#the cello in the beginning of hold them down tries to play the 'whoever can string my husband's old bow' melody from the challenge

[whateverussy]

i want to eat sand about the fucking motifs and instrumentation in epic FUCK

[ghost-whump]

sorry for the long wait, guys!! i make up for it with some oc content perhaps????

Eventually! (Part One)

CW: pet death mention, stalking, home intrusion, kidnapping, chloroform, (let me know if I missed anything!)

As a highly paranoid individual, Ezra is prone to assuming the worst in just about every situation. A car takes the same turn he does? He’s being stalked. A friend doesn’t respond to a text? They’ve been murdered. His house smells more like gas than usual? He left the stove on, poisoned his cat, and will forever be known as the feline-murdering klutz who also happened to play music. He will admit, some fears are more outlandish than others, but that is entirely besides the point. After all, Xanax is real for a reason. 

So when his living room light is on when he comes home, he dismisses it quickly. It’s late, nearly midnight, when he finally makes it to his house, cello case over his shoulder. It’s too big to take the bus, so he’d had to shed some of his busking money to get an Uber. Not ideal, but a necessary expense. It takes him some fumbling to get out his keys, but eventually lugs both himself and the behemoth of an instrument in the door. 

“Mew!”

A gray, furry lump comes bounding towards him, weaving in and out of his legs. 

“Hey, Noodles, buddy.” Ezra crouches down, running his hand through the cat’s raised fur. She stays near him, ears pressed back, facing the kitchen. He peers through the dark doorway, “What’s the matter?” 

Of course, Noodles can’t answer him, but she does allow Ezra to pick her up, hooking her claws into his shirt. Her sharp, yellow gaze is fixed on the kitchen, only raising Ezra’s alarm. He takes a step closer to the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. If this creepy, horror-movie scenario didn’t let up soon, Ezra might actually die of terror. Noodles jumps from his arms as he approaches, skittering into another room. Fantastic. 

Before going in, at least he has the foresight to dig his keys (and attached pepper spray) from his front pocket. Wielding the plastic weapon, Ezra suppresses a small, nervous laugh at the situation. Did he even have a reason to be so nervous? Just because his cat’s acting weird and he left a light on earlier? 

Floorboards creak ominously when he breaches the dark room, only adding to the unsettling atmosphere. Feeling along the wall for the light, Ezra holds his breath. 

“Please don’t turn on the light!”

Ezra freezes. “What…?”

“Oh, jeez, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go!” Whoever was in his house mutters, and Ezra hears them start to walk around on the tile floor. “God – God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d get home till later, so – so I wasn’t ready yet.”

“...What the fuck?” Is the only thing Ezra can say, the only thing he can think. “W-Who are you?”

The footsteps grow closer, but he still can’t move. The intruder sighs, “Look, I’m really sorry about this. I didn’t want – I didn’t mean for this to happen. Christ, I’m sorry.”

“The fuck are you–Mmf!” Suddenly, a cloth, damp with a putrid chemical is on his face. He drops the pepper spray, his keys clattering on the floor. His attacker moves quickly, shoving Ezra into the wall. No amount of struggling, of beating on the assailant’s chest, does anything. His movements feel weak, muscles relaxing as the cloth presses harder over his nose. A moment passes where consciousness floats away, and before he even realizes it, his arms are limp. Legs giving way, Ezra’s eyelids begin to droop.

“Shh, it’s okay,” The attacker coos, in a crude mockery of sympathy. “It’s okay, Ezzy, I’ve got you. Just go to sleep, baby, it’s alright.” Continued murmurings of sweet nothings echo around Ezra’s skull, until there’s nothing left. The darkness somehow grows darker, until Ezra can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed. The long seconds turn into quick bursts of awareness, slowly spacing themselves further and further. 

Ezra tries to fight back, or at least, he thinks he does. It’s a little hard to tell, and he’s really tired. 

Maybe if he just drifted off for a moment, he’d have some strength to fight later. 

Just a little nap.

“That’s good, just close your eyes, baby,” Gentle fingers brush his hair, “I’ll take good care of you.”

let me know what you think + if u want more <33

[aelixandra]

Dreaming On Your Feet

Read on Ao3!

