#effortlessly mixing masculine and feminine movement

[nekomamiiz]

im not in the kpop fandom whatsoever… but i am a dancer and the best thing to happen to me while stumbling down a lil rabbit hole is my sweet baby bada lee

[cherries-n-rocknroll]

‘Soap’ Roger x Reader 1/2

Part 2 || my masterlist || add yourself to my taglist

Contains: Fluff, tender sexy times, a little nsfw, some swearing

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: You have exams coming up and you’re studying like crazy. Roger decides that it’s time for you to take a break and relax a little.

A/N: Here it is! This is actually my fourth story that I have written but I haven't posted any of the others yet. I'm still very new to the whole writing thing but I'm enjoying it so far. English isn’t my first language so there might be some grammar mistakes. Also, I got inspired to write this due to a story named 'Soap and water' by @rogers-wristbands. I also got some inspo from the movie 'Call me by your name'.

I would like to thank @misshystericalqueen @hiyadarlingirl and @mazzelloplots for their kind words and for making me feel confident enough to post this.

Anyway, I had a lot of fun writing this and I hope you'll have too reading it.

You were sunken into your history books when you heard the sound of water streaming. The soft sound of bare feet entered the room you where sitting in. It was Roger.

“Hey love, I'm taking a bath, wanna join me?”

You turned around to see Roger wearing nothing but his boxers. He sure knew how to distract you.

“Rog I need to study you know that.”

“But you also need to take care of yourself baby. You haven’t showered in days.”

Roger walked closer to you and wrapped his arms around you from behind. He nuzzled his nose into the crown of your head. “mmmm” he hummed. The vibration sent shivers down your spine.

“Please?” he hummed.

“Okay, fine”

Roger smiled as you stood up from your chair. 

once you were in the bathroom, Roger pulled you in for a hug. You stood there for some time relaxing at the feeling of his warm body radiating against yours. 

“let's get you undressed, shall we?”

“huh?” It wasn't until now that you realized how sleep deprived you were.

“You really need to take better care of yourself love,” Roger said, his hands resting on your waist as he stared into your eyes. “ let's get you cleaned up love.” He gave your cheek a soft kiss and moved to his knees to take off your slippers and socks. You were ashamed of how you looked in all honesty. You were wearing a hoodie and an awful pair of sweatpants. they were grey, sagy and stained. And your face was bare like a baby's butt. But Roger didn't seem to care.

He hooked his fingertips into the waistband of your sweats and slowly pulled them down. You in return pulled one leg up and then the other so that he could move the legs of the pants over your feet. Your panties followed the same fate as your pants and when he was finished undressing your bottom half he pushed your shirt up a little to give your lower belly a kiss. You looked down at his loving gesture with half-hooded eyes. A lazy smile appearing on your face.

He came back up and you threw your hands in the air. Rogers fingertips softly brushed over the skin of your torso as he started to take off your hoodie and your shirt. The gentleness of his movements made your heart melt a little.

“You're so beautiful.” He said, softly, once he had discarded your clothes onto the floor.

In the meantime, a pile of soap had formed and Roger turned to close the faucet. After that, he took off his boxers and grabbed your hand to pull you towards the bath.

Roger went in first and you followed quickly. You sat with your face toward Roger and scooped a handful of soap into your palms. Big bubbles flew through the air as you playfully blew it toward Rogers' face. 

“Watch it, lady, I don't want to get soap into my eyes.”

“sorry,” You giggled. You wiped over his face to wipe away some leftover bubbles. 

You started washing yourself and Roger did the same. Helping each other in the process. You fooled around for a bit before you two came to sit in an intimate embrace. Your legs were draped over Rogers, belly’s only a few inches apart from each other.

Roger lazily wrapped his arms around your torso. You draped one arm over his and snaked the other one underneath is armpit laying your hand on his shoulder. You relaxed into his embrace, softly placing your head onto his shoulder. And a deep sigh of relief slipped from between your lips as you felt tears prickling in your eyes. You were so exhausted and stressed. Your nose started to get watery as a tear came rolling down your cheek. You started sniffling and Roger noticed, of course he did.

