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solreino · 2 months ago

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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!”

#swan song #call of duty #tf 141 x reader #ploy 141 x reader #vladimir makarov x reader #valeria garza #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #john price x reader #john price x you #crossposted on ao3

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rotworld · 30 days ago

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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.

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.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #original

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tragedy-of-commons · 2 months ago

Note

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

#[200] everybody talks!#—stellaronhvnters.#black swan x reader #hsr x reader #platonic black swan x reader #platonic hsr x reader #platonic honkai star rail x reader #hsr black swan x reader #black swan hsr x reader #black swan & reader #platonic honkai: star rail x reader #hsr platonic x reader #black swan x you #black swan x y/n #black swan hsr #platonic x reader #singularity-sam #✧ my writing

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trash-llama · 2 days ago

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No little shits were harmed, and breakfast is ready 🧡

Nickel: This is really good grandpa!

Sprout: I'm glad you like it. Now... do you wanna talk about you sabotaging the drain?

Nickel: How did you know?

Sprout: I'm in my wise post-heir era. I just know these things.

#ts4 swans #ts4 legacy #the sims 4 #swan g12 #nickel swan #sprout swan

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whipedcream · 2 months ago

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Brush test

#swan’s art #FUCK dandy’s world’s co-creator may they ROY #*rot #dandy’s world #Sprout #sprout dandy’s world #ii #osc #inanimate insanity #oj #oj ii #ii oj #oj inanimate insanity

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what-have-i-unleashed · 1 month ago

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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.

#cw toxic relationship #cw violence #three fics in a day??? what is this level of productivity i will never reach again #sorry but bunny is having a time in here #the memories are painful but at least he will hold on to it like the last lifeline he has #dust sans #murder sans #killer sans #nightmare sans #kist #love affair #utmv #undertale au #sanshipping #sanscest #i write #fic: mermaid bunny #edit: I FORGOT KILLER IN THE TAGS OMG

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cilil · 6 months ago

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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

#feanor #feanaro #manwe #manwë #manwe sulimo #manwe x feanor #valar #ainur #silmarillion #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #cílil writes #my writing

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blue-lotus333 · 10 months ago

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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

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moonyasnow · 4 months ago

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TWST OC Showcase: Artemisia Silkmire

Voice Claim: LUMi

Human Left-handed Land of Dawning 165cm / 5'4 - #abd1cf / 171, 209, 207 April 19th - Aries - 16-17 y.o. 1st year - Freshman - Class E, no. 27 Literature Club (club leader - made it herself) - later Board Game Club Best Subject: Astronomy Hobbies: Reading Pet peeves: Being stared at Favorite food: Cold vegetables Least favorite food: Greasy foods Talent: Knowing when someone is looking at her Floyd-given name: Ghost Catfish Rook-given name: Demoiselle Ange Cater-given name: Mi-mi Signature Spell: Swan Heart When the spell is cast, a pair of big, white feather wings sprout from her back. The wings are big enough to allow her to fly with them

[ ~Based on 'the ugly duckling'~ ]

I know it's not a Disney thing but eh

Link to all my OC Showcases here!

A few quotes:

"This is… I have never witnessed the night sky without light pollution before. It is…magnificent."

[internal narration] *Oh Artemisia you inarticulate fool!*

Her expression grows a little sad, desperate and uncomfortable all at once. "But…! Light turquoise is the only color that fits me…" — "Dark colors draw too much attention to my pale complexion, as does white. Pink draws attention to my eyes, and, in my personal opinion, makes me look like an oversized toddler."

