustomed to, even if some people don't understand it or care to try.

"Never," you whisper. You mean it, simple as that.

As the minutes turn into hours, both of you safely hidden inside this cocoon, you notice that your partner's hands have been stained black from the laborious effort of shading and erasing. Curious, you perk up and clear your throat, wondering if she'll be willing to share.

"Can I see?" you barely get the question out before she flips the sketchpad at breakneck speed, "Whoa--"

It's like a snapshot frozen in time. The composition is grainy with a dreamlike quality to it, deep and shallow strokes of grayscale forming an ideal photograph. It's the exterior of the couch fort you're sitting inside of, sketched to perfection, with neat cursive script scrawled across the top of the page near the frills.

Perfectly, it reads:

'Home'.

You couldn't agree more, you muse, tackling your dearest treasure into a messy embrace of protruding limbs and rekindled tears.

Until tomorrow, when this moment will become a fond memory of the past.

🏷️: @akutasoda, @aviiarie, @lowkeyren

a/n: i hope you have a wonderful, absolutely amazing birthday, sam! this request took a lot of my will, but i'm pretty proud of it. modern au, in case it was unclear. i know this won't land with some audiences, but i'm happy nonetheless!

event post here

[what-have-i-unleashed]

when the fog thickens, blurring one's sight

now back to our irregularly scheduled mermaid watching...

(finally the polls are relevant yippee. 2nd person pov just fits the vibes so i'm using it.)

(cw: toxic relationship, obsession, violence, implied substance abuse)

She groped in amongst the ugly nettles, which burnt great blisters on her hands and arms, but she determined to bear it gladly if she could only release her dear brothers. So she bruised the nettles with her bare feet and spun the flax. - Hans Christian Anderson, "The Wild Swans"

you don't dream much, but when you do, it's mostly about killer now.

this time, it's a memory-dream, where both of you are walking along the seaside of an abandoned human town. you remember this - this was when there were only you and him and nightmare. there was no castle yet, no cross, no horror. just you and killer for most of the time. you have no idea why you're dreaming this, but you follow it - you follow killer down the road. you look to the horizon where the sky and sea meets. the orange sunset casts a luminous sheen on the surface of the sea, reflecting light like a mirror.

"pretty, isn't it?" killer says next to you. you don't say anything, your neck wrapped in bandages with the wounds that killer has inflicted on you. the wounds that now leave you without a voice to speak.

"you know, the surface has many things to offer," killer stops to lean on the guardrails, his face serene in a way you've never seen before. "it never ceases to amaze me how many times i see the sun. maybe this is what life is about."

you watch him, only now savoring this rare moment where he appears calm and content. where he exists only for himself, his soul unable to be contained in its usual target-shaped form. where you exist as an afterthought to him, an outsider to his story, his self-realization.

you eventually turn away from him, from the sunlight that falls onto his tear-stained face. killer, as always, notices (but he never noticed your feelings, how funny).

"what are you, a vampire?" killer laughs with such mirth. "come on, taste the sun a little. being in the shadows forever is bad for your bones, haven't you heard?"

you remember being defensive about it. you remember swatting your hands at him, unamused by his cavalier attitude. you remember wanting to kill him, dragging him to the ocean and making him drown in his hubris. you remember the fight you have on the beach, making waves in the water and blasting holes in the sand.

you remember crashing on the ground with him next to you, both of you now watching the moon rising from the light of the sun. you remember his laugh as he declares himself the winner. you remember your and his blood mixing with each other and seeping into the sand there.

(you wonder what happened to that little spot now. maybe it has been washed away by the sea. you hope something will sprout from it, a piece of evidence of your existence there. but it's just a fairy tale dream.)

"ha... that's what i like about you, dusty," killer smiles at the sky, despite his wrist broken. "you always give it your all. you're as crazy as i am."

you can't do nothing but try to regain your breath. your magic still runs wild in your bones, still craving for another release, another carnage. but you're not sure your broken legs will allow for that.

"welp, at least the sky's pretty," killer cheers with that fake enthusiasm of his that you're used to now. you remember staying there until nightmare appears to pick both of you up from the ground. so it's just you and killer right now, together, but none of you would look at each other.

you close your eyes, listening to the sounds of waves crashing into the shore. you hear a shuffle next to you, and you open one eye to see killer kneeling on your side, his head hovering on top of yours.

you don't remember this.

