#rosin like for ballet shoes?

[bp-zb1fics]

hello fellow rosin. it's so nice to meet another rosin. we're such a good pair of rosins. we should make a rosins group together to support our beloved zhang hao bcs we are rosins and as rosins, it is our duty to support and love and admire and respect and appreciate and accept our feelings for zhanghao because we are rosins and as rosins, it is our duty to zhang hao because we are rosins.

According to Petric (2018), gaslighting is a “form of psychological manipulation that seeks to sow seeds of doubt in the targeted individual…making them question their own memory, perception and sanity.”

Furthermore, “[sociopaths] and narcissists use gaslighting tactics.”

Reference: Petric, D. (2018) Gaslighting and the knot theory of mind. (Issue: September) DOI:10.13140/RG.2.2.30838.86082

[reverieblondie]

My Star

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara X DancerFem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Smut with Plot, Praise, Mutual masterbaition, Unprotected Penetrative Sex (wrap it before you tap it),Oral, Cum eating, losing of virginity (mentioned), Ripping of clothes, Drink play?, Blindfolded reader.

Summary: The theaters new patron is an important man, as you dance you feel his eyes on you, you can't help but feel addicted to the way he stares at you...

A/N: I haven't wrote Smut in a minute so I might be a bit rusty...This idea came to me as I was watching Phantom of the Opera. I just need a Victorian Miguel to ravish me while calling me his star. This is pretty cheesy and a total self serving fic but I hope you enjoy it!

Word count: 6,532

Looking around as you fix your hair you see that the theater is bustling. Dancers are frantically putting on makeup rushing and bumping into one another. The crew is in a hustle setting up the stage, the show isn’t for a few days why is everyone acting like it’s happening tonight? Today is just a normal practice? 

Leaning over to your friend you whisper your question, “What’s going on? Why is everyone acting in a tissy?” 

Your friend Cristina stops adjusting her practice dress and looks at you with wide eyes, “Have you not heard? A new patron is coming to observe the theater with the owners today during rehearsal, they want us all to be perfect or else you're cut!” 

Eyes going wide, you go to ask where she had gotten her information but before you can the madam of the ballet is coming to make sure everyone is prepared. With everyone frantically preparing you rush around backstage into position, stopping to dust your shoes in the rosin box so you have a good grip, and can’t afford any slips. 

Going over your choreography for your short solo, tracking your counts, the sound of whispers starts to distract you.

“I heard that he is one of the most powerful men in Nueva York, filthy rich.” 

“Exactly what we need is a bored man with too much money then he knows what to do with.” 

“Well, his name is Miguel O’Hara, and besides him being wealthy and powerful I hear he’s also gorgeous” 

They proceeded to giggle amongst themselves, seeming to find joy in their comments but the words about the man only seem to make you more nervous. It’s your job to impress this man to save the theater that holds your ballet company.

The company is very dear to you for having taken you in when you were a young girl, the madam didn’t care that you were a lowly orphan with a name that meant nothing she saw you and took you in despite it. And now everyone's careers are dependent on impressing this patron, hopefully you won’t mess it up for everyone…

Watching the stage you are patiently waiting for your cue when the distinct feeling of eyes watching you stirs your concentration. Moving your eyes to the stage's side you try to pinpoint where this feeling is coming from. 

Then you see the mahogany eyes fixed on you, the gaze is intense, perfectly complimenting the structured face of the burnet. His stature towers in comparison to the theater owners groveling at him. This must be Mr. O’Hara, they were right he is gorgeous and with how he's dressed in a luxurious day suit it was clear he has expenses to spare. 

As his eyes continue to stare you down you feel the nerves in your chest starting to spiral. Opting to look away you try to focus on catching your cue you almost missed it from being wrapped up in a brief staring contest.

On the stage now, you focus your breathing to look effortless while you dance, thankfully you hit all your counts perfectly. There where things you where okay at but dancing is where you excelled. Typically you where a pretty shy and reserved person but once you where on the stage dancing you transformed into your character. And now as you move effortlessly you feel that things were going great.

Towards the end of your routine, you're doing your piqué turns. For this, you found it helpful to keep your eyes on something so to not get dizzy and lose yourself amidst the turns, usually your eyes keep on a random prop or on something hanging on the wall but instead, you find your eyes unconsciously fixing to something else or actually someone else. 

Your eyes lock on Miguels, again. As you're already in your turns it's too late to fix your gaze on something else so you keep your eyes on his. While you do you see his head slightly tilt and the corner of his full lips twitch upwards. The intense stare instantly makes you flush, and with consistent eye contact, you feel your body heat up with a pleasant rush that you know is being shown through the flushing features on your face. 

Eye contact is something you often struggle with, and now you have the keen eyes of Miguel on you, staring at you as you dance. Your breath stutters for a moment and you feel yourself stumble slightly but you're quick to save it. -Damn you hope nobody notices that. 

Finishing the turns you finally get off the main stage back to the side where you can focus on catching your breath before you can rush back to the dressing room to find your friend and tell her about your little staring contest with the potential patron. As you walk, albeit dizzily from the turns, not fully paying attention to your surroundings; suddenly you bump into what feels like a wall and then the feeling of two large hands catches you from falling backward. 

Letting out a slight squeak from the sudden collision you look up to see what you hit when a soft chuckle makes your throat dry. You move your eyes up and…Danm, Up Close he's even more striking and his figure is even more imposing. Despite him being the most intimidating man imaginable you feel a comfort from him as your being held in his large hands -he’s surprisingly gentle for his size.

“Woah, you okay there?” his voice purs as his eyes stay on yours. You try to think of something to respond with, but you feel like you have suddenly become mute, and then the two theater owners are chiming in. 

“Sir we apologize for her clumsiness, our dancers are usually more graceful.” 

“And pay more attention…” One of the men's grits makes you back away with your head low. With your head down you can see that you have stepped on his shoes creasing them and leaving rosin residue. Immediately you panic, damaging his shoes was sure to leave a sour taste in his mouth and you need to fix this before it's too late!  

Dropping to your knees in front of him you try to wipe away the residue apologizing profusely, “I- I am so so s-sorry sir… Please let me-” 

“Don't apologize” His smooth voice beacons as he holds a hand down to help you up from your knees. 

“But, I damaged your shoes. Please let me clean them.” 

Miguel laughs slightly as he grabs your hand, you can't help but notice how small yours seems in comparison. Back on your feet, you look up at him to see his full lips in a soft smile that makes your heart skip a beat. You think you could melt from just looking at him, you feel like a young girl again getting a silly crush so instantaneously. 

“You're too precious to clean shoes, I'm in shock that someone with your talent would even speak to me.”  

You feel your face become red. The owners are quick to speak up, “Mr. O’Hara you flatter her, she has talent but your importance far excites-”

Before he can finish his sentence Miguel is shooting him a displeased look that quickly makes him bite his tongue before he moves his eyes back to you. His whole face softens towards you, how he can go from so intimidating to gentle in an instant is a skill all on its own. 

“You dance beautifully, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.” He offers.

Feeling your heart flutter in your chest, you avert your gaze as a goofy smile spreads to your lips, though he doesn't seem to mind, only smiling more and tilting his head to try and keep your eyes. 

“Thank you, sir, you're too kind.'' Gathering all your courage you meet his eyes and give a warm smile in appreciation, praises are not something you receive a lot of, your teachers opting for more corrective and stern approaches. So receiving kind words from a stranger makes your heart leap.

Moments pass of Miguel completing your dancing go by. A part of you wishes to continue the conversation but you don’t want to be a bother nor risk facing the wrath of the owners or your teachers, so you say your goodbyes and excuse yourself backstage.

Miguel watches as you leave, he's completely captivated by your sweet shyness and the curves of your figure. He feels warmth spreading across his body as his eyes linger on you. 

“Having given it considerable thought…I would love to help out the theater.” 

The owners light up and start to ramble but Miguel quickly holds up a hand to silence them, “If I am going to be a patron to this theater however I want an invite to every show, and '' His finger points towards you “I want her to have opportunities for excellence. Do I make myself clear?” 

They quickly nod their heads and Miguel nods before he heads off, feeling happy for agreeing to the tour he no longer sees as pointless. 

It’s been three months since Miguel became our theater's patron and things have been great! Despite the rumors about him being a cold callus man, he was proving to be an amazing attribute to the theater. 

After his first tour of the theater, he paid for some much-needed renovations. After that was set up he took the liberty to hired acting and singing instructors to help the performers enhance their skills. Every week Miguel came by to check on how things where running. He would reach out to the crew and orchestra for all their needs, also checking in on the business and advertising sides of things to make sure the theater kept being profitable. Being a successful business owner himself, everyone was eager to listen to his guidance. 

Every time Miguel would visit the theater, towards the end of his visit he would watch the rehearsals for the upcoming shows. Admittedly at first it made you nervous having a man like him watch the rehearsals but Miguel was always silent, watching intensely with a slight tinge of a smile on his full lips. But slowly over time something changed where you started to like it.

It was an exciting experience having him watching the practices, it drove everyone to work harder and take the practices seriously. Plus you would never tell another soul but the feeling of his eyes racking over your body as you performed filled you with a tantalizing rush.

After awhile it seemed like Miguel was always around the theater. It struck some people as odd that an important man like him would waste his time at the theater, but you welcomed it. You began to look forward to catching glimpses of him. Though when he would catch you staring you would shy away. 

Then after a while, maybe because he caught you staring so much, Miguel started to have conversations with you. At first they were only about the performances and asking if everything was going well at the theater, but they slowly dissolved into more personable conversation.

Miguel would often inquire about you, your interest and your past. At first when you would talk you where very private about your up ringing being an orphan with no family. Many people saw that as something to be ashamed of, but slowly as you developed a friendship with Miguel you opened yourself up more and where greeted with only acceptance. Though this could only be him trying to be kind. As you continued to speak with him you found that you had grown closer yes but he still made you nervous.

You where sure this steamed from how he kept his eyes on you, those piercing eyes…

As a performer, you are used to having eyes on you but Miguel's gaze was different, it was intense and alluring. It never fails to make your stomach flutter and your face burn. You would always shy away from his gaze but a part of you was addicted to how he would watch you.

Before you knew it you were slowly falling for the theater's patron, not that anyone could blame you for it. Many of the dancers held a flame for Miguel wanting to be the girl he would favor, but everyone knew that was just a fantasy, a man of his social class was meant to be with someone from the same social circle, not impoverished dancers like you…so you would just have to settle for the friendship you two shared. 

Today was one of the days Miguel decided to visit, everyone was frantic and trying to make practice perfect as Miguel watched. Tomorrow's show of the ballet Raymanda, it had everyone frantic, not only did they want the show to go well but there was the added pressure of the show being requested by Miguel, apparently stating it was one of his favorites. 

It had taken you by surprise when you learned that a man like him would like such a romantic ballet but it only made you fall deeper in your feelings for him. With the knowledge that this was his favorite play fueling your desires, you had practiced extra hard and tried out for the lead role that were lucky enough to have landed.  

Everyone was ecstatic for you to have your first lead role and when word got to Miguel about your success he had sent over a dozen red roses to you with a note congratulating you. The kind gesture wasn’t lost on you so you promised yourself that once you see Miguel again you would thank him properly.