She was born the second child of the Silkmire family, the current royal family of the Land of Dawning. Her family consists of her mother Queen Marigold, her father King Simeon, her older sister Cerise, and her younger brother Valerian. From the moment she was born, it was clear that she was…well, different. Instead of the crimson/golden hair, grey/blue eyes and tan skin of the rest of her family, her hair was stark white, her eyes a pinkish red color, and her skin white as snow. The condition she was born with also ensured she was quite a sickly child, and even when she grew up, still had a weak constitution and sensitivity to sunlight. Oh, and she was also born with two other conditions: brittle bones, and a heart condition which greatly reduced her stamina, as strenuous exercise of any kind made her winded incredibly quickly, leaving her dizzy and light-headed, sometimes even collapsing. Along with being albino and being born with a weak heart, weak bones and just a weak body overall, she also bruises very easily and her skin is incredibly sensitive to physical sensations. As is her hearing. She has no 'filter' in her ears. 'White noise' to her, with the exception of the ticking of clocks, is never actually white noise, instead just regular noise. Due to this reason she cannot stand crowds. Due to its history, the Land of Dawning does not look favorably upon the fae. And any child who significantly differs from the norm was purported to be either a changeling— a child swapped with a fae as a baby— or somehow 'fae-touched' whether it be by curse or any other means. And it didn't take long for the term 'fae-touched' to stop meaning 'someone cursed by a fae' and start meaning 'anyone who looks or behaves differently to the norm'. And their own princess being— in their eyes— fae-touched meant that from the moment of her birth, she was seen as an ill-omen. Unlike her sister and later brother, her birth was barely announced at all, and she was hidden away from the rest of the world. Also partly due to the fact that she had magic, which was not exactly 'common' anywhere but Briar Valley. While it might not have been seen as strange had she looked 'normal', her being 'fae-touched' and also possessing magic only further confirmed the former in their eyes.

She was in a bit of a strange position. Her activities and people she spoke to were just as limited as was typical for a princess, but since her parents never bothered having her attend all the social functions her sister went to- in fact, they more often than not even forbid her from setting foot outside her room when one was happening- she was left largely to herself. All her life, she's known it is the royal family's duty to be and uphold the gold standard for what is deemed acceptable behavior in the Land of Dawning, and her parents always placed a heavy emphasis that each person fit into what is expected of them. Since she was deemed to have a 'monstrous' appearance, since she looked different, she was deemed exempt from this, the most standard duty of a royal. Her existence was deemed mostly pointless. So, she was shunned by her parents, seen as completely without use or purpose for existing. She found not a single shred of hope anywhere. The only fate in store for her was to do nothing but continue to breathe each day, nothing more than a relative whose name was only to be spoken of in hushed tones. So it was deemed that her duty was to stay out of sight and out of mind as much as possible. Her older sister Cerise was her only real friend growing up. Where others scorned her and ignored her, Cerise loved her and was genuinely happy to spend time with her. Cerise was always listening to her go on and on about something she'd learned from a book even though Cerise often had no idea what half of the things Artemisia spoke of meant, all with a small smile on her face, happy to see her sister happy. She never made any comment about how dark Artemisia's room was or seemed disappointed when Artemisia didn't feel like talking, or her body got overwhelmed and she needed to rest. Artemisia felt that, so long as she had Cerise, she was fine with being an outsider to the rest of the world. Her entire world consisted the palace's walls, and even the places in the castle she could visit were limited. But, though it took years of convincing, before her sister left, Cerise had somehow convinced their parents to let Artemisia try to live a normal life. So long as Cerise was accompanying her, Artemisia was allowed to attend a very few, select events.

