omg wait ballet dancers art and reader...co-stars in swan lake or nutcracker or something...do you see the vision
i adore you, can't you see, you're made for me?
ballet! art x ballet! reader
tw for smut, not much else! mild alcohol mention, ballet terminology, pet names (baby, angel, etc), condom usage, squirting if you squint, fingering, they're freaks
a/n: guys i didn't know ab this lowkey but the smut is kinda eating
you'd known art donaldson half your life. he was there your very first year at the academy, all awkward knees and elbows, already a head taller than most of the other boys. he had a sort of careless confidence about him that you eventually discovered to be a façade, but at one time, you remembered thinking he was cocky, too sure of himself. you thought, too, that he could get away with it, because every time he moved, the room seemed to shift around him. over the years, you'd been in the same orbit, never quite inseperable, but always connected. you were sometimes cast together, sometimes not, but you were always acutely aware of each other's positions in the academy. you knew he liked his shoes fully broken in before the first rehearsal with them, how he bit at the inside of his cheek before each set of turns. he knew you tapped your fingers on your thigh to keep count on each first run, and that you hummed the music under your breath when you were trying to memorize new choreography. however, you'd never been close in an intimate position for long, usually starring in shows in entirely different acts.
the announcement went up on the studio bulletin board at the start of winter - the nutcracker. you were clara, and art was the prince. you read it twice, the words sinking in, a sort of nervous anticipation spreading through you. not that you didn't want the role, you definitely did, but you knew what it meant. there would be hours spent in the studio, hands on each other's bodies, breathing in time. rehearsals started the next day, before you had much time to work yourself up. the entire first week was awkward in a way you didn't expect. not clumsy, you were both too good for that, but careful, hesitant. you moved through the pas de deux with tightrope tension, precise and contained. most of your energy was focused on ignoring the heat of his hands on your waist, the steadiness of his grip during the lifts, the way he whispered "i've got you," the entire time you were suspended in his arms. "again," the choreographer nearly barked from the corner of the room, pacing and watching carefully, "you're too tense," art's palm rested on your back as he guided you back to the mark, "ready?" "ready," you said, not looking at him.
week two was different, more intense. he stopped asking you if you were ready. his movements grew sharper, more concise as his confidence grew. you could feel him watching you in the mirror during your solo portions, tracking every shift in your weight, every minute hesitation. you were running through act two one evening, alone save for your choreographer once again. the lift sequence was clean, almost perfect, but your footing faltered when you landed. "you're holding back," he murmured, still close enough that you could feel his breath on your ear. "i'm not," you said quickly, tone defensive. "you are," his tone was quiet, thoughtful, as if he'd been considering it for a while. you hummed, but didn't answer.
by week three, the carefulness was gone. rehearsals blurred into muscle memory, yet, the air between the two of you stayed charged. he'd catch your gaze mid turn and hold it a beat too long, or his fingers would curl just a bit too tightly around your waist on a lift. you told yourself he was just invested, just determined to make the partnership work as smoothly as possible. the night before the dress rehearsal, you stayed late to run through the snow pas a final time. the studio was dark except for a single light over the floor, the show music playing from your bluetooth speaker. somewhere between the final turn and the bow, your chest was heaving, and his hand lingered against your back. "it's all going to be perfect," he said, soft, like a promise. you weren't sure if he meant the performance or something else entirely. you couldn't tell where the lines blurred anymore.
opening night came in a flash, all bright lights and last minute stretches. backstage smelled like hairspray and rosin, familiar and warm. art was across the room, adjusting his jacket, but you could feel his presence like a weight on your chest. act one passed in a blur. you hardly had time to register the audience before you were in the wings again, the pas de deux music swelling. you returned to the stage, and there he was, steady and certain like he had been for weeks. every movement was seamless. the lifts floated by, the turns landed exactly where they needed to. underneath it all, the tension hummed, threatening to snap like a violin string. the final pose came quicker than you expected. he kneeled, and your hands just barely touched. the applause washed over you, but all you could see was him, that faint smile on his lips.
