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psalm22-6 · 1 year

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Source: the Citrus College Clarion, 21 April 1988

Les Miserables, the enormously successful musical play based on the classic novel by Victor Hugo, is coming to Los Angeles. It promises to revitalize the interest of jaded theatergoers with a big stage, big story, big score production that harkens both to the past and the future. I recently saw the Broadway version during the Citrus Springtime New York Theater Tour. If the Los Angeles production approaches the overall quality of the New York show, it should enjoy a very long run.

Les Miserables is the story, familiar to high school students nearly everywhere, [was it really?] of Jean Val Jean, [almost] a French citizen who goes to prison for stealing a loaf of bread, escapes and starts a new life only to be pursued by a relentless detective.

Set during the French Revolution, [no] the story has a majestic historical sweep, depicting the plight of the lower classes in the midst of social upheaval. It offers a gleaming ray of hope, a dramatic commentary on the indomitable resiliency of the human spirit.

The novel Les Miserables, at first thought seems an unlikely subject for a musical. Dark and somber [I mean yes but not how I would describe it at all], it portrays heartbreaking situations of imprisonment, poverty, injustice and oppression.

However, as adapted for the stage by Frenchmen Alain Boubil [sic] and Claude-Michael Schonberg, Les Mis sets new standards for musical drama that lesser efforts can only dream of.

The musical is remarkably faithful to the text. Almost all the intricacies and subtleties of both plot and characterization are kept intact; [how can you just say that if you’ve never read the book?] no small feat when transforming a historical saga to musical entertainment.

The entire story is told in song, with the musical score by Schonberg and English lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer. The technique that Kretzmer uses, an original and stunningly creative method of setting such a complex story to verse, is brilliant. As for the musical score, I have some reservations. Not being schooled in opera, I was not particularly enthralled by the melodies which in many places seemed repetitive and monotone.

I imagine that fans of opera will be entranced by the score, but as a Southern Californian raised on the unforgettable tunes of Gershwin and Porter, I was slightly disappointed to leave the theater without really remembering any one melody line as totally memorable.

That minor complaint pales, however, when measured to the astonishment and genuine awe that I felt for the sets, costumes and makeup. Seemingly produced on an unlimited budget, the sets designed by John Napier were as spectacular and extravagant as anything ever seen since the days of Cecile B. Demille.

The stage itself seemed as large as a soccer field and included a revolving center that was nearly full stage width. It was used with marvelous effect to symbolize the passage of time with its many slow revolutions.

The enormous scale of the barricade set, nearly three stories tall, was truly breathtaking as it was slowly lowered onto the stage, a two-story jumble of logs, timbers, wagons and debris that served as a centerpiece for the peasant’s battle against the soldiers.

The sewer scene was particularly imaginative, giving the illusion of rapidly swirling water without a drop actually used.

The costumes by Andreane Neofitou were equally extravagant and theatrical. Their authenticity and variety made the passage of time and the growth of the characterizations completely believable.

To appreciate the makeup, one had only to look at the program and realize that the entire cast bore very little resemblance to their stage characters.

From a technical standpoint it is hard to imagine that it could have been done any better.

The singing, dancing and acting were equally impressive. The entire cast maintained energy, conviction and utter professionalism throughout. It was an ensemble show and any faults that the cast had were invisible to my prying eyes.

One performance deserves special mention. Gary Morris as Jean Val Jean gave a stunning performance, keeping the drama, tension and tenderness at the perfect level. The excellence of his voice, his control and projection, show why his talents are in great demand.

One problem that American playgoers may have with Les Mis is its length. At three hours and 15 minutes running time, it is substantially longer than the comfortable endurance of many patrons. Les Mis is never boring but verges on being trying. Some judicial cuts could make this fine show even finer.

Currently Les Mis is being staged in London, New York, Toykyo, Tel Aviv and Buda-pest. Productions are being scheduled for Los Angeles, Boston, Paris, Madrid, Ankara, Copenhagen, Toronto and South America.

The play is an international success with a universal theme: man’s spirit will prevail. Doesn’t that alone make it worth the ticket price? by Ron Secor Entertainment Editor

#les miserables #lm musical

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cassiachloe · 3 years

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Between islands

🌿

Female body hair has been demonised in the media, throughout society and by companies trying to sell you products, often propagating self-hate and designed insecurity. Female body hair represents womanhood. It is deeply powerful, yet delicate and beautiful. We need to live in a world in which what we do with our bodies and hair is considered a personal choice, not a necessity because of our gender.

I was 17 years old when I stopped shaving my armpits. At the time it was perhaps more unusual than it is now. Regardless, careless of judgement and my own mental barriers, I persisted, trusting in my nature and the feeling of discovering my natural body for the first time - madness to think that up to that point I had never known a natural version of myself beyond puberty. I wanted to not only break down the social constructs imposed on so many women, but also the ones I had felt forced down my throat. The madness which I knew deep down it all was. That women must be hairless like a prepubescent girl, made up and covered up with thick layers of paint on their skin. Because somehow, there's something wrong with a natural woman. As if the beauty of a human being could ever be so shallow.

As a performing artist, there's times in my career when I have shaved my armpits. Usually when working on a show or in a group where long sleeves were, for whatever reason, not part of the costuming and I felt it wasn't suited for the performance. I've come to peace with the fact that, as an artist, sometimes I take on different roles. Society is still so afraid and confused by the natural body of a woman that it can distract from the message and purpose of my performance if I were not to cover my hair. There are definitely performances where I can show this natural element of myself, but there are many which I can't and I often design my costumes with sleeves instead. It's not ideal, but it's a reality we are all working on and shaping day by day. One day we might see a world with minds more open and less programmed by consumerism, fear and sexism.

Makeup can be really creative and explorative. As a performance artist theatrical makeup displays my expressions from a distance and allows me to take on new roles and expand the visual art of the performance. But in my daily life, or at an event, party or meal, you'll never catch me in any make-up whatsoever and I haven't for more than 10 years. I might stick a sticker on my face or doodle on my forehead for fun at an event. But I've never subscribed to the idea that a woman's appearance is innately more valuable than her, as a human being. OR that she must change herself and waste years of her life with daily attempts to alter the face, hide, mask or change the features to be beautiful or a woman.

The concept that women should wear makeup to work or an interview as if their appearance will affect their professionalism and skill is absurd, or even more absurd: that people just assume wearing makeup is part of being a woman. It's yet another construct forced on to and undermining women and their intrinsic value as human beings. It's an attempt to take away people's intrinsic power. I really don't think there's something innately wrong with makeup or shaving, and people should act freely and in accordance with their true selves - It is the sexist social programming which is the real issue here. Makeup, like shaving, should be a choice, and done or not done from a place of self expression, joy and creativity.

Don't get me wrong, as an artist who paints, draws, sews, dances and choreographs, I love aesthetics. I love symmetry, pattern, intricacy, colours, depth and ratio - all the things which appeal to a sense of beauty in our minds. I can spend hours watching the shape of the leaves and how the sunlight just catches on it's form, or the magnificent beauty of the gnarled ancient trunk of a tree. Sometimes I'll sit back and see if I can perceive the greater form and the subtle movements of each branch as it's touched by a wave of wind. I see each human being in that way too, inexpressibly unique and intricate. The beauty in nature and humanity expands beyond aesthetics. It is something which cannot be bought or sold, and certainly cannot be defined by advertisers seeking to invade your personal peace.

#natural hair #shoots #dreadlocks #nature #natural #natural beauty #natural light #natural woman #body hair

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rareficsnstuff · 4 years

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Happy Halloween!! [Akaashi, Tendou, Bokuto]

AN: Okay, Anon, I hope the wait was worth it. I was suddenly inspired by the recent holiday so I combined your request with that element and I thought it made sense to place it in the Kuroo, Bokuto, Tendou post high-school roommates AU that I accidentally started here. Enjoy!!

Summary: Akaashi is invited to a costume party at Bokuto, Kuroo, and Tendou’s apartment, but everyone is less than pleased about his costume. And where’s Tendou?

Words: 3,878

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The doorbell’s tone mixed with the cacophony of chatter that buzzed endlessly throughout the apartment. It caught the attention of Kuroo, who had been conversing with some friends on the couch.

“Bo, that’s your turn!” he shouted over his shoulder to the kitchen.

“Yeah!” came Bokuto’s boisterous, garbled reply before he quickly threw the last bit of candy bar into his mouth and made his way over to the door. He swung the door open jarringly and it collided with the wall behind, leaving a nick in the paint.

“You shouldn’t slam doors. Be more careful, Bokuto,” the new guest scolded calmly.

“AKAASHIII! Hey, hey, hey!! You showed up ~.” Akaashi stood there looking bored, hands clasped behind his back, but as soon as the elder was finished with his verbal greeting, the younger found himself being pulled into a suffocating bear-like hug and lifted off the ground by his overjoyed friend.

“B-Bokuto… I can’t breathe… P-please put me down,” he choked out as he awkwardly hung in Bokuto’s grasp.

“Oh, sorry!” he all but dropped Akaashi on the ground, rubbing his neck and smiling sheepishly while Akaashi removed his coat and hung it with the rest of the guests’. “So… a ghost, yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s all I had. Sorry…” Akaashi’s ‘costume’ consisted of a white thermal top, a pair of old ripped jeans, sneakers of no particular sort, and the classic white triangle strapped to his head.

“No, no! I like it! It’s like… modern ghost,” Bokuto punctuated with a grand, theatrical wave of his hands. “You look cool!”

“You’re wearing the same costume you’ve worn every year since I met you. Why don’t you ever try something different?”

“Why would I try something different?! This is the perfect costume! Owls are so cool, Why wouldn’t I be one every year?!” Bokuto shouted proudly. Akaashi’s response was to simply stare blankly.

“Right, stupid question. Sorry…” he added dryly. Bokuto shrugged, throwing a hearty slap to Akaashi’s back, knocking the wind out of the younger and making him stumble forward.

“Okay, okay, come in, Akaashi!! You have to see what Tendou and Kuroo did with the decorations! They’re awesome!!” Bokuto cheered, closing the door and pushing Akaashi further inside by his shoulders. “Oh, and their costumes are cool, too! But I bet you can’t guess what Tendou is ~,” he sang in a challenging tone. Akaashi sighed.

At that moment, Kuroo looked over his shoulder at the commotion by the front door. “Heeey, Akaashi! Good ta see ya!” He stood, moving towards them to clap Akaashi on the shoulder. Akaashi’s jaw fell.

“What the-- “

“Whoa, wait a minute, where’s your costume?!” Kuroo fussed, pointing a disappointed finger at Akaashi’s chest. The shorter made a lame gesture of presenting himself with a lazy wave of his hand over his body before he let his hand fall back limply to his side.

“… That’s it…” less of a question, and more of a disappointed statement. Akaashi additionally pointed to the white triangle on his forehead. “Oh, yeah. That’s- that’s much better. Your costume’s pretty wimpy there, Akaashi…” Kuroo finished, dropping the sarcasm.

“It’s all I had,” Akaashi blandly repeated from his earlier conversation with Bokuto.

“Really…” Kuroo’s tone irritated Akaashi. Was he trying to pick a fight or something? The shorter’s eyes narrowed ever-so slightly, but Kuroo still picked up on it. Kuroo reached out, grabbing Akaashi’s headpiece and pulling it away only to let it snap back into place. Akaashi winced, lifting a hand to swat Kuroo’s away.

“Speaking of costumes, what the hell is yours supposed to be?!” Damn… provocation expert for a reason, huh? Akaashi didn’t care right now, though – he just felt like glaring at pain-in-the-ass Kuroo just at the moment. Kuroo smirked with a chuckle.

“What, you can’t tell?” he stopped, waiting for Akaashi to try and guess. Akaashi only continued scowling. “Mad scientist, dud! C’mon!” Sure enough, Kuroo was wearing a white lab coat spattered in fake blood and green faux chemicals over a worn out, grey t-shirt. He had an old pair of torn up corduroys that didn’t quite reach his ankles, long, neon green socks and some old brown loafers that were about a size-and-a-half too large. His hair though, was the real eye catcher: people who knew him would immediately be drawn to the fact that you could see both eyes!! Gone was his usual style of rooster-esque bedhead. He must have spent a lot of time and product to get all his unruly, wiry locks to stand strait up like that. The final details – Akaashi felt were a bit over the top – were a bit of dark eye makeup beneath his eyes – to make him look sleep-deprived, Akaashi supposed – and a pair of large and broken, circular-framed glasses hanging from his t-shirt collar.

“Not much different from how you usually look, is it?” Akaashi snarked. Kuroo’s haughty smirk fell.

“Someone’s in a bad mood tonight,” Bokuto interjected, looking awkwardly between the two.

“Hey, Akaashi, you seen Tendou tonight yet?” Kuroo asked. There was an odd, baiting tone to the question, but Akaashi couldn’t begin to guess where this was going.