"you're kinda cute, you know?" killer says as he slowly leans in. you don't move. you don't dare breathe. you grab at his jacket, unsure if you want to stop or encourage him.

you don't remember this.

"what's the matter?" killer asks, but his voice sounds far away. like a thousand ocean waves crashing upon the shore that is you. "did i read the signs wrong? you like me, don't you?"

i don't remember this, you mouth. not to him. you're not him. get out.

"what are you-"

get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out.get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out.get out. get out. get out. get out. get out. get out.

GET OUT!

the scene pauses. the waves are frozen in time as you try to control your hyperventilation. you don't let go of killer, his face also forever frozen in that confused expression of his.

"again, dust?" nightmare's disapproving voice echoes in the vast space with no clear source. "must you decline every morsel of happiness i grant you?"

yes you must. because you can't let your memories - memories of him - be tainted with falsities. you cannot let your broken soul be haphazardly glued back with the sedative promise of peaceful apathy.

you shake, your hands letting go of your beloved as he crumbles into sand that flows into crevices of your bones. the scene turns gray, lifeless, colorless just like how your soul feels - hollowed and carved out.

"you're always determined in the worst ways," nightmare clicks his tongue. "just like the traitor if i'm to be honest. maybe you truly deserve each other."

thankfully, nightmare must feel somewhat merciful because you don't immediately wake up after that. you are left alone in the gray void, the dreamless land that nightmare often puts you in as his occasional rewards for good work. you grip your head and put it between your knees. and you breathe. in and out. trying to regain your thoughts. your composure. you don't want to wake up thrashing and crying again. maybe you should look into those narcolepsy meds again. anything to delay these inevitable dreams that nightmare no doubt will put you through again.

you can survive it. you can survive the temptation. you must.

[trash-llama]

Brielle: This nectar is really good. Where did you get it?

Sprout: Binnie made it-omg bladder need in RED.

Brielle: Wow, it's delicious. She should make more!

Sprout: TOTALLY. Must go. 'scuse me, hon.

[whipedcream]

Brush test

[cilil]

The Elder King's New Clothes

AN: Written for this thread by @feanope, based on @thecoolblackwaves' idea that Manwë could use his feathers as clothing. Might have turned out a bit naughtier than that, but oh well. My dearest fellow Manwë fans, take this as a tiny treat🤍

ഒ Characters: Manwë x Fëanor ഒ Synopsis: Manwë shows Fëanáro the true beauty of his fána. Fëanáro studies him. ഒ Warnings: Nudity, sensuality ഒ Quintuple drabble (500 words) ഒ AO3

"You asked me about my feathers, Fëanáro." 

"I did, my lord." 

Fëanáro turned when he heard the voice of the Vala and froze in place. 

Manwë was walking towards him, his fána unclothed. Bare were his pale feet that only just touched the floor as he went, bare were his lithe figure and slender waist that were usually concealed by flowing robes, bare were well-shaped shoulders and his swan-like neck, freed from collars and heavy jewellery. 

The only thing protecting the Elder King's modesty were his feathers. They were no mere accessories, they were part of his fána like his hair or his limbs, and had been grown and preened with great care to cover what needed covering. 

A second pair of wings had sprouted from the middle of Manwë's back, in addition to the mighty pair growing from his shoulder blades, and they hugged his form from behind, one covering his chest, one his crotch. Between long flight feathers Fëanáro espied a layer of soft down, reminiscent of a small cloud obscuring what lay underneath. Long tail feathers swayed from side to side as he walked, gently and elegantly. 

Fëanáro swallowed. "I take it I may study your form then?" 

"You may." 

"Good. I was hoping for that." 

Manwë smiled mildly in response. 

His wings were relaxed, Fëanáro noticed when he ran his fingers through his plumage. If he wanted to, he could surely move them and see what was underneath. Feeling bold, he pulled on the wing covering Manwë's chest, and it released its embrace, feathers rustling as it withdrew and folded by his side. 

The mysteries of the Elder King's fána were his to uncover. His mouth watered. 

