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ohwereusingourmadeupnames · 4 years

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It’s the Colours You Have

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: Mature (M) Notes: This is my ballet au fill for @starkerfestivals summer bingo. I had a lot of fun doing some research and watching some ballet to get a feel for this one - here’s hoping you enjoy! (Title is from Colours by Grouplove) Warnings: Peter suffers a pretty not good injury and there’s some NSWF stuff. Summary:

Peter Parker grew up in the dance studio and thought his entire life would revolve around it. All of a sudden, an injury takes that dream out from under him. He finds a way to stay in the world of dance through photography, his knowledge giving his work a different edge. What happens when he meets Tony Stark, a new dancer for NYCB? (Love stuff happens, that's what.)

Read on AO3 here.

Peter always thought professional dance would be his life.

At a young age, he convinced Uncle Ben to let him try one of the local studio’s classes. It took a bit of convincing – Peter was 6 years old at the time and didn’t quite understand the man’s hesitance. In the months leading up to Peter’s plea, he danced around the sofa in their living room and obsessively watched Step Up – where most boys his age were rolling around in the dirt, Peter studied the lines of dancers’ bodies and pictured himself making those same exact moves.

After what felt like a lifetime for Peter, Ben finally gave in and signed him up for all of the classes available. In his excitement, Peter took everything seriously and excelled through the beginner’s classes before the year was over. Madame Romanoff pulled Ben and May aside when sign-ups and company auditions for the next year were about to take place – in the simplest of terms, she let them know how talented of a dancer Peter was; he needed to be taking more advanced classes.

So, he did – Ben and May didn’t hesitate to put him where he needed to be; they already knew his potential, he was steadily moving through grades at school, too. Their nephew had an innate sense of talent for just about everything. Peter put his entire being into the things he liked – it made putting the squeeze in worth it. For a while, he didn’t see what that meant for the two of them – he simply enjoyed the fact that he could dance and get better at it with every single day that passed.

Landing a place on Romanoff’s dance company gave him access to top notch ballet instructors. He was very small but made up for it in the strength that he possessed. With the intention of making him one of the male pas de deux dancers, Peter cut out the rest of his classes and focused solely on ballet and pointe. It made him feel powerful and in a lot of ways beautiful, too. Even if it was weird for boys his age to love dance and feel their best while doing it. He’d gladly take the teasing – Peter loved to dance and no one was going to stop him.

The dance world took him under and guided all of his decision making. Peter worked hard all of middle school to get into Midtown Fine Arts and Dance, a high school that catered to those that were seeking entry into art’s colleges like Juilliard and TISCH. Getting in was a validation he’d been searching for and everything about his life moved to revolve around his time there.

Between Romanoff’s and Midtown, Peter was working so hard that he didn’t even realize he’d put himself in a position where his body couldn’t handle the stress. He wanted to get into Juilliard so bad and knew the only way he’d be able to go was through a scholarship. In every class since his freshman year, Peter heard about senior showcases and how every second in the walls of Midtown were preparation for that.

Every dancing piece in productions, Peter took part in. Whenever they needed a volunteer teacher to run through the parts with the younger kids, Peter volunteered. The desire to succeed overwhelmed him and by the time he got around to preparing for his senior showcase, he was at a loss and so physically exhausted, there were times when he didn’t know how he was actually still standing.

That should’ve been a clue – the fact that every part of his day felt like a chore, and that when he sat down to rest, he was comatose within seconds. Other things were trying to warn him of the ultimate shut down coming his way. His toes never recovered from the extensive pointe exercises and his muscles were always aching. If he knew that pushing himself would have been the thing that brought the world he created down – well, he still probably would have done it.

Two weeks before senior showcases, Peter was warming up when he felt a sharp shift in his lower back during a turn. The wince it pulled from him almost doubled him over. He stopped suddenly and took a couple of limping steps towards the long bar across the back wall. Hiking his leg onto the bar, Peter let out a loud ‘fuck’ when he felt the shift again. The want to keep going couldn’t override the numbness he felt in his toes.

As elegantly as he could, Peter hit ground and laid down as flat as he could, his entire lower back on fire.

It took 3 people to get him up off the ground; any sort of shift in weight made the source of his pain explode with unmanageable stimulus. Peter didn’t remember much of the movement from the floor to a gurney and into the back of an ambulance – his brain turned off to counteract the significant shift in his life happening.

The next few hours were spent getting scans and assessments done – Peter floated along from one place to another in the haze of the drugs they gave him to relieve the world ending pain. He didn’t need to hear the doctor’s words after he saw the look in his eyes – any chance of getting to Juilliard on his feet was out the window. 2 fractured lumbar vertebrae that would need to be fused and 3 ruptured disks were the thing to finally take him out. He wondered briefly, if Flash would feel undercut by his injury – he’d been gunning after Peter for years.

Thankfully, Midtown was sympathetic to his situation and let him stay around to finish the end of the year and graduate. It took a lot out of him to gimp around and be within viewing distance of the classes he’d been leading only days prior.

Being stuck with a walker for the first couple of weeks after his back surgery pushed him to work hard and get his feet back under him. Though he’d never get to dance again, at least he could walk – walking was one of the things Peter wanted to be able to do for the rest of his life. The necessity to put his all into walking and just getting around took the brunt of the blow off losing dance – it served as a good distraction, at least.

By the time the second part of his senior year came around, Peter was able to walk and get around. He was looking forward to finishing up his school year and finding out what the rest his life would be like without dance. Yet, he also longed to be close to the one thing he loved so dearly. And thankfully, Madame Romanoff offered him a good solution right before the big company recital at the end of the year.

When he walked into the studio, his heart thumped painfully against his chest. It felt like such a long time since he walked through the doors and caught his reflection in the mirror upon first glance up. A part of him wanted to walk over to the bar at the back of the room and start his stretching process, that piece of him craved the elegance of his long lines and powerful turns. Yet, the rational part of him understood that walking was more important and pushed him to move further into the studio towards Natasha’s office.

“Ah, Mr. Parker – glad you could join me. Please, have a seat,” Natasha said the second he walked in the door, the dark red lipstick coating her lips making her smile look big and bright. She kept her hair in the traditional ballerina bun and walked around in high heels – but she was kind and knew talent when she saw it. Grimacing at the little bit of a twinge he still felt, Peter took a seat in the chair in front of her desk, his fingers knitting together in front of him.

“I’ll cut right to the point. Life has dealt you a shitty card and it’s ridiculously unfair. You should be involved in dance, Peter. It’s a part of you. So, I thought – why not see if you can capture it, instead.” She turned in the big chair she was sitting in and grabbed something off the filing cabinet behind her. The fancy camera with the biggest lens he’d ever seen coming into view was not what he expected.

Her smile grew when she saw the look on his face. The whiteness of her teeth was slightly intimidating, even now, after knowing her for more than 10 years. Peter tossed a smile back her way and looked tentatively at the camera now sitting on her desk.

“What’s that, Madame Romanoff?” Peter asked, unable to keep the curiosity from getting the best of him. He was always on the other side of pictures and hadn’t picked up a camera ever in his life. The big screen and fancy dial on the back looked intimidating from where he sat, and he hadn’t even picked it up yet.

“Go ahead, Peter – it’s my solution. Figure out how to use it and then apply what you know about the art of dance to the art of photography. You know what’s beautiful. Long lines, sharp movement patterns – the beauty of a picture is how you capture it. The technical shit can be learned, the inherent knowledge you have about dance can’t.” She grinned wider when he didn’t hesitate to take the heavy camera from her.

“I want you to come to classes. You have a home in this studio, Peter. Don’t think because you’re not using your feet doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of what we do here.”

With that, she shot him another smile, then shooed him out of her office with a swift flick of her wrist.

----

Taking to the task like he tried to do with everything else, Peter dug his nose into the Canon Mark IV 5D user manual that he found online and figured out how to change the settings on the camera. It blew his mind, how many things the camera could do and how in depth the pictures could be. That was the first step.

After another couple of weeks of figuring the camera out and taking it with him on the daily walks he started embarking upon during his recovery – Peter finally felt comfortable enough to return to Romanoff’s in an attempt to do exactly what she said; capture dance.

It took a while – a lot of trial and error and frustration that Peter hadn’t ever experienced before. Things usually came easy for him. Yet, the more he did it, the better he started to feel about it. Thoughts of graduation and the future were out the window for a while – Peter dedicated himself to figuring out how to keep a foot in the world that seemed so unfairly gone from him.

He shot the end of the year recital and felt proud of the results that he ended up with. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as actually being on the stage, but – it brought him a sense of happiness, nonetheless. When he handed over the files to Natasha, she pulled him in for a hug. The clench of her arms kept him close, the words she whispered to him abundantly clear – “There you are.”

For some reason, those words hit him hard. His injury at the beginning of the year took a lot from him. With his rehab and the changes that came with the debilitating loss of the use of his body to create an art he devoted his life to, Peter bounced around, slightly lost. The realization that he could still connect with dance drove him forward – finally, Peter felt like he had a direction again.

Trying to get into TISCH’s photography program was a nerve-wracking experience and forced him to have to really evaluate why he wanted to make still frame his focus. The life of movement stayed alive in the photographs and he grasped onto that through the application and interview processes. His portfolio and approach must’ve been enough – Peter got acceptance and scholarship money to start the next semester.

Natasha, upon learning that he’d be in town and pursuing photography, brought him on as the in-house photographer. It didn’t pay much, but he got to have unlimited access to subjects and people that were always looking to show off the skills they worked so diligently to achieve. Peter appreciated the opportunity that Natasha provided and worked hard to provide her with his increasing talents.

Little by little, Peter honed in on his skill and absorbed as much knowledge as he could in his classes and on the job. College passed by in a blur of attending company ballet and TISCH dance productions to shoot as much as he could. He put his work in every showcase available to him and learned from the critique that people threw his way. In the dance world, critique was fodder and fed into the challenge that photography constantly imposed upon him.

Upon graduating, Peter took a job with Juilliard in the arts department as a media director and took care of the photography and visuals for all of the productions the entirety of the department put on. And because Juilliard had a direct link with New York City Ballet, Peter did the media for them as well.

When he took a step back and looked at it, his life was still wrapped around dance – and now, he didn’t have to sweat it out and perform on the stage to be directly within it. He lived in a great apartment in Manhattan and got to see his Aunt May every Sunday for whatever concoction she decided to come up with for them. All and all – his set up wasn’t terrible. Now that he had his professional life worked out, Peter felt desperate to see where the other parts of his life could take him.

