#velvet arabesque

[vocaloidderivativeotd]

Today's Vocaloid derivative of the day is:

Hatsune Miku: Arabian from Velvet Arabesque and Catch the Wave in Project DIVA!

[okochamasensou]

project diva song logo pngs (ripped from mm+)

[missearthling]

Bruh how did I get a better rating on Ex Extreme

[fa1ry03]

could you do a joe fic where the reader is a ballerina?? i’m one myself so i just thought it’d be cute :,)

Dancing Into Love

Author's Note: Thank you so much for requesting this piece! I absolutely loved writing it, especially since I used to do ballet myself and even danced on pointe for a while. Your idea brought back so many wonderful memories, and it was a joy to weave that experience into the story. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it! 😊

Word Count - 729

Joe wasn’t one to frequent theaters, much less ballet performances, but his best friend had practically dragged him along, insisting he needed a "cultural experience." Sitting stiffly in the velvet seat, he’d expected to be bored out of his mind. That was until you stepped onto the stage.

From the moment you appeared, Joe couldn’t look away. Your movements were captivating, each twirl and leap filled with such precision and emotion that he found himself leaning forward in his seat. You seemed untouchable, almost otherworldly, and Joe couldn’t help but wonder who you were beyond the shimmering costume and pointed shoes.

After the performance, his friend convinced him to stick around for the meet-and-greet with the performers. Joe stood awkwardly at the back of the line, clutching the program he’d been handed at the door. When it was finally his turn, he felt a jolt of nervous energy as you looked up at him, your stage makeup still intact but softened under the lobby lights.

"Hi," you greeted warmly, your smile as graceful as your performance.

"Hi," he replied, suddenly forgetting every word in the English language. He handed you the program for an autograph, but before you could sign, he blurted, "You were incredible out there."

You looked up, a hint of surprise in your eyes. "Thank you. That means a lot."

And just like that, Joe’s fumbling attempts at conversation turned into a fifteen-minute chat about your passion for dance and his awkward but earnest appreciation for the arts. By the end, he’d mustered the courage to ask if you’d like to grab coffee sometime. To his astonishment, you said yes.

------------------------------------

Dating a ballerina turned out to be a unique experience, one that Joe cherished more than he ever thought he would. Your schedules were hectic—his with work and yours with rehearsals and performances—but you both made it work.

Joe quickly became your biggest supporter, attending every performance he could and cheering the loudest at the curtain call. He even started to learn the names of different ballet positions and techniques, surprising you one day when he correctly identified an arabesque.

"Someone’s been doing their homework," you teased, stretching your legs after a particularly grueling rehearsal.

"What can I say? I’m dating a pro," he said, handing you a water bottle with a grin.

Joe also loved watching you practice, though he was careful not to distract you. He’d sit quietly in the corner of the studio, mesmerized by the way you moved, as if your body spoke a language all its own. Occasionally, he’d offer his unique brand of encouragement.

"You’re amazing, babe, but maybe add a little... Joe flair to it," he’d joke, waving his arms in an exaggerated imitation of your elegant movements.

"Joe flair, huh?" you’d reply with a laugh, pulling him onto the studio floor to teach him a basic plié.

"This is harder than it looks!" he’d protest, wobbling as he tried to hold the position.

"Welcome to my world," you’d say, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder.

Joe was also incredibly supportive during the tougher moments. On nights when you came home exhausted and doubting yourself, he’d sit beside you, rubbing your feet and reminding you just how talented you were.

"You’re not just good; you’re breathtaking," he’d say, his voice full of sincerity. "Don’t let one bad day make you forget that."

His encouragement always lifted your spirits, and you often told him how much you appreciated having someone who believed in you so completely.

One evening, after a particularly stunning performance, Joe surprised you with a bouquet of flowers and a small, wrapped box. As you opened it, your eyes widened to see a delicate necklace shaped like a pair of ballet slippers.

"For my favorite ballerina," he said, his cheeks turning pink.

You threw your arms around him, whispering a soft, "Thank you, Joe. I love it."

Joe’s life with you might not have been what he’d imagined, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Being with you taught him to appreciate the beauty of dedication, the art of storytelling through movement, and the joy of sharing his life with someone so passionate and full of grace.

And as he watched you twirl across the stage night after night, Joe knew he was the luckiest guy in the world to call you his.

Thank You so much for this request! <3 Send in more please!

[sunkifye]

curtsies and kisses

pairing— boyfriend nishimura riki x ballerina reader

genre— fluff

synopsis— your proud boyfriend congratulates you after your dance recital

warnings— kissing

word count— 393

author’s note— my friend asked me to write this soooo

you gracefully landed your pirouette before stepping into an arabesque as the music died down. as you held your pose you could hear the crowd begin to clap and cheer for your amazing performance. you searched the audience, trying to find your boyfriend’s face. the bright spotlight shining over you hindered your vision, making you squint as you continued to search the crowd. no luck. the red velvet curtain began to close and you couldn’t find him in the audience, but you knew he was there. once the curtain fully closed, the spot lights dimmed and the house lights turned back on as the audience began to chatter and leave the theater. you quickly ran off the stage along with everyone else who was in the dance routine and went towards the dressing room. you grabbed your bag before heading back out of the dressing room, not even bothering to change out of your ballet slippers. you raced to the lobby of the theater, immediately stopping in your tracks upon entering. you rapidly searched for your boyfriend, soon finding him standing on the other side of the room. you made your way over to him, pushing past the crowds of people as you called out your boyfriend’s name.

“KI!!” you yelled as you approached him.

“BABE!” he exclaimed, taking notice of you before he opened up his arms.

you jumped into riki’s arms as he spun you around a few times before putting you down. your tutu was now crushed, which would’ve pissed you off, but surprisingly, you didn’t care.

“you did amazing tonight,” riki congratulated you, extending out his arm to hand you a bouquet of red roses.

“thank you baby,” you replied with a shy smile, gratefully taking the flowers from his hand.