"Should I remove my other wings too, Fëanáro?" Manwë asked.

Fëanáro couldn't help feeling like he was acting coy, though his mien betrayed nothing. Calm, serene, slightly curious at most.

Then again, he believed to have noticed in the past how little the Vala's mien shifted, always kind, always pleasant. Only strong emotions could change his demeanour. 

He would get a reaction out of him, Fëanáro swore to himself. 

"Yes, please," he said confidently. 

As if emerging from a flurry of white, Manwë revealed himself to him fully. "Like this?" 

"Yes. Perfect." 

Fëanáro was already walking around him, admiring the regal curve of his spine and backside. Intrigued, he reached up to place his hand at the base of Manwë's wings, soft down tickling his fingers as he traced bone and muscle underneath the skin. His efforts elicited a pleased hum that permeated the air around them, filling it with warm resonance. 

"Do you enjoy this?" he asked. 

"Very much, yes." 

So it was a sensitive spot, Fëanáro noted, then began rubbing, fondling and lightly scratching the area like he assumed a bird would do, and Manwë fanned out his wings in enjoyment. 

The sight alone was breathtaking. He could count every single feather if he wanted.

"Continue please?" 

And now he had the Elder King begging for more. 

Thanks for reading! I'm too tired to write more tonight, but if you want more of Fëanor fondling bird men let me know ♡

taglist: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @elanna-elrondiel @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @saintstars @singleteapot @urwendii

[blue-lotus333]

Arjuniya - 🪷🤍

“when Arjuna plunged into the water of the lake, which was tinged with the pollen dropped from white lotuses, lotuses opening on moonrise, (other) lotuses and red and blue lotuses, and which was agreeably perfumed with honey-drops, which was shaken by the notes of corpulent swans, whose four banks were decked with jewels, which had ripples due to gentle breezes, she vanished just there. The charmingly smiling one got up and on seeing around, was confused. He instantly saw himself (to be turned into) a wonderful, excellent lady,

who had a slim, fair, charming body like the rays of pure gold, whose age was that of a sparkling youth, whose face resembled the autumnal moon, whose hair was very dark, curly, glossy and shining with jewels, whose curls of hair on the plate (-like forehead) were brightened up due to the rays from the mark of red lead, who had vanquished Cupid’s bow due to the knittings of the creeper-like eyebrows being manifest, whose wagtail-like eyes were dark like clouds and sportive,

whose round cheeks were sparkling due to the bright lustre of the jewelled ear-rings, whose wonderful creeper-like arms were delicate like lotus-stalks, whose sprout-like hands took away all the beauty of autumnal lotuses, who had put on a waist-band made of gold and arranged cleverly, whose hips were shining with jingling girdles, whose beautiful place of hips was covered with a shining garment, whose lotus-like feet were very charming due to the jingling jewelled anklets, who possessed the skill in the various arts of love being manifested, who was endowed with all (good) characteristics,

who was adorned with all ornaments. Due to the illusion of (i.e. created by) the lover of the cowherdesses he forgot whatever belonged to his former body; and after that, being very much astonished, stood there, not knowing what to do.”

- Padma Purana, 61b-74a

[talonabraxas]

God of creation Brahma: 5 Manifestations of Lord Brahma the god of creation in hinduism

Lord Brahma, a revered figure in Hinduism, is regarded as the mastermind behind the creation of the universe. He holds a place of great significance in the Hindu divine realm, standing alongside Lord Vishnu and Lord Shiva as one of the three prominent deities. Lord Brahma is commonly portrayed with four arms and four faces and is often depicted seated on a lotus blossom.

In Hindu mythology, it’s said that Lord Brahma sprouted from a lotus that bloomed from Lord Vishnu’s navel. He’s mainly known as the creator of the universe and every living creature, and he is also thought to be the wellspring of all wisdom and knowledge.

Lord Brahma holds a significant place in Hinduism for various reasons. Firstly, he’s recognized as the creator of the universe and all living things, making him a pivotal figure in Hindu mythology and cosmology. Secondly, Lord Brahma is believed to be the fount of all wisdom and knowledge. He is frequently depicted holding a manuscript or book, representing the knowledge he has created and shared with the world. Thirdly, Brahma is linked with the practice of meditation and contemplation. He meditated for thousands of years before creating the universe, which inspires those seeking spiritual enlightenment.

