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#Garbage Ballet
yahoo201027 · 10 months
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Day in Fandom History: June 12…
As Cole tries to stop an ill-ridden Paige from hunting down a rat that's been invading their home, Owen investigates what happened with the sanitary crew when dealing with a garbage problem while Molly becomes concerned over Brendan's wellbeing. “Garbage Ballet” premiered on this day, 3 Years Ago.
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warminthelight · 9 months
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probably highly unrelatable but tfw your sisters fight over who gets to take you/who can get the best seats for sarah’s play. baby sister rights <3
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autisticlancemcclain · 3 months
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Keith presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and exhales deeply. He lets all the air trickle out of his lungs until his chest feels concave, until spots dance behind his closed eyelids, until his lips start to go numb. Then he lets go and lets the air get sucked back into him like a vacuum.
“One more try,” he whispers to himself, conscious of Lance sleeping — finally — beside him. “One, and then we move on.”
He swipes the touchpad on his computer to wake it back up, dragging the blinking curser over the rarely-used blue ‘10’ under the Google logo. The page loads, and loads, and loads, and finally spits out the next few results.
Most of them he’s already seen before. Dozens of times. BARGAIN BALLET TICKET SUBSCRIPTION, reads one link, CLICK HERE FOR 20% OFF YOUR FIRST MONTH. Another reads, Rush Ticket Prices — Buy Now!
He’s been there. Clicked that. Priced it out. Looked at the worst possible, next-to-the-washrooms, garbage seats. Nothing. Not a single ticket within their limited budget — or even close to it.
Completely out of the realm of possibility even if they hadn’t agreed on a price limit for their Christmas gifts.
He keeps scrolling down a few pages that all advertise the same thing — a disgustingly costly subscription here, bargain-but-not-really tickets there, more scammy resell ads than one would believe possible. Even, notably, a still-active link from 1997 that Keith peruses for clicks and does not actually count towards his one-more-try limit. (It even tries to accept his Paypal, which is crazy and means that someone updated the site to accept modern payment for a show that is no longer running. Keith is so amused by the pure audacity that he has to fight the urge to buy one. Wild thing, ADHD.)
Just as he’s about to give up and buy his boyfriend yet another plant this year, a link catches his attention. It’s the very last result on page 13, with no description, no punctuation, hell, hardly even a sentence of text. Nutcracker ticket sales, it reads, for a website called ‘FeuillesBrillantAcademie.org’.
Keith shrugs. Might as well. Not like anything else has been promising.
He clicks the link and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The ugliest website he’s ever seen literally assaults his eyes — a bright blue and a neon purple, clashing in the worst possible way. It takes at least four solid seconds for his eyes to unblur enough to recognise the screen in front of him as having words rather than a solid wall of Bright And Bad. Even then, he has to squint, glasses practically touching his eyeballs.
Feuilles Brillant Academy is pleased to present the final performance of the hard-working dancers this season, is what he can finally make out. The show begins at 7 p.m. on December 23rd, tickets for $20 per person. In-person payment not accepted. Please pay via e-transfer using the link below. Call out administrative office if there are any difficulties.
Keith stares at the page for as long as his eyes can handle, then he looks up at the ceiling. (Where, he may add, he can still see the screen perfectly, because the damn thing has been burnt onto his retinae. He will never mock Matt for his web design degree again. Well, probably.)
This seems…too good to be true.
It’s outrageously cheap, for one. Keith has been looking for literal days and the cheapest he’s managed to find is $50 per person, for bad rush tickets. $20 is bonkers. For two, this is a perfect time, and nearby, as well. And there are still tickets left. Somehow.
Something is amiss.
Keith’s first thought is that it’s a prank page. But the page is buried so deeply — page thirteen of Google. The hidden archives, basically. If this is someone’s prank, it’s garbage. His second thought is that the link is a virus, which, while possible, is still kind of unlikely for the same reasons. Why on Earth would someone post something nefarious so obscurely? It doesn’t make sense. This might be one of those rare times when something isn’t too good to be true, it’s just good.
Then again. Keith just got his laptop back from the last time he fucked around and well and truly Found Out.
Time to get a second opinion.
Despite the disgustingly late hour, the phone picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, stinky,” says Pidge. Keith can hear the smile in her voice as clearly as the explosions and gunfire of Call of Duty in the background.
“Asshole.”
“Turd for brains.”
“Skidmark.”
“Rotting splatter of parking lot vomit at three in the afternoon in Arizona during high summer.”
“…Pidge, that’s disgusting.”
She snickers. “I win.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Keith freezes as Lance stirs next to him, curling his arm around Keith’s bent leg and muttering something in Spanish too fast for him to understand. Keith smiles, tucking a stray curl back under his fluffy frog-eye hairband, lingering over the scar on his temple from a skateboarding accident when they were fifteen. “I need your help.”
“Well, obviously. You’re calling me at three thirty four in the morning. Usually you’re in bed by nine because secretly you look up to Adam and emulate his habits.”
Keith flushes. “I don’t remember ordering a psych analysis, fucker.”
“Consider it a bonus! Tell Auntie Pidge about your troubles.” He can practically see the face she makes immediately after, and snorts. “Ignore that. My mouth is not attached to my brain. Carry on.”
“I need you to check out a link,” Keith says, choosing to be merciful. “It’s pretty buried and obscure, but honestly I think it’s fine —”
“Yeah, last time you thought a link was fine you fucked your shit up so bad I had to download another virus to cancel it out. I’ve never had to do that before. You fucked your laptop up so bad I’d actually never seen that kind of damage before, Kogane. And I do this for a living.”
Keith pouts. “No, you commit cyber crimes for a living.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m an angel and have never gotten so much as a speeding ticket. I am a law abiding citizen. Send over the link.”
Switching his phone to rest between his ear and shoulder, Keith does. “I need to know if the link does what it says it does.”
Pidge hums. He can hear the ding of her laptop as his e-mail goes through, and then the sounds of her clicking as she inspects the website, running it through her various programs that Keith cannot fathom for the life of him.
“What did you say you were looking for, again?”
Keith closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting it thunk gently on the thin wall under the big window, in the corner of the apartment where they’ve shoved their bed. He lets his eyes go blurry, lets the stars they stuck on the ceiling before they did anything else turn into bright green dots. They’re real constellations. The two of them spent hours on them; Lance on Keith’s shoulders, tripping and shouting and laughing.
“I need tickets,” Keith says quietly. He turns his gaze slowly to Lance, who is sleeping soundly again, who has bags under his eyes, whose hands twitch every few seconds, who frowns deeply. “And we can’t — these are the only ones I could find. That I can even pretend to afford. I need it to be —” He swallows. “I need you to tell me they’re real.”
Pidge is quiet for a moment. The only sound is her breathing, her nail tapping slowly on the edge of her screen.
“The link is exactly what it says it is.”
Keith sits up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, man.”
Keith bites back a cheer so he doesn’t wake Lance up. Hell yeah! This is perfect! Exactly what they needed! Just — a little bit of luck. A little bit.
“Thank you, Pidge,” he gushes, hurrying to punch in his information. “Seriously.”
Pidge huffs fondly. “Okay, dweebus. Gross. Go be all affectionate somewhere else.” She pauses. “Take a picture when you tell him.”
Keith smiles. “I will.”
———
It takes every inch of Keith’s willpower to keep his mouth shut for a whole three weeks.
“I Know you are hiding something, Kogane,” Lance says while walking home from classes, while curling up into him as they watch TV, while cooking, while showering. “I see it in your face.”
“It’s nearly Christmas, you dweebus,” Keith says every time, and every time he softens it with an exaggerated kiss to Lance’s cheek, one to make him laugh despite himself and shove Keith’s face away. “Of course I’m hiding something.”
But it’s eating at them both. Lance’s blatant curiously makes it that much harder for Keith to keep things hidden, to stash the tickets between the pages of his corniest romance novel that Lance won’t touch with a ten foot pole. To wait, and wait, and wait, as they set up the three-foot high discounted Christmas tree and Lance changes their sheets to the flannel ones his mother gave them.
But the days pass. Finals come and go and so does the time. And finally, finally, it comes time to crawl onto the creaky mattress, knees on either side of Lance, nose kisses down his neck, and murmur, “We’ve got plans today.”
Lance groans. “No we do not.”
Keith smiles widely. He knows Lance can feel it, because he scowls harder, trying to hide his own fondness even as he melts into Keith’s affections.
“Yes, we do. I know. I planned them.”
“Well, then, un-plan them,” Lance grouches. He turns over so he’s facing Keith, now, trying hard to glare up at him, but late afternoon sunlight bleeds into his dark brown eyes and makes them shine golden, and they are as warm and bright as the rest of him, and his hands slide up Keith’s chest, over his shoulders, brushing through his hair, to rest on his cheeks. “Come nap with me.”
Keith turns his head to press a kiss to Lance’s palm, keeping his mouth there. Lance rolls his eyes, and can no longer hide his smile. “Later. I made plans. Dress up, I’m gonna pick us up some food for the way. We’ll leave in forty minutes.”
“Ugh.”
“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, baby. I can see you eyeing the closet.”
“Shut up and get me a burrito.” He soothes the bite of his words by pulling Keith’s face closer to his, pressing their lips together softly. “Please.”
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s whipped, and Lance knows it, because he grins, pleased, and pulls Keith even closer, kisses him stronger. It takes Keith a good five minutes to muster up the willpower to pull away, and Lance knows it, smirking.
He finally manages to yank himself away, stumbling backwards towards the kitchenette of their studio. Lance pouts at him.
“Menace,” Keith says sternly, deliberately turning away as he pulls on his boots and coat. He ignores his boyfriend’s grumbling and finally makes it out the door, hustling to their favourite bodega and hoping it isn’t too crowded.
Thirty-seven minutes later, burritos secured, Keith is shoving his frozen fingers around the door handle to jimmy it open. The bodega was indeed crowded and they are indeed late. The show starts in an hour. From what Keith remembers from Lance’s recitals — and he has been to many — people who are late are people who miss the show. The ballet does not fuck around with tardiness and disruptions; if you’re late, that’s tough shit for you. Plan better.
“You’re going to eat shit,” Lance says, amused, the fourth time Keith power walks right over black ice and nearly actually dies. “Slow down, babe.”
Keith does not.
“Can’t,” he huffs, keeping a half-eye on the pavement. A tourist walks into him, shoving him into Lance, who takes the opportunity to slide his hand into Keith’s back pocket and wink at him when his cheeks colour.
“Why can’t we slow down? Where are we going?”
“It’s like you don’t know what surprise means.”
“I do know. I also know that if I annoy anyone long enough they’ll snap so I’ll shut up.”
“Nah. I like it when you talk.”