“I love watching you dance, you always look so beautiful,” he compliments you, looking down at you as he admires your features. you blush at his words.

“I’m glad you came,” you said, tightly holding the bouquet close to your chest.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” riki replied before placing his hand under your chin. he tilted your head up so your eyes met his before he placed a soft kiss on your lips.

“let’s go out for dinner, my treat,” riki suggested, taking your hand in his hand before you both exited the theater.

[larvasmoon]

Starry Nights (2)- Queen of bones

Summary : Maven is an outcast, a clumsy Christmas elf, who lives high up in the North Pole's fir forest. She dwells in the shadow, shunned by all of her peers. Yet, when the Christmas preparations turn into a disaster, she has no choice but to partner up with her sworn enemy to save the factory: Santa's secretary, Astarion Ancunín. Pariting: Astarion/Original female character Rating: Explicit Content: Christmas AU, dark christmas tale, angst and fluff and smut, moody elf stuck in an endless party, Astarion as Santa's insufferable secretary, enemies to lovers

Read on Ao3

The night is ending, and Maven spent the entirety of it at the factory. It’s snowing outside, the snowflakes swirl and dance in the pink streaked sky, glittery and fluffy like the fairy floss they sometimes sell at the Christmas market. Her mother used to buy her one from time to time when she was little — a big cloud of rosy sugar that dissolved into a sticky mess when she bit into it, evanescent and cloying like the rest of the North Pole.

She’s hunched over an enchanted music box, a gift for a little girl called Nimiel. Her arms are awfully sore, but she’s stubborn and she won’t stop until she’s done casting her spells. It’s so early that the workshop is still shrouded in darkness, and the tendrils of green light pouring from Maven's fingers illuminate the entire room like some sort of magical lantern. The fire is burning in the hearth, colorful fairy lights twinkle in the obscurity, a few sconces are lit in the hallway, but none of those things shine brighter than Maven herself. She sings a lullaby to the comb and to the cylinder of the red lacquered box, willing it to remember it by heart so that the little girl can fall asleep while listening to it. 

It’s taking her a lot longer than it usually would though; she would already be done if she wasn’t so distracted and so nervous. 

It’s completely irrational, Maven knows she’s safe between the walls of the factory — as safe as she can be in a place owned by a man like Klaus, at least. It’s just that… That bad feeling simply won’t go away. She’s convinced that something horrible is about to happen, every fiber of her body screams at her to run and flee. 

Her hands are clammy, and her heart hammers in her chest. She jumps when a log cracks in the fireplace, and she gasps when a pile of snow falls from the roof with a thump. 

You’re anxious, she tells herself as she hums a soft tune, a lot of strange things happened yesterday, you have every reason to be a bit on the edge. Just take a deep breath and focus on your work! 

But it’s no use, her mind keeps drifting away from the task at hand. It conjures images of Astarion — impossibly beautiful in the chaos of the grand hall, unnervingly sensual when he laid down on one of the workshop’s armchair. It plagues her with dark visions of the creature she encountered in the forest, of its tall horns and mad glare.

And Maven’s hand trembles as she molds and sculpts a little ballerina out of the halo of her palm, pinching the seams of her large and elegant tutu between her thumb and index. 

“It tickles,” the danseuse grumbles, already spinning on herself, held by no string and no golden pole, “Let go of me miss, I need to dance, it hurts if I don’t!” 

She hops out of her hand and lands above the green velvet that lines the inside of the box, outstretched in a graceful arabesque. Maven contemplates her work for a little while, fascinated by the movements of the ballet dancer, by the beauty of her arched back and pointed feet. The gift is so well crafted, the music so delightfully whimsical, that she slowly falls asleep. She’s already dreaming of a long walk on the snowy paths of the forest when a noise startles her. 

Someone or something is walking about the room; a few hushed whispers echo in the silence from time to time. Before she knows it, Maven is already up on her feet again, a candle in one of her hands and a small knife in the other. 

“Who’s there?” 

A little sneer, and a stool clatters on the other side of the atelier.

“You don’t scare me,” she lies, gripping the blade, “Show yourself!”

Everything is still once again, and there’s a few minutes of horrible silence. Maven anxiously waits for the moment the intruder will decide to pounce on her, for the moment she’ll have to make use of this deadly weapon.

But none of that transpires, instead something even more terrifying happens. 

The clock above the door stops ticking. Outside the window, the valley suddenly looks like a painting. The snowflakes have stopped falling from the sky, eerily suspended in the cold air. In the fireplace, the flames have also stopped their undulating dance, frozen in time. And in the trees, the Christmas lights have stopped flickering, stuck in a new and foreign arrangement of bright colors. 

Out of the corner of her eyes, Maven sees a small horned silhouette stepping out of its hide. She gasps and turns with a hiss, both of her hands clamped around the handle of her knife.

The creature’s face is obscured, cast in the shadow by the bright light of the fire burning behind it, but she already knows it’s an imp — the kind that lives on the other side of the hill, right behind her house. The Christmas elves call that place the Black Woods; for beyond them sits the wide and dangerous realm of Klaus’ oldest enemy: Lord Krampus, the malevolent. 

The old man has always strictly forbidden his elves to venture past the limits of the enchanted forest for that reason, but Maven broke that law more than once in the past. 

Santa’s blessings do not reach that part of the North Pole, and all sorts of creatures hide amongst the thick fir trees. She has seen them with her own eyes countless times; boggarts, satyres, brownies, banshees and trolls lurk in that dark undergrowth. Maven used to play with the hobgoblins and the pucks down in the dim lit groves when she was young, trading a few candy canes for a handful of rare gemstones. She wasn’t afraid of them then, and she still isn’t. 

No, what still terrifies her is the memory of the day she was found out by one of the guards near the limits of the enchanted forest, hand in hand with a little brownie. The scar on her cheek is an ugly and painful reminder of it.

“Mistress,” the imp says, ever so softly, “Lay down your blade, I won’t do you any harm.” 