It didn't go very well for her. When she was there, people always stared at her at first, whispering about her in hushed tones and acting like she was some exotic animal. She remembers one evening when she was 7, she'd been allowed to attend a high society ball. With her nervous mannerisms and how she didn't speak unless she was spoken to first- and then, in a quiet voice that was hard to hear- people, as always, thought she was strange. They stared at her, and thought it was rude that she never looked them in the eye, and mostly just kept her head down staring at the floor and fidgeting with her hands that she always held in front of her protectively. When she tried to go up to a group of girls her age and talk to them, though they let her join the conversation, they seemed apprehensive about it. Mostly, she remained quiet, just listening, because whenever she did try to say something they all stared at her as though she'd told them she likes to chew on her slippers. Eventually, she ended up just walking away, and they didn't seem to care, or even notice. She moved back to her place against the wall, and amongst all the whispers of the crowd around her roaring in her ears, she heard someone call her 'changeling'. The reminder of the huge wall separating her from other people, along with the fact that she could feel people watching her and the noise all became too much. She ended up running out of the ballroom, down the hall and into the first other door she could find. She ended up in the library. There, everything was darker, calm, quiet, and there was no one to stare at her and make her feel self-conscious. At first, she cried for a long time because of her feelings of isolation and alienation. Then, when she'd stopped crying, she felt a bit bored. Though she knew she definitely didn't want to go back into the ballroom. Just out of curiosity, she pulled a book off the shelves and began reading. It was a history book for children, and as soon as she began reading, she was instantly hooked. She ended up staying there late into the night, reading book upon book, absorbing all the information like a sponge. She became so lost in the worlds of the books that, once someone finally found her, almost buried behind her stack of books, she snapped back to reality and noticed that the sun was starting to rise outside the window. From that day forward, she never asked to go to another event again. Instead, at every opportunity, she'd be in the library, reading until she was too tired and went to bed or was interrupted. She loved, and still loves, books and libraries with all her heart. In books she can get sucked into another world and pretend she's not herself for a while, or she can learn about the real world around her that she's never been allowed to see. And hidden away in her own tiny, shaded alcove of the library, there was no one who would come to stare at her or call her names. What she’d do if she didn’t understand a word in a book is literally just go look it up in a dictionary—and if that definition included words she didn’t understand, she’d look up those, too. She devoured so many books so quickly that when she was only 9, she'd straight up just run out of books to read that were fit for her age demographic. So she began reading more advanced ones, and her sister was shocked when she found a 10-year-old Artemisia reading and mostly comprehending a history book meant for people twice her age. And when she later lost Cerise, literature became her only remaining comfort and escape from a world she felt would never accept her.

But, though she might have stopped trying to attend any parties, they still happened, foreign dignitaries and royalty visiting for the purposes of diplomacy or some such. During these events, she was told to stay in her room, but she would often sneak out to the library, since she knew it would be empty. This being due to a rumor that a ghost was haunting it. That 'ghost' was actually her; people had seen a ghostly white shape in the library in the middle of the night, and some had described hearing crying, others the jostling of chains. Those 'chains' were actually just the keys to her room and drawers which she liked to bring with her for safe-keeping. But the rumor meant the library was always empty at night. Or at least, it usually was. During one such event, held at night, she found a boy two or three years older than her napping on a couch, telling her to be quiet if she was gonna be in there. She did as he asked, and sat quietly at a table a few feet away from him, reading. Though…she wanted to try to speak to him. But before she could, an member of the palace staff came in, Artemisia hurrying to hide, and told the boy off for wandering off on his own. They called him 'your highness'. They then asked him if he had been talking to someone, saying they thought they might've heard a second voice. He took one look at the anxious expression on her face, hiding in a corner, and lied and said no. Then the staff member urged him to come along with them, since his parents and brother were looking for him. During the next event, she once again sought out the library. And once again found a dark haired lion boy napping nearby. Just like the last time, she sat quietly near him as she read. But he broke the silence, asking, since she obviously knew who he was by that point, why hadn't she found somewhere else to sit? The library was big enough for her to avoid him, after all. She asked if he wanted her to move. He said she could do whatever she wanted. So she stayed sitting next to the couch. The next time after that, he asked if she hadn't heard the rumors about him, and why she was still choosing to be around him. She answered: 'People tell rumors about me too. They stare at me, or don't want their children to associate with me. But you do not treat me like I'm different. It is…nice.' They did this quite a few times, actually. Once, he even asked what she was reading. The next time, he'd brought a small pile of similar books he thought she'd enjoy with him from home. They never spoke much to each other outside of the things outlined above. But they were each other's safe space whenever they met during a party. Someone else who knew what it was like to be judged, and just let them be them.