Although Lord Brahma holds a significant position in Hinduism, he isn’t worshipped as commonly as Lord Vishnu or Lord Shiva. The reason behind this is that, while Brahma is the creator of the universe, he’s not responsible for maintaining or destroying it. Lord Vishnu, on the other hand, is known as the preserver of the universe and Lord Shiva as its destroyer. Since Brahma is believed to have accomplished his task of creation, he’s not worshipped as actively as the other deities.

The vehicle (vahana) of Lord Brahma, the creator in Hindu mythology, is a divine swan, or hansa. This vehicle of Lord Brahma is often depicted accompanying Brahma and is believed to symbolize purity, wisdom, and grace. The swan represents the ability to discern between good and evil, as well as the power of discrimination and discernment, qualities essential for creation and maintaining cosmic order.

The Different Forms and Manifestations of Lord Brahma

In Hindu scriptures, Lord Brahma is depicted in various forms and manifestations, each symbolizing a distinct trait and ability. We will explore the most noteworthy avatars and manifestations of Lord Brahma.

1. Chaturmukha Brahma

One of the most widely recognized depictions of Lord Brahma is in the form of Chaturmukha Brahma. This form is characterized by four faces, each oriented in a different direction, and four arms, symbolizing the four Vedas. Chaturmukha Brahma is closely associated with the creation of the universe and is frequently portrayed seated on a lotus blossom.

2. Virinchi Brahma

Virinchi Brahma is a notable incarnation of Lord Brahma in Hindu mythology. According to legend, he originated from a lotus flower that emerged from Lord Vishnu’s navel. This form of Lord Brahma has four faces, symbolizing the four Vedas, and his skin is a resplendent gold. Virinchi Brahma is closely associated with the creation of the cosmos and is often depicted holding a water pot and a rosary.

3. Purusha Brahma

Purusha Brahma is an intriguing incarnation of Lord Brahma, closely associated with the concept of the “cosmic man” or “universal self.” As the embodiment of the entire cosmos, Purusha Brahma is typically depicted as a colossal figure with innumerable arms and legs that represent all living beings. This form of Lord Brahma is deeply connected to the creation of the universe and is believed to be the origin of all life.

4. Svayambhuva Brahma

Svayambhuva Brahma is a noteworthy form of Lord Brahma in Hinduism. Legend has it that he emerged self-born from a lotus flower that bloomed from Lord Vishnu’s navel. This incarnation of Lord Brahma has four heads and four arms, carrying a book, a staff, a lotus flower, and a water pot. Svayambhuva Brahma is closely linked to the creation of the cosmos and is regarded as the fount of all knowledge and wisdom.

5. Ardhanarishvara Brahma

In Hindu scriptures, the story of Brahma’s enlightenment involves the appearance of Ardhanarishvara, a divine form of Shiva that is half-male and half-female. Brahma sought the female aspect of Shiva’s form, praying for a female counterpart to continue the process of creation. The goddess granted Brahma’s request, producing a variety of female powers from her body that propelled the progression of creation.

Ardhanarishvara Brahma is a distinctive incarnation of Lord Brahma as per Hindu Scriptures, symbolizing the merging of male and female energies in the cosmos. This portrayal of Lord Brahma is represented with a half-male and half-female body, where one side signifies masculine energy and the other denotes feminine energy. Ardhanarishvara Brahma is closely associated with the creation of the universe and is often depicted holding a water pot and a rosary.

Lord Brahma is a multifaceted and intricate deity in Hinduism, with various forms and incarnations that epitomize diverse aspects of his personality and abilities. From the four-headed Chaturmukha Brahma to the self-born Svayambhuva Brahma, each form of Lord Brahma signifies a unique facet of the universe’s creation and upkeep. By comprehending these different manifestations of Lord Brahma, one can attain a more profound understanding of the intricate and rich nature of Hinduism and Sanatan Dharma. Explore the captivating world of Lord Brahma and his diverse forms in this article.

Lord Brahma by Talon Abraxas