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eilidh-eternal · 5 months

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Chapter 2 - Places!

Simon Riley x Johnny MacTavish x F!Reader 4.4K words Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, mild swearing, feelings of loneliness/isolation, imposter syndrome, feelings of anxiety, reader is oblivious to Johnny and Simon's advances. Masterlist

Delaney O’Riordan, despite her petite frame, pulls you along with a strength that rivals some of your male counterparts in the English National Ballet, iron grip wrapped firmly around your bicep as she berrates you for making her come looking for you.

“What on earth are ya’ doin’ down here?! An’ drinkin’ no less!” She doesn’t let you get a word in as she hauls you out of the hotel bar away from the two men, through the lobby, and herds you into the lift. “We’ve forty-five minutes to get to the theater and you’re down here flirtin’ with strangers?”

“Laney, it’s fine. My bag is packed and I’m dressed to go, all we need to do is grab it from the room and catch the bus. It’ll take thirty minutes, tops,” you assure the fiery-tempered woman as the doors to the lift close and she presses the button for your floor. “And I wasn’t flirting.” You weren’t, right? You just lost your balance. He’d caught you–they’d caught you–and set you upright again. That was it. No flirting. Even if the way the dark-haired man had called you pretty made your stomach flip-flop the same way it does every time Connor has to toss you through the air in rehearsals, and the way the blond wearing the mask, Simon you think he was called, made your skin warm with the hand that lingered on your back for longer than any polite touch should have.

“Aye, so you admit you were drinkin’ then?” Delaney crosses her arms and fixes you with an admonishing glare.

“It was just a cocktail, a mint julep. There was hardly any liquor in it,” you say in an attempt to placate her, knowing her irritation comes from a place of concern rather than annoyance. “Just something to calm the opening night jitters.” Despite decades of experience and many, many opening nights for productions big and small, for company exhibitions and tours abroad, some of them still had you tapping your fingers methodically over your thighs and shifting your weight from one foot to another every few seconds.

Her gaze softens but her arms remain folded tight to her chest. She knows tonight is important. It’s your first show as the company’s first principal dancer. The prima ballerina of the English National Ballet, dancing the lead role of one of the most quintessential ballets—a night that will define the rest of your career. “You’re going to do just fine tonight. I know it feels different, having the title now, but you’ve danced this role before. You’ll dance it hundreds of times more, no doubt, now you’ve made a name for yourself. The Bolshoi will be beggin’ ya to dance for ‘em in Moscow after tonight. I know it.”

You scoff at this. “Bolshoi made Swan Lake, Laney, they don’t let just anyone dance for them. Especially for Odette and Odile.” You couldn’t imagine being asked to the Bolshoi Ballet. It’s one of the oldest, toughest, companies to dance with and for. Their dancers are all hand selected, scouted for their looks and physique in their youth, and train with a militaristic intensity to be the best of the best. The Soviet and American schools of ballet are both similar in that way. Aggressive. Emphasizing and attacking their movements and the sharp lines of their form with an energy the English and French schools lean away from. But that was the very reason why you’d been offered a contract with the Kensington-based company. For your ability to dance the part of Odette with the elegance and grace required for the demure damsel, and simultaneously portray the brazen and arrogant seductress Odile, who moves with much darker intentions. A duality that is coveted among dancers.

The soft ‘ding’ of the lift alerts you to the fact that you’ve reached your floor, heavy doors sliding open to reveal the gaudy carpet and busy wallpaper lining the hallway of the hotel you’re staying in for the time being. You nod a brief goodbye to Delaney, promising to meet her in the lobby, and step off the lift. The room is comfortable, has everything you need and is by no means lacking, but still it’s less than ideal. You miss your cozy apartment in the suburbs, the early but peaceful mornings before rush hour and all the sounds that come with it, and the beaux-arts architecture giving way to modern urban highrises. Soho isn’t that different, all things considered, but staying in a hotel until you can find a new apartment in London leaves you feeling out of place and untethered with just a few suitcases full of essentials and a contract for work in your possession. It makes you feel temporary. In this city. In this job. Easily replaced at a moment's notice. You try not to imagine what your life would look like if those things were true, pushing away the poisonous and intrusive notion that at any moment you’ll wake up from this dream and mourn it for being just that–a subconscious fantasy–as you sling your duffel over your shoulder and head back down to the lobby to meet Delaney and catch the bus.

Backstage at the London Coliseum thrums with the typical pre-show chaos. Last minute adjustments to props and the set before rolling everything into place behind the curtains, mending any overlooked rips or tears in costumes sustained in dress rehearsal, and hundreds of dancers, crew and musicians fluttering about the narrow halls between dressing and storage rooms. Hairspray lingers thick in the air of the dressing rooms and the scent of gels and pomade have a cloying effect that leaves you grateful for the privilege your status as first principal affords you. A green room.

It’s not very big. Just enough space for a backlit vanity, a rolling costume rack, small loveseat and a powder room. It feels odd, not sharing a room with fifty or sixty other dancers as you prepare for the show. Feels even stranger that someone else is doing that for you now, slicking back your hair and affixing your headpiece, rouging your cheeks and lining your lips in a blush tone. One more thing you’ll have to get used to.

Once the hair and makeup artist deems their work is finished you waste no time breaking in your pointe shoes and allowing yourself a final warmup before leaving your little bubble of calm amidst the chaos of opening night. The sound of the orchestra checking their pitch and tuning accordingly mixes with the chatter of the settling audience, and as the stage manager announces five minutes to showtime the wings of the stage begin to fill with all manner of performers. Everyone stretches, marks choreography, and goes about their pre-show rituals, wishing one another a good performance with smiles and encouraging embraces. Across the stage, you find Delaney smiling at you among the other dancers in the wings. She lifts her hands, presses them together in the shape of a heart over her chest, and you mirror the gesture. ‘Good show.’

“Places!” the final call rings out, and the house lights dim. The audience falls silent as the opening bars played by the orchestra signal the opening of the stage curtain, and with a deep, steadying breath, you leave behind the wings to take the stage.

By the time you step off stage you’re exhausted but elated. You had a stellar performance, a standing ovation from the crowd, and your directors sing their praises to you all the way from the stage after curtain call to your green room. However, the theatrics aren’t quite done for the night. There is to be a rotation of swans to pose with families for photos after each performance, and as first principal you are expected to set an example. That’s how you found yourself back in front of the vanity with another hair and makeup artist taming your hair back into place and making adjustments to your makeup. A costumer comes to help you change, guides a pair of wings onto your shoulders and shows you how to fasten them to your wrists, how to pose with them, and you’re sent off to the lobby.

You greet each child with a hug, mindful of the extra berth required to do so with the wings, and smile for cellphone cameras through the pain radiating from your knees and ankles. Some of the smaller children are too enamored with the feathers and the rhinestone-dusted gossamer to pay attention to their parents, and it takes several attempts to steal their attention away and take a satisfactory photo. Parents throw apologetic smiles your way as the children all take their turns, and you assure those who voice them that it’s really no trouble at all, though the twinging of your right knee would beg to differ. You’re holding a back attitude, relying on the small section of barre hidden behind the small recreation of the lake erected around you to maintain your balance and sustain the pose with your leg high in the air behind you, and you nearly sigh in relief when the child in front of you darts back to their parents once the photo is taken.

That relief is short lived, however, as you come back down on two feet again and turn to greet the next family. You’re wholly unprepared to find the dark-haired, blue-eyed man from the bar, masked, blond companion at his side, towering over you.

“Hello, little bird,” the former greets you and a roguish grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He has a mohawk. You hadn’t noticed in the bar, and you tell yourself it must have been the dim lighting that had kept that detail hidden from you. It certainly wasn’t the way his arm had felt wrapped snugly around your waist, or the way concern shone in his eyes and made them look more like sta-

“Yer friend carted ye off before we could have a proper introduction. Name’s Johnny. Ye remember Simon,” he says with a gesture to the statuesque, masked blond, and you force the shocked expression from your face and replace it with a polite smile, nodding in recognition.

“Yes. It’s… nice to meet you both. Officially. Would- would you like a picture together?”

Simon’s eyes dart towards Johnny and the shorter man turns his face up to meet his gaze. There’s a moment of silence between the two, an internal conversation you’re not privy to. When Johnny looks to you again there’s an impish look about him, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he steps forward, leaving Simon with his phone.

“Si isn’t fond of photos,” he says as he approaches, sidling up to you between the wooden props. He bends down to whisper into the shell of your ear, “We’d like to have a photo of ye though, pretty little bird that ye are.”

Heat blooms across your cheeks, and before your brain can fully process the implication of his words he’s wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. Your lips part on a yelp of surprise as you’re suddenly being hefted into the air and-

He’s perched you on his shoulder, you realize with no small degree of shock, a large, steadying hand firm on your thigh and the other resting on your shin just above your ankle. The look in his eyes and the sultry smile he gives you as he peers up at your shocked expression causes your stomach to flip and you grip onto his other shoulder to balance yourself. “Sorry for the scare, hen, but I can’t have our pretty bird stranded on the ground. Ye should be up there,” he says with a wink.

What do you even say to that?

“It’s ok, I just- I wasn’t prepared is all,” you reason aloud and cross your ankles, willing yourself to relax in his hold. When you lift your gaze from Johnny’s you find Simon right where you left him, brows pinched together in what you think is exasperation, but the corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that suggests amusement.

“Quit your yappin’, Johnny, and look ‘ere,” he grumbles, and Johnny does as he’s told, reluctantly tears his gaze away from you to look at Simon, holding up his phone for the photo.

You plaster a demure smile over your features, hold yourself steady with a hand on Johnny's shoulder, thick, corded muscle rippling beneath- No. Stop. Now is not the time for thoughts like this. This man is a stranger and you’re still at work. You inwardly chastise yourself and extend your free arm above your head, attempting a loose fourth position, posing prettily for the photo, and dutifully ignoring the warmth of Johnny’s hands on your legs, how solid he feels beneath you.

Just as easily as he’d hoisted you upon his shoulder he guides you gently back to the ground, hands lingering around your waist, unwilling to let you go again. “We want to ask ye somethin’,” he says as Simon steps forward, hand finding its way to the small of his back and Johnny’s hands pull away from your waist reluctantly to lean closer to Simon. “When yer done here with…” He pauses and gestures broadly to your wings and costume, and his smile turns apologetic. “Performance? I’m sorry, I dinnae ken what to call it. But, we’d like to have a proper drink with ye.” He looks hopeful as he slips his hands inside his pockets, and Simon’s head tilts ever so slightly to the side as they wait for your response.

You? They want to have a drink with you? You shift your weight nervously from one foot to the other, fighting to hide the scrunch of your nose as your knee barks under the pressure. “I won’t be done here for at least another hour, it will be quite late.”

“That’s not an issue for us,” Simon quickly supplies. “You’re stayin’ at the Broadwick?”

You nod.

“We’ll meet you there then, at the bar. Same place as before.” His voice is confident. Commanding. He says it like it's a fact, like you’ve already agreed. And at this point, you might as well. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious about the two men. Curious about Johnny’s flirtatiousness and Simon’s encouragement of it. And you need friends outside the company. Someone who you can talk to about boring and mundane things like the weather or how outrageous the price of a latte is at that little corner bakery you’d been frequenting. Something other than commiserating over long rehearsals and the blisters they cause, or how the director was in a sour mood with the cast that day over something beyond their ability to control. Anything other than work.