As luck would have it – Peter got a nudge in right direction a couple of weeks later when he found himself in the Lincoln Center waiting for the dress rehearsal for the Nutcracker. It was one of his favorite ballets and he enjoyed being able to shoot the multitude of versions he’d get to see throughout the holiday season. And if rumor was to be believed, there was a new prince dancing with the prima ballerina.

The music started up a little while later and Peter got lost in the movements. He didn’t need to take any snaps tonight, but wanted to make sure he knew what the lighting looked like and where every group would be coming in from. Since he was working both video and film, he needed to be able to shoot from all angles. For a while, he let his camera dangle from his side and just let the dance run away with him.

By the time it got to the Prince and Sugarplum Fairy’s dance, Peter had his camera poised over his eye, the entirety of the pass one of the most important things he needed to get during the show. Their initial andante maestoso brought the two of them on the stage and in a swift dance across it – the prince in fact a totally different one than the year before. His tight calves and well sculpted thighs and hips were packed into white tights that highlighted every one of his movements.

Peter’s finger stuttered a few times through the tarantella, his focus on the dancer’s beauty and strength as he leapt and landed across the stage. When he pulled the camera down to make sure he got at least a couple of shots to play around with, Peter sucked in a sharp breath – the man was even more gorgeous than he expected, the details of his well-kept facial hair and dark brown eyes standing out the most.

Satisfied that he knew enough about the show, Peter packed up his equipment and headed out before the final act with all of the dancers came on – he knew from experience that it would be a free for all and didn’t need to plan for that. He wanted to play around with some of the images and got lost in the thoughts of the prince as he was walking out – not noticing that he was walking right into someone until well after they collided.

“Holy shit,” Peter gasped out, his long-lost dancing skill coming into play when he managed to turn and barely hit the person, instead of barreling through them and bringing them both to the ground. “I’m so sorry!” Peter put a hand on the wall and let his heart rate calm down before looking over at the person he almost took out.

His stomach dropped when he noticed the dancer he’d been eyeing up from his spot at the edge of the stage – his eyes were even darker up close and his mouth pulled into the most charming of smiles. Sucking in a breath, Peter just barely stopped himself from slapping his hands over his face. A dark red blush moved across his cheeks instead, the heat of it warming up his skin alarmingly.

“You’re pretty quick on your feet,” the man said instead of the 20 other things that could have easily come out of his mouth. Peter quirked a brow and let the slightest trace of a smile slip across his lips.

“I used to dance,” Peter replied quickly, the openness he was feeling in that moment as fleeting as some of the grumpier moods he sometimes found himself in. “Glad I still have it.” That made him smile wider, Peter a little surprised when the man across from him also smiled. It led to the slightest wrinkles in his cheeks and made Peter’s heart race.

Before the man could say anything else, a wide stagehand came walking down the hall, his eyes intent on them. “Tony, it’s the final number – you’re up.”

They shared another looked before the man, Tony, turned and started walking back in the direction he came from. Peter felt himself smiling and was surprised to see Tony holding the dressing room door open, his arm and head peeking out from behind it. “What’s your name?” He looked at Peter hopefully, his eyes wide.

Peter tightened his grip on the case he’d been pulling behind himself and let a couple of heartbeats pass before he answered – it was important that he thought before he spoke. “I’m Peter Parker,” he finally remarked, his eyebrows knitting slightly.

With a wave, Tony shot him a wink and started to disappear behind the door. “See you later, Peter Parker.”

----

The next 5 days were busy and filled with too much looking down the scope of the camera and 3 showings of The Nutcracker daily. Despite that, Peter found some time to look up the beautiful dancer – the name Tony was enough to get him a full career rundown and multiple links to pictures and videos of his past performances. Though a little older, Tony Stark seemed to be hitting the peak of his career now, instead of at a young age like most dancers. The write up he looked through said something about engineering, but he didn’t delve any further. It felt a little weird to have looked as deeply as he did to begin with.

Every night, Peter found himself watching Tony a little closer – he was all long limbs and taut muscle, his form technical but not exactly perfect. His lifts were where he excelled, though – the bundles of muscles waiting to spring into action were stretched to the limit, making the intensity of his strength standout even more.

Unable to find the courage to actually approach him, Peter spent too much time editing the images of him, ever click of his mouse meticulous and precise to create the perfect balance of camera work and Photoshop manipulation. After too many nights of it, Peter forced himself to acknowledge that talking to Tony seemed pretty necessary. Making sure to put some of his favorite on his phone, Peter felt resolved to at least show some of his work off in guise of starting up a conversation.

The final show came around with excited energy – Peter always enjoyed the last curtain call the best; there was always a certain sense of satisfaction that only that round of applause could bring. He switched up his shooting position and did some clicking from the flanks to catch a little backstage action – the decision proving to be a good one when he heard a throat clear during the first act.

“Fancy seeing you here, Peter Parker,” Tony said, his eyes shining in the bright light streaming in from the stage. He looked at Peter without blinking, a slight tilt to his head.

Peter forced himself to take a couple of breaths, his head suddenly spinning from the flush of epinephrine that his sympathetic nervous system decided shoot through his veins. The excitement of bumping into Tony probably more than obvious. “Right – fancy seeing the photographer taking photos,” Peter replied as he moved the camera to his eye and took a couple of quick shots of Tony who’d started to stretch in the open space around them.

Tony’s beaming smile made Peter’s breath catch, his eyes going to the back of the camera out of habit – the image he found there already one of his favorites of the bunch. Looking up, he gestured down at the camera in his hand. “Want to see?” Peter asked, his hands already turning it, making it more inviting for the man.

It took everything in him not to watch Tony walk towards him in the sheer shirt that, in the light, made his tanned skin stand out through the white fabric. At this closeness, the tights on his legs were translucent, Peter privy to the thick vein that ran from Tony’s calf all the way across the front of his highly muscled thigh. All those details in just the span of 5 steps – Peter wondered what he would find with an unlimited amount of time to explore him.

Shaking his head, Peter forced himself to focus when he felt the inevitable warmth of another human body getting close to him. He used his thumb to scroll back through the last 4 images he shot, a grin slipping across his face. “You have a nice smile,” Peter mumbled softly, the muscle in his forearm twitching with every click from one picture to the next. He got to the end of the roll before daring to turn his head.

“I think you’re just a good photographer,” Tony retorted, a chuckle rushing from his chest. They were close enough that Peter could feel his arm lift and clench with the sound. It made him stiffen, his skin breaking out into prickly gooseflesh. If he didn’t move, maybe he wouldn’t have to lose the rise and fall of Tony’s rhythmic breathing against him.

“Must be both then.” Peter shifted, his brain all of the sudden realizing that he was missing key pieces of the show in favor of flirting with the very attractive and incredibly distracting male dancer. “Come find me after the show – I’ll show you some from the week.” He gave Tony an encouraging smile, then turned back to look out through the curtain.

Peter heard him laugh again then the softest “okay” before the closeness of his presence could no longer be felt. Forcing himself to not turn and look, Peter did his best to pay attention to the rest of the first act – his racing mind all of the sudden not completely dedicated to the art before him on the stage.

As usual, the second act went a lot faster than the first – there was a bit more action and the dancing was not as convoluted with plot. From this perspective, Peter could see a lot more of the sideline action and felt glad he decided to trust his gut and move around a little more. When Tony stepped onto the stage, Peter gripped his camera harder – his eyes peeled for the smallest of details.

The cheeky bastard managed to look his way a couple of times throughout his solo, Peter more than certain that he got some snaps where Tony was staring directly down the pipe of the lens. It took more focus than ever for Peter to actually finish without dropping the camera and watching the ending number – since it was the last one, they changed it up and gave more solo time to each of the leads; then finished with a long bow with a few teary words from NYCB’s director. While she spoke, Peter got his equipment together and disappeared to start downloading some of the shots.

A little while later, Peter was pulled from the culling process by a tap on his shoulder – he squinted behind his glasses to make sure he was at a stopping point and turned, his fingers pulling the frames from his face when he noticed it was Tony.

“Don’t take those off on my account,” Tony said with a smirk, his hair freshly wet and brushed back from his face – the natural look of his skin even better than the brightness the spotlight and well-placed makeup gave him. His lips settled into a light smile and he leaned against the table Peter found to spread out on. He must’ve been nose deep in his work for longer than he thought.

“I just need them for the light,” Peter mumbled, jamming them into the pocket of his shirt. Glancing down, he shifted the computer so Tony could see. “Your tarantella was great tonight.”

Tony leaned in a little to look at the picture more closely, the move bringing the sharpness of his cologne into Peter’s space. As if he was trying to measure his own arms on the screen, Tony reached out to trace the line of his hand down to the middle of his chest. “You said you danced, right? You can tell – the fact that you framed up that specific move says a lot. That’s so crisp, Pete,” Tony admitted, the man pulling back, his hands shoving the long sleeves that were trying to settle on his wrists up his lean forearms.

Taken aback, Peter adjusted himself in his chair. It’d been a long time since he talked to anyone about that part of his journey through dance. Sometimes May would look at him wistfully and relive some of the memories with him, but even that made his heart ache. Licking his bottom lip, Peter nodded his head. “I did about ten years at Romanoff’s, she got me started with the photography thing after my injury.”

They locked eyes for a second, Tony’s eyebrows up, almost completely buried in the hair that was now creeping down, trying to cover his forehead. “Natasha Romanoff? She’s still on 5th, then?”

Grinning, Peter nodded again. “5th and then a newer studio on 64th. She’s flourishing,” Peter said, his hands coming up to make air quotes with his fingers. “Do you know her?”

“She was a couple years ahead of me at Juilliard. I didn’t get into the dancing world until a little later in life, so we were the same age, despite not being the same year. We partnered for pas de deux once,” Tony remarked, his eyes glowing with the memory. “You must’ve been good.”

Peter put his hand on the touch pad of his computer and went about saving the photo on the screen to distract himself – his heart started to beat a little harder at the thought of how much talented he cultivated in his youth. “I wasn’t terrible. I did not treat my body very well, however – back gave out before I could really see how good I could have been.” Clenching his lips shut, Peter wondered where all the words came from – he hadn’t been this chatty… ever.

Tony crossed his arms and leaned more heavily against the table, his forearms now on display, the lines of muscles firm and wrapped in tanned skin, the veins there pulsing from the work the man did that night. “Ah – that’s the worst. I’ve been fighting off a bum toe for a couple of years – the pointe gets harder and harder as the time goes by,” Tony muttered wistfully, his foot shifting subconsciously. “How long have you been taking photos?”

