#american opera theatre

[soovermyself]

Ashlyn Harris & Sophia Bush attend the American Ballet Theatre New York Premiere of "Woolf Works" at The Metropolitan Opera on June 25, 2024 in New York City.

[itstimetodrew]

Alright who is this man you keep reblogging

He is haunting my dash

Niles Time 😏

[pureanonofficial]

Kim Strauss as Freddie Trumper in Chess (1992) at San Jose Civic Light Opera.

[himblebo]

When you want to visit the Alhambra but mom’s like “we got the Alhambra at home”

[kemetic-dreams]

Marian Anderson (1897-1993)

Though she’s considered one of the greatest contralto singers in the world, Anderson was often denied the opportunity to show off her unique vocal range because of her race. However, in 1955, she became the first African American to perform at the Metropolitan Opera, and in 1957, she went on a 12-nation tour sponsored by the Department of State and the American National Theatre and Academy. She documented the experience in her autobiography, My Lord What a Morning. In 1963, she was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Her last major accomplishment before her death was receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award at the Grammys in 1991.

[nhlovesadri3]

Adriana Lima attending the 3rd Annual American Ballet Theatre Noche Latina at Metropolitan Opera House, NYC, 10/06/08.

[toiletpotato]

a series of discussions regarding casting in theatre.

original thread:

further commentary from an East Asian American perspective:

(The rest of the thread can be found here).

(The thread that was quote tweeted within this other thread).

would love to hear your thoughts on the matter! from my own south asian american perspective, I agree. I especially agree about the fact that radical advances made by Black theatre performers benefit other people of color, so other people of color need to side with members of the wider community as a whole, not with that of trying to appease white people. Sucking up to oppressive systems never works, and even if the grift lasts a while, it ultimately harms the community (in politics- with Nikki Haley and Vivek Ramaswamy, racism will affect them one way or another). Broadway has had so few South Asian shows (it took until 2021 for Aladdin to have a South Asian Aladdin and Jasmine! This is not good!) and hopefully that changes in coming years. Radical change is needed and it has to be called radical.

[suetravelblog]

Madama Butterfly Slovene National Opera Ljubljana

[soovermyself]

Ashlyn Harris & Sophia Bush attend the American Ballet Theatre New York Premiere of "Woolf Works" at The Metropolitan Opera on June 25, 2024 in New York City.

[daphnedauphinoise]

Full Length Ballet Performances

Cinderella

Instituto Nacional De Las Bellas Artes 🩰 Russian National Ballet

Coppelia

Paris Opera Ballet 🩰 Bolshoi Ballet Theatre

Don Quixote

The National Ballet Theatre of Ukraine 🩰Teatro alla Scala di Milano Marrinsky Theatre

Giselle

Bolshoi Ballet Theatre 🩰 Polish National Ballet 🩰 The Royal Danish Ballet 🩰 National Opera and Ballet Theatre of Mari El

La Bayadère

National Opera and Ballet Theatre of Mari El.🩰 Bolshoi Ballet Theatre

La Fille Mal Gardée

Serbian National Ballet

La Sylphide

The Royal Danish Ballet

Marguerite & Armand

The Royal Ballet

Mayerling

Stainslavsky Ballet

Nutcracker

The New York City Ballet 🩰Marrinsky Theatre 🩰 National Opera and Ballet Theatre of Marie.El

Romeo and Juliet

Ural Opera Ballet🩰 Bolshoi Ballet Theatre

Swan Lake

Kirkov Ballet 🩰 St Petersburg Ballet Theatre 🩰 American Ballet Theatre 🩰 Bolshoi Ballet Theatre

The Sleeping Beauty

Staatsballett Berlin 🩰 National Opera and Ballet Theatre of Mari El 🩰 Marrinsky Theatre 🩰 l'Opéra Bastille 🩰Teatro alla Scala 🩰 Bolshoi Ballet Act 1 Bolshoi Ballet Act 2