“Why are you here then?” she rasps, frantically looking outside the window to see if one Santa’s sentinels is near. “And how did you manage to get inside of the factory? They’ll kill you if they find you, you know… Actually, they might kill us both.”

The imp slowly steps closer, raising his hands in surrender. 

“Mistress Maven,” he breathes, and something about the way he says her name is awfully familiar, “It’s me. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten—”

Two golden eyes, not unlike her own, rise to look at her. Maven stares down into them, and all of a sudden she’s ten again, racing down the path of the dark forest to outfast one of her little playmates. 

“ Mistress Maven! It’s not fair, your legs are much longer than mine and you said we can’t use magic!” 

“I’ll beat you one day, spells or not! I swear it on the pointy horns of my lord and master Krampus!” 

Amongst all the friends she had in the Black Woods, one was especially dear to her. A little devil that she loved like a brother, and that in turn, loved her like a sister. It’s the closest thing to a family she’s ever had after the death of her mother, but after the incident, she couldn’t bring herself to go back to the rocky banks of the river…To their river. 

And when she lost that love, she pretended that she was doing it for his own good. She convinced herself that her presence would only put him in danger, that he’d be better off without her — Maven, the curse, the child who only brings misfortune to those who dare to care about her.

“Your eyes are beautiful, Mistress, don’t let the others tell you otherwise! They are bright and wide like those of a wolf, the true king of the cold forests of the north.” 

“Rufus?”

Sometimes, an entire world lives in a name.

She says ‘Rufus’ and parts of her that she has long kept locked away break free of their chains. The hopeful Maven, the rebellious Maven, the Maven who still knows how to laugh: they all come rushing back like a child running into the arms of her mother.

Maybe everything isn’t lost, afterall? Maybe life is still worth fighting for, if Rufus is part of it again?

“It’s been a long time since we last saw each other.” He bows low, little tail flicking in the air. “You haven’t changed one bit.” 

Maven’s only answer is a choked and strangled sigh, as she falls to her knees and takes him in her arms. At first, Rufus doesn’t move at all, tense and rigid in her embrace. Right when she’s about to step away though, the imp holds her back, gripping the fabric of her jacket and sobbing in her hair.

“I missed you so terribly, I’m sorry I never came back to the forest.”

“There is no need to apologize,” he sniffs, hoarse and broken,“I know why you stopped coming down the hill, and I know who is to blame for all the time we’ve lost.”

Maven’s eyes drift toward the fire and its unmoving ambers; flashes and images fill the cracks of her fractured mind.

The face of the little brownie as she died. 

Dark terrified eyes.

Blood staining the white snow. 

The skin of her cheek burning and sizzling against the cold steel of a blade.

“Actually that’s why I’m here, mistress Maven,” Rufus continues, still all curled up in her lap like a big cat, “I did not come alone, there is someone else here who would like to talk to you.” 

She has no time to ask any question before a tall shadow emerges from the corridor, gigantic pointy horns cutting into the wood of the ceiling’s joists as it bursts into the workshop. Maven trembles and lowers her eyes, both in reverence and in fear. All she sees are the creature’s large goat hooves stepping closer and closer, hitting the floor so hard that it shakes beneath her. 

“Who are you?” she dares to ask, hopelessly clinging to Rufus for reassurance. 

The voice that answers is surprisingly smooth and gentle. “You already know who I am, sweet child.” 

“Lord Krampus—”

He chuckles, warmer than she’s ever heard Klaus laugh. “Oh there is no need for such formalities, please call me Krampus.”

She slowly tilts her head up, finally daring to look at him properly. It’s the same tall horns, the same rough and bumpy skin, the same piercing crimson eyes, as the monster she saw a few hours ago. 

There is something inherently different about him this time, however.

A gentleness that seems entirely misplaced on his gruesome features; a softness she failed to see that morning.   

“Have you come here to punish me?”

He scrunches his nose and furrows his brows, clearly displeased by her choice of words.

“I’m a teacher of lessons, not a master of punishments — punishment seems to be Santa’s speciality, not mine, as far as I can tell,” he huffs, his burning gaze lingering on her scar, “I come to children to guide them on the right path, not to hurt them.” 

“But Santa kept talking about the evil kingdom—”

“True evil knows how to charm the world, how to appeal to the masses, my dear,” he says, and as he speaks, black smoke curls drapes around his frame and sparks of light dance around his face, his appearance slowly morphing into that of a beautiful elf. “True evil rarely has a set of rather sharp teeth and coarse black fur… No, true evil hides behind pretty lights, joyful carols, bright red uniforms and wide smiles.” 

Long dark green curls fall on the back of his black cloak, and for a brief moment, Maven feels uncomfortable. It’s almost like staring into a mirror…. In this shape, Krampus looks like her — or rather, she looks like this Krampus, the one that has glowing amber eyes and pine green hair.

“I can look beautiful when I want to. I just feel more comfortable when all the world sees when it looks at me, is a monster,” he smiles, sharp and rakish, “It's one of the many differences between Klaus and me. I’m a beast, I’ll always be. I don’t care about power or prestige—"

“Why have you come then?” she finds herself asking, feeling like there’s more behind his words, an answer she longs to hear. 

“Have you ever wondered why you have always felt compelled to tread down the path that leads to the Black Woods, or why all the Christmas elves are so wary of you?” he asks, kneeling down on the floor in front of her and the little imp.

He smells like crushed pine needles and the damp soil of the woods, like home, and Maven fights this feeling, tries to bury it deep in her heart.

Of course, I have, she sneers, eyes pricking with tears, I’ve spent my entire life thinking about those things, desperately looking for ways to fix what is wrong with me.  

Krampus gently takes her face in his hands, and the things he says next feel like a dagger to the heart. “You’re the flesh of my flesh, and the blood of my blood, Maven.” 

“Wait wait wait  —Are you implying that —”  she gasps, pushing him away and stumbling back into one of her coworkers’ workbench, “No, it’s not possible— I’m not — You’re not —”

“Filthy monster! Krampus Kin!” The children laugh and scream at her in her memory. She’ll never forget the countless days spent running home after school, trying to flee the crowd of little elves who liked to make fun of her clothes or throw little stones at her.