“Ok,” you finally agree, and you think Johnny's face might tear in two if his smile were any wider.

An hour and a half later you’ve returned to the hotel and rushed yourself into the shower, scrubbing at your skin with a soapy washcloth and carefully avoiding getting your hair wet. It’s still done up nice enough, and there's no sense in going downstairs looking like a drowned rat with damp hair when it’s already been… Shit, they’ve been waiting nearly an hour. You speed through the rest of your routine, washing the thick show makeup off your face, digging around in your suitcase for the sweater dress you know is here somewhere- Ah! There, buried under a mountain of leotards, and, graciously, next to the comfy flats you planned to wear with it. You trade the generic hotel bathrobe for the dress and step gingerly into your flats, mindful of the blisters already forming, and spare a few minutes more to swipe some mascara over your lashes and conceal the ever present dark circles of exhaustion under your eyes before heading downstairs.

Your heart pounds behind your ribs the same way it had earlier in the evening standing in the wings at the start of the show, and you take slow, deep breaths as you approach the hotel bar, half expecting to find it empty after you've kept them waiting for so long. You wouldn’t blame them if they’d left already. It’s nearly eleven p.m. on a Thursday, well past late for most of the working professionals in the city.

And yet, there they sit, occupying the same seats at the bar they had hours earlier. Johnny spots you first, beaming at you from over Simon’s shoulder, and your heart calms a bit, flooding with relief at the sight of his smiling face and easing some of your fear that they would be upset having waited so long.

“I’m so sorry for making you wait down here, I didn’t want to show up covered in sweat or looking like I’d come straight from the shower-” you say by way of greeting, and Johnny is quick to smother your apologies.

“Dinna fash, hen,” he interrupts, standing from his seat and guiding you to take his place on it with a warm hand on the small of your back. “We didn't mind waitin’. Had ourselves a nice little chat, eh Si?”

You settle yourself on the barstool and Simon hums thoughtfully beside you. “We did.”

Johnny takes the open seat beside you, angling his body so that he can brace an arm on the bar top and sit facing you. “So our little bird’s a dancer?”

“‘S a bit obvious, Johnny,” Simon quips.

Johnny huffs an exaggerated sigh as he retorts, “Aye, but what if she’s not really? Could be a spy. The Russians have done it before,” he says and winks in your direction.

Simon groans but you can’t help grinning at Johnny’s teasing. “Yes, I'm a dancer. Not a spy. I don’t think they could keep up with our training.”

Johnny lifts a curious brow and leans forward. “How long do ye train for somethin’ like that?”

You make a show of pausing to think before answering. “Hmm, it’s been a little over twenty years now, twenty-two I think?”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds like swearing. “Twenty-two years?!”

Simon’s eyes shine a rich, amber color in the low light of the bar, and a glimmer of something akin to recognition passes through them as he nods appreciatively. “Ya must be good at it then, if you’ve worked that long for it.”

You feel warmth blooming across your cheeks and a similar warmth working its way from your chest to your stomach, lower, as his eyes, the only part of his face visible above the mask, continue to study you, and your dress suddenly feels too tight against your skin. “I’m as good as any other dancer who’s worked most of their life for it.” A modest answer.

“Which one were ye then, on stage tonight? Were ye one of the swans?” Johnny’s voice pulls you out of the hold Simon’s wandering gaze has on you. You blink several times to clear your thoughts, and when you finally turn your attention back to him he's smiling down at you with a glimmering fascination in his own eyes.

You hesitate, briefly consider lying so they don’t make a fuss over the truth, but ultimately can’t find it in yourself to do so. “Yes, two of them actually. Odette and Odile.”

Johnny’s brows furrow, and Simon sighs with feigned annoyance but explains for him anyways, “She’s the swan Johnny. She’s the leading lady.”

“Christ, yer the star of the whole thing and yer playin’ it off like yer just in the background! I’d be tellin’ everyone if it were me.”

“Thankfully she’s not. She has class, something you could use more of,” Simon chides and you laugh quietly to yourself at their back and forth.

Johnny looks as if he’s about to come back with another smartalec comment but the arrival of the bartender defuses his need to have the last laugh as a glass of scotch is pushed towards him, a mint julep for you, and a tumbler of bourbon for Simon. Johnny takes the drink without question, swirling the contents of the glass and taking a slow sip, but it’s your turn now to pinch your brows in confusion.

“I didn’t- I haven’t ordered anything?”

“The bartender came by while you were explainin’ your trainin’ to Johnny. I ordered for us,” Simon explains.

You look from Simon to the drink in front of you, brows still pinched together.

“‘S what you ordered earlier, would ya rather have somethin’ else?”

“No! No, this is perfect, thank you. It’s just… I don’t think anyone’s ever bothered to pay that much attention to me?” you quickly explain, pulling the mixed drink towards you.

“Aye, he’s a charming bastard like that. Observant to a fault.”

You hum in answer and bring the glass to your lips, taking a slow, savoring sip.

“How long have ye been in london?” Johnny toys with the glass in his hand as he watches you, tracking the movement of your throat and your tongue as it darts out to swipe across your lower lip.

“We’ve just come back from tour a few weeks ago, so not long.”

“And you’ve been stayin’ in a hotel?” Simon seems perturbed at the notion.

“Hard to look for a place to live when you’ve been on tour for three months.” You take a longer sip from your drink this time. You really need to dedicate some time to that this week, maybe contact a real estate agent.

Simon and Johnny share a look, another unspoken conversation between themselves, and that glimmer of recognition returns to Simon’s eyes. “We’re… familiar, with that particular struggle.” When you turn to him with a puzzled expression he explains, “We travel a lot for work.”

“You work together?”

“Somethin’ like that,” and that’s the end of it. Their closeness makes sense then, if they travel together often. It’s hard not to get close to someone when you're obligated to be with them all the time. Hell, it’s the reason why you and Delaney are so close, having shared a room while on tour.

“D’ye have a borough in mind?” Johnny asks to redirect the topic of conversation back to you.

“The studio is in southern Kensington, close to Stamford Bridge, and we perform at the coliseum and Royal Albert Hall when we aren’t touring, so I’m hoping I can find something centrally located. Maybe in Belgravia or Westminster.” The few places you've been able to find online are quite pricey, but your contracted salary is enough for a decent flat in either neighborhood. It’s not like you order takeaway every night and your busy schedule certainly doesn’t allow you to party every weekend. Well, maybe the takeaway part isn’t exactly true. Frozen dinners from Tesco don’t count as takeaway, do they? Either way, if you have to spend the money, it may as well go towards a comfortable and conveniently located appartment, even if it’s overpriced.

“Bit of a highbrow area,” Simon comments and Johnny does his best not to outright snort when he starts to laugh, taking a long swig from his half-empty glass of scotch.

“Highbrow is an understatement. Ye’d be a stone's throw from the palace in either borough,” he seems to agree, and tacks on under his breath as he drains his glass, “The whole south of London is full of posh bampots.”

Simon huffs from behind you and when you peer up at him you’re met with a simmering glare pointed in Johnny’s direction.

“Och, dinnae gi’ me tha’ look Si. Ah Ken yer fer Queen an’ country, but ye ken well enough how Ah feel aboot-“

You try and fail to hide your amusement, doubling over to clutch at your sides in a fit of giggles and half-suppressed laughter, finding both Johnny’s thickening accent and disdain for the richer neighborhoods and the stuck-up personalities they breed within them comical in an ironic sort of way. You’d always been of a similar opinion, holding contempt for the privileged and entitled attitudes of the people who lived in gated communities—and now you would be one of them.

When you regain your composure and right yourself once more, your lungs take longer to catch up, breath stalling in your chest as you realize you’re being watched.

In the dim lighting, Johnny’s eyes are luminescent, the reflections of headlights as cars pass by the window like comets blazing a path across the steely-blue night, and it reignites the warmth you’d felt under Simon’s gaze. He regards you with the kind of rapturous intensity you think a soul ascended to the gates of heaven might behold a guardian angel and the heavenly fire they wield, and it leaves you breathless. It sucks the air from the room like a raging inferno, rips the oxygen from your lungs and replaces it with delicate whispers of smoke and a burning need to draw lungfuls of the very thing he’s stolen from you, but all you can do is inhale the intoxicating fumes it leaves in his wake.

“Sorry, it’s just… the irony, and your accent. I didn’t mean-”

“No dove, don’t apologize. Not for makin’ such beautiful sounds for us,” he says in a husky voice and that spark of heat flares brighter, low in your belly.

Oh. Oh… Your denial of all his flirty comments and your resolve to ignore them begins to disintegrate as you realize this isn't just some bit for him. He really means it. He simply watches you for a moment longer, and you shift nervously under the scrutiny of his gaze until you think he must know you're having trouble breathing because a slow, confident grin splits his lips as he looks past you, over your shoulder to where Simon leans casually against the bar. His glass of bourbon is somehow empty despite never seeing him drink from it and he’s bent forward at the waist, elbow braced against the bar top and his fist pressed to his temple.

“Think I could get drunk off’a that,” he murmurs, and you know that no other proclamation has ever sounded as delightfully dangerous as those eight words.

En Pointe>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 8 months

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Still wanting requests? I have a couple…

Can I get a idiots in love with Carmy x reader where he suddenly get jealous and possessive when you are working out front and a customer keeps touching you leg or back when you’re taking their order. (I was a server & bartender for 11 years and the audacity of the men who thought that this was okay, but we couldn’t tell them to stop because we were afraid of getting in trouble!!!)

How would Carmy react when he sees it, and after when he is kind of heated talking to you in the office and you tell him that’s that is something all women have to deal with on a daily bases. Everywhere. How would he react to this info?

Not under my watch

It's pretty late. Dinner service is almost over. Everyone's already had more than a couple of glasses of wine. Your feet are killing you. You just want to sit down but still, you keep that plastered smile on your face because the last thing you need is for the customers to notice your tired face.

And there's this one table that you tried to visit as rarely as possible. A couple of duchy-looking bikers. From the moment they stepped in, you knew they were up to something. Just the way their gazes followed every female in the restaurant said it all. A cold shiver ran down your back as you reached for the menus, walking towards them. In a perfect scenario, you would have gotten Richie to cover this but he had slipped out to drive Eva to her ballet class so it was just you.

"Hello, welcome to the Bear. Is there something I could get you two straight away?", you say in a chirpy voice. The two of them look at you like hawks. As if they were checking what part to bite into first. "How about we start with your name, baby girl", you already want to gag but keep up that same smile, "I don't think that's necessary, sir", "Oh, but how will we get your sweet cheeks here when we're in need for you?", the other says, leaning back to check your ass. "I'll let you look through the menu and will be back shortly to take your order", you say, turning to walk away. Stopping to pick up empty plates from the other tables. Saying goodbye to some of the customers. Thanking them for coming and wishing them a lovely evening. Yet all that time you could feel eyes watching you. Following your every move. And suddenly you get hyper-aware of how your shirt feels a bit too low cut and your breasts feel too outlined by the tight material. How the skirt feels too low cut. And you suddenly wonder if you lean across the table, does it show too much? But it's all the things you've never thought about. Nothing that bothered you before those two came along. The uniform is professional and the whole staff wears it. You try to shake it off. Glancing towards the clock. Richie should be back any minute now. He'll take over. You'll be fine. A thought about telling something to Carmen crosses your mind but you quickly chase that thought away. He's busy. And those two aren't worth his time.