The only problem with your plan however is how meek you would grow when around him. Sure you two had a friendship of sorts but it didn’t mean you where not still shy when around him.

When you had explained to your friend about your feelings for him and she was always more than encouraging, but you knew that you and Miguel's relationship was only meant for friendship. Even so, Cristina said that even as just friends you need to not behave so meekly in his presence, he could perceive it as rude and stop conversing with you. A thought that you hated to consider.  

So, as today’s rehearsals wrap up, you muster all your courage as you watch Miguel approach you. -okay, this is your opportunity to thank him for his consistent support and his lovely flowers and notes. Deep breath and don’t behave like a flustered schoolgirl. 

“You're going to make a perfect Raymonda.” 

“Really? Thank you, I hope I live up to everyone’s expectations.” Miguel smiles at you, watching as you fidget with your fingers swaying slightly on your anxious feet.

Taking a deep breath you move your eyes up to his, conviction fills your eyes as you're determined to look into his. Meeting the deep mahogany of his eyes you feel your breath hitch. They are so piercing…striking…beautiful, he’s beautiful… Uhhg come on, just get a grip!

“I wanted to thank you for the roses and the lovely letter you left me, your constant support means a great deal to me.” 

“No need to thank me.” he leans in to whisper to you “You're my favorite performer, and I am so excited for tomorrow's performance. I hope you are not nervous” 

A giddy smile forms over your lips as you go to look down but you stop yourself and meet his eyes again fixing your smile to a softer one, “I am slightly nervous but I feel better knowing that you're going to be watching me. I hope to continue to be your favorite…” 

Miguel seems surprised by your words, then he is the one breaking away from your eyes. As you watch him he raises his large hand to cover the growing grin on his full lips. Blush seems to creep up from his neck to his face, he seems embarrassed like you usually are.  

“Well, I will be there to watch you mi estrella.”  Miguel regaining his composure steps closer leaning down so his warm breath fans over the shell of your ear making a wave of goosebumps rush your skin, “And you will always be my favorite…” With that, Miguel leaves with your heart.  

You were on cloud nine after tonight's performance. People, some you knew, others you didn't, were all eager to hold and shake your hand, with praises and congratulations on your performance. Though you appreciated all the kind words you couldn't help but be quick to get away from the crowd.

There was one person you were excited to see all shyness aside. Getting to talk to Miguel again after yesterday's conversation was all you could think about once the ballet ended. 

As you walked around looking for Miguel you found yourself in the secluded area of the theater. You tried your best to ignore the giggling and hums of the lovers hiding away in the shadows, stealing kisses and intimate touches in the night. This was a common occurrence after shows of people hiding away with their lovers in the back of the theater.

Shameful to admit but you have had the fantasy of you and Miguel being a set of lovers one day, sharing your secret desires as you hold each other closely, but that would only be a fond daydream for you to hold in your heart. In reality you know that it could never happen. Continuing your search, hear a sudden groan along with a muffled muttering. Approaching the noise you turn the corner and your heart drops.

Miguel pressed to the wall with a girl on her toes kissing him passionately. Confusion fills you, then the feeling of your heart aching causes you to let out a gasp. Miguel pushes the girl away for air and you are quick to run. Your heart hurts from what you saw, you cannot bear to see Miguel's eyes after that, if you did you would shatter. 

In your dressing room, you're stirring with all kinds of emotions. Why was she kissing him, why was he kissing her? Are they lovers? Yes, Miguel is gorgeous and quite desirable, but you haven't heard anything about him pursuing anyone. Was this a secret affair?

The sudden thought of Miguel being with that woman makes your stomach twist. Her touching him…his lips sliding up her neck…his eyes, his intense eyes staring at her while she…while they…

The sickly feeling in your stomach blooms along with that aching feeling in you heart, you wince from the pain.

Sitting in front of your vanity you hang your head low, thrush is, you're jealous. You want to be that girl, who steals kisses with Miguel in the dark. The one that gets to feel the rush of excitement as his hands gather up the skirt of your dress to touch you. The ones who his eyes soften for as he coos his sultry praises and his saccharine promises. 

Taking a deep breath you try to ease the aching in your chest; you're not her, you're just the nameless fool pining for a man you can never have. Feeling like an idiot you kick yourself for getting your hopes up. Convincing yourself he was interested in you, how foolish. He is in the arms of another and you only have yourself to blame, you never told him your feelings. Not that it would change things.

Sulking in your dressing room you fail to realize the door silently opening as a tall figure slips in. Locking the door with a soft click, he losessens his tie as he approaches you. Fidgeting with your fingers feeling sorry for yourself, you get a strange twinge stir within you, like someone is watching you. 

Lifting your head you're suddenly met with only darkness as a silky fabric is binded around your eyes turning everything black. The squeak that leaves your lips is involuntary and embarrassing. All your previous emotions fall away as uncertainty fill your chest. Quickly a familiar warmth fans over your ear causing your skin to prickle.

“Did I scare you, my star?” Miguel's voice is in that familiar pur you have fantasized endlessly about. 

“Miguel, why did you blind me?” 

He releases a hum, like he’s carefully considering your question, in truth, he’s just trying to keep you in suspense. 

“Because, I am not worthy to be gazed upon by someone as radiant as you” Instantly you feel your body quake at the praise, but before you can allow yourself to get carried away with your emotions you reground yourself bite and let out a shaky sigh. 

“Please don't tease me, Miguel…” 

Noting your unease Miguel hesitates from touching you further.

“What's wrong? Did I upset you?” Feeling his hands move to the knot of the blind you quickly to stand, stopping him from removing it.

“Wait, I need to say something to you and I think I can only get it out if I can't see you. Miguel, I saw you…with that other woman, kissing you. I know you're not mine…but, I-I yearn for you. Miguel you mean a lot to me, I would trade anything to be with you…even just to have a chance to kiss you, even for one night. I know that my name means nothing compared to yours but…” 

Before you can finish your statement lips are silencing you, melting you into a perfect kiss. Hands, large and warm, come up to cup your face as he leads the kiss. Miguel then breaks away and you almost whine at the loss. Though the whine is only for a moment as you then feel his lips kissing up your neck. 

“Don’t talk down about yourself mi estrella, you're perfect.”  

Opening your mouth to respond, Miguel takes the opportunity to silence you with a kiss once more. His hands glide down your waist before finding place on your hips. Leaning in you press yourself on him, relishing in his strong figure and insatiable warmth.

You want more, you want to feel him closely, deeply, you need him. Rising onto your toes you wrap your hands around his neck sliding up till you're grasping onto his thick locks of soft hair. 

A low-grown vibrates through his chest, feeling you becoming so desperate for him drives him mad. Miguel reaches his hand up as the other presses your hips against his almost grinding you onto him. The other hand is now on your jaw as he slips his tongue between your lips to steal a taste of you. The taste of him numbs your mind of all thoughts, the only thing you feel is need.

Your sex aches as you feel your slick starting to run down your thighs. He’s making you wet and needy for him, and you’re loving ever second.

The kiss makes you light-headed and you have to surrender and push away to catch your breath. Your face feels a deep shade of crimson as you try and catch your breath. Miguel you know is watching you, even with your vision obscuring the feeling of his eyes piercing you are ever-present. 

“Do you even know how long I’ve been wanting to do that?” he pressed you closer to him, your hands finding a place on his thrumming chest as his confined cock grids against your thigh. Making you throw your head back where his lips lick and nip at your exposed neck.

“Do you know what you do to me? How crazy you drive me?” he ruts into your leg more “How much I need you…” 

“What about that woman I saw?” 

Miguel's arms wrap around you pulling you further into his warmth. You could get as addicted to this feeling, blind and needy, getting high from his lips, his touch, his scent, his voice. You want to give yourself to him in every way. 

“That woman means nothing to me. She kissed me suddenly after cornering me as I looked for you. You're the only one for me.” He puts his head in the crock of your neck kissing against your pulse. “You're all I want….

“Miguel, I want you…I need you, I don’t care if it's only for one night…please…take me.” 

Moving his head away from your neck, he slides his hands down your back where he pulls the strings of your dress loose, you to shiver in anticipation. 

“If you want me then you will have me. But it won’t be for one night only. Once I have you I will want you every night” 

Finishing with the laces of your dress it effortlessly slides down your body polling on the floor leaving you in only your corset and lace slip. 

“So, I would be your’s?” 

Miguel chuckles as he effortlessly lifts you causing you wrap yourself around him, holding on tightly. Walking a short distance you feel yourself being laid down on what you assume to be the chaise in the dressing room.

Goosebumps rush your skin as Miguel carefully traces his finger tips down your covered breast, over your covered body, to your thin skirt. Once he reaches it he starts to gather the soft lace slowly moving the slit that exposes your leg to expose your dripping sex. 

“You can’t own a star, you can only admire it and wish it will grace you with its radiance.” 

He kisses you once more as his hand finish exposing you. You're completely bare and wet, you feel Miguel move his head back to look at your quivering wet sex.

Embarrassed, you try to close your legs but Miguel stops you and gently pushes your knees apart. 

“Let me worship you, let me take care of you…” 

His words are sweet and make your yearning worse. You move your hand to brush against your sex that flutters with desire.

“Yes…” is all you can muster in the moment and you try to soothe your hazy affliction. 

“Let me watch you…touch yourself for me,” he whispers in a honeyed voice.

Shyly you nod as you spread your legs further, exposing yourself right in front of his hungry eyes. 

Swallowing you try to sooth your dry throat as your fingers tease through your folds before spreading them open for Miguel. Keeping your hand spreading yourself open, your other comes down to rub tight circles over your clit. Turning away your flushed face, you now move your hand to where your thumb rubs your swollen bud and your index prodes at your glistening slit. 

“That's a good girl, so beautiful…keep going for me” 

His words make your mind hazy and your face burns, you hear Miguel fiddling with his clothes letting out soft groans as he whispers filth underneath his breath. He’s touching himself, you can hear his hand rubbing against his heavy length. The sounds of his moaning hums only drive you to want to give him a proper show.

Tracing your slit you tease yourself more before you slip your index and middle finger through your tight walls. The stretch is one you're familiar with but you ache for it to be Miguel's fingers instead. You know that with his large hands he would reach impossibly deep within you. The thought stirs you on more pushing in further into your soft walls getting wetter at the sensation of you fucking yourself for him. 

Miguel's shaky breaths push you further to your peak as you chase that tightening coil within your stomach. Your body shakes with your fevered actions.

Then he sounds as if he’s getting closer to you, his steps echoing through the room. You're begging out mumbling his name in a constant rhythm as you push yourself further and further. Though it's not enough, you need his touch, to feel his burning skin on yours, it’s the only way you're going to reach your satisfaction. 

“Miguel~” you moan, trying to entice him to touch you as you buckle your hips helplessly forward. 

He hums, he's so close to you now, and then his hand suddenly comes down to crease your face. It takes everything in you not to cry out a moan.

“That's it, baby, just like that” Then as quickly as it was there it leaves again leaving you to whine and continue your pursuit to cum. 

Pop

The sudden popping of a champagne bottle causes you to jump, making you stop and turn your head towards the noise. 