“No. I just got here.”

“Well, unlike yours ~, his costume is superb! And I bet you can’t guess what it is?” Kuroo almost growled. There was no question that was a challenge. Now Akaashi just needed to decide if he cared.

Perplexed, Akaashi asked, “What are you getting at?” Kuroo only grinned, eyes glinting mischievously and Akaashi’s brows furrowed untrustingly in response.

“Oh hey, Bo, it’s almost 8 o’clock! I gotta get going!”

“Yeah, yeah, no worries, man! Say hi to Kenma for me, okay?” Bokuto replied sweetly.

“Sure thing!” One final swig from a cup of apple cider nearby, a clap on Bokuto’s back and an elbow nudge at Akaashi before a quick stop at the entryway closet to grab his coat and Kuroo was out the door.

“Kuroo tried to get Kenma to come, but I guess the shrimp wanted to stay in this year. So he’s gonna go spend the rest of the night over there and watch horror movies n’ stuff…” Bokuto explained.

Suddenly, from somewhere in the apartment, there was a shout followed by a string of giggles. Akaashi figured it was coming from one of the bedrooms, but he didn’t really care too much; probably some idiots on a sugar high from all the candy and sweets. He rolled his eyes, but Bokuto looked towards the commotion and chuckled.

“Hey, hey, Akaashi! Look at this!” Bokuto exclaimed, suddenly jumping to one side only to stand in front of a black light that was set up against a wall. He crouched into a kneel on one leg with is arms wrapped around him like a vampire, the feathered sleeves and horned (and beaked) hood of the owl onesie providing more cover to his face. Pausing there a moment – to build suspense? – he suddenly looked up dramatically whilst simultaneously throwing his arms open in a ‘menacing’ way, his face dramatized into a bold, sneering grin. The light from behind caught his form, lighting up the white in his costume and face, making him look like a gargoyle from a children’s television program. Though that probably wasn’t quite the affect Bokuto had been going for. Akaashi stared, trying to process what he was looking at and contain the urge to press his palm across his face.

“Very spooky, Bokuto…” he finally said, to which the ‘gargoyle’ stood to his full height, fists on his hips, and laughed triumphantly – obnoxiously, in Akaashi’s opinion. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this at all and he found one corner of his mouth lifting. Only a little.

“Didn’t my roomies do a great job on the decorations?!” Bokuto asked proudly. Akaashi looked around, fully observing the décor for the first time.

“Yeah, they really did. The place looks great,” he said truthfully. Again, there was a sudden burst of laughter from somewhere in the apartment. Two voices this time, one more desperate than the other. Akaashi’s head snapped in that direction for a second before glancing back at Bokuto who was, again, grinning in that direction before he turned to meet Akaashi’s eyes with another chuckle.

“Anyways, there’s lots of food and drinks n’ stuff in the kitchen, so help yourself. And you have to try the apple cider; that’s my grandma’s recipe! It’s awesome!” he finished, pumping a fist into the air as he turned and went to mingle with his other guests.

Akaashi stood there awkwardly for half a minute before he decided to fix himself a plate of food. The evening was pleasant enough; he caught up with several old friends and acquaintances and even met some great new people. These were all friends and teammates from Bokuto, Kuroo, and Tendou’s high school years. All pleasant people in their own ways and Akaashi was almost fully enjoying himself after the whole Kuroo dispute. He hadn’t seen much of Bokuto since he left him to his own devices but the elder seemed to be getting around. He was in his element after all – one of them anyways. Every so often, however, there were those random bouts of laughter coming from somewhere in the apartment. He was never in the same room when it happened though; anytime he moved to another room, whatever was going on had suddenly moved to the room he had just left. And he had yet to spot the elusive Tendou...

By about 11 o’clock, the majority of the guests had gone home and more were trickling out by the minute. He and Washio were the only two left in the living room, comfortably chatting on the couch. Even then, with all the rest of the non-residential people left in that apartment, laughter once again sounded through the apartment. Bokuto’s laughter. Loud and boisterous intermingled with (apparently) Tendou’s own laughter. Akaashi thought about asking Washio if he knew anything about this, but decided against it, and all too soon, Washio was excusing himself to go home, going to find the other two for a quick goodbye before he grabbed his coat and walked out the door. Akaashi found himself alone, slowly nursing the last of his eighth glass of apple cider.

“Yooo ~, Akaashi ~! Haven’t seen you all night!” Akaashi turned to see, finally, Tendou emerging from the darkened hallway. Akaashi froze. What the hell was he looking at?!

Bokuto trailed in behind him looking like he’d just run a ten minuet mile; panting and cheeks glowing red, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead.

“Yeah, I guess… I guess we just kept missing each other… I’ve been here since eight,” Akaashi stammered, almost in a daze as his expression became something like concerned confusion. He was so distracted by-- what in god’s name was Tendou wearing?!

“Alright! Hang on! Wait! Full stop! Is that your costume?!” Tendou accused pointing a disgusted finger at Akaashi as his face twisted into abhorred imploration. The younger had to close his eyes, taking a minute to inhale deeply through his nose and release it in a heavy, frustrated sigh.

“Yes. It’s all. I had,” Akaashi bit out.

“Whoa, whoa, no need to get huffy, Kaashi, just making an observation,” Tendou attempted to sooth.

“You were making a criticism…”

“And what the hell are you supposed to be, Tendou!” Akaashi shouted, suddenly jumping to his feet.

“Yeah, you’re right, I was- but you gotta admit… your costume’s shit-“

“Akaashiii ~,” Bokuto sang, finally speaking up. “You’re supposed to guess ~.” The two residents both smiled at their guest, Bokuto’s expression was affectionate and playful while Tendou’s was smug.

Fuzzy. Red. Neck to ankles. Like he had taken part of an Elmo costume from a thrift store. There was a pair of matching red yeti slippers to complete the coverage while his fingernails had been painted black and a pair of black horns peeking out amidst his mess of spiky, red hair. The finishing touch, a bright green, feather boa lei necklace.

“How the hell am I supposed to guess?! You look like you just grabbed the first handful of things you could find at a second hand store!”

“Well, at least we know I put in more effort than you,” Tendou sassed to which Akaashi huffed. There went his good mood. “Anyways, you seem a little grumpy today, don’t you ~?”

“Yeah he’s kinda been that way tonight,” Bokuto confirmed, much to Akaashi’s growing irritation.

“I wonder why…” Akaashi mumbled under his breath.

“So… You really can’t guess what I am, Kaashi?” Tendou purred, creeping towards their grumpy ‘ghost’ guest.

“No. I have no idea. Wha- what are you-- ”

“You really need to guess what he is, Akaashi. But don’t worry, we can help you out with that ~,”

“Guys… What’s going on? You’re kinda freaking me out- please stop inching towards me.”

“I’ll inch wherever I want,” Tendou snipped playfully, looming ever closer to Akaashi and his growing unease of the situation. The red-head had him so distracted – and, frankly, terrified – that he entirely forgot Bokuto had been creeping up behind him.

“AH! BOKUTO! Put me down!” His old Captain had grabbed him from behind, scooping him up by hooking his arms under his Kohai’s. Now Akaashi’s heels were lifted off the ground and he could just barely manage to stand on tip toe. His arms dangled out to the side as he waved them around uselessly and his white thermal rose up to reveal a sliver of skin at his stomach.

“Still no ideas ~?” Tendou’s voice was oozing with mischief, giving Akaashi one final chance.

“… Wanna feel how hard I can kick?” Akaashi bit, snidely, making Tendou chuckle. And that was the last straw.

“Grmph!” Akaashi choked on a grunt, eyes widening into saucers and lips pressing together into a tight line. Every muscle in his body locked up in panic, but when Tendou’s thumbs on his sides continued in those unbearable kneading circles, he could feel himself starting to twitch and his diaphragm beginning to flutter with oncoming laughter. The laughter itself started as exhaled huffs of air and sharp inhales through his nose as his eyes closed and lips curled up more and more as the maddening sensation built. When Tendou switched his touch to a claw-like kneading up and down his quivering sides, Akaashi couldn’t help the light chuckles that slipped from his throat as he turned his face into his shoulder and bit his lip to try and contain some of his more ridiculous reactions. Bokuto and Tendou grinned at each other.

“Oh, Kaashi… I think you can do better ~,” Tendou cooed, traveling his torturous claws upwards just to nibble at his lowest ribs. This had him spasming and trying to back away from the silly touch, but Bokuto easily prevented that sort of escape. The thing about Akaashi, though…, he didn’t hate his laugh, but… he had always been embarrassed to laugh fully in front of people. He didn’t even know why but, in this situation, he couldn’t really help it.

“Ppphht-hehe-- nooohohohahaaa!” Akaashi’s laughter picked up along with his struggling. He gave a few valiant attempts to pull his arms down, but ultimately realized that, with Bokuto being the one holding him in place, there was no chance of that… So, in a desperate attempt to protect himself, he reflexively brought his knees up as a flimsy barrier against Tendou’s searching hands.

“Oh, no, sorry, Akaashi. That isn’t gonna help you, bud,” Bokuto teased, feigning pity as he turned his hands to flutter his fingers at Akaashi’s ears, making him squeak and shake his head. Tendou cackled at this.

“You would know, wouldn’t you, Bo-Bo!” he said, grinning. Keeping one hand at Akaashi’s ribs, he moved the other to one of the now presented knees, making him kick out in reflex. Tendou must have been expecting this response, because he stepped aside just in time to not be kicked in the gut. All hilarity aside, he did not actually want to know how hard Akaashi could kick. “Easy there, Kaashi…”

“Naho! S-stohop thahaaaat!” Stupid Bokuto! Why did he have to be so strong?! With all Akaashi’s flailing, his former Captain wouldn’t budge!

“You’re sooo wiggly ~!” the red-head teased, moving to loop an arm around Akaashi’s kicking leg so he could hold it in place while he scribbled black painted nails at the inside of his knee through a hole in his jeans while still keeping one hand free to explore elsewhere. “Soooo? What am I, Kaashi ~? Any ideas yet?”

“Drohop dead!” Akaashi giggled, quite unthreateningly.

“Alright, now that wasn’t even an attempt at a guess… And it was kinda mean…” Bokuto said from behind, still occasionally ghosting against his ears just to get that squeak again.

“Yeeeah! It was kinda mean!” Tendou agreed, ominously. The tickling stopped and Tendou dropped Akaashi’s captive leg. The ‘ghost’ took this chance to catch his breath, finally letting his feet reunite with the ground and attempting to regain some composure – but with his pink face, glossy eyes, and twitching lips, there was little hope for that. It was a couple seconds later that Akaashi realized that it was quiet and the other two had yet to do anything. Bashfully, he looked up, meeting Tendou’s predatory gaze and impish smirk. The sight made Akaashi’s blood run cold.

“You’ve really done it now,” Tendou started, dangerously. “You’ve disrespected me. You’d better tell me who I am… Or I’ll never stop.” With that, at lightning speed, one hand latched itself to Akaashi’s hip while the other fused with his ribs, fingers kneading, digging, worming, and spidering any way they could, looking for the best reactions. Akaashi careened when Tendou vibrated his fingers into his hip, wheezing around his laughter. To be honest, Akaashi hadn’t even really been thinking about what Tendou’s horrendous costume could be; caught off guard by the sudden tickling and then being too busy laughing… he didn’t have the time or focus.

“Wait a minute, Tendou, hang on…” Bokuto said, sounding way too excited for Akaashi’s liking. To his horror, Akaashi suddenly felt Bokuto slipping his arms out from under his only to readjust his hold to have both his Kohai’s wrists held above his head in one hand. He couldn’t have resisted that if he tried.

“OOooo!” Tendou sang, fingers wiggling excitedly. “Thanks Bo-Bo!”

“Oh no, noho, no, no, no- guys, please! Pleahese dohahaaaahahaha!” With his torso fully vulnerable, Tendou dove right in once more, switching between scribbling, massaging, and vibrating. Akaashi was screeching. He seriously couldn’t remember giggling so hard in his life, with his wrists tugging desperately (but uselessly) at Bokuto’s restraining grip and his face getting redder by the minute-- god was he crying? “GAAA! B-Bokuhuhuhehee! Bohokutoho, DON’Ttthehehe!” And it was getting worse. Bokuto had started running his fingers along his spine, digging his finger into the backs of his ribs, and scratching at his shoulder blades and neck.

“Awww ~ Look at you all ticklish, Akaashi ~. I can’t believe I never knew about this ~,” Bokuto cooed, grinning at the way Akaashi arched away from his touch.

“Yeah, you’re really losing it here, Kaashi ~. Is it that bad ~? Is this just completely unbearable ~?” Tendou’s baby talk had him burying his face in his arm once again, stomping a foot on the wood floor – a vain attempt to alleviate the hilarious, buzzing sensations coursing through him. “Well, it’s gonna get worse, boyo. Who. Am. I?” The way Tendou’s voice shifted so quickly and drastically from baby talk to that ominously, teasing tone… If Akaashi wasn’t laughing so hard, he’d probably be cowering in fear right now.