backstage was chaos, with dancers darting in every direction, stage hands calling out instructions. you slipped away to your dressing room, attempting to catch your breath, when a hand circled around your wrist. you turned, and art was there, hair damp at his temples, eyes shining with adrenaline. "you were perfect," he said, quiet but certain. "so were you," you managed, but the tone was uneven, wobbly. he didn't step back, didn't falter, and the heat of him pressed closer, his hand still on your wrist. "guess all those years paid off," it sounded like an attempt at a casual joke, but the words came off too heavy, his gaze too focused to be anything but intense in the moment. "guess so," you said, simple and clean, though you ached to say more. for a moment, neither of you moved. the noise of backstage dulled, seemingly far away behind the walls of your dressing room. his gaze dipped to your mouth for a moment, and then he kissed you.
it wasn't rushed, but wasn't quite tentative either. just certain, like he had been waiting, like the tension building between the two of you hadn't been all in your mind. his hand slid to your jaw, easy and right, holding you like you might slip away. "don't hold back next time," he murmured as he pulled away, and you could hardly hear him over the sound of your pulse thrumming in your eardrums. you'd always felt something there, but art was so unassuming at times, it was hard to tell. you figured he'd be the type to ask before he kissed you, to take baby steps until he secured the go-ahead. this version of art, flush with confidence, fresh from the stage, was a new sort of territory, not that you minded. "have you been holding back?" you asked, eyes on his, lips parted and still tingling. "i'm always holding back when it comes to you," you could feel his breath fan against your face when he spoke, and it filled you with an ache to kiss him again, "i assumed you knew," you didn't answer, didn't quite know how, so you pressed your lips to his instead, standing on your pointe shoes to reach him better.
"seriously? backstage?" a voice interrupted you, and you pulled away, cheeks pink. you looked up to see isla, one of the snowflakes, holding part of her costume, grinning like she'd discovered the best kept secret. you choked out a laugh, chees growing redder by the minute, "we were just-" "-making sure the partnership reads well from the wings," art finished, deadpan and simple. she just rolled her eyes, shaking her head, "yeah, sure. good luck keeping this quiet at the after party," she disappeared down the hall, and you caught the faintest smirk tugging at art's lips. "subtle," you muttered. "wasn't trying to be," he replied, sounding quite pleased, his hand still on your arm. "i'll meet you at the party," you said as you pushed him away to get changed. the moment you closed the dressing room door, your fingers brushed your lips, the moment playing on repeat in your mind as you shed your costume.
the after party was in one of the old, unused studios, the mirrors covered with cloth, music thumping from a speaker in the corner. half the cast was still in stage makeup, and some had kept remnants of their costumes, to use as photo props, you were sure. you were scrubbed clean of the heavy makeup, dressed in shorts and an oversized sweatshirt, your pointe shoes replaced by the comfort of your converse. you walked in, and your eyes immediately found art, buzzing around the center of the room like a true extrovert. there was a faint smear of glitter on his cheek from your exchange, only visible when the light hit it just right, but it made your heart flutter nonetheless. he found you soon after, passing you a cup of punch someone had brought, that tasted more like vodka than fruit. "i feel like everyone's staring," you told him, sipping it gingerly. "let them," he shrugged, grinning, "who cares?"
he stuck close the entire evening, not in a possessive way, just keeping you aware of his presence. he topped off your drink before you even realized it was low, kept a hand on your low back, warm and guiding, steered you away when you were uncomfortable from the amount of people crowing too close. at some point, someone cranked the music louder, the sound reverberating off the studio floor. art didn't dance, not recreationally, he always said. but when party 4 u started playing, he let you drag him over to the area where others had gathered, punch drunk and winding around each other. you looped your arms around his neck, your chest pressed against his, slightly breathless and very caught up in the moment. "you're so beautiful," he said, just loud enough for you to hear, his lips brushing your ear as he leaned down. against your better judgment, you tilted your head, bringing his lips to yours with a hum. he wrapped his arms around your waist, picking you up just an inch from the floor, kissing you deeply. time blurred, and you let yourself get lost in his lips, in his touch, in the music flowing through the room.
hours passed, and eventually you found yourself outside, the cool december air shocking your bare legs. his jacket was tucked around your shoulders despite you being in a sweatshirt and him only having a thin t shirt on, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "you going home?" he asked, but he had the sort of tone that told you he already knew the answer. "yours?" you asked, hesitating just slightly. he didn't answer, just flashed you that same smile he'd had during the final position, and started walking you to his apartment. it was quiet when you arrived, dimly lit, smelling faintly of pine and shoe plaster. he leaned against the counter, watching you with the same unreadable expression he had at the party. "what?" you asked, half nervous under his inspecting gaze. "nothing," he said, "just thinking of how long we've been doing this," "dancing together?" his mouth curved into a smile, "yeah, that too," you stepped closer, "and?" "maybe it took being on stage tonight to make me realize," he trailed off, but his eyes stayed focused on yours. "realize what?" you closed the last of the distance, your hip brushing his. he didn't answer, pulling you into a kiss, his hands settling onto your waist. you thought, distantly, as he walked you backwards to his bedroom, that maybe this was what you'd been holding back from the entire time.