Without much thought, Peter started the process of packing his computer and hard drive into their cases, his eyes never leaving Tony. “About 7 years now. I went to TISCH for a 5-year program and have been working for Juilliard and NYCB ever since.” Finally done with the menial tasks that kept him preoccupied, Peter stood up. “What about you? You here to stay or just doing a stint with the company this season?”

Despite not saying anything, Tony followed Peter when he started walking – the natural way they just sort of accommodated each other weird for having only met once before. Tony waited until they were in the foyer of the Lincoln Center before speaking again. “I’m here to stay. NYCB gave me a company spot and choreographer position. After being on the road so much the past couple of years, coming home felt right.”

Though they were right by the door, neither man made any move to go exit through any of them, the two men obviously more than willing to mill around and talk. Peter pulled his camera case close to him, the metal of it cool against the thin material of his khaki pants.

“There’s something about the city, right?” Peter asked, his head turning to look at the still busy street right outside the door. “I’ve been here my whole life.”

Smiling wide, Tony nodded – the gesture answer enough. Peter watched him shift and smile a little bigger. “Any chance you’re free for headshot type stuff? I could use an update.”

The question caught him off guard for a second, his hopes of maybe getting to know the guy slowly starting to become more of a reality as the moments passed. That thrust him into gear – Peter fumbled into his pocket and scrolled through a couple of his photo files before he found his infographic.

“Everyone is on break for the holidays, so I’ve got lots of time. Turn your AirDrop on, I’ll share my info with you,” Peter replied without hesitation, his cheeks warm from the events of the night and the distracting way Tony was making him feel. “The Juilliard studio has great lighting.”

After grabbing his info, Tony reached across the space between them and gripped his shoulder, the touch firm and friendly. “I’ll get ahold of you. Thanks for making me look good.” Throwing him a final smile, Tony hitched his bag up his shoulder and walked quickly out the door and into the cold December night.

----

A couple of days passed before Peter heard from Tony – they decided on a time and agreed to meet at the Juilliard studio that Friday. For 4 days, Peter immersed himself in the editing process to make the time go a little faster. It didn’t, but that was always how it worked when he was looking forward to something.

In his need to fill up all the spaces of time, Peter did a bit of online shopping and ordered a couple of different backgrounds to play around with. When the day came, Peter used his key to head in a little early – his lighting set up would take a while to get put together and if his hands were busy, he didn’t have any time to fret about the nerves coursing through him or the hopes he hadn’t been able to put to bed since meeting Tony. Getting ahead of himself seemed like a recipe for failure – but he wasn’t one to not step out on the limb just because of a little fear.

Two solid hours of preparation went by much faster than he figured it would – Tony walked in through the door while he was still fiddling with the long backdrop, the sturdiness of it important if Tony was going to jump and move on and around it. He didn’t notice until he looked up to see how straight it was and caught Tony’s reflection in the mirror behind him.

“Hey, Tony,” Peter started, his face breaking out into a familiar smile. “I’m just about ready. I got the door to the bathroom unlocked, so you’re free to change as much as you’d like.” He tugged at the backdrop one more time before finally feeling satisfied – he knew what he was doing, the nerves needed to go the hell away.

Tony looked at him for a moment, his whiskey-brown eyes roving over his face without any shame. It felt good – being looked at like that. Whatever it meant; Peter wasn’t going to be mad about the attractive man in front of him not being able to tear his eyes away. The only thing that ever made his heart race like it was in that moment was dance – that had to mean something.

“I’m ready to go. I just need to put my bag down and change into my flats,” Tony finally said, his eyebrows quirking as a soft grin lifted his cheeks.

“You should probably stretch, too,” Peter remarked offhandedly, his eyes returning Tony’s stare, inch of skin by lovely inch. He was happy to see that there were a couple different cuts of shirt in his hand – they’d have a lot to work with. With that in mind, Peter went about making sure his camera was connected to his computer while Tony got ready.

As expected, once they got started, things went seamlessly. Tony was used to be instructed and took Peter’s suggestions in stride. They did a bunch of different poses in each outfit, Peter making sure that Tony switched to pointe at least once during the process. By the end, Peter was laughing at the faces Tony made at him when he switched positions.

Almost satisfied, Peter put the camera down and stepped onto the backdrop. He swung his arms from side to side to get his blood flowing, then swopped up into a one footed stance without much trouble (the twinge would come later.) “I want you to leap and land like this – I’d demonstrate, but this is as far as that goes,” Peter joked, his body saturated with endorphins from the rush doing any sort of movement with his body always brought.

Tony didn’t move to get in position, so Peter straightened up and started to think about how else he could describe it. A hand on his arm stopped him, Tony’s fingers squeezing lightly. “You still have such good technique,” Tony mumbled, his hand moving to pull at Peter’s until he was a little further onto the backdrop. “No turns, right?”

Nodding, Peter relaxed his body and let himself be led into a resting position, Tony’s hands now on his hips. “Let’s see how well you remember your backwards steps,” Tony whispered, his lips just a few inches away from Peter’s ear. His fingers tapped on the right side of Peter’s hip and they were off in that direction – his arms widening when they got to the edge of the pass.

It felt weird for a second, being in the hold position; but he quickly got over it, the relief of any stress on him quickly taken by Tony’s hands and their tight grasp on his hips, Peter’s feet barely touching the ground. They went through a couple of moves before Peter was stopping their movement with a subtle touch to Tony’s hand.

“That’s enough for me.” Peter was grateful for the brief experience and threw an even more sincere look over his shoulder at Tony. “Thank you, though – I haven’t moved like that in years.” He lifted his hands over his head and stretched himself as long as he could go before walking back over to his camera set up, his fingers wrapping around the base with ease.

When they were all done and Tony was walking out of the bathroom in street clothes, Peter looked up and motioned to him. He let his eyes linger on the way Tony’s jeans sat on his hip, the cut of his shirt enhancing the slimness there. Tony moved with ease, the man more than familiar with his body and the things he could do with it. Shaking his head, Peter moved away from that thought – it could very easily get him in trouble.

With Tony by his side, Peter smiled at him, then started to go through the frames he took throughout the two hours they’d been working. Tony spent a lot of time critiquing himself and grinned when Peter went out of his way to say the exact opposite of whatever came out of his mouth. The stills were beautiful and after a little work, would be more than enough to circulate around in resumes and show leaflets.

“Those are great, Pete – I like how well you capture the action; I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it,” Tony commented, his eyes still wide from the cruise through the photo gallery. At some point, he let his hand drift to Peter’s shoulder and kept it there, his fingers now gripping on and off. “I’d love to see more – want to grab a coffee, or something?”

As it happened, coffee ended up being a quick walk to Peter’s apartment where he got as far as pulling his computer out before Tony was flung across his hips, muscular thighs clenching with every move he made. Peter was surprised for about two seconds before he grabbed a handful of Tony’s ass, and dragged him closer, their mouths meeting in a heated kiss without either of them hesitating.

Peter didn’t usually do stuff like this – kiss people he didn’t know much about, but at the same time, he didn’t like to miss out on good things, either. He watched Tony reached down and take his own shirt off, the muscles of his stomach and arms rippling as the cells fired and clenched. When he relaxed, Peter was pleased to see that Tony was very cut up and would ripple gloriously as he thrust into him in the near future.

The fact that Tony managed to get his shirt off of him and the button of his pants undone without him noticing blew Peter’s mind, the man had a way with his mouth and let his tongue do terribly dirty things. In 25 years, Peter had never been kissed like that before – Tony’s carnality was exactly like his dancing, thorough and highly skilled.

It seemed like Tony came prepared because Peter was suddenly naked and on his back with Tony between his thighs, a packet of lube and a condom dangling from his fingers. They made eye contact for a moment, the desire in Tony softening as an affectionate look rolled over his face. “This okay? You’ll tell me if you’re not comfortable?” Tony’s questions rolled off his tongue without him stopping the scandalous press of his hips.

“It’s a lot more than okay. As long as you don’t roll me up into too much of a ball, I’ll be just fine. Just don’t stop whatever it is you’re going to do,” Peter babbled, his lips totally loose now that most of his thoughts were clouded with lust and completely focused on the delicious press and pull of Tony’s fingers on his skin and cock against his own.

He was pleasantly surprised when Tony shifted and pushed at his hip until Peter took the hint and rolled over. Leaning on his forearms, Peter spread his legs as much as he could on the couch and thrust back a little, his ass entirely on display. Groaning when Tony used his hands to spread his cheeks, Peter looked over his shoulder to see dark eyes staring at him longingly.

Tony emptied the packet of lube on the flat of Peter’s back and swiped his fingers through it. His free hand ran along Peter’s flank and lulled him into a sense of comfort – the breach of Tony’s fingers around and then against his rim secondary to the sensation of first a knuckle and then an entire finger slipping into him. While he moved his hand, Tony peppered all the skin he could reach with kisses and licks – he was obviously in the business of taking Peter apart one piece at a time.

Progressively, Peter got lost in the rush of his lust for Tony and the scorching touch that made his skin prickle and the well of heat in his stomach start to trickle over the edge. Tony’s weight held his hips down just enough that with every thrust back against talented fingers that were now aggressively stretching him open, Peter got the slightest amount of friction against his cock. It was both too much and not enough in one agonizingly delicious movement.

Draped completely over him, Tony pressed his lips to Peter’s ear when he pushed in. The stroke to slide inside was firm and didn’t stop until Tony’s hips were pressed against the muscle of his round ass cheeks. Peter shifted until he could accommodate his weight on one hand – he reached back and gripped Tony’s hair hard with the other, the moan slipping from his lips forcing a flush down the length of his chest. “Oh, Tony – “

From that point on, Peter lost track of time and space – he was so completely wrapped up in the tactile sensations and the sensitivity of nerve fibers that were constantly being stroked and prodded. With Tony’s arm wrapped around his middle, Peter gave himself over to the sensations, the long, slow glide of a firm cock in and out of him driving him absolutely mad. Little by little, he melted into the rhythmic bump of Tony’s cock against that spot deep inside of him and got closer to a finish that felt like a long time coming.

A shout left his hips when Tony used the grip around his chest to pull him up until his back was firmly pressed against the skin of well-muscled pecs and abs that were clenching with every thrust Tony delivered. Peter felt him slow down and move the grip of his hand from his chest to his hips, long fingers digging in. “The way you move against me, Pete – it’s driving me insane. It’s like you know me. Like you’ve studied my body and know exactly what it needs.”

His cock throbbed at the trueness of Tony’s words. Though he didn’t have a chance to physically explore it, Peter knew a lot about the way Tony moved from the images he’d been editing non-stop – it seemed like he learned a lot more about Tony than he originally imagined. Bringing his hands until they were resting over Tony’s on his hips, Peter laced their fingers together and let out a long moan; the carnal noises the only thing he could conjure up in that moment.