“WHOAHAHA! HEHEY! NoaaAAA, NOHAAO!” Oops… there was a squeal in there… Yeah, he was never living this down. But Tendou had started running one hand from one of Akaashi’s underarms, down to his hip, while his other hand did the opposite: from his hip, up to his underarm. Akaashi’s brain couldn’t keep up. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor as much as Bokuto’s grip would allow.

“C’mon, Akaashi, you gotta have an idea by now, don’t you?” Bokuto asked, fingers nibbling at the base of his neck. The poor guy didn’t know which way to squirm. Akaashi nodded weakly, tears definitely falling now.

“Oh do you?! Aaand ~?” Tendou inquired, now concentrating solely on his victim’s hips. Akaashi stumbled forward, neck too weak to lift his head to protect against Bokuto’s ongoing attack and only allowing his head to hang down pathetically as he cackled like no one had ever heard him do before.

“AAAAHAha! PleaHA-- YOU-HA-- YOUHA’RE THE T-t-heehehehe! T-t-tTIHICKLE MOHONSTEHEHER! STAHA--! PLEAHEEESE- STAHAHAAAP!!” Wow… Now he had resorted to begging. They were never, ever going to let him live this down.

“Sorry, what was that, ghosty boy ~? I couldn’t quite catch it ~.” And of course Tendou was going to drag this out. He is the tickle monster after all…

Tendou went from massaging Akaashi’s poor hips to vibrating claws into them while Bokuto also switched to poke around under his arms.

“TIHICKLE MONSTER! YOHOU’RE THE T-TICKLE MOHONSTEHEHAHAAAA!”

“rrrRRRIGHT YOU ARE, BOYO!” And finally, the tickling stopped. For good this time and Bokuto released his wrists to gently lower him to the ground where he crumpled into a giggling lump as the other two grinned down at him fondly. “I gotta say, Kaashi, I’m pretty disappointed… It took you waaaay longer to figure it out than anyone else.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Akaashi panted lightly. “You look like you just grabbed a bunch of stuff from a second hand store and threw ‘em together into that disaster…” He opened one eye to glance playfully at Tendou.

“You want me to tickle you some more ~? Bo-Bo, get-- ”

“NO! No, okay, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The younger pleaded, making his two Sempai snicker.

“Well, actually, you’re not far off. That’s just about what I did do. I’d had the idea planned out for months, but I still needed the pieces, so I thought the easiest way to find them was second hand stores at stuff…” Tendou replied, a pondering expression on his face as he recalled the experience. Akaashi chuckled, throwing a palm over his eyes when Bokuto joined in heartily and Tendou followed soon after in his own string of wild giggles. When they had all calmed down, Tendou extended a hand to help Akaashi up who graciously accepted.

“Okay, be honest, Kaashi… is that really all you had ~?” the red-head prodded, cocking an eyebrow incredulously at the younger. Akaashi grinned.

“No. Heh… I just didn’t want to deal with it. I grabbed the first thing out of my closet and made the headpiece out of an old napkin!” he finished just before breaking out into giggles again and sending the other two over the edge as well.

“Hey, I still think it looks great!” Bokuto chirped, clapping Akaashi on the back.

“Thanks, Bokuto,” Akaashi said, grinning at his former Captain.

“Happy Halloween, everybody!!” Tendou exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air jubilantly, making the other two laugh again. Akaashi shook his head.

“Weirdest Halloween ever…”

#tickle fic #haikyuu!!#ask #anonymous #answered #Akaashi Keiji #Tendou Satori #Bokuto Koutarou

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sophieakatz · 4 years

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Thursday Thoughts: “Cats” Is Not Bad

My dad was in a community theatre production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats years ago. One night, he came home from rehearsal still wearing his makeup – fur, whiskers, the whole shebang, all created with face paint. He quietly entered the house, and my siblings and I watched as he crept around the edge of the room, his eyes wide and his head tilted to the side in a feline sort of way. I was entranced. While of course I knew it was Dad, in that moment, he was a cat.

And then he looked me in the eye, and said “MEW!” in a goofy, high-pitched voice. We all laughed, the spell broken.

Years before that, my family attended a showing of Cats at a different community theatre. During intermission, while the audience milled about the theatre, several of the ensemble cast remained onstage – as cats. They sat at the edge of the stage and stared at us, still and silent and unblinking. They crawled up the aisles, brushing up against people’s legs. One came right up to my brother, who was holding his program out lazily, and WHACKED the paper with a paw, startling him. Another even jumped up onto my dad’s lap and lay there, purring, while my siblings and I gleefully pet the “kitty.”

For me, this is the magic of Cats. It taps right into the suspension of disbelief at the heart of all theatre. Cats allows you to forget for a couple hours that the people before you are human. For the duration of the show, they are cats. Cats who sing, dance, and wear ballet shoes, yes, but cats nonetheless.

My biggest issue with the 2019 movie adaptation of Cats is that it does not allow the viewer to forget that the performers are human.

I mean, they have human toes, for crying out loud! Human toes! And human hands, and faces! My eyes kept snapping to these details, latching onto them instead of the beautiful music. The wonderful makeup that transformed my father into Old Deuteronomy is nowhere to be found.

At the same time, all these not-cats have CGI ears and tails, twitching and twisting in uncanny ways that don’t go at all with the otherwise-human body. It’s as though the filmmakers couldn’t decide whether to go for realism or fantasy and ended up stuck somewhere in the middle, trying to do two things at once with a discomforting result.

This uncomfortable “two things at once” feeling permeates the film.

The film doesn’t seem to have a firm stance on what size objects are in this cat-run world. In stage productions of this show, the stage is covered with larger-than-life pizza boxes and boots to establish that the characters are actually cat-sized. But in the film, Mr. Mistoffelees in quick succession picks up a slightly larger-than-life hand of playing cards, a much larger-than-life red die, a pencil that is pretty much normal-sized, and a fork that is larger than the pencil but somehow not as large as the die. It’s like the film is trying to show a world in which cats are cat-sized in one moment and human-sized the next – two things at once – resulting in confusion.

And then there’s the matter of the cats’ clothing. Some of the cats wear clothes while others do not. This is, of course, a carry-over from the stage version, in which some cats wear fur-patterned leotards, while others have clothing items which symbolize the kind of fur the cat has. However, the film takes some bizarre twists on cat-clothing.

For example, in the stage production, Jennyanydots begins her number in a shabby coat which she later drops to reveal a fun, frilly, colorful layer of fur. In the film, we meet Rebel Wilson’s Jennyanydots as a cat with realistic orange-and-white fur – which she suddenly unzips down her front mid-number to show that she is wearing clothing on her real body underneath.

The film is trying to have it both ways – Jennyanydots is a real cat with real fur, but also a fake cat with fake fur, and more questions are raised than answered.

Bustopher Jones has always been a cat in a top hat and tuxedo, evocative of a cat with tuxedo-pattern fur. James Corden as Bustopher Jones starts out in a top hat and tuxedo. Then he takes off the tuxedo to reveal tuxedo-pattern fur.

Once again, the film is trying to do two things at once – clothing to emulate cat fur, and cat fur to emulate clothing. The result, however, is leaving the viewer with the impression that a grown man has just stripped naked in front of them in a PG-rated movie.

If you put animated animals in clothing, then the animals can become naked. Disney’s Zootopia recognized this to hilarious effect, but Cats does not seem to.

Idris Elba as Macavity looks excellent in his beat-up hat and coat, which give the theatrical impression of a creepy scarred-up cat. But this illusion is abruptly discarded when Elba, too, strips down naked. I ended up watching that scene through my fingers, as I had put my hands over my eyes.

It struck me early in the film that they could have – should have, even – completely owned the fact that these were cats.

Unlike stage theatre, which depends on practical effects and clever costumes, film presents the unique opportunity to go all the way into fantasy.

They could have completely animated the cats – four-legged and meowing! This would have avoided the nudity problem and rescued all the film’s animals, mice and cockroaches included, from the uncanny valley. Instead of doing two things at once, the film could have done one thing wholeheartedly, the one thing that film can do but theatre cannot.

And this is where 2019’s Cats is excellent: when it takes full advantage of the film medium.

Films are not grounded in a single location or time. The camera can jump-cut to anywhere! This is used to great effect in “Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer,” following the troublesome cats as they jump around the bedroom, dining room, and staircase, sowing chaos. Throughout the film, we move beyond the junkyard and are able to see the alley of trash cans that Bustopher Jones eats from (rather than the clubs themselves as the song implies – hilarious!) and the barge that Growltiger commands. I downright love how “The Ad-Dressing of Cats” is set around the Trafalgar Square lions – an appropriately grandiose setting. And the very best musical sequence in the film is “Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat,” which transforms Skimble’s tap-dance into the rhythm of a train, seamlessly transitioning the scene from the theatre hall to the train tracks.

Cats as a film also devotes time to character development in a way that the opera-esque stage show never has. Sure, you can research the backstories of all the cats if you want to, but the casual viewer never learns anything beyond what’s said in song. With just a bit of dialogue, Cats transforms Mr. Mistofelees from a cocky deus ex machina to an endearingly clumsy magician who finally, on this night, gets his first big break.

Another transformed character is Victoria. While originally a dancing role with no solo singing part, Victoria is reimagined as a newcomer to the Jellicle Ball, there to ask questions and be sung to. She is, in other words, the audience surrogate, a necessary figure in film. While Cats the stage musical addresses the audience directly throughout the show, fourth-wall breaks are something that a stage show can get away with more often than a film can.

A critique I’ve heard repeatedly about the film is how Judi Dench suddenly sings directly to the camera in the final number. For me, this was not a detriment. “The Ad-Dressing of Cats” is and has always been a song sung directly to the audience!

However, I can see why someone who was expecting a traditional film would be bothered by this. The film put a lot of effort into removing the other fourth-wall breaks by having the songs originally sung to the audience be sung to Victoria instead, so the sudden return to a device that works better on stage than in film is a bit jarring as, once again, Cats tries to do two things at once – to be both a film and a stage show.

I’ve been a fan of this musical for a long time. But given how many people were vehemently calling this a bad film, I didn’t expect to enjoy it.

But I did enjoy it. I enjoyed Cats.

The music is just as entertaining as ever. The singing and dancing is just as good as you would expect it to be given how much star power they packed into the cast. What’s more, watching this movie made me think of all the great experiences I had with the stage production, watching my father from the wings as he sang “The Moments of Happiness” and having staring contests with the still-in-character performers as a child.

When I critique a creative work, I think less about terms like “good” and “bad” than I think about the effect the work had on me. As I made clear in the first half of this review, a lot of the design choices in this film made me uncomfortable and took me out of the magic. At the same time, a lot of this film felt like coming home.

Cats is a weird and beautiful musical. It’s about cats who sing, dance, and address the audience directly. None of these qualities are inherently bad – far from it! Together they create one of the longest-running shows ever on Broadway.

Could the film have been better? Yes, I believe so. If it completely owned the fact that it is a film about talking cats, and if it focused more on doing one thing well than it tried to do two things at once, then Cats could have been an excellent film.

But Cats is not bad. It really isn’t. And this is this, and that is that, and that’s how you address a cat.

#cats #cats 2019 #cats musical #andrew lloyd webber #musical theatre #musical theater #musicals #broadway musicals #jennyanydots #bustopher jones #mr mistoffelees #victoria #film #reviews #thursday thoughts #critique #film criticism #suspension of disbelief

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manynarrators · 4 years

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AESTHETIC HEADCANON MUSIC CHARACTER

• QUICK STATS •

NAME :: Georgi Alexandreivich Popovich || Георгий Попович NICKNAME :: Zhora FANDOM :: Yuri!!! on ICE GENDER :: male ORIENTATION :: bisexual, female preference BIRTHDAY :: December 26th, 1988 ZODIAC :: Capricorn SHIPS :: /Viktor Nikiforov, /Christophe Giacometti, /Otabek Altin, chemistry

• BIOGRAPHY •

Georgi Popovich was born an hour after midnight on December 26th, 1988. He doesn’t remember the fall of the Soviet Union, but he does remember growing up in the wake of it. Food shortages, and tense talks about money over the kitchen table that his parents thought he was asleep for. That ever present tension characterized his early years, but then there was skating.

In 1994, Georgi remembers watching the tv with rapt attention, and his joy at seeing the skaters with their bright costumes, the graceful footwork, and gravity defying jumps. He begged his parents to let him learn how to skate, and most days after school, he would spend as long as he cold at the rink closest to their house, until after the sun had set.

