#thoughts like iridescent wings { musings }

[avataroftheswarm]

If Zazie ever talks about eating you, it means they like you, a lot. Enough that they want to take you and all you are and add it to themself to keep you as part of them forever.

After all, humans and Plants both die, eventually. What does an eons old collective know of death, true death, the kind where you simply cease to exist? Every Worm that dies is always remembered as a part of the Hive, part of the collective.

The only way they have of keeping the people they deem theirs is to consume them in their entirety. Maybe they hope that some part of their friends and family will wake up in the collective and join them as part of the Worms. Maybe they know it won't work but they want to try anyway.

Maybe the cruelest gift one can give to an entity that has never known anything beyond its own undying self is the experience of becoming attached to a new, other being, one that will die in a way they simply cannot comprehend.

Maybe they're secretly a little scared of the day when all the humans and all the Plants will be gone and the planet will once more be theirs alone. A creature composed of nothing but a community so close-knit that they all share one mind cannot help but continue to find community in others and when the others are gone, will the hive-mind be lonely? Will they be left to drift through space, alone-but-not, for the rest of eternity, until the suns die and take the planet with them?

How are they going to go back to nothing more complicated then survival and monitoring the state of the planet once everyone else is gone?

[taevbears]

To Be Loved - Holiday Special

As long as there's Christmas, I truly believe That hope is the greatest of gifts we'll receive

⤑ pairing: namjoon x reader ⤑ genre: hybrid au, romance, hurt/comfort ⤑ rating: 18+ ⤑ word count: 6.2k ⤑ warnings: slight angst, slight description of violence, miscommunication lmao, implied smut, mentions of everyone's favorite asshole (kangdae) ⤑ note: happy 2025! i hope BTS' reunion year has been treating you all well so far! i meant to post this last month, but lol. 2024 was ... a year for me. anyway, i miss this couple and i hope y'all enjoy this belated Christmas gift from me!

Masterlist

It’s a cold winter’s night.

Frosted windows show a picturesque snow-covered wonderland outside the old manor. White ice blankets the forest ground and evergreen treetops, freshly-fallen and undisrupted by the nocturnal wildlife. Beneath the silver glow of moonlight is a hushed silence and a serene stillness, as if time itself has frozen over to take in the captivating beauty of the night.

A shiver runs down your back, and you pull the blanket around your shoulders a little tighter around you. From the tall windows of the west wing, you’re gifted with breathtaking sights of quiet and gentle snowfall, sunsets that paint the skies hues of orange, red, and gold, and dark clouds that obscure the moonlight as night falls and storms roll in.

Seven months ago, you ran away from your abusive boyfriend and arrived at this old and desolated manor. Moss and vines grow upon the sturdy structure, and an overgrown yard lies beyond the iron gate that leads up to it. The floors creak loudly with your careful steps, the wallpaper is peeling and faded in your room, and the antique furniture is chipped and worn. Yet, you’ve quickly learned that this manor houses something very special.

Hybrids.

Creatures that are both human and animal, but are outcasted from your society and treated like second-hand citizens. Because they’re different. Because they’re not fully human. Because they’re partly beasts, they’re treated like monsters.

Ironically, while you were living in your small, provincial town, you felt just as outcasted. You’re pretty, therefore, you had to be Kangdae’s. He treated you like a doll to puppet around and break, and everyone told you how lucky you are. Because he was wealthy and handsome. Because you look good together. Because what more is there to love?

But Kangdae never loved you. And it took coming here, to this old manor, for you to realize that.

At first, you only intended to stay until the bad storm passes. But soon, the exotic hybrids living here started to get used to you. Over time, the old manor started to feel like home. And eventually, you started to realize what love is really like.

Your gaze lifts to above the treelines, and you feel like a child by the window, waiting to catch a glimpse of Santa and his sleigh. And as you muse the thought, you spot something in the sky – a flash of blue-silver.

Soon, a long shadow circles around the manor, and a celestial beast crawls into the exposed opening on the upper-corner of the room. Iridescent scales shimmer with the moonlight, covering his serpent-like body. Long, sharp talons land on the stone floor. Whiskers and beard are dusted with fresh snow. The indigo-colored eyes easily spot you staring up at him in awe.

Truly, he’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen. You have to wonder why he’d ever think of himself anything less.

For half a year, the beast kept its identity a secret, masking his form and forbidding you from entering the west wing. Had you wandered here before, you would’ve found the gold and gems he secretly stuffed in his drawers, or would’ve caught him basking under the morning sun’s rays while he sleeps. You would've seen the traces of his violent anguish, from the scratches on the walls and holes on the floor, and he’d quietly admit it was often caused by trying to suppress this form.

Now, he has nothing to hide.

“Welcome home,” you say to the creature before you.

Then, on purpose, the beast wiggles and shakes off the wet snow from his scales.

“Ah, Namjoon!” you squeal, shutting your eyes and using your blanket to shield you from the drops of water. A playful chuckle follows, and in his human form, Namjoon wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close.

“What are you doing here? You know you’re not allowed,” he reminds you, quirking an eyebrow. All traces of the beast you had seen before are gone in this form, save for the indigo hue in his eyes. “Jimin will be upset if you catch a cold again.”

The giant hole allows Namjoon to quickly enter and exit the manor in his other form, but it also allows the freezing air and snow to come in. It makes this particular area more dangerous than the rest of the manor, weathered and damaged by the elements. Even with a blanket wrapped around you, you’re still trembling.

“What can I say? I really wanted to see you,” you admit shyly.

It’s only been a month since the night you told Namjoon you loved him. Everything still feels so new – that feeling of love and being loved in return.

Despite the freezing temperatures and the slight dampness caught in his hair, he stands before you, unaffected and incredibly warm. He presses his forehead against yours, and his voice is low as he murmurs, “I came as soon as I could.”

You’re not sure who initiates the kiss first, but something about it just feels right. The feel of his thick lips against your own. The way his hand cups your face with a gentle firmness as he starts to walk you away from the windows and toward his bed. The heat of the kiss against the frost-bitten air makes you want more.

But then, an image of your ex-fiancé flashes in your mind. Just above where you stand is where Kangdae met his end. And even after his death, he still haunts you.

That split-second of him – drenched in the rain, eyes wild with fury, aiming his gun to you and Namjoon – causes you to step back and gasp.

For a moment, you and Namjoon stand steps away. His brow furrows with worry, and guilt starts to swallow you whole when you realize you’ve just ruined the moment.

“Are you cold?” Namjoon finally asks, breaking the silence. He picks up your blanket from the ground and drapes it around you again. You hadn’t noticed it slipped off your shoulders as he was kissing you. He smiles at you kindly, dimples forming on his cheeks. “Let’s get you somewhere warmer.”

You nod your head, unable to find your voice.

It doesn’t feel fair.

Namjoon is the one you want. He makes you feel so safe and happy, and you truly love him so much.

So why do Kangdae’s words still taunt you, making you feel like you don’t deserve to be loved at all?

“Careful, it’s dusty,” Hoseok warns, standing in front of a room that probably hasn’t been entered in years. Tiny specs float in the air as he pushes the door open, and the three of you peek into the dark room to find an old storage space.

Today, the three of you are tasked to clean out some of the unused rooms in the west wing. Your body aches from sweeping and scrubbing floors, wiping windows, and moving furniture around all day. But at least this is the last room you’re assigned to tackle.

Honestly, it’s also a welcomed distraction.

Last night, Namjoon slept in your room in the east wing. You kept apologizing for pushing him away, and even though he did nothing wrong, he said he was sorry for getting too carried away.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Namjoon,” you tell him, feeling even worse.

With incredible patience and attentiveness, Namjoon courted you for months: nightly dates, sticky notes in your books, and flowers by your bedside. He never pushed you into doing anything you were uncomfortable with. And it must’ve been because he knew you weren’t ready for a relationship so soon after what you’ve escaped from.

“Neither do you,” Namjoon replies. You see his pretty eyes briefly glance toward the door, as if debating whether he should stay here or return to the west wing.

“Come to bed, please,” you decide for him, gesturing at the empty spot beside you.

His face lights up as he pulls off his shirt and settles under the covers with you. Your hands have a mind of their own, touching the bulk of his muscles and feeling the warmth of his skin. 

You feel lucky. You feel undeserving.

He sighs at your gentle caresses and closes his eyes. He looks content like this, being this close and enjoying your touch, breathing you in. He takes your wrist and kisses it before he snuggles closer to hold you.

It feels so nice to be held like this, to be safe and feel protected. Even now, you’re not quite used to it. Even now, when you know you should feel happy, you feel troubled.

You think he’s asleep. His breathing slows and his eyes remain closed.

And you can’t help but hate Kangdae all over again. For showing you his version of love so you’d think that it’s cruel and ugly. For being a monster that creeps in the shadows of the back of your mind long after he’s passed. For convincing you that a love as sweet and beautiful as Namjoon’s is only a fairytale.

For making you believe that happily ever afters don’t exist.

Namjoon deserves a mate that isn’t broken from their past like you. It’s a daunting thought that hangs over you – that even though he says you’re the one, you could still lose him somehow.

“I wish I wasn’t so afraid to love you.”

When you woke up that morning, Namjoon had already left. He’s been going into town often lately, so that isn’t unusual. Yet, the dread of being an unworthy mate continues to plague your mind as you fix breakfast with the hybrids and focus on the house chores you agreed to take on.

“Careful, Jungkook,” Hoseok begins, eyeing wearily as the bunny-hybrid picks up a large box. “Some of them are heavy.”

“It’s okay. I’m strong,” he assures him, pausing to wink at you. You smile, fondly recalling how he’d come to protect you since you two ran away together. As he moves around, he hears something jingling inside. “Huh? What’s even in these?”

Curious, you and Hoseok inch closer to Jungkook as he sets the box down. Something inside rattles, knocking together with every movement. You’re certain you hear tiny bells and glass as well. As Jungkook rips open the packaging tape and pulls it open, your head nearly collides with Hoseok’s antlers as the three of you gather around and peek inside.

Round glass painted in deep, holiday red.

“They’re Christmas ornaments!” you exclaim with a gasp. With everything that’s been happening, you’ve almost forgotten that the holidays are here.

Jungkook picks one of them up and examines it. “What’s Christmas?”

Your head whips away from the ornaments to stare at him. “You’re kidding!”

He brings the ornament to his nose to smell it. “I’m not.”

“It’s a big winter holiday,” you answer, wondering if it’d ring a bell. But both hybrids continue to blankly stare at you. “People usually spend it with their friends and family, exchanging gifts, singing carols all month, and decorating their homes with lights and a tree.”

“Ah. It’s a human celebration,” Hoseok realizes.

“Well, sure, but… you guys never celebrated it?” you ask with a frown. You imagine they’d have fun eating a big feast together, playing winter-themed party games, and opening each other’s presents.

But then, why would they?

As hybrids, some of their Christmases were locked up in a cage, freezing in the cold. Or trying to survive the harsh winter while running away from hunters trying to capture and sell them. Some are put to work, gifted away like toys, or treated like spectacles at a fancy party. At best, it’s another day, though relatively quiet with humans going out of town to be with their loved ones.

“I’ve never celebrated Christmas before,” Jungkook admits.

“Me neither,” Hoseok says, sweeping the floor again. “I don’t think any of us ever had a proper Christmas before.”

An idea strikes you just then. The two hybrids watch as you open another box. Then, another. You’re delighted to see that they’re all Christmas decorations.

“Well,” you decide with a smile, carrying one of them out of the room. “That’s going to change this year.”

“What’s all this?” Yoongi asks from behind you, watching as you carefully wrap garland around the stair rail.

“Christmas,” Jimin answers on your behalf as he hangs eight stockings over the fireplace. 