Another few thrusts of Tony’s cock dead against Peter’s prostate had him coming without a single touch to his throbbing erection. It was a novel thing for him, so he watched with wide eyes as he shivered and clenched and finished with the most release he’d ever seen come out of himself hitting the bedspread underneath him. Tony rolled his hips and thrusted through it until he was moaning against Peter’s neck and collapsing them both on the bed – the man courteous enough to turn them on their sides and away from his own puddle of cum.

Peter couldn’t stop the helpless moan that slipped from his mouth when Tony pulled out and rolled away to get rid of the condom. He turned and watched him move around until Tony finally joined him on the bed again. It shouldn’t have surprised him, the fact that Tony wrapped a hand around his arm and pull him back until they were resting as close together as possible. A nose ran through the sweaty hair at the back of Peter’s head – Tony pulling in a long breath before settling in.

“You can still dance. That was the most flawless piece I’ve ever been a part of,” Tony said softly, his hand flattening against Peter’s stomach to pull him even further back, despite the fact that there wasn’t any space left between them. “Rest up for a bit – I’ll take you out for another spin in a little while.”

Laughing, Peter let his hand rest against Tony’s, their fingers lacing with ease. He snuggled in, Tony’s warmth lulling him into a sleep haze.

----

The fact that Tony didn’t leave the next morning spoke volumes – Peter didn’t do a lot of dating, but he understood wanting to spend time with someone. They made pancakes that were barely edible and talked about Tony’s travels through Paris the previous two years. He’d been traveling with an international company that did a long stint in France. When it came time for Tony to leave and get some practice in for the day, Peter went with him.

It took on a different sort of intimacy, shooting Tony after that. Because he knew so much about the freckles on Tony’s skin and the way the dancer moved in the throes of passion, Peter could appreciate the thrust of his hips and the powerful strides for a completely different reason. It brought a whole new meaning to a long, slow seduction. They didn’t make it out of the locker room before Peter was on his knees, worshipping the cock and hips attached that moved with such poise and grace.

Spending the rest of the day together felt like the right thing to do after that – Tony came down his throat and watched with wide eyes as Peter stayed on his knees and stroked himself with a tight fist in long, quick strokes. The soft pet of his hair lulled him into a daze for a while, his cheek laying against the bottom of Tony’s stomach until he felt the tingle leave his toes and lower limbs.

Tony pulled him into a deep kiss when he stood up, strong arms wrapped around him and his swift tongue chased the taste of his own spend in Peter’s mouth. Peter didn’t know who was moaning but it was almost enough to bring him back to full hardness, though, he knew he couldn’t handle any more time on the hard floor or any of the surfaces available to them there. Suggesting a late lunch made Tony smile and when he grabbed Peter’s hand on the way out of the building, Peter let the hope of things actually going somewhere wash over him.

So, maybe Peter couldn’t dance on his own 2 feet anymore – with Tony by his side, he quickly learned that dancing was just as much a feeling as it was a collection of movements and lifts. Lying in bed with Tony between his legs later that night, Peter figured out that the roll of his hips and the caress of his hands felt just as good as the carefully crafted choreography that he’d be so accustomed to. The same way his body used to take the crowd apart, Peter slowly tugged at Tony’s seams until the dancer was thrusting into him with abandon. His name on Tony’s lips at the end of their coupling the ultimate standing ovation.

And as the days past and Peter got to spend more time not only wrapped up in the fun of watching someone else succeed, but also in the beauty and grace that was Tony Stark. The spring brought Bourne’s version of Swan Lake, which consisted of an all-male cast. Peter, having decided that NYCB was where the most opportunities were available, applied and got the job as the full-time photographer. Which meant he got to spend all of his day shooting ballet and only ballet. An absolute dream come true.

Watching Tony dance the part of the prince was absolutely magical – between trying to catch all of the best shots and catching every single one of his pristine moves, Peter spent all 7 days of multiple shows trying to capture him in the best possible way. They hadn’t been dating all that long, but Peter was moved to make sure Tony understood how he truly saw him.

It took a few weeks to find the perfect picture and get it blown up and printed to perfection. After getting it in the mail, Peter measured and built a custom frame for the photo – the dark brown wood a beautiful contrast to the white costume Tony was wearing in the print. Finally finishing it a couple of weeks into May, Peter stepped back and looked at the physical manifestation of his heart with a critical eye. It was Tony – Peter had a hard time finding any sort of flaw.

His ears prickled when he heard Tony putting his key in the lock – a couple of months prior, Peter pulled out one of his old TISCH key chains and made a copy of his apartment key. He left it in Tony’s pointe shoes and got a screaming call when he didn’t notice – the tip of the key stabbed him; but, the sincerity of the gesture made the large cut he had to nurse for a couple of weeks totally worth it.

He waited until he heard the keys clatter against the bowl that Peter kept right by the door to pick up the frame and carry it out into the living room where Tony was standing, his feet and arms bare, his dance tights still framing his legs in the sinful way they always did. Peter stopped dead in his tracks when Tony noticed him, the man’s dark brown eyes caught between looking at Peter’s face and the big frame he had in his hands.

“What’s that?” Tony asked, his cheeks coloring at the bluntness of the question. The man might’ve been a few years older than Peter, but he never failed to project youth and reckless wonder. The words made Peter laugh, his face spreading wide with the smile overtaking him. Instead of answering right away, Peter closed the gap and jammed the frame into Tony’s arms.

Peter gave him a few minutes to get his bearings and process what was in front of him. In the many days’ worth of searching, Peter finally decided on a picture of Tony in the middle of a leap. His eyes and chin were up, his hips completely square – but the thing that really caught Peter’s eye was the look of pure happiness of Tony’s face. There were many dancers that could get their legs completely straight through a leaping straddle, but there weren’t many that looked to be in absolute rapture when they did it. Every time he passed by it, the look made his heart pound, so he figured that was sign enough.

Tony looked up at him, his eyes wide. “This is what I look like, huh?” Tony asked, his fingers doing the customary reaching out to touch thing they always did. Peter watched him trace the length of his body across the glass – the idea of fingerprints not even registering. The appreciation of his work never meant so much.

“Beautiful, right? I thought, for a really long time, that I’d never really have the same connection with dance that I did when I actually got to do it myself. Then, I met you and got to see talent and passion in a totally different light. I don’t need to be moving to feel what it’s like to be on the stage when I watch you. Maybe it’s because I love you so much and I’m biased, but I’m a fan – your biggest one, probably.” Peter let all of the words flow from him before stopping for a breath. He felt his lips slip into a beaming smile – it felt so damn good to let that off his chest.

Even the very first ‘I love you’ between them felt good coming from him – he didn’t need Tony to say it out loud to know that he loved him. It was apparent in the way he touched, his fingers were constantly seeking – whether it was knowledge or pleasure, Tony was always interested in finding out. It was glaringly obvious in the way bourbon hued eyes followed him around the room when they weren’t standing together and looked so deeply within his own when they were. His gentle words and the innate ability to know just what Peter needed said things that a singular phrase never could.

Yet, when it came from Tony’s lips, Peter couldn’t have imagined a better moment. “You’re a big softy, Petey,” Tony mumbled, his lips pressing together for a second before continuing. “I love you, too. By the way. I know you know, but I also know how good the words sound. I love you. I’ll say it however many times you want to hear it.” As elegant as always, Tony moved to lean the frame against the edge of the couch to free his hands up, then tugged Peter into them, their lips finding each other in a soft kiss.

“I don’t think there’s a limit, Tony,” Peter muttered, his voice scratchy from the rush of arousal and happiness and a billion other things.

Tony gripped his cheeks and pulled him in for another kiss, his next words said against his lips like a prayer – “sounds okay to me.”

----

Later that year, Peter and Tony stumbled through their apartment after opening night of The Nutcracker. As a veteran this year, Tony wowed the audience in a way that only someone seasoned and comfortable could. The performance was flawless, Peter a little disappointed that he couldn’t show his enjoyment as much as he would have wanted to. The second they got behind the door of his car, however, his hands were all over Tony. They almost didn’t make it into the house before Peter was straddling him and really letting his appreciation show.

They fumbled through the door and passed through the living room that was littered in Peter’s work – when they first hung the few framed photos of Tony, he complained about it being a little weird. Yet, the more Peter added to it, the more Tony seemed to be behind the idea. It just took a little prodding for him to play into the narcissism that all dancers were inherently in possession of. He really started to relax when Peter added a few of the two of them, the idea of looking up to see physical representation of their connection a nice one, one that they both wanted to get behind.

Peter let his eyes glance over them briefly before crowding against Tony’s back and herding him towards the bedroom. All of the walls on the walk there were covered in Peter’s work – his own narcissism showing in the diligent way he went about making sure all of the frames throughout the house matched and looked absolutely perfect.

When they moved in together, Tony wanted to go all in, so they got all new stuff and created something that was joint and completely Tony Stark and Peter Parker mixing all the aspects of their lives. From the bedding to the bowls they ate out of, everything was picked out together.

When he was finally able to settle between Tony’s legs with just his boxer briefs on, Peter sucked in a deep breath and gave himself a second to enjoy the man stretched out beneath him. The strain from the night’s performance had Tony’s muscles taut and his veins bulging from lack of water and electrolytes – he’d be ravenous for the next few days.

His eyes were wide and completely glazed over, the pupils taking over the bourbon Peter so eagerly drank in every time he looked in Tony’s eyes. The hands that were normally so sure of themselves were reaching to touch Peter searchingly, their next step still undetermined.

Allowing himself to share a heated look with Tony, Peter shook his head and forced himself to focus – there was plenty of time to get distracted in the beautiful view of his boyfriend later. He sat up a little and reached into his bedside table, the lube and condom hitting the comforter below them, the movement enough of a decoy for Peter to get the square box he’d been hiding there open and on the muscled expanse of Tony’s chest.

They weren’t traditional, so he bypassed the one knee thing – instead, he pressed his body weight into Tony, one of his hands holding the box so he could see it while the other ran through shower wet brown hair. It wasn’t the most romantic thing, but it felt right. Everything about Tony felt right. A forever of that was the only thing he’d ever want.

“If you’ll have me, I’d like to be your number one fan forever. Please, marry me,” Peter whispered, his nose caressing Tony’s as his lips pressed the words into any piece of stubbly skin he could reach. “Please,” he prompted again, the plea unneeded, but falling from his lips, anyway.

“How could I possibly say no to that?” Tony asked, his response coming with a quick lift of his head and warm lips pressed against Peter’s. His hands moved into the long hair at the base of Peter’s neck, fingers tugging lightly.