Why me? What have I done to deserve all of this? She still ponders, after all those years, always persuaded that the fault is hers, entirely hers… 

Krampus and her bear an unsettling ressemblance — the kind that makes her question the things her mother said and the things that she omitted to say. Did she have secrets of her own? A crime so unforgivable that she took her secret to the grave? Maven doubts and questions, teetering on the edge of madness, clinging to the hope that her mother didn’t lie to her. Wouldn’t a creature as powerful as Krampus be able to assume whatever shape or form he desires? What if he created this one especially from her, an appearance specifically tailored to gain her trust and feed her all sorts of lies? 

“I took a risk by coming here, and my little trick only works once,” Krampus sighs, turning around to look at the hour hand of the clock, still and unmoving, “As soon as time takes back its course, the magical wards placed around the factory will alert the guards of my presence.”

“Why?” she asks, speaking so low that she’s almost whispering, “Why would you go to such lengths?”

“Klaus knows that one of his elves is a child of mine. His secretary has been tasked to find the half-blood elf for years. The number on your wrist is a seal, a way for Klaus to keep the Christmas’ elves under his influence, to prevent them from having thoughts of their own. It never worked on you for… obvious reasons. It’s only a question of time before he finds out!”

Maven’s eyes widen; she stopped listening as soon as he talked about Santa’s secretary, about Astarion. 

 “I came back for you, to take you back to the woods, where you’ll be safe.” 

Astarion. The entire time, all those days he came to see her down into the factory… He was only trying to collect proof, wasn’t he? He was only doing his job, and obeying Santa's orders.

See, I told you so, a jaded voice chuckles in her head, nobody cares about you, you’re just a pawn in his game, nothing more. 

“I don’t believe you, stop lying to me,” she snaps, running a trembling hand through her hair,“If you are truly who you claim to be, where were you all this time? When all the elves of the North Pole mocked and abused me? Spit it out! What is it that you want for me? There must be something, a reason why you’re here!” 

There’s always a reason; nobody truly wants to be with Maven. She is one unlovable creature…Rufus was right, she is like the big lone wolf that sometimes roams the Black Woods, with big sad eyes and a sharp jaw still covered in the blood of his last catch.

“This place has done a fine job of teaching you that love has to be earned, that only the good ones are worthy of affection, but this is unconditional, Maven. I’ve always watched ove —”

“Stop it— “ she cuts him off, sobbing and snarling like a wounded beast, “Stop saying that!”

How pitiful… She spent her whole life yearning for a love like this, but the day the universe finally hands it to her, she doesn’t know how to welcome it, how to believe it, or how to accept that she’s deserving of it.

“Mistress Maven,” Rufus says, grabbing her hand and desperately tugging on it, “Please, come with us.”

She looks at her friend, and a new terrible thought crosses her mind. He came here in the middle of the night, with Krampus himself— does Rufus serve him in the same way Astarion serves Santa?

“Rufus,” she breathes, new tears rolling down her scarred face, “Were you truly my friend, or were you only doing what was asked of you?”

The imp turns white as a sheet, the pout of his lips a silent confession of his guilt. 

“I — I— At first, master asked me to protect you — But then I truly —” he stutters, pressing his face against the red fabric of breeches, “I promise, Mistress Maven.”

“I should have known…” she mutters, and Krampus says something again, words lost in the chaos of her mind. 

At first, she doesn’t notice the growing pain in her skull, too upset to feel anything else but her heart breaking in two. She’s crying and the next second… She’s struck down by the pain, twisting and screaming on the floor, pulling her hair like a madwoman. Her body is changing, she can feel another pulse than her own beneath her skin, and magic coils tight around each of her limbs.

One final explosion of blinding pain, and she hears something growing out of her head, breaking and twisting her bones like clay in the deft hands of a sculptor. 

“Help her, Rufus,” Krampus says in the distance while she heaves and retches on the floor, “There’s no time left, we must leave.”

A puddle of blood is spreading beneath her head, soft and red like the suit Astarion was wearing the night before. She reaches for her forehead, trying to see if there is anything left of her skull, but her fingers hit something hard and pointy. A bump or… A horn?

No, those are not horns, they are… antlers…soft little antlers picking from under her thick dark curls.

Rufus bends down, groaning as he tries to push her up on her feet, again and again.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams, the green halo of her magic enveloping her once more, “I won’t go with you! You’re no better than all the others.” 

A flash of lightning in the warm atmosphere and Maven is alone in the workshop again, bloody and confused.

Above the door, the clock is ticking again, and some kind of alarm rings in the distance. 

“Seize her!” The guards scream at each other as they march towards her, “Master Klaus is already on his way.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When Astarion arrives at the factory, Maven is tied up in a corner of the Christmas elves’ atelier, flanked by two bulky guards. She always looks a bit terrifying, but today she is a true vision of horror — covered in blood, cold golden eyes shimmering in the early hours of the morning, and… antlers? She didn’t have those before, did she? 

There’s something different about her, and Astarion quickly realises that the ‘emergency’ that Gale was talking about in his missive isn’t just a small fire in one of the warehouses or any kind of silly plumbing problem. No, this disaster could actually ruin his carefully thought-out plan, goddamnit! 

He has known about Maven’s evil lineage for quite some time now. When Klaus asked him to find the half-blood vermine all those months ago, he immediately thought of her. She was the perfect scapegoat and the obvious choice, but it was almost too good to be true… So Astarion kept looking through the endless crowd of Christmas elves, charming them into coming home with him, looking for signs of a family tie between them and the dark lord of the Black Woods. 

His intention was never to hand the child over to Klaus though, he always thought he could find an ally in Krampus’ offspring. He would lure the fool with promises of power, paint a pretty picture of them sitting in Santa’s place in the big office of the factory — or convince them with a few caresses and languid kisses if the rest didn’t work. 

But at the end of it, he’d be the only one to ascend, the only one to become the new master of this factory. 