It was one of the few things he truly loved, and it was more lucky than anything else, that he found a coach willing to train him. Vasili was young, and had been one of the dime a dozen ‘young and promising’ skaters that had had their careers cut short by injury. He trained under Vasili for three years, until he was nearly 11. The problem with being ‘young and promising’ was that it mean the had never fulfilled that promise, and by the time Georgi was 11, there was nothing more that Vasili could teach him.

That summer though, there was a training camp for potential people to train under Yakov Feltsman, and Georgi managed to catch his attention and be taken on as one of his students.

In the years following that, he’s come to realize that he is not the skater tat people will remember form Russia, that honour will always go, first and foremost to Victor Nikiforov, but that doesn’t stop him from competing for gold. It is the sport that he adores, and has given almost all of his life to.

Georgi is more than a bit dramatic, and it comes across in his programs with programs rich in story and emotion. He’s fiercely aware of the fact that he’s getting older in a competitive sport, and the fact that he’s made it this far is miraculous, and that if he’s lucky, he may get another season or two.

• PHYSICAL •

FACE CLAIM :: Egor Telenchenko HEIGHT :: 5′10″ BUILD :: lean, muscular VISUAL AGE :: 28 ACTUAL AGE :: 28 HAIR :: black EYES :: blue SPECIES :: human HAND :: right GLASSES :: no IDENTIFYING :: Georgi’s heavy makeup during competitions, aside from a stylistic choice, is one that came about from hiding the shadows under his eyes from nights spent practicing or studying.

• MENTAL •

FAITH :: Russian Orthodox, verging on agnostic MARITAL STATUS :: single, currently. OCCUPATION :: professional, competitive skater in the senior men’s singles division. EDUCATION :: 20 years of skating lessons of varying intensity, and a bachelors in Russian Literature. QUIRKS :: Georgi excels at the performance aspect of skating, and while he never struggles with the theatrics of it, he’s not the best at the technical aspects, and because of that, is the most willing of Yakov’s skaters to be guided by their coach when it comes to the actual skating part.

#Georgi|character #Georgi|headcanon

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jackie-talks-about-starkid · 4 years

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ANI: A Parody (Rewatch #8, 10/27/2020)

YouTube publish date: October 31, 2014

Number of views on date of rewatch: 990,767

Original Performance Run: July 3 - August 10, 2014 at Stage 773, Chicago (part of their Summer Season program)

Ticket price: options available for Ani, The Trail to Oregon, or both shows Individual: $35 Both shows/Season Pass: $65

Director: Matt Lang

Music and Lyrics: TalkFine

Book: Matt and Nick Lang

Cast album price and availability: $7.92 on iTunes Release date: October 31, 2014

Parody or original: parody of Star Wars, heavily influenced by the prequels with references to the Dark Horse Star Wars comics and formerly-canon Star Wars novels

Main cast and characters

Ani - Chris Allen

Tarkin - Joseph Walker

Mara - Denise Donovan

J.J. - Brian Holden

Emily - Julia Albain

Sebulba - Eric Kahn Gale

Bob/Veers - Joe Moses

Oola - Meredith Stepien

Pappy/Obi-Wan - Nick Lang

Band and Vocals

Keyboard 1, Vocals - Clark Baxtresser

Keyboard 2, Vocals - Pierce Siebers

Keyboard 3, Back. Vocals - Max Evrard

Guitar - Corey Richardson

Bass - Mason Cormie

Drums - Nick Kabat

Percussion, Back. Vocals - Meredith Stepien

Musical Numbers:

*all vocals provided by the band

Act I

“Ani”

“Long Ago and Far Away”

“Strike Back”

“With My Own Eyes”

Act II

“The Force (You Got It)”

“Haunted by the Kiss”

“One in a Million”

“Back on Top”

Notable Notes:

Performed two years after the acquisition of Star Wars by the Walt Disney Company, and before the subsequent Star Wars sequel films, as well as Disney’s decision to make any non-movie material produced before their acquisition (ex. Novels and comics) non-canon

Not a fun fact, but I highly recommend watching this short video essay by Silvana Ltd. discussing whether or not Ani can be considered a musical (x)

According to Nick Lang, the numbers were performed primarily by the band and are interspersed with dialogue because he wanted Ani to “feel like a Rocky movie” and give the feeling that the band was “like a Greek chorus” (x)

Cultural Context: 2014

Ellen DeGeneres take arguably the most popular selfie in existence at the 2014 Oscars

Disney’s Frozen is released in theaters

The series finale for How I Met Your Mother airs

Scotland decides to stay in the UK

Robin Williams passed away August 11, 2014

Content Analysis:

ANI: A Parody is StarKid’s least popular musical because of two reasons: the niche subject matter and the fact that people cannot decide whether or not Ani is actually considered to be a musical. This is a matter of personal opinion depending on the audience member watching it, but from a theatrical standpoint, Ani heavily leans more toward being a musical than not being a musical, despite the fact that the characters in the show do not actually sing the songs. Rather, the songs are sung for them by the band and the characters perform them through dancing or act through the songs by interspersing sung lyrics with dialogue and action. The definition of musicals and musical theatre is very loose. Musical theatre has technically existed for as long as song - even in ancient times, songs for ritual purposes were performed in a distinctively theatrical way, such as being performed with costumes and makeup and telling a story solely through song. In more recent history, vaudeville can be considered by most theatrical scholars as being a form of musical theatre because it uses song as the main source of entertainment for an audience in a very specific setting of a theatre, regardless of whether or not it physically takes place in a theatre with what we consider to be traditional architecture such as a raised stage and a strong distinction between an audience seating area and a performance area. However, many people use the terms ‘musical’ and ‘musical theatre’ interchangeably, thinking that they are one and the same when the working reality of the fact is that the two are different. Sort of like how every square is a rectangle but not every rectangle is a square, every musical is musical theatre but not every work of musical theatre is a musical.

Now that I have that out of the way, let’s discuss the origins of what the modern-day idea of a musical is: a story that is told and advanced through song. This is often referred to as a “book musical” in that a plot, or “book”, is being performed for an audience while songs are a separate element of the performance that are used to continue the story. This is also referred to as an “integration musical” in that songs are integrated into the action of the story to make a complete performance. The idea of a book musical is a relatively new one when looking at musicals in relation to all of theatre history. Whereas theatre has existed as long as historical documentation has existed, and most likely before than, the book musical or the modern-day musical is often attributed to becoming a solidified Thing™ in 1943 with Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma! In Oklahoma! and every subsequent mainstream musical, a story is presented in which a character or group of characters go through various experiences and eventually reach some kind of entertaining conclusion while using song, and often dance, to continue the action of the plot. That is a very simple way of defining modern-day musicals but is a definition of a musical nonetheless, which is why I consider Ani to not only be a musical, but an experimental one at that.

As stated, the characters of Ani do not sing the songs at all. The only time they interact with the songs being performed by the band are when the character or characters dance to the song or have their actions narrated by the song being sung. However, even though the characters do not actually sing the songs themselves, the songs that they interact with, which are entirely non-diegetic, are still used to advance the plot or deepen a character’s development, which is the ultimate goal of any musical. So, yes, Ani is a musical but it is a very non-conventional musical that I believe the media will be experiencing more of in the near future. One of the reasons musical were so commercially popular in the Golden Age, and even today with Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen, is because the musical recording for the productions were made available for the public to purchase and listen to on their own time when they could not afford to go see a physical musical production of Broadway or go see a musical film in a movie theater. The beauty of Ani as a modern-day musical and a piece of musical theatre in general is that, unlike most musicals where only one or two songs can be separated from the plot and reach commercial success outside of the theatre community, is that Ani’s songs advance the plot of the musical perfectly while also being well-written and enjoyable standalone songs.

Any Star Wars fan who is familiar with the lore of the universe can listen to the recording of ANI: A Parody and enjoy the music to the fullest extent of being a fan through the references and the general energetic composition of the songs alone. Really, despite Ani not being a traditional commercial piece of theatre on Broadway, it is a money-maker’s dream production on top of being just a great, well-rounded production in general. The songs can be taken out of context of the musical and still be enjoyed by anyone with a fan connection to Star Wars, while holding even more meaning for those who enjoy Star Wars and have also seen the production on YouTube (which is yet another reason for encouraging greater access to theatre by using the internet and other multimedia platforms that lessen the need for large ticket and travel expenses). Similarly to the popularity of non-musical movies and their successful chart-topping soundtrack counterparts à la Dirty Dancing and Guardians of the Galaxy, musicals with the Ani format have a great future for both commercial and fandom success in the theatre community and the media industry at large. ANI: A Parody is a musical in the traditional sense and a piece of musical theatre that could potentially hold the key to theatrical accessibility worldwide due to its creative and inventive format.

#@TeamStarkid #ani #ani: a parody #I will die defending the intellectual validity of musical theatre and of starkid specifically #team starkid #starkid productions #starkid musicals #starkid #musicals #musical theatre #theatre #musical

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swanlake1998 · 4 years

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(cw: blackface, racism, orientalism)

dance magazine article - article author: dana nichols

“On Instagram this week, Misty Copeland reposted a picture of two Russian ballerinas covered head to toe in black, exposing the Bolshoi's practice of using black face in the classical ballet La Bayadère.

The post has already received over 60,000 likes and 2,000 comments, starting a long overdue conversation.

Comments have been pouring in from every angle imaginable: from history lessons on blackface, to people outside of the ballet world expressing disbelief that this happens in 2019, to castigations of Copeland for exposing these young girls to the line of fire for what is ultimately the Bolshoi's costuming choice, to the accusations that the girls—no matter their cultural competence—should have known better.

I am a black dancer, and in 2003, when I was 11 years old, I was dressed up in blackface to perform in the Mariinsky Ballet's production of La Bayadère.

I fell in love with ballet at an early age. I remember watching my cousin's ballet class transfixed by the effortlessness of a grand allegro combination.

This was my first exposure: seeing the art form capture and elevate the beauty of my cousin's black body.

I spent the next 12 years studying classical Russian ballet at the Yuri Grigoriev School of Ballet in Los Angeles.

Because our teacher refused to speak English, I grew accustomed to having a feel for what was being said, but at the same time, no idea. I really learned ballet, abstracted from the context of American history and culture.

All importance was placed on movement quality and the technique. The wall that separated ballet from the real world in my mind began to crumble when I was selected to be a child extra in the Mariinsky's performance of La Bayadère.

When ballet companies tour, they can't bring minors with them, so they find young dancers locally to fill roles in their ballets. When the Mariinsky came to Los Angeles, they tapped our studio to participate.

As students secluded in the world of Russian ballet, the chance to dance in La Bayadère was a dream came true.

We would be feet away from superstars like Diana Vishneva, watching from backstage as they danced under the stage lights and amidst the most intricate sets and costumes our hearts could imagine!

Somewhere deep in the Hollywood complex of the Kodak Theatre, we learned an angular dance in second position.

We hopped around with flexed feet, waived our arms and periodically folded into kowtows. In hindsight, it's obvious that we were performing caricatures of the "Orient." I don't even think it occurred to me that La Bayadère was set in South Asia because everyone was white—until dress rehearsal. Our preparations were overseen by women designated to coordinate the child extras and interpret for us.

Our parents were not allowed backstage. They fitted us in dark unitards with hoods to cover everything except our faces. Later, the makeup artist instructed us on how to apply our makeup. She handed each of us a palette of dark brown grease paint, pausing to do a double take after she handed me mine. It wasn't until I received all of the pieces of my costume—a mahogany colored bodysuit, dark brown face paint and bright red lipstick—that I discovered I was to wear blackface.

I must have been the only dark-skinned person to have been in a Mariinsky production. The women in charge weren't sure what to do with me. I saw the white dancers around me covering themselves in the brown paint and distinctly remember being at a loss for words because it was so bizarre. It was especially the red lipstick traced around the mouth that disturbed me. I remember looking down at the paints and trying to figure out what they had to do with me. All I could manage to say was, "Do I need this?"

I became that thing in the room that no one had ever had to confront.Our chaperones exchanged glances and finally responded with an uncomfortable "Yes." One woman laughed nervously as she indicated that I still had to wear the makeup because my brown skin was many shades lighter than the color of the bodysuit and the paint selected to cover our skin.

Of course, it was quickly forgotten in a production of this magnitude involving hundreds of people. During dress rehearsal, I found out that we were not the only characters that had been darkened. Many had on light brown paint on their arms and faces. The experience was jarring, but I compartmentalized it a way even later that night as I scrubbed my face raw trying to get the paint off.

Only years later did it dawn on me that I had played a primitive Indian caricature. I don't think any of us really understood. Even as a black girl who grew up in a segregated Los Angeles, with some cultural awareness, I didn't do much better than the girls in Copeland's post. I had even seen the movie Bamboozled, but my real racial awakening and then subsequent outrage, began much later, around age 15 after reading Assata. Until then, I lived in ignorance, accepting the discomforts in exchange for access to the art form I loved.