The warm heat of his body is radiating next to you again, you reach your hands up blindly searching for him. He grabs your slick-covered hand and brings it to his lips, careful kisses are peppered on your open palm then his slick tongue licks against your delicate fingers. He moans as he tastes your sweet essence, getting drunk off of you. 

Finishing cleaning your fingers he places your hand on his chest. His skin is hot and you feel his heartbeat running rampant through his wide chest. Your body shakes as you slowly run your hands down his body your breath getting labored. 

“Aw, you're shaking. You were feeling good weren't you?” he leans in closer, moving your hand down his abdomen, where you feel his perfect muscles. You trace down every crevice. Your mind is running rampant. You have never touched a man's bare chest before and now your hands are here tracing over Miguel's god-like form. Biting your lip you greedly go lower feeling the v on his narrow hips. 

“I could make you feel even better…” he purrs.

Its then that your hand is met with not the hem of his pants like you thought you would feel, but instead a line of hair. Following the trail, you feel till the hair gets thicker and Miguel's breath gets more ragged. Gasping you know you should stop but you can’t help yourself. As you go lower Miguel drinks from the champagne bottle, relishing in your blind roaming. 

Passing over the trimmed coarse hair you feel his heavy member, thick and throbbing. It feels like it goes down forever as you trace over the vein that runs down the shaft. Miguel hums as you touch him. Soft eyes intently watching as your hand reaches the end. Grasping onto his tip you swipe your thumb over his slit where pearlescent pre cum dribbles out. His hips instinctively buckle forward at your curious touches. 

“Help me Miguel~” you hate your whining but the desperation to be touched by him. 

“Anything for you” 

Then in an instant, you feel his hands roughly on you as they rip your corset and lace slip from your body. Miguel settles himself between your shivering thighs as he quickly throws away the white lace and ruined corset. Your body being bare before him now makes you moan as his hand roams over your soft flesh.

His hand traces lower and lower to your quivering sex, you think you're on fire, brain completely melted into a lust-filled fog as he mumbles things under his breath you can’t understand. 

As you arch and mumble a plea, his large fingers are slipping through your puffy folds finding your swollen clit and rubbing it slowly before flicking it with his index and middle fingers causing you to throw your head back at the delicious pressure.

As he teases your aching sex with one hand his other hand is holding what you assume to be a champagne bottle, you listen as it swishes along with his movements. Then you hear the liquid bob and suddenly his index finger prodes at your entrance making you gasp at the slow stretch.

With your mouth hanging open you feel Miguel's nose on yours then his lips are grazing your lips. Then the sparking taste of champagne is being released from his mouth into yours. You relish in the taste of the champagne as it’s laced with him. 

He repeats the action a bit sloppily the second time, the liquid drips from the corners of your mouth down your neck. 

“More?” he questions and you smile with an instant nod. Satisfied with your approval, he inserts another finger stretching you out wider as he explores your gummy insides, scissoring and curling as he explores you. 

As your head spins a white-hot rush washes over you, sending you reeling in pleasure as your cunt clenches down on Miguel's expert fingers. You're brought back down from the feeling of chilled liquid being poured over your hot body. The liquid slides down your perked breast and then rushes down your squirming body. His tongue is then tracing over the liquid as he sucks and laps at your sensitive skin. 

Wet shlicking sounds of his fingers chasing your orgasm fills the room along with his hums followed by your moans. Your breathless moaning makes you sound like a whore, but it only drives Miguel's desire further as he ruts his aching cock against the cushions of the furniture. He's needy, rubbing his cock while his plush lips latch and suck on your champagne-laced nipples. Twiling and biting the nub between his teeth before moving to the other mound. 

Losing yourself you grind your hips down harder against his hand as he continues to drink the sparkling champagne from your skin.

Finished he tosses aside the bottle, as he slowly moves his tongue lower and lower, seeking every drop on your body till he reaches your hips leaving kisses against them. 

“Spread your legs for me, that’s it my star…wider.” 

As you spread for him his fingers reach that spot within you that has your toes curling, then his lips attach to your swollen clit as his tongue feast upon you. Increasing his rhythm, your panting as your second climax rushes over you making you cry out in blind pleasure. 

Miguel smiles against your cunt as you ride your high on him. Feeling you impossibly wet as your cum rushes out of you, he quickly pulls out his fingers replacing them with his needy tongue as it curls into your hole devouring everything you have to give him. He moves your legs to drape over his shoulders as he keeps eating you out, you're lost in riding your high on him again. His large hands press down on you keeping your squirming body in place as he lifts your lower body as his tongue ravages your insides. 

Hands go from your hips to squeeze your lifted ass as he massages your flesh in his large hands. Once he's done feasting on you he lowers you down. He grinds his strained cock between your folds and you're a muttering mess of want and hiccups.

It's all so much but you can’t help but want more. Then his hand comes over and pulls away your blindfold.

At first, the light is blinding then your vision focuses on Miguel's handsome flushed face, his mouth and chin are shiny from your slick. His eyes are half-lidded as he pants at you. Reaching up you push his loose strains away from his face and he smiles tenderly down at you. 

“I want you to keep those pretty eyes on me, can you do that for me?”  you hum a yes and he leans down and places a kiss on your lips before taking his heavy cock and tapping it on your wet cunt. 

The feeling makes you jump but you keep your eyes on him as he pumps his slick-covered cock as he lines it up to your clenching cunt, begging to be filled by him. Bringing his tip to your entrance he starts to push into your tight slit with a low hiss. The stretch from his girth is at first painful but it then morphs into a skin-tingling ecstasy. You have to fight to keep your eyes open as he pushes in his length inch by inch.

The intrusion makes you moan and dig your nails into his tough skin as he rolls and pushes into you. You're clenching down on him and he's quick to bring his hand to your clit to relax you. Once you're relaxed he pushes in harder till his hips are flushed with yours. 

“That's it mi estrella, it feels good being filled doesn't it?” he quickly moves his hips slightly in and out making you mew out a cry shutting your eyes and his tip rubs your cervix as his balls give a quick slap to your ass. 

Tapping your face you open your eyes back up to see him looking at you with lust-blown eyes. “So sensitive baby, don't worry baby, you're in good hands.” 

Keeping your eyes fixed on him he smiles down at you as he starts to pull out to the tip then slamming back into you filling you up suddenly making your whole body quake. You're clamping down hard on him as he fucks you, his balls slapping your ass every time he slams back into you. He could rip you open if he wanted to, this is him being gentle and you're already hiccuping and bouncing with every thrust of his cock. 

Miguel smiles as he watches your hazy eyes keep on him as your face contours into a silent scream. The pleasure is unlike anything you have felt and you're sure nobody else could ever give you a high like this. Your chest heaves as you try to keep your breath but it's ripped from you with every deep thrust slamming your cervix leaving hot rushes to quake through your body. 

“You are so perfect, so perfect for me.” His eyes are intense and lovesick as he chases his high, he knows you're close and he's making it his mission to have you cum on him again. 

“M-mig” you stutter as his thrust gets deeper and harder as he rolls his hips into you with the perfect pace. His breath beats over your face as he keeps going furrowing his brows and he feels you clamping and getting wetter. He places his hand on your stomach and slightly pushes down making you scream. 

“I know, I know, I got you. Cum on me baby…I'm here with you I got you.” he coos at you and the coil in your stomach is completely ripped apart and you feel your brain break as you whine and clamp down hard on him. He pushes on your stomach harder and your messily cumming on him. The pleasure is unlike anything you have ever felt from your fingers and he's still going. Feeling yourself starting to burn up and your brain fogging you can’t help the tears that flow down from your eyes from the intense rapture you feel in this moment. 

Gritting his teeth, his cock is ruined from your sweet release squirting all over him, and he loves it. Your pussy is overstimulated and gripping him hard as he pounds into you in a fever. Muttering how good you feel on him he throbs as your body starts to shake again. 

Throwing your head back you feel his hot cock burning your insides as it throbs, he quickly pulls his cock out and hot spurts of thick white ropes coat your stomach as a low moan of your name leaves his lips. 

Taking a deep breath you lay there covered in sweat completely spent. Miguel gathers his bearings as he gets up from the couch to find his discarded coat fetching his handkerchief. Getting on his knees he carefully cleans his mess from your tired body. A string of apologies slips his lips as he takes care of you.

Once you're clean he places kisses on your face “Are you okay? Was it too much for your first time?” 

Your glassy eyes shift lazily to him as you give a quiet, “I’m okay, it felt amazing.” 

Miguel smiles and places a kiss on your lips. “My poor star, tired from all of the night's performances. Let's get you home to rest, hm?” 

“Oh,” you say sadly as you watch Miguel dress; he looks over at you confused and concerned that you seem upset. 

“What?”

“Well, I- I was hoping to spend more time with you…I can’t bring boys into the ballet dorms where I stay.”

Miguel's eyes soften as he chuckles slightly, finished getting dressed he grabs your long robe from its hanger and brings it to you. He reaches out for your hand and gently dresses you. 

“You're coming home with me, I told you if you want me, it won't be for one night only. I'm going to take care of you as long as you will have me” 

Finishing tying your robe tightly he smiles gently down at you, “Now let's go home.”

[yeahyeahchloe]

It Wasnt in my Head (2)

(a/n: ok chapter 2 time. ty for the love on chapter 1!! fyi.. reader is definitely based off me, so if you don't like her pls be nice about it! pls tell me if u see any typos. ♡︎)

Summary: Abby is the starting linebacker at UW and when her team starts to falter her coach decides to get the team into ballet, in order to teach them that grace and stability is important in football too. Abby is just as upset about her teammates about this, until she sees her pretty new ballet teacher...

dancer!reader x football!abby

!!ABBY IS STRAIGHT IN THE BEGINNING. READER IS HER GAY AWAKENING!!

I always knew I was meant to dance.

Ever since I first walked into a dance studio I knew it was just where I was supposed to be. My "calling" or whatever.

I walked into the familiar building with the familiar smell of rosin and wood flooding through my nostrils. I set down my ballet bag and began stretching, still in my sweatshirt and sweatpants.

It had been a week since Coach Vonn asked me to help with his teams little "issue" and the first day was finally here.

Its safe to say I'm absolutely fucking terrified.

I mean I know most girls hate the idea of being locked in a small studio with large groups of men, but as a lesbian?? Way way fucking worse.

As I was stretching I heard the door shut a good few times signaling that said men were coming in, but I chose to ignore it for the five minutes before the class actually started since I was sweating like a pig. Unfortunately that five minutes seemed to pass in seconds and it was time for me to get started.

I finally walked over to stand in front of a large group of men all staring at me. Waiting.

"Alright, I guess it's time to get started," I announced, pulling the quiet conversations in the room to a halt. "Ok we can just-"

The door slammed open interrupting me with a bang, I turned to yell at the person interrupting my class when I felt my breathing stop.

The person who opened the door stood now inside the studio, out of breath from rushing in. She was tall, taller than some of the other men on the team, with the most stunning honey blonde hair rolling down her back in a simple braid. She had a broad nose, yet softer eyes.

And to top it all off she was fucking MASSIVE.

And she was so fucking pretty.

"I'm so so sorry I'm late there was a train and then I couldn't find parking," The woman said in a voice as soft as silk.