The reason he and his family visited so often was due to a trade agreement their parents had been working to establish. And once established, the visits came to an end. The next time she heard about her... Was he her friend? Not exactly. But it wouldn't be correct to say she disliked him, either. He was simply someone she didn't have to feel tense around. And given her lack of such people in her life, it was important to her. So it was less about him than it was the general state of being around him which she liked. Either way, the next time she heard about him, it was from her sister. He'd come up to her at some other social event and asked where Artemisia was. After explaining she was home, and asking if he'd like Cerise to give her a greeting from him, he just said 'whatever' and walked away. But still, brief as those meetings may have been, she recalled that time of her life fondly. Not only because she had something almost close to being considered the approximation of a friend, but also because it was the last time she got to spend with her sister.

When Artemisia was 11, her sister, who was 9 years older than her and thus 20 at the time, was married off to the crown prince of the Scalding Sands and sent away, later becoming the Sultana. She wrote to Artemisia a lot at first, but eventually the letters stopped arriving, and she spent the rest of her childhood completely alone, wearing a groove in the floor between her room and the library, doing nothing each day but continuing to be alive. Her mother had been home-schooling her for her whole life. Due to her various health conditions and that, while they might not say it, it was obvious her parents were ashamed of her, she was home-schooled. At first by various tutors...but they always gave her dirty looks when they thought she wasn't looking. So eventually her mother began teaching her. She taught Artemisia that it was best that she never left her tower at all, so Artemisia stopped going to events, only asking to be allowed to visit the library, which her mother reluctantly agreed to, as long as she visited only the smaller library, where the books Artemisia would read could more easily be filtered and combed through to make sure they held no information Artemisia wasn't allowed to know. Her mother said Artemisia being kept in her tower was for her own protection, since the outside world would surely revile her for being a monster, scorn and condemn her. She started teaching Artemisia that all the world would ever see in her was an unsightly monster, and an abomination, being born the way she was. She made it clear that she was 'only saying so for Artemisia's own good'. She knew how sensitive Artemisia was, and didn't want her to go through that, deciding instead it was better to isolate her.

She eventually became depressed, due to all the time she had on her hands with nothing new ever happening, just reading and reading and getting stuck in her own thoughts in an endless loop, never able to reach any conclusions in her mind about the things she kept thinking about. She often pondered philosophical questions in her mind…but talking about it with only yourself for so long gets boring, since it’s impossible to reach any answers. Even with her previous negative experiences of them, she'd tried attending more social events after Cerise left, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she could find someone she could hold a conversation with about academic topics like psychology, philosophy, mathematics, history, anthropology, law, linguistics, biology, astronomy—really just anything at all. Knowledge about those topics had filled her head for so long and are so fascinating to her that talking about them is the only way she knows to try to connect to other people. But no one ever seemed interested in talking about it with her, looking at her weirdly when she tried to start a conversation and just jumped straight into asking deeply philosophical questions. She felt she had no real reason to exist other than just continuing to read books, but she questioned if that was really a 'reason' at all. She is an incredibly introspective person, partly due to that just being how life shaped her; she has had nothing but time with her thoughts, after all. So she is at the same time very wise but very naïve. She had always wished that she could become a bird, so that she could fly out of this cage she's in, leave it all behind and truly be free. But she also knows that's impossible. She doesn't know why she's tried so hard to keep herself alive all this time, always trying to give herself a reason to get up the next day, such as finishing a book, or eating something specific for dinner. It’s like she’s endlessly wandering around an infinite maze with no exit. She'd rather keep walking, trying to keep herself hoping there’s an exit somewhere, than just give up. But still, she doesn't know why she refuses to give up.

Another talent of hers, if you could call it that, is speed reading. Not speed reading in the sense of just reading to get through the words, but also absorbing all the information at the same time. She normally reads about 2000 words per minute, with around 95% comprehension. She's been doing almost nothing but reading her entire life, after all, so of course she's gotten very fast at it.

At NRC:

One day, her mother informed Artemisia that she was to start attending Night Raven College. She was…flabbergasted. Night Raven College is an All-Boys' Magic School.