The Rite of Spring (Le sacre du printemps)

Marrinsky Theatre

I was born in the correct generation because I loved those photos so much, I decided to look up the ballet so I could watch it and there it was ! I have added other full length performances as well and for most of the pieces I have added different ballet companies (if I could find) just because different ballet companies means different choreography ( not always but certain companies are reowned for their distinct style)

Enjoy!

xo Daphne

[fuzzyfrizzlefrack]

Musical nerd here, I’ll cosign that sentiment. As someone who genuinely likes both of these musicals, I entreat people who aren’t familiar with them to give a couple songs from each a listen before discounting either.

For the Broadway lovers who don’t usually watch shows from smaller companies (and yes, Starkid is definitely small potatoes compared to mainstream musical theatre), take a minute to accept that Twisted is a silly (but smart and earnest) lampoon of Disney’s Aladdin and Wicked put on with a shoestring budget. Once your expectations for costumes and set are in the right spot, take a look at Sands of Time/Golden Rule (the Evil Reprise is also good, but unfortunately this video cuts just as we get there).

Silly? Very. But also a perfect pastiche of 90s Disney musical arrangement and philosophy!

But Twisted isn’t just nostalgia - it pulls off a sweet love story even alongside Starkid’s requisite quota of dick jokes. A Thousand and One Nights is one of my favorite love songs.

And for the Starkid fans who only know Cats through the recent movie (haven’t seen it, can’t comment) or other pop culture, you have to accept that this is a deeply silly (but well produced) collection of TS Eliot poems set to music with only the loosest semblance of a coherent plot. Check out Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat to see the costumes, makeup, the way they all move - and stick around to see them create a steam engine out of trashcan lids and umbrellas at the end!

Also for your viewing pleasure, cat-David Bowie singing about his magician boyfriend, Mr. Mistoffelees.

[m0chisenpai]

maitress

˚｡⋆ the vampire armand x black!fem!reader

in which armand may be the maitre, but every king needs a queen.

The troupe bustled and moved in organized chaos. Electricity filled the air it tickled her veins, tonight was special. Claudia couldn't explain it, the blood sabbath felt intoxicating. The acting was on par with what was held at the royal opera. Was someone of importance watching?

She did not know and as she made her trek up the wooden steps from the Wet Room, the room went still.

“Beautiful work in the previous night my children, my heart might have leapt for a moment.” The velveteen voice wrapped around a Claudia’s mind. She closed her eyes, she could feel the owners voice as though she were next to her. And it seemed her voice was made known to all, because the room went still.

It was as though her presence were in the center of the room. Claudia could see her, but not, her face unknown to her. Her eyes cut to Louis, but they are glossed over, looking and searching for this source of comfort.

She could feel her arm hold her into her side, like a mother. Her hand settled on the back of her neck, finger playing with a curl and letting it bounce free. “And I have no doubt our young new puce is hard at work as well, we need more bright young minds here. Dear Claudia.”

"I look forward to seeing each of you all for tonight's hunt, I've a special treat for our American friends."

Then it was gone. Santiago let out a low groan placing his hand onto his chest, “her voice does wonders. I could listen to it for the rest of my days.”

Armand clapped his hands together snapping them out the trance. “You heard the maitress! Let us not disappoint and puce I hope her words lit an inspiration in you as well.” Claudia bowed her head, leaving through the wings and down the steps.

Claudia buffed and shined the casket of the acting troupe, her ears trained onto the post-show critiquing taking place above. She huffed sitting back on her knees. She was so close, just a little more enduring and she would join the theatre. And with a little persuasion her companion would join.

But Louis was 'fine' with sitting behind the scenes.

Claudia allowed her hands to wander the vanity, covered in treasures. The bottles of perfume glistened in the lights, and a bouquet of deep red roses sat nestled with note inside. scattered sheets of plays more covered in red than actual written words filled the space. A photo of Armand tucked in the mirror beside another note, the ink clearly fresh. She went to open it, to see just who was-

“Puce!” She jumped back dropping the letter back onto vanity. Sam now stood behind her, a scowl on his face like many nights.