He’d meant it as somewhat of a comeback, as a jab back to Lance’s teasing. But suddenly Lance stops, spine going rigid, something like shock flirting across his face for half a millisecond before he blinks it away and moves again. It happens so fast that Keith would almost be convinced he’d imagined it, except Lance’s cheeks are crimson.
Keith smiles. “Lance.”
“Shut up.”
“Babydoll.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m barely sayin’ anything, baby.”
“You are so fuckin — gay, you know that? God. Who fuckin — who says shit like that? Who on this Earth?”
Keith laughs, bending down to kiss right below Lance’s ear, to feel his flushed skin warm to frozen tip of his nose.
“You are so easily flattered.”
“Easily flatter this dick. How about that. Fuckin. Jerk.”
He lets Lance grouch at him, pleased and embarrassed about it, as he pulls them along the overcrowded streets. He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes ‘til the show starts, thirteen minutes ‘til they get there. Hopefully.
“Are we almost there? It’s cold and these shoes are pinchy.”
“I told you to wear comfortable shoes!”
“You told me to dress up! I can do one of those things, Akira!”
At the seven minute mark Keith starts running. Lance, surprisingly, doesn’t complain — a grin pulls at his sharp features, actually, and he wraps their hands together and runs faster, despite not knowing where they’re going. Every time they bump into someone in a suit he laughs. He laughs harder when they curse at him. Keith has to fight to keep his head in the game, to keep running, to not stop where he’s standing and watch Lance laugh for hours and hours and hours. It’s been too long.
He nearly pulls Lance’s arm out of his socket when he stops then abruptly, shouting “Here! Here! We’re here!” and pulling him inside a well-kept brownstone.
“Where’s…here?” Lance wonders, taking in the well-salted walkway and pretty red-and-green decorations all over the aged brick.
Keith doesn’t answer. “Close your eyes.”
Lance narrows his eyes. Keith makes his expression as wide and pleading as possible, and in seconds Lance caves, much to Keith’s satisfaction.
“You’re a pain in my neck.”
Keith kisses him quickly and chastely. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t let me walk into anything.”
Satisfied that Lance won’t peek, Keith shuffles them over to the box office, holding out their tickets. The stewardess smiles at him, scanning them, eyes twinkling at Keith wordless plea for her to keep the secret, and gestures towards a grand set of doors.
“Up the stairs, to your left, seat and row on your ticket,” she murmurs. “Enjoy the show.”
Keith nods his thanks and rushes them off.
“This sounds very fancy,” Lance observes as their shoes click on the — literally marble, how the hell were these tickets $20 — floors. “Dangerously so.”
Keith shrugs. “Perhaps.”
“…Not to be. A bummer. But please tell me you remembered our budget, Keith.”
“I did, Lance. I swear.”
Lance relaxes into him, and Keith realises for the first time how tense he was. He winces to himself. He probably could have made things a tad less stressful and still kept the surprise. He’ll remember that for next year.
“Okay, good. I trust you.”
They barely make it to their seats in time. Keith’s butt barely makes contact with the cushioned chair before the lights dim and the orchestra starts tuning, the rest of the audience lapsing into almost immediate silence.
Lance inhales sharply. “Keith…?”
“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”
Lance does, and they’re wide, and his mouth drops open, slightly, and for a moment he just stares, frozen, at the stage and the lights and the set, the familiar set, as the dim light casts shadows onto his face. The orchestra’s tuning note reaches its satisfying peak, harmonizing as one sound, and Keith’s full attention is on the lines of Lance’s face, the set of his jaw, the curves of his cheekbones.
“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly.
Before he can say anything else, before Lance can say anything else, the familiar sound of pointe shoes tapping delicately across the stage steals Keith’s attention. He turns his eyes to the stage, watching the dancers strut on the stage, and — stops.
He leans forward, squinting.
What?
Keith is…very familiar with the Nutcracker. He’s grown up alongside Lance’s family since he was eight years old. He’s been to more recitals than he can count. He’s been dragged to more performances than he can ever remember. Lance has lived and breathed and loved ballet his whole damn life, for the entire time Keith has known him, and that love bled well outside of the studio, has lasted even after he aged out of the program last year. Keith knows how the Nutcracker begins, and nothing about the program said this one was supposed to be any different.
Half of the dancers walking onstage are significantly shorter than they should be.
Now he knows damn well that there are kids in the Nutcracker. The main character is a kid. That’s the whole deal.
But there is not one adult on that stage right now. Hell, not even a teenager.
Keith looks down at the ticket — Feuilles Brillant Academy. He looks back at the stage. He looks at the other audience members — lots and lots of people with camcorders. And other small children.
Keith sinks into his chair, head in his hands.
His dumb ass bough a ticket to a children’s ballet recital.
Lord above.
“Lance, I am so sorry,” he whispers, “I was so caught up in the ticket being in budget I didn’t bother actually, like, looking deeper into things, this is totally — Lance?”
Keith leans forward in alarm, hands immediately falling on Lance’s knee, on his back. His shoulders shake and his hands are pressed to his eyes.
“Shit, babe, I’m sorry,” Keith says desperately, embarrassment replaced with panic. Everything feels like it’s crashing down around him, as dramatic as that is. He’d been so excited for this. Now it’s a whole mess. “I didn’t mean to — fuck things up, shit, we can leave.”
Lance shakes his head. Blindly, he reaches over the grasps Keith’s hand, holding tightly. His own hand is damp from his tears.
“No, no, it’s — perfect,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I —”
His chin trembles, and more tears spill over his cheeks. As the music swells along to the climax of the first dance, Lance lifts the armrest separating their seats, half crawling over Keith until his head is tucked in the crook of Keith’s neck, arms folded between their chests, hands clutching at the fabric of his sweater. His voice is wet with tears and soaked in an emotion Keith can’t quite name, an almost — relief.
“It’s been so long. I didn’t want to — I thought I wouldn’t be able to do this again. I wouldn’t let myself think about it.”
Keith lets a huge, relieved exhale, sagging forward. He wraps himself more comfortably around Lance’s frame, squeezing him back, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple.
Growing up has been…hard. For the both of them.
They’d been told by everyone who knew them that they were being stupid and reckless. Keith has been promised that they won’t last more than two years by almost every grownup he’s ever known. Even his own brother had sighed his trepidation when Keith told him, stubborn and bold-faced, that he was moving in with Lance, that they were going to start their lives together the second they pulled off their caps and gowns, that they were ready for the next step. That they were eighteen and ready to face the world.
“Sacrifices,” Shiro had warned, “are going to be half your life now. It’s not that I think you can’t, Keith. I just. There’s a reason people don’t move in with their highschool sweetheart they summer after they graduate. Katy Perry wrote a whole song about it. It’s a banger.”
Keith hates it when his brother is right, and this time he was right about so many things in consecutive order. Living on your own is hard. Learning to live with someone else is harder. Doing it in a city far away from home, while balancing school and work and rent and groceries, is the hardest.
“I miss dance,” Lance croaks, and Keith closes his eyes and breathes deeply and holds Lance tighter.
He knows Lance misses dance. He knows that he hasn’t so much as listened to a ballet since they moved to New York, unless it’s in the dead of night, and he thinks Keith is asleep, and he puts in his headphones and moves their furniture as silently as he can to the edges of their tiny ass studio apartment and laces up his falling-to-pieces pointe shoes and dances like the very act of it is tearing him apart, and cries the whole time. And then stashes his shoes in the bottom of his gym bag and crawls back into bed and pretends again in the morning that he left his pointes back in Arizona. And Keith looks away and lets him because school is already twenty thousand a year and in no shape or form can they afford that and money to rent a studio.
But Keith can give him this. For a little bit, maybe, even if it’s little kids with handmade costumes pirouetting across a stage.
“I know, bluebell.”
Lance exhales, shaky, breath ghosting across Keith’s collarbones, and finally turns back towards the stage, keeping tucked under Keith’s chin. The kids dancing as the Snow Queen’s ladies-in-waiting are — three years old, maybe. At most four. They keep twirling right into each other like clumsy little bumblebees. It’s maybe the cutest thing Keith has ever seen in his entire life, and what’s better is the tiny smile that graces Lance’s face, despite the tears, growing bigger every time one of them wobbles back up to their feet and prances on, oblivious.
They watch the rest of the play in silence, Lance hands entwining with his sometime around the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy and holding fast. They stand and clap as loudly as the gathered parents, louder even, at curtain call, as each kid jumps and twirls across the stage to thrown roses and cheering. It’s adorable.
They’re among the first to walk out, because the majority of the crowd surges towards backstage to collect their kid, so the walk is blessedly unrushed. They take their time, observing the pictures of grinning ballerinas that line the walls and numerous awards on endless shelves. Keith is filled with a deep and strong longing, a strange feeling of coming home — years of waiting on plastic chairs for Lance to finish solo practice when they were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Of taking his boots off at the door and quietly sneaking in the back of the studio, ducking away from other dancers’ boring stares, to watch Lance shine under the studio lights, reflected a thousand times by mirrored walls. Of the smell of lemon cleaner and polished hardwood floors and satin.
He notices a poster on the wall, among dozens of drawings and pictures of intricate sets, and freezes.
“Lance,” he says, tilting his head, “look.”
At the end of a hallway, right next to a door, is a hand-painted banner, reading: WE’LL MISS YOU, MISS RAULA! HAPPY RETIREMENT!
He squeezes Lance’s hand. “I bet they’re looking for a replacement.”
Lance stares at the poster for a long time. “You think?”
“I think it wouldn’t hurt to shoot them an e-mail.”
Smiling, Lance stops them in the hallway, puts his hands on Keith’s shoulders, stands on his tiptoes, and kisses him, long and sweet and loving.
“I’m already in a pretty tight spot now,” he murmurs, still standing so close to Keith and smelling so sweet that he has trouble focusing on his words, “‘cause this is already kind of the best Christmas gift ever. If that ends up being true I’m never topping you again.”
Keith laughs, suddenly, not expecting the turn, and Lance grins, pulling Keith down to him and kissing him again. It’s less of a kiss and more of a press of smiles, a clack of teeth, a shared laugh.
“I love you, Lance. Merry Christmas. I will be the Gift Giving King forever.”
“Shut up, goober.” He lifts Keith’s arm, tucking himself under it as they walk back out into the snowy December night. “I love you too.”
———
based on this post (third slide)
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ghouljams · 9 months
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I'm gripping ballet Konig in my little rat hands and God do I want more I feel like he's so spacially aware and it works so well ahhhhhhhhhhhh thank you for this gift
He's so aware of everything, jacked into the reality mainframe so he never misses a jump or steps on anyone's toes. He's big so he has to know exactly where he is in space. I think he can probably approximate distances and heights within a few inches. Here's more of the ballet boy.