“Put that ring on me so I can find out how it looks against your skin while I’m holding you down.” Shooting him a wink, Tony dragged him in for a deep kiss, the box on his chest momentarily forgotten.

#starker #ironspider #it's the colours you have #starkerfestivalsevents #bobbie writes

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haro-whumps · 4 years

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Box Boy Photoshoot

(CW: slavery, brainwashing, dehumanization, creepy+intimate whumper)

Tag list: @thatsthewhump @whump-it @ashintheairlikesnow @fairybean101 @finder-of-rings @comfortforthepain @shameless-whumper @that-one-thespian @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @raigash @im-not-rare-im-rarr @spiffythespook

Masterlist

“Hello, ma’am?”

Ren was blithely ignoring Soren’s second week of lyric dancing, their laptop out in front of them and a mug of cider steaming softly nearby. Soren was sweaty and panting hard on the other side of the glass, the sole student of this particular dance instructor, and thus, the recipient of her undivided attention.

Across from them, a man in a suit was sitting down. The table was built for one.

“Hello, ma’am!” he tried again, and again Ren did not lift their eyes from their computer screen. But they supposed he wouldn’t leave if they only ignored him.

“Not a ma’am,” they said blandly.

“Ah, hello sir?”

“Not a sir,” they said with a sip from their mug, eyes still on their laptop.

“Valued customer!” the man said brightly. They lifted their eyes and paused their music, but their headphones remained in. “I am a representative of Whumpee’s-R-Us’s marketing team, Jon Dillan!” he said brightly, extending his hand over the top of Ren’s laptop. Ren shook the outstretched hand, then immediately pulled out their bottle of travel hand sanitizer and did not care that he could see them squirt out a bit and coat their hands. They knew the statistics about men and public bathrooms. Filthy things, men’s hands.

“A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” Ren said flatly, still not sure why their Monday evening was being interrupted, but curious enough to scrounge up some manners. After all, if this man proved valuable, they could definitely use him.

“We here at Whumpee’s-R-Us are releasing a new advertising campaign, encouraging the destitute and desperate to exchange their lives for comfort and splendor, and perhaps sparking a little good-natured competition among valued customers like yourself to buy our more lavish products,” Jon said with a wink that might have been sly and conspiratory if he weren’t holding himself so stiffly. Ren did have to give him points for his facial expressions, though, if only his spine weren’t… like that.

“I see,” Ren prompted, removing one earbud. Jon did not miss it, and took the cue as Ren had intended it.

“We’ve noticed that your pet is very well cared for, as well as quite attractive, in a perfectly objective sense,” Jon rushed on the last part, holding up a hand in easy submission. Ren’s possessive flare of emotion sputtered in their chest, unshown and largely unfelt. Yes, Soren was attractive, and yes, Ren did like flaunting that fact, and they appreciated that the man quelled their other concerns so they could simply enjoy showing off their lovely, lovely boy. “Would you have any interest in allowing us to feature him in our campaign?”

“That depends,” Ren said, removing their other earbud. “What would featuring him entail?”

“Largely just photographs, ideally within your home so as to illustrate the lavish life available to those who sign up for the program. A brief interview would be conducted, mostly just to mine for quotable material, and you will, of course, be compensated for the use of your pet. A standardized rate is, quite naturally, more than available to you, however, we also noticed that you bring your box boy here frequently for classes, and my supervisor has approved offering you unlimited free classes for all and any of your Whumpee’s-R-Us brand pets, present and future, should you so desire it.”

Ren tapped their index fingers in front of their chin, the rest of their fingers steepled, and then asked, “Would you be negotiable towards adding harpist courses, if I choose the second arrangement?” Soren had dance on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so, “On Sundays, specifically.” Their angel playing a harp on Sunday. Perfect.

“I can certainly look into it!” Jon said amicably, and Ren shut their laptop, lacing their fingers and resting their chin on the backs, staring vacantly at Soren. The lyric dance instructor had taken two warnings not to touch property that wasn’t hers, but had remained hands-off since.

Ren weighed the pros and cons. They liked showing off; a lot. They liked the idea of other people knowing that Soren was theirs, that he was their precious, beautiful pet. They liked the idea of free classes, and since emailing the company hadn’t worked, strong-arming them into adding harp lessons was just as well, as long as Ren’s goal was accomplished in the end. Their home would be the setting, secure, their domain. There was nothing that came immediately to mind in way of downsides.

“Draft up a contract and email it to me; I’d prefer to look over it before forwarding it to my lawyer,” Ren said, digging out a business card and handing it to Jon. “In the contract, ensure that there is a statute that all photographers, interviewers, and assorted Whumpee’s-R-Us staff will not touch the pet in question, and that they will remove their shoes and any coats or jackets in the entryway or foyer.” They didn’t want dirt and germs getting tracked all over their carpets.

Jon seemed a little taken aback by the second point, though perfectly expectant of the first.

“If harp lessons can be provided, I would prefer the option of free classes. If not, I am negotiable on the fee, but will largely be leaving that to the discretion of my lawyer.” Well, their mama’s lawyer, but she’d been their lawyer for as long as they’d needed one, so she could certainly be counted as theirs.

“Marvelous,” Jon said with a bright smile, and extended his hand again, before thinking the better of it.

“Agreed,” Ren said, lifting their mug with a tilt of their head, and then took a sip. They’d spent enough time contemplating the offer that the class was now over, Soren coming into the viewing area on shaking legs and sinking to his knees at Ren’s feet. On reflex, they carded their fingers through his (damp, sweaty) hair.

“Well, I’d better get on that then. I’ll send you the contract as soon as it’s drafted, and it was a pleasure speaking with you…” Jon glanced at the business card. “Ren.”

“Likewise. I look forward to our arrangement.”

Soren glanced up at Jon’s retreating back, then turned his big, doe-eyes on Ren. “Exalted?”

Ren smiled down at him. “You just might be a model, Soren,” Ren said, “In all likelihood, you will be. Whumpee’s-R-Us need pretty little Box Boys in their new homes for a campaign they’re running, and you’re terribly pretty, and I have a very lovely home. They’re going to come take your picture and ask you a couple questions, sometime sooner or later.”

Soren’s hand lifted to his collar, gripping it gently, and Ren smiled at the sight. “And, you’ll be there?”

“The whole time, angel,” Ren said. Like they’d ever allow strangers to wander about their home unsupervised, and like they’d ever leave Soren alone with any of them.

Soren smiled up with relief, with devotion, and Ren kissed their sweaty hairline. “Come, pet, let’s get you home and in the shower.”

“Yes, Ren,” Soren said with a contented sigh.

The next evening, Ren received an email containing the contract, which they read over. They did have a degree in law, a minor, but still, so they largely understood it and approved of its contents, but forwarded it to their lawyer anyway to double check. She had one suggested revision, which Ren took, and the Whumpee’s-R-Us legal department accepted it without fuss. Wednesday, Soren had ballet classes, so it was Thursday that a modest crew appeared on Ren’s front doorstep.

“Welcome, please remove your shoes,” they greeted, holding the door open. They’d taken great pleasure in dressing Soren up just so, that day, and he struck a particularly beautiful figure, hanging nervously behind Ren. His hair was long again, long enough that Ren wasn’t going to buy any more of the specialized products for growth, now focusing on maintenance and hair health, and the color was that perfect gold. All the time spent on the balcony had left his skin honeyed and deeply freckled once more. He was wearing fluttering white and off-white clothing, the sleeves rippling bells around his wrists, the pants loose with a skirt cape trailing the carpet behind him. And all over him was gold, golden jewelry, golden makeup, gold nails, a gold belt.

They snapped a couple photos of Soren in the living room, perched in the kitchen, but Ren suspected those were just warm up shots. Soren’s room was obviously the location for the photos, more to the point, and better suited to Soren’s appearance. They took many photos in Soren’s bedroom, some of him settled on the settee, some with him snuggled comfortably, though lavishly, on his overly plush bed, the cushions and the duvet half-hiding his face, golden hair giving him a curtain that added intrigue. The balcony shots were particularly appealing, the wind was really working with them that day, and when a particularly strong gust blew a lock of hair into Soren’s face and he instinctively reached up to push it back, the camera shutter sounded like a quiet machine gun, it was going off so fast.

He was so candid, so genuinely sweet and precious, so beautiful, the photographers hardly had to do more than vaguely direct him and they were provided with more material than they had likely anticipated.

“If we may interview the pet, now?” the woman in charge asked Ren, and they nodded their head with a sweep of their hand as though to say “go ahead.”

“And I will, naturally, be receiving every one of those photos, as per our arrangement,” Ren mentioned to the photographer, who was flipping through the camera, skimming through the selection. He gave them a good natured chuckle and a quick thumbs-up.

The interview really was just a mine for quotes, and Soren spent a large portion of it with his hand on his collar, smoothing his thumb over the plate that bore his name. Soren. The name that Ren had given him, the inscription proof that they owned every inch of him, from his body to his mind down to his very identity.

“Soren,” Ren called when they were done, “Heel.”

Soren was at their feet in and instant, pressed up against their leg, his body singing with relief. “Well done, darling.” Ren turned their eyes to the photographer. “One more?” Ren suggested, before squatting down, hand on the curve of Soren’s neck, and pressed a kiss to his temple. The camera shutter clicked.

“And yes, you may use that in your campaign if you want,” Ren said airily, standing back up. Soren looked up at them with an adoring smile, and followed after as Ren saw the crew out.

“Do you really think they’ll use me, Exalted?” Soren asked quietly after the door had closed, watching their cars and van turning on through the panel windows.

Ren tweaked his nose between two fingers, jiggling his head a little. “Of course, darling, they’d be fools not to.”

Ren went to pour themself a drink, and then mentioned, off-handedly. “Oh, and you’re enrolled in harp classes on Sundays, now.”

#whump #slavery #dehumanization #pet #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #possessive behavior #this chapter is mostly just a setup for future events #brainwashing #ren #soren #mine #writing #box boy #bbu #slave #dependency

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um-southridge2020blog · 3 years

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topic #5 Writing a college essay: Lauren

College essays are an integral part of the college application process. They’re incredibly important since they are the part of your application that demonstrates your individuality and helps you stick out amongst thousands of other applicants. You can describe yourself in your own words, which will help those reviewing applications remember you. Furthermore, it’s the part of the application you have the most control over, considering your test scores and academic grades can’t be changed or edited once they are documented.