A whistle catches your attention and you see one of them waving you over. You grit your teeth. Feeling like a dog called by an owner. "Ready to order?", you get your pen ready. Trying not to meet any of their eyes. "I'd like some with these tender-looking thighs", You feel his fingers reaching for the back of your leg and you quickly step back. Panic rises in your stomach. "Sir, I would ask you to...", you start, "You'll be begging by the time I'm done, doll. Not asking", he states. "Bend over why don't you", You feel another pair of hands on your back and you want to move away but you're so scared. Your whole body freezes. You grip the pan in your arms as you stare ahead.

And may all the holy spurts be with them. Because Carmen decided to look through the little window that leads to the front. A habit of his now that you've been working here. It's his way of calming himself in a way. Watching you smiling and chatting with the people always makes him feel at ease. He loves nothing more than watching you in your element. But it's also his way of making sure that you are well. This is Chicago after all. Too many dodgy people sneaking around. And his blood stopped pumping when he catches those two men groping you.

And, holy hell, is Carmen ready to raise hell. I don't even think there would be a question as to what he would do. Carmen's dropping the spoon into the pot and storming through the kitchen door. Because this is not acceptable. He snatches a couple of utensils as he goes. Ripping the hands away from your body. Slamming the rough stranger's palms to the table before two sets of forks make contact with their skin. "You fuckers will be lucky to walk out of here in one piece", he barks out. The room fills with cries of pain and swearing.

You feel someone else's hand on you once more, jumping slightly, only to be met with Richie. It's all a blur after that. Richie says something to Carmen. You feel him touching your face but you're kind of looking past him. It's all just a series of events. And then you end up in Carmen's office with him kneeling in front of you. "My love", he breathes out, carefully pushing a strand of your loose hair away. It killed him seeing you like this. His little sunshine. Absolute ray of sunshine now nothing more but a grey sky. Oh, how much Carmen wanted to go there and just beat the daylight out of these creeps.

"I'm okay", you mutter, reaching to squeeze his hand that has been lying on your thigh. "You should have come to grab me, love", he growls lightly you know that he's not mad at you. He's mad at the whole situation. It's frustrating to him that this shit is happening right under his nose. "Carm, it's fine. It's not the first time and...", but his wild eyes cut you off, "What do you... What do you mean not the first time?". His breaths are shallow now. You lean forward to cup his face, "It happened all the time in my last job. Hand on the back. Hand on the leg". Carmen is shaking his head, "I'll fucking find them all and", "And nothing, love, no one cares". But Carmen huffs, "I care. I care and this will never happen again. You come and tell me any time someone is looking suspicious to you", he's pulling you closer to him. Wrapping you up in his arms, "No one will touch you like that again. Not under my fucking watch".

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto #carmy berzatto imagine #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy the bear #the bear tv show #the bear x reader #the bear imagine #the bear x y/n

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thelaisydazy · 2 months

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Band!141 x Reader - Subway

Just a little something I've had rattling around my brain this week~

You've never run faster in your life, you're not even sure your feet are hitting the ground between your frantic steps as you race towards the open subway car. You can't miss this train. Not today. Please, not today.

Today is the most important day of your life. The day you audition for a spot in the city's most prestigious ballet companies. If you miss your chance, you won't be able to try again for another year, and you don't know if you'll be able to afford to stay in the city if you don't get into the company. And you refuse to go home a failure.

From the open train car you hear shouting. Voices calling for you to hurry. The train was about to leave. Nononono. The door starts to close as you run up to the train, just a split second too late. Then it opens again, a large black boot keeping the door from closing completely.

You look up and see four large men, one of which has stuck his boot out to hold the door open for you. He smiles down at you, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling. He’s older, handsome. His dark brown hair and beard sporting some specks of gray.

“Y’made it love,” he says in a deep, warm voice that makes your heart race.

“Thanks,” you say quickly, slipping past him and the three with him. The car is packed with nowhere to sit and almost nowhere to stand either. Except right near the group you pushed past on your way onto the train. Sheepishly you make your way back towards them.

The one that stopped the door for you smiles again and another one, younger with dark curls, waves you over. You’re hesitant, but you go over.

“One seat left ‘ere,” he says, beckoning to a seat he’d been standing in front of. You mumble another thanks and slip into the seat, trying your best to make yourself as small as possible, missing the way the group smiles at each other.

“Where you rushing off to love?” the first one asked. The word burly comes to mind as you look up at him. He’s wearing a white tshirt under a well-worn leather jacket, a pair of beat up black jeans and a black beanie. Slung over his back is an instrument case, it looks like a guitar, but you don’t know much about instruments so it could be a bass.

“I have an audition downtown,” you say, fidgeting with your duffle bag in your lap.

“‘At Danc’n Knights place?” another one chimes in with a Scottish accent. This one is the shortest of the bunch, though he still towers over you. He’s broad, dark stubble on his pierced face and a mohawk. He’s wearing a spiked leather vest over a black sleeveless shirt and a kilt. He’s standing closest to the largest of the bunch, a large, blond man wearing a privacy mask that resembles a skull.

You nod. You hadn’t wanted to tell them, but the decal of a ballerina on your duffel bag, along with the tight bun you wore your hair in, was definitely enough to give it away. “Dancing Knights, yeah,” you say. “They’re looking for new ballerinas.”

“We’re heading to a recording studio near there,” the second man says. Getting a better look at him, he’s darker than the rest of the group, his eyes are the softest though, dampening the nervousness in your chest. He’s dressed similarly to the rest of the group, another instrument case on his back and a plaid shirt tied around his hips. “Maybe we’ll be seeing you around there.”

You can’t help but smile up at him and nod. He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small black card, handing it over to you. “We’re I4I,” he says. “I’m Kyle, everyone calls me Gaz.” He went around pointing to the oldest man first. “That’s John.” Then to the Scottish man. “Johnny, we call him Soap.” And finally the largest of them. “And big guy there is Ghost.”

“Ghost?” you can’t help but ask, looking over the card in your hand. It’s a thick black stock with the band name and a logo featuring a skull with a sword running through it wrapped in a pair of white feathered wings.

Kyle shrugs at you. “Doesn’t like anyone knowing his name,” he says simply. You nod quietly, then give them your name with a polite smile.

“You’re all in a band then?” you ask, relaxing a little. You were certain whatever they played, it wasn’t something you were into, but they seemed nice enough to at least check out their social media. It was the least you could do after they stopped the subway for you.

“That’s right lovie,” Kyle says. “Next big thing.” He gives you a wink. “Better keep your pretty little eyes out for us.” Your face feels warm at his shameless flirting and he chuckles at you. “We always post when we’re playing next, you should come to one of our shows. We’ll give you the VIP experience.”

“Oh!” you say. “Uh.. sure.. Maybe.” You tuck the card into your duffel. “I’ll keep an eye out if I make this audition.”

“You better make it then little one,” John says, smiling at you as the subway pulls into your stop. “For our sake.”

#141 band #band!141 #141 x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #john mactavish #soap #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #gaz

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pricescancerstickk · 7 months

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Dom! Possessive! Graves x Ballerina! Reader,

It was very clear that Graves was a no-nonsense and a very strict commander when he leads the PMC. A hard-ass and resilient. He had a very tough exterior and proved in situations he did have the upper hands and would show and assert his dominance whenever given that opportunity, in his town there had been a new ballet studio that opened up, And he was happy seeing you. His girlfriend all giddy and excited to go join, also eager and sweet, seeing the way your eyes twinkled with excitement when you babbled to him about wanting to go. Why would he ever say no?

“Come on, Again sweetheart,” Just him using pet names was already a bad sing, He’d never gone much further in his career outside of just being a mere ballet instructor, your instructor. The fact you were so naive gave him a false sense of security that he wouldn’t face the consequences most men would if he made a move on you. And he succeeded. His breath was heavy as his hands moved under your dress, You chewed your lip. Feeling uncomfortable by what he was doing, His hands moved to your hips under the dress, feeling your skin, “Can we get back to practice now?’ You asked quietly. Very clearly uncomfortable by the way this perv was touching you.

His voice was demanding as he looked down at you “Y/n, why don’t you come to my room for a extra little tut session, hm?”, You tried to protest as he pinned your body against the nearest wall. His fingers slipping to the elastic of your underwear before he got sent flying to the ground. With a loud thud, Screaming again when your wrist got yanked, getting dragged to the parking lot. Throwing into a passenger seat of the car.

“Do you not understand that you belong to me?” Graves asked Ina threatening tone, His grip on the steering wheel very tight. A vein bulged in his forehead, seeing the look on your face, Fear, Anxiety, Almost obedience. “M’sorry,” He knew you apologizing without being in the wrong was common. But he was still mad. He parked by the house, Regaining his composure, sighing lightly. “Get out the car’ he muttered, you stepped out, pointee shoes clicking onto the stone side walk. Walking inside his home

Dinner time was very silent though, not the usual talking and laughing, only silverware clanking and the sound of the faucet running as you washed your hands. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, seeing the mascara you had on stained (if you don’t wear makeup just say your face is really puffy. Either way,), wiping it off gently. Still traumatized by what happened. Graves entered the bathroom without knocking. His arm going around your waist. Pressing his lips to your ear. “Dinners ready, Darlin’” he whispered quietly. Still feeling bad about what happened to you. He led you over to the dining table. You held onto his pointer finger. A bit afraid remembering how his fist connected to the man’s face though…

He ate silently but occasionally his eyes darted towards your figure. Seeing you pushing the food around. Playing with it and zoning out rather and actually eating. “Darlin..Do I have to feed you or are you gonna eat?” He said quietly. His eyes soft but stern. “Come on baby, eat up” He urged you gently as his hand took yours, lightly taking your fork. Stabbing it into a piece of food and holding it near your mouth. “M’not hungry, Phil” He looked even sterner now, but soft, he gently moved it a bit closer. Your stomach growling gave it away. When you ate it he felt relived as you took the fork. Eating now. “If your ever in trouble don’t you keep it away from me. If something like this happens again you come straight to me. Understood?” He brushed your hair away from your eyes, You lightly nodded

“M’kay…”

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diazsdimples · 12 days

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Why no I’m not here to encourage a ballet au… why do you ask???

Hippo you absolute menace, why do I put up with you?? Having said that...

When Buck walks into the rehearsal room for the New York City Ballet for the first time, he can’t quite believe he’s made it.

Here he is, standing among some of the best dancers North America has to offer, and they’re treating him like an equal, rather than the usual upturned noses or judgemental looks ballet dancers have often perfected. A group of women stand by the barre, doing some warm-up stretches before rehearsal starts, and at the other end of the mirror stands two of the most beautiful men Buck has ever seen.

They’re fairly evenly matched in height and size, both lean and strong, their muscles not huge like some of the bodybuilders Buck is used to seeing at the gym, but sculpted, with rippling muscles that convey a subtle power, used for performing complicated lifts but looking effortless and graceful as they do so.

The shorter of the two looks up as he enters the room, and Buck’s mouth goes dry as a pair of warm, brown eyes, like two pools of molten chocolate, meet his. This man is gorgeous. His hair is silky and brown, with a few strands that flop carelessly into his face, and he’s got a light shadow of stubble over his jaw. He’s wearing a tight, black tank top that clings to his body like a second skin and shows every ounce of muscle in his arms. There’s a small, circular tattoo, with what looks like some loopy writing on his forearm, almost mirroring the delicate lines on Buck’s own.