Konig has never been attracted to ballerinas. In high school he’d heard boys talking about taking ballet, how he must have an in with all the pretty girls in his class, but he’d never thought about it that way. He liked women, but ballerinas? Ballerinas were… gross. There was nothing that broke the magic of the stage quite as beautifully as watching a woman make pants out of a garbage bag, or use spit to slick her hair down, or compare blisters and broken toes. No, the women he worked with were insane. He envied the boyfriends that got all the pretty parts of ballerinas, and he envied the other men in the company who couldn’t have cared less about women.
Still, ballerinas loved him. Every studio Konig walked into he found himself swarmed with ballerinas asking to be lifted. The absolutely maddening process of auditions, every woman dying to be cast as lead so they could practice with him. Which sounded self centered, but they told him so! These women, they drove him crazy. He couldn’t get a spare moment to himself, not a second of quiet. It was hell for an introvert. His anxiety spiked when a ballerina so much as looked at him.
His arm shot out without even thinking, catching you around the waist as your ankle slipped and you fell from a pirouette. You're rigid in his grip, poised in the way only years of training drill into a person. Then something breaks and you descend into a fit of giggles. You're beautiful.
"Nice catch," You tell him, breathless with laughter.
"Nice fall," König isn't quite sure how to respond, but it seems to make you laugh again before your wiggling in his hold. Likely looking for release. He shifts his grip and picks you up to set you on your feet again. You point your toes to resume your practice as he does, pushing off his hands to finish your spin. His hands hover nearby, desperate to touch you, lift you, anything you could ask of him.
You stop, dropping off Pointe, and blink up at him, at his waiting hands, "Oh, did you want to lift me?"
"Do you- do you not want me to lift you?" He asks, brain stalling at the idea. A ballerina that doesn't want to be lifted? Unheard of.
"I think the choreographer has a lot of lifts planned for our duets, I don't want to wear you out." You smile and König wonders where your wings are, because you must be an angel to smile at him like that.
"I won't wear out," he promises, nearly shaking with the desire to hold you again. He is so precariously held together, his adoration tearing at the seams as you look at him. He's chomping at the bit to be on his knees for you, to see you lose any measure of your poise for him.
"I thought you didn't like lifts," you tell him, holding onto one of his hands to slide your fingers along the strap of your Pointe shoe. His eyes widen. You finish your inspection and drop your hand, "Thanks for the catch, you know how it is breaking in new shoes."
He watches as you walk back to the barre. How did you know he didn't like lifting the other women? He'd never told anyone or voiced his annoyance with their constant asking. There was no way for you to know. Unless you were watching him as closely as he was watching you.
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kisskiss-slashslash · 10 months
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Could you perhaps make the slashers with a s/o who's a ballerina??
Don't forget to stay hydrated, eat well and rest! <3
Sorry this took so long 😅
Slashers with a ballerina s/o
Jason Voorhees
Oh? He doesn’t know a lot about ballet, but he likes watching you practice. You’re so graceful, and just seeing you like this makes him feel so damn lucky to have you for an s/o!
Vincent Sinclair
Being the artist he is, he of course appreciates the hard work and dedication that goes into your dancing. He might try to get his hands on some records of pieces from famous ballets so you can dance and practice with them, and for those that require a partner, he may learn some simple, basic steps himself.
Freddy Krueger
He is honestly not an artsy guy and thinks stuff like ballet is pretentious garbage, but he loves you enough to let you dance on a dream-stage with a bunch of clones of himself in the audience, watching (and occasionally heckling) you.
Brahms Heelshire
His parents tried to raise him to be a man of culture… emphasis on *tried*. He watches closely while you practice, but something is telling you that he is not concentrating on your skills as such.
Bubba Sawyer
He will try to dance with you. Maybe you can teach him some very simple steps to begin with. Bubba wants to share the things that make you happy, and he will be over the moon if you find some way to include him in your dancing.
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writingbyshiloh · 10 months
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I Love as Madly as I Hate
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CW: JW universe (blood, reader kills and gets stabbed), ANGST!, Reader wears a dress, verbal fighting, dead marrage, Vincent being a dick and no beta (and Grammarly gave up halfway through), One sentence in French which means “leave us alone”, implied smut
AN: I hope this is angst, I don't really read angst myself. I overthought the tense this is in so much that words don't make sense anymore. FUN FACT! The title is from Les Fleurs du Mal which I want to have made an appearance in the other Marquis fic but I thought the title was fitting.
The bounty amount is in the sweet spot. High enough that it’s worth the effort, but not too high that half the world would also be trying to bag them with you. The only problem was with who set the bounty. That would be your ex, of six months. Well technically he's still considered your husband, and you were still legally married.  
That was your fault, bringing up the idea of a divorce, and waiting for him to sign. Wanting to get one last dig in while still married, you act surprised, reminding him he can’t get a second marriage, second changes are for men who failed the first time, remember? He took the papers from your hand, never for you to see again. Sometimes you think he burned them. 
The hit was for a mob member - Lukas Matthews, young and new to the underworld, not sure how things worked. He stole from one of his bosses, an acquaintance of Vincent. The younger mob man was distracted by all things flashy, expensive, and pretty. 
You didn’t have any trouble donning a sparkly dress, paying admittance to some dive club to stalk the man. As long as you push down the feeling that you were really just doing this to get a glimpse of Vincent, it was okay. Great even. Maybe if you were a normal person you could just call him. 
You watch the target for a while, sipping on soda from the bar so you could blend in. The man was still with his friends, and you figured it would be easier to take him when he was alone, probably outside, away from the other members of his group or innocent partygoers. 
—. 
Lukas ultimately lost, but he fought nasty. Maybe you were still rusty. The rest of your night now consisted of trying to patch up yourself or trying to find a black market doctor to fix you, depending on how bad your shoulder gets.
You were littered with scrapes, small cuts and sore muscles, but your shoulder got the worst of the battle. Lukas managed to cut quite deep with a broken beer bottle. Once it heals it will be a reminder of all the things you do to try and convince yourself that you’re over your husband. 
Pain flared every time you moved your shoulder, the wound being an inch or two below your collarbone left you trying to keep half your body still. You settle on taking Lukas’s hand, with the mob tattoo. You and Vincent know members of that mob would rather die than cut off their symbol. 
With the body shoved against a trash can, you place a few garbage bags to cover the mess. The hardest part of the evening was still to come. With your good hand, you fish out your phone from your bag. 
You assume he is attending some ballet dance or performance. You felt a bitter twist of jealousy. Was he there with someone? Has he moved on that fast? You think mind racing. When you texted the Accountants that you completed the bounty, you received a call from Chidi. 
“I hear you collected the bounty. Do you have proof of death?” he questioned. 
“I do. I have the hand with the tattoos, but the body’s here I can get something else” you rambled down the line, suddenly much more nervous than before. 
“Please hold.” 
The line was quiet, you watched people come and go from the club, secluded from the side street you were in. Backtracking into the club, hand in your bag you returned your coat check ticket. At least the jacket will cover up the bleeding, you can get the bounty and go home. 
“Hello?” Chidis's voice returned. 
“Yeah, I'm here.” 
“Tell me your address, the Marquis de Gramont will be sending a car.” 
The Marquis de Gramont looked amazing. He tried to always look his best in his suits, complete with an incredibly complicated knot, chains, and his signature pin. You still have your pin, hidden in a shoe box in your closet. Tonight was no exception to his looks. 
His suit was reflecting the lights in his mansion. You knew from the glitter, this was a suit he would were at a cultural outing. Bitter jealousy bites at your insides. Was he there with someone? Did he move on that fast? Is it a mistress? You think. The jealousy dies when you still see his wedding ring on his left hand. Your wedding ring feels heavier on your right. 
You both look at each other, his gaze lingering on your exposed legs, no doubt covered in blood. You felt exposed standing in the center of the large room. 
Vincent was the one to break the silence first “Did I buy you that dress?”
“No. I’ve had it for a while” 
He nods, stepping closer. 
“Proof?” 
You frown thinking he was asking about the dress, before remembering the severed hand. 
“It's here. Tattoos and all.” you struggle to get the appendage out of your bag without moving your bad shoulder. At least you had the sense to wrap the hand in a plastic bag. 
“Come to my office. We can talk in there” 
You do not want to “talk in his office”. The last time, you went to “talk in his office” about a bounty it ended up with you naked on his desk, the cold chain from his suit vest and his ring pressed against you. 
“I should go. You can just wire me the money or something” You reject. 
You can tell you surprised him before his face shifts back to a more neutral expression. 
“I have a nasty scratch so…” you trail off, hoping he leaves the issue. 
His gaze almost softens. The separation was less than a year ago, you guess that he still cares for you. He still keeps tabs on you, your neighbour works for him you’re almost certain of it. 
“Where?”
You gesture with your chin to your shoulder. 
The pressure from his stare makes you break down and shrug off your jacket, the inside sticky with blood. 
Already he is in front of you, pressing a cloth against your wound. 
“You need to see the doctor, mon amour.” 
You hate yourself for leaning into his touch, but at least he has good contacts for an underground doctor. It won’t be that hard to get in and out right?
The doctor arrived fast, not wanting to piss off the Marquis. You knew him from your early days of dating, long before your marriage, when Vincent insisted you quit. You wonder if the doctor remembers you. If he does, he doesn’t show it. 
You just didn’t think Vincent was going to join you. He watches the doctor tend to your shoulder first, sewing neat rows of stitches to hold your flesh in place. You stare at your jacket on a spare chair, no doubt forever stained in blood. The good doctor already gave a warning about closing your eyes, so you keep your gaze on the jacket, your nails on your good hand leaving imprints on the chair arm from the tension between you and Vincent. 
The doctor moves on to more minor wounds, mostly cleaning them, and patching them up if needed. Ignoring your soft hiss when the cleaner he is using hurts more than you expected.
Vincent is watching the doctor, scowling when you flinch in pain. 
The instant the doctor pushed the tray with his tools and bloody tissues away, Vincent speaks for the first time since the three of you sat down.
“Laissez-nous seuls” 
The doctor protests, wanting to give you instructions on caring for his work, making sure you don’t rip anything open. 
Vincent glares at the doctor, who places down some gause for you to take home and leaves without another word, closing the door behind him. 
The Marquis drops to his knees for a better look at your injury. One hand cups the back of your shoulder blade to keep you still, as he inspects you. You’re sure you smell disgusting, the smell of the bar soaked into your dress and your hair. The doctor cleaned up most of the blood, but Vincent never really cared about literally getting his hands bloody if the time was right. He would just wipe them on a cloth and toss it aside for one of his housekeepers to pick up. 
You turn your whole face away, as much as your shoulder will let you, sure he can feel how hot your face is across the distance. The feel of his eyes is heavy, and almost magnetic, pulling you to look at him. His other hand is on the armrest of your chair. 
“Don’t,” you said softly, trying to preserve any of the dignity that you had left. 
“Don’t what, mon amour” he whispered, still looking at your shoulder. 