“That is for maitress” the apprentice playwright breathed, lovingly looking up to the portrait as thought it were God himself up there. Though Sam was a brilliant playwright, the man was a horrible gossip. If you knew the right words, knew how to get him started then all you’d need is to sit back and let him spill his guts.

“How long has she been here?”

“She was one of the first to be chosen by maitre. No one knows how, but they say her first role was a testament to her story” Sam dropped his voice to a hush looking up. Santiago was wrapping up. So he lured the young puce in.

“Some say, she is the maitre’s one and only fledgling.” Claudia’s eyes widen. And before a slew of questions could come out, he swept the stack of papers in his arms smacking them on the cluttered wooden table.

“No more gossip for you puce! Make sure her area is well kept and don't touch her writing, she bit my finger off last time.” Claudia quickly went to work putting the make up and perfumes in the right places of the vanity.

She made her way to deposit the costumes to the be cleaned when her eyes catch a figure, lying across Armand's bed.

Her eyes concealed by a tinted round pair of fold rimmed glasses, and hands moving with her speech. She wore a pair of high waisted slacks with a dark red blouse tucked in. Her hair was thick and pulled to sit an simple updo with a patterned scarf tied.

Back and forth she paced the small room with a script in hand, taking the frames off to toss onto the cluttered desk along with the script.

"Santiago really needs to stop screwing Estelle, you can tell he is. He gets so boring on stage" she grumbled, holding her hand out to receive a cigarette from Armand and standing still for him to light it.

"The little American beauty is adorable" She called out, by now Armand has begun to smoke from his own cigarette, moving to stop her in her steps and pull her atop his lap on the bed. "I wish I could have seen their arrival."

"Yes she has that bite you had in your early years here." Her maroon lips turn upward as she cups his jaw.

"But your words cut deeper," his voice whispers now holding her hand to press into his cheek. Gentle kisses upon her wrist make her eyes flutter shut until he bites. As he feeds, her eyes look outward. Locking with Claudia's wide ones

Her blood is sweeter than anything he has tasted. Armand would drink from her alone for the rest of his existence if he could. He moves her off to lie among the pillows.

Her throat bared to him. His body covers her, his face face now buried in her neck where he bites her high enough where no shirt may cover.

"I suggest you finish your chores now, puce."

Claudia quickly steps away, her heart pounds against her chest as she quickly makes her way into the costume room. She would never forget those cold green eyes, staring into her own.

Back in the bedroom, she slips Armand onto his back. Straddling His waist. There is no protest in his eyes. Only a burning desire, had she demanded his heart in this moment he’d give to her at any moment. She gazes down at him, with a tilt to her head.

"You know I prefer to be on top, my beautiful Arun."

"Yes, maitress."

[napoleonic-sexyman-tournament]

Toussaint L’Ouverture [no propaganda submitted]

Manuela “Manuelita” Saenz

a. “In addition to being a stunner (I mean, look at her), she was also Simon Bolivar’s girlfriend and she saved him from an assassination attempt at the theatre Colón, buying him time to escape with her tricks. Her British husband begged her to come back for several years (she was a catch so he wasn’t exactly going to divorce her for adultery) but she said no. When Simon Bolivar died, she kept his letters due to both love and a sense of archival duty. She entrusted them to a historian. Manuela Saenz was multilingual and spoke to people like Italian revolutionary Giuseppe Garibaldi and American writer Herman Melville. She died in exile because people were scared of her. And she was hot.” b. Defendant and fighter in the battles for the independence - Feminist icon. Fought for women's rights - General since 2007 (Ecuador) - Caballerese de la Orden del Sol del Perú by José de San Martín - Fight in serveral independence battle,cincluding the finals one to consolidate de Independence of Ecuador and Perú. She earned the title of "Coronela" of the Colombian army - Left her husband for Simon Bolívar "La libertadora del libertador": He liberated 5 countries and she liberated him. She also saved his life from an assassination atempt. - Novels, poems, operas and plays have been written about her. She appears in several TV shows and movies.