“Hey, hey, what's wrong?” he sounded concerned and surprised by the sudden change of climate.

Another tear came rolling down your cheek as you lifted your head to look into Rogers baby-blue eyes. “I-I...I just-" you stammered "I just feel so exhausted and... I-I feel like I work so hard but it just doesn't do anything.” Another tear came rolling down your face and you could taste the saltiness when you poked your tongue out to lick your lips. You felt numb.

Roger cupped your face with both hands and pressed his forehead against yours. “Come here, it's gonna be okay. I promise.” Roger cooed. The tiniest smile appeared on your face as you tried your best to relax. “I know you can do this.”

You nodded at his words, drawing back to wipe away some of your tears. 

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” 

Silence filled the room for a minute as you sat in the warm water. You noticed that the heap of bubbles had almost disappeared and that Roger had used one of your favorite bath bombs. The smell penetrated your nose --- lavender --- and you took the deepest breath you had taken all day. He really knew how to take care of you.

After some time, that had felt like forever for Roger you finally broke the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” you said almost softly, brushing your hand over his cheek. He really was, you’d have to be blind to think that this man was ugly. He had these beautiful smooth features that made him look so effortlessly beautiful. A perfect mashup of feminine and masculine.

Your fingers moved closer to Rogers' lips. And as a reaction, he parted them slightly as you brushed your index finger over them. They were soft and you felt all the tiny ridges and creases. Roger licked your fingertip ever so slightly and let you continue with your journey over his lips while he observed your facial expressions with half-hooded eyes.

Then, Roger took your finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the curves of it. You hooked it into his cheek and softly pulled him closer before he released your finger with a pop. He moved his face even closer to yours and swept a wet stripe up your lips with the tip of his tongue. His warm breath hitting your face.

In the meantime, your hand had moved to the base of Rogers' neck, and your lips crashed into his. It was a  tender, yet passionate kiss that made your brain a little fuzzy. 

You noticed a familiar feeling building up in the pit of your stomach as you moved your lips away from Roger's. And you took your lower lip between your teeth, slowly letting it escape from the hold of your teeth.

Roger noticed this and leaned forward to suck at a sensitive spot in your neck that he knew drove you crazy. A mix of a sigh and a moan slipped from between your lips. This motivated Roger to keep going. He sucked hard yet gentle at the skin of your neck. But you knew there would be a hickey the next day. Roger lowered his mouth to your collarbone while moving his hands to your breasts, kneading them softly. Then he moved even lower and took one nipple into his mouth. 

You placed your hands behind you in the bath and leaned back to give him more space. Roger started flicking his tongue over the little nub and then he softly tugged at it, owning him another moan. Your other boob was still occupied by Rogers' hand and he started rolling your nipple in between his thumb and index finger.

“Rog...” You hissed. Your head falling back.

“Is this okay?”

“God, yes. Please, give me more.” You begged, finally being able to let go of your stress and anxiety.

“Sure love. Gonna make you feel better hmm?” He hummed. Moving up and forward to press his lips against yours again.

Part 2 [SMUT 18+ only please]

A/N: I hope you liked that. If you have any feedback, please let me know. It's highly appreciated😘. 

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[the-many-worlds-traveler]

In Good Company- Chapter 1

Summary: Virgil Harris had no real aspirations for a professional ballet career. After years of convincing himself there was no company who would accept him, a certain director made him an offer.

CW: Panic Attacks, cursing, food mention, mild drunken Virgil

Author’s note: Finally posting this here! The ballet au no one asked for. There is a glossary of terms and recommended reference videos at the end because I am a massive dance nerd and I adore teaching this subject (sorry). Enjoy!

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

Act 1- Prologue

Lausanne, Switzerland

Prix de Lausanne Competition Finals

   Virgil Harris was never one for overstatement. Grand displays, flourish, pop, nothing. He prefers to keep it simple. Whether it be his words, if he chooses to speak at all, or his movement. Why spend thirty seconds exerting unnecessary energy when a simple gesture would suffice. A single word. A look. The sooner it’s done, the better.