Around the age of 17, by the time my dance peers were beginning to commit to conservatory programs and full-time pre-professional tracks in ballet, I was fully immersed in issues of diversity and social justice. Ballet had my heart, but by then I knew that the magic couldn't cover up its ugly contortions of body, beauty and culture.

I watched as dancers of all kinds were silenced and diminished. In my 20s I found refuge in the world of black modern dance, a place where many fallen ballerinas can be found.

I understand Copeland's frustrations. This ballet, and many others, are set in mythical ballet worlds, where people of color are dehumanized into caricatures for white enjoyment, to be seen, made to dance, but not heard.

It could not be more ridiculous to have a young black girl (or anyone) wear blackface to depict dark South Asians, as they were imagined by nineteenth-century French, Russian and Georgian choreographers.

Yet the Bolshoi and the Mariinsky still use blackface in their productions today.

Even without the black and brown face in La Bayadère, the setting, the characters, their Indian "inspired" garb and much of the music and movement are prime examples of orientalism.

So many classic works of art, literature and performance are tainted by the attitudes of the era in which they were born—dance is particularly evocative as it is real-time reenactment.

So do we kiss the off-color ballets goodbye—including America's favorite, The Nutcracker? Or do we just modernize them, as many have already begun to do?

Truth be told, La Bayadère is one of my favorite ballets. The Shades act embodies the spirit of ballet.

In my opinion, the best part of ballet is its otherworldly qualities—the interpretations of spirits and reveries, the manifestations of creatures, swans, etc.

The more theatrical village and party scenes that are full of colorful caricatures serve as a contrast to make the ethereal that much more powerful, but they don't need to be offensive to accomplish that.

Nor does ballet need to exclude people of color in order to achieve the ethereal. In 2019, there is no need for a perfectly uniform lily-white corps de ballet.

We need new mythical worlds, new characters and stories—made of the imaginations of different kinds of people. Ballet is the same as any other field with institutional racism.

We can express outrage at the players: those two Russian girls, the makeup artists, the costume designer, or even me and any other complicit party.

But as Copeland's original caption guided us to do, we must be critical of the whole system, too. Petipa had a good run. Thank goodness Copeland is using her platform to begin the dismantling process.””

[ https://www.pointemagazine.com/i-am-a-black-dancer-and-was-dressed-up-in-black-face-to-perform-in-la-bayadere-2641583903.html - article date: december 12, 2019 ]

#article #dana nichols #ballet #dance magazine #dancemagazine #racism #blackface

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imlovethomassanders · 6 years

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DLAMP Human AU

So someone asked for human DLAMP headcanons

This started out as headcanons but then turned into a mini fic? I shouldn’t be surprised with myself.

This is post-college for all these boys

After graduating college, Logan is working on writing his first book as well as looking for internship opportunities. He needed a roommate and found Roman online. Roman is an actor who always lands rolls for the local theater and who dreams of moving to New York to make his Broadway debut. Between Logan looking for internships and Roman’s shows, the two work at coffee shop together, a job they both dread.

Virgil and Patton became best friends in college as they are both art majors. The two of them live together and do commissions to help raise money, but it isn’t enough to help ends meet so Virgil works at a music store and Patton takes part-time jobs wherever needed. His favorite is at the local animal shelter.

Deceit (let’s just call him Damien as that’s the placeholder name I chose) majored in theatrical makeup and has a rising YouTube channel for glamour and SFX makeup. To help make ends meet he works at a makeup shop in town part-time, but hopes he can eventually do YouTube full time.

Roman lands the lead roll for a show. Patton sees an ad for the theater saying they need painters for the sets and he quickly applies. Damien decides to apply to do makeup for the theater as the pay was better than the barely-more-than-minimum-wage he got at the makeup store.

Patton meets Roman first. They both get their early and find themselves chatting before work, the two hitting it off right away. The two found themselves going out together on their lunch breaks every day.

Once all the sets were built, Patton didn’t want to leave the theater so he quickly asked for a different job backstage. He was so friendly and helpful no one else wanted him to leave, so he got a job as an assistant for costuming.

Damien wasn’t needed until dress rehearsals started. Damien’s general demeanor and snarkiness drew everyone away from him at first, but damn he was good at makeup, so they dealt with him.

At first, Patton seemed to be the only one Damien tolerated. This surprised no one, as Patton got along with everybody. Damien was assigned to help Roman with his makeup. And while at first the two quipped at each other often, the two dramatics found their “arguments” becoming more and more joking and friendly, the two eventually growing to like each other.

The three were an unlikely trio, but they worked well together nonetheless.

While Patton was off working at the theater, Virgil was stuck at his job at the music store. Which was fine at first, but his boss and his coworker were starting to drive him up the wall.

Virgil usually had trouble sleeping, but one night it was really bad. The next morning he was exhausted. And just his luck his coffee machine broke. So he grabbed a few spare dollars he had lying around and stopped by a coffee shop on his way to work.

He was literally frozen in his tracks when he saw how cute the barista was.

At first he wanted to just leave, but then another wave of exhaustion hit him and he decided that he really needed coffee.

Logan was tired. Physically and mentally. He hated this job and really just wanted to go home and check his emails to see if any company had responded.

And then there was a cute boy at the counter and Logan was much more awake.

Virgil went up and practiced his order in his head over and over. He walked over to the counter and glanced down at the barista’s name tag.

Logan.

Virgil decided he wanted to stay at the coffee shop a little longer, so he sat down at a table by the window and pulled out his phone to text his boss.

Hey, bus ran late. I’ll be at work later than usual. Okay, Virgil. See you soon.

His boss didn’t need to know he walked to work everyday.

He found himself glancing at Logan from time to time, and was embarrassed that Logan caught him almost every time.

He was mortified when Logan actually sat down in front of him.

“You keep staring at me.”

All Virgil could do was continue to stare at Logan. He felt as if Logan’s gaze was piercing his skin as he felt the blush rise into his cheeks. He quickly picked up his coffee to give himself something to do.

“Do you want my number?”

Virgil almost choked on his coffee.

That evening, Virgil and Patton sat in the living room together while a movie played on the TV. But neither of them were watching.

Virgil was too busy texting Logan, and Patton was in a group chat with Roman and Damien.

A similar scene occurred at Logan and Roman’s place that night.

Patton begged Virgil again and again to come see the show. He was so proud of Roman and Damien and everyone else’s hard work, he wish everyone could have the chance to see it.

So Virgil took an evening off work to go see the show, and (with support from Patton) invited Logan to see it with him, which Logan happily accepted.

Virgil and Logan arrived early so Patton could meet this “infamous Logan Virgil wouldn’t stop talking about.” (Virgil made Patton promise he wouldn’t say that in front of Logan.)

Logan was surprised at Patton’s... friendliness. Sure, he was warned by Virgil before they arrived, but Logan never thought someone could be this genuinely friendly.

Before Virgil and Logan went to take their seats, Patton had hugged both of them. And while Logan was usually not a large fan of physical contact, he was surprised that he found this hug from Patton not unwelcome.

The two were pleasantly surprised by the quality of the show, and (both would refuse to admit it if asked) they were definitely enraptured by the man playing the lead roll, which Virgil noted by the program that this was the “Roman” character Patton seemed smitten with.

During intermission Logan bought both of them drinks, and throughout the second act Virgil tried to build up the courage to hold Logan’s hand. Logan noticed almost immediately, but wanted to see how far Virgil would be willing to go. After a bit Logan took pity and grabbed Virgil’s hand himself. He noticed Virgil tense up before relaxing a bit, entwining his fingers with Logan’s.

After the show, Patton dragged Virgil and Logan backstage as he wanted to introduce Damien and Roman.

Virgil and Logan complimented both of them. Roman responded with an over the top thank you of his own, thanking them for coming and supporting the theater. Damien would blow off the compliment with a wave of his hand. (The action may seem rude to others, but Patton and Roman knew it was because Damien got flustered easily with compliments.)

Roman invited the other four out to go to dinner with him - to celebrate the successful opening of the show and to get to know new friends (gesturing to Logan and Virgil.)

Virgil was immediately hesitant, Patton could tell. But after a soft gaze from Patton and a squeeze of his hand from Logan, he felt assured enough to go.

The five ended up talking for way longer than any of them anticipated. Though Virgil was wary of both Roman and Damien (Damien especially, given his snarky attitude), he found himself enjoying their company by the end of the night. And if Roman, Damien, and Patton didn’t have to leave to get enough sleep for another show the next day, they would’ve talked through most of the night.

The five get together as much as they could, given their busy work schedules and the show, but after the shows run the five got together even more.

As bonds were built and friendships grew, feelings began to blossom.

Though Logan and Virgil were dating by this point, that didn’t stop them from growing fond of the other three.

Roman thought he would be the first to tell them. He had it all planned out in his head, from what he would say to where and when.

Then Patton blurted it out at one of their regular movie nights.

It was messy. Right after he said he started crying and stuttering through how he “knew it was unlikely" but he “just loves you all so much” that he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore.

They were quick to aid and calm him down, assuring him that everything was going to be okay.

After Patton calmed down considerably, Virgil dragged Logan into the other room, just to confirm they were both okay with this and that they still loved each other.

They came went back into the room and sat down, and Roman was the next to confess his feelings to all of them, followed by Virgil then Logan.

Damien, to no ones surprise, was the most hesitant. After all, he’s never had the best experience with relationships or people in general. The friendship he found in the others was unknown territory, and stepping out of that was scary to him.

So they took it slow. It took a while for Damien to open up to all of them, but after the first time he kissed all of them they knew it was all falling into place.

In a couple of years they would find themselves in New York. Roman made his Broadway debut in the cast of “Wicked”, Virgil and Patton’s art careers were finally starting to pick up, Damien could do YouTube full time, and Logan found a publishing company and was able to focus mostly on writing.

Roman would propose, and though they couldn’t actually get married, held a ceremony anyways, and everything would be perfect.

Cheesy, unrealistic happy ending? It’s what I’m best at. If you made it all the way down here I appreciate it. This ended up too long whoops.

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rabbitcruiser · 4 years

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Around Times Square (No. 12)

Theatre and music industry Theatre at the end of the 19th century can best be described as the television of its day. Live performance was the dominant form of entertainment, and also very profitable. Numerous entrepreneurs helped create public demand for new forms of entertainment, combining financial cleverness with a remarkable sensitivity to new markets and changing public tastes. New York had become the starting point for touring theatre shows, which had grown in popularity since its introduction in the 1860s. Helped by the expansion of the nation's railroad network, companies of actors appearing in a single show travelled from city to city, providing its own music, costumes, and scenery. Since New York was already being regarded as the theatre-capital, it is not surprising that it became the headquarters for the touring companies. In 1904 over 400 theatrical companies toured the nation. Times Square was soon dominated by the theatre industry; rehearsal halls, offices of theatrical agents and producers, headquarters of scenery, costume, lighting and makeup companies, theatrical printers and newspapers were concentrated in the area, in addition to the many theatres that displayed the shows before they went on tour. In a few years, New York had more theatres than it really needed, but its expansion continued. In 1910, there were 34 theatres, most of them new, and most of them in the Times Square area. In the 1919-20 and 1929-30 seasons, 50 and respectively 71 playhouses were operating in New York, nearly all of which in Times Square. Other entertainment industries that proliferated in the Times Square area were the publishers of sheet music and, for a short time, the production of radio shows. The song-writing and sheet music market were particularly big in the first third of the century. The music industry was then commonly known as "Tin Pan Alley", after Monroe Rosenfeld’s song describing the cacaphonic sound of the area. One of the most successful songwriters of Tin Pan Alley was Irving Berlin, who owned his own publishing firm, and is perhaps best known for his songs Puttin' on the Ritz and White Christmas. Movie industry From around 1910, movies were changing the market and the face of Times Square. Vaudeville houses began incorporating movies into their programs, and moviemakers expanded their offices in the area. The Victoria Theatre, the greatest of all vaudeville houses, was torn down to make way for a new movie palace, the Rialto. Theatrical producers shifted their attention from roadshows to developing scripts that could later be sold to movie producers. The number of road companies and legitimate theatres in the US quickly declined between 1910 and 1925, but the number of theatres in Times Square continued to grow, driven by the prospect of selling material to the movies and the vast available audience. The rise of the movies brought many larger theatres, movie palaces and a host of related businesses to the area. Many production companies first produced live shows in their own theatres, then made them into films. Movie producers held their first screenings in Times Square, with its unparalleled access to mass audiences and to the metropolitan and theatre press. Many of these businesses soon moved to Hollywood, although many remained in Times Square because New York continued to provide much of the talent—as well as most of the capital—for the new industry.

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angrylizardjacket · 6 years

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Holding Court In A Crown {Roger Taylor}

Sequel to And All The Queen’s Men {Roger Taylor}

A/N: 3630 words. Giselle is fun to write and I love her. Another article style, based off of many conversations between @ginghampearlsnsweettea and I. Let me know what you think.