he was gentle as he guided you to the plush comforter across his bed, immediately enveloping you in warmth and the familiar smell of his cologne, a soothing balm to your senses. "is this a bad idea?" you panted, once he'd already discarded your clothes into a pile of cotton at the foot of his bed, the reality of it all kicking in as the ceiling fan brought goosebumps to your skin. "i don't believe in bad ideas," he murmured, busy sucking light bruises onto your chest as you arched into him, "i'd say this is one of the better ideas i've had, actually," "i just don't wanna regret anything," you said it even as your hand circled him, warm and heavy. "fuck," he sucked in a breath at the contact, nipping at your skin, "then don't regret it, angel," his fingers met your core, and your back arched from the bed, lips parted, "art, please," "please what?" he dragged his lips up the column of your throat, taunting and featherlight, "do you want more? or are you too worried about regretting it?" "i won't regret it," you caught the back of his neck with your free hand, fingers threading through his hair as you brought him down to kiss you, rough and hot.
"condom?" you managed between kisses, one hand still wrapped around his cock, the other on his chest. he hummed in acknowledgement, rolling over and fumbling for his nightstand drawer. you watched, eyes heavy with lust, as he rolled it on, straining against the latex. "where were we?" he flashed you that signature grin, rolling back on top of you, your legs parting to accommodate him. "mm, you might have to remind me," you teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "oh, what a shame," he shifted his weight, pressing his thumb to your clit, circling slowly, "is this jogging your memory, baby?" "oh, art," your eyelids fell closed, your hips bucking slightly into his touch. "there you go," he murmured, kissing the sweat sheened skin of your chest as he slowly slid a finger inside of you, wrapping his lips around your nipple. you gasped, hand settling in his hair, unsure if you were holding him there or pushing him away. he curled his fingers up, adding another, his thumb still resting on your clit.
he sat back on his knees as your moans grew louder, watching your reactions with a sort of entranced look on his face, lips parted and slick with spit. "art, wait," you clenched around his fingers, your orgasm approaching, "oh, fuck, so good," "what did i tell you about holding back?" if anything, his movements grew quicker, "don't do that with me, angel. let me see you unravel," you came with a gasp, vision blurred by the intensity of pleasure, soaking the sheets beneath you. "fuck," he groaned, pupils blown as he gazed at you, sliding his fingers out gently, "that was so fucking hot," you watched, dazed, as he wrapped his lips around his fingers, tongue laving at the soaked skin, sucking them clean. you could've come undone all over again just from the sight, your chest heaving. "can i fuck you now, baby?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knee, then further up your thigh. you nodded without a second thought, already reaching for him, "yes, please,"
he settled back between your thighs, impossibly hard as he tapped the tip of his cock against your pulsing clit, exhaling a sharp breath. "so wet f'me," he muttered, using one hand to spread your legs further, resting your calf on his shoulder. he moaned, low and deep in his chest, when he finally pushed inside of you, his hand on your thigh tightening. "oh, god," you relaxed around him, eyes rolling back as you felt him slide in, buried deep before pulling out to thrust back in. "so tight," his teeth were grit just slightly, like he was restraining himself, "you're fucking perfect," he dropped a hand to your clit, letting the pad of his thumb rest just over the sensitive nerves, not quite adding pressure, just letting it brush against you enough to have you squeezing down around him.
"pictured this for so long," he panted, his free hand moving to roll your nipple between two fingers, grabbing at your chest, "used to- fuck, used to think about you at night. wanted to fuck you in the studio," his words only added to the slickness between your thighs. you hadn't expected him like this, so open, so vocal. "bet you'd like that," he was almost whining, voice raspy and lilting high, "getting fucked in front of the mirrors. you'd look so pretty, angel. always so fucking pretty," "wanted you for so long," you were breathless, chest rising and falling rapidly, "should've done this years ago," "yeah, we should've," he pushed your legs back so your knees met your chest, his thrusts hitting deeper, "takin it so good, baby, look at you," "fuck," you gasped as he just barely hit your cervix, angling his hips so he brushed up against that spot deep inside you that had your hips bucking and eyes rolling back.