It was explained to her that her mother— and her father, too, but Artemisia barely saw him anyway— would be very busy in the coming year and no longer be able to keep home-schooling her. And since Sage island is Land of Dawning territory… Well, when the King and Queen of your nation say their daughter will be housed at your school from now on, you don't exactly have a choice in the matter.

She knew why they did what they did. They wanted to send her off somewhere, to not have to deal with her presence anymore. She was expecting to never return from Night Raven College.

She didn't get to NRC by way of the Black Carriage like the other students did, and instead arrived three days early through the Dark Mirror. She was given a spare room in the Faculty's quarters.

For the first month of school, she was back to her usual routine. Wake up, have breakfast and her medicine, read, have lunch, read, have dinner, read, then go to bed and get around 5 hours of sleep. Then wake up and do it all over again. The one saving grace about the situation was that Night Raven College had an extensive library filled with books she'd not read before.

But eventually the staff at the school felt too bad for her, and practically forced Crowley to enroll her. At first he protested, saying there were no open places in any of the dorms— but then a spot just so happened to open up in Scarabia. Really, he mostly agreed due to realizing if she was enrolled, he'd no longer have to spend money on giving her food and shelter; that'd get charged to her parents instead. So he just told her she was part of the Scarabia dorm now. He said it was because he analyzed her nature, but really he just chose one at random, and inadvertently added something else to Jamil's already overflowing plate. Whoops. Not his problem. Nor was the fact that the Scarabia dorm really was not a good place for Artemisia to be, what with her body's sensitivity to sunlight. Which her parents did clearly state in a letter they wrote to Crowley detailing things she would need for her health.

She first arrived at Scarabia in the middle of one of their famous parties. The Housewarden had greeted her briefly, saying he didn't recognize her but welcoming her to the party and encouraging her to get something to eat— then his attention was snatched away by someone else in the room calling out his name. So she just stood there.

The familiar, uncomfortable prickle of people's eyes on her settled into her skin, and though she held her arms protectively around herself and had tried to hide crammed into the shadow of a large vase, she still felt far too exposed for her liking. This was all why she never attended social gatherings anymore…there were always too many people, all of whom would undoubtedly stare at her like she was some exotic animal at least once during the night, and the constant sound of voices was always drilling into her head… Though at least with those gatherings, she could sneak out at some point; go to the library and disappear. Not this time. She wished with all her might that she could be allowed to go back to her room, or at least seek out someplace quieter or darker, where the light wouldn't sting her sensitive eyes. But alas, she had no such luck; she'd be forced to stay there until she worked up the courage to move through the throng of people to try to speak to the Housewarden again. She took a moment to settle her back against the wall, close her eyes, and take a deep breath, though she could already feel a headache coming on.

Seeking any kind of distraction, she became curious and decided to watch the other people present, maybe see if she could place them into a Dorm based on their clothing. It's not like there was anything else to do; she would never be able to just focus on her own thoughts with all the noise, and her mind would undoubtedly keep wandering back to the unease and anxiety she was just barely managing to smother. She looked over the rest of the students, sorted them, before moving on to the next, no one really seeming interesting enough to cast a second glance at.

That is, until she saw him.

She'd never exactly been the romantic type— for the longest time, having never felt it, she'd been convinced that romantic love didn't even exist and all romance books should be classed as non-fiction— and had never really payed any attention to what people look like. Until that very moment, apparently. When she saw him for the first time, it was like the rest of world began to move in slow-motion. Everything around her beginning to feel blurry and distant, even the sounds of people talking, and only his image remained clear and in focus. She couldn't stop staring at him, his beautiful long, dark, almost silken hair, his intelligent charcoal eyes...

Those strange, unfamiliar feelings took hold of her, made her chest tighten in a way she wasn't used to, and made her breath hitch. She couldn't explain it logically no matter how hard she tried. She'd never felt anything like it before. She forced herself to tear her eyes away, lest she be caught staring. She stared into space with her eyes aimed to the ground, calmed her breathing, and glanced in his direction again. She battled with herself, caught in some strange, inner battle between instinct, logic, her confusion, and the new sensation of bewilderment she felt. When she glanced up at him again, he seemed to notice, and he looked at her. At her. The moment their eyes meet, her heart suddenly exploded in her chest. The only term she could think of to refer to it as was a feeling of helplessness; of not knowing what to do and being unable to do anything except fall pray to whatever spell seemed to have been cast on her.