[And All The Queen’s Men ‘verse masterpost]

HOLDING COURT IN A CROWN - GISELLE TAYLOR in conversation with Vogue UK about her fashion evolution through the decades. (Published June, 1991)

When stepping into the Taylor home, it becomes immediately apparent that this is a home in which public image has always been very important. Gold and Platinum albums alike line the front foyer, shining reminders of the achievements of both artists who reside here. It’s surprisingly modern, hardwood floors and large windows that allow light to stream in, though the house itself is smaller than one might expect. Giselle herself greets me in the front hall, looking carefully casual in a flattering, warm yellow summer dress, that hits just above her knees, and a pair of matching yellow slip on shoes.

I’m lead through the house, past closed doors, one of which I’m told is a personal recording studio, into a open-planned kitchen-dining area. It’s a strange marriage of two aesthetics, no pun intended, the German-inspired open planned living with the dark counters, appliances, and features that make the space feel a little smaller, though it comes together to make something modern and chic, and perfectly suited to both Giselle and her husband’s images.

“Roger’s with the girls,” she tells me, referring to her daughters, pouring us both a glass of water in some of the fanciest crystal glasses I’ve ever seen, “not that he wouldn’t jump at the chance to talk about his “fashion choices”,” her air quotes, not mine, “but I thought I’d spare you the half hour argument about the wine stain, and all the other, sundry fashion choices of mine that he likes to take credit for.”

Giselle herself admits that she’s always been very fortunate in terms of fashion, “I mean, I look good in everything,” though there’s an air of self deprecation about it, “Actually, I’ve had a certain liberty with my work attire that not a lot of people have, unless you’re in the entertainment industry.” What began with a rented cocktail dress bloomed into one of the most influential fashion timelines of the 70s and 80s.

Beginning her career in an establishment modeled after American prohibition-era speakeasies, Giselle started off wearing cocktail dresses rented from the pub itself. “I actually did start off as a waitress, but for that you just had to provide your own black pants and white top, you know, wait-staff attire.” When the pub’s regular singer leaves, Giselle auditions to be her replacement, “they were just grateful I could fit into her dress, I could lipsync for all they cared.” Except, as well all know, Giselle can sing, and begun to make a name for herself in the community that frequented the pub.

Pulling out a polaroid of herself and music industry giant Ray Forrester, she shows me the only proof she has of the dress that started it all. It’s a rather ill-fitting, wine-coloured, sateen slip dress, it looks cheap, and according to Giselle, “it itched like crazy, it was cleaned once a week, and I was just glad that I was the only singer, some of the members of the jazz band had interchangeable costumes.” We both shudder at that, and she puts the photo on the counter.

As soon as she was given some modicum of control over her wardrobe, she took full advantage of it. Without a coherent aesthetic solidified by the release of her first album, Giselle admits she used the tour for Velvet Roses to experiment with both fabrics and styles. I personally have always favoured the midnight blue, velvet bouffant-style dress she wore during her stops in Belfast and Paris, but she goes on to praise the white, silk slip dress she had during her stop in West Berlin.

“Silk! Oh the silk, I dream about that dress sometimes,” she laughs a little, and now that we’ve begun to discuss her tour outfits, she leads me upstairs, “at the time it was the most comfortable thing I’d worn… ever; being able to work, to perform in something so luxury? It was a blessing.”

Her closet, at least the closet she stores her tour garments in, is separate from her bedroom, and locked. She’s got the key in her pocket, prepared, of course, for the interview, and as we step in I can hear the hum of a dehumidifier, and feel the chill of the air conditioning.

“It’s my one real extravagance.” As she turns on the lights, we’re greeted to the sight of a room, approximately four meters deep and half as wide, lined with railings that are practically stuffed with garment bags of varying sizes, and the end of the little room has a built in area for her jewel toned and bejewelled shoes alike. Three mannequins pose in the ample amount of space in the centre of the room, each wearing one of her most iconic outfits.

Each section of the racks around the side are carefully labelled by year, and it takes only a moment for Giselle to go through the section labelled 1971 before she’s pulling that same white dress from a garment bag. It still looks pristine, and when she offers for me to feel it, I understand what she’s saying.

“I’ve always tried to keep a very high standard in term of the materials I wear,” it was the first part of her aesthetic identity that was formed. “I’d never really had access to luxury on this scale before; I’d lived in sweaters and jeans for most of my [university] days; I was one of those girls in the little skirts and beaded tops at clubs- I lived my life in gogo boots every weekend of my first year.” Apparently she still has her favourite pair in the back of her personal closet, but seems hesitant to show me.

When asked what prompted her aesthetic shift, she reveals her passion for luxury stage-wear was only part of the decision. “I’d go on stage in silk pyjamas like Hugh Hefner if I could, but it’s not my brand.” Forrester was a big motivating force behind her solidification as the picture of elegance.

We get to the first of the mannequin dresses now, the fitted, black, off the shoulder cocktail dress, shining with sequins and beads, a perfect frozen reminder of her performance on Top of the Pops. To see it in person, still pristine, I get hit with just a hint of nostalgia, as does Giselle herself it seems. Marvelling at it with arms crossed over her chest, I’m granted a closer look at what was quite possibly the most iconic outfit of the 1972 lineup on the hit British musical program. The gloves themselves are more intricate than first imagined; what was assumed to just be red glitter is actually hand stitched, red sequins from the tips of the finger all the way to the wrist where it fades to chunky, red glitter, glued on and somehow width standing the test of time, to then dissolve into fine and sparsely scattered red glitter from the mid-forearm to the elbow. The beads and sequins on the dress itself are affixed with barely noticeable, shiny red thread, that gives the dress dimension up close. Giselle cites Gothic Romanticism as an inspiration to add depth to her jazz-bar persona, as well as the theatrics of musical theatre, going so far as to called the dress the ‘Merry Murderess’ despite the fact that the musical Chicago premiered almost three years after the dress’ initial debut.

Despite this look being regarded as one of her classics, and therefore setting the standard for her public image for the years to come, there’s no denying that Giselle didn’t enjoy experimenting with her outfits.

“I’ve never technically worn pants on stage,” as we move further into the room, she begins to pull various garment bags from the racks seemingly at random, “skirts, skorts, shorts - which some might argue are close enough - dresses, and even full jumpsuits, but never actual pants; I’ve always been worried that they were too masculinising for my act.” Moving on to the rack labeled 1975, she pulls out a particularly slim bag, and from it she pulls a pair of shorts made of what looks like liquid gold, but I know is made of velvet, with suspenders to match. It hangs over a sheer, flowing, cream crop-top with bell sleeves.

This outfit is cited as the first time she had deviated from her skirts and dresses, though the outfit itself is still exquisite and has an air of regality. “I was in Phoenix in ‘74 when I wore this; I’d had it included in my repertoire for the Hand Held Heart tour in case it became especially hot, which, being Arizona in the summertime, it was.” It’s here we start to see the influence of other artists bleed into her work; the occasional feathery flamboyance borrowed from Elton John, the avant-garde pattern and makeup work popularised by David Bow, and of course, the extravagance and glitz of Queen’s Freddie Mercury.

“You always have to specify that it’s [Freddie Mercury],” she’s very serious on this point, holding up her iconic, short, incredibly sheer white, long-sleeved fitted dress, marbled with red sequins to protect her modesty. It’s reminiscent of the red and white shorts Mercury had been known to favour on tours. “The others, while, yes, they could be well dressed on occasion, [Roger Taylor]’s lime green jeans aside, they never had the flair or audacity that Freddie had to be truly influential.”

After recording a cover of Queen’s Jesus for her third album, Giselle entered into an unofficial partnership with the band, which she tells me included a collaboration with Mercury himself on their costumes.

“I’d spent a long time trying to merge my style and my musical origins with modern aesthetics; I worked very closely with a designer, since it’s not technically my strong suit.” She pauses for a moment, and we make our way to the mannequins again, this time to the second, a floor-length, evening-gown style dress in lilac, capped sleeves, looking as though it’s tie-dyed with blackcurrant glass beads instead of fabric dye. “Getting to collaborate with the band was easy enough; I did talk with [Jim Beach] regarding the use of the song, but he ultimately he ruled that it was up to them, and so once that connection was established, I actually asked Freddie to help me with some tour outfit designs.”

People often assume Giselle is referring to her team contacting Queen’s lawyer, but she goes on record now to explain that it’s not true. “I’m a lawyer, my own lawyer, and I also work for several big-name bands in the music industry today. EMI picked me up halfway through my final year, but I still continued to go to [university], and I did actually intern under (sic) [Beach] while writing my second album. “ I’m assured that she had just regular suits in her personal closet; three, in grey, black, and cream, well fitted, ‘but not why you’re here’ she adds with a self-deprecating smile.

The lavender and blackberry dress was one designed by Mercury himself, the pale lavender representative of elegance and femininity, while the darker blackcurrant is used to bring depth to the dress the same way Giselle’s unwavering, calculated persona brings depth to her performances. It was Mercury’s idea to interweave the two in the tie-dyed style, keeping Giselle’s traditional aesthetic through the glass beads and the cut of the dress.

As we continue along the timeline, it’s clear to see the effect Mercury had on Giselle’s stage wardrobe, the use of geometric patterns coupled with bold colours, and more glitter and sequins than you can shake a stick at becoming more prominent throughout the late 70s, somehow still managing to keep in line with her traditional aesthetic simultaneously.

“I refuse to wear print.” She’s adamant about it when the possibility of wearing a garment like Mercury’s vest with his cats painted on it comes up. “Geometric doesn’t count; the texture in my wardrobe is always going to be,” she pauses for a moment, searching for the right word, fingers brushing through the fur of the fur-cuffs of a long-sleeved purple velvet number, “diegetic.” She settles on, and it’s clear what she means; patterns on her clothes are always wrought through beads or diamonds or fur or other things attached. “It’s the reason I have it locked, [Lilith Taylor, 7] has left the ‘indiscriminately grabbing things that feel nice’ stage a few years ago, but Rosie [Rosemary Taylor, 4] is just at the tail end of it. They’ll have free reign of this place one day,” she looks around at the fashion legacy she has built for herself, she wears an expression of pride, though it’s more focused on her daughters than the clothes themselves, “but for now I want to keep choking hazards and expensive furs out of danger.”

Around the very end of the 70s to the beginning of the 80s we see a return to form, with the resurgence of her form-fitted cocktail dresses. “There was a lot of change happening in my life at that time, and as much as I enjoy experimenting with my looks, it helped me feel secure to know I was in what was objectively my strong suit, pun not intended.” According to her, she’d just begun seeing Roger Taylor, and she used her fashion choices to exercise control in her life that she felt she was losing.

“My private life has always been very private, now here I am with the man who trashes drum kits and throws TVs out window; I was so afraid that every time people took a photo of me, or even looked at me, they’d think I was compromising my morals or integrity - which I’m not, and I wasn’t then.” She quickly clarifies. “Our personal history is not void because of where we are now, but Roger and I have also changed as people, and we’re allowed to have our feelings change. I’m honestly a little offended people think I we would have gone through all we did for mere publicity.”

Speaking of Roger, I’m a little surprised her wedding dress isn’t one of those on the mannequins, but I understand her choice, and we’ll certainly get to that soon. Her wedding dress sits at the back of one of the racks, carefully distant from any of the year labels. As she removes it from the garment bag, she gives it a softly nostalgic smile, brushing the fabric gently. “This should really go in my own closet.” It’s unlike most of her other outfits here, such a pale cream it’s almost white, floor-length and sleeveless with a Roman-inspired cinched waist topped with what I hesitate to even call ruffles, their drapings so loose it’s reminiscent of curled hair rather than a traditional ruffle. The material is so soft and light that even on a hanger it looks a little ethereal. It’s simple, elegant, and the very sight of it brings joy to her face.

“’81.” The year is surprising, as is the revelation she shares about how they celebrated their tenth anniversary a few months prior. Putting the dress away, we move to the early eighties, and it’s almost cyclical the way we’re brought back to the ‘Merry Murderess’ aesthetic with the lineup from her ‘The Bend Before The Break’ tour.

“Everyone and their mother seems to have read the article [All The Queen’s Men, Rolling Stone, 1985] and figured out I was in a shaky place at the time; it’s again about having that modicum (sic) of control. Part of me reverted to portraying myself in the way when I felt like I was at the height of control in my relationships and career. It’s a pretty aesthetic,” she gently pulls a velvet, wine-coloured cocktail dress from the rack, giving it a gentle pat, “it made my stage presence feel good, honestly.” It doesn’t sound bitter, but she puts the dress back.