[crappymixtape]

gold & glitter

REQUEST → @superblysubpar, A VERY MERRY MIXTAPE ❝ i’m thinking a little rich!steve harrington, a little spicy somethin, somethin and a holiday play – spicy is right, steve takes you to see the nutcracker, but you don’t even make it to the first act • 18+  | ( 3.1k – smut with a dash of fluff, rich!steve x reader )

G O L D & G L I T T E R 🎶 the nutcracker suite, tchaikovsky

“Good evening, Mister Harrington. Miss. May I take your jackets?”

“Thank you, Charles. Did you order the MacCallan Anniversary malt?”

“Of course, sir. It is available neat here from your decanter or we can dress up however you like. Miss, your jacket?”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you opened them again expecting the finery before you to disappear into thin air like a dream, but it didn’t.

“Oh ye-yeah. I mean-yes. Yes, thank you,” you stumbled over your words as the waitstaff took your coat and disappeared behind the curtain. God, you were working overtime to maintain the same level of calm and collected sophistication that seemed to come so easily to your date.

Steve Harrington. Son of John Harrington and heir to the Harrington fortune. One with a foundation built by generations of brokers and wealth managers. Carried on throughout the years to be passed down to the eldest or, in Steve’s case, the only son.

You’d been together for over a year now, but you still weren’t used to it. This lifestyle.

Going anywhere with him meant multiple planned routes in and out of your destinations. Private cars with dark tinted, bullet-proof windows. Black American Express cards, Gucci loafers, and champagne flown direct from the Garonne Valley in Bordeaux, France.

And of course, at Christmastime, a viewing of George Balanchine's The Nutcracker from a private balcony, performed by only the finest troupe at the New York City Ballet.

You’d been to the theatre, the opera, but never like this. A suite all to yourselves, up and away from prying eyes, and upon each seat rested a pair of exquisitely golden opera binoculars for your viewing pleasure. It felt otherworldly. Lush and dark, gilded and polished. Long, red, crushed velvet curtains draped heavy to the floor and on a small table thick, crystalline tumblers sat next to a matching decanter full of only the finest single malt whiskey.

Lifting a hand, you ghosted an immaculately manicured finger around the rim of one of the glasses.

“Is it up to your standards, honey?”

The low, warmth of Steve’s voice broke your trance and pulled your gaze quick to look up at him.

“What?” you wondered aloud, still surprised at how he could ask such questions, “My standards? God. It’s beautiful.”

“Good. M’glad you like it.”

A smile tugged up at the corner of his mouth as he watched you walk to lean out over the balcony and look down at the sea of seats below. You were wearing the emerald green dress he’d bought you especially for the occasion. Made of the finest silk and fitted tight against every curve and dip of your body. Your hair swept long over one shoulder, soft skin exposed through the keyhole cut into the back. You were exquisite.

And you were all his.

Tucking a hand into the pocket of his slacks he reluctantly looked away from you and took up the decanter to pour a measure of whiskey for himself. MacCallan, single malt, from 1928 and around three-hundred thousand dollars a bottle. Lifting the tumbler he inhaled deeply and let his eyes drift shut. Worth every single penny.

“Charles,” his voice notched up in volume and the man from earlier appeared through the thick, velvet curtains.

“Sir?”

“A bottle of Dom and a chilled glass,” Steve took a drink from his whiskey and let it sit on a his tongue for a moment before swallowing it down. “Oh, and my cigar case.”

“Sir, you know smoking isn’t permitted–”

Steve hummed, a low thrum in his throat, and stepped forward toward the other man.

“How much do I pay for these seats, Charles? How much does my family pay for these seats? Since the theatre opened in 1964…I’ll let you do the math,” he took another sip of whiskey and lifted a hand to smooth down the other man’s cravat, “My cigar case.”