Buck is still drinking in the first man when he leans forward and whispers something in the second man’s ear, and he turns around too.

Holy fuck. Does the New York City Ballet hire on looks first and dancing skills second?

This man is taller, probably by a good few inches, and while the first man is soft and gentle looking, this man is sharper, more defined, and radiating raw power in the way his muscles flex beneath his white tank. He’s a little curlier than the other man, with icy blue eyes that pierce into Buck’s own. He smiles at Buck, his nose crinkling in a way that’s nothing short of adorable, and beckons Buck over.

Buck allows his legs to carry himself towards the two men, his brain not coming online enough to even rehearse his opening line, before he’s standing in front of them.

“Uh, hi,” he says eloquently, his mouth feeling drier than the Sahara. “I’m Evan Buckley, new principal. But – uh – everyone calls me Buck,”

“Hey Evan,” Blue Eyes says at the same time Brown Eyes says “Nice to meet you, Buck.”

“I’m Eddie Diaz,” Brown Eyes says, holding his hand out for Buck to shake. “Playing the Nutcracker.”

Buck tries not to make it super obvious how star-struck he is right now. “H-hey Eddie, nice to meet you,” he replies, taking the man’s hand. It’s warm and Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand lightly as he shakes it, his long fingers pressing against Buck’s knuckles.

“Tommy Kinard,” says Blue Eyes, extending his own hand when Eddie releases his. “Rat King.”

Buck can’t entirely believe that here he is, on his first day as a Principal Dancer for the New York City Ballet, and he’s meeting the two male leads. He might need to pinch himself, if it weren’t for the fact that Tommy’s squeezing his hand a little harder than necessary, the slight pain enough to convince Buck that yes, this is really happening.

“You’re new here, aren’t you? Which part have you got?” Eddie asks kindly, leaning against the barre. His arm crosses over with Tommy’s making it look like their arms are almost linked. The way they’re standing, and the familiarity Buck could see in their expressions earlier, he can’t help but wonder if they’re in a relationship. Or good friends, at the very least.

He licks his lips before talking and wills himself not to sound like a total dork.

“I’m playing Cavalier,” he said threading his fingers together as he stands in a bastardisation of 4th position that his old tutor always used to yell at him for. “First time as a lead.”

Tommy smiles softly, his eyes raking over Buck’s body as though sizing him up.

“It’s not so scary once you get to know everyone,” he reassures Buck, placing a hand just above Buck’s elbow.

“Yeah,” Eddie adds, flashing a dazzling grin in Buck’s direction that have his joints turning a little gelatinous. “We’ll show you the ropes.��

Now sit there and think about what you've done

(Gonna cheekily tag a few friends to alert them that I've been bullied into starting a new wip) @theotherbuckley @daffi-990 @bidisasterevankinard @steadfastsaturnsrings @spotsandsocks

#james answers things #hippo tag #she twisted my arm your honour!!#ballet au #I guess???#idk man until 2 minutes ago I didn't think I'd ever do a ballet au #serves me right for sending hippo texts I guess

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deniisu-sims · 8 months

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@nell-le's V Blouse (solid) - 4t3 conversion

Because male sims can dance ballet too ♥

Important: this top is kind of a crop top - in fact, the model is wearing one of @venusprincess-ts3's accessory lingerie for men as an undershirt, hence the pretty black lacing under it. It does not come with the top. I reccomend using high waist bottoms / tights or going for the undershirt route or JUST OWNING THE FACT THIS IS A CROP TOP ANYWAY 8D

Also, because I insisted in fitting the UV map into a 1024 texture, the patterns do not align 100% because I had to squish some parts of the UV a little - it's not THAT awful, but if you're a perfectionist, you've been warned :)

Original link: https://nell-le.tumblr.com/post/707867914552918016/male-clothes-set-v-blouse-transparent

DOWNLOAD (package): SFS / Dropbox

#ts3cc #s3cc #sims 3 cc #4t3 #download #CAS #top #yam #athletic #casual #formal #original creator: nell-le

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gaipirates · 3 days

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AI. Now gayer than EVERRRRRR!

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argie003 · 2 months

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As asked, here is the info of my creepypasta OC, The Weeping Dancer!

Trigger Warnings for: Stalking, Murder, and N3croph1lia.

Name: Juliet Morristown

Alias: The Weeping Dancer

Weapon: None

Age: 19

Species: Human/Ghost

Relationships: Remington Mathias (lover); Arthur McBride (ballet teacher)

Birthplace: USA

(Former) Occupation: Ballet dancer/ Student

(Current) Occupation: Stalk and scare the unjust and chaotic

Goal: To find her lover, Remington

Powers/Skills: Poltergeist; Teleportation

Personality: Loyal; Humble; Caring; but Explosive and Aggressive with her victims

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Basics:

The Weeping Dancer only appears to the morally corrupt, unless she wishes to be seen by some in specific. She has no desire to torment and scare the innocent. Her goal is to find her lover, Remington, who, after her death, seemed to have disappeared.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Appearance:

Juliet has dark brown, straight and long hair, some of it gathered in a bun, which is covered in light pink lace. Her skin is pale and irregular, stained with blood and injuries, but her face is immaculate and beautiful, apart from her lips, deprived from any color. Her dress is like the one Julie Lincoln wears in her performance in the "Romeo and Juliet" ballet. She only walks on her pointe shoes, which causes her walking to be very irregular and weak. Her cheeks are always stained with tears.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Backstory:

Juliet Morristown has always been a dedicated student when it came to ballet- ever since the innocent age of 3. In fact, as soon as she finished high-school, she decided to follow that path professionally. Her parents were not all that pleased, but decided to support their daughter nevertheless. Juliet moved to another state in order to follow her dream- she'd been accepted in a prestigious academy in Nevada. She moved at 18, and there, she started her brand new life.

Juliet met Remington Mathias on her first day in Nevada. They were roommates and partook in the same classes! The two girls hit it off right away, and became close friends not too long after meeting. Juliet was calm and collected, a little shy, but that was her charm; Remington was fierce and spontaneous. They completed each other. Their ballet teacher, Arthur McBride, also got well along with the two. But something about Juliet just caught his eye... It was no secret that he had her as a favorite student, but nobody complained, since he was fair to everyone. Remington was the only one to suspect something, and she was not happy about it. She knew her friend was clueless, but she was certain that their teacher did not have good intentions. It was only a gut feeling, however. So when she expressed to Juliet her worries, the girl only laughed. "Please, Remi! He's the best teacher I've had in a while..." That did not calm Remington's nerves.

As time went by, watching as Arthur would help Juliet out in his classes- watching as he grabbed onto her thigh a little too tight as to "elevate her Arabesque", or when he touched the naked skin above her chest to "help straighten her back"- Remington realized that Juliet was more than oblivious to his touches. She didn't see anything wrong in all of it. In fact, she trusted the man so much, that when he offered to give her private lessons, she did not hesitate to say 'yes'. Once she told Remington about it, the girl asked the obvious: "Do you have feelings for him?". Juliet admitted, in fact, that she was not into men at all. She just found Arthur to be an exceptional teacher. And she owed him a lot too. He was the one to name her to the council when it came to pick the students who would partake in the class. He was the one who stayed late after class to help with her troubles. He was the one to stay up to talk to her on the phone, when she had doubts about her homework.

Somehow, that conversation had strengthened the bond between the two girls. They started to openly tell each other their secrets, their most profound thoughts. Before they realized it, they weren't friends anymore. They were ridiculously in love. They weren't just cuddling in bed anymore, as they watched their favorite TV shows. They weren't just ordering take-out and eating it on the couch. They weren't just talking, or jokingly flirting, or hugging, or pecking each other's lips. All of that, they already did as friends, but now, they gained a whole new meaning. Remington became, to Juliet, a silver lining. The reason why she wanted to make herself look pretty everyday. The reason why she would happily go back to their dorm after class. Remington became a love that went deeper than the passion she had for dancing. Juliet was no longer perfecting her technique or taking care of every single aspect in herself for Arthur. It was for Remington. And boy, were they head over heels for one another. Giving each other flowers- oh, Remington found out Juliet loves roses; Baking things for the other- Juliet only made raspberry brownies for months because Remington told her ONCE that she likes those. The little things became big in their hearts, out of the blue. Like love should be. And love... oh, how dangerous love is...

Once a year had passed, and it was time to prepare their final presentation, Arthur chose the piece "Romeo and Juliet" for his students to perform. To no one's surprise, he had picked Juliet to play, well, Juliet. She was perfect, after all! Her technique, her figure, her elegance, even her name! Besides... he truly believed the two of them had something sparking. That Juliet was getting better and better everyday to impress him. That once she finished a variation in front of the class, she would smile bright in his direction. Little did he know, Remington was right behind him. Their relationship was a secret, but no one was blind. If asked, they would deny it, although it felt like being choked to deny such a love.

One day, Arthur called Juliet apart. Just a week before their final presentation. Said he could offer her a few extra classes before the big day, and for the first time, she declined. That caught him off guard. "Juliet, you're at a ripe age... You probably have a boy on your mind, but I advise you to focus on your performance for now.". She didn't say anything. She only nodded, and so, another extra private class was settled, but not for the day he'd wanted. So... he decided to follow her wherever was more important than class.

He hid in his car, parked in front of Juliet's and Remington's apartment building, and followed them around as soon as they left the place. At first, nothing seemed odd. Just two best friends going for a night out... That didn't worry him. But when nighttime arrived and they went back home, Arthur took the phone from his pocket, opened the camera, and zoomed in to the window in Juliet's room, where she was undressing. This wasn't his first time doing something quite like this. Taking pictures as she got ready in the dressing room with the other girls, so he could have some material for later. A sickening smirk painted his lips as he started photographing and enjoying the scene, but his movements came to a halt once another person got in frame. Remington. Her arms wrapped around her "friend's" naked figure, and as soon as lights went out, Arthur threw his phone across the car. He didn't know what felt worst: the fact that Juliet had been "leading him on", that she was into another woman, or that she was seeing someone else in general. He was infuriated. Oh, he was furious.

On the day of her extra private class, Juliet was radiant. It was Remington's birthday, and they had some amazing plans ahead! But first, she needed to practice. She put on her beautiful costume, and prepared to amaze her teacher with her development. He watched as she did her variation, stopping her at some points. Just to help out... She didn't think much of it. Just the basics. Bringing her chin up- she needs to look joyful. Straightening her back- oh, she must look impeccable. Her complaints started once he raised her leg far beyond her limit, in the Arabesque. "You've been doing ballet for years, how can you not go higher than this?" Said he, as she felt something finally snap in her groin. She tried to move away quickly, explaining how she was hurting and how she needed a break, but then, came her back. He bent her torso backwards, then again something cracked in her spine, and barely a scream came from her mouth. Especially when his gruesome fingers shoved down her throat, a threatening whisper sounding against her ear. When she was left trembling and sobbing in silence, he released his grip just softly. As he did so, she took the opportunity to bite his two fingers, and in rushed adrenaline, Arthur was blinded. She'd barely started screaming for help when his foot kicked against her leg, throwing her to the ground, and he finally crouched down to punch her body repeatedly. Not her face. God, no... What worth would she be without her pretty face? No, he can punch her body, lift her dress and claw at her torso until only a mass of blood formed from under the pink fabric, but never her face.