I snapped out of my daze to answer the blonde in front of me,

"Oh, you're fine! We were just getting started," I told her, struggling to find my words.

She stalled for a minute looking in my direction for a little longer, but eventually looked away and nodded her head up at a few of her teammates in greeting.

"Uhmmm, ok! As I was saying, we can just get started with an introduction. My name Y/n L/n and I'm a junior here at WU. I was asked by Coach Vonn to teach you guys some ballet basics, in hopes of improving your muscle control, stamina, balance and, like, a ton of other things, um, we can just get started off with some stretching, which I know you all already know how to do that," I began, hoping to sound as put together and professional as possible.

Everyone began to stretch as I watched and observed them all.

Well, watched and observed the blonde who burst in earlier.

She had taken off her sweatshirt, so her deliciously large arms were now on full display, flexing with every movement. And her hands, god her hands, they were large too. The tendons that sat atop, her hands moved just as much as the muscles on her arms did.

I finally decided to tear my eyes away after realizing that I was staring for a creepily long amount of time.

"Ok, everyone lets start by learning our positions," I announced to the room.

The rest of the lesson went as they always do, and at the end I got a few thank yous, and everyone left.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

My front door made the same usual clanking noise as it unlocked, before I threw it opened and walked in, taking off my shoes at the door.

"Hey bitch!" A voice hollered from the kitchen.

Heyyy D!" I called back walking into the room.

Dina was seriously my favorite person. I had met her last year when I saw an ad on craigslist that said she was looking for a roommate. Hindsight says that using a craigslist ad to find a roommate was probably not a very good idea, but it worked out in the end.

"Were going to a motherfuckin party tonight!" She exclaimed, eating her microwave nachos.

"Aw, D, come on you know I hate parties," I reminded her as I grabbed my own plate and the bag of tortilla chips to start a dinner of my own.

"Y/nnnn I really really wanna get out and do something! I've been doing classes and sitting at home all. day." She groaned.

Her and Jesse must have gotten into another fight.

"Uhhhhmmmmmmnnuuugghhh yesokfine," I answered Dina, as she gave me her best puppy dog eyes. "I guess I deserve a night off too,"

"Hell yeah you do! Ok eat quick because we leave at 10,"

I glanced to the bright red numbers on the oven that read 8:45 and ate my now ready nachos slightly quicker.

I walked into my room and to my dresser and decided on a super basic party outfit: a mini dress.

My hair looked fine down, so I left it as I touched up my makeup from the day.

"Oh by the way, Ellie is coming and she says her friend is gonna meet us there," Dina told me after bursting into my room unannounced.

I smiled at that. I loved Ellie. She was a lot like me in many ways, and she was the one who helped me realize I was into girls.

She was also Dina's best friend so I kind of had to like her.

Around thirty minutes later Dina and I heard honking outside n signaling to us that Ellie had arrived to get us.

We both locked up, walked down the many stairs of our apartment complex, and piled into Ellie's car.

"Hey Els!" I said, sliding into the backseat.

"Hey sweet thing, how've you been?" She asked, eyeing me in her rearview mirror.

"Oh y'know, busy. Get this, I have to teach the football team how to do ballet, per their coaches request. Can you believe that shit? Its like watching a bunch of babies take their first steps," I answered her with my regular joking tone.

She snorted before following it with: "Jesus, looks like you need tonight more than Dina does,"

"Tell me about it,"

We pulled up to the house after another 5 minutes or so full of conversation.

And of fucking course.

Greek letters were proudly hung on the front of said house.\

"Dina, really? I didn't know this was a fucking frat," I told my friend, annoyance lacing my voice.

"Well I knew if I told you, you wouldn't have come," She turned around and looked at me while Ellie parked.

"Ok yeah I guess that's fair," I grumbled from the backseat.

I hate frats. Too many annoying misogynists who think they have a chance.

We got out of the car and approached the entrance where loud music was heard from a few feet away.

Here we fucking go.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

[flootzavut]

My good people, before you suggest in your fic that rosin could, would, or should be used as lube, I *beg* of you, find a bowed string instrument player or a ballet dancer and ask them about rosin, and maybe get them to let you look at and even touch the stuff, and ask them what it does and why they use it.

Hint: it is not used as lubrication, it does not make things slide smoothly, it is not slippery, it is literally the opposite of all those things. It's used to make a violin bow catch on the strings and make them vibrate. It's used to make the toes of pointe shoes grip so that the dancer does not slide about on shiny satin.

I struggle to imagine any scenario in which it would lubricate a damn thing, because that isn't its purpose, and the idea of getting it on any mucus membranes, let alone doing so deliberately and to facilitate sex, makes me cringe to my bones.

If there's a different kind of rosin out there that I'm not aware of, feel free to educate me, I'm all ears. But if you mean the stuff I keep in my violin or viola case, then for the love of all that's good, do not make your poor characters use it as lube, and do not ever use it so yourself, it will not be pretty.

Aside: it's also not something, as far as I have been able to figure out, that a lutenist uses. (Yes, this side note is for the Witcher fandom.) I've looked, because I saw it mentioned so many times in reference to Jaskier, and I can't find out where this came from beyond someone maybe assuming that lutes are string instruments and ergo also require rosin. Again, I'm open to being educated on this one, because while I do play some plucked string instruments, it isn't my forte and I don't know enough to be sure. (My best guess was to make one's fingertips grippier, but I can't find any evidence that that's the case. Also it wouldn't be used, in my experience, in instrument maintenance. Getting rosin on one's violin is an occupational hazard, but it's something you clean off a violin, not something you use to clean it. See above re: rosin is fucking sticky.)

Like I say, open to be educated, but basically, just because bowed string players need rosin, please don't assume that means that players of other string instruments use it. I have played, to a greater or lesser extent, the guitar, the mandolin, the harp and the ukulele, and not a single one of them has ever needed rosin.

... look I know that very few people are likely to see this and even fewer to read or care, but basically, to you few, this is just a plea to stop giving your poor characters a sticky, messy, not at all lubricating substance to use as lube, I'm begging you.

(Addendum: yes, there is such a thing as liquid rosin; no, it would still not make good lube. You don't use superglue as lube just because it comes in liquid form, right? Right. So don't do it with rosin, either.)

TL;DR: rosin is not good lube and even if you insist on using it in fiction, I'm begging you to never use it that way in real life, your mucus membranes will thank me for this knowledge 👍🏼

[milucas]

ballet dancer damien hcs

@cottagecorexboy pspspspssppspsps

i imagine he started doing sports and athletic stuff when he was little as his mom wanted him to have more unempowered friends his age

eventually he found out that dance was an option and he was hooked

maybe he started off dancing with like tap or jazz or something and he liked it but ballet was just,,,,

he thought it was so cool

i think he just goes for hobbies that are typically more sophisticated and i also think he has a bit of a background in gymnastics too (@1small-frogs i see u) so he likes the flexibility also

so that's how we get little 8-9 year old damien, tiny and grumpy, going shopping for tights and ballet shoes with his mom

over the years as he becomes more aware of everything around him and starts to feel more and more bitter about the empowered government, he starts to use dancing as a sort of coping mechanism

he likes having a hobby that he can always fall back on when he's feeling down

he gets super into all the technical parts of ballet bc he's such a perfectionist, so he can spend hours on end improving and perfecting any tiny piece of his performance, whether it be his turnout or alignment, or something like a spin or arabesque

if freelancer is a dancer, they dance together all the time. it doesn't matter if they do different styles, they will dance together.

see this post and this post for reference :)

if freelancer is not a dancer, they still love watching damien practice and perform bc he's just so beautiful and mesmerizing???

also damien in tights bless my tiny homosexual heart

i've heard it's rare for male ballet dancers to go up on pointe but i think damien decides to do it anyways bc he always wants to get better and learn more

i imagine he dances semi professionally

like most of the productions he does are like community shows that are unpaid

but he's had the occasional paid job during the summer

as he gets more acquainted with the world of professional dance he also starts to get more into other, non athletic factors like makeup and pointe shoe customizing

i personally believe that damien is a makeup prodigy 100%

like he asked freelancer to teach him how to do eyeliner or smthn and he just did it perfectly first try

probably watched one singular makeup tutorial and now he's a master at it

and pointe shoe customizing

mans is an absolute control freak we all know this and his pointe shoes are no different

he pulls out all the fuckin stops for his shoes

like he has drawers and drawers of seemingly random shit like sewing needles, rosin, jet glue, toe pads, tiger balm

just so much shit

and everyone who sees it is like "wtf is that" while damien just sits there and tells them its for ballet but they probably dont believe him until they see his massive pointe shoe collection

also he learned how to sew just so he could sew his pointe shoes but now he's like. actually really good at sewing

n e wayz that's all and im also not a dancer and definitely not a ballet dancer so if anything here is wrong feel free to tell me <3

[jelzorz]

67.

Claudia is first chair.

She's not trying to brag or anything—someone has to be first chair violinist, and she's been playing music for long enough now that she's the most logical option. It's not like she didn't earn it, either—she auditioned for that spot, and she was given it based on her merit as a musician. It makes sense that most solos go to her. She's easily one of the most experienced musicians in the Katolis Symphonic, and, hell, she can sightread better than a lot of people can even play—but even she can see the unfairness of it sometimes.

She likes to pretend that bureaucracy has nothing to do with it.

(She knows in her heart that her father has certain expectations that even Opeli has to stoop to meet. She can only conduct an orchestra if it's being funded, and refusing Viren's requests would be very foolish indeed).

In any case, the KSO's partnership with the Silvergrove Ballet Company isn't new at all, but the arrangement Opeli hands out for their upcoming performance of Coppelia is.

"There's been a few changes," Opeli says crisply—not least because they've had their sheet music for a couple of months now, and they've been rehearsing for this arrangement the whole time, not some new one that's only just come about because of—

Claudia doesn't want to say. She looks at the solo she's been given for the No. 1 Valse (which has never been a solo) and knows at once what's happened, but she keeps her lips pressed together and chooses to think about something else. It's not a particularly difficult piece, and anyone could play it, really—the stares of the other violins feel prickly against her back—but she shakes them off and sits her violin under her chin.

Opeli counts them in. Rehearsal goes on.

It's not until Claudia comes by the theatre one evening that she realizes the solo really shouldn't be for her.

It's late. She'd come by because she thinks she'd left her rosin on her music stand, but the lights are all on onstage, and the SBC's principal dancer—Rayla, she thinks?���is adjusting the ribbon of her pointe shoes. And, sitting in the pit, with a copy of the solo is—

"Thanks again for coming out, Callum." Rayla grins at him and does a couple of quick little jumps to warm up. "You really didn't have to—"

"I know I didn't," chuckles Callum. "Don't even stress. It's my pleasure. You ready?"

Rayla nods. She crosses the stage to her starting position, breathes in deep, and then Callum counts them in.

The sound that rings through the theatre is so clean that Claudia almost forgets how to breathe. Every note is sweet, every ornament is deliberate, and halfway through the piece, she realizes that Callum isn't even looking at his music—he's watching Rayla, instead, and adjusting for her as she goes. There's something soft on his face, a sort light in his eyes that Claudia's never seen before, and Rayla's danced her solo for them before, at one of their joint rehearsals, but when it's just Callum playing for her, it's something else altogether.