A successful college essay allows the application reviewers to get a glimpse into who you are. It’s important to talk about yourself in a way that depicts you in a good light and explains why you’d be a good candidate for the schools you’re applying to while also being unique. It would be best if you talked about what makes you different from all other applicants; this includes your hobbies, your strengths, any obstacles you’ve overcome and how you did so, your goals, and your future aspirations. While most schools have general prompts to follow, you can fit all these topics within those guidelines.

Most students write about a hobby/sport/club/ or other activities they did consistently, as this demonstrates dedication, work ethic, and a strength that makes them unique. However, it’s important to be honest, and to not describe yourself in a way that sounds arrogant or that sounds like bragging. Furthermore, it’s important to note that many students have similar hobbies or have participated in the same sports. You have to delve deeper and clarify why your experience is a unique one, how it impacted your life, and how it made you a better person coming out of it. College prompts also have word limits, so you’ll need to do all this concisely and clearly because you won’t have the opportunity to make it too wordy.

Below is the college essay I wrote as a senior in college and which I used on my application, where I talked about the years I spent dancing competitively:

“By the time I was four years old, I considered myself polylingual, though what I perceived as my third language was really scatterings of French ballet terms I had picked up from my ballet teachers. From the moment I walked into my first ballet class, bright-eyed and freshly potty-trained, my life revolved around one thing: dance. Any moment not on a barre was a moment wasted, and the most prominent adult in my life was my studio director, who even to this day, I picture in the center of her spacious studio, handing out solos the way Mother Theresa handed out alms. Even the first time I ever really looked at myself was in that first ballet studio, reflected on the large mirrors that lined the walls, my chubby hands gripping the barre, my leotard riding up to expose my Elmo underwear.

As I grew older, who I was, or who I considered myself to be, was based on my leotard size, the number of pirouettes I could hit consecutively, and the fleeting criticism my instructor granted me when she deigned to look me in the eye. At eight years old I was putting in forty hours a week, filling my weekends with auditions, workshops, and regional and national competitions. When people asked me what I did, I responded dance. When they asked me who I was, I responded dancer.

In those mirrored studios, with our every move reflected glaringly back at us, I learned what it meant to lose, to envy, to hate. The crippling defeat of second place, the bitterness of a solo given to a peer, the fear of being replaced by someone better, was what often propelled not just me, but the droves of children I competed against. We shared an indoctrinated paranoia that launched us into this world of artistry and technique with what felt like the weight of the world on our backs.

When I was twelve, my parents noticed the constant stress I was under, emphasized by my erratic mood swings and my constant need to count calories, a habit left over from countless crash diets to fit into too tight costumes. They decided to take me out of dance, for a little while they assured me, and though I raged at them, something in me was relieved that that part of my life was over. However, this left me with an existential dilemma worthy of a midlife crisis: if I wasn't a dancer, who was I? Thankfully, I could tell you what I was not: a leotard size, a set of pirouettes, a critique from a middle-aged woman without a college degree.

Retrospectively, dance was not an entirely negative part of my life. It taught me practical things like posture, culture, and discipline, while instilling in me confidence, ambition, and competitiveness. My drive is another thing that I credit solely to dance. After everything, I still love to dance and compete, and to do so I maintain rigorous hours of training. Despite my high school’s intense workload and my other extracurricular activities, I remain dedicated to dancing, and I pride myself on my ability to get the best of both worlds- academic and artistic, despite the brutal hours and late nights. It also taught me the importance of teamwork, and what it means to sacrifice not just for myself, but for others.

Who I am today can be traced back to those ballet barres my little hands struggled to hold on to, and I like to say that dance provided the pressure I needed to go from a lump of coal into a diamond. Thanks to dance, I walk with my back straight and my head held high, both literally and figuratively. Sometimes I think I will never shed my inner leotard, and as I grow up and face life face first, I don't think I want to.”

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pirequehideux · 6 years

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Timeline

This timeline is comprehensive, meaning that it covers events from the beginning of Erik’s life, to the end of the book, as I have imagined them. Obviously tweaks can be made in the event that a partner’s version of things drastically differs from my own. Note that I’ve chosen to use the timeframe set by the ALW musical ( NOT the film! ) , simply to make things easier on myself on this blog. Plotlines diverge after canon events, and will be carried out in separate, verse-specific timelines, which will all be linked as they arise. Please note also that I am using the real-life date of the fire at the Paris Opera house as a basis for when the canon events of PotO take place for my Erik, to better allow him to mesh with other plotlines/stories.

Please note that in many ways Erik’s story is highly canon divergent, also note that it may contain references to events that could be triggering for some, including abuse & murder.

[1835] Erik is born to a nobleman’s wife with a horrific deformity covering the whole right side of his face and torso. Appalled, but fearing the wrath of god should she kill the child, Erik’s mother locked him away in the basement instead, with only a small window for sunlight, and spun a story of how the child had died during birth.

[1838] The child, not even given the gift of a name by the time of his third birthday, is practically feral, but for the kindness of a blind old housemaid, who visits him and recites fairy tales from her childhood, and sings him to sleep. When she can, the maid brings him picture books, so that he might learn a little of how to read. His mother sees him infrequently, sickened at the sight of him, and she has a mask crafted to hide his face that serves as his first and only birthday gift.

[1840] A caravan of performers comes through town, and Erik’s mother sees her chance. She tells herself she is giving the child a better life among those more suited to tolerate the sight of him. She sells him for a modest sum, and tries to forget he ever existed.

[1840 - 1846] There is a duality to the way Erik is treated in the caravan. By a few, outside of shows, he is fed and given what he needs to survive, however there is still a general air of disgust and mistrust- the show members 'abnormalities’ are all false, or are well planned acts that have taken years to perfect, and few have seen anything as grotesque as the young boy’s face- not alive, anyway. He is paraded around, given the titles ‘The Living Corpse’ and ‘The Devil’s Child’, but never a name. During shows, Erik is beaten for the entertainment of the crowd, whipped, and humiliated. Patrons can pay to throw small objects at him through the bars, and not once is he told it is all meant to be an act. When he outgrows the mask his mother left him with he’s given a sack to cover his face until he’s done growing.

[1846] The young boy, still nameless at this point, escapes and flees from the caravan, killing the man who tries to stop him in his desperation. He is aided in his escape by a promising young ballerina who had snuck out with others from her troupe and seen his ‘show’, and had taken pity on him. He was able to travel south a ways before stopping, and for a short time he came to live in the woods, surviving like a feral animal.

[1846] Late in that year, the boy is found by a Persian man by the name of Nadir Khan, then serving as Daroga for the Shah. Nadir brought Erik in from the wilderness and presents him with proper clothes, and a new mask, for even in his kindness he is discomforted by such a grisly sight. When he learns that the boy is nameless, he encourages him to choose one of his own, and eventually the boy settles on Erik, after one of the figures in the blind maid’s stories.

[1846 - 1855] Nadir, horrified by how little Erik seems to know of basic, human things, and almost fearful of what he might hear should the boy ever open up about the past, provides him with the tools to learn so that he can have a semblance of normalcy- and oh, does he learn. Erik swiftly proves himself to be a genius, picking up reading with a swiftness that shouldn’t be possible at his age, and writing almost as quickly, becoming fascinated by science and the arts, and for a short while he is able to learn to his heart’s content, almost openly, though still he rarely sets foot outside.

[1855] Now a young man of roughly 20 years, Erik overhears whispers which he should not, and is set to be put to death by the Shah as a result. Nadir helps Erik to escape, and he makes his way back to Paris, where he learns of the tunnels leading underneath the city, and the Opera House. He takes up residence in them, and it is at this time that he finally finds what he believes has been missing from his life, and what will fill it- music.

[1856 - 1860] Over the course of the next few years, Erik develops not only his skill with music and his home under the Opera House, but his persona as the Opera Ghost. He finds that theft only gets him so far, and over time learns to swindle the manager more effectively with threats and skills that seem truly supernatural to the untrained eye. During this time, he also encounters the ballerina who aided his escape from Paris and from the circus, now beginning a career as the instructor and matron of the Corps De Ballet, and takes it upon himself to protect her and her young daughter in every way he can out of gratitude for her help- which she continues to provide out of a mixture of pity and fear.

[1866] Christine Daae, age 13, comes to live at the Paris Opera House. She is not immediately notable to Erik- she is so only because she is treated like a daughter by Madame Giry, and therefore considered by Erik to be under his protection as well.

[1867] Nearing the end of this year, Erik takes notice of Christine’s vocal talent, and begins to pay closer attention to her.

[1868] Erik begins considering how to approach Christine, wishing to nurture her outstanding talent. He devises dozens of ways he might speak without frightening her, but discards the better majority of them out of fear of being seen.

[1869] Erik begins singing to Christine when she is alone, and she is entranced by his voice, and dubs him the Angel of Music. He does not dispute this, thinking it is a perfect, harmless guise under which to train the young singer.

[1870] Christine’s tutelage under Erik begins properly- at no point does she ever see her ‘angel’, but she adores him, and he begins to believe she might be capable of loving him, and begins to fall into obsession, spending the next few years dedicated solely to her.

[1873] The events of PotO take place ( the divergences therein will be discussed at a later point in their own post! Thanks for your patience! )

#PSA | a letter from og #Headcanon | what unspoken secrets will we learn

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charles195 · 7 years

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This Body Is Yours (Ch. 1)

Fandom: Yuuri!!! On Ice

Summary: Destiny? Fate? Soulmates? Reincarnation without the death? Otabek mostly thought it was troublesome. They were individuals that had their own aspirations and goals to achieve, and having their souls intertwined by some unexplored metaphysical bond was taking a toll on the both of them.

Pairing: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky

Characters: Otabek Altin, Mila Babichieva, Yakov Feltsman, Victor Nikiforov, Yuri Plisetsky, Georgi Popovich, (later) Unimportant OCs

Warnings: Body-Swap, Body Insecurities

Words: 4.6k+

There were clothes littered all over the floor: black tights, leopard print jackets, jeans, hoodies, figure skating outfits long outgrown. They were laying right where Yuri had taken them off. That, or kicked away when Yuri needed a particular clothing item to put on. Yuri never noticed how quickly the floor disappeared between laundry days until he found the sickly shade of green that had been hiding from him all this time.

He never mulled over miniscule details like the color of his carpet. It was as useless as learning a language he didn’t need and as productive as braiding his hair. Extraneous efforts weren’t his specialty. That was why he didn’t care about the color of his carpet and why there were clothes littered all over the floor… on a normal day… because...

… There aren’t clothes littered all over the floor. Though, that didn’t necessarily mean Yuri cared about the color of his carpet now; he was just surprised at how bare his room looked when the carpet wasn’t covered.