“This.” You were mostly saying this to yourself, knowing that you only had seconds to get out of his personal space before you give in. You’re tired and hurt and he's right there, acting how he did when you first fell in love with him. 
You tilt your head back almost automatically to give him more access to your throat. He moved slowly, pressing kisses against your jaw like it would be the last time, before working his way to your mouth and kissing you properly. 
It’s like a bomb waiting to go off, not only having sex with him but also having to navigate yourself out of his bed without one of you making a gripe at the other. 
Well, not technically his bed. This was yours, in a guest room you made your own while being married, now empty. You moved your stuff out during the separation. Sometimes you regret not taking the bedclothes with you, but now you’re thankful you can feel them, cool and soft against your skin. 
You had no choice but to stay lying on your back, trying to keep your injury still. He was next to you in the same fashion. 
“You are still wearing your ring.” He speaks quietly. As if to prove his point, he toys with your wedding band. 
“I helped design it, of course, I’m going to show it off,” you reply not being able to look him in the eye. 
He kissed the back of your hand.  
“I believe I designed it, you just suggested the stones.” 
Hand flexed to fully show off the stones, you had to agree. 
The stones were suggested by you, on a date to le Musée de Minéralogie. It was just the two of you, and you had been taken with the rubies. Vincent walked alongside you, filling you in on information you might not have known. It was an off-handed comment from you, how red is a colour for both blood and love, very fitting in your line of work. 
“You have good taste,” he says while you think had instead. 
His hand skimmed your bare side, nimble fingers finding a small bump that was not there before your flight with Lukas. 
You flinched at the dull pain, not surprised if he “accidentally” poked it. 
“You should let me take care of you, mon amour.” 
That was it. The same words that started and ended your marriage. Being taken care of by Vincent made you feel like a doll, sitting on a shelf, never allowed to do anything. 
“Vincent,” You spoke with caution, the pain slowly seeping back into your body.
He held your chin gently, commanding your gaze to look at him. You softened looking at him. 
“It is true. Do you think I like seeing you like this?” he asks. 
“I don’t know what you like” you retort, steeling yourself for the argument to come. 
“I like you.” 
“Oh, you do? Is that why you made me quit bounty work?” you snap. 
“I asked you to stop because you're not very good at it and I did not want a dead fiancé.” 
Ouch. 
“If you were a better fighter, you would take higher bounties.” 
You don’t look at him as you leave the bed. You know he's sneering at you. 
But you’re not going to shrink away even though you’re naked. You know you have to get dressed in front of him but you can put on a brave face.
 “Thanks for this lovely reminder of why our marriage failed.” You spit out. You know the failed comment will piss him off. 
You leave without a second look, cheap shoes squeaking against the floor. 
You felt the lock slide open under the key, your apartment slightly cold and quiet. You still smelled like his cologne, only now the smell reminds you of the recent bitter memories. You discard your bag as you make your way to your bed in your apartment. Away from Vincent. 
As you take off your dress for the second time you feel your phone buzz. 
[Unknown number: Wire Transfer Sent. Deposit for Lukas is confirmed.]
Seeing him mixed with the rush of adrenaline after the fighting was too much, especially with the separation so fresh. Maybe he was right. Maybe you should go after higher bounties, especially not those set by him. 
Taglist: @heartrot666, @soraya-daydreams
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cryptidwritings · 29 days
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Pocket
My first foray into tiny whump, because I was really inspired by this post and couldn't get the idea out of my head.
Content: accidental caretaker, caretaker new master, tiny whumpee, immortal whumpee, conditioned whumpee, abandonment, magical whumpee, nonmagical caretaker.
...
It was cold. Eight am was no reasonable time to be outside or among a crowd.
Emery stood with a cup of coffee in her hand and a pair of sunglasses on, huddled in her winter coat with four hundred dollars in cash clenched territorially in her pocket.
Hopefully she could get this storage unit for cheap. She couldn't throw a bunch of money around and, judging by the crowd and the cars they showed up in, they had more than twice what she did at their disposal. This was their job, and Emery was there only at the chance to rent the only open storage locker remotely close to her.
She was desperate, basically. The underpaid employee on the phone basically told her to try, but there wasn't a guarantee.
The auction began with a small unit. Dirty, barely anything in it. It went for ten bucks. Emery was cautiously optimistic. Maybe that was an omen to the crowd, but a green light for her. After all, she didn't care what was actually in the locker.
They approached. The unit was opened. Emery took a peak over the crowd on her tip-toes.
"Another garbage unit."
"Pretty sure I saw that same desk going for fifteen bucks. Been on the site three months."
The bidding began, and it went from five to twenty. Okay, no big deal. She put her hand up. Thirty. Then forty.
"Sold! For fifty five dollars. Make sure to pay at the desk."
Emery was shaking. What a rush. She ran to the office, warmer and way more awake.
"Sorry, it's already been signed for."
"What? But... I really need a locker."
"Sorry, dunno what to tell you."
Emery paid. "Is there any way-"
"No. Empty the locker by tomorrow or we'll have to charge you, okay?"
Fucking fantastic.
By the time she opened the locker, she had almost forgotten just how much stuff was actually in it.
The door slapped open with an echoing bang, and she stepped inside. She started with the big things up front. A desk and bedroom set. She took pictures and placed them for free with pickup.
She kept going, finally having cleared a path to the back where a large piece of furniture sat in the back corner, covered by a painters cloth. Emery pulled it down, gawking at a large, and really heavy, armoire.
It was the nicest piece in the unit, which had plenty of room for her things. Maybe she could sell it? Make some money to spend?
She began her investigation by looking at the back. The flashlight on her phone found nothing. Then she moved to the doors; outfitted with ornate brass pulls and hand carved vines encircling them. She pulled it open, assessing the doors and finding a little marks on the inside. Unreadable.
Emery turned on her flashlight again, this time turning it to the inside of the cabinet. It was full of little trinkets. Tiny ceramic animals, ballet figurines made of china, porcelain dolls that looked... expensive as fuck.
Then, in the very back of the bottom shelf, there was a glass box. It was the biggest thing in the cabinet; about eight inches long and six inches wide. She lift it from its spot, careful not to knock anything over. Maybe it was something rare. She took a look, surprised.
It was a charming miniature bedroom with a wooden bed and nightstand, complete with a crochet circular rug, a cozy chair, and a light hanging from the glass roof with wires that led through the base to a battery underneath. She turned it on, and that's when she spotted a little person with green hair lying in the bed, asleep.
It looked so real.
Especially when it... opened it's... eyes?
"What the fuck!" She almost dropped the thing, but caught it as a little scream came whistling out of the glass. She put it on a shelf that matched her height, and witnessed for herself the little thing... the little person, pushing themself off of the floor and fixing their upturned nightstand.
"Oh no. Oh no." Their voice was worried as they cleaned up quickly, glancing at Emery as she gaped at them.
"H-hello!" They said, nervously, still attending to the mess. "I'm s-sorry I scared you."
Emery didn't answer, too shocked. It was talking... to her.
The little thing looked at her again, giving her it's full attention. "I... I'm sorry... master didn't like my room to be messy... I... do you..." their face twisted and they began to cry. "I don't want to make you mad. P-please don't put me back in there!"
"Oh..." Emery snapped out of her stupor. "No. I... I'm sorry I just can't believe you're... alive?"
The thing... whatever it was... was still crying but put on a smile.
"Thank you! Yes. I-" it sniffed. "I didn't mean to scare you. M-my name is Pocket."
"Pocket?" Emery said. "What... are you?"
Pocket smiled, their cheeks turning rosy. "I'm a pixie!"
"A pixie." Emery relaxed back, realizing she had dropped her phone on the ground in all the excitement. She picked it up, groaning at the cracked screen glass. "Damn it, all."
"Are you upset, master?"
At that, Emery looked back up at... Pocket, whose rosy cheeks suddenly were sapped of color. Their emerald-green eyes flooded with tears again.
"Oh, no!" Emery reassured, holding up her phone. "I just cracked my phone. But it isn't your fault!"
They beamed at the reassurance but couldn't stop their tears. They hid their face behind their hands a moment, taking small breaths. When they removed their hands, it was as if they weren't crying at all, and their emerald eyes had turned a bright peridot.
"Oh good! I'm so glad you're not upset! I-"
"Hello?"
Emery turned to see a man at the entrance of the unit.
"Are you the one who asked about renting this locker?"
"Yeah, that's me. Am I taking too long?"
"No, not at all. The other tenant fell through, actually. Do you still need it?"
Emery's eyes widened. "Yes! Um, just give me one-" She glanced at pocket, who was already lying back in their bed, still as before. She blinked, suddenly feeling as if their interaction might have been a dream.
She turned back to the man. "Nevermind. I'll follow you."
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muvaginger · 1 month
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Jolie Silhouette | A Concept
BalletMaster!GiyuuTomiokaXDancer!Reader
CW: None
French Definitions: étoile (Principle Dancer), “mon cher ami” (my dear friend), Oui (Yes)
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“Pirouetting in these new slips are an absolute pain. Did you really have to throw away my old ones? They were still good, you know.” You say while slowly pulling off the left slipper from your calloused foot, causing you to wince. “It was about time you threw those old ones away, mon cher ami! How could I call myself your friend by allowing you to dance with those disgusting things?” Camille, a dear friend of yours since grade school says while zipping up her bag. “You should be thanking me! They were absolutely awful, y/n. Bon débarras!”
She was right, they were awful. But they were yours. Every crease and scuff were made from your countless hours of training and if you really wanted to be honest, you could even say that an infusion of your blood, sweat and tears were embedded into them so to have them taken and thrown away stung. They were your first pair of professional ballet shoes and even though you found them in a nearby garbage bin near the studio, you made the best out of them. And with some elbow grease and thread they became yours. It hurt but you understood it had to be done.
“They were still mine though. You knew how much they meant to me, Camille.” You mumble quietly as you finish up bandaging your feet and slipping on your tennis shoes. “Oui, oui, mon amour, I know they meant the world to you and that they were your first but you know as much as I do that you will not even be considered for étoile if you keep them and we don’t want that!” Before you can attest, you feel a tap on your shoulder. You suddenly look behind you to see one of the younger ballet dancers standing there, looking down at you.
“Y/N, the ballet master wishes to see you now”
The ballet master? Wanting to see you again? What for this time? You stare at her for a second and then turn back to Camille, whose expression was just as confused. You ask just to confirm and the little girl nods and says “Yes, I’m certain. Mrs French sent me to fetch you. Also, Tomioka is in her office.” You again give her a puzzled look before just nodding. “Did she happen to say what for?” Camille asks and the little girl just shook her head. You turn back around to see your friend who once had a puzzled expression now carry an expression of mischief. A sly smile spreading across her face as if knowing her suspicions were starting to become fact.