A new Santa for a new Christmas!

“Lord Krampus was here,” Gale whispers as he steps beside him in his ugly purple suit, “And Aelfric now has a set of horns…I think Santa has finally found the child he has been so afraid of for all those years.” 

Astarion frowns, eyes drifting back towards Maven and the enchanted manacles around her wrists. “Indeed, he has. One less thing I’ll have to deal with, I suppose.” 

Her head slowly turns towards him, her furious gaze quickly finding him in the crowd of elves gathered near the entrance of the atelier. Instead of the despair he is used to seeing in her amber eyes, Astarion only finds a quiet sort of fury. Anger suits her better, she looks quite beautiful like this — taller, coiffed with an intricate crown of bones, glorious and bloody like a queen riding into battle. 

Well, not quite… That queen lost the battle before it even began, she’s a prisoner of war and who knows what Santa will do with her. 

Astarion already knows the answer to that question though, he knows Klaus better than anyone in the factory. The old man is cruel and paranoid… Maven is a threat to his power, in more ways than one. He’ll either imprison her somewhere — or worst 'put an end to her sufferings,’ like the little reindeers who are born with a birth defect in the stables. 

A chill of fear runs down his back. He needs her alive, she’s his only hope of overthrowing Klaus… If she dies, all is lost — they are all lost. 

Behind him, the Christmas elves tremble in fear and in disgust, pointing fingers at Maven. 

“Gods above, look at those antlers, I always knew she was a monster!” 

“She has the eyes of a hungry beast, what a dreadful thing…”  

“I can’t even look at her anymore, she terrifies me.” 

The girl doesn’t lower her head, she stares down at them, unblinking and regal. If looks could kill, all the elves around him would have already drawn their last breath. 

The commotion dies down when Klaus finally enters the factory, all clad in a thick white fur. His long silver hair is tied into a braid and his round cheeks are red. His two sled dogs, Azrhina and Wirinaris, growl at Astarion when he crosses the corridor and steps through the threshold of the workshop.

“My poor poor child,” he coos, affecting an air of worry, “What has Lord Krampus done to you?”

Maven smiles, sharp and menacing, and that is also new . Astarion can’t remember if he has already seen her laugh before. 

“Oh please, spare me the pitch. Let’s not pretend that we don’t know what is going on here. Let’s skip to the part where you tell me what kind of fate I will suffer.” 

A whisper of indignation rises through the crowd of obedient Christmas elves. 

Klaus laughs, loud and obnoxious, and Astarion can hear the anger in his cackle. He has learnt to recognize it over the year, for Santa never yells or gets mad — even when he punishes, he laughs. 

“You have always been such a rebellious little elf, Maven. It is sad that it has come down to this though, I still had high hopes for you.”

She stirs a little, nervously swaying on her feet, and Astarion’s heart is in his throat. 

Santa turns around, speaking to his Christmas elves in a joyous and festive tone. “We all know there is no cure for Krampus’ corruption, don’t we? Every creature that has been touched by him will die in atrocious suffering!”

Lies, Astarion seethes, clenching his fists by his sides, your propaganda grows tiresome, master Klaus.  

Yet, behind him, all the others scream ‘yes’ in unison, spell-bound and blind to his petty tactics. 

“I have no choice but to put you out of your misery, my child,” he says, smiling sweetly at Maven like he is not sentencing her to death, but rather offering her a warm cup of tea.

The guards grab her by the shoulders and force her to kneel on the wooden floor, already soiled with her blood. No elf has ever been killed before, and in spite of their repulsion for Maven, some of the factory’s employees gasp in horror and turn their backs on the scene. 

“Lae’zel Of K’liir,” Klaus calls out, and the officer steps in front him, hand on the richly adorned hilt of her sword, “You will be the one to ease her pain.” 

Maven doesn’t cry or beg, she sits still, staring up at her executioner with unwavering rage. 

“You have a brave heart Aelfric, you stare death in the eyes without fear or regrets,” she says to the elf, unsheathing her blade, “I will give you a death worthy of a warrior.”

The gyth raises the sword in the air, and Astarion notices the way her hands tremble slightly. Is she hesitating? Doubting her master’s orders?

“No!” someone shouts in the assembly, and soon Shadowheart is standing beside him, the threat of magic shimmering at the tips of her fingers, “You’ll have to kill me first. I won’t let Maven be put down like a dog.” 

“Me neither! I won’t sit silently while you kill one of my friends,” Karlach fumes, brandishing one of her heavy hammers, “I’ll fight an entire army if I have to.”

Halsin steps out of the crowd, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, a long knife in his hand. 

“Let her go,” he growls at Klaus, more furious and menacing, as protective of Maven as he is of his reindeers, “I won’t say it twice.” 

Santa laughs again, a little twinkling sound in which fear and fury collide. 

“Oh please, calm down,” he chuckles, gently petting his vicious dogs by the fire, “Why does it matter —”

He doesn’t have to finish before Maven breaks free of her chains with a flick of her thin wrists, bending the iron like it’s made of glass. Her glowing hand shoots up, and she murmurs something that Astarion is too far to hear properly. Santa stands up, ready to bark an order, but a flash of light hits him so violently that for a moment Astarion thinks that the impact has turned him into dust. His joy is short lived though; Klaus was simply propelled against the farthest wall of the room, crashing into one of the glittery Christmas trees like a rag doll.

The cloud of light spreads its wings like a bird high up in the sky, nestling Halsin, Shadowheart, and Karlach in its warmth. The very foundations of the factory shake, every of the windows of the workshop shatters, and just like that, they’re all gone. 

A trail of magnificent green rushes out into the snow, and Santa’s dogs race after it. 

But it’s no use, they’re no fit for Maven’s magic.

Not strong enough to catch the Queen of bones.  