“Yes. Of course, Mister Harrington,” the man replied quietly, eyes glued to the cheap, shiny black plastic of his dress shoes.

Steve put on a smile, the one he gave to clients when he knew he’d closed an account, and gripped the man’s shoulder, “Good man.”

And without another word Charles was off again through the curtain.

There was no denying it, Steve’s presence always held weight. Held power. No one could tell him no. Stood in boardrooms dressed to the nines. Gold heirloom cufflinks, custom tailored jackets and Tucci de Lusso oxfords included, but this version of him was different. Somehow more and you didn’t know how it was possible.

Brunette locks perfectly coiffed. Custom black Armani suit fitted tight across his chest and shoulders. Gold signet ring with his initials engraved upon it shining up from his index finger, and damn if his ass didn’t look incredible in those slacks.

You clicked your tongue at him and fixed him with a look, closing the gap between the two of you.

“Babe, he’s just trying to enforce the house rules,” smoothing a hand up his chest, you pretended to adjust his tie as an excuse to touch him.

“Honey, you and I both know who makes the rules around here,” he drawled, his tone making you weak in the knees, and he set his glass down in favor of taking hold of your waist. His hand wide and warm on the small of your back as he ran it down the curve of your ass and squeezed, pulling a gasp from your lips.

“Steve,” you chided, no heat behind it, and he dipped down to press a kiss to your neck.

“This really is your color,” he whispered in your ear and your eyes fluttered at the sound. Pressed your thighs together as he traced a finger across your exposed collarbone. Warmth blooming in your core as he followed the hem that chased along the edge of your shoulder.

“You’ve got good taste,” you whispered back, swallowing the moan that had crept up your throat and he grinned.

“I do, don’t I.”

“Sir, your cigar cas–oh!”

Charles came back through the curtain to find the two of you pressed into each other, Steve’s nose buried in the crook of your neck. Your cheeks burned at being caught.

“My sincerest apologies, sir! I should’ve–”

“S’alright,” Steve chuckled, pulling away from you to casually take the case from the other man without missing a beat. He reached into his money clip and slipped a hundred dollar bill into Charles’ hand, “Now. That will be all. If I need anything, I’ll ring you.” The finality of his words hung in the air.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Excuse me,” and with that Charles disappeared again for what you were certain, after all that, would be the last time.

“Shit,” you breathed, cheeks still bright red as you bit back a laugh.

Steve was laughing too, but no where near embarrassed, and he grabbed your hand to pull you close to his chest again as the theatre lights flickered and slowly dimmed.

“Mmm, damn. Showtime,” he murmured softly into your hair.

You felt your stomach drop at the thought of having to sit so still, and so far from Steve for three hours, but then another thought came to you. One that made your cheeks flush again and you pressed your face into his lapel, breathing in the citrusy, cedar scent of his cologne.

Pulling away just enough to meet his gaze the expression you maintained was innocent, but the look in your eye wasn’t. It was dark and needy. Warm and flickering at the feeling of his hands on your waist.

“We could freshen up first,” you suggested quietly and as Steve put your words together his pupils blew wide. Pools of black edged in gold and he squeezed at the plush of your hip.

“Uh-huh,” came out strangled and it was all he could manage. Unable to focus on anything other than rucking that silk dress up around your thighs, and without hesitation he grabbed your hand and pulled you through the thick, velvet curtains.

The corridor was empty, Charles hiding wherever he’d rushed off to, and everyone else was in their seats to catch the opening act as Steve led you the short distance down the hall.

Luckily for you, the neighboring balcony’s ticket holders had filed for bankruptcy earlier in the year and now the restrooms on this wing were exclusively Steve’s. Doors crafted from thick oak and etched with breathtaking carvings of Swan Lake and Slyphide, they were heavy enough to drown out anything happening on the other side.

Thank god.