“Tell me that I am crazy now, mon cher ami. That’s the third time this week that he’s called for you.” She whispers while lightly smacking her hand on your shoulder. You roll your eyes, earning a drawn out “come on” from Camille. “You know I’m right! First it was the needless nitpicking. Then the stopping in at random times during practice to scold you and now this. You can not tell me this is just a coincidence. You just can’t! ESPECIALLY after this” She says while standing up and then extending her hand to you. You look up and then shake your head in response. “I think you are thinking too much into this, Cam.” You say while grabbing her hand. “ I’ll meet you back at our apartment, okay?” Your friend sighs as she watches you join the little kid who was sent to fetch you.
As you’re led to his office, Camille’s words echoed through your mind. What if she’s right and theres something more to this than just a teacher being harsh or concerned for his student? You shake your head at the thought, knowing that he didn’t like you anymore than anyone else. But in the same breath, found it strange that after all these years after you confessed to him how you used to feel he would start acting strangely now that you were technically in his league.
Before you knew it, you were in front of the office doors and could hear two people talking from within. You’re nervous but not because of the office itself but because of the people inside of it. You shouldn’t be seeing as you have met with said people just recently but it always seems to feel uneasy when you do so. Why are you being called this time?
Hours later, you’re finally heading up the stairs to your apartment. The meeting was brief but the feeling of uneasiness still lingered. Long story short, you were being asked to assist Giyuu and teaching one of the younger ballet classes in which you of course agreed to seeing as it’s a way out of going to class. While speaking to your teacher, you felt this intense feeling that you were being stared at. You didn’t dare check to see but knew deep down that he was indeed staring at you. It’s been a trend lately and you’re still unsure how to feel about it but every time you even think of looking back at him, he’s already doing something else. It was strange seeing as he never used to act this way but you shook it off and and headed inside.
The shock on your face when you opened the door and saw none other than the man you were just thinking about sitting on your sofa next to two other ballet dancers and Camille was definitely warranted and as soon as the door clicked closed, they all turned to face you. Why was he here and why is everyone staring at you? Before you can move from your spot, Camille pops up and takes you into her room and closes the door. Your hand in hers she whispers excitedly, “when were you going to tell me?!?”
The look of confusion must have answered for you because Camille suddenly starts word vomiting about how you were going to not just be assisting Giyuu in teaching the younger classes but also that you signed up to audition for the étoile in “Black Swan”. You stared at her as she was congratulating you and also cussing you out for not telling her and the only thing that you could say was “what?” Which prompted her to hug you and then drag you out the room. Before you knew it, you both were sitting side by side on the other side of the couch while Giyuu and your other two friends were talking about something dealing with food and the Camille says, “And why didn’t you tell me you two were dating?!?” Dating? Dating?!? Your heart drops down to your stomach as it echos through your mind on repeat.
“W-what?”
“Yeah, so while we were chilling and talking about the shows coming up and how people are starting to hook up-“
“Wait, why are they here in the first place, Camille?”
“Oh, yeah because I wanted to hang out and Giyuu was already with them so I-“
“Who said this and who am I dating again?”
She stops and turns to you before pointing at Giyuu and loudly saying “yeah, Giyuu just said you two have been dating for over a month but was too scared to say anything. Right, Giyuu?”
Everyone stops talking and stares first at you and then him. You never noticed this before now but he never shows emotions other than the cool and stoic type. But today, for the first time ever, he smiled. “Yes, that’s right. I finally told them.” Before you can protest, everyone started bombarding you both with questions and the main thing being why you both hid it. I’m stunned silence, you watch as this man told them all the most elaborate yet believable lie you have ever told and all you could do was sit there.
While the others squealed, you catch a glimpse of him mouthing that he will explain everything later and then went back to entertaining them. Whatever the reason it better be good because this was not how you thought the day would end. Little did you know that this would start a series of events that will not just shape yours but everyone else’s lives around you. Love, hatred, loss and success will soon be coming your way. Oh how a simple little white lie between two people whose worlds were far apart can collide, making a catastrophic disaster take place among the stars.
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Note: this is not proofread. This was an idea that randomly came to me while washing dishes. I don’t know if anything will come out of this but if not, oh well.
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starting a tag game for writers
Hi, it's Asmi! Okay, so, I've seen so many people afraid to start/continue writing because they're afraid it'll be garbage. And it's so sad how much joy and creativity is getting lost because of that fear. I've written utter shit before, and looking back on it is actually hilarious, and also, it's a reminder of how far I've come as a writer.
I really, really want people to be less afraid of the written word and of creating, and to get rid of that aura of mystery and elitism that often covers the writing process. Writing is messy and it's hell and it's torture. And it's amazing.
So here's the tag game:
Give me three lines/paragraphs that you've written that you love [fiction, non-fiction, from different works or the same, from completed stories or poems or WIPs, from yesterday or ten years ago] that you love. If that seems hard, even one will do. It doesn't have to be perfect. It can just be something silly that gives you joy.
And give me three lines/paragraphs that you've written that you dislike and find shitty. Anything at all as long as you wrote it. If you think it's ridiculous or absolute fucking garbage, even better! That's the point of this game. To see that we all write good things and bad things. Yeah? You can do this. And remember that both these categories are subjective.
I'll start. It's not as scary as it seems, I promise.
Things I've written that I find shitty:
The first man grabbed him by his collar, pinned him against the wall of the cave in which they were standing, and spat, “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done before. If the Queen’s not in the graveyard tonight, King Baza’s going to plan a most delightful execution for you. And even if he doesn’t, you being his nephew and all, I will arrange an accidental blowing up of your house when you are, tragically, inside.” [discount wall slam scene courtesy of 2016 Asmi, you're welcome]
“Overreacting?” said Dextor in disbelief, staring at Jay like, ‘What is wrong with you, dude?’ [sigh. my serious-scene-writing left a lot to be desired.]
“Don’t go,” I said, fighting tears. “Please, don’t leave me, too! You’re all I have left.” Strange thoughts for a child, but I meant every word. She looked at me with anguish. “I am sorry, Phil. Believe me, you are all I have, too, and this hurts me more than it does you. You’re like my son.” [I'm hysterical rereading this melodramatic shit, which was NOT the intended effect]
Things that I've written that I love:
He dropped the books onto a nearby chair and pulled her into his arms as he’d been longing to do all day, the smell of blueberries and hair product and her. The books she was holding were pressed against his chest, and he didn’t care. Why did he need to love the stars when he could love her, why did he need to look up at the sky for answers when they were right there in his arms? [I love this because when I first wrote it, I thought it was romantic, but I realised later that the boy, Ant, is aroace, and it doesn't change a thing about this scene, except that their love is platonic]
"Maybe being happy is the best that we can do. Maybe that’s more than most people manage, anyway.” They stood in front of the entrance, over puddles that reflected all the broken skyscrapers and the colours of the street and the grey-yellow sky. “Whatever you do with your parents,” she said. “Don’t let your guilt get in the way of doing ballet. It’s not wrong to be happy. It’s not.” [This is from the book I finished and I published, and I just really like this paragraph. It's not my favourite, but it makes me smile.]
The last you may leave wherever you please, wherever it is birds land to die. [A line from a poem I wrote in 2022, I like the rhythm]
(It took effort to find ones that I wanted to share, oof. If you find this difficult just know you're not alone. I usually like my writing, but turns out it's hard to take something you created and go hey, look, I'm proud of this. But we can do it.)
Alright, of course anyone who sees this is welcome to join, and tag the writers you know so we can all be uh writerly together :") but to start it off, no pressure tags @howmanyholesinswisscheese, @1800ineedshelp, @queermarzipan, @thescholarlystrumpet, @madfangirlontheloose.
Oh, and also tagging @neil-gaiman, @dduane, @drchucktingle just because maybe if you see this and join in, new writers will find comfort in knowing their role models have ups and downs, good and bad days too :")
Have a lovely day, everyone, and keep writing.
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evewasheretoday · 9 months
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My Heathers Headcanons!
Heather Chandler:
Has a hidden talent for playing the piano. She usually plays classical music in her spare time and finds it to be some sort of way to let her release her emotions.
Has a soft spot for animals (especially cats).
Used to visit animal shelters all the time as a kid but eventually grew out of it.
She's actually super smart.
She hides that about herself though because it might ruin her.
She plays chess and she's excellent at it.
Believe it or not, Westerberg's Mythic Bitch can cook. SHE CAN ACTUALLY COOK!
Secretly loves to read novels at home.
Likes to pretend she hates any nicknames that anyone has for her but secretly adores them.
She's actually very protective of people she considers as important to her.
Has a habit of planning the social demise of almost everyone who pisses her off.
Has a habit of daydreaming the misery of people she hates.
She's caring in her own way.
Will not hesitate to ruin someone's day if she was given the chance to do it.
Is a sadist.
Heather Duke:
Secretly has the habit of judging anyone in her mind.
Will most likely keep her thoughts and opinions to herself unless someone asks for them.
Is a closeted artist who enjoys painting whatever problems she has on her mind to kinda forget about them.
Is an avid collector of vintage fashion who has an impressive wardrobe filled with unique pieces from different eras.
Secretly writes poetry as a way to express the things she can never express to others.
Has the habit of being snarky to anyone when she's in a bad mood.
Has the unhealthy habit of masking her insecurities with being egocentric.
Is a quiet and reserved person who will slowly but surely open up to you easily if the two of you guys share the same interests.
Will do bad things to anyone out of spite.
Prefers to be comforted by actions rather than words.
Hates romcoms but still watches them because of her friends.
Is a caring person but will not show it openly.
Has the habit of overthinking sometimes.
Has a back up plan for almost everything.
Loves mystery and fantasy stories.
Heather McNamara:
Is a daddy's girl somehow.
Loves pancakes.
Is very naive and oblivious to things.
Will not hesitate to tease someone if she was given the chance to do it.
Loves her friends equally.
Knows that her relationship with the Heathers and Veronica can barely be counted as friendship but still counts it as one.
Is morally ambiguous.
Wants to actually have friends that are good but sticks with the Heathers because she was friends with them first and because even if they don't have a healthy relationship with each other, they still care for her in their own way.
Loves to be spoiled by people she loves.
Loves to be cared for by people she loves.
Loves cartoon and watches them from time to time when she gets home from school or on the weekends when there's no school.
Sings in the shower and you can't tell me otherwise.
Is an animal lover who wants to have her own pet but sadly can't have one because her mom is asthmatic and dislikes animals.
Used to attend ballet classes back in elementary school.
Is a good baker.
Veronica Sawyer:
Loves romantic comedies.
Just like Duke who's an avid collector of vintage fashion, she's an avid collector of classic literature books.
Is a book nerd.
Will not hesitate to correct anyone who made a grammatical error in their words.
Is secretly a sucker for happy endings in stories.
Will ask you to keep her out of any gossip talks while secretly listening in on your gossip talk.
Loves to annoy people by reminding them of their mistakes.
Will not hesitate to bring up something you deeply regretted doing or a mistake of yours in the past to defend herself against you in an argument.