Tag list: @roguishcat @karinamay @obsessedwhyyes @zozoparsnips

Don't hesitate to message me if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

Happy holidays everyone <3

[chic-a-gigot]

Les Modes : revue mensuelle illustrée des arts décoratifs appliqués à la femme, no. 19, vol. 2, juillet 1902, Paris. Robe de bal. Rouff. Cliché Reutlinger. Bibliothèque nationale de France

PAGE 14. — ROBE DE BAL. — ROUFF. — Robe en satin blanc brodé d'arabesques de diamants et d'argent reposant sur un dessous de mousseline de soie paille et se découpant dans le bas sur un haut volant de dentelle d'Alençon. Le corsage avec blouse de même dentelle retenu par une ceinture de velours noir.

PAGE 14. — BALL DRESS. — ROUFF. — White satin dress embroidered with diamond and silver arabesques resting on a straw silk chiffon underside and silhouetted at the bottom against a ruffled top of Alençon lace. The bodice with blouse of the same lace held by a black velvet belt.

[dorothea-dorie]

𝐄𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (Regulus Black x Reader)

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 1: 𝙀𝙢𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

“Again!” The stern voice of her father insisted as Y/n breathed heavily, beads of sweat on her forehead as Abraxas Malfoy, Y/n’s father, observed her ballet performance. Y/n was chosen to be the leading role of the ballet, Giselle and Abraxas wanted his daughter to be perfect, as always.

“Father, Y/n is tired, Let her rest” Lucius spoke out looking at Y/n slightly worried. Abraxas turns his head to look at his son gripping the smooth velvet material of his armchair, Abraxas gives Lucius a cold glare “Do you want your sister to embarrass herself in front of the whole Wizarding World?!” Y/n and Lucius flinch slightly at the bombarding tone of their father, Y/n looks at Lucius giving him a small smile before shaking her head. 

“I’ll perform better, Father until I achieve perfection” She gently states looking at her father “As always, It’s my only plan” She continued, nodding her head. Abraxas scoffs but is satisfied by her answer before gesturing for her to perform her routine again. Y/n looks at the vast ballet room her father made just for her in their Manor before breathing out a sigh as she prepares to perform the ballet again. 

The room is adorned with mirrors that line the walls, reflecting her every movement, allowing her to perfect her technique and form. Soft, natural light filters through the windows, creating an ambiance of tranquility that calms her slightly despite being under the strict observance of her father and the encouraging gaze of Lucius. 

Abraxas nods at her before he takes out his wand and casts a simple spell for the recorder to start playing, Variation de Giselle. As the music starts to play, her movements become more fluid and graceful, like a painter's brush strokes on a canvas. She glides across the floor, executing pirouettes and arabesques with breathtaking precision. Each step is a testament to her years of training and the unwavering commitment to her craft.

Her reflection in the mirrors becomes her harshest critic and her most trusted ally. With every turn and grand battement, she analyzes her form, seeking perfection in every line and curve of her body. Each correction she makes brings her closer to achieving the ideal expression of her artistry.

“Again!” Abraxas states, glaring at his daughter’s mistake, Y/n nods before doing it again and again and again. Lucius stares at her as she glides through the room performing the choreography, worried for her knowing very well that she is tired. As she practices, she becomes acutely aware of the subtle nuances of her body. She learns to listen to its whispers, detecting the tiniest adjustments needed to perfect her technique. Her breath becomes a metronome, guiding her through each movement and fostering a sense of rhythm and flow.

Hours pass unnoticed as she loses herself in the dance. Sweat glistens on her brow, and her muscles ache with exertion, she wants to pass out. She feels too tired to continue but she remains determined, driven by her passion for the art form and the passion to impress her father and to not make a single mistake, to achieve perfection. When she finally concludes her practice, she takes a moment to stand at the center of the room, her heart still pounding with the exhilaration of the dance. With a sense of accomplishment, she bows to her reflection in the mirrors, acknowledging the growth and progress she has made.

Lucius and Abraxas clap as she finishes her performance, A look of satisfaction can be seen on Abraxas’s face as he smiles at his daughter, Abraxas gestures for her to approach him. Y/n walks over to her father, smiling softly despite feeling tired as Lucius places a hand on her shoulder smiling at her, quite impressed.

“Was it perfect, Father?” She gently asked, patiently waiting for his critique. Abraxas nods his head with a proud smile on his face “As always, my dear” Y/n breathes out a soft sigh of relief, Abraxas stands up from his seat on the armchair “I have work to do at the Ministry” Y/n and Lucius nods as their father leaves the room closing the door behind him.

“Some of my friends are here, I hope you don’t mind, Y/n” Lucius looks at her as he says this, She nods, not minding it one bit “Of course, They’re your friends after all” She gently states, The door opens slightly and some of Lucius’s friends enter. Y/n glances at them through the mirror before focusing on her reflection in the mirror, Her and Lucius’s back turned to them. She removes the hairpins that held her hair in a bun feeling her soft h/c hair falling from the bun.

Lucius’s friends were quite known in the Wizarding World due to their families such as the Rosiers, Blacks and others. Some of them were pompous brats but Y/n favored Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier despite their stubborn selves, She enjoyed their chaotic energy.

As tiredness gradually overtakes her, Y/n begins to experience a surreal disconnect from her surroundings. The weight of exhaustion weighs heavily upon her, and her body feels like an anchor, dragging her down into a state of lethargy. Her movements become slower and less coordinated, as if she's navigating through a thick fog.

Lucius approaches his friends unaware of his sister’s predicament, Her eyelids grow heavy, and the effort to keep them open becomes increasingly challenging. Her vision blurs, and the world around her seems to lose its sharpness and clarity. Y/n blinks slowly, trying to fight off the overwhelming urge to close her eyes, but each blink lasts longer than the last. With each passing moment, her grip on consciousness loosens. Her thoughts slow down, and it becomes harder to focus on anything in particular. Her mind drifts, and she finds herself lost in a hazy reverie, drifting between dream and reality.

Y/n’s heart rate slows, and her breathing becomes shallow and irregular. The world around her fades further into obscurity, and she starts to feel detached from her own body. It's as if she's an observer, watching herself from a distance, the world growing increasingly distant and blurry.