Ignoring the men’s and women’s signs, Steve chose the closest door and shouldered into it, bicep straining against the tight fabric of his shirt as he held muscled it open. It was a hurried mess, both of you tripping into the room on the train of your dress in a fit of giggles as Steve huffed a laugh and cursed under his breath.

“Baby.”

Heels clicking on the white granite tile floor, you regained your footing and finally took in all the exquisite details of the ornate room. Wide marble slabs. Bottles of lotion and perfume that cost more than your mortage. Gold fixtures shining in the low light falling from crystal chandeliers that refracted bright shards of color against the walls.

You would have appreciated the incredible beauty of it all, but Steve. You couldn’t have cared less and neither could he.

He spun you around to face him and hooked his arms behind the backs of your legs. Scooped you up off the ground and pulled a squeal from you as you held on tight around his neck to steady yourself.

Squeezing his hold on you, he freed an arm and swept it across the counter. Knocked the soap dish clattering into the sink basin and paid absolutely no attention to the lush basket of designer hand towels that fell to the floor as he lifted you with ease onto the marble surface.

“Steve,” you protested weakly and when he notched himself between your legs you felt yourself melt under him.

His hands were everywhere. Your waist, the small of your back, fingers pressing into your cheek and pushing your hair over your shoulder to drag messy, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there. It pulled a moan from your lips and at the sound he groaned into you.

“Christ, babe. I’ve wanted to get my hands on you since you climbed into the limo. Pretty as a fuckin’ picture in this thing. So damn hot. All for me, huh?”

“S’always for you,” you half-laughed, but it caught in your throat as he slipped a hand between your thighs, “God, Steve.”

“This for me too, honey?”

He gathered a handful of emerald green silk in one hand and pooled it at your waist as the cool air of the room sent a shiver up your spine. Then he caught sight of the black lace panties hugging tight against you and sucked in a breath. Bit down on his bottom lip and looked like he might cry.

“You’re gonna kill me with these. Are you kiddin’ me? Baby. Look at this,” he babbled, just standing there not touching you and you grabbed hold of his wrist and tugged him back into you.

“Talk too much,” you murmured against his ear, running a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck and dragging your nails against his skin, “It’s all yours…Mister Harrington.”

And fuck if the dress and panties weren’t enough, the sound of your voice wrapped around his name did him in.

“Damn right it is.”

He growled as you tugged on his hair, slipped his hand back between your legs and tugged the thin fabric of your panties aside. The way he had been kissing and talking at you out on the balcony had been plenty to send you pressing your thighs together, but the way he was handling you in here had you soaked.

His fingers slipped in your slick as he felt just how wet you were and he smirked against your skin as he dragged his lips up to your jawline. Tutting softly he slowly circled your clit, his other hand moving to wrap gently around the column of your throat.

“Bet you want me to talk now, huh honey? You want that? Talk dirty to you?” his voice was barely above a whisper as his fingers slid down to press against your entrance.

You swallowed against the hand he had on your throat, your lips dropping open into a perfect little ‘o’ as you squirmed against the counter, impatient for him.

“Uh-huh,” you breathed and he smirked at how he had you wrapped around his finger, literally as he slid one into you.

“That’s my girl. I know what you like, don’t I? Give you everything you need. Take care of you, hm?” he babbled, kissing and sucking at the hollow behind your ear as he began to slide his finger in and out, in and out. A slow drag at first before adding a second finger and pulling a moan from your lips.

“Good care of me,” fell out mindlessly as he gently tightened the hand on your throat making your heartbeat thud in your ears.

“This isn’t enough though, is it? Not enough. Want me to fill you up, don’t you honey?” he whispered and you nodded, your throat too tight to speak, and god you wanted him to make you see stars.

He pulled his hand from between your legs to undo the button on his pants and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes at the loss of his touch.

“Shh, I got you, baby,” he coaxed, pulling down his zipper and reaching in to free his rock hard cock.