Or rather, the sooner it’s done, the sooner he can retreat to the sidelines and pretend he were anywhere else.

Virgil, he likes to remind people, does not like being put on display. Practice was one thing, enclosed in a private studio, surrounded by walls, a door that closed, being around people he was at least passingly familiar with. In the studio he was safe. More importantly, his mind was quiet.

But there he was, moments to his entrance, music swelling, lights blaring and all he wanted was to dissolve into the heavy black fabric of the wings. Or perhaps climb the rope riggings up to the catwalks to make his stealthy escape. But no, his coach was there, hand firmly clasped to Virgil’s shoulder keeping him trapped in place until his turn.

This was not his studio or even a familiar theater. Instead he was thousands of miles from home, forced to perform in front of people who didn’t know him and didn’t care to. Those people out there were there for one purpose and one purpose alone.

To judge him.

The dancer on stage, a lovely, languid young woman in a dazzling white tutu, gossamer fabric floating from her arms, flitted playfully across the stage in the final moments of her solo, a selection from the 3rd act of La Bayadere, Kingdom of the Shades. The most minuscule of steps on the tips of her pointe shoes carried her effortlessly across the stage before bounding into a seamless grande jete leap, cutting through the air. The landing was perfect, utterly silent, taking a knee as if gravity were at her control allowing her to meet the ground like it were nothing at all.

She rose to her feet, applause carrying her to center stage. The young dancer took a deep bow, pointed foot trailing behind her, one hand to her heart, the other gesturing the audience and the judges.

Alright, idiot. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t do it. Don’t go out there. You’ll fuck it up. You’ll fall. You’ll be a-

“Virgil.”

He jerked his head away from the stage and looked to his teacher and coach, Louis Adley. Head buzzing, thoughts spiraling. “Virgil, you’re up,” Adley whispered, planting both hands on his student’s shoulders, eyeing him intently. “Ignore the voices. Breathe. You’ll be fine, kid.”

Virgil gave a ghost of a nod and turned to step to the edge of the wings, steeling himself for what was to come.

The applause died to a murmur, the sound of people shifting in their seats rattled in Virgil’s head, clashing with the god-awful buzzing. He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped into the light.

His selection of solo variation was an odd one, not commonly chosen for competition as it lacked the usual pomp masculine athleticism, but it suited Virgil and that was probably why it took him all the way to finals.

The Poet’s Dance from Les Sylphides, a ballet made famous by Ana Pavlova when it premiered in 1909. It had only two characters, white ethereal woman called Sylphs and the Poet. It was a simple ballet that relied on emotion and atmosphere over plot and decadence.

This was right up Virgil’s alley. Moody, dark, simple. It was an easy choice for him to make when the choice to compete in the first place clearly wasn’t his to make.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere of the Prix stage was hardly befitting. Stark bright lighting, a plain brackdrop, prerecorded music set to competition-standard tempo. It felt cold under the blazing lights over his head, like an operating theater. Except he was the one being dissected. Every movement of the arms, every slight shift of his foot along the floor was recorded and boiled down to hard numbers.

Virgil caught the eye of his coach in the wings, an eager smile on his face urging him on. The Poet’s Dance asked for a certain feminine grace as he skimmed the floor with luscious turns and pillowy jumps. When he felt his best, Virgil felt like he was floating.

The buzzing in his head quieted and the thoughts melted away with the soothing lilt of Chopin’s score. For a moment, just one quick moment, he forgot where he was and what was at stake. Scholarships, job offers, notoriety on an international level. In that moment, none of that mattered.

But then his eyes caught the judges table, lit by small lamps. Their eyes watched closely, glancing down quickly to jot notes on stacks of cards, each with a competitor’s name and profile. It all came screaming back, the lights, the audience, the buzzing, the damned thoughts. He pushed through, forcing himself to refocus.