Summary: Aelin Galathynius is one of the newest company members of the Rifthold Ballet Theatre, and she is eager to make all of her dreams a reality. She has the talent, the ambition, the walls no one can get past, and the thick skin that no one can get under. Except for new principal dancer Rowan Whitethorn. He’s arrogant, talented, and infuriating - and they just might have more in common than they think.

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Chapter 8: Breaking Point

Arms lengthen. . . down, slow developpé into the lift, gentle lean forward. . .

Aelin stood at the back of the studio with Dorian, marking through the Act II pas de deux while paying close attention to Nehemia and Rowan, who were rehearsing at the front. She loved watching Nehemia dance, and this role showed off her friend’s long limbs and elegant lines with every movement she made.

And then there was Rowan.

Everything he did was effortless, and he looked completely at ease with the choreography.

But Aelin knew better.

Now she knew about Lyria, about Rowan’s history with Giselle. She noticed the extra sweat, the slight tension he held in his upper back. Every day was a battle for him, a fight to keep the nightmares at bay. No one else saw.

Aelin did.

“Good, you two. Take a break,” Eudora said, shaking Aelin from her thoughts. Rowan and Nehemia nodded and headed for the door, Rowan making sure to get there first to hold it open for her.

How chivalrous, Aelin thought with an inward smile.

Eudora gestured to Aelin and Dorian. “While they’re taking a break, would either of you like to run through anything? I need to run to my office for a moment.”

Aelin looked at Dorian. “Can we run the Act II pas and the Act I variation?”

“Fine with me,” he replied with a grin. He gave a flourishing gesture toward the center of the studio. “After you, milady.” Eudora chuckled as she left the studio.

Aelin glanced at the rehearsal pianist. Aelin didn’t know much about her, besides the fact that she was new – and that she looked like she could either be your best friend or your worst enemy.

But she supposed that was a matter of opinion.

Taking her place in the center of the room, she heard Dorian’s voice. “Thank you, Manon,” he said quietly.

Manon. So that was her name.

And Dorian knew it. Interesting. . .

Manon nodded, brushing a lock of white hair behind her ear. She started to play the adagio of the pas de deux, which began with a brief but difficult solo for Giselle. Aelin started in fifth position, extending her right leg into a high developpé to the side. She brushed through first to arabesque, a promenade, then ending in a tendu. She then lifted her left leg into second before turning her body to face the right, leaning low into an arabesque penché. After a brief musical interlude, Aelin bourréed backwards until she felt Dorian’s hands on her waist, and then the two of them began the rest of the pas de deux.

It was easy, dancing with Dorian. It was comfortable.

It was comfortable dancing with Sam, too –

At the first reminder of his name, Aelin shut her thoughts down completely. She went into autopilot, concentrating on Giselle’s moment at hand.

Before she knew it, the pas was over, and she was leaning against Dorian in an arabesque.

Manon stopped playing.

Aelin came down from pointe, letting Dorian stand up. He turned to her, his breathing slightly heavier. “How did that feel to you?” he asked.

Aelin rested her hands on her hips. “Fine, I think,” she shrugged. “Not too bad for a first full run.”

It had in fact been far from fine. Aelin had felt herself close off and shy away from any emotional expression – and she knew that as a dancer, her storytelling abilities suffered because of it.

She prayed to the gods that she wouldn’t have to perform it. At all. Ever.

Right as she spoke, she noticed Rowan in the doorway. His arms were crossed, and he leaned against the wall. Those pine-green eyes were studying her intently.

Damn it, why did he always have to look like he knew her so well?

Aelin turned back to the task at hand, feeling the weight of his gaze still behind her. “Manon, can I have the Act I variation, please?”

----------

Rowan watched Aelin as she talked smoothly with Dorian. Fine, I think, he heard her say. Even if he hadn’t known what she had gone through, he would have been able to tell that her dancing was off.

The fact was that he did know what she had gone through. She was going through the same thing he was in dancing this ballet.

He watched her go through Giselle’s Act I variation. She was more at ease dancing alone, smiling and acting the part.

But she wasn’t free.

Rowan ran a hand through his hair. And neither am I, he thought.

So what are we going to do about it?

Aelin finished the variation, and her brilliant eyes immediately found his. She forced a tight smile, but her eyes. . . they were deep turquoise pools brimming with both apology and pain.

But she wasn’t trying to hide it from him.

He hoped it meant that she knew he understood.

But beyond that. . . he had no idea what to do.

*

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two.

For Rowan, the answer had to be in the studio.