When you, Hoseok, and Jungkook pulled out boxes of decorations from the storage room, it caught the attention of the other hybrids. Soon, you have Seokjin and Taehyung bickering about where to put the giant tree they found, Hoseok trying not to get his antlers tangled with tinsel and garland, Jungkook playing with the nutcrackers, and Jimin helping you decorate.

“Do you want to help?” you ask the leopard-hybrid. You glance at one of the boxes and suggest, “You can put up the wreaths on the doors.”

He picks one up and tilts his head, his ears flickering a bit. “Does Namjoon know we’re doing this?”

You pause what you’re doing, eyes widening with a mild panic. “Would Namjoon have a problem with this?”

“Not when it’s your suggestion,” Jimin replies, his feathers bristling with pride as he steps back to admire his work. “You’re his mate.”

“Either way, it’s a nice change of scenery,” Seokjin adds as he and Taehyung finally agree on a spot for the tree.

Your smile fades a bit. The insecurity that you’ve tried to keep at bay rises again. “I don’t know if I’m a good mate for him.”

Your voice is so quiet, you didn’t think they’d hear you. But all six of them whip their heads toward you, appalled.

“WHAT?” Taehyung shouts so loud, he startles you.

“Why would you say that? Did Namjoon say something to you?” Seokjin sputters, looking ready to scold the younger hybrid, despite Namjoon being the leader of their pack.

“No, it’s not that. He’s been so good to me. You all have,” you assure them. Seven months ago, the hybrids residing at the manor treated you like an outsider – a threat lingering in their territory. Things are completely different now that they consider you a friend.

“Then what’s wrong?” Yoongi gently asks.

“Kangdae,” you answer, and you practically feel the hostility in the air at the mere mention of his name. “I’ve been with him for so long, I don’t think I know how to love.”

To love and to be loved in return. It’s still so foreign to you.

“These days, Namjoon is the happiest I’ve ever seen him,” Jimin mentions. He takes the garland from you and starts to finish the rest, weaving it around the railing. “Even though he knows you’re his mate, he didn’t think you’d accept him. He always worried that he’d scare you off. That once you saw what kind of hybrid he is, you’d only see him as a monster.”

“I never thought of him as a monster.”

“I know you don’t, but Namjoon still worries about that sometimes. You’re human. You don’t feel that pull toward your mate like hybrids do when they find each other. You don’t feel that same certainty Namjoon felt the moment he first saw you.” Jimin looks in your eyes as he adds, “But that doesn’t make you a bad mate.”

“You’re meant to be loved,” Taehyung tells you, pulling you into a bear hug as you wipe your tears away. “And Namjoon is meant to be loved by you, too. Sometimes, the both of you need a reminder of that.”

Christmas is your favorite holiday.

As a child, you and your siblings would wake up your parents on Christmas morning with the joy of seeing presents from Santa under the tree. You’d spend the night before baking cookies and watching feel-good movies, and sometimes your father would take you all out to play in the snow and skate on the frozen lake.

Even as you grew older, you still enjoyed wrapping presents, decorating the tree, and humming your favorite Christmas songs as you cooked and cleaned. Even during the long, bleak years you’ve spent with Kangdae, you always looked forward to the time of year where everything is a little more joyful and merrier.

All day, you and the hybrids have been busy decorating the whole manor. Red and green are adorn in every corner, from the stockings neatly lined up on the mantle to the garlands of pine and holly hanging over arches and wrapped around stair rails. The tree that Seokjin and Taehyung brought in is heavily decorated with shimmering ornaments and ribbons, and on the top of the tree is a glimmering star that shines above the balls and lights. The wreaths that Yoongi hung up are placed on the doorways, and the nutcrackers that Jungkook grabbed are displayed on the shelves.

You step back in admiration, proud of what you’ve all accomplished. “Good job, everyone! The manor looks beautiful.”

An old grandfather clock tolls in the hour.

Seokjin looks over at Yoongi. “We should get started on dinner.”

“Yeah, it’s already late,” Yoongi agrees as the two begin to head toward the kitchen. Jungkook offers to help, trailing after the two.

“We’re going to check on the garden,” Hoseok informs as he, Jimin, and Taehyung plan to leave together as well. “Namjoon should be at his study.”

You look surprised. “Namjoon is home?”

Usually, he’d greet you as soon as he came back from his trips. But you don’t think much of it as you thank Hoseok and make your way toward the west wing.

Sure enough, you find him in his study. A fireplace is lit, cackling softly with a warm and inviting glow. The flicker of flames makes the shadows of the room dance, and Namjoon sits on a velvet chair by the fire, staring at the hearth. On an end table beside him is a tray with a container of whiskey and a half-filled glass.

Another memory flashes in your mind. Anger and alcohol, glass shattering by your head, and Kangdae storming away for the night while you cried. It scared you whenever Kangdae drank, but you don’t feel nervous at all when Namjoon does.

“Hey, when did you come back?” you ask, closing the door behind you.

“Not long,” he answers without looking at you. He seems sad.

You watch as he grabs the glass and finishes it in one go. “Did something happen?”

Before you could step closer, he suddenly stands. The clink of the glass on the tray fills the tense silence. Despite the glow of the fire, you catch the tinge of redness in his cheeks, and a glimpse of his watery eyes.

You close the distance, touching his face and asking what’s wrong. Rather than answering, he wraps his arm around you and pulls you to his chest. You feel him breathe you in, as if having you in his arms helps him calm down and eases his worries.

Then, after a while, he states, “You’re not scared.”

“I’m not,” you confirm, a little confused why he thinks you would be. “I never am when I’m with you.” 

The memories of all that you’ve been through linger in the back of your mind, but being in Namjoon’s arms now, feeling safe and protected, feeling warm and loved – it reminds you that this is what love is supposed to feel like.

You are meant to be loved.

He doesn’t say anything for a while again. He simply rests his chin on top of your head, and just as you were about to speak, he suddenly asks, “Do you want to spend the evening with me?”

You lift your head to look at him. “Of course I do. Always.”

He smiles a little. Just enough that the dimples you love form on his cheeks. “Okay. Get ready and wear something warm.”

“Something warm?”

“I want to take you on a real date this time.”

It’s been months since you’ve been to a town, surrounded by other humans who are enjoying their night.

Fried food, grilled meat, and fresh pastries linger from the market stalls, all decorated for the festivities as sellers are busy handing treats shaped like snowmen and reindeer or seasonal spiced drinks. A live band performs Christmas tunes on a stage. Little shops with trinkets and homemade ornaments and accessories pitch their products as the perfect gifts for the year. In the center is a huge Christmas tree, its branches heavy with silver and gold ornaments, red ribbons, and colorful fairy lights.

“Wow…” You marvel at the sights and sounds before you, a bit winded after Namjoon flew you here in his other form.

Namjoon glances at the look on your face and smiles to himself before pushing up a thick pair of sunglasses over his indigo eyes. With them, he blends in like any other human. Even if it is a bit odd for him to wear those glasses at this time of night.

Excited, you take his hand and he lets you lead him to whatever catches your attention. The two of you stop by every open stall, admiring the trinkets, sampling food, and buying small gifts you’d think the other hybrids would like. You pick out some clothes at a thrift shop for yourself and the hybrids, and you’re genuinely impressed with every outfit Namjoon tries on and shows off to you. At a convenience store, Namjoon helps you carry a bag full of ramen, pastries, and snacks you hadn't realized you missed until you saw them. And as the night gets later and the air grows colder, the two of you end up at a table in a small, crowded restaurant.

“This was really fun, Namjoon,” you state, scooping a spoonful of dessert as you admire your haul. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Namjoon reaches across the table to hold your hand. “I’m glad. We can come here more often if you’d like. No one is looking for you anymore.”

You glance around the lively restaurant. TV monitors are showing Christmas specials instead of missing person reports. Families with small children, couples on a date, and friends making toasts and exchanging gifts are sitting on the tables around you. To them, you and Namjoon are just any other couple enjoying their night.

It’s a kind of freedom you’ve never really thought about.

Before you met Kangdae, you were nobody. Just a quiet girl that loved to hide away from the world and read her books. People found you odd for that. You never quite fit in with the rest of the people in town.

Dating a man like Kangdae placed you on everyone’s radar. He was handsome, popular, and wealthy – a monster disguised as a prince. Although he only sought you out because you’re beautiful, he kept you around because together, you were something. A spectacle. A power couple meant to inherit the wealth and influence his parents had over the town. It didn’t matter what he did behind closed doors, as long as he’s seen as a doting boyfriend in the eyes of the public. As long as you did your part and pretended to be happy.

Now, Kangdae is gone. He can’t hurt you anymore. He isn’t trying to look for you and drag you back to that miserable life. Without him, you’re nobody again. You’re free.

That’s the greatest gift you could ever ask for.

“Could we?” you ask, hopeful. 

Already, you’re thinking of so many possibilities. Museum dates where he’d excitedly ramble about his favorite art pieces. Tiny concert halls where singers perform to a small, intimate crowd, and you and Namjoon are part of the audience. Coffee shops and bookstores, and cakes that are too cute and pretty to eat.

“Of course,” he replies, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. It’s hard to read his face when he adds, “I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

Behind his sunglasses, you can feel his stare. “I don’t scare you?”

You frown, wondering where this is coming from. Again, you confirm, “You never scared me, Namjoon.”

“I want to believe you.”

But he doesn’t.

He always worried that he’d scare you off. That once you saw what kind of hybrid he is, you’d only see him as a monster.

Did something happen? Did you do something to upset him earlier? Was that why he seemed so sad when you greeted him at his study?

“Namjoon, what—?”

“Would you like me to bring anything else?” a waitress interrupts, eyeing on the finished plates and drinks on your table.

“No,” Namjoon tells her, giving her a polite smile as he takes out his wallet to pay for the meal. “That’s all.”

The hybrids are still awake when you and Namjoon arrive back at the manor. You barely step inside before strong arms engulf you in a hug.

“Welcome home!” Jungkook greets you.

Jimin smirks as he looks between you and Namjoon. “How was your date?”

Taehyung grabs a bag of snacks you got for them and peers inside. “What’s all this?”

“Give them some space, guys,” Seokjin lightly scolds them, shooing the youngest hybrids away from the door.

“Whoa, you brought a lot of stuff!” Hoseok exclaims as Namjoon helps you carry in your bags.

“Most of them are for you guys,” Namjoon explains, moving them away before Hoseok could take them.

“For us?” Yoongi questions, turning his attention to you. “What for?”

“It’s Christmas,” you remind them, letting Jungkook go so you could help bring your gifts upstairs.

Taehyung frowns. “But we didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s not the point,” you assure them, seeing their pinned ears and pouty lips. “It’s about being kind to each other. To celebrate the end of a long year together. To make your loved ones happy.”

You look at Namjoon then, but he’s already walking up the stairs. 

He makes you so happy. You’re afraid of messing things up. 

Part of you feels like, somehow, you already have.

It’s nearly midnight when you walk the empty halls of the east wing and head straight to the west side. You had a full day cleaning, decorating, and going on that date in town with Namjoon. You’ll have another full day wrapping presents, preparing party games and activities, and cooking a full feast. 

Then, it’ll be Christmas.

But the further you get to the west wing, the louder you hear it. The howls of the wind. The growls of a beast.

Namjoon is in his other form when you open the door to the master bedroom. He looks like he’s about to take off for the night, facing the opening in the corner of the room. 

“You’re leaving?”

Caught off guard, his eyes widen and he stops himself from jumping through the exposed ceiling. He backs away from where the moonlight touches, sinking into the shadows to hide. But then, as if reminding himself that he no longer has to hide from you, he reluctantly steps back under the silver glow of moonlight.

Despite how intimidating he looks, the beast within him is nervous around you.

