“Cause if you liked it then you should have put a wing on it !”
The first time I heard this song I really heard “put a wing on it” and I imagined a clip about birds or something, or seeing wings …. but not at all xD (when you are french, sometimes you don’t hear the same things …. sometimes ;u; !) )
Then I watched the clip and just seeing the choreography inspired me a lot !
So I watched it many times and learned the movements to recreate them with my little animals =) !
It was an awesome exercice and I shall try this more ! I added the song so it feels more alive now ^^
This song belongs to Béyonce “Single ladies”, or here, birdies !
Lance was never proud of the one thing that could make him stand out.
(The one thing that made him stand, even in his family, the one thing that destroyed the chances of affection and hugs and attention, the one thing he’d never move past, the one thing that’d always haunt him, the one thing that could get someone killed)
Lance was born with a smooth back, tan skin free of birth marks but full of freckles. Lance was born with beautiful blue eyes, deep tawny hair, and a dazzling smile. Lance was not born with a pair of wings.
Lance was wingless.
Less than 1% of the world was wingless, and that meant those who were….never had good fates. Abandonment, abuse, neglect, suicide rates almost a solid 100….anyone born wingless in this time and age was destined a shitty fate, to die for the lack of something they could not have.
But Lance did not.
His mother hated him with her very soul, but even she wasn’t heartless enough to murder someone, no matter how indirectly. His siblings might laugh with him, might eat with him, but they were never around for more than a few seconds, tossing looks over their shoulder for a parent or aunt or uncle. Lance was hidden away, kept out of sight by his parents and family for his whole life, living in the attic or traipsing the private stretch of beach that had been in his family for years, hearing the voice of the sky but never being able to answer it. (Not like he could without wings, anyway)
But then, he found a way he could.
The Galaxy Garrison, a military school where uniforms over wings were required, where group preening, cuddling, and flying sessions were encouraged but never mandatory. A place he could hide in plain sight and still see the sky. A place Lance signed up for in secret, got a scholarship, and shoved it all at his parents, the father who’d taught him the wingless were useless and the mother who never hugged him. A place that hate crimes couldn’t trace back to and murder his family if his secret ever got out.
It was too good to be true.
And it was. Lance was never the best, always mocked for trying to answer the call of the sky for the first time in his life. It wasn’t like when he’d answered the push and pull of the ocean. The ocean was cool, sometimes cold or freezing, but sage, wise and ready to crash and fall and crest back up. Ready to change, ready to grow, ready to soothe. Content to watch and learn, finding complexity in the simplest things, but brave enough to venture out on it’s own, to try on its own to live up and live past expectatons. The ocean was a gentle hand running over his back, swirling him around in currents of fate and past, gentle but wild, pushing but never shoving.
The sky shoved, but in what Lance saw as a good way. Watching gaggles of siblings and uncles and aunts swoop and soar, thrown out into organized anarchy midair, riding drafts. The sky was wild, insane. It could not sit still, it could not listen, it could not be gentle or understand. It was headstrong or helpful, stubborn or relenting. There was no in between. When it’s chicks matured and reached for the air, the sky threw them out, to the ground or the air.
A few chicks crashed, or came close, but they picked themselves back up, flapped with crooked or straight feathers, and chased the others. The ocean did not work that way. It could mimic, but it would never let it’s young crash or drown unless it was the best choice. Lance was glad for that, though he knew the sky would have pushed him faster, harder, to be who he could be, he knew he’d be the rare smashed egg, splattered on the concrete.
If it took years, he didn’t care. He was alive.
Lance remembers the looks at the Garrison at night or on weekends when he wore a bulky jacket and the issued pajamas, instead of snatching the chance to stretch his wings. The stares, the quirked eyebrows that the kid who joked, flirted, and screamed on a regular basis wouldn’t try for more attention.
Hunk, dear god Hunk, had wings big enough for both of them.
Beautiful, mahogany feathers that glowed golden on the ends when light shined on them. Thick, massive wings that he’d drape around Lance’s shoulder, wings that engulfed him in warmth and affection and took away unwanted attention. Too many people saw Hunk’s wings as plain. Lance saw them as a fucking savior, the first thing to treat him nicely and warmly.
But this savior need protecting from the savee.
Which was why Lance never told Hunk, or the team, that he was wingless.
Even Alteans had wings.
Coran’s were a gorgeous tangerine color, white, brown, red, and black speckles slipping between the feathers and coating them like candy sugar. Allura’s were an exact image of Alfor’s, deep, black wings the color of the vastness around them, silver streaks and dots making constellations that shined in lights.
The team’s may have been Earthen, but god, were they ethereal. Shiro, had a collage of slate gray and white, individual feathers breaking layers of colors, proof of the stress of the Arena. They peaked at the top, and were enormous, taller than Hunk’s but not quite as wide or thick. Pidge’s wings were peaked, but they curved out into cute little floofs. They only reached her hips, not past her calves or thighs like everyone else. They clearly weren’t fully grown, but Lance loved their speckled outsides, the tawny, earthy, color so close to her hair but clearly had a more hay-ish tint.