When he introduced himself and said he was supposed to lead her to her room (on Crowley's orders) she swore she forgot her own name. Her pale milk-toned face lit up strawberry pink. She found herself straining herself trying to make conversation and ask things about the dorm as they passed, and about himself, too. She had no idea what was going on— it was so out of character for her to want to talk to someone! But she did want to. More than she'd ever wanted anything. The words just kept coming out, she felt so tense and like she had no control over what she was saying. But she liked it. And when at the end he smiled at her and said goodnight, she thought she would faint. She wanted to see him again, to talk to him more, to learn more about him! She could barely sleep that night because her heart wouldn't stop pounding and she couldn't stop thinking about him…

But when the sun went up, her hopes were dashed. She realized, with resignation in her chest, that it was far, far too bright for her to be able to stay in Scarabia. The sun was so bright…it lit up her room even through the thick curtains covering the window. She tried to tough it out for a few days, but to no avail. No matter how much sunscreen she lathered on and no matter how many layers she wore to protect from it, she still ended up with a few barely-noticable-but-still-present blotches of red on her pearl white skin.

She had no choice. She had to request a transfer to Diasomnia. She felt absolutely crushed to know she could no longer be in the same dorm as him, the only person she'd ever wanted to put in effort to try to spend time with. She had no idea when else she would be able to see him.

When she got to Diasomnia, her bags full of nothing but books— carried with the help of a staff ghost, since she already had trouble walking for long distances without getting winded, nevermind doing so while carrying super heavy books— she was formally introduced to the vice Housewarden Lilia Vanrouge. She had to explain why she had requested a dorm transfer, and he was understanding as he showed her to an empty room. He also added his number into her phone in case she needed help.

Diasomnia was a lot darker than Scarabia, as well as the NRC campus as a whole, which she was thankful for. For the first time, she could look out the window without needing to squint. But...

People stared. All her dorm-mates aside from Lilia and Silver stared at her, whispering about how unusual her appearance was for a human. And they also talked about her being human quite a lot, since Silver had up to that point been the only non-fae dorm member. Sebek mentioned it quite often.

She was more physically comfortable in Diasomnia…but not exactly happy at first. For the first few weeks she holed up in her room to read, or left early in the morning and came back late at night.

It felt strange to her. She'd never felt at home around humans, never felt like one of them, so she wasn't used to being called a human. And in fact, she'd always hoped that if she was truly 'fae-touched', the fae might welcome her more readily than humans had.

Though, while most of her Dorm-members might not have welcomed her with open arms, Lilia and Silver certainly did. And Sebek, too, eventually. And Malleus, too, once the two of them met while coincidentally both going to Lilia for advice at the same time, after which Lilia introduced her as that freshman who'd transfered recently. He'd evidently been talking to Malleus about her quite often, as he said he'd been looking forward to finally meeting her in person.

Seeing as how Lilia had basically adopted her already— if not literally, which he most likely would have if he could, then at least in spirit— Malleus started treating her as though she were his younger sister. And given the shared experience of never being seen as whole people, one feared and the other ostracized, as well as them both being quite sheltered, it wouldn't have been hard to believe they actually were siblings.

When she found out NRC had clubs— that is, groups dedicated to a specific activity where one could meet and socialize with like-minded people, or at least who enjoyed the same activity— she was very sad when she realized there wasn't a club about books. When she lamented this to Lilia, he suggested she could make her own, since a club only really needed one member to be allowed to exist. And so she did. She formed the 'Literature Club'.

Something eventually happened which shocked her— Kalim, her former Housewarden, found her in her little alcove in the school library and invited her to one of his parties. And weirder still, she accepted? Some tiny part of her was hoping she might get to see Jamil there. And she did! She felt absolutely over the moon. She spent every second that she could talking to him, offering to help carry small things back and forth from the kitchen. It wore her out, with her very poor stamina, but she was just too happy to be able to talk to him that it didn't matter to her. Her crush on him made her feel normal, in a way, for the first time in her life.