"close," he warned between barely muffled moans, eyes fixed on the way he opened you up, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit, "can you give me another one, angel? put on a show f'me?" you nodded, too lost in pleasure to respond properly, teeth sunk so deep into your bottom lip you were sure to draw blood. "can feel you getting close," he keened, "taking me so good, sweet girl. come on, there you go," his praise sent you closer to the edge, and moments later you were reaching your high once again, moaning his name desperately. "fuck, good girl," he groaned, watching you spasm around him, moving his hand from your clit to rest on your throat, "so fucking close," "let go, art," you encouraged, voice hoarse and breathy, "don't hold back, remember? wanna watch you," "oh, jesus," his lips parted, head tilted back as he spilled into the condom, your words sending him reeling. his hips twitched as he rode out his high, thrusting only twice more before pulling out, gently easing your legs back down as he caught his breath.
"you're fucking incredible," he panted, tying off the condom and tossing it into the bin, "that was- i don't even have words," "that was years in the making," you murmured, resting your head on his chest, eyes heavy with a wave of exhaustion. "let me clean you up," he said softly, brushing your hair from your face. he stretched as he sat up before padding to his bathroom, returning with a warm cloth and a small towel. he laid the towel beneath you on the soaked cotton of the sheets, hushing you when you apologized, and gently dragged the cloth over your core and thighs, his tough impossibly light. "all better?" he asked when he finished, laying back down beside you, stretching out an arm for you to lie on. "mm, much," you nodded, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, curling into his side. "i'll wake you in time for warm ups," he promised, fingers stroking through your hair, "goodnight, angel," "goodnight, love," you yawned, eyes already closed.
pairing: ballet dancer!shane hollander x bratva boss!ilya rozanov
summary: Twirling. Always twirling. Whether on stage or in the palm of someone’s hand, Shane Hollander was always caught in a dance. He knew it was what he was born to do—what he will spend the rest of his life doing. That is, until Ilya Rozanov.
warnings: 18+ only, angst, eventual smut, oral sex, hand jobs, blood and injury, gore, eventual romance, dark romance, hurt/comfort, murder, mentioned death, bratva/mafia
word count: 2.3k — 23k and counting on ao3
a/n: so i decided to post just the first chapter here if yall were interested :) if you like it, pls go check out the rest on ao3 (listed above!!) honestly this is diff than any style i've written in before, smut included, so i'm kinda excited/nervous to share with you guys hahah anyway love you all 💞
masterlist ✨
—
Talking to patrons always killed Shane internally.
He hated it—the pearly white smiles, the laughs that served as pretty masks, the invasion of space. Everything about it was like a bad dream, and he couldn’t escape no matter what. It was never about his comfort, only about the money, and that was something the ballet company sorely needed.
Not that they had financial trouble to begin with. While other companies were scraping what they could from the bottom of the barrel in a world that moved too fast to keep up with, the National Ballet of Canada had its roster of ultra-rich families and foundations that would never leave no matter the circumstances. Even so, Shane still had to mingle with them, and it never got easier.
He never quite knew what to say. Of course he knew their names and basic information—if they were married, when and how they made their fat fortunes, what their favorite productions were—but beyond that, he always felt awkward about prying further. There were some dancers in the company who had no problem shattering the ice with a sledgehammer, but not him. He’d rather stay isolated in the silence of a rehearsal hall, spiraling into madness as he tried to perfect his scissor jeté.
“You must be very excited for the exchange.”
He blinked. Right, he was in the middle of a conversation with an older couple who had been kind enough to sponsor that night’s performance. It was their last event before the entire company was going to spend the next six months in Russia. Something about steel sharpening steel and lessening tensions between Canada and Russia.
He plastered on his usual smile. “Yes. Very.”
Convincing enough.
The woman didn’t seem to notice. “I hear the Bolshoi are quite intense.”
“Well, they’re one of the oldest companies in the world. You don’t get that on sheer talent alone,” her husband pointed out with a grunt before clapping Shane’s shoulder, shaking him once for good measure. “Our young star here is going to give them a run for their money. Aren’t you, Shane?”