It was going on 9:00 pm, he noticed as he glanced at the clock. He had been there for about an hour, going through all of Albrecht’s parts. He had done the famous thirty-two entrechat six three times now, and he was done. He couldn’t take it anymore.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on one of his arms, leaning it up on a wall.

Not a wall, the mirror.

His eyes sprang open.

He studied himself.

A line of sweat traced its way down his temple. His silver hair was mussed. He looked stronger, probably even better than he had been at Doranelle.

But the man looking back at him was broken.

And if he was honest with himself, he didn’t know if his pieces could be put together again.

He might as well have been hit by that train, too.

Then that look in Aelin’s eyes yesterday. . .

It had shattered him all over again.

The fear, the apology, the anguish –

Rowan looked at his eyes again in the mirror.

Eyes now rimmed with silver.

That hadn’t happened in two years.

He let out a long exhale, his shoulders giving a single shudder. “Gods,” he breathed.

With another deep breath, he pushed away from the wall and headed out of the studio.

He was walking down the hall towards the men’s dressing room when he heard music.

Music from Giselle.

The Act II pas de deux.

Cursing his curiosity and shoving away the sudden pang in his chest, Rowan followed the melancholy cello to the main studio. He peered in the window.

She wore all of her dance attire, but she sat against the mirror, her arms hugging her knees, her head tilted back, looking at the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut, and he saw a thin line of silver escape down her cheek.

She looked so small.

Even the music seemed to swallow her whole.

Suddenly she stood up and went over to the sound system. Wiping her eyes brusquely, she changed the music. Act I, Giselle’s entrance. Giselle’s dance with Loys, the peasant alias of Prince Albrecht.

Aelin took her place. On cue, she stepped out, beginning a small series of jumps around the space. She looked better than she had in rehearsal yesterday, but he could still see her fighting the ghosts, fighting both keep up and to tear down her walls.

As quietly as he could, Rowan slipped into the studio and waited.

----------

Aelin tried to go through the pas, even just marking it.

She just. . . couldn’t.

She had been doing okay until yesterday, when she actually had the chance to do it full out for the first time. It should have been an opportunity, but all it had been was torture. She had been able to cover it up to Dorian.

But then she had looked at Rowan.

And he had seen straight through her.

There was no hiding from him. From someone who she now knew to be as broken as she was.

She shoved herself up from the floor, aggressively scrubbing the traitorous tear that had trickled down her cheek.

She hadn’t cried in almost two years.

She would get this right. She could do it. She would do it.

She went back to the beginning of the ballet, to Giselle’s entrance. Tapping play, she took her place at stage right of the room. The music began.

Albrecht, as Loys, knocks on the door. He hides behind the house as. . .

Aelin stepped out on the floor, glancing around excitedly as if looking for him. She executed the series of sautés in a circle before arriving back at downstage right. She mimed I heard knocking – from where? She looked for Albrecht again briefly, shrugged, then launched into the next series of steps, steps meant to demonstrate Giselle’s playfulness and love of dancing.

Albrecht blows kisses here, stop, listen. . . Go look for him.

Aelin ran around the room, looking for her imaginary Albrecht. Going to where his house would be, downstage left, she mimed inviting him out. Then a second time. Dejected, she hung her head and slowly stepped backwards, where Albrecht would be –

She bumped into someone.

Someone was there.

She took a sharp intake of breath, her heart pounding as she turned to face whoever it was, her head and gaze still firmly on the ground. She saw a pair of slightly beat-up black ballet shoes and gray tights rolled up, revealing a pair of muscled calves. Male legs.

As the familiar flute and violin phrase began, she felt a thumb and forefinger under her chin.

Fingers that were so strong, but so gentle that it surprised her.

Then those fingers slowly tilted her chin up.

Her eyes were already burning before she met a familiar pine-green gaze.

The music kept playing, but Aelin couldn’t dance anymore. Not tonight.

As Rowan’s eyes knocked down every single one of her walls, she felt the tears come, sliding hot and fast down her cheeks.

Rowan’s arms were around her before she could wipe them away.

She clutched his shirt, letting the silent sobs wrack her body.

He just stood there and held her, letting her fall apart in his arms.

And not once did he try to pull away.

He stayed.

But even as she was breaking apart, one of those jagged pieces of her broken soul slid back into place.

Despite everything, he was here.

Rowan was here.

And she was not alone.