Later on, she ended up asking Lilia— who, as she'd barely ever even talked to her own father, had started to feel like something of a father figure to her— if he could teach her how to cook. She wanted to be able to help Jamil, both as a way to spend more time with him, and also to help lessens his workload. He agreed, but… Even she could tell the food he made was not fit for consumption. Though Silver and Malleus gently persuaded her otherwise when she wanted to give Lilia an honest critique on his food and how he could improve.

Instead, she started going to every single party Kalim ever invited her to, to be able to spend time with Jamil. She'd always seek him out, to the point even Kalim caught on and started just telling her where he'd last seen Jamil when she arrived.

She ended up spending a lot of time in the Scarabia kitchen as a result, asking to help carry dishes out to the lounge.

When she found out Jamil was in the basketball club, she asked him if she could come watch their practice sometime, to which he agreed.

And so that became routine for her. On the days they had practice, she would show up and watch. When they had breaks, she would go up to Jamil and ask him something or other about how the game worked, as well as other things. He once told her he was impressed by how quickly she'd memorized the rules, which lead into a conversation about academics in general, during which she said she was great at the theoretical parts, but not so great at the more practical applications of magic, since she just wasn't used to seeing it up-close. At this point, Winter Break hadn't happened yet, so he was still pretending to be just average. But still, for some reason (really, he wonders why, too) he said he could try to tutor her sometime if she'd like.

These tutoring sessions eventually lead to cooking practice, too. Artemisia has never liked people she doesn't know (which is everyone) touching her, literally and physically shying away whenever someone tries to so much as shake her hand, and backing up even further if they don't get the hint. Even with people she's acquainted with it usually feels unpleasant. But when Jamil had to hold her hands to show her how to properly use a knife, she didn't mind at all. For once, touch even felt...pleasant. Not 'not unpleasant', but actually nice in itself. And unlike with most people, she could actually look him straight in the eye without feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Though she tried to avoid it, because she knew if she did she'd end up becoming too flustered to speak properly.

Having had a lot of experience with it, Artemisia seems to have some kind of 6th sense for when someone is looking at her, manifesting as a prickling sensation in her skin. At home, she only felt it walking to the library or dining hall. But at NRC she felt it very, very often. In and on her way to class, of course, and on her way back to her dorm. But suddenly…she started feeling it almost anywhere.

She might just have been sitting down reading like usual, or writing in her diary, and the hairs on the back of her neck would stand up for no reason, even while in her room, or in the deepest, darkest, most hidden alcoves of the library. She could never see anyone, but she could always feel them watching her. But sometimes she heard the shutter of a camera. Or her diary would go missing for a few minutes, only for her to search for it, then have it turn back up in the exact same place she remembered putting it down, even if she knew for certain it hadn't been there when last she checked.

It had all started after she'd lost one of her notebooks for a few hours— though the notebook was quickly returned by a classmate who said someone had come up and given it to them, saying to return it to Artemisia. Inside it, she'd found written along the margins of some of her poetry and philosophical thoughts things like 'Captivant!' and 'Je suis amoureux!'

It seemed no place, not even the library— her place of refuge— was safe anymore. It made her incredibly uneasy. She hated every single second of it more than she could possibly describe. She felt so unsafe, so scrutinized. She's always hated being stared at more than anything else. It's always felt…violating, in a way. But no one had ever been anywhere near this persistent. Every time she heard the shutter of a camera sounding somewhere nearby she wanted to burst into tears and scream, just staring running and throw something at whoever was terrorizing her so; anything, just to get them to stop and leave her alone.

She, for the first time in her life, slowly stared to become almost afraid to be alone. But what luck then, that one day she'd suddenly run into someone she wasn't expecting to meet again; her old childhood 'friend', Leona. Just like before, they met in the library. Just like before, she simply sat down near him to read. It felt somewhat more safe sitting next to him.