“You’re too kind, Mr. Martin,” Shane responded easily like a reflex. “And yes, I’ll do my best.”
The wife shook her head. “Now now, Joseph, it’s not a competition.”
“I know,” the older man huffed. “All I’m saying is that sometimes egos need to be managed. Shane is just the man to put those Russians in their place.”
“You’re being ridiculous—”
“No, he’s right, to a certain degree,” Shane said with a slight shrug. “But it’s not just me. The entire company is excited to learn from the Bolshoi.”
He had a feeling that if he said it again, maybe he’d believe it.
Mrs. Martin wore a soft look that almost reminded him of his late grandmother. It was almost like she could see right through him. She reached up and pat his shoulder. “I’m sure it won’t be an easy six months, but I’m also sure it’ll fly by.”
God, I hope so. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
She hummed, her hand lowering to find her husband’s arm. “Well, we won’t keep you too long then. I’m sure you have to get some rest before your flight tomorrow.”
“I’m gonna need it,” he said lightly. “It was nice talking to you.”
“Likewise, dear.”
Shane watched them walk away before he sighed, letting his shoulders sag slightly.
Perhaps it was time to go home after all. He still had to pack and inevitably reorganize his suitcase three times before he could even think about getting some sleep—all before cooling down and stretching before bed. Playing Prince Siegfried earlier that night left him winded and sore. His ass was definitely feeling it. He was going to have to build up more strength if he wanted to survive the next six months in one of the most brutal environments known to mankind.
He took another sip of champagne. Still too sweet.
As if on cue, a familiar voice groaned, “Jesus Christ, if I have to drink another sip of this, I might actually puke.”
He turned to see his dance partner. Rose. He was almost surprised to see her. Somehow she was usually surrounded by the younger patrons who had way too much money and time on their hands. Unfortunately for them, she wasn’t that kind of girl.
She was actually more like an angel. Shane couldn’t count on his fingers how many times she had saved him from awkward conversations. She knew how to read him both on stage and across a room.
“How are you still drinking?” she asked, quirking a well-defined brow.
Shane only shook his head, a crooked smile on his lips. “It’s better than nothing.”
She hummed in solemn agreement. “I suppose, but you’d think they’d buy better booze to send us off,” she pointed out, swirling her half-empty glass for effect. “This is cheap enough to make anyone completely lose hope in humanity.”
He snorted softly. “Oh, come on.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I know you’re not.”
“But aren’t I right, though?” she chuckled dryly. “I mean, if you think about it, our careers are short anyway, we don’t get paid nearly enough to survive here in Toronto, and our audiences have been dwindling since the pandemic. Let’s face it, ballet is dying, and us too.”
He was stunned for a moment, staring at her as if an angel had just grown horns. “Are you drunk?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Hence why I came to find you. I need you to be my service dog.”
A chuckle bubbled from his chest. “Service dog?”
“Yeah. To sense when I’m about to say something regrettably stupid. You can boop me with your nose or something.”
“Fair enough,” he relented, his gaze sweeping out over the crowded ballroom.
Most had gone home at that point, but there were still enough guests there to warrant them staying for another half hour or so.
She sighed next to him. “This is hardly the send-off I was expecting.”
He glanced down at her. “Oh?”
Her eyes found his. “Yeah,” she lamented. “I mean, I didn’t expect fireworks or anything, but we’ll be gone for six months in enemy territory.”
“Moscow is hardly—”
“It is,” she cut him off with a dry smile. “You know how the Russians are. Cool. Calculated. Insanely pretty. Meanwhile we apologize for everything.” She downed the rest of her champagne with a sigh. “We’ll be judged the entire time we’re there. It’ll be amazing and all, but I’m not looking forward to being on my toes all the time—literally.”
She wasn’t wrong. He knew they’d be scrutinized, but it didn’t leave him with as much despair as he thought. After all, he grew up watching old VHS tapes of the Russian greats—Baryshnikov was one of his heroes. He remembered playing them over and over, wondering if he’d even be half as good or even half as stunning. Now they were going to Moscow, and the whole thing seemed like a dream. His 4-year-old self would go into shock.
“Anyway, enjoy your freedom now, while it still exists,” Rose singsonged, her voice pulling him straight out of his fleeting moment of nostalgia. “We’ll be under curfew and shot on sight.”