Hold on, dammit. So fucking close.

His foot slipped slightly under his weight, causing what Adley later described as the smallest of hiccups in what was otherwise a perfect performance.

The music came to an end and his chest hitched in a mix of relief and panic. He swallowed, stepped to center stage and took a bow before running into the wing, remaining in character until he was far enough backstage that he could no longer see the lights.

Virgil came to a dead stop at the door and leaned his back into the frame.

Breathe. Breathe. It’s over. You fucked up like you knew you would, but you made it. 

A low, choked laugh escaped his parched throat at the thought. He pitched forward, bracing his hands against his knees, willing his breath to catch up.

It wasn’t a difficult variation, so why in the hell was he so winded.

Because you’re weak.

He felt a hand rest on his back. Virgil didn’t realize his eyes had been screwed shut so tight so when he finally opened them he saw spots. But beyond that and the sting of sweat in his eyes he saw Adley, crouched down and gazing at him with a soft smile.

“You did good, kid,” his coach assured. “Those dancers out there are impressive, but you, Virgil? You’re a goddammed artist. A regular Baryshnikov.”

Virgil stood upright and smirked. “Man, what a cheesy line. Can we get the hell out of here now?” His coach righted himself and flung an arm around his student’s shoulders, turning them down to the holding rooms. “Yeah, kid. Let’s get you cleaned up. But you’re not allowed to leave until after the awards ceremony.” Virgil gave a petulant, guttural moan and Adley only sighed, patting his young charge on the cheek before giving him a light shove down the hall.

***********

The awards ceremony was always something Virgil actively tried to miss, either by faking some sudden stomach ache or by “getting lost on the way to the bathroom”. Someone always saw through his crap, tidied his hair, and all but pushed him onstage with the rest. The endless talking, the thanking of sponsors, the judges, the audience, the tired words of “how impressed they were by what was likely the most impressive showing of young talent in competition history”. He had heard it all before and he knew exactly why anyone was standing up there waiting through it all. Those cards in the Master of Ceremonies’ hands held the fates of a select few dancers. They were their tickets to the professional world.

Virgil didn’t care about all that. All he wanted was to get out of that sweaty costume, take a shower and sleep for a decade or two. He knew he didn’t belong with any company. No director in their right mind would want such a broody, anxious mess. Regardless, he stood there all the same, poised and “calm” with nineteen other young hopefuls all shaking from the raw, exhausted nerves. The gossamer girl from before his solo nearly jumped out of her skin when the first award was called.

Don’t get your hopes up, Virge. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t get your-

**********

“The Audience Choice Award! That’s great!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t even place.”

Adley, wearing a crisp navy suit, sighed and pushed a flute of champagne in Virgil’s hand. “Look, you’re walking out of this with prize money and the adoration of the audience. What more could you want?”

“To go home,” Virgil said pointedly, scanning the room full of competitors and shoulder-rubbers. The gala. Almost worse than the awards ceremony. He took a healthy swig of his champagne, willing his chest to loosen up. Here’s hoping enough free drink will do it for him. At 18 it was more than acceptable to drink in times of celebration in Europe.

When in Rome, he thought, swiping another glass from a waiter passing by.

His focus drifted from person to person, catching pieces of stilted conversations. So many people speaking just as many languages- how anyone could carry on anything more than a simple chat was beyond him.

Virgil leaned into a table, not caring if his brand new black suit got wrinkles. He fiddled with the purple faux silk pocket square at this chest and took another gulp out of his glass. He watched Adley talk up a judge from the panel over a tray of cheese cubes. He just couldn’t grasp the concept of small talk. He would pull out his phone, but his parents wouldn’t shell out for an international plan, so stare into space it was. His coach would tire out eventually and walk him back to the hotel. He would have gone back himself if that asshole Adley hadn’t stolen his hotel key out of his pocket when he was changing clothes only to promise to return it at the end of the night. The man had him trapped. Crafty fucker.

He respected his coach. Hell, he even liked him. But damn it all, he was a pain in the ass.