Will use your insecurities against you in an argument if you aren't planning on giving up soon.
Loves going to carnivals and winning prizes from there.
Will tell and give someone something as a gift when it's actually just garbage in her eyes and doesn't want it.
Had a wild imagination as a kid.
Loves puns.
Will make puns to annoy Heather and Heather.
Will reluctantly trust anyone to do anything.
Bonus!
Veronica's zodiac sign is Scorpio.
Heather Chandler's zodiac sign is Leo.
Heather McNamara's zodiac sign is Pisces.
Heather Duke's zodiac sign is Virgo.
Heather Duke has a pet hamster.
Heather Chandler has a pet cat.
Veronica Sawyer has a pet dog named “Rookie”
Heather McNamara has a pet frog named “Toadie”
Veronica Sawyer is an INFP.
Heather Chandler is an ESTJ.
Heather McNamara is an ESFJ.
Heather Duke is an ISTJ.
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sinnohelitefourlore · 3 months
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Since people liked this post, I am back to ranking how well I think the Sinnoh League members could dance:
13. Crasher Wake
My dude has two left feet. He has no sense of rhythm, none at all. He tries to do complicated dance moves and falls on his ass at least once.
12. Bertha
This is mostly an age thing. If Bertha was say, 30 years younger, I'm sure she could probably be a better dancer than half the people on this list. She's higher than Crasher Wake because she doesn't fall on her ass.
11. Cynthia
I think she's really clumsy. She could pick up and understand dance moves and has an okay sense of rhythm, but it would take a while.
10. Byron
This is another case where if Byron was younger, I feel like he would absolutely be able to bust it out on the dance floor. But alas, he is over 40. He gets bonus points because he has better rhythm than Cynthia, but picks up and understands dance moves at the same rate as she does.
9. Volkner
He can dance. He just doesn't want to.
8. Lucian
This might be controversial, but I think Lucian could be a good dancer - but more of a ballroom style, of dancing. He's actually quite good at ballroom dancing, and the reason why he isn't any higher is because he's absolutely garbage at any other style.
7. Roark
So you might be noticing a pattern, in which I have the younger Sinnoh League members in the top 7. Because I think the younger league members would be good dancers. However Roark is the worst of the lot. But I do think he'd be a fairly decent dancer if he got training for it. Things like hip-hop or contemporary. Don't ask him to do a lyrical routine because he will punch you in the face.
6. Maylene
I am keeping in mind the stature of the league members. I think Maylene would do exceptionally well not only because of her size, because she already expresses her body through movement, and I think dance would be hella therapeutic for her considering her dad's a gambling addict.
5. Gardenia
She gives me ballerina vibes. Vibes of someone who's mother forced them to do ballet at age three and when Gardenia turned ten she stopped when she went on her Pokemon journey but seven years of ballet just don't go away. Sometimes she likes dancing in her gardens.
4. Fantina
If Fantina was twenty years younger she would have everyone in this list beat and it wouldn't be even close. I think it would make sense that Fantina was trained in the arts. She is a performer, above all.
3. Flint
Unlike his singing abilities, I think Flint could absolutely be a great dancer. He even looks like one. He could break it down on the dance floor, would make others try to dance with him (cough, cough Volkner) and is the ultimate hype man. I sorta HC that there were a lot of street performers in Sunyshore (the break dancers you see in NYC, and maybe he learned from there. It could explain why Volkner would know a thing or two about dancing too).
2. Candice
Always second best, when it comes to singing and dancing, I believe. She, like Gardenia, also gives off learning dance at age three vibes except she is totally in practice and continues to go to dance class once a week, as a hobby. She looks like someone who would enjoy tap and jazz. She likes the sound of the clicking of the tap shoes the most, and she enjoys swing dances that you'd see in the 40s.
Aaron
I know this is controversial, but hear. me. out.
This boy has the body of a dancer, flat-out. He has the best physique for a male dancer. It also helps that his mother used to be a dancer. So Aaron's mom put him in a dance class, when he just learned to walk, thinking that he would be into hip-hop or something else usually for boys. But no. While being good at all types of dance, Aaron shines in lyrical routines, like his mom :) I HC that he's a very sensitive person, and I think the emotional ballads of a lyrical routine would fit his character very well. His love for dance only grew once he saw how graceful and beautiful his bug-Pokemon moved, and wants to be just as perfect as them. On days off from the league when he's not in Eterna Forest, Aaron could be found in the basement of the Sinnoh League, and would dance for hours.
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yahoo201027 · 2 years
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Day in Fandom History: June 12…
While Cole tries to stop Paige from hunting down a rat when being ill, Owen investigates what happened with the sanitary crew when dealing with a garbage problem as Molly becomes concerned over Brendan. “Garbage Ballet” premiered on this day, 2 Years Ago.
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ballet-symphonie · 6 months
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OK, I kind of see what you're saying with tricks in exams. I just hate hate hate tricks. They usually lose the musicality of the steps and it's extremely jarring to watch. Especially in slow combinations where things like grand tours usually are, trying to fit a triple in the music changes the tempo in a way I dislike. The kind of thing that only looks good in a 10 second TikTok video, but has no business in a class combination, much less on a stage.
See this is where I disagree, ballet is always evolving. Dancers are capable of feats now that were basically impossible in earlier generations due to cross-training, improved dancewear, nutrition, and an influx of different techniques. Dancers are raging perfectionists and class time is exactly where they improve themselves and push their boundaries and the limits of technique. What do they work for if to not show it on stage?
I think the bigger issue is about sensible choreography and instruction. Like some of those YAGP Esmereldas where they’re still turning after the music changes or doing the ending ballonees in a circle willy-nilly, that's garbage coaching. But if it's fitting with the music or the intent, I think showboating can absolutely be done to great effect on stage and some of the greatest ballerinas have shown that. Marianela is perhaps the most convenient example, with extended balances in Aurora variations, super suspended turns in Odette's final diagonal, 4-5 pirouettes in Gamzatti. Osipova is, of course, the blueprint for this, adding jumps into the Flames of Paris coda, throwing in 'double-doubels' in so many diagonals, her original first act coda for DQ, super suspended balances in Giselle, etc.
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andi-the-cool-nerd · 4 months
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GIMMIE YOUR MARINA ROMANOVA HEADCANONS
The day has come
STWA spoilers TW: suicide and abuse
Her biological father abandoned her when she was born (he wanted a boy).
She was taken care by Sergey Kuzmin, Natasha's friend. They formed a strong father and daughter bond, but Natasha didn't like it, so she kicked him out.
Natasha never loved her. She often told her that she ruined her life and that she shouldn't have been born. Natasha successfully pretended to be a good mother in front of everyone, so it was hard for Marina to convince people about her wrongdoings.
Besides verbal abuse, she was physically abused sometimes. Natasha would slap her when Marina tried to tell her "I love you"
She definitely was sexually harrassed and Natasha blamed her for it. So, she had to learn to defend herself. Which means, she has some combat skills.
She definetely kicked Jonah's ass before case 20.
She knows Ukrainian since her step father is from Ukraine.
She practiced ballet
She draws in free time.
She was depressed for a while and even developed suicidal thoughts. Her last attempt was when she started dating Jonah. He caught her in time and took care of her. No one else knew about her issues.
She dreamt of starting a new family, away from Natasha, but she doubted it would come true, because she was afraid to end up in an unhappy marriage
Marina found out that Natasha was behind that target mission.... from Jonah. He told that the president wanted to know the identity of the person who exposed him, promising a generous rewards and Natasha told.
Marina knows how to cook, but she lets Jonah be in charge, because she likes how he spoils her with various meals.
She got pregnant twice: the first one ended with a miscarriage, while the second one was a high risk as she carried twins
She has a huge fear of abandonment... later she's afraid of losing her daughters, especially after the 2030 scandal
She took care of her daughters' mental health. She helped Kiara manage her anxiety, but Tanya's case was more difficult. She couldn't look in her eyes properly and it drained her emotionally. Later, she had a hard time looking for a proper therapist as many would misdiagnose Tanya and even say that she makes things up or that she's aggressive and she should be put in psych ward.
She felt guilty after the scandal. She started to think if she could have done something else that could save Tanya from the abuse.
She helped Amy since they joined T.I.M.E.
Let's say, she used to be pacifist, trying to solve problems in a democratic way and would use violence if it is unevitable. After 2030, she became a mama bear... like... she can snap and kick someone who tried to talk shit about her children. (she admitted slapping a teenager, but it was Tanya's ex who treated her like garbage)
She never misses her homeland. She always says that she's home with her family. She only comes in Russia with family in holidays.
Despite that, she taught her daughters the language, the culture and the history.
Ally
She had a metldown when she met her mother-in-law, Anaya. She had never thought she'd be loved. And yeah, she became Anaya's golden child
She hates winter. She's very sensitive to cold and gets sick easily.
Besides the scar on her neck, she has scars on her forearms from the self harm and the attempts
I will add more headcanons
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writingfortheheart · 3 months
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Hey all!
Sorry for the long absence. I had a bit of a writer's block recently, not helped by the fact that my last writing effort was absolute garbage, at least in my eyes. I find it difficult to write just a small resus scene with little to no context, so you end up with stuff that just isn't very good.
That said, my next story, the first part of which I just put up, is going to take its time. It'll still have resus, heartbeats, breathing, breath play, etc., but it's all going to be contained within a bigger story, one that incorporates another fetish of mine, ballet aesthetic.
I hope you like it, and I look forward to hearing critiques and praise, and if anyone wants to do a fan work based on the story (ie. artwork) I'd welcome that, too.
Thanks for understanding!
Breathe well, friends!
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sjsmith56 · 6 months
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First Date
Summary: A misdirected mail mishap results in a young woman, recently moved to New York City meeting the Avenger, Bucky Barnes. With Sam’s help Bucky asks her out then spends the week trying to come up with the perfect first date.
Length: 5K
Characters: Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, named OFC (Holly), unnamed OFC (sister).
Warnings: Both sisters are mostly not physically described, they’re single, slightly plus sized, nervous Bucky, some slightly impure thoughts from OFC, otherwise this is a pretty fluffy piece.
Author notes: Alternating first person POV between OFC and Bucky. Right now it’s a one shot but it could become more if I get enough feedback. Takes place in a slightly AU MCU, after the events of Endgame and FATWS (one where Bucky and Sam tackled the Flag Smashers themselves as the other Avengers were dealing with other things). There is a tease for a double date with Steve Rogers and Holly’s sister (Coney Island?) so if you would like to see another instalment please comment.