The glint of rage in his eyes was the last thing she saw as she kept screaming (for her love, maybe. If she's going to die, she will die with a beautiful scenery in her mind), before he took her neck in his bloody hands, and squeezed it until only a wheeze left her parted lips, which he felt the oh-so unbearable need to kiss, to claim, yet all she wanted was to vomit. Then once more, something snapped. It was her neck. Something cracked. It was her life. That's... not what he wanted at all...! He just wanted to make her see how much power a man can hold. How strong he can be. He snapped back to reality as he heard footsteps echoing from down the hall, and he had to think fast. Quickly, he wiped his hands on her dress, folded Juliet's lifeless body like a dirty napkin to throw away, and placed her inside the costume chest, which he dragged to cover the blood stains on the floor. The security guard that came inside only questioned the silence. How he'd heard a girl screaming, but looking around the room, he saw nothing. Only Arthur, who flashed a welcoming smile at the man. Once he left, he decided he needed to do something about the body. He'd bury it. That was the best course of action.

After hours of cleaning the blood from the wooden floor, he took the costume chest, brought it to his car, and drove to the middle of the woods, where no one would find them, especially in the dark of the evening. He dug a hole on the ground with his bare hands, cringing at the small cuts that were forming all around his nails. Disgusting. Once the hole was big enough, he opened the chest and brought Juliet's corpse out, throwing it next to her grave. But... something about the moonlight, about how it illuminated her pale skin... how she was finally his... He decided he needed to claim her before he got rid of her forever.

And how silly... she thought death would be peaceful... Then by God, why is she watching from afar as her oh-so trusted teacher abuses of her carcass, grunting like the pig that he is? Why is she watching, and why does she have a conscience? And why is he burying her in that filthy hole, not noticing that she is right there, behind him? Oh, wait... he finally turned around. He screamed. He's begging her for mercy... but wasn't she the one begging for him to stop just a few hours ago? Why does his life matter more than hers, suddenly?

He's clutching at his chest like he's in pain, now. Laying on the floor right above her grave... She can't move him away from there, can she? He has to be on top of her even in death? She prays that he will be found... so they can drag him away from her at last. So they can give her a proper goodbye and a dignified tombstone, since dignity is something she doesn't have anymore.

They did find him. But they didn't find her. They found out he was alive, after all. But they left her there to rot. To be eaten by maggots and to be used as a shell for worms and the earth. But she can wander. She can, after all, mess with the plane above her. She can move from one place to another, as she can move things as well. She could've moved Arthur's body. She just didn't know. Oh, but now she knows... She knows and she's angry. And as she's able to do so, no unjust and disgusting soul will rest, as long as she's haunting them. As long as she has that power. She will forever wander through her realm and cry for her love to find her, as her tired legs roam on her pointe shoes. Yet all she wants, is to see the last scenery she pictured before she died: Remington blowing out her birthday candles.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Extras:

While Juliet wanders, Remington has disappeared from society. She noticed a pattern in some reports from inmates: that they all seem to see or have seen a haunting figure like a ghost, dressed in ballet clothes, describing her girlfriend perfectly, while some of them have also died mysteriously. Remington theorized that Juliet had died, and the blame was obviously on their ballet teacher, Arthur McBride. Also, that she appears to bad people only, and because of that, mixed with the mourning of losing the love of her life, Remington snapped to insanity. She gathered her things, and in a matter of days, also gathered a plan to kill Arthur, which she did. And she doesn't plan on stopping there. She hopes that, if she kills and hurts others, Juliet will appear to her, like she appears to the morally corrupt. Because she will forever love Juliet unconditionally. And they will infinitely try to find each other.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Thank you so much for reading! This character is so special and important to me, I feel like I want to draw her a lot more. I want to come up with a design for Remington, and develop her own story too! This whole story was heartbreaking to write, and I put so much thought into it. I really hope it has reached you guys like it has reached me. Anyways, slay for Remington, kill that disgusting bastard!✨️

#creepypasta #fanart #creepypasta fanart #slenderman #creepypasta fandom #proxy #slender proxy #marble hornets #oc #oc art #original character

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freddieraimbow74 · 2 months

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Freddie's fashionable stage outfits and his early 70s inspiration:

Remembering the handsome ballet dancer Vaslav Nijinsky on his birthday 🎉 a

(March 12, 1889 – March 8, 1950)

Vaslav Nijinsky was a ballet dancer and choreographer, best known as the greatest male dancer of the early 20th century. Was referred to as the century.

He was born in kyiv to Polish parents, Nijinsky grew up in Imperial Russia, but considered himself Polish. He was celebrated for his virtuosity and for the depth and intensity of his characterizations. He could dance en pointe, a rare skill among male dancers at the time, and was admired for his seemingly defensive leaps from gravity.

The legendary Vaslav Nijinsky was a big inspiration for Freddie Mercury. His stage costumes were an essential part of his personality, always distinctive and striking. He wore some color variations of costumes or jerseys inspired by the costume worn by Nijinsky in "Carnival" 1910 (the harlequin costume).

Inspired again by the ballet The Afternoon of a Faun, Freddie shaved off his iconic mustache to portray the star of the original 1912 production for Queen's 1984 video "I Want To Break Free."

👑 “I dress fabulously but tastefully, and I have fun with my clothes on stage....

Art school teaches you to be more fashion conscious, to always be one step ahead. I like to think that we're exploring different areas, and that's our interest as well.

👑 We know our songs speak for themselves, and if you picked up a really shitty song, just because you're wearing gorgeous clothes doesn't mean it would sound any better. I always thought, "Oh! Don't take yourself so seriously. And the first way to do that is to put on a ridiculous costume. I really liked ballet, I wore ballet shoes and tights on stage, it "It's a wink. It was just something I was interested in at that point. I tried to incorporate it into the stage performance to enhance the music we played but it didn't work, I wouldn't.Also, I liked Nijinsky's costume (a black and white harlequin jersey).

👑 As far as I'm concerned, we're putting on a show and it's not just an album piece. It’s a theatrical event!

I want to bring my music to entertainment with all the costumes and lights. It's an evolution of music and I felt, for lack of better words, as our music matured and refined, our stage performance should too. Our songs needed a different interpretation, and that's what we're trying to do. We're rock 'n' rollers at heart, but presentation is so important and it's something a lot of bands miss out on. "

~Freddie Mercury

👑 “I enlisted the help of a former colleague from my film costume design days, Natasha Kornilov, who made leotards for ballet dancers. Freddie didn't visit them. I just took their measurements and visited them in their work premises. Every time he had new design ideas for a jersey costume, we called them and shared the details, and they were ready in one 👑 He went from simple black and white to harlequin patterns, followed by sequin leotards and legless resembling Victorian men's swimming trunks. It was totally 🤩 gross and for Freddie, they got the right result on stage. "

~David Minnes

❤️👑 Mary Austin even gave Freddie a high gloss cassette about Nijinsky as a gift. She had written Freddie and added:

“To the true artist that you are. ' ♥️

(Repost from @FreddieMercuryOnline)

#freddie mercury #queen band #music #brian may #roger taylor #jhon deacon #original character #j’adore

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maitanii · 1 year

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ABOUT TIARAS AND BIKES [inui seishu]

inui seishu and his daughter!

He had raised her well.

Between motorcycles and tiaras. Always placing a piece of broccoli on her plate even though he gagged when he saw that vegetable. Buying the same heels that he owned but in miniature and with glitter. He had raised her well, but it hadn't been easy.

Akane did ballet when she was little. Inui remembered when his uncles gave her the first dancing shoes. The passion for dance lasted for a year before moving on to other hobbies. But Seishu remembered those afternoons where his mother tied her hair into a bow and made sure that no hair was left out of the hairstyle. It seemed easy back then. Now, with the small body nestled between his legs, he realized how difficult it was for a little girl to maintain a proper hairstyle.

Her daughter's mother had asked her to be ready when she came to pick her up. But it was not easy. It wasn't easy because Akari insisted on having a crown in her hair until she got to the auditorium. It's not like it was his fault either. Draken bought her a different crown from the shop across the street every time the girl came to hang out at the shop. At just 5 years old, she had a collection she could wear until he was 30 (although Seishu would have to get over the fact that her little head wouldn't stay the size of a football forever).

"That's it." Turning her head, she came face to face with her father. Seishu smiled before brushing away the cupcake crumbs that decorated the corners of her lips.

"Am I pretty?" she asked smiling.

"Precious," he replied, returning the smile.

The girl jumped from his legs and ran to the other end of the workshop.

“Uncle Ken, Uncle Ken, look!" Draken set the wrench aside and turned. "I look like a princess!"

Ken Ryuuji was once one of the most feared men in Tokyo, but to Akari, he was nothing more than the coolest guy in the world.

"Oh!" Nailing his knees to the ground and putting a hand to his chest, Draken closed his eyes "My eyes… my eyes cannot see with such beauty". Akari's laughter echoed off the dirty walls of the workshop.

Her mother had always hated that place, despite it being there where she met Seishu. She just wanted to exchange a bill for coins to buy tobacco and she ended up meeting the father of her daughter. They didn't have a bad relationship. They just didn't get along. His only relationship was Akari. And their only conversations were about what Akari had in her backpack. It was enough. And Seishu was happy about it. They had both had had a few partners after Akari was born, but never anything serious.

His dream was not to be a single father. The thought of being a father hadn't even crossed his mind. But being 24 and taking some foolish decisions made a permanent responsibility appear in his life and that woman's. He did not hesitate for a second to accept his role as a father and sign joint custody. When he first held Akari, he didn't even want to touch her face. Perhaps his calloused fingers would scare her. Now he let her get on his motorcycle from time to time (always while still being supported by his arms).

The sound of the entrance bell brought him out of his thoughts. She watched her daughter's eyes light up before rushing to grab her backpack. She ran into her mother's arms and hugged her tight. Draken smiled at the scene before greeting the newcomer and getting back to work.

Seishu slowly approached the entrance watching how the two interacted.

"Did you get the tutu?" he crouched down so that he was level with Akari. The girl turned to leave her backpack ajar so that her father could see inside it. Among the thousands of stuffed animals she was carrying, a small piece of pink cloth was peeking out. Seishu made a satisfied noise before giving the girl's small shoulder a squeeze.

"Sei, you'd better put yourself in a conspicuous place next time." Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, the woman took her daughter by the hand. "Last time she didn't stop crying until she saw you at the end of the room" Giving her a thumbs up, he left the door open so the two of them could get out. As they said their goodbyes, Seishu watched as the two figures walked away when the shorter one turned and ran towards him again.

"I love you so much dad"

He had raised her well.

And he was late. He was very late.

The shirt he thought he had ironed had grease stains on the sleeves, so he had to borrow one from Draken that was too big on his shoulders. He thought he had enough gas in the car but it didn't make it to the auditorium on the other side of town. Parking the bike in an off-limits parking lot, he removed his helmet and combed his hair as best he could in the rearview mirror.

The clock said 4pm, and it would take two minutes to get to the place.

Running as far as her legs would carry him, he pushed open the glass door to the auditorium and rushed inside. The parents were still looking for a seat. He saw his daughter's mother accompanied by a friend in the first row. He decided to sit in the corner of the third row, having to fight a bit with some grandparents to let him pass.

When he finally sat down, he noticed a huge figure next to him. Looking up, he saw his coworker and friend looking at him with a lopsided smile. Holding a cell phone in his hands, Seishu felt like he had a guardian angel. Moving a seat to the side, Draken sat down.

"The last time I missed a recital she kept reminding me of it for a month," Ken commented. "Besides, I don't like to see her angry".