It makes your heart drop.

“It’s okay. Come here.” 

You step closer to the beast as well, petting his snout and admiring the way his scales shine under the light. He watches you carefully, ready to back off at the slightest hint of fear or discomfort.

But you’re calm. Dare to say, even affectionate.

He closes his eyes and sighs. Even in this form, he seems content with your touch, of being this close to you. Your laugh breaks the silence when he nudges your hand for more.

“I’m sorry if I made you sad, Namjoon,” you tell him after a while. “I worry all the time that I’m not a good mate to you.”

His eyes fly open as something connects for him. Namjoon is back in his human form, but the surprise doesn’t leave his face. “Is that what you meant when you said you were afraid to love me?”

And suddenly, his distant behavior makes sense. All this time, he thought you were afraid of him. That his worst fear has come, and you’d refuse to be with him.

“The only thing I’m afraid of is that I can’t make you happy, Namjoon.”

“Impossible,” Namjoon says as his hand cups your face. “To be loved by you is the greatest gift I could ever ask for.”

It’s a cold winter’s day, but in the western wing of the old manor, you’re incredibly warm.

Sunlight peers through the tall windows and the exposed ceiling. The crisp air bites your skin as you stretch and yawn, arms popping from the layers of blankets over you. A chuckle catches your attention, and you turn to see Namjoon is already awake. There’s a soft expression on his face as he lies next to you, forlorn with a dimpled smile and so much love in his beautiful eyes.

“Good morning,” he greets you, his voice low and sleepy.

“Morning,” you whisper back, smiling as he leans down to kiss you. It feels nice. Reassuring. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long. You’re beautiful even when you’re sleeping,” he tells you, distracted as his head lowers to kiss your neck, your collarbone, the top of your breasts. The blankets that he put over you last night slip around your bare body, unwrapping you like a present. His voice, somehow, becomes huskier as he adds, “I’m so lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one,” you easily reply, shivering with pleasure at the contrast between the heat of your mate’s body and the cold, winter morning. With the anticipation of continuing where you left off last night, where, for once, loving felt easy. With Namjoon trailing kisses down your body and, with a dimpled smile, promising to warm you up.

And even if Kangdae’s voice still lingers in the back of your mind, claiming that you don’t deserve to be this happy, Namjoon quells it to a faint whisper.

Because with Namjoon, you’ll always be loved.

“You didn’t come to your room last night,” Yoongi observes, sipping on a cup of coffee.

Your face heats up a bit. “I didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me.”

“You’re human, but you’re one of us,” Seokjin casually explains as he places mugs of hot chocolate in front of you and Jungkook. “It’s in our instincts to look out for our pack.”

“Plus, you have Namjoon’s scent all over—”

“Enough,” Namjoon cuts in, perhaps just as flustered as you are. Yoongi just smirks and takes another sip of his coffee.

“I’m glad you two talked things out,” Jimin pushes anyway, grabbing a pastry that you got for them from the town. He throws a wink at you, black feathers bristling with pride. 

The bear-hybrid nods his head. “Yeah, I was worried Namjoon would never—”

“Taehyung!” Hoseok interrupts, not-so subtly gesturing at your hand. 

You hold it up, confused. You don’t see anything wrong with your hands. Jungkook takes your hand and examines it, also wondering what they mean. But chaos already erupted as the other hybrids yell over each other while, across from you, Namjoon lets out a long, heavy sigh.

Christmas is your favorite holiday, and on a cold, winter’s day, you celebrate it with the hybrids at the old manor. The decorations and the tree bring in the festive spirit as you hand them the gifts you wrapped: clothes, snacks, board games, vinyls, and other things you thought they’d like. A feast of meat, stews, poultry, roasted vegetables, and dessert were served. Games were played by the warmth of the fireplace and outside in the snow. And while the hybrids take turns singing karaoke in the game room, Namjoon takes your hand and pulls you away from everyone.

“Close your eyes,” he directs with a nervous smile. 

“What’s going on?” you ask, closing your eyes anyway. It feels a bit reminiscent of your first date with him, and he guides you to where he wants to take you. Your footsteps echo around the empty halls as rooms, as the voices of the other hybrids grow fainter.

It’s just you and Namjoon.

“You know,” he begins, opening a door and helping you down the small steps. “I’ve been picking up some shifts around the towns, and saving up some money.”

“It’s that why you’ve been so busy lately?”

“Yes, but I think it’ll be worth it,” he says, stopping you when the two of you reach your destination. You don’t need to open your eyes to know that you’re in his garden. The floral fragrance fills the air the moment you step inside the greenhouse. “I got you a present too.”

“You did?”

“It’s not much, but I redid this place for tonight,” he continues, moving behind you and allowing you to open your eyes.

When you do, you’re met with the full bloom of winter flowers and the soft, gentle glow of fairy lights that rival the twinkling stars in the night sky. Frosty windows and snow-covered grounds indicate the freezing temperature outside, but in here – inside the greenhouse – it’s warm. And the iridescent petals of the smeraldo flowers catch your attention. Between the strings of light and the moon, they reflect a magical shine.

Namjoon told you once that they mean “the truth untold.”

But now, there’s nothing to hide.

You turn to face Namjoon, meaning to tell him how his flowers have grown so beautifully. Or how adding the lights is such a nice touch to his little sanctuary.

But the words are lost to you when you turn around and see the look on his face. The gentle admiration in his eyes as he leans against a table.

“What is it?” you ask shyly.

“I was just thinking… Well, actually, I’ve thought about this for a while,” he begins to nervously babble. “I never thought we’d see each other again after you helped me on that stage all those years ago. I thought I lost you for good when you left the manor before I could tell you how much you mean to me. Even now, I wonder if staying at the manor is enough to keep you with me. If five, ten, twenty years from now, you’ll still be at my side.”

“I think I would,” you answer with such certainty. “To be loved by you is the greatest gift I could ever ask for as well.”

“Is that a promise?”

You watch as Namjoon gets off the table and slowly goes down on one knee. In his hand is a velvet box, carrying a ring – simple, pretty. How long has Namjoon been looking for work to save up for this? How long has he kept it with him, waiting for the right moment to finally ask you?

“I love you,” he continues, “and if you’ll have me, will you marry–”

You kiss him before he has a chance to finish his question.

“Oh, Taehyung, this is a perfect view!” you exclaim, smiling at the bear-hybrid. He swipes at his nose and shrugs, but it’s obvious on his face that he’s proud of the spot he found.

The eight of you are settled around a small campfire on the outskirts of a lively town. Seokjin and Jungkook disappear briefly to gather more wood for the fire – their bickering and teasing still within ear-shot to let you know they haven’t wandered too far. Yoongi immediately claims one of the foldable chairs and pours a bottle of cheap wine in a plastic glass. Taehyung sits on the cooler next to him, making a face of disgust when Yoongi lets him take a sip of his drink. Jimin neatly lays out the food on the picnic blanket, and Hoseok snaps pictures on a polaroid camera and shakes the film that prints out.

It’s the last day of the year. And within a few hours, a new day will begin.

You cozy up with Namjoon by the fire, captivated by the way the flames dance before you. It’s warm light catches the diamond on your engagement ring, and for maybe the hundredth time this week, you hold out your hand to admire it.

“I love you,” Namjoon whispers, kissing your temple. You whole-heartedly accepted him for what he is, and see all the good in him on days he only sees the ugly. You make his days feel less lonely, sharing your love for books, art, and nature with him. You take care of his pack; you brought Christmas to them. You stood up for him when he still called himself Rap Monster. How could he not fall in love with you?

“I love you, too. Always,” you reply, turning to kiss him. The way his lips feel against yours just feels right. Perfect.

Christmas is over, and after staying up with the hybrids by the warmth of the fire, you see the lively town below shooting fireworks to ring in the new year.

You and the hybrids toast and cheer, and grab each other for tight hugs and well wishes. The past year, you’ve rescued Jungkook, ran away from Kangdae, and started living with the others. Last year, you told Namjoon that you loved him, and the ring on your finger symbolizes that he loves you as well – that he’ll promise to protect and cherish you.

And as you find yourself back in Namjoon’s arms, sharing your first kiss with him for the year, you can’t help but feel like this is it.

This is what love is really like.

This is your happily ever after.

Thank you for reading ♡ Comments & reviews are greatly appreciated!

[lampost-in-winter]

Forgotten ecology

Rook finds Davrin carving wooden statuettes, which isn’t unusual. What surprises them is that he is looking at a book for reference. Davrin never needs reference: every nook and cranny of monster anatomy is etched into his brain, for good or ill.

“What do you have there?”

“You mean the book? I took it from Isseya’s lair, she must’ve gotten it from Ghilan’nain. Sorry I didn’t mention it.” He lets go of the piece he’s been carving—it looks like some kind of snake covered in feathers—and brings the book closer to Rook.

The tome hums with magic as Davrin passes the pages. Although Rook can’t interpret the text, written in ancient Elven, it is evident that it is a bestiary: each page depicts a variety of creatures Rook’s never seen before, all of them either aglow with foreign beauty or haunted by terrifying strangeness. The pictures move on the page like figures from a shadow play, portraying the different walks of the herbivores, the attack movements of predators, and the complex flight of four-winged and six-winged birds.

There is some flora depicted, as well. A two-page spread is entirely dedicated to the reproductive cycle of a translucent flower with iridescent blue filaments, which relied on wisps as its sole pollinators.

It is gorgeous. It is also concerning.

“Do you think Ghilan’nain created all of these?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Look,” Davrin points at a stamp in the shape of a halla at the beginning of one of the pages. “I’d say only the ones with her mark are her creation. Everything else… maybe someone, or something, else made them. Or maybe they were there already when the first elves gave themselves bodies.”

“Wow,” Rook mutters, “Do you think we might still find one of these things out there?”

The elf shakes his head.

“Not likely. It looks like all the wildlife in this bestiary was specially adapted to live in a world with spirits and much more magic than our own. In many ways, their life cycles depended on it, so most of them couldn’t possibly exist as they were in our world.”

“Damn. That’s… tough.”

“Yeah. Could be the reason why Ghilan’nain kept a specific record of them.”

Rook feels a hole in their stomach, the shape left by a loss that’s not even their own, as well as the dread at the idea of life being able to just disappear, the terror of the frailty of existence. And whatever Davrin is feeling, it doesn’t look like it differs much.

“It’s kinda… weird, to think that all of these animals can simply be gone without a trace,” Rook says, “The magic and technology from ancient elven times at least left something behind, even if it’s just debris.”

“They might’ve left something,” Davrin muses, “Some of these creatures could’ve adapted to the world post-Veil and changed into something we might recognize. Like this one,” he picks up the feathered snake he’d been carving. “She could be the grandmother of modern snakes.”

Rook chuckles. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Mmm. I’ve also been thinking about it the other way around.” The warden takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Rook notes that they really like his thinking face, so solemn. “If these couldn’t survive in our world, it’s also possible that many of our own animals and plants would not be able to adapt to life without the Veil. Perhaps they wouldn’t die in the initial blast, but the change in their way of life would slowly end them.”

“See, another reason to stop Solas: what if the fall of the Veil destroys cocoa trees? I wouldn’t survive it,” Rook counters with a playful smile, and it gets a laugh out of Davrin.

“Jokes aside… it makes you think, you know? That when Solas talks about bringing back the old world, it doesn’t just mean restoring the ancient elves: it means to change the very core of how life works. And I know that all things end, and that these creatures had their time, but…” Davrin looks towards the cozy, feathered bun that is Assan sleeping by the fireplace. The unlikely survivor of two extinction events, as they now start to understand. “Who decides which form of life is more worthy of existence?”

Rook tries to think of something wise and soothing and motivating to say, but it doesn’t come to them. They’re not a philosopher: they’re just one of the alive things in this world trying to make it to the next day.