But then she felt the familiar prickle in her skin. It was somehow even worse than ever this time, washing through her like a full-body shiver. And Leona noticed. Not only Artemisia's state— which wasn't hard because she always wore her strong emotions on her sleeve, especially when she felt uncomfortable— but he also noticed the person watching her. Watching them.

When Rook revealed himself, at Leona's behest, he seemed positively radiating excitement, knowing his two favorite victimsfascinations knew each other, and had even been childhood friends. He said it was 'so beautiful I might begin to cry!'

It became a semi-regular occurance of them spending time around each other silently, and then Leona just abruptly stops and sniffs the air, one ear focusing in on a sound. Then he just grumbles something about Rook as he gets up to start walking away. Artemisia immediately also gets up and practically begs him to take her with him because she does not want to be alone if Rook is around.

Also, didn't know where else to add this, but when the culture clubs go to Camp Vargas, she's the only member of the literature club so she ended up needing to do literally all the challenges on her own.

Not only is it in the sun, she— a shut-in with a heart condition who gets winded and has to take breaks walking down a flight of stairs— did not stand a CHANCE doing anything like walking around looking for things, or fishing. Her arms have the strength of tooth picks, not to mention she doesn't even know how to do things like fish, pitch a tent, start a fire or cook in the first place.

She was able to identify a few edible plants from books, and she knew what kind of animals would be in the region, but that was it.

She ended up passing out from exhaustion on the second day. That declared her unable to continue the challenge, and the Literature Club officially disbanded.

She ended up becoming sick when she got back to NRC, too.

Not too long after that, NRC ended up having some mandatory event that she was forbidden from not attending.

Like usual, she tried to find a dark, secluded corner to stand in to wait out the party.

But this time, it seems someone else had the same idea, because while standing in a little alcove between a pillar and some curtains, she started hearing mumbling coming from the other side of the pillar, and looked over to see a guy with blue fire for hair.

They both apologize and said they could leave and find another place, before both agreeing that this was really the best spot in sight to avoid people, and agreed to hunker down and share the space for the rest of the night. Artemisia asked if she could get the darker part, since her sensitive eyes can't be exposed to too much light. She sighed and makes a comment about how she'd much rather be back in her room right now, and he, or Idia, as he'd told her, shared the sentiment.

Artemisia said having her there makes no sense— she would just be crammed into the darkest corner she could find, avoiding people the entire event anyway, and if there was any important information she could've just read it on the Diasomnia common room's bulletin board. On the exact same page, Idia chimed in saying 'A-and my presence is such a total mood-kill' and Artemisia agreed 'Yes, exactly! Ah, not to say that yours is, but mine…'

Then they shared a long, mutual sigh.

He shifted awkwardly and realized he brought a small game's console with him— think game-boy or something— and smiled in relief to himself. Artemisia stepped closer and asked what it is. This is where Idia becomes very flustered, realizing 'crap there's a girl standing very close to me' and he does the Terrified Turtle face, and starts stuttering. But when she says she's never really played a video game before, the shock snaps him out of it and he asks what rock she's lived under all her life, and she says she was always just confined to her room at home, upon which he goes quiet, knowing that feeling way too well. She asks if she can see how it works, and he agrees, and they crouch down to play. They keep talking back and forth about it for the rest of the party, and Artemisia tries it, and manages to beat the first level.

Idia talks about all the other kinds of video games that exist, and Artemisia looks at him with almost sparkling eyes. Gathering all his courage, and recalling his brother's words of encouragement about making friends, Idia says that the board game club has a few video games, too, and that he's a member and she can come check it out sometime if she wants.

She agreed.

She came to the next club meeting, and the next, and the next, and she's just a member now. Then eventually Idia suggests some PC games they could try playing, but when realizing the only computer Artemisia has is an old laptop from like 15 years ago, says it's probably better if she visits Ignihyde.

Bonus: Some more sprites

#🦢artemisia #twst #twisted wonderland #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #moony's ocs #jamil x oc #Spotify #artemil 🐍x🦢

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