Claudia leaves the theatre because she doesn't want to disturb them, having forgotten why she'd come by in the first place, but the next day, when the orchestra comes together once more for their next rehearsal, Claudia strides straight up to Callum and hands him the solo.

"Um?"

"I think it should be yours," Claudia says decisively.

"But Opeli gave you—"

Claudia chuckles. "She can't make me play it if I don't want it. Might be nice for someone else to do it for once, don't you think?" She gives him a look, lips tilting upwards in a knowing kind of smile, and nods at Rayla as she warms up on stage. "I think you should give it a go."

Callum follows her gaze. He flushes.

"I saw you both rehearsing last night," Claudia tells him quietly. "I can't play this. Not the way you did. The solo's yours."

Callum frowns at her. "But then—what about your dad—?"

Claudia winces because the thing with her dad's never been a secret but it's never sounded so bad. Her lips twitch. "I'll deal with him," she says.

And she does—because it's about time someone did.

[swanlake1998]

Article: Men en pointe: ballet dancers kick against gender stereotypes

Date: March 10, 2021

By: Matilda Martin

Performing on the tips of the toes is part of the mystique of a female ballerina but male dancers devoted to the pointe technique want to be taken more seriously

“I was always attracted to pointe shoes. They were like magic! I wondered: Why can only girls use them?” Iván Félix is a 24-year-old ballet dancer from Mexico who has been dancing en pointe for three years. “I think that many people look down on the men who dance in pointe shoes because they think it is very easy, or we do it because we cannot dance as a man in a traditional way,” adds Félix who dances for Les Ballets Eloelle in New York, a company in which all the roles – often comic – are played by men.

Since the art of pointe work was popularised in 1823 by Amalia Brugnoli, the form has become part of the mystique of the female ballerina, while men use floorwork and execute incredible jumps and athletic movements. When male dancers have performed en pointe in the past, it has traditionally been for comedic effect, not to showcase skill. For example, men who portray Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream have to pair a giant donkey’s head with hoof-like movements in pointe shoes. Now, male ballet dancers en pointe want to be taken more seriously.

Kadeem Hosein, 25, says: “I studied ballet for about three years before I started en pointe. I was aware that it would help to strengthen my feet. Second, and more importantly, I enjoyed watching pointe work so figured why not?” He now lives in London and although he’s not a professional ballet dancer, still trains en pointe. “I think it would be interesting to see performances where roles are allowed to be performed by either male or female,” he adds, “not by force, but by the dancers’ own choice.”

Rosine Bena-Porter, a ballet teacher from Nevada, has been teaching the art form for 50 years. She tells me that her mother, who she taught with, was always an innovative instructor and began teaching men pointe work because she “was sick of trying to correct the male dancers in partner work”. She hoped that if men could understand the movements behind pointe work, they would make better partners. But “both of us realised that the men got so much out of it [although] they did complain more about the pain”. Pointe shoes can be extremely taxing on your feet. Having danced en pointe myself, I know the agony that dancers mask on stage to make their movements appear effortless. Today, Bena-Porter requires all her dancers to learn pointe work regardless of gender. However, she only requires her male students to study the form for one year. After this, they can continue, or return to training without pointe work.

Cost is a barrier, because pointe shoes wear out quickly. Dancers can go through two pairs in a performance, which adds up as they are priced from around £50 to over £100. Brian Syms, a dancer in the US, adds: “Sizing has been a problem for me. I’ve begun to understand that the way a male en pointe must care for his feet differs slightly from a woman. My weight seems to always be a factor in regard to pain, and my shoes die very quickly due to a mixture of weight and sweat. Unfortunately, there’s no self-help book for men en pointe, so I had to piece together what the girls know and figure out how it applies to my size 12 feet.”

Syms continues: “As a gay black man, it started to become important to me that I be represented in ballet. I started to have another longing, this time for ballet’s stories, which I’ve come to love so much, to reflect the world that we currently live in. This beautiful colourful world full of complex individuals. I wanted to see that on stage, and the place to start was with me. I knew for some time that I felt better represented as a person and artist when I danced these female roles in the privacy of empty studios and my bedroom.”

Has he ever faced discrimination for being en pointe? “There’s your fair share of people who are going to turn their noses up at you – either because they don’t like the idea of playing with gender or because they just don’t think you’re strong enough to dance en pointe. But people’s opinions are just that, and although sometimes they can create an uncomfortable environment around us, we should not allow them to affect our performance.”

In Oakland, California, the dance company Ballet22 was founded last year to “push the boundaries of what is possible in ballet by breaking gender normative stereotypes, specifically through the ungendered use of pointe shoes”. When I asked the Royal Ballet if they were considering training men en pointe, a spokesperson replied that: “Most of the repertory does not require the male dancers to be en pointe.” They explained that “there are some roles that do require it” and “when that ballet is revived the dancers are coached in pointe work for the role”.

It may be a while yet before the option becomes commonplace, but we’re certainly moving in the right direction. Speaking about the future, Syms tells me: “I hope that the movement of men en pointe forces us to take a look at representation … The world is so much more than gender roles these days, individuals are so colourful and diverse – it’s a shame not to see it in ballet.”

[champagneprobllems]

Clara and Sarah’s apartment is a two bed, two bath on the sixth floor. The larger of the two bathrooms has a full-sized bathtub, and the kitchenette has just enough space for all the necessary appliances. Instead of a full outdoor balcony, there is an enclosed sunroom-like space, with a thin strip of balcony outside a sliding glass door. The floor and framing of the sunspace is lined with cold iron, courtesy of Sarah.

Even though Clara(‘s family) pays for the majority of the apartment, Sarah has the bigger of the two bedrooms. There are no fewer than three dress forms in her room at all times, with two or more spilling into the living space, and half of them occupied with clothing in progress. Half her room is a sewing space, since she makes all of the clothes she and Clara wear. Shoved into a corner is a twin four-poster bed, the posts carved into vines and startling algae that seemed to have eyes following inhabitants of the room. The headboard is wood carved to look like bricks, and a little carved worm hides among them. On a shelf above the bed sits two stuffed animals—a hairy beast and a dapper fox creature—held in place by a wooden bookend carved to look like a bulbous dwarf. Her desk is usually covered in notes, sketches and a small pile of used red-leather bound pocket sketchbooks. The mirror is old, from her childhood room, and she has pictures of herself and Clara from assorted events tucked into the frame. The bathroom is through another small room that Sarah uses as storage for fabrics and sewing notions. Since it is accessible from outside Sarah’s room, the girls also use it as a guest bathroom, on the rare occasions they have company over.

Clara’s room has a small ensuite bathroom. Since the other bathroom has the bathtub, though, she uses both interchangeably, frequently soaking in epsom salt baths for her sore muscles. She has a full bed with a gauzy white canopy over it, often piled with pillows and throw blankets. Her first pair of pointe shoes are mounted in a shadow box next to her door, a reminder of how long she’s been dancing and how far she’s come. In a place of honor on her bedside table is an old, well-loved nutcracker, a silk handkerchief tied around it as a sling to support a broken arm. There’s a small barre built into the corner of the room, the floor reinforced and a floor-to-ceiling mirror for her to use for stretches and breaking in new pointe shoes. A dresser next to it has all of her extra tights and leotards for dance, a few spare pairs of canvas ballet shoes, jazz shoes, and character shoes. The top has carefully organized collection of tools for breaking in shoes; spare razor blades, scissors, needles and thread, a lighter and matchbooks, a spare bottle of super glue and solvent (several more bottles of glue are stored in the freezer to extend their shelf life), strips of leather, a bag of rosin, and assorted medical supplies to protect her feet.

The living space is an eclectic collection of sitting spaces; a futon couch, multiple ottomans, a pair of wingback chairs rescued from the dumpster positioned near the sunspace, and a pair of barstools next to the kitchen breakfast bar. There is a rarely used TV, mostly used for watching streaming services (or quietly pirated media) on their rare days off. A bookcase, overflowing with books, stands next to it, a mishmash of dance theory, costume design, and frivolous fantasy romance novels that both blame on the other. They tend not to entertain in the apartment, but both are occasionally visited by respective younger brothers who get put up on the futon.

[sims2bellaswan]

pas de deux I [Bruno Bucciarati x Reader | Risotto Nero x Reader]

welcome to my passion project, now available on tumblr for your viewing pressure.

[SFW]

AO3 VERSION

NEXT CHAPTER

You've worked your whole life to earn a place in the Rome ballet company, yet everyone seems to work against you. Between the stress of working to match the other dancers to unforeseen romantic issues, problems just seem to pile up.

Staring at yourself in the mirror, you felt faint. Maybe it was the way you laced your shoes. Or, perhaps it was how tight your bun suddenly felt. The knot in your stomach grew tighter until you felt you might burst. The lights were too hot, the rosin for your shoes was suffocating, the pit below felt like it may grow into the pits of hell. The dressing room was closing in on you.

Needless to say, you were nervous. You were more nervous than you had ever been before. Careful of your shoes, you stepped out of the, now overheating, dressing room. From your viewpoint the wings, the audience spread out before the stage was full of ghosts: empty chairs waiting to be filled in a few hours. Talents scouts would be there. The largest companies in the world would be watching every twitch of your muscles, every movement of your feet. You worked far too hard for far too long to give up in the face of your future. You shut the door behind you as you stepped back into the room.

The dancers behind you, you could hear their murmuring. They only spoke cruelly. Having known you for years, they knew exactly how to get to you.

The woman you saw in the mirror wasn’t you. The jewels in your hair and decorating your bodice made you glitter; being the principal dancer, you had to be noticed. The flat white tutu you were to wear was like the ones in the Russian ballets. Your pointes were not your usual pair, tonight you had to wear white ones. They were hardly broken in, they pinched your toes and stung your heels. You hardly felt like a diamond, not even a jewel. You felt closer to rock salt. No, that wasn’t right either.

No, you felt like a cubic zirconium. You were merely a pretty imposter. You may wear the white tutu and glamorous headdress of a diamond but you were easy to scratch and never sparkled as brightly as you were expected to. Under the scrutinizing eye of a jeweler or a scout, you’d be found out. It was the subtle scratches on your surface or your grand jeté wasn’t perfect.

There was a knock on the door frame. Places. You had to be ready and in the wings in five minutes. The sensation of bile crawling up your throat threatens to worsen. You hurriedly slip on your tutu, pinning it in place. Pushing back tears and down bile, you fix your makeup.

You have trained your whole life for this.

[spacesuitsforemergency]

Okay but Wayde loves watching Nina dance, like he sees how hard she works at it and she’s the top dancer of her class at her dance school, and yes watching her dance ballet is amazing but he likes watching her freestyle contemporary more just cause that’s when it’s her dancing, and she’s not following strict rules and steps

He also knows how to prepare her pointe shoes, cause you have to see the ribbons on, break them in, rosin them, all this shit so he knows how to do all that for her

[princessjungeun]

Ballerina: Ryujin x Reader

Request: Y/N is a ballerina and Ryujin is her girlfriend

You started ballet when you were 18 months old in a mommy and me class. Since then you haven’t stopped dancing. Ballet was your entire life, everything you did revolves around dance.