“So… drinks?” they offer, instead.

Davrin smiles. “Sure. And, hey, pick one,” he says, pointing at the carvings of ancient creatures he has been working on. “My treat.”

Rook observes the three statuettes that Davrin has finished so far: there’s the feathered snake, a unicorn with a horn as long as its whole head, and a bird with wings made of flames. They take the unicorn. They will put it up in their room later, because it’s from Davrin and it’s beautiful, and they will hope that this melancholy feeling they get from looking at it will recede. In time.

[zapreportsblog]

Hello. Can you make an obsessive Volturi Kings and female fairy or elf reader?

❝our little fairy❞

✭ pairing : yandere poly volturi king x reader

✭ fandom : twilight

✭ summary : (y/n) is a tree spirit who was out exploring one day when she flies into the broad chest of Felix volturi, curious on her being he takes her back to his kings where a bond is formed between the three leaders and their little fairy.

✭ twilight masterlist 2

In a hidden corner of the ancient woodland, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the setting sun, a tiny woodland fairy (Y/N) flitted gracefully through the air. She was no larger than a dandelion puff, her iridescent wings shimmering with each delicate flutter. Her mission this evening was simple - to gather boggle cap tops and fragrant flowers to adorn her cozy little home nestled within the hollow of an ancient oak tree.

(Y/N) darted from one flower to another, her laughter like the tinkling of a distant wind chime. With nimble fingers, she plucked the petals of a dew-kissed wildflower, all the while imagining how they would brighten her tiny abode. Lost in her world of flora and whimsy, she didn't notice the towering figure of a man approaching.

Felix, a formidable vampire with rippling muscles and a chiseled jawline, moved through the forest with an eerie grace that belied his imposing presence. He was on a solitary walk, deep in thought, when an unexpected gust of wind swept (Y/N) off course. With a gasp, she collided with his chest, knocking the wind out of her, quite literally.

Startled, Felix instinctively reached out to catch whatever had just crashed into him. In his massive, open palm, he found himself holding the tiniest being he had ever seen. A creature so delicate, so ethereal, it could only be the stuff of legends.

"What a surprise we have here," Felix mused, his voice a deep rumble that (Y/N) felt rather than heard. He marveled at the tiny being he held, her translucent wings fluttering desperately to regain her composure.

(Y/N), on the other hand, was equally awestruck. Her wide, sparkling eyes took in the towering figure before her, his crimson eyes and pale skin telling her all she needed to know. She had heard tales of vampires, creatures of the night, but had never imagined she would encounter one up close.

As Felix examined her with a mix of curiosity and amusement, they both spoke in unison, their voices overlapping in a bizarre coincidence. "What are you?"

Their synchronized query left them momentarily dumbfounded, but it was Felix who broke the silence. "I'm a vampire," he declared, his gaze locked on her. "Now then, what are you?"

(Y/N) gathered her composure and replied, "I'm a fairy," her tiny voice ringing with a mixture of pride and wonder.

Felix's lips curled into a wry smile as he considered the possibilities. "Interesting," he murmured. "My masters, the Volturi Kings, would probably want to meet you. Would you be willing to accompany me to them?"

(Y/N) hesitated for only a moment before nodding. She had always been curious about the world beyond her woodland home, and this encounter promised an adventure unlike any she had ever imagined. With a sense of anticipation, she remained perched in the palm of Felix's hand as he set off on a journey that would change both their lives forever.

Felix returned to the imposing fortress of the Volturi, the ancient stone walls and eerie silence of the place contrasting sharply with the vibrant world from which he had come. In the palm of his hand, nestled amidst the swirl of his dark cloak, (Y/N) clung to a strand of his clothing, her heart aflutter with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

As Felix entered the grand hall where the three Volturi kings resided, his voice echoed through the cavernous chamber. "Masters, I bring you a most extraordinary guest."

Aro, the ancient and charismatic leader of the Volturi, turned his crimson eyes toward Felix, his features alight with curiosity. Marcus, the somber and introspective king, regarded Felix with a gaze as penetrating as the shadows that clung to him. Caius, the most imposing of the three with a demeanor as cold as ice, observed the proceedings with an air of detached indifference.

Felix recounted the story of his chance encounter with the tiny fairy, (Y/N), and how their simultaneous question had sparked this unusual alliance. As he spoke, Marcus, the most attuned to emotions among the Volturi, felt a peculiar sensation. It was like the faint stirrings of a bond he hadn't experienced in centuries.

The bond, however, was not limited to him alone. As Marcus delved deeper into the sensation, he realized that it extended, tendrils of emotion, reaching out to touch not only him but also Aro and Caius. It was as if this tiny being in Felix's palm had ignited a connection that bound them together.

Marcus met Aro's gaze, and without words, he conveyed his discovery. Aro's eyes widened with intrigue, and he nodded in understanding. Caius, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to the revelation.

With an air of expectation, Aro approached Felix and the small fairy. He extended a slender hand, and Felix carefully transferred (Y/N) into Aro's palm. The fairy stood there, her heart pounding, as Aro examined her with a bemused expression.

"Interesting," Aro murmured, his voice a velvety whisper. "Such a rare and exquisite creature."

Caius, who had been watching from the sidelines, couldn't resist the pull of curiosity any longer. He reached out and gently cupped (Y/N) in his hand, his cold skin contrasting with her warmth. Her miniature form seemed even smaller against his massive palm, but she held her composure, her wide eyes flitting between the three kings.

Caius, Aro, and Marcus leaned in, their expressions filled with fascination as they admired the tiny fairy before them. And just as (Y/N) had marveled at their vampiric beauty, she found herself flustered yet enchanted by the kings' ethereal grace and handsomeness.

With her heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, (Y/N) realized that her adventure had taken an unexpected turn. She was now the center of attention among the most powerful vampires in existence, and the enchantment of their world was beginning to weave its magic around her in ways she could never have imagined.

Aro, the enigmatic leader of the Volturi, continued to study (Y/N) with fascination as she now stood in the palm of his hand. Her ethereal beauty and innocence intrigued him, and he couldn't help but find her presence captivating.

With an air of gentleness that contrasted with his usual demeanor, Aro began to speak to (Y/N). "My dear, I must explain that we are not like the creatures you are familiar with. We are vampires, though I’m sure our guard felix told you of our species. We vampires are immortal beings who feed on blood to survive."

(Y/N), who had never heard of vampires or their dark nature, simply nodded, assuming Aro was merely explaining his kind to her. "I see," she replied, her voice tinged with curiosity. "I am a woodland fairy, a guardian of the forest. We live in harmony with nature, nurturing the plants and creatures that inhabit our realm."

Marcus, the quieter and more introspective of the Volturi kings, couldn't help but feel sympathy for the tiny fairy. He decided to share another piece of information that would undoubtedly surprise her. "You see, (Y/N), there's something else you should know. Vampires have mates, like soulmates. It's a bond that goes beyond our understanding."

(Y/N) furrowed her tiny brow, not quite comprehending. "Mates? I've never heard of such a thing among my kind. We exist to protect and preserve the balance of the forest, but we don't have mates."

Caius, the most imposing of the Volturi kings, leaned in closer to (Y/N) and explained in a surprisingly gentle tone, "Mates are like soulmates as Marcus has said, and you just so happen to be ours therefore our souls are now linked to your existence, and we can't let you leave."

Confusion welled up within (Y/N). She loved the forest and being with nature, and the thought of not returning to her home saddened her. The three kings, sensitive to her emotions, proposed a solution.

Aro spoke, "We can build you a small house in our garden. You can be close to nature, and we can be close to you."

Although it was a generous offer, (Y/N) couldn't help but question it. "But why can't I go back to my home in the forest?"

Aro, ever the strategist, decided to stretch the truth to ensure her compliance. "The further you are from your mate, the weaker it makes the vampires. Eventually, it could even lead to our demise."

Hearing this, (Y/N) was filled with concern for her newfound friends. She didn't want to be the cause of their suffering. With a heavy heart, she agreed to stay in the garden with them, trusting their words.

Aro turned his attention to Alec and Jane, two of his loyal guards. "Alec, Jane, please retrieve the things from (Y/N)'s little house in the forest. We will make her feel at home here."

As the two vampires departed on their mission, (Y/N) couldn't shake the feeling that her life had taken an unexpected turn, and the enigmatic bond with these vampire kings would forever alter her existence.

The Volturi kings watched with a mixture of relief and elation as (Y/N) agreed to stay with them in their garden. The fact that they didn't have to resort to force or Chelsea’s manipulation abilities, filled them with a sense of contentment they rarely experienced. To them, she was more than just a rare and beautiful creature; she was their perfect mate.

As (Y/N) spoke animatedly about where she would place her belongings in the garden and how she would decorate it to fit her needs, the kings sat in a contemplative silence. Dark thoughts swirled in their minds like a storm on the horizon.

Aro, with his uncanny ability to see into the future, envisioned a world where (Y/N) would never leave their side. He saw himself as her protector, ensuring that she would never be harmed by anyone, and those who dared to threaten her would face the full extent of his wrath.

Marcus, whose empathy allowed him to sense the emotions of others, felt a growing sense of possessiveness towards (Y/N). He couldn't bear the thought of her being with anyone else, and the idea of her happiness being dependent on them was intoxicating.

Caius, who had always been the most cold and ruthless of the trio, surprised even himself with the intensity of his feelings for (Y/N). He imagined a future where they would be inseparable, where he would be her shelter from the world, and where anyone who dared to hurt her would face a punishment beyond measure.

Their fixation on (Y/N) was all-consuming, and they couldn't help but revel in the darkness of their desires. To them, she was the embodiment of perfection, the one they had longed for, and they were willing to do whatever it took to ensure she would never leave their side.

As (Y/N) continued to share her plans for her new life in the garden, the Volturi kings sat in silence, their minds filled with possessive thoughts and an unwavering determination to keep her with them, no matter the cost.

[b-plot-butch]

Hi! I was thinking Prompt 31 for Calliope/Gault 💕

Hi! Thank you SO much for your patience in waiting for this prompt fill!! ���� It turned out longer than I thought it would—turns out I had more to say about this ship than I expected. I really hope you like it, and thank you so much for such an interesting pairing!!

*lovingly tosses another femslash rarepair into the pile*

Calliope was still humming as she and Gault walked down the rain-slick street away from the school, Calliope holding an umbrella over the two of them.

“It’s catchy, isn’t it?” Gault said, sounding amused. “Isaac’s dreams have been full of the soundtrack for weeks.”

“I imagine it would be inescapable in the dreams of humans,” said Calliope.

“The Addams Family is hardly the worst of it.” Gault shuddered. “Not a single entity in the Dreaming can stand Hamilton anymore.”

Gault and Calliope had just finished watching a performance at a high school in the United States. They’d worked together to inspire a teenager: a senior who had yearned to audition every year of his high school career but had never worked up the courage until it was his last chance. Gault would take Calliope with her into Isaac’s dreams, and there the two of them would weave dreamscapes imbued with Calliope’s magic and crafted by the touch of Gault’s skillful hands.

This and numerous other collaborations had come about because of a chance encounter at the Viña del Mar International Song Festival in Valparaíso. Calliope had been looking over who stood near her in the sea of audience members, and her gaze caught on a woman wearing a peacock blue halter top. It could have been a trick of the lights in the amphitheatre but…Calliope could have sworn the woman’s skin glowed.

Calliope had never been queen of the Dreaming, not in the way Oneiros had offered to her. She had her own purview, she’d told him, her own area of expertise. She did not crave another. She had no desire for crowns or titles. But she had still spent considerable time there, and she certainly knew how one of the Dreaming’s residents moved, spoke, held their chin.