Evan Rosier, a friend of Lucius, notices Y/n’s distress and states “Hey, Malfoy, Is your sister alright?” All of Lucius’s friends shift their gaze at Y/n who’s back was turned to them as she walks toward the drawers on the right side of the room, her steps were heavy and she seemed tired. She felt piercing eyes look at her, she glances at them and locks eyes with Regulus Black, a member of the noble house of Black. Narcissa, Lucius’s fiancee has told her about him, Narcissa described him as a highly intelligent and ambitious young wizard and how despite his young age is deeply committed to the dark beliefs of his family, embracing the ideology of blood purity and devotion to Lord Voldemort. 

Lucius walks over to her worriedly “Y/n, Are you alright?” He asks her, concerned. As her energy wanes, she feels her body sway and tremble. The ground beneath her seems unsteady, and her legs become unresponsive. She clings to whatever support she can find, gripping the barre, trying to maintain her balance, but it's a futile effort. Her body finally gives in to the overwhelming fatigue, and she begins to sink, gently collapsing.

“Y/n!” Lucius rushes over to her just in time to catch her, Lucius brushes her hair off her face and looks worried at her pale complexion. “Luce, I don’t feel good” She chuckles softly before wincing because of the headache, Lucius frowns before he turns to Regulus who looks slightly worried “Call for a healer, Black!” Regulus nods, about to walk out the room to find a healer.

"Don't" Y/n states, groaning in pain before sitting up, grasping her head with her right hand. Lucius shakes his head and sternly says "I highly advise that you go see a healer, Y/n" Y/n scoffs and glares at him.

"There is no need for a healer, It's just a small headache" Y/n grips the barre and slowly pulls herself up, Lucius holds her back and says, deeply concerned "It's best if you rest for now" Lucius looks at his friends and says "Leave." His voice is cold and unfeeling before he guides his sister to her bedroom.

Regulus Black looks at Y/n Malfoy, his eyes holding no emotion but there was a glint of slight concern as Y/n glanced at him before exiting the room with Lucius. Regulus exits the room along with Barty and Evan. Some of Lucius's friends exit the Manor whispering about how pretty the youngest Malfoy is and how she'd look good as a wife. 

"Those idiots have no respect" Barty scoffs, glaring at some of Lucius's friends especially Rabastan Lestrange who was talking about how he would've 'tortured' the young girl in his bedroom. Evan cringes and gives Rabastan's back a look of disgust "That's just absolutely revolting. Y/n is feeling unwell yet Lestrange is here commenting about ridiculous stuff" 

"If he tries to touch her, I'll hex him to oblivion" Barty whispered to Evan, harshly also glaring at Rabastan. Evan quickly nods "I'll join you" The two nod before chuckling

"Regulus, you in?"

"Sure" Regulus answered, shrugging his shoulders, a smirk present on his face "It'd be nice to hex Lestrange into oblivion after all, Give him a taste of his own medicine" Evan and Barty laugh in amusement. Barty nods "Absolutely correct, Reggie".

Regulus rolls his eyes before keeping silent throughout the continuation of Evan and Barry's banter but deep inside. He was furious at Rabastan Lestrange and the other men who left the Manor, it's just disgusting how these men treat women like objects.

[vocaloidsongtournament]

August 2024 Vocaloid Song Tournament

Round 1, Set 1, Match 5: Velvet Arabesque by Hata Aki vs. Gomenne Gomenne by Kikuo

Please listen to both songs before casting your vote! And please reblog for a bigger sample size!

[slippinmickeys]

Prompt: ballet slippers, chocolate pudding in a can, Wyoming

The house, when they walked in, was like nothing she’d ever seen before—striped wallpaper on the ceiling, paisley carpet on the floor, a circus worth of color on every surface. It was like a Carlton Varney fever dream; like a brothel with aspirations. Mulder actually paused in the doorway and leaned back out to double check the address number on the side of the house.

“Wow,” Scully said, daintily setting down her suitcase a few feet inside the door. She wanted to make a joke, but Mulder looked appalled.

“We can go home,” he said quickly. “We don’t have to stay.”

His tone was such that she suspected he might be on the verge of having a panic attack.

“I was promised a weekend away,” she said calmly, reaching past him to close the door. She took his own suitcase from his hand and set it down next to hers.

“Anyway,” she went on, “it’s just a place to…sleep.”

With that his attention returned to her and she thought she saw his cheek tic, threatening to smile. Giving him an arched eyebrow and a squeeze of the hand, she turned away from him to explore the flat, curiosity overtaking every other impulse.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “The reviews were great.”

Scully sauntered over to the corner where there was a small kitchenette; bright green cabinets, a hot pink coffee maker. She opened up a cupboard. The inside was lined with contact paper featuring a cornucopia of citrus, upon which sat a single can of chocolate pudding. Scully didn’t recognize the brand.

“Quaint and cozy?” she asked, turning back to him.

“Whimsical and fun,” he said sheepishly.

She had to resist the urge to laugh.

Mulder finally spurred himself into action, reaching up into the nearest lamp and giving it a few futile clicks. When it failed to produce light, he began hunting along the wall for a light switch. When he finally found one, he flicked it, and it was then that Scully’s gaze was pulled upward.

Hanging from the ceiling fan was a pair of soft pink ballet slippers, tied to the blades by their satin ribbons. As the fan began to move, roused into motion by Mulder flipping the switch, the slippers began to turn, toes out, spinning gracefully in a perpetual arabesque.

Scully smiled. “Cute.”

“I’m afraid one’s going to come flying off and kick me in the face,” Mulder said, eyes still dubiously skyward. “And I already feel weirdly beat up.”

Scully ignored him and casually continued her tour of the flat, passing by a rather tame painted landscape of rocky mountainous outcrops, the script underneath reading Jackson Hole, Wyoming. However, as she continued to walk past it, the picture gradually changed in a holographic effect, revealing, when she got to the other side of it, a painting of a woman lounging provocatively spread eagled, her fleshy breasts exactly mirroring the Tetons of the landscape. Scully paused to squint at the cursive label, which now read simply Wyoming Jackson’s Hole.