Second date Third date
📦
Holly
I stepped out of the elevator and stopped as soon as I saw the box leaning on my door. Another package. Great. This made four packages delivered to my address instead of the other address which was printed on the shipping label. Another package I had to physically take to the post office to deliver to the correct address. Another hour out of my day standing in line then having to explain that James Barnes didn’t live at my address, was unknown to me, and that he had an unlisted phone number so I couldn’t phone him to pick up his mail. Looking at my watch I sighed. It was already too late to take the package in if I was going to make it to my evening dance class. That meant I would have to take the package to work with me tomorrow then drop it off on my way home.
“Why don’t you just keep it?” my sister suggested when I mentioned it to her at the dance studio. “Obviously the guy keeps putting something wrong on the shipping information whenever he orders whatever he’s buying.”
“You know I can’t do that,” I replied as I started in first position. “If it was my package being misdirected, I would hope that whoever received it would be honest enough to return it. They don’t come back so they obviously make it to him eventually.”
“Or he cancels his order,” said my sister as she mimicked my actions.
“Ladies, less talk, more focus,” said Madame Elise, the ballet mistress.
We both made a face at her when she turned, then both tried to stifle our giggles after. For being in our early thirties we both had our juvenile moments. After class we dried off the perspiration before pulling our sweats on. We never showered at the studio as the facilities bordered on disgusting plus there was a core group of women there with perfect dancer bodies that made us feel inadequate. I’m not into body shaming and although they never said anything out loud it wasn’t hard to see their opinions about our figures in their eyes. Neither of us needed that kind of judgement especially when we were in between boyfriends. On our way out we stopped and picked up an iced cappuccino at the coffee shop then walked to the subway. Finishing our drinks just before the train arrived, we boarded.
When it came to my sister’s stop, she stood up, did a little pirouette and performed a jeté out the door onto the platform. Grinning at her I waved then settled back into the seat ready to get off at my stop, the next one. Joining the others who were also getting off we walked up the stairs towards the exit. I had to stop at the bodega as I was out of milk so by the time I was walking up the steps of the apartment building, it was already dark. Pressing the button for the elevator I waited and waited but it didn’t come, and I groaned as I really didn’t want to walk up five flights of stairs. It had been working well when I left. One of my neighbours came down the stairs with their garbage bag for the dumpster out back.
“It was working earlier,” I stated, gesturing to the elevator.
“Yeah, it was but someone pressed all the buttons as a joke, and it got stuck on four,” he said. “It’s sitting there with an open door. The super called a repairman, but they won’t be in until tomorrow.” He headed towards the door to the alley. “You have someone waiting for you at your door. A big guy. I think he used to live there before you. Something about his mail still being redirected to your address.”
With a sigh I began the long climb up to the fifth floor. There was a man leaning against the wall outside my door. He must have heard me coming up the stairs as he looked in my direction as I exited the stairwell. Even from that distance I was aware of his size, tall and broad shouldered. His dark hair, just long enough to kiss the collar of his jacket, framed a very handsome face highlighted by a pair of incredible blue eyes.
“Hi,” he said casually, with a slight wave of his hand, before he put his phone back in his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry to bother you but the post office screwed up the redirection of my old mail, most of it anyways. They’ve been sending things with my new address on the shipping label back to here.”
“That explains it I guess.” I smiled at him. “Mr. Barnes, is it? I tried to find a way to call but there was no listing for your name. I would have dropped the packages off, but the other address is so far away, and I don’t have a car.”
“Call me Bucky.” His eyes lit up as he smiled. “Not a problem. I’ll leave you my number so if any more mail shows up here, I can pick it up at your convenience.”
Between the time I unlocked my door, and I went inside to retrieve his package I realized who he was. He was still waiting in the hallway, which struck me as odd, until I recalled that I hadn’t invited him in. Looking towards the open door I could see him waiting there patiently.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” I stammered. “Would you like to come in?”
“Sure,” he answered, stepping just inside, looking a little uncomfortable. “I didn’t want to presume anything.”
“Did you get the other packages that I returned?” I asked, holding the most recent package in my hands. “I would have brought them over but it’s quite the train ride from here to Midtown.”
“Yes, they did arrive, not that it fixed things.” His smile was warm. “I wouldn’t have expected you to do the Post Office’s job.” He looked a little more at the small flat. “You fixed it up nice here, much nicer than I had it.”
“You lived here for how long?” I asked. “I’ve been here two months.”
“Almost a year,” he replied. “After I got some legal matters cleared up, I had to live in the New York area. This was affordable and it wasn’t far from where I grew up.”
There was an awkward silence, so I stepped forward at the same time he did, intending to give him his package. In the light of my apartment, he was even more handsome, and I tried desperately to think of something to say to him, but my mind went blank, and I smiled politely instead. He took the package and nodded, then turned around, walking out.
“Wait, your phone number!” I called, running to the doorway.
He was at the top of the stairs and sheepishly came back. I unlocked my phone and offered it to him, to enter his information in. Looking at it I sent him a text, then watched as he took his phone out, seeing my name, Holly, which in my blank state of mind had forgotten to give him earlier.
“That’s a pretty name,” he said, as my attention was focused on those beautiful eyes. “I won’t forget who it belongs to.”
“Thank you, it’s been nice meeting you,” I replied.
He headed back down the stairs, and I closed the door, setting the deadbolt in place. I had just met an Avenger. 🔹
Bucky
Sam was still sitting in the driver’s seat, checking his phone when I stepped out of Holly’s building and up to the truck.
“That took you long enough,” he said.
“She wasn’t home, and I wasn’t leaving without my package,” I replied. “You must have seen her coming in. Tall, dark haired, wearing sweats.”
He shrugged. “Pretty?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I got so tongue tied. Said I would leave her my phone number then I almost left without giving it to her.”
“You get her number? Did you ask her out?”
“What, already?” I sighed again. “That’s a bit quick, isn’t it?”
“What would old Bucky have done?” he asked. “Would he have asked her out right away?”
“Yeah, but I’m not him anymore.”
“Give me your phone.”
Sam held his hand out. With a third sigh I handed it to him. He tapped out a message and sent it then handed my phone back so I could read what he sent.
Me: Are you free Friday night? I understand if you have other plans. Just thought we could meet for drinks, or I could pick you up. You don’t have to feel obligated or anything.
I couldn’t believe he did that, and I almost started texting to take it back when I got a reply.
Her: I am free on Friday night. We could meet somewhere, or you could pick me up. I’m good either way. Nothing too fancy. I’m not into that.
Staring at my phone screen I tried to think of what to say, not wanting to sound desperate or needy.
Me: Okay! I’ll pick you up at 7:30. You okay with riding a motorcycle?
Her: Sure, that means jeans and a jacket, right? I don’t have a helmet.
Me: I have a spare. Looking forward to it. See you then.
I had a date, an actual date, with a nice-looking girl … woman. Bad habit. I showed Sam and he grinned.
“See, old Bucky is still there. Where are you going?”
I looked at him and swallowed. Old Bucky would have taken a girl out in style, dinner, then dancing, then whatever came from that. But I had already told her that I was picking her up by motorcycle, which meant casual, which meant something outdoors, or a movie, or sightseeing. He started the truck up to drive back to Avengers Tower, making suggestions along the way.
“Empire State Building.”
“Heights, you know how I am about heights,” I answered.
He nodded. “Yankees are in town. You could take her to a ball game.”
I glared at him. Never, ever would I go see the Yankees play. Mets, maybe, but I had hated the Yankees since I was a boy, and I wasn’t about to change that. Sam didn’t say anything more until we got back to the Tower and up to the common room area where the others were gathered, watching Jeopardy. I held up my package, which brought some half-hearted cheers.
“Someone has a date Friday night,” announced Sam. “He’s picking her up on his motorcycle at 7:30 and needs some suggestions.”
“Empire State Building,” said Tony.
“He doesn’t like heights,” stated Steve. “Ball game?”
“Only the Yankees are in town,” replied Sam. “He nearly bit my head off when I suggested it.”
Steve grinned and shook his head, picturing that. He knew how I felt about the Yankees because he felt the same.
“The museum,” he countered. “There’s a new art exhibit.”
I shook my head. “That’s your thing, not mine. It’s okay. I’ll come up with something before Friday.”
Using my phone, I looked up all sorts of things to do in New York but kept finding something wrong with them. Either they were too formal, which I really didn’t want, or they were too noisy and crowded, which I really didn’t need. Some of them appealed to me but started and ended early, meaning the date could be over by 9 pm which didn’t appeal to the old Bucky in me. By Friday morning I was ready to cancel the date then Tony Stark turned to me in the elevator.
“I sent you an email,” he said. “Two suggestions. Take them or leave them. But the first part might be interesting for both of you and the second might be a bit nostalgic for you. The best part is that they’re not far apart and you might be able to do both, if it’s going well.” The elevator doors opened on the lab floor, and he stopped in the elevator doorway, seemingly choosing his words carefully. “I hope you have a good time no matter what you end up doing. You deserve that much.”
When I read the email, I smiled. This might not be so bad. 🔹
Holly
After Bucky left, I called my sister to tell her I had a date with the Avenger, Bucky Barnes, and that he was the one whose packages were being redirected back to his old address, now my apartment. She said something about me having all the luck as she thought Steve Rogers was absolutely dreamy. I didn’t rub it in. The next day she sent me a text.
Her: Empire State Building. He’s taking you to the top, to view all of New York. It’s right out of Sleepless in Seattle.
Me: I’ve read he’s not big on heights, due to surviving that big fall in World War II.
A few hours later she sent another text.
Her: Yankees ball game. They’re hosting the Red Sox.
The answer to that was obvious to me.
Me: He’s a Brooklyn Dodgers fan. No self-respecting Dodgers fan would ever cheer for the Yankees.
On Thursday, she texted again.
Her: Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art.
Me: 🫤
That meant I wasn’t into it. On Friday morning, after several days of sending more suggestions she texted another.
Her: Harbour cruise.
That actually wasn’t a bad idea. Wearing jeans and a jacket would keep me warm out on the water. A harbour cruise would start and end at the same pier and a motorcycle would be easier to park in the crowded area. I looked up the cruises then texted my sister back. They all started at 7:00 and he was picking me up at 7:30 so it couldn’t be a cruise. Then Bucky sent me a text.
Him: We’re still on for tonight, right? We’re going to be taking a walking tour in Greenwich Village so wear good shoes. Then we can have a late dinner at a 24-hour diner near the East Village.
Me: Absolutely. That sounds like fun. Hopefully, it doesn’t rain.
Why did I say that about the rain? Now I had introduced the thought that rain could potentially ruin our date. He sent me a reply.
Him: No rain in the forecast. I’ll see you at 7:30.
I smiled. Obviously, he had already thought of the possibility. When I texted my sister with the itinerary, she sent me a thumbs up emoji. It was looking to be a fun date, with no pressure. At 7:25 there was a knock on my door. When I looked through the peephole, I saw that it was Bucky, and opened the door.
“Hi,” I said. “Come on in.”
He brought his hand out from behind his back, producing a bouquet of mixed flowers. “These are for you.” He seemed a little embarrassed. “I always brought flowers on the first date back in the day.”