So, when the festival concluded, she’d fallen into step beside the woman as the massive crowd funnelled toward the exits. The commotion would hide any indiscreet phrasing. She dipped her head close to the woman’s ear. “You are from the Dreaming, aren’t you?”

The woman’s head twisted sharply in Calliope’s direction, her dark eyes wary. “Who are you?” Immediately Calliope had been struck by the resonance of her voice. From just those three words, she’d wanted to hear more.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you. I am Calliope. One of the Greek Muses.”

The suspicion slid from the woman’s shoulders. “Calliope. Oh, they remember you fondly in the Dreaming,” she said, teeth flashing in a smile. “I didn’t recognise you. I wasn’t created until after your…involvement, with Dream. I’m younger than many of the other Major Arcana.”

Impressed, Calliope said, “You’re one of the Major Arcana?” It was not a title to be bestowed frivolously. The woman seemed to recognise the respect in Calliope’s voice, and her smile grew wider.

“Yes. My name is Gault.” And for a moment, Calliope caught the glimmer of iridescent wings raised behind Gault’s back.

“Gault,” Calliope said, trying out the new name on her tongue. “It is lovely to meet you.”

That had been the beginning of their friendship. Initially, they’d each been curious about how their work could complement the other’s. But after some weeks, they no longer needed a collaboration as an excuse to spend time in each other’s company. They shared meals and stories, discussions and analyses, walks and even a flight or two—Gault with her gleaming butterfly wings, Calliope in the form of a sparrow. Gault had rapidly become very, very dear to Calliope.

“Where do you think you’ll go next?” Gault asked Calliope now. She knew Calliope never stayed too long in one place these days.

“Somewhere with warmer temperatures,” Calliope answered at once, and Gault laughed, bumping Calliope’s shoulder playfully with her own.

“Your poor Mediterranean sensibilities.”

“Gault,” Calliope began firmly, “your body is made entirely of dreamstuff. You have not the slightest idea what it is like to be predisposed toward one climate or another.”

Gault laughed again, head tilting back, and Calliope found her gaze drawn to the apples of her cheeks, the exquisite roundness of her features. “Forgive me, goddess.”

They fell into a companionable silence as the rain pattered down onto Calliope’s umbrella. They were in their own little bubble underneath its shield. Without conversation to divert her, Calliope’s thoughts turned back to the musical. But not the soundtrack, this time. No, what captured Calliope now were thoughts of Gault and Isaac.

By now, Calliope had a reasonably good grasp on the kinds of dreamers that Gault gravitated towards. Isaac, she thought with a squeeze of fondness, was a typical case: a young human who dreamt of being other than what he had always been. He was a reserved, unassuming student, without the resources for voice or dancing training many of his theatre-inclined peers had. He had the drive, quiet but burning within his chest. All he needed was one final push of encouragement to bring himself to audition. And Gault was there to offer it. Gault’s kindness, steadfastness, passion for her dreamers’ futures and their own ability to control those futures: it was all so brilliantly on display as Calliope worked at her side.

Calliope had always seen people’s creations as facets of their own selves, was drawn to people according to the work of their hands and hearts. And Gault created beautiful, powerful things for the dreamers she held so dear.

The two of them were now walking down a street lined with shops. Gault paused to examine the front window of one, an arrangement of art prints, maps, journals, the like. The storefront was well lit, and just as the first time Calliope had seen her, the light found Gault and reflected off of her, and she became utterly luminous.

And staring at Gault now, Calliope knew.

The words escaped her mouth in a low murmur, almost lost in the rain. “I love you.”

Gault half-turned toward Calliope, her attention still mostly on the display window. “Did you say something, Calliope?”

Calliope’s pulse rushed in her ears. She could take it back. It wasn’t too late to shy away.

But it was not in her nature to not speak her mind. In all her years, after all the ways life had bruised her, no blow had ever been able to rob her of that.

So she said again, louder this time, “I love you.”

Gault whipped around. Shock flashed across her face, and then it softened into…Calliope’s fingers tightened around the umbrella’s handle. It looked like—

It looked like—

They were already so close together under the umbrella. Gault’s eyes shone so, so brightly. Calliope read tenderness in them, read affection, read love. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Calliope whispered. With her free hand, she reached forward and dared to rest it on Gault’s waist. A feather-light touch. If Gault breathed deeply the simple movement alone would dislodge Calliope’s hand. But she didn’t.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

It was so easy, then. For Calliope to dip her head forward, for Gault to meet her halfway. Gault’s mouth moved plush and warm against Calliope’s, and involuntarily Calliope’s fingers dimpled deeper into Gault’s waist, grounding herself. Gault might be a dream, but she still felt so vibrantly real beneath Calliope’s hand, against her lips.

The rain sang down around them.

When they drew apart, Gault was smiling again, and not even her own shimmering skin could compare to that radiance.

[boricuacherry-blog]

Her parents gifted her a typewriter of her own, which stood up to Follett's frequent compositions, including letters and poetry, short stories and fantasy lore. She imagined visits from the likes of Beethoven and Wagner. Like Edgar Rice Burroughs, she grew lost in her own dreams, steadily expanding on a world she named Farksolia. It had its own language, Farksoo, that she tracked via a card catalog system. Helen also kept her on a steady diet of authors, including Walter de la Mare.

If Follett was bothered, she didn't show it. Roiling at her typewriter, she declared Moore's concern to be "very rash" and a "miserable caricature" of her happy self. She accepted offers to review books, including those of Winnie the Pooh creator A.A. Milne. And there was, of course, a sophomore effort to plan. In the summer of 1927, she successfully petitioned her parents to allow her to board the Frederick H., a ship docked in New Haven thar was bound for Nova Scotia, to research a book about pirates. Wilson and Helen relented only because a family friend, George Bryan, agreed to act as chaperone.

Follett relished the opportunity, spending 10 days at sea and picking up sailor vernacular. The result was her second book, 1928's The Voyage of the Norman D., and further acclaim.

Her parents had been instrumental in encouraging her and creating a safe space for her talent and imagination to thrive. But that security soon evaporated. In March 1928, Wilson told his wife and daughters that he had fallen in love with another woman, a co-worker at Knopf named Margaret Whipple. He was leaving them to be with her.

Wilson's decision was not only emotionally devastating but financially untenable. He had been the breadwinner for the family. Follett could not write fast enough, nor sell as many books, as would be needed to support her mother and younger sister.

Wilson left them with little money. At first, Helen tried to spin necessity into adventure: they would take their typewriters to sea, sail to Tahiti, and write books! But by September 1929, Barbara found herself stranded and alone with family friends in Los Angeles. It was unbearable: she fled to San Francisco, hid in a hotel, and wrote poetry. But she'd been reported as a runaway, and when police burst into her room, they narrowly kept her from escaping through the window.

"I loathe Los Angeles," she explained to reporters.

The story made national news. Helen and Barbara were reunited in New York, but their finances were so dire that upon turning sixteen in March 1930, Barbara had to find work. Her timing was awful, coming only months after the Wall Street crash. After a course in shorthand and business typing - "a decidedly more tawdry use of its magic," she mused - Barbara was getting up early every morning to ride the subway to a secretarial job.

"My dreams are going through their death flurries," she wrote that June. "I thought they were all safely buried, but sometimes they stir in their grave, making my heartstrings twinge. I mean no particular dream, you understand, but the whole radiant flock of them together - with their rainbow wings, iridescent, bright, soaring, glorious, sublime. They are dying before the steel javelins and arrows of a world of Time and Money."

She wrote in a letter, "I certainly don't think there is much to be said for this so-called civilization. It's barbarous, that's what it is. The primitivest of the primitive were never capable of such outrages as this Jinx civilization. That's one of the things Lost Island is about - sort of a fling, a kick, a dig at the world. Not a nasty one, just a grieved one. I wish we were back to the cave days. Even nowadays there are some tribes that are happy. Look at the Polynesians, for instance. Naturally we can't be happy in their surroundings, but that's not the fault of the surroundings. It's our fault - and civilization's. Damn, damn!"

By 1934, Follett had written her third and fourth books - Lost Island and a brisk travelogue on the Appalachian Trail called Travels Without a Donkey. But worn down by six years without the encouragement of a father or an editor, the manuscripts finally stopped.

Barbara did leave one last comment to the world about writing - a brief piece in a 1933 issue of Horn Book that earnestly recommends that parents give their own children typewriters. "An effort should be made to impress upon children that a typewriter is magic." So is the child at the typewriter, but Barbara doesn't hint how she has been spending years battling poverty. The father who gave her that typewriter doesn't appear in the piece, either. She'd been so angry at him in one letter that she snapped, "He isn't what you'd call a man."

However she soon found a kindred soul in an outdoorsman named Nickerson Rogers, and they eloped.

America's next great novelist was now without a high-school degree, without work, and a teen bride. Yet she found ways to find joy - at first. Between secretarial jobs in New York and Boston, she discovered dance classes, as well as backpacking though Europe. But returning to her husband in Brookline, Massachusetts, in late 1939, she was shaken once again, worse even than by her father's abandonment.

"Well, all I can say is that what we conjectured was truer than true. I mean, that about the hell only beginning when I got home - not ending. There is somebody else..." she wrote to a friend.

"I am glad I realized the importance of self-control. You see, the thing is really worse than I had thought possible. There IS somebody else. Just how serious I don't know, and I'm not asking any questions. That's part of the self-control. I haven't uttered one single reproach, or anything that could be construed as one. I've just dug my nails into my palms and held on, and held on, till now I think I'm getting to be quite a woman of iron and steel. Well, I think there is hope for my side - some hope. I know it will be a long, patient process that will take all my strength and all my intelligence for a great many months. I think it is worth it, and I am going to make the fight. I don't blame him in the least. He really thought I didn't care; only, instead of saying anything about it so that I could have done something about it before, he just kept quiet and everything slid and slid."

"But it's really my fault; I had it coming to me, I know. I think I've persuaded him to give me my chance. He is a very kind person, really, and hates to hurt people. He hated to write that letter; that's why it sounded so awful. I think that, if I can really prove that I'm different, maybe things will work out. He still doesn't quite believe, as he says, that a leopard can change its spots! He thinks that in a month things will be all wrong again. So I say, at least let me have that month! I think I'll get it, and I think I can win if I've got the strength. I think he is a steady enough person, and a kind enough person, and also enough of an easy-going person, so that he won't go making drastic plunges if he doesn't have to; and if I can make a pleasant sort of life for him, I think he'll hang on. That's what I'm banking on, and I'm putting heart and soul into all the little things."

But after some false hope, things only got worse. In another letter, her despair was so keen that she could only rest with "sleeping stuff [barbituates]." She wrote, "On the surface things are terribly, terribly calm, and wrong...I still think there is a chance that the outcome will be a happy one, but I would have to think that anyway, in order to live."

The news must have hit her particularly hard given the parallels to her own father's infidelity. In letters to friends, Barbara talked about trying to salvage the relationship, but it seemed to little avail.

Then, on the evening of December 7, 1939, she and Nick had a quarrell. Nick would claim that Barbara grabbed her coat and exited their home with $30 and a notebook - after which she seemingly disappeared. Her disappearance occurred under extremely suspicious circumstances.

And oddly, Nick didn't seem too worried about her being gone. He didn't call the police to report her missing until two weeks had passed, and he insisted the police not go to newspapers, wishing to avoid a hungry media again portraying Barbara as a wayward former child genius. It was several months before he relented - far too late to make a whole lot of difference, especially since she was listed as Barbara Rogers and not Barbara Follett in the bulletin, making it even longer before the public would discover she was missing.

The family had no idea why she would simply disappear without explanation; they believed she had been kidnapped. But after her mother discovered how little Nick had looked for Barbara, she felt he had something to do with her disappearance. She thought Nick either had either murdered Barbara - now there would be no one to contest a divorce - or placed her in an insane asylum under a false name.