Holy shit, Keith.
His wings were like giant sparrow wings, angular but not peaked, wide burgundy curtains of feathers that fell to his thighs. They were warm, and firm, like a well trained muscle (which they were, technically). The ends were sharp and sleek, but the shy wing touches he sometimes gave Lance proved they were incredibly soft. Lance was always reminded of a wolf when he saw them; built for fast paced marathons. They were no where near as strong as Hunk’s, but Lance had watched Keith carry a Pidge in a simulated rescue. Wings weren’t designed to carry more than the weight of one person, the person with them.
He would never have a pair of wings.
So he reveled in the freedom that lacking a pair of wings gave him. Lance climbed, slept on his back, swam, and learned how to read emotions through little tics. The swimming came easily, like the ocean changed for him, parted and shifted to let him pass or propel him ahead. Lance knew he did. Wings weren’t an instant evolution. Generations of humans developed the genes and mutations of wings - Lance wasn’t just going to instantaneously sprout gills. He could, however, form a thin membrane as a sideways, second pair of eyelids. The same membrane acted as a moveable filter in his ears to hear underwater, and a slight webbing between his fingers. Strategically placed, retractable fangs a little bigger than his front teeth weren’t hard either.
The most notable change was when his legs stopped kicking, his knees disabled, and they swished back and forth. He could easily switch to kicking, but the longer he spent in the water, the more his legs acted as a single mass of flesh and bone. It wasn’t a tail, and Lance sometimes thought he was imagining it, but it was like a snake’s body, swinging side to side to move forward.
Wings were amazingly expressive, every angry twitch or nervous shuffle gave way to a mindscape, a scope of emotions and thoughts Lance learned to pick up on. Hiding your wings was seen as a sign of fear, distrust, and refusing to show them was a red flag in any relationship, platonic or romantic. It was normal to reach out and rest a wing on someone else’s as a sign of reassurance, and to purposely keep your tucked away meant you didn’t trust anyone with them. Your wings were essentially your life - if they got wet or mutilated you were grounded, tied to Earth and water.
And water drowned.
To his team, Lance was a hallow corpse without emotions. He was jello before it froze. They could hear his laugh, see his smiles, hear his cheers. But without his wings, the team couldn’t read him clearly. It was like they had lost their glasses, and Lance was the blurred board they couldn’t see, couldn’t guess, couldn’t decipher more than a few letters from.
They didn’t know, so they couldn’t understand. Lance wasn’t sure if he ever wanted them to understand.
Sparrow is what they called him. He was always Sparrow after he saved that bird. He came to Elsewhere, for History and Literature, and found a bird with a broken wing on the outskirts of the forest. He knew the traditions and followed them well. He sang and read poetry to the birds and crows on campus in some of his free time. He knew what it could be, but he couldn’t help seeing a bird in pain. His roommate said not to. Said we weren’t supposed to do that. “It’s a bad Idea.” he said. Sparrow did it anyway.
He took the bird home, and patched up its wing. Sparrow fed it, and watched it, and kept it safe. The little bird came with him when he played for the crows, and tweeted its approval with the cawing. After a bout a week, it began to flit around his room. After finding the bird atop his bed post after class one day, he called it down, and took it to the edge of the forest. He told the bird to be safe, and let it go into the forest. Sparrow left a small scroll, with a poem for the crows, in the crook of a tree at the edge f a forest.
His roommate called him Sparrow after he came back, as a bit of a joke about the bird, and Sparrow decided to go with it.
He went to sleep and woke to the sounds of birds twittering. They were twittering and saying things and Sparrow wondered, how could he understand them? He got up, walked to the window and spotted a bird on the windowsill. He’d always talked to birds, for they made great little companions. Sparrow said, “Good Morrow sir, how are you” and the bird, a crow, replied “I am doing well sir Sparrow.” Sparrow was taken aback by this. He could hear the bird speak. The crow chuckled, and said “yes, you can hear me.” Sparrow inquired as to why, and the crow responded “It seems you’ve been given a gift of language. The Language of The Birds it seems.”
From that day on, Sparrow was always found in the company of a bird. He learned secrets, spells, and turns of phrase. He continued to sing, and read, and play for the crows and birds, and got his small trinkets for his trouble. He spoke to them, to ferry messages for himself and others. He became known as Sparrow, The Boy Who Talks to Birds. Whenever people wished to speak with the birds, Sparrow would offer his help. He only asked for small trinkets and birdseed, for the birds around him.
Now you can see him sitting under trees, or on the grounds, always with at least one bird in his company. You can find him and ask him questions, things only he would know from the birds, for a small price. He was always happy to author and play for the birds, and enjoyed when others did the same. His nature was jovial, and he walked with iron and salt on his neck, with feathers always around him.
If a student ever wanted to know something, they knew where to find him. Even as his name changed with time. They could always find Sparrow, with a little birdie on his shoulder.