Seishu nodded, watching as tiny people began to fill the stage as the lights went out.

Between those white leotards and pieces of pink fabric, he saw the blonde bow with some strands of hair sticking out. The pout on her lips was visible as her little neck stretched and moved from side to side. Seishu thought about raising his hand, but the last time he did it almost caused a fight with other parents (and would have punched them if they weren't with little kids). Draken saw how Akari was on the verge of tears and decided to act.

Was there a sound more audible than a father sneeze? Yes, a cough from Ken Ryuuji.

Seishu noticed how all the bodies on the chairs turned their heads and tried to hide the smile that appeared on his face. Akari went from surprise to happiness in a matter of seconds, her small green eyes disappearing behind cheeks that rose as she smiled.

He took out his phone and looked at his wallpaper for a few seconds. Akari dressed in his work overalls was an image that would always be his weak point. The photo was blurry because the camera on his mobile was not of much quality back then. But his memories were sharp, so he didn't care too much about the graphic picture. Unlocking the phone, he hit the camera app, rested his elbow on the armrest, and started recording.

From time to time he would meet his daughter's eyes and nod to tell her to pay attention to the dance. And Akari always smiled.

One day she would get tired of tutus. And pizza Fridays. And Barbie movies. And the eternal afternoons in the workshop. And who was he going to lie to, one day she would get tired of him.

But she still enjoyed motorcycles. And to dance. And listening stories about aunt Akane. And school. And the color pink. And of him.

He had raised her well. And he would continue to do so forever.

tag: my dear @6-022-10-23 🤍

#inui seishu #inui fic #inui headcanons #inupi #tokyo revengers fanfics #Tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers fluff #tokyo revengers headcanons #inui x reader #inupi x reader

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princelylove · 22 days

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OMG Your Highness Fugo canonically wears a thong!! i can't believe it nbjdukjdsnf i just read it and was like huh? 😭 i searched it and it is truee

Pannacotta wearing a thong has always made total sense to me for his character, and for his design. You don’t wear cut-outs riiiiight below your belt and wear briefs with them, you’d be showing the world whatever pattern you chose this morning.

What about the rest of Team Bucciarati's underwear, though?

I’m very big on ‘fem Giorno is canon and the cast just doesn’t realize it,’ although I’ve only publicly written for masc Giorno, which is a shame. Giorno is the type of girl whose bra always matches her underwear, she normally buys sets or pairs that match her bras. Her bras are wired, without padding, lord knows she doesn't need it. (DIO's genes wouldn't allow for a small chest, even if Giorno's ballet experience has made her thin, they're still There, just not absurdly big either.) The patterns are usually- you guessed it- roses and solid pale pinks or whites. Her underwear is just as ornate and delicate as you’d think- tons of lace, lots of bows, and a feeling like you're about to sell your soul if you remove them.

You can see the band of Guido's underwear when he stretches. He normally alternates between boxers and tight fitting trunks. Guido is the type of guy to be in absolute heaven if his fem darling were to give him her underwear- he'd wear them. It's like a special secret, and you're touching, even if it's not direct.... He's such a simple man. Guido normally buys high end clothes (my source is the very same interview that this anon cited, but I can link it as necessary), his philosophy naturally extends to his underwear. As for patterns, solid grey and black are fine, but he likes a little animal print too.

Trish is a victoria’s secret kinda girl, although she has some dolce & gabbana lingerie that she deeply treasures, and often wears as regular tops. Either Trish canonically wears push up bras, or Guido mistook her sizing whatever other bra she had on down for a push up, because of the tightness. Guido is not a reliable source, but I'm going to say that she likes push up bras because it's a very classic victoria's secret choice. As for her underwear, she probably favors bikini cuts or brazilians. She likes animal prints, stripes, and underwear with words on it. A pair with 'EAT ME' on the front is her favorite.

Narancia wears loose, non-clingy trunks. He gets upset if you tease him for wearing 'short' underwear, but doesn't exactly stop. Narancia likes breathable underwear, which is ironic, considering he prefers his tops to be tight fitting. He likes silly patterns, but he doesn't realize it doesn't come off as super mature. His favorite is a pair with cookies and crumbs on it. Narancia isn't the type to hand wash his delicates, he just throws them into the wash regardless of their material.

Leone either wears clingy trunks or trunk briefs. I'm not sure if that's the proper name for it, but I mean the one that looks like women's hipsters. He's fond of compression underwear, just without padding. He's got too much pride for padding, and doesn't really need it. Leone likes a little bit of lace on his hips, but finds it annoying to have them on his legs. Most of his underwear is pure black, but some of them have white lace instead. A few pairs have veeeery small ribbons on them in the front, with little charms on it. Yes, the charms are normally a small, metal 'A.'

Bruno is the type to switch between women's lingerie and very basic men's boxer briefs, depending on what he's going to do that day. For the women's lingerie, he likely prefers cheeky underwear or just thongs, as long as they're similar to the tattoo on his chest. For the boxer briefs, he prefers clingy types that go to his mid thigh. He wears the thongs significantly more than the boxer briefs.

#im not a man so i pray to god that these make sense #figuring out mens underwear wasnt on my 2024 bingo #yandere team bucciarati #yandere pannacotta fugo #yandere giorno giovanna #yandere guido mista #yandere trish una #yandere narancia ghirga #yandere leone abbacchio #yandere bruno bucciarati

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whumpcereal · 1 year

Text

the kennel recovery arc

part three of the kids not being alright (follows will and annie's povs), just prior to annie and will's first real date (which will be cute and come next, because yikes, this piece is dark). part of the kennel (masterlist here). tommy is...not doing well.

content warnings for: references to past noncon, trauma, captivity, and dehumanization, mobility issues, guilt, problematic self-talk, alcohol, adult language

first date, a prelude (tommy's pov)

Tommy’s not even sure where he is. He parked the truck once Annie went inside and walked to the subway. He got off the 7 at Bryant Park and then drifted downtown on the B or the D train or something. The line was orange. He knows that. He’d taken it a few times before, when was auditioning for the company.

He gets off at West 4th and climbs the dirty stairs back up to the sidewalk. He doesn’t even really remember where the company’s studio is, just that this was going to be his stop. He was going to ride that line every day. He was going to know this neighborhood.

He doesn’t know a thing.

It’s fucking cold, and, even if Tommy has no clue what he wants to do, standing on a random corner in the dark doesn’t seem like the world’s best option. He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, picks a direction, and starts walking. His right leg drags a little behind, the ankle turned at not-quite the correct angle, but he can still get around.

The streets are narrower down here, older, and they’re lined with bars and restaurants, stuffed with people who are celebrating the end of the work week or the start of a weekend bender.

Tommy envies them. The men in their three-piece suits, the women wearing precisely curated boots, the college kids who are dining out on their parents’ dime. Every one of the people he passes has a life. Tommy was supposed to have one too.

Instead, he sits in his parents’ living room and watches television all day. It was ballet documentaries at first, but they made his mother cry, and fucking Tiler Peck was so cheerful that it made Tommy want to scream. Lately, it’s been true crime. The First 48 and Unsolved Mysteries and whatever sordid cold case he can find. Mom won’t watch those with him. It’s too hard for her to think of what might have been.

When he leaves the house, it’s usually for therapy. For his brain and his body. Neither seems to be working wonders so far. He can’t rise to take a balance, he can’t hold a port de bras, and he can’t make sense of anything that’s happened, even if he pretends otherwise. He craves the privacy of his dark room, but he can’t sleep. No one’s noticed. Tommy’s a great show dog, after all. He knows his role. Tommy’s the lucky one; it’s Will everyone should be worried about, and they are.

It’s just that, maybe, Tommy envies the way Will gets to fall apart.

He steps off a curb the wrong way, and his ankle almost comes out from under him.

“Shit,” Tommy mutters, righting himself before he gets steamrolled by a cab. He steps out of the foot traffic and looks around. It’s still busy, but the storefronts aren’t as cozy and cutesy. He’s standing in front of black door with frosted glass windows. There’s a decal on the glass, styled like typewritten text:

the white swallow.

Well. Tommy’s pretty sure he knows what kind of place that is. He ignores the taste that rises unbidden in his mouth.

Tommy didn’t frequent the bars when he was in school. He was too disciplined. Drinking, he decided, would make him slow and soft. He had to stay focused, couldn’t afford to compromise his fitness. He had to be the best.

He was, for a while. The best. He isn’t anymore.

Fuck it, he thinks. He opens the door and pushes into the narrow vestibule.

It’s still early, so there’s no cover. A guy in tight black pants checks Tommy’s ID, but he’s barely looking. A quick glance, and then he thumbs Tommy down the hall. Tommy appreciates it; he doesn’t like it when people look too closely.

The bar is mostly empty at this hour. It’s dark: black walls, a smudged chrome bar with black leather rails on its edge, a bartender wearing a black leather cut who basically blends into his surroundings. The whole place smells faintly of musk and mildew and sweat. Like men. Tommy’s shoes stick to the floor as he moves to get a drink.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks. He’s staring at Tommy, looking him up and down, and Tommy feels his cheeks burn. Tommy knows the guy likes what he sees, and Tommy wishes that he didn’t. He just wants to disappear.

Maybe this wasn’t a great idea.

Still, Tommy clears his throat, keeping his eyes on the streaky bar. “Uh, vodka?”

“Straight?”

He winces. Of course, he doesn’t even know how to order a fucking drink. “No. With soda.”

“Lime?”

He nods.

The bartender’s hands are deft, and he turns and glides the length of the bar without effort. Tommy envies the ease in the guy’s every movement; he doesn’t even realize he’s staring until the bartender shoves the drink in his hand.

“You wanna open a tab, baby?”

Tommy nods, because that’s what people do at bars, right? They open tabs, they sit and drink, they pass the time. They exist.

He digs in his pocket and hands over his debit card. It’s connected to an account that his parents dump money into once a month. He still gets a fucking allowance.

But it’s not like the bartender knows that. Tommy watches the guy file his card away, and he drains his drink in one go. It burns a little going down, but it’s not the worst thing he’s ever forced down his throat. Not by a long shot.

“Damn.”

There’s a soft chuckle beside him, and Tommy jumps. He should’ve been paying attention. He should’ve moved down the bar and found his own spot. He shouldn’t have made himself so vulnerable. He shouldn’t have come in at all. But it’s too late now.

He feels the man’s heat beside him before he finds the courage to look up. Already, Tommy’s body is on high alert, and he can hear Doc’s voice in his head.

Come on now, Champ. Good boys are always ready.

He can feel himself stirring, and he only hopes the guy doesn’t notice that or the tears of humiliation pricking at the back of Tommy’s eyes. Tommy might have thought the guy was cute, once upon a time. He’s tall and lean, dark brown hair and big brown eyes. He’s wearing a white dress shirt and navy blue chinos, his dark blue tie loosened just below his collar. He keeps one hand on the rail, opening his body toward Tommy, and he smiles.

Tommy can’t see the door. There’s no way out. There’s never a way out. He grips the leather rail and forces his eyes back to the bar.

“That was impressive,” the man says, nodding at Tommy’s empty drink. “Never seen you before.”

Tommy suddenly feels like he’s breathing through a straw. “It’s a big city.”

“It is,” the man agrees, “but this isn’t the kind of spot where we get a lot of tourists.”