I was touched as it was a very sweet gesture. “Thank you, I’ll just put them in some water. Make yourself comfortable.”
He wiped his feet on the doormat and stepped in further, sitting down on the sofa. As he stretched his long legs out, I found a vase and filled it with water. Smiling politely, he watched me then stood up and came over to the small kitchen island.
“Everything alright?” I asked.
“I’m nervous,” he admitted. “I had a date a while ago and messed it up when I had a bit of an anxiety attack partway through. She wouldn’t talk to me after that. Can’t say I blame her.” He breathed out noticeably.
“You feeling nervous now?”
“A little.” He fixed those gorgeous eyes on me. “I’m 106 years old, haven’t really dated since the 1940s and some days I feel so old and out of place. I used to be quite the ladies' man before the war.” He breathed out again. “My friend Sam sent the original text as I didn’t think a nice-looking girl like you would go out with me.”
“I haven’t had a date in a few months,” I told him. “Before then I had a boyfriend who told me that I would be prettier if I lost 20 pounds or so. He wasn’t my boyfriend after that. I know I’m not perfect, but I like who I am. Do you want to go out with me still?” He nodded, then smiled and said yes. “Then we’ll go out. I think you’re a gentleman first, and I liked that you brought me flowers, and I liked hearing you call me a nice-looking girl.”
When I brought my jacket out, he helped me on with it, then waited patiently as I locked the door. Down at the sidewalk was his motorcycle, one of those classic ones that usually cost an arm and a leg. He unlocked the security compartment, bringing out a helmet for me. Making sure it fit properly he put his on, zipped up his leather jacket, and straddled the seat, gesturing for me to get on behind him.
“Hold on tight,” he said. “If it’s too much for you, pat my front two times and I’ll pull over. I’m a safe driver and I won’t let you fall. I promise.”
Placing my purse crossways over my body I got on behind him and wrapped my arms around his middle. Even through his jacket I could feel how firm his abdomen was. For a brief moment I pictured him shirtless (yes, it was nice) and giggled then put the thought out of my head as I leaned against his back. The rumble of the motorcycle was loud, even inside my helmet but as soon as he put it into gear it lessened slightly. The motorcycle proved to be the perfect vehicle as he could easily get out of any traffic snarl quickly and just over 20 minutes later, we arrived at Washington Square Park. After locking our helmets back inside the security compartment, he held his right hand out to me and guided me to where a small group of people were waiting. We checked in and waited for the rest of the people to arrive.
🔹
Bucky
Even though I was recognized by the tour guide I kept my attention on Holly, making sure that she didn’t feel ignored. She took my hand again as we waited for the rest of the people. When they arrived, our tour began with a history of Washington Square Park, including the fact that it was a native burial ground as well as a cemetery used to bury the dead of the American Revolution. Apparently, they still occasionally found human remains whenever an excavation had to be done on repairing utilities. We also went to what was called the Pirate’s Den, connected to a notorious woman, named Vivian Gordon, murdered in late February 1931.
“I was 12, almost 13 years old,” I blurted out. “I think I remember that. Wasn’t the mayor of New York implicated in that murder?”
The tour guide looked at me, smiling. “I can safely say that this is the first time I’ve had a participant who was around for one of the older historical events in this tour.”
It got everyone laughing and Holly squeezed my hand, smiling at me. From there we were shown where Mark Twain lived, and where his ghost apparently made appearances. The tour guide had a device that supposedly could show the presence of a ghost electronically, but it didn’t show anything there, although it did on other places that we stopped at, specifically the Brown Building, where the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire occurred, killing over 140 women. After an hour of walking and stopping at various landmarks the tour ended back at Washington Square Park. I slipped the tour guide an extra $20 and mentally thanked Tony Stark for suggesting the activity. It had been interesting, and I think Holly liked it as well. She looked over my arm as I checked the address of the diner.
“It’s close enough to walk, about twenty minutes,” I said. “Would you mind if we left the motorcycle here, so I don’t have to find another parking spot?”
“Not at all,” she responded, taking my hand again.
Making sure I was walking between Holly and the street we strolled along without speaking, not that we needed to fill the silence with anything. Instead, we just enjoyed each other's presence. We did have to dodge a guy on a skateboard that zipped towards us, but Holly just casually turned towards me as he passed.
“Sorry,” she said, as her other hand reached for my chest, and I put my other arm around her. “He came out of nowhere.”
“It was worth it,” I said, without thinking.
It was something old Bucky would say. Her face lit up as she smiled at my reply. Patting my chest with her hand, she looked up in a way that brought back memories of previous dates. I almost kissed her then she dropped her hand and returned to walking beside me, her hand firmly in mine. When we arrived at the diner Holly’s face seemed pleased.
“I didn’t know about this place!”
“Tony Stark suggested it,” I replied, holding the door open for her.
It was bright inside, considered retro for the 21st century with its checkerboard flooring, booths with padded seats, and the older lighting fixtures. In the 1940s it would have been seen as futuristic with its many curved lines in the finishings. We were seated in a booth where our knees touched. I was about to ask to be moved but she just smiled and said it didn’t bother her. It reminded me of when Sam and I first started working together during the Flag Smashers, and we had the impromptu therapy session inside the Baltimore police station. Before I could tell Holly about it, the waitress arrived to take our drink orders. Not wanting to give her the wrong impression I ordered a coffee. She ordered a chocolate milkshake and asked for a starter of mozzarella sticks. Quietly, we looked at the menu, although I tried to look at her some more. When our drinks arrived Holly ordered a chicken wrap and salad. I ordered the meatloaf special, and a bacon cheddar burger with fries on the side. Before I could explain she looked at me with some amusement.
“So, it’s true?” she asked, her eyes bright. “Super soldiers have to eat a lot of food to keep their energy up. I envy you. I wish I could eat like that.”
“It’s true but it’s not always enjoyable,” I replied. “After really heavy missions that take a lot out of us, I barely have enough energy to eat at all, but I have to force myself. Bruce … Bruce Banner, invented a supplement for me and Steve to boost our calorie intake and give us instant energy, but it’s not the best tasting and the texture is kind of awful.”
“I guess that would be a downside,” she offered. “My sister has a crush on him, on Steve.” She clarified. “She’s my best friend and we would have lived together but she got here a year before I did, found a place to share and co-signed the lease. When I decided to move here, I had to find my own place because she was locked into the lease with her roommate. We’re only one stop away from each other and we see each other a lot.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
I was asking because I knew Holly would appeal to Steve and if her sister was like her, perhaps she would be good to double date with. That would be something, a double date with Steve that might actually work in his favour as he was still as hopeless now with the ladies as he was in the 1940s.
“She’s between boyfriends right now.” A smile crossed Holly’s face that lit her up from inside. “You thinking of fixing her up with Steve Rogers?”
I shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time I tried. Even though he is more handsome now he’s still the same shy guy he was when we were younger. Takes him weeks just to get up the courage to say hi to a girl.”
She was leaning towards me with her chin resting on her hand. “I like how you call me a girl. It’s supposed to be a put down in these times, but I guess to someone of your age, someone my age is a girl. I’m not offended by it, although I guess some are.”
Just like that Holly put me even more at ease. Our mozzarella sticks arrived, and she took the first one dipping it into the sauce. Tentatively I bit into one, then smiled as the cheese stretched out from my mouth to the stick. Holly giggled a little as we grappled with the strings of cheese. Our main food arrived just as we finished the last of the appetizer. Holly stole some of my fries which didn’t bother me at all. For dessert I had apple pie à la mode, while she had chocolate cake.
Tony had good instincts referring me to this place. It was informal enough that neither one of us tried to impress the other. We talked more about all sorts of things, my love of books, her love of dancing, our shared interest in science and technology. After I paid the bill, I opened the door to the outside and we stepped out into the night, which had cooled down a little since our tour. We headed back towards the park where my motorcycle was parked. As we got closer, we could hear the sounds of music and applause.
“Street performers!” exclaimed Holly. “Please, can we watch?”
How could I say no?
🔹
Holly
Watching the street performers with Bucky was something else. He had never seen buskers like this before. Jugglers with fire sticks, catchy music and clever repartee were just the beginning. There were some aerial gymnasts doing all sorts of tricks that displayed their acrobatic abilities. A pair of guys with tap shoes danced to hip hop in ways that successfully melded the two forms of entertainment. Another guy with a bmx bicycle did all sorts of twists, turns and jumps including some on an obviously home-made ramp that defied gravity. It was an explosion of sight, sound, and colour that intrigued him, making him so much fun to be with, not to mention even more gorgeous. I gave some money to the hats that were passed around, explaining this was probably how many of the buskers made a living. He added some of his own. When we finally pulled away and began the walk to his motorcycle Bucky couldn’t stop talking about how entertaining it all was.
“Does this happen all the time here?” he asked. “Tony never said anything about it but if it does, then I owe him. That was amazing, just amazing.”
We were holding hands and he stopped at the motorcycle, pulling me closer. It was like we were in a movie as he looked so softly at me, making me feel all sorts of things, both good and kind of scary because I had never been this close to someone like him. Most of my dates were of the nerdy kind, nice but slightly socially inept. This was Bucky Barnes, handsome, notorious, and an absolute dreamboat. When our lips met, I swear there was music. Of course, we were only a block away from the park where the entertainment was still going on, but the sounds from there just seemed to add to the romance in our little moment of kissing. He could really kiss … I guess that’s something a guy doesn’t forget, no matter what kind of hell he’s been through.
“I should have asked first,” he murmured when we stopped. “I suppose I got caught up in the moment.”
“Why don’t you ask then?” I replied, looking up at him.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes, please.”
The second kiss was even better as it was accompanied by his arms wrapping themselves around me and mine wrapping themselves around him, bringing thoughts of him shirtless and more, to my mind again. This kiss also lasted a lot longer before we stopped, and he looked at me.
“I should get you home,” he said, not sounding completely convinced by his own words.
We got back onto the motorcycle, pulling up in front of my building a short time later. After dismounting I took my helmet off then handed it to him.
“I had a really good time,” I said. “Would you like to come up?”
Even in the dim light I could tell he was blushing. “If this was the 1940s, I would have said yes, but I’m not that Bucky anymore. I kind of played the field then and I want something more than that now.”
He really was something else and I looked at him with my heart racing a little. “So, you want a second date?”
“Yes, do you?” I replied yes and we kissed again, a really nice and sweet kiss. “Then I’ll call you soon. I promise.”
I went inside the door of the building and up the now working elevator. When I got inside the small flat, I looked out the window and smiled to see that Bucky was still waiting beside his motorcycle, apparently watching for me to appear. He waved to me, then put his helmet on and started up the motorcycle before pulling away. It might have been just a first date, but it was one of the best dates I had ever been on, and I hope Bucky felt the same.
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