When you moved to Seoul it was so that you could attend a performing arts high school. You joined a company that would set you up to attend a prestigious arts college. Your dream was Julliard, it had been since you were six years old.

However being a ballerina wasnt always as pretty as it was made out to be. You were constantly breaking in new pointe shoes which was one of the most painstaking processes ever. Even though you were used to the feeling of a new pointe shoe, it still sucked.

You lived in housing provided by your school because your actual home was 250 miles away. You shuffled through roommates almost as much as you went through pointe shoes. The constant banging of the shoes on the floors, as well as you always practicing irked the nerves of everyone you lived with.

Until you met Ryujin, who was once your best friend. But she is now your girlfriend.

Ryujin has no problem with you practicing nonstop, unless you’re overworking yourself. She is always more than happy to help you with whatever you need too.

“Hey you have to finish your English homework remember?” She poked at your foot that was resting on her lap. You put your new pointe shoe down and said “I have an audition tomorrow. I have to finish sewing on my ribbons and then I have to smush the box. Plus beat the sound out of them. And I have to color them in and I have to-” Ryujin cut you off “I’ll do it for you, I know how.”

You hesitated but you knew she was right, she’s helped you do it before. You handed her your shoes and she quickly got to work.

As you completed your work you watched her every so often. She sewed your ribbons exactly where you liked them. She pressed on the box until she heard the loud pop you loved hearing. She banged the shoes against the floor like you always did. She used a toothbrush and painted your foundation on them because she knew they had to match your skin tone, and it was hard finding pointe shoes that were the right color. She rubbed rosin on the toes knowing that’s your way of making sure they aren’t slippery. And she raked the bottom of the shoe so you didn’t slip when you were to dance. 

•

•

•

You attended your audition and you are pretty sure you did amazing. The judges seemed very impressed with your skill which was typical for you but it still surprised you when it happened. However due to nonstop practicing for it you knew your feet were blistered and bleeding before removing your shoes.

When you got home Ryujin was already at home waiting for you. She greeted you with a smile “Hi baby how was your audition?” You gave her a thumbs up with a smile but she could see right through it. Your feet were throbbing, your achilles ached badly, and you knew you had at least two new blisters.

You walked into her arms and whined “my feet are killing me.” She quickly sat you down and removed your warm up booties. At times like this you never look at your feet after taking off your pointe shoe. Your big toes were still wrapped in tape with a second skin on them.

She peeled them off watching you wince in pain. She quickly noticed you did in fact have new blisters but thankfully this round you didn’t loose any nails...it’s happened a lot before. She got up and got you a bag of ice for one foot while she softly massaged the other. You let your body sink into the couch beneath you letting out a deep sigh.

Ryujin was always there to take care of you when she wasn’t promoting. The two of you both had crazy schedules but you didn’t allow that to get in the way of your relationship. You attended many of her events and she was always in the front row at every single on of your performances.

She was also the first one to help you when you came home struggling to walk. Very quickly she learned how to massage and care for you and you did the same for her.

“Jagi come on wake up you need to shower and go to sleep.” Ryujin lightly shook you awake. You slowly made your way to the bathroom. The warm water against your tired muscles was exactly what you needed at a time like this. When you got out of the bathroom Ryujin already had your bed ready for you two to sleep.

You laid down next to her and immediately she pulled you into her. You whispered “Thank you jagiya.” She smiled and said “no need to thank me, you know I’ll always be here for you.”

[swanwinged-princess]

I think the Tutu scent is a mixture of rosin and rosewater

Describe what you think my muse smells like

//Yes, this seems just about right, if not perfect–!! 

//She might not smell like rosin all the time, but definitely a significant amount of it, since she does spend a lot of time dancing, and actually, she probably uses rosewater on her face and in her hair while she’s getting ready in the morning, so yeah this is pretty accurate~

[delicesvixlents]

margot robbie/ cisfemale — is that karina volkov ordering a double ristretto at mocha ? i heard they’re a thirty-two year old dance instructor/choreographer. rumour has it she can be a little domineering, but also protective. i guess that comes with being a leo. they always make me think of the crunch of rosin beneath a pointe shoe, the sparkle of diamonds, the smoke from a clandestine cigarette after a night out. i sure hope no one finds out she faked an injury to end her dance career so her family wouldn’t cut her off. well, looks like their order’s up ! ( m / 24 / she/her / est )

Hey friends! I probably wrote too much under the cut, but come love my former dancer bb anyways? Give this a like and I’ll come plot with you!

☆ → Karina comes from a prominent and wealthy family in the dance world. It means she was afforded every opportunity—but those opportunities came with a certain set of expectations 

☆ → Her parents expected to see her become a soloist, considering any other career—even within a ballet company, would be a downgrade if she pursued it before she had exhausted being a performer.

☆ → While genetics seemed to have graced her with some natural physical talent, it hadn’t granted her the mental fortitude to keep up in the exhaustive, high-pressure world. Every day she felt like she was inching closer to walking away completely—but knew she’d have to fend for herself if she did. 

☆ → She caught a break—nearly literally when she fell one day in rehearsal. She was exhausted in her title role in Giselle—her biggest role up to that point—and that was making her sloppy. Which only made the director make her run and run and run the choreography again. Eventually, due to tiring muscles making her form go slack, she rolled over her foot and went crashing to the ground. 

☆ → She could feel she had maybe sprained an ankle and broken a toe— both of which a young dancer could spring back from. But through the fog of horror and embarrassment from falling in front of practically the entire company, one thought came to her in startling clarity.

☆ → This was her way out.

☆ → She clutched her knee, writhing in pain (a performance that may have justified her role in Giselle even more than her dancing), insisting her ACL had been torn. She convinced them to call her a cab for the hospital instead of an ambulance, got her ankle and toe taken care of and went home and ordered the proper brace for an ACL injury.

☆ → When she broke the news to the company, they were more than understanding to let her out of her contract, but her parents couldn’t quite see the same kindness. They insisted on suing the company for working Karina too hard and leading to her injury and thus lost income for the performances—and future ones since this was truly going to kickstart her career.

☆ → Karina wanted nothing more than to lie low for a few weeks, but the whole point of this injury was to get her family off her back and she needed to make them believe she was devastated. So she went forward with the case, but worked out a plan with her lawyer to throw the case. He’s one of the few people who knows the true nature of her injuries, which is a comfort and makes her wary at the same time.

☆ → After letting things cool down, she re-entered the dance world. For all the pain and suffering it had caused her, it was still the only life she knew. But she instead decided to go the route of teaching and being a choreographer. It meant a steadier pay for her to eventually gain independence from her family and she considered the pressure far more manageable—especially when it was easier to get by on the weight of her family name.

☆ → She’s felt lighter than she has in years, preferring to funnel her energy into helping the other dancers along rather than competing with them.

Wanted connections: ☆ → current/former students/dancers she’s choreographed for — she’s wildly protective of them and isn’t afraid to chew out a director or fellow choreographer that’s pushing them too hard

☆ → Former fellow dancers — might suspect something about her injury or send her into a guilt spiral if they talk about how bad they feel for her career getting cut short 

☆ → People generally in the performing arts scene who might know her family — they’re intense and maybe a little mean. Karina has a stiffer demeanor but she’s way friendlier than most of them

☆ → Exes from when she was a dancer — she’d have been pretty strung out and always picking her career over them

☆ → Current flings — she’s not looking to date too seriously since she doesn’t want to risk her secret getting out or upsetting the careful balance that she has that is finally letting her be happy

☆ → Close friends — a select few in the inner circle might know about how serious her injury really was, the rest just think the injury was a blessing in disguise to help her down a better route

☆ → Old and current rivals — maybe they were happy for her to get out of their way but they still want to be catty about it, maybe they don’t like her throwing around her family name when her work doesn’t warrant her success, maybe they saw a production she choreographed and thought it looked awful so they have a grudge against her 

I’m open to any ideas!! I get a lot of these are more dance-world based, but that just means we’re free to get creative in filling in her life outside of it.

[flootzavut]

I posted 3,228 times in 2021

70 posts created (2%)

3158 posts reblogged (98%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 45.1 posts.

I added 809 tags in 2021

#joey batey - 214 posts

#the amazing devil - 150 posts

#jaskier - 110 posts

#the witcher - 98 posts

#madeleine hyland - 93 posts

#loki spoilers - 38 posts

#ruin - 38 posts

#geraskier - 27 posts

#ruin the amazing devil - 24 posts

#the witcher netflix - 17 posts

Longest Tag: 124 characters

#if you haven't been there you really don't know how that effects energy and mental health and ability to just do basic stuff

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Me: I hope Joey and Madeleine are sleeping peacefully secure in the knowledge of a job well done

Also me: WAKE UP BITCHES WANNA SEE YOU REACT TO OUR REACTIONS

The duality of fan.

295 notes • Posted 2021-10-31 07:35:20 GMT

#4

Since I've not seen many posts of these...

Who the fuck even knows my dudes

361 notes • Posted 2021-11-19 03:55:36 GMT

#3

Oh my fucking gods

420 notes • Posted 2021-10-29 17:08:42 GMT

#2

625 notes • Posted 2021-11-16 21:35:04 GMT

#1

My good people, before you suggest in your fic that rosin could, would, or should be used as lube, I *beg* of you, find a bowed string instrument player or a ballet dancer and ask them about rosin, and maybe get them to let you look at and even touch the stuff, and ask them what it does and why they use it.

Hint: it is not used as lubrication, it does not make things slide smoothly, it is not slippery, it is literally the opposite of all those things. It's used to make a violin bow catch on the strings and make them vibrate. It's used to make the toes of pointe shoes grip so that the dancer does not slide about on shiny satin.

I struggle to imagine any scenario in which it would lubricate a damn thing, because that isn't its purpose, and the idea of getting it on any mucus membranes, let alone doing so deliberately and to facilitate sex, makes me cringe to my bones.

If there's a different kind of rosin out there that I'm not aware of, feel free to educate me, I'm all ears. But if you mean the stuff I keep in my violin or viola case, then for the love of all that's good, do not make your poor characters use it as lube, and do not ever use it so yourself, it will not be pretty.

Aside: it's also not something, as far as I have been able to figure out, that a lutenist uses. (Yes, this side note is for the Witcher fandom.) I've looked, because I saw it mentioned so many times in reference to Jaskier, and I can't find out where this came from beyond someone maybe assuming that lutes are string instruments and ergo also require rosin. Again, I'm open to being educated on this one, because while I do play some plucked string instruments, it isn't my forte and I don't know enough to be sure. (My best guess was to make one's fingertips grippier, but I can't find any evidence that that's the case. Also it wouldn't be used, in my experience, in instrument maintenance. Getting rosin on one's violin is an occupational hazard, but it's something you clean off a violin, not something you use to clean it. See above re: rosin is fucking sticky.)

Like I say, open to be educated, but basically, just because bowed string players need rosin, please don't assume that means that players of other string instruments use it. I have played, to a greater or lesser extent, the guitar, the mandolin, the harp and the ukulele, and not a single one of them has ever needed rosin.

... look I know that very few people are likely to see this and even fewer to read or care, but basically, to you few, this is just a plea to stop giving your poor characters a sticky, messy, not at all lubricating substance to use as lube, I'm begging you.