“I’m not a tourist,” Tommy says. It’s true. It’s not like this is some pleasure cruise. He’s not on top of a double-decker bus taking in the tacky glare of Times Square. He can’t tour the life he should be living; he can only wander through like a ghost.

“New in town, then?” The guy leans in closer, letting his hip graze Tommy’s.

“I’m a dancer,” Tommy says without thinking. He doesn’t know why he says it.

The guy slips his hand into Tommy’s back pocket and squeezes. “Are you?”

No, I’m not. But Tommy is frozen. He can’t take it back now; he can’t even move. The hand on his ass is warm through the thin fabric of his pocket lining, and he can feel himself swelling against his fly.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

The guy slips even closer to Tommy, his pelvis against Tommy’s hip. He reaches up and gently tilts Tommy’s chin to face him. “I bet you are. Look at you.”

Look at you, Champ.

Tommy doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until he feels the man’s mouth on his. The kiss is softer than he might have expected, and Tommy finds himself leaning into it. He lets the guy’s tongue sweep into his open mouth, and he groans. Teeth sink into Tommy’s bottom lip and skate gently backward. The man pulls away, and Tommy opens his eyes.

“What’s your name, baby?” the man asks, voice husky.

“Tommy.” Not Champ. Tommy. I’m Tommy.

“Tommy the dancer,” he says. “I’m Alex.”

“Alex the–”

“Administrative assistant,” Alex finishes for him. For just a second, his confidence cracks. “Not as impressive, but it’s a damn fine alliteration.”

A hesitant smile cracks Tommy’s face. He swallows a laugh. “Hi, Alex.”

“Hi, Tommy,” Alex says, dipping his head for another kiss.

His mouth is hot and cold all at once, warm breath and smoky whiskey and ice. His hands are in motion, turning Tommy toward him by the hips, slipping over Tommy’s chest, anchored on Tommy’s shoulders. When they come up for air, his forehead nods softly against Tommy’s.

“What are you drinking, Tommy the dancer?”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away; Alex presses forward for another kiss, and he can’t fucking think straight.

“Vodka. Vodka soda,” Tommy manages.

Alex turns his head and gestures to the bartender with one hand, letting the other rest at Tommy’s waist. “You’ve got a body to maintain. I understand. I respect it.”

Tommy only nods. He does have a body, and it’s his, his and no one else’s, and he wants Alex to touch it. He wants Alex to touch every inch of him until Doc’s fingerprints are covered over. He wants to run away. He wants another kiss. He wants to scream until his throat is raw.

He wants to leave this bar and go back to an apartment that has his name on the lease and wake up in the morning and go to the studio and feel his body move the way it’s supposed to. He wants Alex to be the guy he texts before he goes to sleep and when he wakes up in the morning. He wants to kiss and fuck and laugh and cry and for all of this to be normal.

He doesn’t want to hide. He wants Tommy the dancer to be real.

“Vodka soda and a Jack and coke,” Alex says over his shoulder, shoving his pelvis against Tommy’s. Tommy’s ass bumps up against a barstool, and Alex smiles. “And where does Tommy the dancer dance?”

He drops his head and scrapes his teeth down Tommy’s throat. Tommy’s head tips backward, and Alex’s fingers tangle in his curls. Tommy feels himself throbbing beneath his zipper; Alex grinds hard against him. Tommy can’t stop the moan that exits his open mouth.

Alex laughs and leans backward. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

The drinks arrive. Both glasses are already sweating. Tommy grabs his and throws at least half of it down his throat.

Alex’s forehead creases. “Hey. You good?”

Tommy nods, coughing against the acid burn of the alcohol in his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He’s not, but who knows if he’ll ever be good again?

The drink shocks him back into semi-awareness. The bar is a shithole. Alex smells like sour sweat. Tommy should slow down. He has to be able to drive Annie home.

But Alex is touching him and no one is watching. No one but Alex is watching Tommy at all.

“Did you have a bad day or something?” Alex asks. His grip softens, and his hand slides gently back to Tommy’s hip.

“Or something,” Tommy mutters. He forces himself to put his drink down. He hopes Alex doesn’t notice the way his hands are shaking.

“Maybe we can make your day better,” Alex says softly. He dips his chin and his brown eyes–fuck, they look like Will’s–are big and needy. Alex doesn’t move closer this time, and Tommy understands: it’s his turn. No one wants to take advantage of the drunk bitch.

“Maybe,” Tommy says, and he wraps his arms around Alex’s neck. He feels heavy and clumsy, but Alex’s smile spreads like butter, and Tommy doesn’t let go.

Alex snakes his arm around Tommy’s body and reaches for his own drink; he takes a sip without breaking eye contact, the glass so close to Tommy’s face that Tommy can almost feel the cold wet on his skin. Like winter air. Like nighttime. Like everything he missed while he was locked away. He can smell the sugar on Alex’s breath. The drink makes its way back to the counter, and Tommy’s mouth makes its way back to Alex’s.

Tommy’s kisses are indelicate and pleading. He reaches for the loosened tie around Alex’s neck and pulls him close, knocking his elbow into his vodka soda.

The drink spills, and the bartender curses, and Alex pulls away, laughing.

“I’d ask if you want to finish your drink,” Alex says, “but it appears to be all over the bar.”

Tommy laughs. Or at least, he hears himself laugh. He can see himself against the bar, like he’s watching it from above. The sweat at his hairline, the nervous fidget of his hands. The beautiful man beside him who doesn’t know that he should run the other direction.

Alex cocks his head. “Well, Tommy the dancer, what would you think about getting out of here?”

Tommy nods. He leans against the barstool while Alex pays their tabs, taking his card when it’s handed to him, and he tries to make sense of what he’s about to do. He’s going to leave this place with a stranger, and he is going to ask that stranger to fuck him. Alex will do it, and they will be the only two people who know it. No one will be watching. There won’t be paid requests or camera angles to consider. Tommy is going to obliterate every memory of what Doc did to him in that glass box.

Or maybe, Tommy will fuck Alex. Not like Doc made him fuck Will. No, he and Alex, they’ll do it face to face. He’ll be able to hear Alex, to see on his face that he wants it. Alex’s brown eyes will be Will’s, and he will forgive Tommy.

Maybe they can do both. They’ll hold each other after. Maybe Tommy can bury himself in Alex’s bed and never come up for air again. That’s what he’s been trained to do, isn’t it? And he’s a good boy. He is. A champ.

“Tommy?”

Tommy jerks when he feels Alex’s hand on his arm.

“Hey, whoa. You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says weakly. “Just spaced out there for a minute. Let’s–let’s go.”

“My place isn’t far,” Alex says, pressing a quick kiss to Tommy’s cheek and lacing their hands together. “Noho. Maybe ten minutes walk.”

If Tommy’s life had gone according to plan, he’d know what the fuck Noho is. He might have an apartment there too. He might do things like go to greenmarkets on the weekend and make impossibly charming meals from scratch in his railway kitchen. He’d have a park he lies out in when it gets warm, a bodega where the guy behind the counter knows him. Alex might be his boyfriend, and he wouldn’t have to tell Tommy how long it takes to get to his place because Tommy would already know.

But it doesn’t matter where they’re going. He lets Alex lead him from the bar like the puppy he’s trying hard not to be. He needs someone to show him the way.

They only just make it out the door when Alex stops. He squeezes Tommy’s hand and looks over at him with concern. “Tommy the dancer, you are limping.”

Tommy had forgotten. Half a drink and a few kisses, and he’d let himself forget. He should say it’s a recent injury. Dancers get hurt all the time. But when dancers get hurt, there are orthopedists and physical therapists and fucking doctors. Their ankles don’t get broken and haphazardly set and then broken again. They aren’t made to hold their entire body weight for hours on a tenterhook of crumbling bone.

Tommy isn’t a dancer. He’ll never be a dancer, not ever again. It was stupid to pretend.

Tommy pulls his hand away and ducks his head; he doesn’t want Alex to look at him. Not anymore.

“Tommy? Hey, man, are you–”

Tommy bats Alex’s hand away before it can touch him. “I have to go.”

“What the fuck? What did I–”

“Nothing,” Tommy says to the sidewalk, and his voice splinters as a lump of tears hits his throat. “You didn’t do anything. It’s me–I–I can’t–I just have to go.”

“Are you okay?” Alex asks. “I mean, you don’t seem drunk, but–”

“It isn’t that,” Tommy interrupts. “Please. Let me go.”

But Alex isn’t touching him, and nothing’s really happened. Still, Tommy wants to fall on his knees and beg. It’s all he knows how to do.

“Tommy?”

Tommy shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t do this. I can’t–

Alex’s hand brushes against Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy screams. Alex jumps back.

Tommy shouldn’t have screamed. He isn't allowed to scream. He isn’t allowed to fight. He knows that better than he knows anything. If Alex wants to take him home, Tommy should let him.

Just now, it doesn’t really look like Alex wants to go anywhere with him at all.

“Fuck! Shit, man. Look, I don’t–is there someone I can call?”

A half-strangled laugh bounces out of Tommy’s mouth, and Alex flinches like it’s hit him in the chest. Who the fuck would he call? His mother? And it’s not like he can interrupt Will and Annie, and fuck if Will wouldn’t think Tommy was reaping what he sowed. And he is, isn’t he? Tommy deserves this. This fucking misery is his just desserts, and for just a second, he’s glad he can feel it. He’s glad he doesn’t have to pretend.

“No, there’s no one,” Tommy says wildly. “And it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“I don’t–”

“It doesn’t matter if I want it,” Tommy cries. “Don’t you know that?”

A few passersby glance at them, and Alex takes another step back. “Jesus Christ.”

Tommy turns away, raking his hands over his face and dragging his tears with them. He can feel the vodka sloshing in his stomach, and his chest burns. He braces himself against the building.

“Look,” Alex says, his voice careful and even, like he’s talking to a spooked animal–which, Tommy supposes, he is. “I don’t know what your deal is, but I don’t feel right just leaving you here.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy murmurs. “You can–you can go.”

“Yeah, sure you are.”

I’m not, Tommy wants to say. But he doesn’t, because what would it accomplish? Alex isn’t going to touch him now, and Tommy still doesn’t know if he wants him to. What does this guy know about him? Nothing. He thinks that Tommy is a dancer. He doesn’t know what Tommy really is, and Tommy can’t tell him. Tommy can’t tell anyone. No one wants to hear. He’s supposed to be better. This is supposed to be easier than it is. But he can feel Alex’s eyes on his back, and it’s like he’s back in the glass box.

He should have just stayed in the truck. He should have sat and stared at his phone and waited for Annie.

He should have gone home with Alex, and now it’s too late. It’s too late for so many things.

Tommy’s phone suddenly buzzes against his hip. He swipes his arm across his eyes and digs into his pocket.

Annie Barker On our way back. Ready when you are.

The screen lights up again.

Annie Barker We’ll wait out front.

“Tommy?”

Another message comes in.

Annie Barker He wants to see you too. <3

“Okay,” Tommy murmurs. He keeps his phone in his hand, keeping his other hand pressed against the wall. “Okay.”

“Look, can I give you my number?” Somehow, Alex hasn’t left him yet. “No funny business, just–will you let me know that you get to wherever you’re going safely? You’re going somewhere, right? You have somewhere to go?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. He forces himself to stand, and he turns to face Alex, letting his left leg make up for his right. He doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Tommy the dancer,” Alex says softly. Tommy feels him move closer again, but Alex doesn’t touch him. “I’m sorry. For whatever it is that happened to you.”