This girl - who should have been America's next great literary hero - was betrayed by the two men she trusted most, and her fame forgotten by a public that she never trusted in the first place. Her writings, out of print for many decades, only exist today in six archival boxes at Columbia University's library. She is still missing, but then again, her work always was about escape. And people seemed to disappear in her life again and again, as she grew from an enigmatic child author into an adult unable to escape as easily into a fantasy world as she had when she was younger. Her mysterious disappearance echoes the final words of her own writing in The House Without Windows:

"She would be invisible forever to all mortals, save those few who have minds to believe, eyes to see. To these she is ever present, the spirit of Nature - a sprite of the meadow, a naiad of lakes, a nymph of the woods."

[kazeofthemagun]

@cursedfortune asked the summoner:

"Hunter..." There was a question upon her tongue, one that lingered. A rare moment of hesitancy from the witch as she mulled over her question. One she no doubt had been pondering for a time now. She glanced over her shoulder to him from where she stood by her plants, watering them one by one down the row. "When the day comes that you are victorious with your purpose, when you overcome Chaos itself... what will you do then?"

Did he even know what he would do, or did it seem so far away that he couldn't consider it? Would he keep living, or give up that immortality and move on? If she was still alive, would he stay - or would there be a second headstone upon her property?

His name of choice being spoken had the Hunter's gaze meet that of the Witch, inquisitive coal mingling with cool blues. A question lingered in the woman's tone as she formulated her thoughts, a sudden pause in her mundane routine.

And so, he paused as well, sensing the rare hint of uncertainty, an almost-shyness coming from someone scarcely prone to such trifle things. It intrigued him, eyes and ears open and ready to listen to whatever it was that troubled her mind.

Chaos' name, driven like a wedge in the peace that existed in the moment. Chaos, its existence, and his life's purpose - just what would he do, should he and White Cloud finally slay the beast, she asked. When they finally slay it, not if. He noted the trust which she held in them both, both a comfort and a stark reminder there was no alternative path forward.

Failure would condemn all life as they knew it, after all. The path ended, not in deep water to cross, nor in thorns to burn, but in a sheer cliff. A cutaway point, a worst-case scenario. The abyss.

A certain melancholy crept into the Black Wind's gaze; Solemnity, yes, yet also tranquility. He took a moment seemingly to stare off into the treeline, where the garden met the woods - a moment of thoughtful consideration before he spoke.

"...Many years ago, to the one who saved my soul, I promised one thing."

The deep, soft rumble of his voice turned once again to silence, a hand extended just past the shroud of his cape to welcome an insect which sought a landing point. Rotating his wrist, he observed the brief visitor before it spread open its wings and soared once more. The iridescent glimmer of its carapace disappearing into foliage, hiding from his eyes its rainbow hues.

"I do not believe violent things that outlive their purpose can find a place in peace. Neither can the dead that are risen, against the order of all things." The Windarian mused, knowing the Witch would understand. If anyone would, it was her. Her, whose purpose was not bound to a single place, nor a single being, but encompassed the workings of the very universe until the hands of time themselves ceased to turn.

Her, who had outlived so many and would carry a graveyard inside her for the rest of whatever yet remained. A necropolis far greater than even the Endless White desert inside his spirit. Even if she did not come to slay as many with her own hands as he might - she would bear witness, and be forbidden from striking him down. And she would carry on, even when the old dragons had fallen.

"And so I have made my own peace, in that very promise: That at the end of things, I would wage war no longer."

Kaze fell silent, finding the Witch's gaze once again. Though there was time yet, so much time, he had always known he would pass before she did. If there was ever peace after Chaos fell - what need would the universe have for the Gun and the Sword, hm? And maybe, just maybe, his soul would still be his own enough to deserve a resting place among his people.

...To deserve to see her light again, and know that she had not forsaken him. Always steadfast in her ideals, seeing the best in one accursed by life itself. Then again, had she not, he feared to think just what he might have become.

But so long as he held onto their promise, he could make this doomed life one worth living. He could only hope the Witch never came to love him enough to falter when his time was due, but the prospect of voicing such a concern seemed silly.

He was sure she would be alright, in the end. Having a task to see to its completion did wonders for longevity.

[the-stray-storyteller]

For the random worldbuilding questions - 5 & 9 if these haven't been asked yet ?

WIP: Rebel

What are some cliches, tropes, and/or plots that commonly appear in stories written by your world’s inhabitants? What were they inspired by? Why are they popular?

Oh my god this one is so over specific.

Since Rebel takes place after a war that almost ended the human civilization books are a bit hard to come by. If somebody wrote something it would most likely be circulated only around their neighborhood and among friends, there wont be any mass production.

However people do post their works online and it is a pain to find them because there aren't websites like ao3.

Also people don't have much time to indulge themselves in creativity because they are too busy rebuilding.

Apart from that unnecessary info, most books are about the Red War. Some veterans tell their side of the story and some just study it and the world before it.

Honestly this is all I have for this particular ask.

What aesthetics are considered “advanced” or “futuristic” in your world - canvas wings, shiny chrome, smooth plastic? How has this changed over time?

Metal, glass, iridescence, neon lights and of course anything Red War themed.

The last one is a pretty sick and twisted idea started by the rich. They started to see the Red War as a step forward for technology and discoveries.

During the war things like laser tech weapons were built and used for the first time. Dark matter bombs which reduced islands to ashes were created. The HS2 genes was discovered.

So the rich saw the war as an inventor, a muse for science. It has been like 5 years since the war ended in the novel and they have turned the war into an aesthetic.

A bomb remains hung on the wall. Bent and bloodied laser tech weapons as centre pieces. War uniforms stitched together to form gowns.

It is only for the rich people thought, the ones who were affected by the war despise this aesthetic.

[wyvernscales]

Alaric Amell always had a fondness for the messenger birds in Kinloch Hold. Fascinated at the birds that could be sent one hundred miles away and still flit home on iridescent wings. Through the sun and snow, rain and breeze. They would always find their way back home.

In his early days at the Circle--when he still cried in the arms of the Senior Enchanters for the embrace of his mother--his nightly journeys to the Fade were marked by the fantasy of being rescued from his stone tower. He would leap upon on the warm and soft back of a pigeon every evening. Together they would soar over the lake and the docks and the Waking Sea all the way back home to Kirkwall.

After his Harrowing, he was made apprentice to the culverhouse that maintained the wellbeing of the birds. He was an old, old man with a spine that curled in on itself and a tangled grey beard. Without a word, the man turned to lead Alaric to the Templar Quarters.

It was a mystery how the old culverhouse regularly climbed up the deep steps and walked across the uneven cobblestones to the dovecote. The tick of an old man's mahogany staff and the squeal of Templar armor were all that accompanied their journey until a door to the balcony was opened and the whip of the wind and the coos of doves joined.

The sun that shone across Lake Calenhad blinded him. Beyond squinted eyes, he could just make out the noble Frostback Mountains to his left and the fields of the Bannorn to his right. He felt a light breeze--not just a cool draft--wave through the fabric of his robes. He stopped for just a moment, taking in the warmth of the sun. A Templar pushed him over to the culverhouse, who never stopped for Alaric. They continued towards a small turret on the balcony with rows of nesting holes going through the walls.

On the inside, pigeons from Denerim, Gwaren, Redcliffe, and Amaranthine were hung up in iron cages affixed to the walls. They cooed at the birds on the other side of the round room who only preened themselves in their nests. There, they waited until a message needed to be sent; for only then were they released.

High above the ground, he learned how to take care of the birds. When his mentor returned to the Maker's side, it became his responsibility. The dovecote became his sanctuary, the first time he was left alone with his thoughts since his imprisonment when he was first brought to the Circle.

In truth, he enjoyed his time at the dovecote, meandering along to feel the sunrise upon his face. He enjoyed the modicum of freedom it offered him. He enjoyed having the power to slip in letters of his own after the Templars had checked them over. He enjoyed knowing who everyone in the tower was communicating with.

Everyone desires control, he mused. And when one has control ripped away from them, one must take it from something else in equivalent exchange. He liked keeping the birds captive. He liked sending them away from their nest. He liked having the power to cage another being as he was caged. These symbols of peace and revered messengers. Choking on their olive branches.

Character Notes: First off, this guy's a bit of a freak, and enduring the Blight doesn't help. He only gets worse from here, and there's a reason I call this my "Evil Worldstate". He's weird about the birds. Being their caretaker, he also becomes an expert on many bestiary tomes and has requested leave of the Circle to study them. He's been denied every time.

There's also some canon divergence in the prologue. I see it as a timeskip between the Harrowing and Jowan. There's probably a few years between both events. Jowan isn't his childhood friend, but one of his apprentices in the animal sciences.

Research Notes: Ravens have never been used for sending messages. The depiction of ravens/crows as messengers is a mythological one. Messenger birds are pigeons and some doves because they have great homing abilities. Several theories have been introduced for how they manage to get home, from being able to detect the magnetic field, to being able to identify landmarks, but we really don't know.

In a similar vein, the birds weren't able to fly out to different locations with letters. They’re smart, but still just birds. Someone would take a caged bird to different location, and when a message needed to be sent, it would fly back home with a letter. That's why they're called homing pigeons.

Pigeons within Thedas would likely be housed in a dovecote or pigeon tower. Some were actual towers, and some were carved into a caves. Dovecotes nowadays often look like large birdhouses with many holes for different pairs.

"Culverhouse" is a surname that means "a person who tends to or lives near a dovecote," so that's just the title I'm going with.

[soncfthewitch]

closed starter for @theking-blackheart-muses​

Ezra slumped against the temple wall, exhausted after a long day of practicing his magic. He felt drained, yet strangely fulfilled by his work, and he languorously closed his eyes as the warmth of the afternoon sun soaked into his skin.

The temple's walls were adorned with intricate etchings, depicting a time long past filled with stories of courage and honor. The air was still, yet the wind moved like an invisible dance partner around him, as if searching for something lost. As Ezra studied the butterfly in his hands, he could see its delicate silken wings quivering under his touch, as if they held its rapidly beating heart. He gently traced his finger along the torn edge of a wing, feeling the delicate texture and warmth of its small body against his skin. He watched as the sunbeams caught each iridescent hue, like a scattered rainbow of light and color. Despite its wounds, it seemed at peace in his presence, a gift of warmth amidst the frigidness of the temple.

With a deep breath, Ezra closed his eyes and began pouring his magic into the butterfly, thin wisps of silver-white energy emanating from his fingertips. He felt the butterfly's anxiety soften, and the torn wing slowly mend in response to his healing touch, watching as it fluttered into the sky, free and unharmed. Ezra opened his eyes again and smiled, feeling a strange sense of solace amidst the ruins. He had found a moment of peace here, and he felt as if he could rest comfortably in the temple's embrace.

"At least I can do that much without losing control," he thought to himself, a rare smile touching his lips. He knew the danger of using too much untamed magic, but in this moment, it seemed like a distant worry.

[avataroftheswarm]

(ó﹏ò｡): Are there any foods that make their stomach upset?

Physical Reactions

Probably not, maybe unless it's something legit spoiled. They can probably eat just about anything that's actually digestible. Like not bones, plastic, metal, that kind of thing. But anything a bug can eat they can digest without problem!

And they will. They will eat just about anything they can get their hands on.

[transliterated-the-book]

Interstitial: On Context

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An excerpt from Musings on Our Gift, recorded by Scholar Delving-Thought:

Context is everything. This is because we Understand. Understanding is how we recognize ourselves, our neighbors, and our world. But what happens if we Understand something we lack context for? Something we know nothing about, and have never experienced? It is reduced. Abstracted in the most direct possible terms, stripped of nuance we would not comprehend. For most, such an idea feels absurd, but that is because we live and interact with those who share our perspective, our context. They know much of what we know, and if either party lacks knowledge, it need only be provided.