(Addendum: yes, there is such a thing as liquid rosin; no, it would still not make good lube. You don't use superglue as lube just because it comes in liquid form, right? Right. So don't do it with rosin, either.)

TL;DR: rosin is not good lube and even if you insist on using it in fiction, I'm begging you to never use it that way in real life, your mucus membranes will thank me for this knowledge 👍🏼

5181 notes • Posted 2021-03-22 15:15:56 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[builder051]

West end girls

@mohini-musing‘s Chasing Ghosts ‘verse

_____

Three easy credits.  That’s what her advisor said when he signed Tasha up for Dance 101 at the beginning of the semester.  Beginning ballet.  She’s a former dancer, right?  It should be simple; she needs the elective, and the easy A wouldn’t hurt.  In fact, her GPA is in dire need of a boost if she’s going to keep her scholarship.  So Tasha throws on a leo and tights under her ratty t-shirts and shuffles into the dance gym twice a week.  She’ll squeak by under the radar if she stays sober enough and skinny enough.  As long as there are no pointe shoes, there should be no problem.

The teacher notices her the second week.  Tasha puts just a touch too much enthusiasm into her renversé, unwilling to leave it hanging in the air half-assed, and a second later his hand is on her shoulder in that too-close-for-comfort choreographer’s kind of way.  

“You have training?” the man asks in an accented voice.  

“Sure,” Tasha replies.  Only a dozen years’ worth, give or take.  She remembers the temporary foster mommy holding her six-year-old self’s hand and steering her into a glossy, echoing studio.  Go.  Make some friends.

Only that’s not what stuck.  The rhythm of it intrigued her, and the aching stretch of her muscles fed the masochist already under development inside Tasha’s skin.  She felt anointed in the sweat, and later in the bloody toe pads she peeled off post pas de deux.  

She probably could’ve made a career of it if she’d been committed enough.  Her lack of grand prix appearances or summer intensive tours would’ve made her a dark horse at any cattle call audition, but Tasha had talent.  Has talent.  Or she would if she, say, ate enough to stay the semi-permanent tremor in her core.  

“Sure.  I guess.”  Tasha shrugs.

“Repertory Ballet Theater.  Downtown.  Tonight at seven.”  The teacher winks.  

Tasha feels nauseous.  “Look,” she starts, glancing around at her decidedly less graceful classmates, for once wishing she was the galumphing fat girl arguing her foot into a passé over in the corner.  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but--”  What is she going to say?  No?  Stop making a pass at me, you disgusting older man?

“No.”  The teacher says, beating her to it.  He makes a calm down motion, as if that’s going to help.  “It’s a job.  You know, work for pay?”

“Yeah,” Tasha replies.  “And that’s illegal.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart.”  The teacher scrubs his hand over his beard and squeezes his eyes shut.  “No.  Nothing like that.  It’s community dance theater, and I have a piece in the spring showcase.  Someone got injured.  I need a body.  That’s all.”

It’s almost soothing, the way he’s objectifying her.  It isn’t her body he wants specifically, just someone to fill the space.  He’s seeing her talent, recognizing it, and giving the kudos she’s lacked during all the in-between years when she was the only kid at recital without a bouquet of flowers.  Tasha can’t decide if she wants to take the compliment.

“Um, think about it?” she mutters, tombé-ing away to perform the combination of steps again.  It seems more challenging now.  Tasha cares more about what she looks like, the position of her standing leg, the angle of the working one.

The teacher bobs his head and gives a single chuckle as he smiles.

Evening comes, and Tasha means to blow him off, but then a text from James asks what she’s doing tonight, and she suddenly has good reason to be busy.  Sorry, can’t, she types back before he can even finish extending the invitation to whatever it is he and Steve are up to this time.  

Tasha sticks one hand over the side of the unlabeled box in the top of the closet and finds a pair of barely worn Grishkos.  The teacher hadn’t specified, but somehow Tasha knows she’ll need pointe shoes.  They’re poorly fitted now after a couple years’ down time, but going up is like riding a bicycle.  No one really forgets how, and the worst you can do is fall over.

Algebra homework and a poorly timed nap make Tasha half an hour late, but she throws back a tiny bottle of vodka on the studio’s front stoop and then pops her head in.

The teacher is Aleks now, not Professor.  “And this is nothing indecorous, ok?” he says, giving Tasha a little push toward a chorus of girls in legwarmers and wrap skirts.  The fact that he’d choose a word like that speaks to the purity of his intentions.  Tasha rolls her eyes, but not in the direction Aleks will be able to see.

After a few minutes of watching and catching the other dancers’ glares, Tasha takes her place.  It’s a demi-soloist part, or at least it would be if the company ranked their dancers, but operations of this miniature scale don’t work that way.  Tasha immediately senses animosity, though.  Aleks has sinned, bringing in an outsider instead of promoting from within.  What he’s done is better, though, letting the group hate him instead of each other.  Tasha’s medicated enough to let the open stares of animosity glance off her shiny coating.

Rehearsals run every night this week, culminating with a tech, a dress, and a Saturday night opener.  It’s hardly worth calling it that, since the show only runs once, but, hell, old habits die hard.  Old toe shoes do, too, and Tasha finds herself borderline gleeful at the lines of abrasions wrapping around her tender white feet.  She wants to curse herself for going soft, but at the same time, she’s grateful for the opportunity to feel the pain so organically, literally from the ground up.

James has blown up her phone with texts and voicemails, so Tasha has no choice but to call him as she walks back home, alone, kicking leaves out of the gutter at nearly ten-thirty.  “You’ll never believe this,” she prefaces, already cringing in preparation for his reaction.  “I’m dancing.  Like, really.”

The conversation progresses predictably, and after the conscriptive where the hell are you’s and don’t you know what time it is’s, James asks when and where the performance will be.

“Saturday,” Tasha tells him.  “Assuming I live that long.”

And she does, though it’s no easy feat.  Three days’ rehearsal is cutting it close, even for her.  Tasha’s glad the piece is only eight minutes.  Any longer spent with the corps de ballet boring their jealous holes into the back of her head and she just might explode.  Not at them, for wanting to be her, but at herself for taking up the spotlight.

Finally Saturday comes, and everything that goes wrong does.  Tasha wakes with blocked sinuses, maybe a touch of fever.  She’s late getting to the theater, again, and even so, the stage is still covered in ladders and mop buckets when she shows up.

“Bad dress, good show, eh?” Aleks says cheerfully, though dress was last night and it was fine.  Tasha still needed a handful of shots to cool her nerves afterward, and now she’s nursing half a hangover along with her stuffy nose as somebody’s grandmother fiddles with her costume.  She should be warming up, not standing here in the wings while this white-haired bitch takes issue with a centimeter worth of bloat. But then again, maybe she shouldn’t be; Tasha’s head is wanging, and her shoes are hardly more than rosin and mush.

Her attention lapses, and she sways on her feet.  Unfortunately, Aleks sees, and he jumps up from the orchestra pit, brows raised and hands extended.  “Sit.”  

He forces Tasha onto the stage hand’s folding chair and makes a show of offering her a Twizzler wrapped in crinkly plastic, much to the granny’s chagrin.  “Yvette, stop.  She’s fine.”  He squats beside Tasha and addresses her directly.  “You’re fine, right?”

“Yeah.”  Tasha almost coughs.  “Completely.”

“Bullshit,” Aleks replies, though he leaves it at that and a second piece of candy.  

Tasha snarfs down the sugar, feeling it mix badly with mucous and nerves at the pit of her stomach.  She doesn’t care, though.  She needs the boost.  Tasha glances down at her phone and dismisses James’s good luck text with a swipe of her finger.  She knows better than to look for him in the audience, so this will be the last she sees of him until after the show.  Assuming, of course, she makes it that long.

It feels like a close-cut deal.  Tasha squeaks into the toilet stall at the corner of the dressing room an instant before her stomach revolts.  There’s no time to categorize the ache under her ribs as real or psychosomatic before she has to blink away stars and pat her lipstick with a tissue, then run out onto the stage.

The actual dancing is surreal.  Tasha fudges the finish on her first pirouette into a tombé, but beyond that, it’s unremarkable.  There are things she’d like to improve, and she’s not sure she smiled one lick, but she survives the underwater feeling of the open stage, gasping back to safety in the wings as the audience erupts in applause.  

Maybe this isn’t so bad, Tasha thinks.  There are plenty of tiny studio companies around here; she could swing a class here and a rehearsal there, maybe make a little pocket money and work out a little frustration.

“Fuck.”  Tasha closes her eyes before she’s clear of the last boom, and both she and it tumble toward the ground.  There’s a crash, though nothing breaks except Tasha’s thoughts.  No, she decides.  She isn’t cut out for this after all.

The stage hand is more concerned with the light than with her, so Tasha peels herself up off the floor and limps from the smooth marley to the rougher floor of the wing.  Luckily Aleks is across the stage on the opposite side, so nobody comes rushing to her aid.  

“Jesus,” she mutters, testing her weight on the ankle that’s suddenly all pins and needles.  It’s not badly injured, she knows that much, but something is wrong.  A tweak or a twinge or some other nebulous word her teachers used to use when they acknowledged her pain but wanted Tasha to keep going anyway.  

“Hey, you alright?”  Tasha’s about to deck the stupid stage hand for his delayed reaction, but then she sees, or more accurately, smells, the doobie he’s rolling between his fingers.  She’s staunchly between him and the door to the back alley, and it’s clear that he’s more invested in his smoke than he probably is in the whole production.

“Yeah,” Tasha says snappily, hopping on one foot as she yanks on her pointe shoe ribbons.  “Fine.”

“You can come outside too, if you want,” the stagehand murmurs, “But I gotta finish this before I have to run curtain again.”  He bounces a meaningful look between Tasha’s face and the exit sign above her head.

“Um.”  She shoots a glance across the stage, looking for Aleks in the opposite wing, but he’s gone.  Probably crossing behind the scrim to come around and check on her again.  Tasha suddenly feels hot and sick to her stomach again.  Maybe a jaunt outdoors is just what she needs.  

“Just a sec.”  She nips into the dressing room long enough to divest herself of her tutu and throw on an oversized t-shirt over her nude briefs.  Tasha gathers up her bag and hurries back to the wing, still in her shoes and tight bun.  “Ok,” she says, catching back up with the stagehand and as good as shoving him out the door.

“Alright,” the young man says.  “Alright, baby.”  He sounds like he’s trying the word on for size, not like he really means anything by it.  He’s Tasha’s age, maybe a year or two younger, so she decides not to hold it against him much.

“Stop it,” Tasha hisses, throwing a backhanded strike that whistles past the kid’s nose.

“Ok, ok,” he says with shaky bravado.  “I was only kidding.  Just chill a little.”

“Fuck you.”  Tasha decides she’s earned the first hit on the joint, so she helps herself to the rolled cigarette and pulls out her own lighter.  The stagehand seems to have learned his lesson; he doesn’t protest.

The smoke stings Tasha’s raw throat as she inhales, igniting a high-pitched moucousy cough that tastes like cannabis and sickness.  She leans against the brick wall and surveys the alley.  It’s not a bad hiding place, all things considered.  Maybe a hair too skinny for vehicle traffic, but not overpopulated with dumpsters and wooden pallets.