Apologising for a moment, she explains the large gap between ‘82 and ‘84, with her Finally, Sunlight tour. “After coming home from the [The Bend Before The Break] tour, I took some time to myself; I was, of course, still writing, but I couldn’t really perform or make any big public appearances after like, July in ‘83, because I was quite pregnant, and, again, I’m a private person.” The Finally, Sunlight tour is known for two things, Giselle wearing gold, silver, and copper, in any and every way she could, and the Atlanta Breakdown.

“I wore metallics because Finally, Sunshine is about my baby girls, and they are so precious to me.” As was made clear in the Rolling Stone article, Giselle and Roger lost one of their twin daughters to illness in Autumn of 1984, though Lilith survived, it took a devastating toll on the couple. Moving past that, we’re finally brought to the crown jewel of the collection; her Live Aid dress.

It’s almost the antithesis to the ‘Merry Murderess’, though it shares a similar neckline and off-the-shoulder style. The Live Aid dress, which Giselle calls ‘Queen Midas’ for reasons I’ll get into later, has a white, crushed velvet bodice with an inbuilt corset, and basque waistline. Beneath the waist is a enough layers of thin and flowing georgette to become completely opaque, like a waterfall from the waistline, the colours fading from a bright, sunshine yellow at the hip, to a rich, sunset orange by the knee, and finally to a smokey, warm-toned charcoal where it brushes the ground, with gold jewels dotted around the bottom and creeping almost to the knee in some sporadic places, reminiscent of embers in a fire. Her gloves are white velvet, and just like with the first of her most iconic outfits, it’s gold sequinned fading to actual glitter and diamonds.

“I took a hard look at where I was and what I had achieved, and... whether or not I can help it, I effect people, through my music, my actions, through what I wear, and can be a double edged sword. Sometimes it can hurt, or I can hurt others by saying or doing the wrong thing, but sometimes I find myself wanting for nothing; everything I’ve held close has turned to gold. I wanted to show that, to be able to be a part of something that gives back to the world where it’s given me so much.”

With all her most well-known outfits having been covered, there’s one more that comes to the top of my head; the jacket of 1980. The tabloids had a field day with her choice of wardrobe as she stepped out of a car with the rest of Queen wearing a salmon and green floral, double breasted suit jacket, with silver buttons and silver stilettos, with sheer, thigh high white socks held up by a garter belt, hair fashionably messy, but makeup pristine. The deviation from her usual pristine image had shocked both paparazzi and public alike, however the daring outfit had quickly been lauded as one of her best, many publications who ran photos even citing it as the entertainment industry’s hottest innovative look of the decade. Even since it has stood the test of time, and has been attributed to the rise of patterned and bold suit jacket purchases by men and women alike, with the outfit have been cited as inspiration for more than one celebrity’s red carpet look.

Now, however, something, possibly amusement, possibly annoyance, crosses her face, and she tells me it’s not here. The jacket is Mercury’s. “We were on our way to a party being hosted by [Elton John], and I’d only been with Rog for a few months at this point; so we’re in the back of the limo with the other [members of Queen] and Roger’s spilled his wine on my nice, white cocktail dress.” It seems like a bittersweet memory, and she reminds me of her earlier comment about the ‘wine stain argument’. “In hindsight, everything worked out, but at the time I was absolutely livid; very nearly killed him in that backseat. Poor [John Deacon] literally had to drag me off of him. [It] took both him and Freddie to hold me back when Roger got out once we arrived, and they had the driver circle the block again so I could change into Freddie’s jacket, which he so kindly lent to me.”

From her tone, and her following comments about how her husband likes to bring it up, it seems as though it’s a well worn argument of how Roger Taylor enjoys taking credit for the look, though Giselle doesn’t seem like she enjoys giving him the satisfaction.

“My image has always been about how much I can control what people see of me, and to have that control taken away by a careless action, it really hurt. A man like Roger, in the entertainment industry, is never going to face the kind of scrutiny that I do, it’s the reason you’re here at all, talking to me about fashion rather than say, how difficult it is to be a practicing lawyer in the music industry while raising two beautiful daughters. And I still write music on occasion. But people remember what you show them, how you present yourself; my tour wardrobe is a reflection of the persona I let interact with the world, and it’s beautiful, and a legacy that will probably outlive me to some extent.

“Do I regret any of my fashion choices? I don’t really have the liberty to, do I? And either way, they’re part of the reason I’m where I am today; I made a niche for myself that was built initially on my aesthetic, if I’m being generous, so I suppose I’ll always be grateful to it.”

#roger taylor #roger taylor x oc #roger taylor imagine #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #bo rhap #queen #borhap imagine #the angry lizard writes

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tisfan · 5 years

Text

Keep You at Bay

Title: Keep You at Bay Collaborators: @27dragons and @tisfan AO3 Link Square Filled: G3 - Accidental Stimulation/Arousal Ship: WinterIron Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes Rating: E Major Tags: blowjobs, semi-public sex, extremely inappropriate locations Summary: Long past the age where a quickie under the bleachers at high school would be appropriate—Tony and Bucky have a quickie under the bleachers… Word Count: 4,103 Created for @mcukinkbingo

A/n - Part of our Nights in Sandbridge AU, but it’s all self-explanatory, stands alone, no powers AU

“At least the seats are a little larger than middle-school?” Bucky said, twisting in the uncomfortable contraption. One of those bunched rows of folding chairs, with springs, the ancient wood scarred with dozens of years of pen marks. Daisy loves Robbie. Class of 06!

Mr Osborne is a goblin.

Bucky rubbed his thumb thoughtfully over the marks. Some of them were older than his own high school career, he thought. Same marks as when he went here.

That was one of the problems with living in the same town his whole life.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.” He checked his watch. The play was… late getting started, to absolutely no one’s surprise. The auditorium was loud, really really loud, as people talked in whispers, and then normal tones of voice, and then practically shouting at their neighbors as more and more people filed in. “Don’t remember there bein’ this many people in town, last time.”

“No, Billie told me that a couple of the other schools are offering an extra credit grade to students who come to the play and do some kind of paper on it,” Tony said. “Which I imagine is inflating the audience some.” He leaned against Bucky’s side, just a little, getting comfortable, or as comfortable as the hard chairs would allow.

Which, naturally, was when a family decided they were going to need to sit on the other side of Bucky. Tony sighed a little as they stood up to let the family past.

(more below the cut)

The rows weren’t very wide. As the others squeezed past, Tony’s hand wound up being pushed against Bucky’s thigh. And then decidedly not his thigh.

And Tony, because it was Tony, realized where his hand had ended up and gave Bucky a subtle squeeze behind the program Bucky was holding.

Bucky sat down hastily -- almost rudely -- the instant the family was past him. Which didn’t help at all, because Tony was still standing, that perfectly round posterior exactly at eye level.

Extremely inappropriate, Bucky scolded himself. It had been a hell of a few weeks, though, with Livvy sick and out from school, and Billie’s high school drama. Which meant Tony and Bucky had been going to bed exhausted, or woken up randomly in the middle of the night. (Livvy was getting better about vomiting into the toilet. But better was not a hundred percent.) All of which had lead to things being very Not Sexy around Dockside.

The lights flickered a few times, signalling they were finally ready backstage.

And then they went out, while several people laughed nervously.

“They blew a fuse,” Bucky muttered.

“Old building like this, that’s hardly a surprise,” Tony murmured back. “I’m sure they’ll get it fixed soon.” His hand was on Bucky’s thigh, squeezing gently.

Trish Walker -- who’d one been an extra in a McDonald’s commercial just out of high school, and was now the school’s Drama teacher -- came out on stage holding up a flashlight. She took a deep breath and projected, her voice filling up the theater and cutting through the chatter. “Just a little technical difficulty, we should have it fixed in just a few moments. Please remain in your seats for safety.”

“Blew a fuse,” Bucky repeated. “Someone’s going down in the furnace room with a flashlight t’ fix it.” Probably Billie, if they asked for volunteers. Fixing a blown fuse wasn’t exactly engineering, but she liked to show off her ability to fix stuff. Bucky squirmed a little in his seat as Tony’s fingers continued to wander. He could barely see Tony, even in the reflection of like, half the audience’s phones.

Which meant no one could see what Tony was doing, either. A breathy groan escaped from Bucky’s mouth without his consent as the side of Tony’s finger brushed over Bucky’s balls. “Stop that,” he protested, barely audible.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony said innocently, even as he dragged the side of his hand along Bucky’s zipper. He tugged at Bucky’s jacket until it was more carefully covering the area, then went right back to it. Slowly, just an occasional tease. With his free hand, he was scrolling through his phone, the ass.

Bucky rolled up his program and swatted Tony’s hand as it wandered too near the crease of his thigh again. Which got him the Pout. Capital P. Tony’s wide, liquid eyes in the near darkness, that full bottom lip sticking out.

Bucky was spared whatever Tony might have said, though, by the lights coming back on. Tony gave Bucky one more slow look as he put his phone away and settled in to watch the play.

The play was-- well, it was a high school performance, so there was a lot of overacting, handmade costumes, and barely audible recitations. And Tony kept waiting until Bucky was mostly paying attention, and then his hand would sneak out again, squeezing Bucky’s knee, or running against his thigh.

It kept Bucky just enough on edge that he had about half a chub when the lights went back up for intermission. High school really needed to have a full length play, with intermission? There were a few concession stands in the lobby area, popcorn and soda and nachos. Activity Booster’s Clubs selling tee-shirts with the play’s logo on the front.

And an absolutely ridiculous line for the bathroom. Even for the men’s room, which was unusual. But Bucky remembered, there were two urinals and one stall on the ground floor. “Come on,” he told Tony, eyeing the line. “There’s another bathroom upstairs, near the chem lab.”

Tony glanced at the line, then nodded, gesturing for Bucky to lead the way. “You think they’ll have the rest of the school open?”

Bucky chuckled. “I musta broke into the high school half a dozen times when I was still a student. I know-- here, up these stairs, and. Yep. The gate’s on the other side of the bathroom.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the few floods near various classrooms. Their footfalls were oddly loud, as the only sound. “Voila, bathroom,” Bucky said. He picked a stall, mostly because he had to talk his dick into cooperating if he was going to be able to pee, and he didn’t really want Tony to notice. Never let them see you bleed. Not advice he usually thought he had to apply to his husband, but sometimes Tony was a menace. And if Tony knew Bucky was on edge, he might just double down.

The familiar generic cleaning smells and the tiny stalls had a deflating effect, at least, and Bucky was able to relieve one sort of pressure.

By the time he came out, Tony was at the sink, trying to convince the industrial-grade hand soap to generate any sort of lather. He glanced up into the mirror and gave Bucky a smirk and a knowing once-over.

“You are soooo inappropriate,” Bucky told him, feeling his neck heat. “After so many years, you’d think I’d be used to you and your kitten ways.”

“You’d think,” Tony agreed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “It’s almost like you think I’m going to settle down and start acting proper.”

“I might not be a genius,” Bucky said, wiping his hands on the same brown paper hand towels that they’d used in schools since they were invented, “but at least I’ve figured that much out.” He walked by Tony, still looking at himself in the mirror, leaning over the sink just a little, that perfect ass -- a perfect target.

He ran a hand over Tony’s butt check, and just as Tony hummed thoughtfully and pushed backward into the caress, he smacked, sharp, but not particularly hard. “Behave.”

Tony spun around, eyes wide -- and suddenly dark. “Oh, I will,” he said, and it sounded vaguely threatening.

There had definitely been a second half of the play. Tony was certain of that.

Exactly what had happened during that half of the play, Tony was not entirely sure. He had been somewhat preoccupied with a steadily escalating game of stealthy teasing and arousal.

He had only himself to blame, really. That first brush had been totally accidental, but it had been far too tempting an opportunity to resist. And Bucky was certainly doing his best to get Tony back for it.

Finally, though, the play was over. It took exactly three minutes after the curtain went down for Billie to find them. She was dressed head to toe in black and someone had smudged football makeup all the way around her eyes. She looked like a demented raccoon. “Dad, Dad, Dad! Hey, Uncle Bucky! Didja notice all the mood lighting? I did that, well, me and Bonita, but the gel switchout, that was all me.”

Billie had declined all efforts to get her on the stage, and instead, she and Bonita Juarez and Parker Robbins had made up the stage crew, flunkies, lighting technicians, scene builders, prop designers, and costume assistants. They were probably never going to get some of the stains off the garage floor from where the three of them had worked on half the props.

“You did a fantastic job,” Tony said. “I was really impressed with the fast changeout during the fight.” He hadn’t noticed anything, but he’d heard her complaining about how hard it was. “Good job, buttercup!”

“So, uh… Ororo’s having a cast party, an’, an’, an’ you know, it’s Friday, and set break’s not until two, so, like, could I go? I can let myself in, after midnight, right? I mean, I’m sixteen now and everything.”

“Sixteen,” Bucky groaned, theatrically. Only appropriate, really. “Practically old enough for your AARP discount.”