It sprang out of his pants without any encouragement and he wrapped a hand around it. Rubbed it against your slit as it practically cried in anticipation and as he slowly pushed himself into you it made you sucked in a rasp of a breath.

“Steve,” you begged and he moved his hand to grip your thigh.

“I know, baby.”

An inch more and he was into you up to the hilt. Filling you so much that you could feel the tip pressing against the spot only he could reach. Easing out he groaned as you clenched down on him before pushing back in and he set the pace there. A slow drag. In, out. In, out.

The wet sounds coming from you as he fucked you slowly were obscene. Made louder by the empty room, but you didn’t care. You wanted more.

“Harder,” you pleaded. He wanted it too and as he looked down at the sight of his cock sliding into your cunt he nearly lost it.

Letting go of your throat he grabbed onto your other thigh for purchase and pulled you to the very edge of the counter. Picked up the pace and started fucking you faster, the slap, slap, slap of his thighs against yours filling the air.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Feel so good. You like that? Huh? Want more?”

“More–shit. Yes, god. More, Steve.”

Your knuckles were white with how hard you were gripping the counter, moans falling freely from your lips now as Steve pushed you both closer and closer to climax. You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach as he squeezed into the plush of your thighs and your hand flew up to grab at the back of his neck.

“Gonna–ugh–come, baby. Come with me, baby,” he said through gritted teeth, jaw ticking when he clenched down, and as he rocked his hips back into you, you both came.

Your orgasm wrapped around you tight. White hot. Electric. Every inch of you buzzing and sparking like fireworks on the fourth of July and you cried out as his thrusts fell out of sync, jerky and messy as he came down.

A soft thud echoed against the tile as your head fell back against the mirror behind you, beads of sweat holding your hair messy across your forehead. Steve leaned into you, rested his head on your chest, and slowly your breaths evened out.

Your lips twitched with a smile, your hand lifting to cover your mouth as you held back a laugh, and Steve seemed to have the same thought as he chuckled against your dress.

“Someone heard us. For sure,” you finally said, voice crackly from breathing so hard.

“And? Who gives a shit. Maybe we just gave them a good idea,” Steve grinned, looking up at you from where he rested his chin on your belly.

You swatted at him, gasping as he pulled out of you to avoid getting hit.

Bending down, Steve grabbed a couple of the hand towels from where they’d landed on the tile and ran warm water on them. Quickly cleaned himself up and then took his time with you. Paid close attention to where he’d held onto your throat. Where his fingertips pressed into your thighs. Dabbed softly across your forehead and spent extra time on the mess between your legs.

You touched up your makeup and perfume, adjusted Steve's tie and hair, and when you both finally emerged from the bathroom the piece the orchestra was playing reached a crescendo and the theatre filled with applause.

It couldn’t be the end of the first act?

Steve walked you easy back to the balcony and held the heavy velvet curtain open for you. Your gilded opera binoculars were still sitting perfectly upon your seat where you’d left them and the bottle of chilled Dom Perignon was on ice along with a champagne flute – you hated whiskey.

You both sank into your seats as the orchestra began to play again and you recognized the piece and shot Steve a look.

“The party scene just started,” you whispered, “We’re not even out of the first part of act one.”

“Christ,” he groaned, grinning into his hands as he rubbed them across his face. Then, glancing over at you he grabbed his cigar box, “We can always make up for it next year. Right?”

Your eyes grew wide.

“Skip the Nutcracker?” you asked incredulously and he quirked a brow at you.

“Yeah. Skip it and we’ll go catch part two of the bathroom scene at mine,” he said giving you a wicked grin and you feigned shock, your own grin threatening to shatter your facade.

“Mister Harrington, what would your mother say?”

And the look he gave you then was the absolute definition of smug.

“My Stevie boy always gets what he wants.”

And damn if she wasn’t right about that.

[nhlovesadri3]

Adriana Lima attending the 3rd Annual American Ballet Theatre Noche Latina at Metropolitan Opera House, NYC, 10/06/08.

Queued