Virgil ran his fingers through his bangs, ensuring his shield was at full strength. No one talks to the emo kids. He patted his back pocket, feeling for his iPod. Crap. That was gone, too. Virgil resolved to dip Adley’s hand in a bowl of warm water after he went to sleep tonight.

“This seat taken?”

Virgil snapped out of his reverie to find a man no older than thirty smiling at him, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. “No man, all yours,” he shrugged. But the man didn’t sit. He just stood there with a smirk, obviously waiting for Virgil to strike up a conversation.

You’re gonna be here a while, buddy. Better keep walking.

The man chuckled lightly and stuck out his hand. “Thomas Sanders. I’m with the Civic Ballet of Florida. You must be Virgil Harris.”

Virgil tamped down the on-coming sigh and the urge to walk away. Adley reminded him to at least be cordial, because “you never know who you could meet at these things.”

“Yeah? Who would want to meet me?” Virgil rebutted.

“Your future, Virgil, your future!” God, this man was a walking cheese fest.

He eyed Sanders from beneath his bangs and let his vision fall to his waiting hand. Fine. He took it and gave one steady shake before retreating a half step back, trying not to bump into the table behind him. “Nice to meet you Thomas Sanders of the Civic Ballet of Florida.” He looked over Thomas’ shoulder to see Adley watching him with a grin, giving him a thumbs up.

“So, uh,” Virgil started, trying to think of what to say next, “Are you a dancer with them? You seem a little old to be competing.” Thomas quirked an eyebrow.

Shitshitshitshit. Adley, his parents, and countless other teachers had chided Virgil for his sharp tongue. It had gotten him into hot water enough to try and keep it quiet, but it was his last-ditch defense mechanism that always seemed to kick in when someone just refused to get a clue and leave him alone.

He was shaken out of his panic by laughter. Thomas was nearly doubled over one moment and tossing his torso back the next with a laugh that can only be characterized as charismatic and… cartoonish? “Oooooh boy, I knew I liked you. No, I’m afraid I’m not a dancer with the company”. He took a steadying breath, righted himself, and looked Virgil in the eye, the effects of his laughter still present in his features. Everything about him was light and easy.

So, who is this guy?

“Anyway, I’ve come to make you an offer. As the artistic director, I’m duty-bound to seek out new talent even if it means trekking far and wide to find it!”, he said, gesturing widely around the room with gusto.

Hold on. Director? ARTISTIC DIRECTOR?!

The buzzing came back with brute force, pressure in his skull and chest building rapidly. He just insulted the artistic fucking director. To his face! His vision swam and the feeling in his fingers was nearly gone. He needed to sit. No, he needed to get the hell out of there. Find Adley, get his key, hide in his bed until kingdom come. Where was Adley? He scanned the room and couldn’t spot him. There was no time for this.

Time to cut and run, Virge.

He felt a hand resting softly on his shoulder and expected to see Adley there. Instead he saw Thomas, smile soft, brows slightly upturned, leaning down a bit to meet his eyes. “You alright there? You look like you’re going to be ill. Too much champagne?” Thomas guided Virgil to the chair the director never took and stole another from a nearby table, placing himself next to the young dancer.

“Can I grab you water? Are you here with anyone?” Virgil shook his head and attempted to level his breathing. He just couldn’t understand why this man was being to kind to him after being so clearly insulted by some snot-nosed kid. He could feel Thomas’ gaze on him but couldn’t will himself to look up.

He could hear the chair next to him creak with the shifting weight. Peeking out from under his hair he saw the man leaning back watching the crowd.

“I always hated these competitions. It’s always about the wow-factor, the tricks. They talk about artistry, but no one ever looks natural or even happy for that matter. No one really wants to be up there. Heh, no one really wants to be here” Thomas took a steady swig from his glass and set it on the table. “Honestly, I only ever competed because my teachers expected me to. And I needed the scholarship money to keep training. It’s exhausting. So, yeah,” he laughed, “I guess I am too old to compete. Just listen to me! I sound like an old man.”