However, it is rather simple to demonstrate the power context holds over our Understanding. One needs only to start discussing colors with those outside their own species. I am fortunate enough to perceive many colors, but there are those who know fewer, and some who see more. One of the latter is a colleague of mine, a dove. It loves to speak of its life-mate, but will often mention features that I cannot see. I once asked what these invisible markings looked like, and I was entirely incapable of envisioning them. The markings were an iridescent pattern of colors I'd never seen, and so my Understanding was delivered in those terms.

"My mate's wings are spattered with blacks and grays and whites and [Other Colors]." The statement struck me as odd, so I repeated it back to my friend. It informed me that it had listed at least three more shades in its description, and tried to explain what they looked like. "The first color is similar to a second color, just a few shades closer to a third color from violet." I stopped the dove there, having learned my lesson.

To Understand is not to know, but rather to know if you know, and what you know. And there are some things you will never know.

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[sarcasticdolphin]

Smrtolf "Snow Angel"

This one is tooth-rotting fluff. For the lovely @adridoesstuff as all the Smrtolf drabbles are :)

The white had been a surprise. Rudolf hadn’t even really noticed at first, thoroughly entranced with Smrt as he had been. As he still was, in truth. His friend - though that word didn’t feel right anymore. Smrt was more than Rudolf’s friend now. His world, perhaps. Even that label felt inadequate.

But Rudolf had realized eventually. His wings weren’t the black-green-blue iridescent color of Aemilia’s, of Smrt’s, but rather a white that could have been freshly fallen snow. They certainly seemed as soft, as full. A blanket that protected Rudolf from the sun when he wished it, and a cushion to snooze on during the lazy hours Rudolf spends in the gardens.

Rudolf had eventually asked Smrt about it, even curious. The white was the mark of a maiden angel, as Smrt put it. An angel who had never claimed a human soul. Smrt’s wings alone would change as he willed them - from black to white to black again. The angels were different, at least in this. Rudolf sometimes mused on Edwin. He’d never taken a human soul, but some of his feathers were that same black. Perhaps he had reaped a hamster. Or perhaps a shirt had somehow had half a soul.

Rudolf’s favorite place in Smrt’s gardens was a simple one - a narrow reflecting pool with a protective hedge around it. One that Rudolf dearly loved to lay on the edge of, dancing his fingers over the still, mirrored surface. Watching the ripples when his fingers brushed the cool water’s surface. 

“Rudolf.” Smrt’s music permeated his realm in a way it didn’t the mortal world, and his thoughts often brushed against Rudolf's like wings of wind, gentle tendrils ghosting over Rudolf’s own wings.

But now is not one of those times, and Rudolf can feel Smrt’s warm hand on his shoulder, quickly followed by a soft kiss on his neck.

“Smrt.” Rudolf purrs more than he speaks, turning and nuzzling Smrt’s hand as they move together, Rudolf’s head soon on Smrt’s thigh even as Smrt’s clever fingers brushed over the soft feathers in Rudolf’s hair.

They were so much more apparent now, what with their gentle white color. Nothing like the little black iridescent plumes that had hidden amongst Rudolf’s hair for much of his adult life.

“Would you sing?” For Rudolf so loves Smrt’s voice. And his friend never denies him this.

The words seem to dance as Smrt intones their lullaby, the one that his friend had first sung to the small child that Rudolf had been. 

The song does drift off in time, finally ending as Smrt gently takes Rudolf’s hand and places a tender kiss on the angel’s palm.

“I shall have to ask you to sing for me in time.”

Rudolf finds himself smiling at that. “Perhaps. But perhaps I should dance for you instead.” Rudolf’s voice is not Smrt’s even if his siblings tell him how lovely it is. But Rudolf could not avoid praise for his dance. Once he had mastered his wings he flowed in a way that none other did, not even Smrt’s or Aemilia’s.

“I would like that.” Smrt’s clever fingers ever so gently adjust a few of the feathers in Rudolf’s hair. 

“Perhaps-” Rudolf finds himself half smiling, and knows his eyes must be mischievous. “You and I should dance together. Fly together.” For they rarely do. Smrt has his duties and in the earliest days of Rudolf’s angelhood he had spent all his flying time with Aemilia, learning the winds. Now he rode them as easily as she did, though perhaps still not as easily as Smrt himself did.

They fall into a companionable silence as Smrt’s fingers begin to preen Rudolf’s hair feathers properly, slowly and methodically moving over the many little feathers. As many as Rudolf had before his death, there were a myriad more now. More than Rudolf ever imagined could hide among his tresses.

“Kiss me.” It’s an impulsive demand, but Smrt only chuckles, granting Rudolf’s wish twice over as he bestows a pair of tender kisses - one on Rudolf’s palm and the second on his lips.

“My sweet angel.” Rudolf’s feathers fluff up at his friend’s words, and he must be blushing.

“Yours.” Because Rudolf revels in that now. That he is Smrt’s, truly and properly. That he can bask in his friend’s touch and song. He hums before sitting slowly and kissing Smrt in return, first at the corner of Smrt’s lips then tasting them properly. “Always.”

Smrt pulls Rudolf closer, bringing their foreheads to touch. “Always.” Smrt kisses him again, his words like an oath.

[balanchine-ballet-master]

Allegra Kent Rehearsing La Sonnambula

Allegra Kent rehearsing Unity Phelan in La Sonnambula. Photo: Amir Hamja for The New York Times

Happily for all of us, Jonathan Stafford and Wendy Whelan are bringing back dancers who worked with Balanchine to coach today's company members. This article about Allegra Kent, the original NYCB Sleepwalker in La Sonnambula, coaching Unity Phelan in the role, is from today's New York Times.

Allegra Kent Conjures ‘Messages From the Air, the Atmosphere’

The iridescent Balanchine ballerina returns to New York City Ballet this season to coach for “La Sonnambula.” What does she want? Mystery.

By Gia Kourlas Oct. 3, 2023

It was the first ballet that made sense to her. There was mystery, passion, pain. The music, by Vittorio Rieti, after themes from Bellini operas, swept her into another world.

“I was 11,” said Allegra Kent. “My heart was broken.”

Kent, the former New York City Ballet principal, was just a child when she attended a performance by Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in Los Angeles. The final work on the program was “Night Shadow,” George Balanchine’s 1946 ballet, later called “La Sonnambula.”

Kent had no idea who Balanchine was. But just four years later, she would join New York City Ballet, the company he had formed with Lincoln Kirstein. And not long after that, in 1960, Balanchine revived the ballet, casting Kent as its mysterious Sleepwalker.

Allegra Kent working with Phelan as the Sleepwalker and Taylor Stanley as the Poet. Photo: Amir Hamja for The New York Times

This season, as part of the company’s 75th anniversary, Kent, 86, was brought in as a guest coach for “La Sonnambula,” which returns Wednesday for four performances, and for “The Unanswered Question,” the gripping second movement of “Ivesiana.”

Kent wasn’t with the company from its 1948 start, but she was still a part of its early days and one of Balanchine’s most important muses.

She joined City Ballet at 15, just a year after she arrived in New York from California to study at the company-affiliated School of American Ballet. Balanchine gave her a scholarship, and soon after, she began attending performances.

“The first ballet I saw on the first program was 'Serenade,'” she said, referring to the Balanchine masterpiece in an interview at her Manhattan apartment. “I can’t remember the other ballets because it was like, 'Serenade'—the whole world is open.”

Eventually La Sonnambula, with its magic and tragedy, came her way. In this haunting ballet, the Poet hero romances a woman, the Coquette, before discovering a Sleepwalker at a masked ball. Holding a candle, the Sleepwalker skims across the stage in close-knit bourrée steps on pointe wearing a flowing dress. Its diaphanous sleeves, like wings, catch the air as they stream behind her.

The Coquette’s jealousy leads the Baron, the host of the ball, to stab the Poet; the Sleepwalker, devastated, carries him away. With the right dancers, the ballet is gut-wrenching, but it takes imagination born from almost psychic sensations. The heroine may be walking in her sleep, but “she’s not expressionless,” Kent said. “You can’t come in like a zombie.”

In the pas de deux, the Sleepwalker glides past the Poet, who ducks underneath her candle; he waves his hand in front of her face to see if she is awake; he falls to the floor in her path, but she steps over his outstretched body, unruffled, and continues on her way. There should be daring, too: on tour in Moscow, Balanchine demonstrated one of the Sleepwalker’s crossings on a stage that Kent said was like a football field.

“She’s not expressionless,” Kent said of the Sleepwalker. “You can’t come in like a zombie.” Photo: Amir Hamja for The New York Times

“He took the candle and ran on the diagonal,” she said. “In those days, they had footlights. He stepped over the footlight and stopped. I thought, Oh, my God, he’s going to die” — plunging off the stage. “But he didn’t die. He stepped back and gave the candle to me.”

He was showing her, in essence, how the Sleepwalker possesses a layer of extrasensory perception; that what can’t be seen can be felt, and that even in a sudden stop — as he did himself on that stage — there should be no physical reverberation.

“Balanchine loved danger,” Kent said. “In the step in ‘The Unanswered Question’ when she slowly goes back” — the ballerina, again in white and held aloft, falls into the arms of four men obscured by darkness — “the audience is terrified for a moment. So this is the genius of Balanchine. Ah! She’s going to run off the stage! She’s going to fall over backward! Is anyone going to catch her?”

The original Sleepwalker — and the one Kent first saw all those many years ago — was the great ballerina Alexandra Danilova. Kent herself was briefly coached by Danilova not in the studio, but in a chance meeting, waiting for the 104 bus on Broadway. “She stood up and started demonstrating at the bus stop,” Kent said. “Gosh, what a moment.”

This is a ‘Sleeping Beauty’ in the Balanchine style,” Kent said. “The kiss does not wake her up.” Photo: Amir Hamja for The New York Times

Rehearsing at City Ballet’s studios with Unity Phelan and Taylor Stanley, who will perform the Sleepwalker and the Poet in one cast, Kent was intensely ethereal, acutely focused, with fingers full of life. She said, “You’re getting messages from the air, the atmosphere.”

Kent turned to the mirror to study their reflection as if it were a painting. With her elbows raised, her fingertips curving toward her chest, she worked on details — as many as she could. She was trying, it seemed, to penetrate below the surface of the skin, to draw raw emotion into the movement. Details are important to Kent, as they were to Balanchine. He would come backstage and say, “‘Oh, your crown is half an inch too far back,’” she said. “‘Bring it forward.’ I mean, it’s not even the hair, it’s just the crown. Details.”

Kent stood in front of Phelan, who held the candle with a curved arm as the other extended to the side. Kent rested her elegant fingers on Phelan’s shoulders — just a whisper of pressure — and stared at their reflection in the mirror. “Don’t look up,” she said, releasing her hands.

“You are sleepwalking, but you’re aware,” Kent said. “You’re in another realm but there’s something going on within you. A great tragedy that is not explained.”

Phelan, who danced the Sleepwalker in a previous season, is approaching the role differently now. Her Sleepwalker moved too forward from the chest, but with Kent’s help, she is working on relaxing, softening. “You can still be active, but if it gets all tense then it looks like you’re putting on a show instead of it coming from a genuine place,” Phelan said later. “If I’m just being myself and actively doing something, I’m not sensing everything in my body. So that’s what I’m trying to bring it back to.”

When she first danced the Sleepwalker, Phelan wanted to prove that she could be ghostly, waiflike, light. “What I’ve discovered from Allegra is that I may have been going too far with that,” she said. “You let yourself be involved emotionally. I think I was trying to stay so disassociated.”