What matters is the inconvenience this discovery brought. His clothes weren’t stuffed under the bed or swept to the side or organized into piles that Yuri could pick and choose from in an instant. They were out of sight and Yuri felt like he was going out of his own mind. What really matters is his shoes, though. He could be naked for all he cared as long as he had his ice skates and pointe shoes, but he didn’t know where to look for them because all he could focus on was the sea of bile-green all around him.

He had been panicking for an entire five minutes, apparently, because he had to shut off his phone’s alarm clock once and for all before he finally peeked into his dresser. He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt that his top drawer was heavier than usual. It was packed with all the clothes he would need for practice: black shirts, black tights, and black socks. The second drawer had all of his tops. The third one had his bottoms and socks and underwear. Fourth had the jackets and hoodies. Everything was folded neatly and stacked efficiently.

“Who the hell has been touching my shit?” he grumbled to himself. The only one who had permission to move anything around was his precious cat Yulia, who did as she pleased anyway. His grandpa never touched any of his possessions, even when he was gone for months during skating season. It had to be one of his annoying rinkmates. How they snuck in, Yuri may never know, but they were going to pay the price later.

He slid open his closet door to assess the damage. All of his figure skating costumes were hung proudly, organized by year, with the corresponding medals and awards proudly displayed on the shelf above the clothes. “This prank is too weird…” To the side, all of his shoes were lined up against the wall by type. Regular sneakers were in one row, ballet shoes were in another, and all of his skates and the single pair of high heels that he owned were in the last row. “Shit, I have to explain the heels, don’t I?”

He left his closet and collapsed back onto his bed. He still had a lot of time before he needed to get ready for the day. He budgeted a full ten minutes (technically eight minutes so he wouldn’t be late to getting ready, even though he also budgeted an extra five minutes to give him enough time to get ready) dedicated solely to lazing around in bed right after he woke up. Right now, he had six minutes to burn (technically four) and he wished he had more so he could go back to sleep. Or, better yet, if time would reverse itself so he could re-live the same dream.

He flipped onto his back and let his bangs fall over his eyes. The gaps of sunlight peering in through the blinds hurt, burning past his eyelids until all Yuri could see was amber. He covered his face with a hand. This morning felt ethereal. Not like he felt violated or out of place, but more like he resented being awake.

He was someone else entirely when he dreamt.

Victor was knocking on the door. He, at least, had the courtesy to warn Yuri about his arrival through text even if he ignored Yuri’s insistence that Victor’s visit, nay, his existence was unnecessary. Yuri thought about just not answering the door and sneaking out of his window to avoid Victor altogether, but if he didn’t answer, then Victor would keep knocking forever, and that would wake up his grandpa.

“Dobroye utro, kotyonok!” Victor greeted cheerfully.

Yuri glared at him. The morning was not good and he refused to identify as a kitten. “Did you touch my stuff?”

“Did the silly kitty lose something?”

Yuri slapped Victor’s hand away when he tried to caress his cheek. “Never mind, it’s nothing.” He dropped the subject. Victor looked like he was truly unaware of the state that Yuri’s room was in. Victor would’ve made some smug remark about how he didn’t want the Ice Kitten of Russia to get lost in such a messy room, or something equally annoying.

Victor pouted and crossed his arms, exaggerating the offense he took. “Ah, what happened? You were so much cuter, yesterday. It scared me so much that I came to drive you to the rink today in case you weren’t feeling well.” He hugged Yuri against his will. “The throes of puberty must be hitting you so! My little Yuratchka is growing up too fast!”

The more Yuri struggled, the tighter Victor’s arms were around his body. “What are you talking about, old man? Are you getting Alzheimer's already?”

Victor gasped and suddenly stopped hugging Yuri. “Yura, you don’t know about it?”

Yuri wanted to say that yesterday was just as normal as the day before yesterday, but he had no recollection of yesterday. All he could remember was the strange dream he had last night. “What are you keeping from me?” In a moment of weakness, he leaned towards Victor. He didn’t even know what the big question hovering around him like a boa constrictor was, but he felt like he would suffocate without an answer. Reluctantly, he let Victor tuck his bangs behind his ear so that Victor could gaze fondly at his full face.

“I’ll tell you in the car, okay?”

Getting into Victor’s car was a mistake. Yuri only realized that as soon as it was too late to get out; Victor had started the car and sped off as soon as possible. He hastily buckled in his seatbelt and prayed. His stomach dropped when he glanced at the speedometer. “Victor, the speed limit in residential areas is not 100 kilometers per hours.”

“I’ll teach you how to drive later, Yura,” Victor promised.

That was one promise that Yuri was fine with Victor forgetting about.

“You deserve to know the truth about what’s happening to you… Tell me, what do you think about your body?”

Unconsciously, Yuri rubbed his thighs nervously. He remembered that there was no pain in dreams, so he pinched himself experimentally. He was definitely awake. Not that that was the issue, because even in his dreams, he wouldn’t open up to Victor about a topic so personal. “You pervert. Is this a sex talk?”

“I understand if you’re not ready, but just know one thing: your body is yours and nobody else’s.”

Yuri stayed silent for the rest of the car ride. Stupid Victor. How can you be so sure of yourself?

The familiar sensation of cold air rushed into Yuri’s face as soon as he entered the ice rink. It stirred about him until the heavy door slammed behind him. How he longed to give away all of his weight to the smooth surface of ice below him. It was as easy as lacing up his skates and dashing into the rink. He wouldn’t dare set foot on the ice without stretching, first, and by the time he was done stretching, his ballet class would already be starting and he would be yelled at for trying to ditch again.

Yuri headed towards the dance studio immediately so he could get a head start on his stretching and have extra free time to practice jumps. He would be the first one there because of how unusually early he was. Usually, he was one of the last ones to arrive because he purposely took his time walking to procrastinate his most dreaded block of his schedule: off-ice training.

Attending ballet class with the other junior-level skaters was annoying. It was all repetitive exercises and technique work and across the floors. God, those three words haunted him in his nightmares, sometimes. And worse, he was the only boy in a class of girls because a prodigy like him shouldn’t be limited by his gender, or something. Yuri didn’t like focusing on the implications of his placement. He would’ve suffered in either class. Mila was often a substitute instructor for the female class and Georgi likewise for the male. Both were annoyingly obsessed over their significant other 24/7, but at least Mila didn’t fight with her boyfriend over the phone during class.

Yuri already had a clear image of how his off-ice training block would go. He would forcefully jiggle the doorknob until the mechanisms loosened enough to unlock (thanks to years of Yuri impatiently harassing it), turn on the heater, check his social media while he stretched, and work on jumps before the class officially started. He had already perfected the art of ignoring his classmates while he was stretching, to the point where they learned not to bother socializing with him.

But leave it to Victor to disrupt his plan. “Dobroye utro, Yakov! Will you let Yura train with the senior skaters, today?”

The casual request was supposed to be met with a glare and interrogation, but this time, Victor’s optimism was well-placed. Yakov considered the request while he stared down Yuri. Yuri instinctively took a step back when Yakov approached him. The coach’s eyes squinted like there was something off, something new that he hadn’t noticed before. He crossed his arms and stubbornly looked to the side. “This time, I will allow it, as a reward for your good behavior yesterday. This is no act of altruism, boy. Perhaps inspiration from some role models might reverse the horrid degradation of your ballet skills.”

Yuri stared blankly at his coach. “What the hell are you saying, old man?”

“Are you forgetting how to understand your own language, too? I’ll assign you a new tutor if you don’t brush up on a dictionary soon!”

He was dragged away to the senior skaters’ dance studio by Victor before he could defend himself. His day was getting stranger and stranger with each new block in his schedule, and it had something to do with his behavior from yesterday. He might know more if he simply pulled Victor aside and straight-up asked how he behaved yesterday. That was assuming Victor wouldn’t go off on a spiel about the significance of consent in romantic relationships (which was still important but not relevant in this circumstance). Adding the event of investigating the mystery would make his day longer, though, and the mystery was already draining Yuri as it was.

Yuri took great pride in his belief in consequentialism. If going against his routine and adding quads didn’t cost him a gold medal, then he shouldn’t be yelled at for it. Likewise, if he was reaping rewards from yesterday despite not remembering what quite happened, then he shouldn’t worry about it. The past couldn’t be changed. If it could be, he would’ve gladly changed it so that he won gold at every competition he had ever competed in, no matter how many tries it took.

He followed Victor to the senior skater’s dance studio without any further fusses and turned off his phone. He wouldn’t need any alarms to keep him on track with his long, immaculate schedule for the rest of the day. He had stepped into an alternative version of what his day could be in another universe, led by Victor and spurred on by some amalgamation of anomalies that had accidentally accumulated without his knowledge. Apparently, a clean room, introduction lecture to puberty, and damaged reputation was the secret cheat code that unlocked the world of senior skaters.

Yuri stepped up the stairs behind Victor. The staircase was pitch-black beyond its initial entrance. He had only been on the second floor of the ice rink a few times, which was experience he was grateful for, otherwise he would have been concerned by the darkness swallowing him. Abandon all hope, all ye who enter, the old stairs creaked to him. The second floor of the ice rink was exclusive, literally and figuratively above the skaters who weren’t in the senior division, yet. The senior skaters called the second floor of the ice rink their home and where they slept and ate and showered their house. The ice was for all who were willing to pay a certain fee (monetary, mind you; families and lovers still skated on the rink when it wasn’t reserved), but the second floor was for those who could afford to keep paying. (With money, still. Competitive figure skating is just really expensive.)

Yuri was always a mere visitor when he used to stomp up the stairs to demand something from one of the senior skaters. Indeed, the second floor was a nice place to visit, but not a great place to stay because of how pesky he thought the senior skaters were. However, that was not to say any senior skater could claim the second floor as their home. The senior skaters weren’t significant in their rank as seniors, but as award-winners. Yuri was basically in their clique, already, and belonged on the second floor, already, but the female ballet class for junior skaters was on the first floor and Yakov would ban him from the ice if he didn’t attend.

It was then that Yuri discovered that he had no clue how the senior skaters’ off-ice practice went or how long it lasted. Of course he wasn’t scared or nervous about training alongside the senior skaters. It was just dark as hell, especially since there was an ugly curtain hiding the light of the second floor’s hallway at the top of the stairs.

“Oops! I forgot!” Victor suddenly exclaimed.

Yuri froze and waited for another weird thing to occur. Maybe he had to give Victor a coin he was supposed to get before he entered the rink to compensate for Victor’s guidance, and if he didn’t, he would have to aimlessly wander around in the dark staircase for a hundred years.