A comfortable silence settled over them. Why this was comfortable he couldn’t pin-point. What was it about this guy?

When the feeling finally returned to his fingertips he sat up and watched the ebb and flow of the ballroom. “Yeah,” he started, “I only came to this because my instructor wanted me to. I’m... I’m graduating this spring and I guess he just wants me to have a fighting chance.”

“He sounds like a good teacher.”

Virgil smiled and rolled his eyes, finally spotting Adley in the crowd. “I guess he is. He’s good to me anyway.”

Thomas turned in his seat to face Virgil, features taking on a more serious tone. “That much is clear. He seems to have trained you well. Though,” he began, “what I saw up there wasn’t a dancer showing off every trick he’s got in one shot. I didn’t see a frantic grab for attention. I saw…” Thomas’ voice trailed off. “I saw emotion. And… a certain maturity that clearly goes beyond your years. You are technically strong, don’t get me wrong, and the polish will come with experience, but there’s another layer to your movement that I can’t quite put my finger on. You’re a bit of a question mark, but I like that.”

The director waited a beat, catching Virgil’s eyes. “I get the feeling you wouldn’t do particularly well in a strictly classical troupe and I’m guessing by your absolute enthusiasm about this whole shebang here you agree.” Virgil thought on that and he wasn’t wrong. He never saw himself dancing big impressive ballets and he definitely could not see himself fitting into the stereotype of machismo male danseur. He never really fit in anywhere, which suited him fine up until now. He would find his niche eventually, but this world of traditional classical ballet wasn’t it.

“Look, Mr. Harris, I’m not trying to sell you snake oil. I like what I see and I firmly believe you have a quality worth developing. And I’m curious to see what you become. Our company is not what you would call ‘traditional’. We’re always looking to explore new and, frankly, unusual ideas in dance. We don’t have to be stuck in the 1800’s staging the same three popular ballets to sell tickets. We’re not afraid to go against the grain and judging by your performance up there you’re not either. All I’m asking is that you give it some thought.”

Thomas stood, brushing off his trousers. Reaching into his pocket he handed Virgil a simple white card with a yellow star logo on the back. “It was a pleasure to meet you Virgil Harris. Hopefully this won’t be our last encounter”. With that, Thomas turned on his heel and stepped back into the crowd.

What the actual fuck just happened. He sat there, dumbstruck and not quite sure what to think next. Going against the grain? If anything, he was so afraid to go either direction that the grain was the least of his worries. Try to be unique and he risks getting rejected. Try to fit in and he’s miserable and will still get rejected. It seemed like a real lose/lose, but still…

Virgil downed the last of his glass and shook his head.  Shit, he just offered you a job and you’re just sitting there like a moron. Say something, you idiot. Quick, before he changes his mind.

“Mr. Sanders?! Hold up.”

Virgil stumbled out of his chair, the champagne obviously having gone right to his head. Thomas turned back puzzled as he watched the little drunk fledgling scramble free of the chair. “I’m sorry for earlier. I, uh, I’m not great in social situations.” He took a deep breath before soldiering on. The job was his. All he had to do was ask.

“Would it be possible to, uh um, you know… View rehearsals at some point? You know, (stop saying ‘you know’) to get an idea of what you guys do?”

Thomas took a step forward and held out his hand once more, unable to hide his excitement. “Come take company class over your spring break. I think you’ll find you feel right at home.”

Virgil slid his hand into Thomas’ and shook. In one month he would travel to Florida and see it all for himself.

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

Glossary of terms: Prix de Lausanne- An annual international youth ballet competition in Lausanne, Switzerland for pre-professional dancers ages 15-18.

Variation- A short dance interlude common in classical ballets.

Grand Jete- (French) Large Throw- A “split leg” travelling jump that carries the dancer across the floor.

Wings- Large fabric panels dividing on and off-stage.

Video References: La Bayadere Shades Variation- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8INJnPDzy4<br /> Les Sylphides Poet’s Dance (with Baryshnikov)- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yl0FIXUFTvM