“You are sleepwalking, but you’re aware,” Kent said. “You’re in another realm but there’s something going on within you. A great tragedy that is not explained.” Photo: Amir Hamja for The New York Times

When the Sleepwalker comes onstage, she’s not just taking brisk walks on pointe. She’s searching. “We don’t know what it is — if it’s a child, if it’s a love,” Kent said. “But it’s a huge thing missing. It’s a huge urgency. But beyond that, there’s so much mystery. There is a huge lack in her life.”

Stanley, rehearsing the moment when the Poet waves his hand in front of the Sleepwalker’s face to see if she is awake, was too dynamic. Kent stepped in to demonstrate.“ Just the tiny back and forth over my eyes,” Phelan said, “with her hand being that close to my face, I saw all the energy. She wasn’t shaking. Nothing was happening. But everything was alive in her hand. I was like, that’s what she means.”

There’s nothing casual about “La Sonnambula,” which Kent says is like no other Balanchine ballet. “I used to do this night after night in my living room just to get that despair and the subtleties,” Kent said. “That search. This is a ‘Sleeping Beauty’ in the Balanchine style. The kiss does not wake her up.”

Kent, with her cheerful wit, summed up her own “Sonnambula” experience: “This is what I’d say: Thank you, Balanchine,” she said. “Thank you, Madame Danilova. And I thank the M.T.A., the metropolitan transit authority. The generosity of her and the generosity of the bus being late.”

[billy-loomis-has-my-heart]

slashers (any if u want but my heart belongs to rz myers, vincent, bo and asa) initial thoughts to seeing bad ass fucking tattoos over their s/o's top surgery scars

Here you go! Sorry I left out rz Myers cuz I know next to nothing about him TvT but at least now I have another movie to watch! I will update this post as soon as I can <3

Without further ado…

How Slashers Would React To Seeing Badass Tattoos Over Their S/O’s Top Surgery Scars <3 (SFW) (Fluff)

*Warnings: mentions of top surgery, scars, tattoos, light physical contact (fluff), comparison to bugs*

Bo Sinclair:

Bo is instantly impressed although he won’t show more than a smirk

He thinks you’re honestly so badass, especially to get tattoos on a scar that is a significant milestone in your life.

He is definitely the type to just randomly kiss two of his fingers and pat it on your chest when you’re wearing a tank top or something to show how much he admires your tattoos, and more importantly your strength

Vincent Sinclair:

Vincent would immediately be swept by your captivating appearance now enhanced by awesome tattoos

You are now his muse <3 so expect to be posing for him while he draws and sculpts your stunning features, mimicking every curve and every inch of inked skin in his work

On days where he isn’t so busy, he might actually consider getting one for himself

Your acceptance of the scars on your body make him inadvertently more accepting of his own which is truly lovely because Vincent really needs to start loving himself more

Asa Emory:

Asa is mesmerized by the fact that tiny needles have punctured your skin several times to make such a lovely design

It honestly seems like the man could gaze at your tattoo for hours, looking back up at your face every few seconds to take in how well it matches his s/o

If it’s an intricate tattoo, expect him to make comparisons to bugs, perhaps dragonflies with their shimmeringly delicate wings, or perhaps an iridescent beetle; either way he is enthralled

[emixion]

Magic - Day 16 - Maribat March 2021

pixie hollow au time! @maribatmarch-2k21 ao3 link There was something in his room. Damian was sure of it.

He thought it was a bee at first, in which case he would’ve just ignored it, trusting it would find its way out on its own.

Then he caught sight of a large iridescent wing as it flitted across the room and hid in the corner behind his bedside table.

Hmm, strange.

It must be a butterfly, Damian thought. Must be seeking chelter from the rain. Though I have no idea how it got in here.

He decided to investigate, grabbing a small jar to safely secure the creature without hurting it. He was an animal lover after all.

He slowly approached the corner of the room where he saw the creature fly to, jar in hand.

Carefully moving his bedside table, he quickly placed the jar on the wall when the creature flew up to flee, trapping it against the wall.

What. The. Hell.

That sure as hell wasn’t a butterfly.

The tiny creature fluttering about the jar, was a tiny person, with a tiny pink dress and little shoes to match. She had midnight hair in two small braids. The long iridescent wings he’d seen before were attached to her back.

She was…a fairy?!

A very panicked looking fairy.

The tiny fairy was flying frantically around the jar, looking desperately for a way out. It took Damian a moment to pick his jaw up from the floor to register that the fairy must be scared.

He quickly lifted the jar, setting her free and she wasted no time in zooming up to the ceiling out of his reach.

“Um…hello?” Damian said to the ceiling, idly wondering if he was going out of his mind. Seriously, was he seeing things or was there actually a fairy in his room? “Are..are you a fairy?”

The little fairy just looked back at him in fear, pressed against the ceiling.

“Look, I’m not going to hurt you.” He assured. “I just, ah, wasn’t expecting this?” He scratched his head. “God, I must sound crazy.”

The fairy tilted her head, studying him for a moment. She cautiously flew down from the ceiling but stayed above Damian’s head.

“Where did you even come from?” Damian asked, though it was more like he was asking himself. “Grayson used to tell us stories about fairies when we were young, but I always felt like I was too old for them.” He mused, lost in thought. He didn’t notice the fairy fly down to his level until she came into his view at eye level.

“Oh!” He startled, quickly covering it with a cough. “You came down.”

The fairy was still studying him. Up close Damian could see that her tiny eyes were grey and she had itty bitty freckles on her nose. A cascade of gold dust flurried off of her wings in a constant stream.

She reached her little hand out and slowly flew even closer to Damian.

He was so entranced by the fairy that he wasn’t expecting it when she reached out and poked his cheek with a teeny finger.

“Hey!” Damian exclaimed, but there was no bite in his voice, in fact, a small laugh pulled from his lips.

The fairy quickly pulled away, but laughed too. Though the only sound Damian heard was that of a small bell…

“Do you always jingle when you laugh?” He asked. The fairy looked at him quizzically, opening her mouth to say something, but all that came out were more bell sounds.

“I guess you can’t talk.” Damian concluded, but the fairy shook her head vigorously. “You can understand me?” A nod. “And you can talk?” Another nod. “Then why do I only hear bells when you speak?”

The fairy shrugged, just as confused as he was.

“Alright then, I guess we’re just gonna have to play charades.” Damian held his hand out, palm face up. The fairy looked at it for a moment before tentatively resting on his palm, her legs resting daintily beside her in a mermaid position.

“First off, what’s your name?” Damian asked. The fairy scrunched up her face and tapped her chin, trying to think of how to answer. Spotting a book on his desk, she stood up and flew over and pointed to the letter ‘m’ on the page.

“M? Your name is M?”

The fairy shook her head and pointed to the m again.

“Your name starts with M?”

A nod and a smile.

“Okay, what’s the next letter?”

The fairy pointed to an ‘a’.

“A. Okay, let me write this down.”

The game continued until Damian had written out a full name, M-a-r-i-n-e-t-t-e.

“Marinette?” Damian tested, looking at her, “Your name is Marinette?”

The fairy, Marinette beamed and nodded.

Damian matched her smile, extending his hand to the little fairy.

“I’m Damian. Nice to meet you.” he introduced. Marinette took one of his fingertips in her tiny hand and gave it a shake. The air filled with jingling bells.

-

“So there’s a whole kingdom of fairies that lives in a meadow?” Damian asked.

Marinette nodded enthusiastically.

The past few hours had been absolutely fascinating to Damian. Marinette had told (or rather, charaded) him all about herself and the fairy world.

He’d learned that there was a place called Neverland that you could only get to by flying to the second star to the right. Apparently all fairies lived there, in a place called Pixie Hollow.

She’d explained that she was here on the mainland looking for supplies when it started to rain, and not being able to fly in the rain, sought out shelter in a small hole in the wall of his house. Damian was going to have to get that looked at.

“And the tree in the middle, it has all the dust that helps you fly?” Damian continued, looking at the small map that Marinette (with his help) had drawn of her home.

Marinette nodded, the sound of bells jingling as she spoke. It didn’t matter to her that he couldn’t understand, she babbled away all the same.

Damian smiled softly at her enthusiasm, he’d observed that she was quite eccentric and it filled him with amusement.

“So, back to the talent thing.” Damian continued. “You never told me your talent.”

Marinette let outa jingling “oh!” and smacked her head as if she was just remembering.

Marinette flew up in front of his face from her place on the map. She mimed using a hammer.

“A..building fairy?” Damian guessed. Marinette shook her head. She mimed screwing in something with her hand and polishing something. “A…repair fairy?”

Marinette shook her head again, growing frustrated.  She mimed fiddling with something.

“Um…a tinker fairy?” He guessed again. Marinette’s face lit up and she nodded happily.

“A tinker fairy…wow. So you create different things?” Damian asked. Marinette nodded again. “What kind of things do you make?”

Marinette mimed drinking tea, riding a cart, and even pointed to her outfit.

“You made your dress?”

A nod.

“That’s really cool, Marinette.” Damian praised. Marinette’s little face went red, and she waved her hand as if to say “no big deal.”

She then pointed to the pixie dust tree on her map, as if trying to get Damian back on topic.

“Okay, okay, back to the pixie dust. So, how much do you need each day?”

Marinette shrugged, cupping her hands as if to say “this much.”

Damian hummed, writing that down next to the map. Marinette landed next to his hand.

“Is flying fun?” he asked. Marinette nodded, doing a little twirl.

“Showoff.” Damian mumbled, a fond smile on his face. Marinette stuck her tongue out at him.

“I wonder what it’s like.” Damian mused. Marinette’s face lit up and she snapped her fingers, clearly having an idea. “What?” he asked.

Marinette fluttered away from the desk, tugging Damian’s pinky as she went. Damian stood up and followed her, nearly being dragged along. She was much stronger than she looked, especially for such a little fairy.

With Damian now where she wanted him, Marinette smirked and then began flying around him in circles, letting the golden pixie dust encase him.

“What are you- whoah!” Damian yelled as his feet left the ground. He was…He was…

“I’m flying?!” Damian sputtered. Marinette grinned cheekily at him, clearly pleased with herself.

“Did your dust do this?” He asked. Marinette nodded and flew forward take Damian’s fingertips again.

She slowly flew backwards, pulling along a floating Damian as she went.

“Marinette…this is..” Damian cut off with a laugh, smiling at her. Marinette beamed back, pulling him up a little higher.

The next several minutes acted as a flying lesson. Damian was by no means a natural (as humiliating as it was to admit), but he had Marinette to guide him. She gave him plenty of encouragement, patting his cheek and kissing his nose if he got discouraged, and in no time Damian was flying around his room at the same pace as Marinette.

Damian whooped in delight as he flew, even doing a few spins in the air. Marinette put her hands on her hips and looked at him as if to say “who’s showing off now?”

After a while, the dust started to settle and Damian started to sink down to the floor, Marinette tried to give him more dust but Damian declined, insisting she keep it for herself.

-

“It’s getting late..” Damian said, breaking the silence. He was lounging on his bed with Marinette sitting next to him on the pillow. She looked over at him, her grey eyes looking sad as she turned towards the window. “It’s still raining though..”

Marinette looked torn, while she should probably be getting home, it was still raining…and they were having so much fun..

“Marinette” Damian began. “Would you like to stay here tonight?” He asked. “It’s going to rain until morning.”

Marinette’s sad face brightened. She nodded and flew up to kiss his cheek.

Damian chuckled. “Okay, you can stay. We’ll figure everything out in the morning, okay?”

Marinette gave a small salute before snuggling up on Damian’s shoulder. The boy chuckled again.

“Goodnight, Marinette.” he whispered and joined his new fairy friend in the realm of dreams.