Victor quickly dashed to the very top of the stairs and flipped the switch. And Victor said, “Let there be light!” and there was light. Dim, yellow fluorescent light from a lightbulb that was at the end of its lifespan, but light, nonetheless. “Wouldn’t want you to trip on your first day training with us.”

Yuri flinched at the immediate downpour of clarity. He had no clue the stairs had light. Nobody else had ever used the lights, before. It seemed that they all knew each step by heart. “I think I like your face better with the lights off.” He continued his tread up the stairs. There were a lot less steps than he thought there were. He remembered the journey to the second floor being much more arduous, but that could have been because he was much smaller, back then.

Victor smiled down at him. “Did you know that approximately a thousand people die of falling down the stairs every year?”

“Shut up.”

The switch flicked off. “The percentage seems small, but I can make sure that there’s a 100% chance that you’ll be another name on that list…”

Yuri clung to the railing. He didn’t doubt that Victor would try to grab him in the dark to enhance the joke. “Victor, you idiot! Turn on the lights!”

The switch flicked on again. “Just kidding!”

Yuri had the mind to turn around and never look back as he marched towards the female junior skaters’ dance studio, because that was the easy route. It would have been consistent with his values, yet also a defiant act of injustice to his own personality. Victor’s death threat was an intimidation tactic and Yuri wasn’t afraid of Victor. Continuing up the stairs with the lights on surely had to be the right route for Yuri, otherwise he would reject a world he fit better in. He couldn’t return to his dull, albeit safe, reality because that would hurt his pride in the present and future.

Another part of Yuri’s brain said that he was overthinking his dilemma about the stairs. Victor always annoyed Yuri, and this was nothing new. Really, he was analyzing everything out of proportion. So he went up the stairs, followed Victor to the dance studio, and tossed his duffel bag to the side.

The senior skaters’ dance studio was designed similarly to the studios downstairs. The walls all had mirrors, obviously, and the floor was the same shiny hardwood. Mila and Georgi were already there. They took pride in the professionality and always preferred to be early. Their attention was drawn away from their phones as soon as Yuri entered the room.

Mila’s face lit up like a Christmas light. “Yuri! Can I braid your hair again?”

Again?

“I can do your makeup,” Georgi offered.

Yuri flipped them off and headed towards the farthest corner away from them. No more bullshit. He sat down and started with the butterfly stretch so he could open up his hips.

Georgi chuckled at the typical Yuri Plisetsky reaction. “Looks like he’s back to normal.”

Mila huffed and put her hands on her hips. “That’s so unfair! He was such a good boy yesterday! No mouthing off, no rude gestures, no disobedience…”

Yuri was starting to hate that word a lot. Yesterday. He took a deep inhale and leaned forward until he rested his cheek on the floor.

“No talent,” Georgi added.

Yuri also hated that the stupid senior skaters talked about him like he was deaf. If they were so early, they should be doing something more productive than talking shit behind his back within his obvious range of hearing. It didn’t even feel like they were talking about him, though. Yesterday’s Yuri sounded like they were talking about someone else entirely. He got up from his stretch and then laid his legs out straight in front of him, then bent over until his forehead was on his knees. With every exhale, he sank deeper into the stretch.

Victor came to his defense. “That’s not true! He just had a different style yesterday. He was even landing all of his quads consistently, even though he’s still not supposed to be doing them.”

“Come to think of it, that style reminded me of someone else,” Mila pondered. “It was very strong and bold...”

“Masculine,” Georgi agreed. He didn’t forget that Yuri was in the room. “Oy, Yuri, are you trying skate like someone else, now?”

Yuri was standing up and taking a deep lunge with his left leg in front of him. “Shut up! Let me stretch in peace!” He lost his patience and settled into a left splits as soon as his muscles felt adequately warmed up enough. He was satisfied when he was flat on the floor. Because he had to make his stretches “symmetrical”, he repeated the same process with his right side.

Victor was busy uploading a picture of Yuri stretching to Snapchat with the caption, Yakov finally let the Ice Kitten train with the big kids today! He thanked God (well, Yakov) for the ice rink’s incredibly fast and free Wi-Fi. “Yuri’s new role model is a lucky guy. I wish up-and-coming skaters would imitate me for inspiration…” In seconds, Victor’s lament quickly transitioned into excitement. “Hey, Yuri, let me be your teacher today! Call me ‘Vitya’ and get as much help from me as you need!”

Everyone was so focused on Yuri being “back to normal” that Victor’s recent strange behavior had gone under the radar. Victor had a strong contribution in the unusual day. Sex talk, death threat, and now a sudden interest in teaching. And all the strangeness seemed to be revolving around Yuri, for some reason. “What the hell? Are you horny, Victor?”

Georgi coughed out water that he had been drinking. Mila burst out into a loud, uncontrollable cackle.

The accusation confused Victor. “Why? Are you?”

“You keep trying to assert your dominance over me, idiot,” Yuri explained. First as a father figure, then as a psychopath, and now as a mentor.

Mila sought the bar lining the walls for better balance. “He’s fourteen, Victor! Control yourself!”

Georgi looked at Yuri skeptically. “Is that your go-to assumption, Yuri? You said the same thing when I was sad over a fight I had with Anya and when Mila hugged you after she broke up with her boyfriend.” Though, he did acknowledge that Yuri was onto something. “Wait, does that mean you feel lonely, Victor?”

Victor laughed even though he looked sad. “I would hope not. Doesn’t that seem too expected from someone like me?”

Yuri recognized that smile of his. It was the same one he had while he was standing on the podium when he won his latest gold medal. He had no idea what made Victor smile like that.

The conversation ended there when Yakov walked into the studio. “Why is the junior skater the only one stretching?”

Suddenly, the senior skaters were all off their phones and stretching.

The senior skaters’ off-ice training was infinitely more lax than the juniors’. It was mostly independent work with occasional critique from Yakov when he checked up on them since the coach was busy teaching a novice class. Each skater had claimed their own space to practice in, focused only on their own development.

Yuri was practicing jumps as soon as he was done stretching. He spun and twirled and jumped until he worked up a great deal of sweat. He leaned on a wall railing and eagerly chugged water between gasps of air. All the while, his eyes couldn’t leave his reflection. He kept staring long after his heart rate slowed down. He looked his lithe form up and down, then raised his leg behind his back so he could grab the back of his foot. He lifted his standing leg en pointe and reached his free hand towards the mirror. His fingers stretched longingly until he touched his reflection.

“This body is very light…” he said to himself. His body was ideal for a danseuse. If he wasn’t a figure skater, he surely would have been a prima ballerina. There was little else he could be, unless he decided that being hungry and homeless was appealing. It was his career that kept his family comfortable, his body…

He saw Victor come up behind him and push the knee of his raised leg forward, until it was fully straight. There weren’t many opportunities to sneak up behind someone in a room with mirrors lining the walls from top to bottom, unless the victim was extremely unaware.

“You said the same thing, yesterday. Tell me, what else would your body be other than light?”

Yuri flattened his foot, which deepened the position he was in so that his straight legs were exceeding 180 degrees. He couldn’t maintain the position for long en pointe, but he could stretch much farther with a flat foot. “I don’t know, maybe heavy?” Yuri proposed sarcastically. He continued that idea, though. “Heavy with muscles, I guess, like a bodybuilder. I wouldn’t want to take away my flexibility, though.”

Victor pushed Yuri’s leg farther. “You certainly have been fascinated with your own flexibility, as of late.” He rubbed Yuri’s calf. “I don’t blame you.”

In a moment of vulnerability, Yuri found the action comforting rather than creepy. He leaned forward more and wrapped his free hand around the railing so he could pull himself a little more deeper into the stretch. The position was still too comfortable for him. “Maybe that’s what I’ll be in my next life--some tough guy with muscles that does figure skating.”

Victor was getting scared of Yuri’s bones snapping in half, so he kept holding up Yuri’s leg and put a hand under Yuri’s chest, just in case. To his amazement, Yuri still managed to stretch farther. “You still want to figure skate in another life?”

“What else could I do?” Yuri responded, like there was no other life out there.

“Bodybuilding?” Yuri rolled his eyes at him through the mirror. Victor took it that Yuri had no real interest in such an activity other than for aesthetic purposes. “Okay, you can figure skate in all nine of your lives, kotyonok. I’m just surprised you believe in reincarnation.”

“Push more, Victor.” Yuri’s muscles were starting to burn, but it wasn’t enough. Victor only moved a centimeter, if at all. “I said more!” His legs may have been shaking a little, but it still wasn’t enough. He used his free hand to grab the back of his raised foot and gave some of his weight to Victor’s hand, which was holding his chest up.

The demand caught a brief glance from Mila.

Victor’s arms were starting to get tired. “Why don’t you call me ‘Vitya’ again?”

The only reason why Yuri complied with that stupid request was because it made sense to follow the unorthodox rhythm he was already plagued with and he couldn’t stretch farther without a partner to help him. It surely wasn’t because of some hidden quality as frivolous as affection deep within his heart, which fluttered involuntarily and not for anyone else. “Vitya, more--”

Victor had jerked away so suddenly that Yuri panicked and lost his balance because of his aching muscles. Yuri released his leg, which ended up kicking Victor’s face when he fell backwards. Victor quickly tried to compensate for his mistake by catching Yuri, but all he could do was break Yuri’s fall while he suffered the full brute force of landing on the hardwood floor plus Yuri’s weight.

Mila was able to Snapchat the entire moment, from “Vitya, more” to Yuri landing in Victor’s lap. She saved it to her phone before captioning it “that moment when partner stretching gets TOO intimate” and putting it on her story.

Yuri elbowed Victor in the gut and glared at him through the mirror. “Idiot! Why did you--HAH? Y-You’re bleeding!” Yuri scrambled off of Victor and wiped away the blood on his shoes. They were fairly new, too.

Victor’s hands were covering his nosebleed. Unbeknownst to the younger skater, being kicked in the face wasn’t the trigger, though it did exacerbate the situation. He had a stupid, blissful look on his face, regardless. “You’re still as cute as ever, kotyonok!”

“Useless old man!” Yuri cursed. He ran to the bathroom to get paper towels for Victor. “Just retire already!”

It was then that Yuri realized that he was destined to hate off-ice training no matter which group who was with. The females, the males, the seniors, the juniors--they all pissed him off.

I definitely want to skate as a tall, masculine guy in solitude when I get to my next life!

#kimi no na wa au #yuri!!! on ice #yoi #otayuri #otabek altin #yuri plisetsky #fanfic #this body is yours #chapter 1 #fun fact: i have about 4 chapters written out already #another fun fact: i need a beta

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