Tony could see Billie start to roll her eyes and then suppress the urge, just in case, because they hadn’t actually said yes, yet. “What state is your homework in?” he asked, though it was a bluff, because he would have given anything to get Billie out of the way for a few hours while Livvie was with a sitter so he and Bucky could have the house to themselves.

“Uh, math’s done,” she said, hedging a little. “I need to finish my Spanish verb stuff, and a little bit of powermaps for History, and then I’ll be done, I can do it Sunday after the matinee.”

Tony looked at Bucky, pretending to deliberate.

“Do you need us to drop you off?”

“No, Parker’s driving,” Billie said, and then whooped, taking the question for the permission in question. “Thanks, Dad, thanks Uncle Bucky.” She dive bombed each of them with a kiss on the cheek, which reminded Tony once again how tall she was getting He wanted to put bricks on her head sometimes.

“Parker? He’s like, what, twelve?”

“He’s almost eighteen, don’t be that way,” Billie said.

“Wear your seatbelt!”

“Duh!” Billie said. “Don’t wait up.”

Bucky watched her run off, then licked his lip very deliberately. “Don’t worry. We won’t.”

Tony’s dick twitched and he was glad he was still holding the program. “Ready to blow this Popsicle stand?” he asked, giving his husband a heated look.

“Or blow something at least,” Bucky muttered, not even going for subtle anymore. He linked hands with Tony and started threading them through the crowd.

Where they were promptly greeted by Billie’s second grade teacher, Miss Potts. “Tony! Bucky, how nice to see you again! Billie’s all grown up, hasn’t she?”

“Pepper,” Tony said, and managed to make it sound warm and happy and not at all like he and Bucky were trying to slip out quickly to go home and fuck. “She’s grown like a weed, the last couple of years. Hope you’ve been well.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries and then Tony tried not to make a huge sigh of relief when one of Pepper’s other former students caught sight of her. “Miss Poooooooootttttts!” the kid yelled, like it was possible that anyone had missed their frantic waving.

“We’ll just… let you go, then,” Bucky said, and deftly turned toward the exit. It was slightly more crowded in the lobby as parents milled around aimlessly waiting for their kids, and kids gathered in knots of complete obliviousness to anyone wanting to get around them, and why-- okay, that was Kitty Pryde’s father, who was currently engaged in a war for his daughter’s affections between him and his ex-wife's new boyfriend, and had apparently decided that enormous flower bouquets were appropriate for a kid who had less than six lines in a three hour play. He was taking up half the hall on his own.

They’d barely cleared that obstacle, and then there was another knot of congestion as one kid’s entire family descended on him with hugs and congratulations and Jesus, people, wait until you’re outside!

They were just edging past that, the lobby doors in sight, when-- “Oh, Mr. Barnes! Mr. Barnes! I’m sorry, could I just--”

Tony swallowed a whimper. That was Katherine Blaire, who was arranging her oldest daughter’s wedding reception to be held at Dockside, and had been the utterly worst domineering mother-of-the-bride that they’d encountered in at least the last five years.

“How lucky to run into you here!” she said. “I just wanted a quick word about our menu.”

Bucky did not pull a face, but Tony knew his husband well enough. “Hang on, Mrs. Blaire, lemme pull up our last email--” He poked his phone a few times. “You know me, if I don’t write stuff down, I’ll forget it.”

Tony glanced at the flow of traffic and subtly nudged them all over to one side of the lobby while Mrs. Blaire launched into a long-winded explanation about someone’s cousin’s child’s allergies and eventually got down to explaining that she needed a wheat-free (and child-friendly!) option.

“Tell you what,” Tony said, “let us talk to our head chef and see what kinds of options he can suggest, and we’ll email you back first thing Monday.”

“Trust me, Steve will really be--” less annoyed if someone lets him make the decisions, Tony could almost hear Bucky say, “--creative. I promise, you’ll love it, I’ll talk to him.”

Bucky took advantage of a passing parent carrying what looked like three musical instruments and a piece of stage equipment -- Tony didn’t even want to know why -- to duck away from Mrs. Blaire.

“Maybe the traffic’ll die down before we make it to th’ truck,” Bucky said. They’d only driven at all because Billie had to bring in all the props she’d been making. Which would at least stay at the school for the weekend of the showing.

“Honey, you’ve seen how they laid out this parking lot,” Tony said, because as much as he wanted to get home now... yeah, that wasn’t happening.

“I’d suggest we just walk,” Bucky said, “but you’ll wanna keep your legs fresh. You’ll thank me for that, later.” Bucky swatted him again, just as they passed out of the halo of a streetlamp.

Tony’s dick jumped and he considered it. Unfortunately, the high school was a bit farther away than the primary school had been. Walking wasn’t out of the question, but it would probably not actually be faster than waiting for the traffic to clear.

He looked at the solid wall of vehicles as they made their way into the parking lot. “We could just make out in the back seat for a while until things clear up some,” he suggested. He was only half kidding.

Bucky glanced at the flow (or not) of traffic and then-- “the baseball bleachers are out of sight,” he suggested.

Tony eyed his husband closely. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re serious right now.”

“‘F we get up to nonsense in th’ truck, we’re gonna fog up the windows. Everyone’ll know-- look, no one goes out that way after the summer,” Bucky said, taking a step backward and tugging Tony’s fingers.

He was serious. On the other hand, it would take at least half an hour for the parking lot to clear. Maybe closer to forty-five minutes.

And making out (and other things) under the bleachers was a time-honored high school tradition that Tony had never gotten to enjoy back when he was actually in high school. And Tony was almost entirely helpless when it came to Bucky. Especially when it came to Bucky and sex.

Tony let himself be pulled a few steps, and then a few more. They ducked around the side of the building just before another, smaller wave of people came out of the front door.

“This way,” Bucky said, keeping hold of Tony’s hand. He pulled them behind the squat little concessions building. There was a narrow gap there, between the building and the chain link fence that Bucky squeezed through with only a little difficulty. “There… all nice and private.”

Tony had a moment to realize just how old he was, when the first thing he noticed was how filthy it was under there, empty and forgotten paper cups and balled up napkins and old cigarette butts and--

Then Bucky was kissing him, pushing him up against the brick wall, into the shadow. Kissing him like it had been months, deep, needy kisses, rocking his whole body against Tony’s. Practically inhaling him.

Tony let out a soft moan and fisted one hand in Bucky’s shirt collar, keeping him close, letting him plunder Tony’s mouth. Tony’s other hand slid down over Bucky’s chest and stomach, pulling his shirt free and slipping underneath to caress that soft skin, wriggling beneath the waist of Bucky’s pants greedily.

“Oh, yeah, Tony, honey--” Bucky said, pulling apart to breathe, then darting back in to suck Tony’s lower lip into his mouth. He made love to the side of Tony’s neck, wet licks and sharp nips, stretching the collar to get his mouth on Tony’s shoulder. He fumbled with the buttons on Tony’s shirt, and one of them went popping off into the darkness, plinking off the metal seats. “Shit--” Bucky actually laughed, and then he was sagging against Tony, stifling giggles against Tony’s neck.

Tony laughed, too, enjoying the giddy sensation of doing something illicit, the thrill of possibly (but probably not) getting caught. “Now all the kids’re going to know what we were up to,” he teased. He tugged at Bucky’s belt until it came loose, then started working at the button of the pants. “How many boys have you lured back here with your smooth talk and pretty mouth, hmm?”

Bucky groaned, rubbing against Tony’s wandering hand, then paused… “Uh, two?”

Tony sputtered out another laugh. “So much for romance.” He worked his hand into Bucky’s underwear and cupped Bucky’s cock, rubbing the heel of his hand delicately against the head.

“Aw, don’t be sore about it,” Bucky told him. “S’why I knew it was here.” He ran a hand down the outside of Tony’s thigh, encouraging Tony to hook his leg up on Bucky’s hip, rolling them together. “Jesus, you’re a tease, ain’tcha?” He nuzzled at Tony’s mouth again, not letting him answer the charges.

“To be fair--” Tony tried, but then Bucky was kissing him again, deep and sweet and slow, the way only Bucky knew how to kiss him, and Tony utterly forgot what he was going to say, lost in the heat and the languorous rhythm as their bodies slid together, unhurried and inexorable as the ocean. “God, your mouth should be illegal,” he gasped when they finally parted.

Bucky scoffed. “It should be a national treasure,” he corrected. “Want me t’ put it on you?” He tugged at Tony’s zipper suggestively.

“Damn straight I do,” Tony said. He dropped his leg to make that process a little easier. “Have I ever not wanted your mouth on me?”

With a quick tug, Tony found his pants around his thighs, his ass pressed against the cold brick, and then-- oh, Bucky’s mouth was soft and sweet, skilled and slick, taking Tony in with more fervor than finesse, but, oh, oh, god, so fine.

“Oh, god, honey, that’s-- oh, yes, just like... Nnnnng....” Tony brushed his fingers through Bucky’s hair, scraping his fingernails lightly across Bucky’s scalp. “That’s it, that’s perfect, oh, shit--” Tony only just stopped himself from throwing his head back and cracking it against the brick.

Bucky hummed encouragingly, teasing the inside of Tony’s thighs with his thumbs as he worked, sucking Tony all the way back and then sliding back, loose and slow and wet. “Shhh, shhh,” he said, pulling off for a minute. “Sound carries.” He went back to work, trying as only Bucky could, to get Tony to lose control and moan wanton and loud anyway.

Once he got warmed up, Bucky was quick, eager, using his fingers to encourage Tony to thrust into his mouth, and then, he looked up, those eyes soft and warm and practically glowing like embers, eyelashes clumpy with unshed tears.

“Jesus Christ, you are so...” Tony’s whisper came out harsh with wanting, and he had to bite his lip to keep himself from crying out. He brushed his thumbs down Bucky’s cheeks and Bucky hummed again, twisting his tongue maddeningly. Tony arched into it helplessly, once, twice, and then shuddered as his climax rushed through him, a wave of heat and pleasure that left him clinging to Bucky’s shoulders, weak-kneed and shuddering.

Bucky caressed Tony’s thighs, his hips, soothing and sweet as he licked Tony clean. “Hmmm? Yeah? God, you’re sweet.” He licked against the curve of Tony’s hip, letting his teeth scrape against the ridge, before planting another kiss on Tony’s oversensitive shaft, laughing softly as Tony tried to shift away and really couldn’t.

“Evil,” Tony accused, though the pronouncement was somewhat spoiled by the way he was running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “I was going to be sorry for getting you all worked up in the theater, but I don’t think I am, anymore.”

“You were never going to be sorry,” Bucky told him, shifting around and making an awkward noise as he got to his feet. “Ug, knees, why?”

“Probably not,” Tony mused. He hooked his fingers through Bucky’s belt loops and turned them around to put Bucky’s back against the wall. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

“Wouldn’t say no,” Bucky said, stropping up against Tony. “You sound so sweet when you’re tryin’ to be good, could practically get off just listenin’ to you.”

Tony hummed and dropped to his own knees, looking up at Bucky through his lashes and tasting the smooth, sweet skin of Bucky’s stomach as he worked the pants down enough to free Bucky’s cock. “Mm, your turn to be good,” he murmured, “and my turn to be evil.” He sucked Bucky in all at once, without teasing it at all.

“Pretty sure you were born bad, mouth like that on-- ya!” Bucky inhaled, sucking air, eyes going slitted with satisfaction as Tony moved. Bucky’s hand when on top of Tony’s head, anchoring himself, and the other went up to clap his palm over his own mouth, muffling the sounds he made, helpless and needy.

God, Tony loved those sounds, loved knowing that he could make Bucky make those sounds. He hummed in satisfaction, rolling his tongue against Bucky’s cock. He teased his fingers between Bucky’s thighs, pressing lightly up behind the balls, at Bucky’s perineum.

“Ohgod, Tony-- ohchrist--” Bucky was whining and babbling, pushing back against the wall and rolling his hips against Tony’s mouth, eager. “Jesus--”

He bucked -- ha! -- once, twice, then, thighs quivering as he struggled to stay upright, spilled into Tony’s mouth, painting his tongue.

Tony swallowed, and swallowed again, savoring the bitter salt flavor, sweetened by the helpless, soft noises Bucky made as he shuddered through the waves of his climax. Tony gripped his hips, holding him down to clean him off thoroughly, until he was hissing and trying to twist away.

Tony laughed a little, and nuzzled at the skin of Bucky’s stomach, then pulled away and carefully tucked Bucky back into his clothes.

“Well, that--” Bucky said, huffing out a breath, and pulling Tony up to kiss him solidly on the mouth “-- was well worth a little effort. And bruised knees.”

Tony hummed and leaned back in for another kiss. “I could come to enjoy the theater.”

“Or, you know, you could go to the theater to come,” Bucky said, snickering like the twelve year old he was at heart.

#mcukinkbingo #winteriron #semi-public lemon #sandbridge AU

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