He reaches his hand out, and Tommy hands over his phone, letting his fingertips crest softly over the heel of Alex’s palm when he draws away. Alex taps in his number and hands it back.

“Will you make it okay?” Alex asks.

“I’ll be okay.” It’s what Tommy’s meant to say, even if he doesn’t know how to believe it. “Really.”

“Make sure you let me know that you are,” Alex says.

Tommy slips his phone into his pocket and taps it against his hip. “I will.”

Alex leaves him then, and this time, it’s Tommy who watches. He waits until he can’t see Alex anymore, and then he heads back toward the train, his gait slower and more stilted than when he started. Every step is a reminder of what he’s lost, but he is still standing, and Will is waiting for him.

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1926, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake

#the kennel #tommy mahoney oc #is really not having his very best day #or series of days #but alex the bar guy is there to help #kind of #look this is tommy just letting himself feel what he feels for a minute #and he deserves that #tw past noncon #next time will and annie will have a date and it will be cute and soft and adorable #but for now #pain

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alwaysdjarin · 1 year

Text

Unholy

a Dave York x f!reader Series

Part 3 - Spencer

RATING: Explicit 18+ ONLY. No Minors Please. My work is 18+.

Warnings: Dave York always comes with his own warning, soft!Dave, strip clubs, mentions of cancer (readers mum), infidelity, sugar daddy Dave???, a little bit of angst & hurt/comfort (please tell me if I forgot something)

Words: ~2.3k

A/N: ok here we go again. :-D Have fun and tell me what you think about these two.

previous part / Series masterlist || series taglist

You can’t see him when you’re on stage. The headlights blind you, so you’re not able to see more than the guys who are standing directly in front of the stage. You recognize some regulars and a small group of friends, probably a bachelor party.

But you can feel his eyes on your body, dark brown orbs that observe you and it almost burns on your skin.

You try to get the thoughts of the mysterious man waiting for you on the bar out of your head and focus on your work instead.

Wearing a black leather bra and thong with a lot of silver buckles, overknee heels and cute little cat ears, you’re everyone’s dream tonight. Your makeup is strong with a lot of black around your eyes and perfect for the show. A show that’s exactly what this is for you. Eye candy for the men, money for you. And so you start to overthink why you have been so stupid to agree to go for a drink with the stranger. He probably saw you dancing a few times and is blinded by your appearance on stage and will quickly get bored of your real personality. It’s always like that.

Stop overthinking!

You’re dancing for at least an hour, showing some acrobatic moves on the pole or move to the edge of the stage to satisfy the patrons who can’t wait to stick some money into your pants.

When the show is over, you disappear behind the stage, freshen up as best as you can and remove the makeup from around your eyes. You change back into your leggings and oversized shirt and let your hair open.

2 hours later

You find yourself sitting at ‘Stacey’s’ - a cute little Diner a few blocks away from your apartment. Dave York, the handsome stranger across from you.

He seems to be a very nice guy, the kind of men who opens the door for you, who holds your hand to help you out of his (very impressive) black Audi, the kind of men you’ve never met before if you’re honest.

The conversation between you two flows easily, Dave is very interested in you. And so it comes that you tell him about your life. That you wanted to be a professional dancer, having your own dance school. But life isn’t always easy and after your mom died because of cancer and your dad’s living in an other state, you took the best job you could get to pay your bills. That’s how you ended up in the strip club and never took the chance to fulfill your dreams.

“But it’s not that bad. I like my job, really.” You feel his dark brown eyes study you, brows high.

“Yeah, I believe you. I mean there’s nothing bad about your job. I didn’t want to offend you. I was just curious.”

Dave could see the shining in your eyes, when you talked about your dream of an own dancing school. He imagines you teaching his little girls ballet, the perfect curves of your body in a tight leggings, sweat running down your clavicle. No poor guys who stare at your almost naked body on the stage of a strip club. No, you would be protected from the greedy stares surrounded by children who adore you. He would be the only one to worship your body, the only one who lays his eyes on you.

The clearing of your throat pulls him out of his thoughts, you obviously caught him staring. “And you? What do you do for a living?”

Dave thinks about his answer for a moment. This is the part of the conversation where he always lies. But he can’t lie to you. His jaw clenches. Fuck, why can he not lie to you?

“I’m on business trips often…carry out orders for different clients. I have a team with me, three men.” He tries to explain without revealing too much.

“So you’re a freelancer!?” You assume.

“Kind of…” He replies.

You like Dave. You don’t know why, but something on him is addictive. It's easy to notice that he's always hiding something. That he's trying to be honest and open, but something is stopping him. You’ve studied his features the last hours, the little pout when he’s listening to something you’re telling him, the tickling of his jaw when he’s thinking and apparently not sure how to respond, the frown on his face when you say something he doesn’t like to hear, like stories about disrespectful customers, men who doesn’t know their limits.

He’s gorgeous you think to yourself. But then your eyes flicker to his hands and you’re seeing the golden ring. You’ve eyed the glimmering piece the whole night and it reminds you painfully that Dave York is just as all the other men you get to know in your line of work.

You’re gulping, not longer able to ignore the obvious. “So Dave, does your wife know that you’re here? With me?” it blurts out of you and you notice directly that this question caught him off guard.

His eyes shoot to his wedding band and then he smirks. He’s really smirking at you after you mentioned his wife? He looks at your lips and you feel something in the air between you two change.

“She’s out of town for the weekend.” His voice is low and thick and you know directly in which direction this part of the night should go, when you give him what he wants.

You can’t hide the disappointment in your face, when you realize that he’s in fact just like every other guy and you wasted your time tonight.

“Okay listen…” you speak while you rummage through your bag for your wallet “I like you, I REALLY do. And it’s okay, you’re not the first married man who wants to spend a night with me-“ Dave opens his mouth, visibly shocked by your presumption, but you hold your hand up to stop him. “-but I’m not…I’m NOT doing this kind of shit.” You shake your head and dare to look into his eyes. He frowns, trying to understand what you think of him. You go on “I trust you, so…if you want to, you can come to the club anytime you want and I’ll give you a private dance. It’s ok for me. Just let’s keep this…relationship on a business level. ” You lay cash for your food and drinks on the table and stand up. “I…I have to go. Have a good night Dave.” You smile politely at him, tears lining your eyes, unable to cover the disappointment. And then you rush out of the Diner, before the first tear runs down your face.

Dave is behind you within seconds, calling your name. You close your eyes before you slowly turn to face him.

He studies your broken expression and swears this sight breaks something deep in his chest. He should have known what you assume about him, spending his Friday night with you, a girl he met at a strip club and wearing his fucking wedding ring the whole time. But it’s more than this, he knows that and he is aware that he only has one chance to make this clear to you here and now.

“I’m sorry.” He says softly while you wipe the tears from your cheeks and it takes everything in him not to touch you.

You nod. “It’s okay Dave, really. I should know by now that men always-“ But he interrupts you this time.

“No! Not that!” He wipes his hand across his face, scratching at his chin. “I’m sorry that I made you think that I just want to have sex with you. I’m sorry that I didn’t make my intentions clear. And most of all I’m sorry that I made you cry.”

You frown. “Your intentions? You’re a married man in a strip club who’s having a date with one of the dancers.”

He smirks to lighten up the mood between you two. “This was a date?” And you nod, slightly annoyed. “For me…yes.”

Dave takes a step closer to you, his body now inches away. You can smell him and it’s like a drug that flows through your whole body, eats you up from the inside. You close your eyes to not to look into his brown orbs, you can feel him looking at you, his breath hits your face and his fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Let me take you on a real date.” He whispers and you tremble slightly while you bite your lower lip. “Let me show you that I’m not like the others. Let me give you what you deserve. Let me take care of you.” You can barely hear his words, but they’re there.

His hand is now lying on the side of your face, your eyes still closed while his other hand finds the other side of your face. “I’m not a homewrecker Dave.” Your voice is small, trembling.

Daves nose touches yours and you suck in a breath. The tension between you two is unbearable and you feel like you’re floating.

“I know you’re not. You’re too good for me sweetheart.” The grip on your head tightens and you know what follows. You feel his plush lips featherlight against yours. “Tell me to stop and you’ll never see me again.” His whisper into your mouth makes you weak and you finally give in.

Dave lips are soft against yours and you’re not sure if anyone ever kissed you like this. It’s slow and sensual. He gives you time to let go and relax into him. You’re still not touching him, hands by your sides formed into fists.

Dave breaks the kiss and you look into his eyes. He decides to give you time, you’re more sensible than he thought and he doesn’t want to scare you off. “Let’s get you home sweetheart.”

~*~*~*~*~

The drive to your home is short and silent. Dave opens the door to help you out of his car and escorts you to your front door.

“I know it sounds unconventional but I mean what I said. Let me take care of you, let me show you what your worth is. Maybe I can help you to fulfill your dream, dancing queen.”

Your body feels like you’re on fire. God you want him. Dave York has you in a chokehold and you want to know more about him, want to find out what his little secrets are, hell you even want to fuck him.

You hesitate for a second. “But your wife…I…I…”

He makes a step in your direction, enters your private space like it’s nothing and you’re lost. Your back hits your door while his hand is on your head again, thumb caressing your cheek.

“Don’t worry about my wife.” A kiss to your forehead. “Don’t worry about anything sweetheart.” Another kiss. “You even don’t need to sleep with me.” Kiss. “God, I just want to see you happy.” Kiss.

You tilt your head up to look into his eyes. “…like a sugar daddy thing?” You frown. You’ve heard about the concept a few times but never considered this kind of relationship for yourself.

Dave smirks again and you appreciate the little crinkles around his eyes. “Call it whatever you want.” His thumb is still caressing your face. “Just let me into your life and we will see. We will figure it out.”

You nod. “Okay then. I’ll think about it.”

The intimate moment between you two is interrupted, when you both hear a rumble in your apartment. Dave lays his arm protective around your waist and pulls you away from the door in one smooth movement. You appreciate his reaction, but shake your head laughing.

“I think I have to introduce you to someone.”

Dave frowns when you open the door and something rushes towards him. It takes him a second to realize what’s happening, but then he’s head over heels. There’s a chubby white-brown bulldog wiggling between his legs, happy to see Dave like he knows him for years. Dave goes down on one knee to greet the dog, he loves bulldogs since he was a kid and now YOU - you of all people - have one. Carol never wanted to have a dog.

“It seems like Spencer loves you!” You smile down at the two and your heart swells at the view. Dave York cuddling your dog with a honest smile on his face.

“I…god I love bulldogs.” Dave stands up and smiles at you.

“Seems like we have something in common.” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, not sure what the next step will be.

But Dave knows exactly what to do. He looks you deep in the eyes, the invisible connection between you two is back again and his deep baritone lets a shiver run down your spine.

“Okay sweetheart, you need to rest now. Take your time to think about the things I offered you.”

And this time it’s you who closes the distance between the two of you. Your hands are on his chest and your lips on his within seconds. Daves hands found your hips and it takes all of your strength to not pull him into your apartment. You can’t. You’ll think about everything what happened in the last hours, but for now you enjoy the plush lips on yours and the scent of the best drug you’ve ever heard of: Dave York.

Part 4

Thanks for reading! 🫶🏼

I’d love to read your comments or reblogs if you like my writing.

#pedro pascal #dave york #pedro pascal fanfiction #dave york fanfic #dave york fic #dave york pit #dave york smut #dave york x f!reader #dave york x reader #dave york x you

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