I do hope you approve of this. If not, let me know and I can try and rewrite it! I just like the idea of a student helping a bird, and being gifted with the language of the birds. Have a good afternoon!
Green Tunisia, I have come to you as a lover.
On my brow, a rose and a book:
for I am the Damascene whose profession is passion,
whose singing turns the herbs green;
A Damascene moon travels through my blood.
Nightingales… and grain… and domes
From Damascus, jasmine begins its whiteness
And fragrances perfume themselves with her scent
From Damascus, water begins… for wherever
You lean your head, a stream flows
And poetry is a sparrow spreading its wings
figuring it out as I’m writing, but it kind of makes sense that while tearing
off the Cauldron the power of cold, formidable, motherfucking death, she got
side effects, too. Like the fact that no drug or amount of alcohol or any kind
of addiction will ever be able to cloud Nesta’s sharp eyes and sharper mind.
Something they discover out by complete chance, when at Starfall Cassian
challenges her to a drinking game and the Night Court watches in awe as Nesta
gulps down shot after shot of the heaviest, strongest moonshine Cassian and
Azriel managed to come up with. At the end of the night, the silence in the
room is mortal – solemn. Mor is wasted and doesn’t seem able to stop giggling. Lucien’s
natural eye has grown to the size of a dainty russet saucer plate. Azriel
stares in silent, heavy horror. Rhysand’s eyebrows have taken permanent
residence in his hairline, clever violet eyes warring between awe and envy. Feyre
and Elain look impressed but smug, because a sudden burst of inspiration has
had them betting an ungodly amount of money on Nesta’s victory.
other end of the table, Cassian is a heap of badly-folded wings and tousled
hair abandoned under his upturned chair like dirty laundry, and Nesta is
sitting rigidly on her seat – chin high and shoulders squared like a fearsome
queen in front of no less than fifteen empty liquor glasses.
drunk,” Cassian moans from his spot on the floor.
Nesta says, drily.
says again, quietly. “I’m not.”
at that, cheery and loud, and there are other bursts of laughter all over the
room – people shaking heads in disbelief and calling out unflattering comments
that make Cassian laugh even louder.
table, Nesta clenches her fists – pressing hard enough to feel her nails
splitting the skin of her palms. She doesn’t want the others to see she’s
upset. There’s no reason to be upset. And yet, she is. Nesta lets her gaze
wander over Elain’s rosy cheeks, over Feyre wrinkling her nose at Rhys’s sloppy
temple kiss the exact way she did when she was eight, over Cassian’s handsome, flushed
face, and knows she’s different. Her face stays pale, her mind clear; her pulse
never spikes – never falters. Nothing can touch her. Nothing can make her this
ridiculous – this alive. And the
thought, somehow, makes her choke with rage.
She hopes she’s
doing a good job in hiding it. She probably is. She’s Nesta, after all – cold Nesta, grumpy
Nesta, always scowling at a world she perpetually disapproves. Who would see
with some measure of surprise that she feels a sudden touch on her hand – warm,
callous fingers grazing hers – as Cassian awkwardly hauls himself on his feet.
He leans in, too close, too warm. He’s breathing hard. He smells of sweat, and
alcohol, and that disgusting grease he uses to soften his scabbards. Nesta can
feel the heat of his blood, the bubbling of confusion and fun pouring off him,
and it makes her ache with resentment, ache with longing.
the matter, m’lady?” he whispers, gruffly – without a hint of mocking. He
simply finds her eyes, and holds her gaze, waiting.
her mouth go dry. She tells the truth. “I don’t feel it,” she says, in a single
rush of breath. She gestures to the glasses cluttered in front of her, but they
both know what she’s talking about. “I don’t feel it at all.”
considers her for a long moment, tilting his head on the side. Somehow, he’s
grown even nearer. Near enough to feel his breath against her skin. The room dims
in the distance, bleeding color, bleeding consistency in front of this moment.
“I see,” he
says, finally. And suddenly he’s threading one hand in her hair, cupping the
back of her head gently, and he’s pressing their lips together, hard and fast
and sharp. She’s expected a kiss, but a mercy kiss: soft and hesitant, the way
you pet a sparrow with a broken wing. Not this. Not teeth, and tongue, brushing
at her lips, at her skin, reverently – not the need pulsing in the pressure of
his mouth, in the grasp on her head. Not this hint of desperation, too. Nesta
finds herself gasping against him, and he drinks it in. She feels heat flush
her cheeks, and his thumbs grazes them. She feels her body reaching out, her
head suddenly light, fluttering. Drunk.
and chuckling have faded in stunned silence, but they haven’t noticed. Then the
kiss is over, Cassian releasing her hair, pushing away – bringing one hand to
his own mouth as if it hurts. As if it’s still throbbing. He bits down on his
bottom lip, eyes glazed over with something that has nothing to do with
alcohol, and breathes out: “Did you feel this, Nesta?”
Nesta Archeron says, shaking. And she smiles, because maybe there’s an
addiction she isn’t immune to.