She couldn’t help but bark out a laugh.

“What?” Mulder called from across the room.

“You’re going to like the art,” she told him, approaching the only other doorway in the place, which had to lead to the small apartment’s en suite.

She pulled up short. The bedroom was just as outlandishly decorated as the rest of the flat, but the room’s main draw was an absolutely palatial four poster bed, curtained on all sides by bright red velvet with fringe, pulled back just enough to reveal a monolith of a mirror tucked into the canopy.

Mulder came up to stand beside her, huffing out a long whistle.

“This in the reviews?” she asked him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“The term ‘whimsical’ was doing a lot of heavy lifting,” he said. “But no one mentioned the bed was a mirrored grotto.”

Scully felt for him—he’d been excitedly planning this for weeks. He’d promised to take her out of town for a quiet romantic getaway. She would not let him sink into a funk over something as trivial as heinous decor. She ducked out from under his heavy arm and took him by the hand, pulling him into the room.

“Do a little heavy lifting yourself,” she said suggestively, “and we can field test the term ‘fun.’”

He finally cracked a smile and followed her into the room.

[steellegacy]

⚜️ Armor for Field and Tourney, 1560/70

German, Augsburg

Medium: Steel with etching, brass, leather, and velvet weave

Height: 188 cm (74 in.)

⠀

This Augsburg armor is rare in that all of the pieces are original and belong to the same garniture. The elements have alternate polished areas and etched bands enclosing strap work and arabesque grounds; the etched bands were originally gilded, but only traces of the gilding remain. This is a complete armor for a mounted knight or a high-ranking heavy cavalryman who was fully suited in plate armor, including a close helmet, neck defense (gorget), shoulder and arm defenses (pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets), cuirass with tassets and lance rest, and leg defenses (cuisses with poleyns, and greaves with sabatons). When the etched bands retained the original gilding, it would have been visually striking.

⠀

Ph. by mark6mauno (flickr)

🏛 The Art Institute of Chicago

⠀

- -

⚜️ Полевой (боевой) доспех, а так же для турниров, 1560/70

Германия, Аугсбург

Материалы: сталь с травлением, латунь, кожа и бархатная подкладка

Высота: 188 см

⠀

Этот аугсбургский доспех уникален тем, что все его части оригинальные и принадлежат к одному и тому же гарнитуру. Элементы имеют чередующиеся шлифованные участки и вытравленные полосы, обрамляющие ремешки и арабески; первоначально вытравленные полосы были позолочены, но сохранились только следы позолоты. Это полный комплект доспехов для конного рыцаря или тяжелого кавалериста высокого ранга, который был полностью облачен в латные доспехи, включая закрытый шлем, защиту шеи (горжет), защиту плеч и рук (наплечники, наручи и рукавицы), кирасу с кистями и упором для копья, а также защиту ног (поножи с полейнами и поножи с сабатонами). Если бы вытравленные полосы сохранили первоначальную позолоту, это было бы визуально эффектно.

⠀

Фото: mark6mauno (flickr)

🏛 Чикагский институт искусств (Art Institute of Chicago)

⠀

#Field #Tourney #etching #brass #leather #турнирныйдоспех #armour #medievalarmour #armsandarmor #history #травление #полевойдоспех #armor #латунь

[projectdivapolls]

[duardius]

this year’s gift card—vide ‹gift card?›. ‹nuremberg arabesque› on the cover; greeting set in lydian—vide ‹felix natalis›.

letterpress on somerset velvet antique.

[follyglass]

Follyglass : Small

There was a time that I was once too grown for the small things that made me happy. When my starry coat went missing from the laundry line, I thought ‘good, it was too babyish anyway.’ When I left my blue velvet shoes on the porch to dry after running through the rain-splashed daisies –and they disappeared– I thought ‘I had outgrown them, and perhaps it’s too messy to run through daisies anyway.’ When I told my parents that I mistakenly left my flute in the park, I thought ‘what use is learning to play the notes when being an adult means not playing?’

The fox noticed. Small and fire and curious, it peered at me from the hedge, but I made myself look away. I once had so many happy books about foxes, but I realized in my growing that my interests in animals did not matter.

Many years found me occupied by doing things I thought adults should do; putting aside small brilliant things, hiding simple joys from myself, pressing on with more serious matters. It was an asceticism that I thought displayed wisdom. Sometimes, I would see the fox darting between houses, a flash of fire against the expanse of brick suburbia.

It was when I was much older that I happened to find a pair of green velvet shoes in a fancy shop; they fit me. I wondered if it would be too silly, too childish to buy them. Surely, anything that made me happy like that probably wasn’t good for a serious adult to do. I bought them anyway. They sat in my closet, a brief glimpse of joy before I shut them away again since I could find no appropriate occasion to wear them.

Until.

There was a warm cricket-song night, and I slipped them on to walk the white-garden I had carefully cultivated. It was especially lovely at night – my neighbors had told me so over wine I thought too astringent but sipped anyway– the lilies and roses glowing against the blue hour, a perfumed fairy garden. A series of silver notes rose from the daisy field and floated over the peonies. Since nobody was looking, I began to move about, sweeping my arms wide. It was only when I was dancing in my own garden that the fox appeared, wearing a starry coat, and blue velvet shoes, and playing the flute that I had lost.

Together we danced in arabesques and hops and giggles and ate honey and berries and laughed and wore crowns of daisies upon our heads.

I apologized to the small fox for ignoring her. I confessed that I thought it was the grown-up thing to do.

The fox considered me, then asked in what used to be my own childish voice, “and are you grown-up now?”

Yes, I think I finally was.

[mikuoutfitseveryday]

Arabian Miku

Arabian Miku.The Module first appeared in the Hatsune Miku: Project DIVA game where it can be unlocked by attaining a Great result in "Velvet Arabesque"

DESIGNER: inakayaki

[vocaloid-as-gaeilge]

Velvet Arabesque as Gaeilge!