“I thought you hurt yourself,” the stagehand says as he takes back the doobie.  “But, uh, you’re sick?”

Tasha shrugs and rummages in her bag for one of her little bottles.  “Born this way,” she says in a rough whisper.  “Baby.”

“Hey, I said I was sorry,” the kid tells her, though he’s fibbing.  He never actually said the words, even if he meant them.  “I just, I don’t want to annoy you, but, like,” he waffles, “You ok?’

“Hmph.”  Tasha throws back a mouthful of vodka, feeling it sting along her gums and deep in her throat.  She enjoys the burn, swishing it between her teeth as she slowly sinks into a sitting position against the wall.  It’s a warm spring night, but goosebumps still rise on her arms and legs.

Tasha’s phone chirps, and she digs it out of her bag, glad for the distraction so she can quit talking to the stagehand who’s beginning to feel sleazier by the minute.  

It’s a text from James, the latest in a string of complimentary messages.  You were great! Tasha dismisses.  Do you want to meet in the lobby?  Are you allowed to come watch the rest?  It’s intermission, she gathers, and James has gone full older brother protective, worrying about the trouble she can get into when she’s out of his sight.

The concern isn’t misplaced, Tasha concedes, accepting the joint back from the stagehand who’s now slumped against the wall a solid two feet away.  It’s just annoying.  She puffs on the smoke, then finally finishes freeing her bad foot from the cage of her pointe shoe.  The ankle joint is the slightest bit swollen, and it hurts when she pokes at it, but there are no other marks.  Another phantom injury, some invisible thing wrong with her that no one can prove and no one wants to take her word about.  A grunt of pain escapes her as Tasha rearranges her foot over top of her lap.

The stagehand starts to say something again, but now Tasha’s phone is ringing, blaring some nameless 80s electronica tune James chose specifically for its annoyingness.

“What?” Tasha barks, a bit more roughly than intended.

“Hey, where are you?” James’s voice demands.  “I ran into your director at the concession stand, and he says he can’t find you either.”

Tasha tips her head back, her bun cushioning her from banging her skull against the wall.  “Fuck,” she mutters.  “I’m just… taking a smoke break, ok?”

“Tash, really?”

“I’m done with my piece!  What does it matter what I’m doing now?”

“No final bow?” James asks.  Tasha can almost hear his eyebrows knitting together.

“No,” Tasha coughs.  “I’m not 12.  This isn’t some lame recital.”

“No, it’s not,”  James agrees.  He pauses, and Tasha can hear Steve’s and Aleks’s voices in the background, along with the ambient noise of the theater lobby.  “You feeling alright?  You sound…”

“Smokey?” Tasha tries.  Her voice cracks, though, and gives her away.  A pang of nausea rises into her chest, and she feels ashamed for feeling sick.  Maybe sick for feeling ashamed.

“I... “ James starts.  “No.  Just, where are you?”

“Out back.  With…”  Tasha looks the stagehand up and down.  “Ted?” she decides to christen him.

“Actually, it’s Josh,” the kid corrects, giving her a sideways look.

“Josh, sorry,” Tasha shakes her head, reigniting the pain throbbing behind her forehead.  “Ted was last night’s one night stand.”  It’s a lie, though Josh doesn’t seem to know that.

“Uh, my mom will be home,” Josh whispers, going pink.  

James says something else at the same time, and Tasha misses both.  “Will you fucking shut up?” she says, not exactly into the phone.

“Is this Josh person harassing you?” James asks loudly.

“I… no,” Tasha says in what she hopes is a firm tone.  Her voice feels reedy, as if her throat is full of bits of broken glass.

“I’m giving you one last try,” James commands.  The timbre of the background noise changes.  Tasha can tell he’s stepped outside.  “Where are you?  And what happened?”

“I’m fine.”

“Tasha…”

“I tweaked my foot a little bit, and I’ve got this lame cold--”  She has to pause and cough again.  Tasha would rather keel over and die right there.

“Ok, it’s ok,” James says automatically.  “You said you’re out back?”

Steve’s voice mutters something, and Tasha’s sure she hears the words swing by and pick her up.

“Don’t, ok,” she croaks.  “I’m really fine.”  But the nausea picks that moment to triple in intensity, sending her struggling onto hands and knees to gag while trying to keep a grip on her phone.

“No, you’re not.”  Josh hovers a hand a few inches off Tasha’s shoulder, clearly afraid of touching her, and perhaps more afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t.  “You’re… Is that blood?”

It’s twizzler hanging, suspended in spit, from the corner of Tasha’s mouth.  She’s too nauseated to enlighten anyone, so she just hocks and spits, then drags a shaky hand over her lips.  She swallows a sick hiccup and tries to decide if the ache of suppressed fever or that of wayward concern hurts worse.

“God, Tash…” James says.  “We’re in the car.  We’re on our way.”  There’s the sound of an ignition turning over.  “Are you seriously puking blood?”

Tasha’s interrupted by the need to vomit again, otherwise she would have staunchly set him straight.  She sputters and straightens up just as the red glow of tail lights appears at the mouth of the alley.  

“Ok, I see you,” James says over the phone, though he opens his door and Tasha catches the top of his head peeking around the back of Steve’s civic.  “Stop, babe, you’re close enough.”

Tasha protests.  So does Steve, though less vociferously.  He seems to be convinced he can back all the way up the alley, despite the fact that it’s clearly too narrow and Tasha can clearly walk, which she demonstrates by shoving herself backwards onto her mismatched feet and limping toward the car.

“The fuck are you thinking?” James mutters as he rushes up to her side, taking in Tasha’s too bedraggled to be sexy outfit, then stopping when he gets to her pale, tired face.

“I wasn’t?” Tasha tries, too exhausted to deal with anything but sympathy.  And mild sympathy at that.

“Yeah, story of your life, right there.”  James pulls her under one arm and awkwardly opens the door to the backseat for her.  “But lucky you, tonight it’s gonna have a happy ending.”

[qqueenofhades]

oh god i need it - hot dance teacher au?

The ballet run is, to be completely frank, not Lucy Preston’s favorite part of the day. She tries – she puts on her headphones, finds a quiet corner to do a little work, since class is only an hour and it’s not worth going somewhere else. She can still hear tinned classical music and the endless thump of nine-year-olds at the barre, jetéing across the floor, one-two-three one-two-three. Amy is convinced she’s going to be the Sugar Plum Fairy, and Lucy could reel off the statistics about eating disorders and the tiny, tiny minority of dancers who ever make it in professional ballet and the punishing standards and retiring at twenty-nine with broken feet and a broken body and the dark stories about abuse and grooming and – and – try to convince her baby sister to pick something better, in short. But maybe she needs to take off her anxious critical feminist hat for two seconds, and put on her supportive sister hat instead. It’s been two years since they were orphaned by that car crash, and Lucy ended up with sole custody of her little sister at age twenty-one. She’s trying to finish the first year of her PhD and remind herself that they can do this. Somehow. Amy doesn’t have to be aiming for the Bolshoi. Maybe she can just take dance lessons because it’s a normal thing for a nine-year-old girl to want to do, and God knows they need a little of that right now.

Lucy leans back against the wall at the renewed thump and clatter from inside the studio. Older girls in tutus run by, hair upswept in tightly gelled buns, smelling of too much makeup and the rosin in their pointe shoes. Various stage mothers have asked Lucy if she’s planning to help sew costumes for the Nutcracker this year, with the implication that if she doesn’t, she is insufficiently committed to her daughter’s career. Some of them haven’t even seemed to realize that she is in no way old enough to be Amy’s mother. It has felt selfish to keep up with her PhD plans, rather than dropping out and focusing only on her sister. Does she deserve this, Lucy wonders? A life of her own, even now? Still?

(Who knows. Maybe she doesn’t.)

She grimly marks out a few sources to check on later, doesn’t get much else done for the rest of the session, and waits until Amy and her classmates speed out in their sweat-dampened leotards. As they head for the changing room, the teacher follows them out. Lucy has seen him before (it’s impossible not to see him), but they’ve only exchanged a few words. The kids call him Mr. Flynn. He’s tall and dark and may be a Bolshoi veteran himself, to judge from his accent, though Lucy has been unable to picture him in tights, spinning a prima ballerina beneath the floodlights. It’s made her wonder once or twice if a grown man has some other reason to want to hang around impressionable little girls, but that’s definitely the anxiety talking, her fear that she’s totally blowing this replacement mother lark. Amy and the other pupils love him. She usually won’t shut up about him on the car ride home.

At the moment, Mr. Flynn himself doesn’t seem to realize that Lucy’s there. He turns to go, sees her, and looks surprised. She can see him struggling to put a name to the face, give up, and say, “Good evening, remind me of your…?”

“Good evening.” Lucy gathers up her papers and stuffs them into her backpack. “I’m, ah, I’m Amy Preston’s older sister.”

They’ve been here just long enough that the question of showcases might arise, if Amy wants to have Mom and Dad come and watch her recital, the time-honored tradition of parents everywhere to eagerly applaud while ten-year-olds with stage fright shuffle through Swan Lake. Lucy hopes he isn’t about to ask about that. There’s no real easy way to have that conversation, and it gets tiring explaining that your parents are dead to everyone you randomly meet. Lucy offers an apologetic smile. “I hope it’s all right that I just borrowed the corner to do some work.”

“Not very quiet, I imagine.” Flynn raises a dark eyebrow. “But yes, of course.”

Lucy finds herself momentarily dry-mouthed as he turns out the lights, locks the studio, and she trails after him to the reception area. Yes, all right, it’s catastrophically cliche to have a crush on your little sister’s dance teacher, but her life is terrifically lonely, and Flynn held a door open for her the other night and she thought about it for five days straight. She’s starved for any kind of attention, for adult connection and friendship, and – she’s not going to say anything, of course. This is for Amy, she’s not going to ruin it. But maybe it’ll make the ballet run more bearable, or perhaps less, if she just sits there and pines from afar for what she can never have. Sounds about right.

They’re still by themselves waiting for the girls to come out, though, and Lucy wonders if there’s some sort of obligation on her to make polite conversation. Flynn doesn’t seem very sociable, shuts up a little once teaching is done, and she doesn’t want to be a pain. But something she wasn’t expecting makes her blurt out, “Amy’s – Amy really likes your classes. So that’s – thanks.”

“Does she?” He glances up. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yes, she – well, we – ” Oh God, oh Christ, Lucy, no, no, you are not dropping the dead parents bomb on the man in the only conversation longer than two seconds you’ve had to date. “Things have just – there’s been a lot of change recently, and it’s been good to have that. You know kids, she wants to be the Sugar Plum Fairy, and – anyway. Yeah.”

A corner of Flynn’s mouth turns up. He doesn’t seem to find this silly, or childish, or unrealistic, or whatever else. Instead, so quietly Lucy almost misses it, he says, “My daughter did too.”

And with that, as the girls come hurrying out in a chattering flood, as Amy hurries up to swing off Lucy’s arm and ask if they can get a Frosty on the way home, Flynn nods to her. Turns on his heel, pushes his way out into the parking lot, and vanishes into the night.