He nearly scoffed as he shook his head. “Rose, that was a completely different time.”
“You should keep up with the news,”she said, nearly sounding like his father. “There’s always tension in politics and whatnot. I heard the Russian mafia is making a resurgence.” She caught glance of his unamused look and shrugged. “You never know. We could be kidnapped or—”
"You read too many dark romance novels."
“Would that be so bad though?” she contemplated. “I mean, the dating scene here is so…”
She didn’t have to finish.
He knew it too.
He always felt so lost with anything that had to do with the opposite sex. He never really knew what to do with all those tiny emotions that typically came with a relationship. Somehow he always got lost in his own thoughts and managed to keep everyone at arm’s length naturally, but he supposed it was safer that way.
Less messy that way.
He hummed lamely in response.
Rose turned to look at him, her blue eyes soft, and for a moment, he imagined what it would be like to be a normal guy in his position. He’d probably kiss her in that moment, hold her close, confess and whisper some sweet nothings in her ear. It was what she deserved, but not what he could give her. Besides, it was better for him to have her as a close friend.
“Hayden’s having some of the dancers over at his place. Jackie’s making the usual,” she said.
He could feel his lips curl. “Rabbit food?”
“What else?” she laughed. “We’re still on the clock.”
It was going to be a long six months.
—
Vodka did nothing to soothe Ilya’s frayed nerves.
He swirled the glass once, twice—almost expecting some kind of genie to materialize out of nowhere. Maybe if he drank enough, one would actually appear and grant him every wish in his heart.
But alas, he was sitting up against a shitty headboard in a shitty hotel with shitty sheets that felt no better than a burlap sack. At least the woman laying next to him wasn’t shitty.
Svetlana was far from shitty. She was the one thing in the world he didn’t hate—couldn’t hate. She had seen him at his worst, and even as he continued to spiral deeper into the hellhole of his family business, she still saw him as the stupid little boy who would run around the fields outside his family home to look for a butterfly she made up.
His other hand ran up and down the soft skin of her back, feeling each vertebrae of her spine. She hummed softly in response, sinking further into the mattress.
“What time is your rehearsal?” he asked, breaking the silence.
She turned her head, looking up at him out of the corner of her eye. “Early,” she said simply. “No different than before. Why?”
He looked away before she could analyze his look. Another sip of vodka helped. “I will be there. The president wants to talk about the exchange with Canada. Lots of events that need sponsorship.”
“Oh, that,” she said, turning onto her side. “Yes, it’s the talk of the town.” Her eyes twinkled in the dim light. “Some of the girls were talking about taking them to a club when they get here. The Canadians.”
“Hm, yes, that might be good. Boring lot, I’ve heard.”
She chuckled softly. “Don’t underestimate them. I hear they have some very special stars.” She must’ve seen his grumpy expression because she laughed a bit harder, poking his hip. “Okay, maybe not as good as us, but still.”
“As good as you. There is no us.”
Not anymore.
His heart twisted in his chest. He didn’t mean for it to sound biting, but the memories that surfaced were nearly too much. There was a pain there that lingered, gnawing at his leg like a rabid dog.
“I’m sorry,” he grumbled, turning his attention back to his vodka glass.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, and he believed her.
She sat up, and his eyes found her curves. They had become such a welcome and familiar sight, mapped out by every inch of him. God, how he didn’t deserve any version of her—and yet she stayed despite it all.
Her hand cupped his jaw before she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. His body melted as she pulled away.
“You should come with us,” she said after a moment, a small smile blooming. “You’ve been busy, no? It’ll be a good chance to blow off some steam. Maybe you can find a shiny new toy to play with.”
A grimace had no trouble finding his features. He always hated when she put it that way.
He wasn’t the type to seek anyone out. Not anymore, at least. Ever since his father began to step down, Ilya found himself at the helm of his family’s business. His older brother wasn’t much help either, doing whatever it was he did with the coke-heads and whores for hire. Ilya hadn’t the time for loose ends and pretty, empty heads—hence Svetlana. She had no problems keeping personal life out of the bedroom, and she certainly didn’t complain when he was rough with her as a result.
“The only ballerina I’d fuck is you,” he grumbled, and he didn’t really mean it as a compliment.
They were usually a stuck-up breed of attention whores. He wasn’t too sure how the National Ballet of Canada would be, but he suspected they weren’t too different than the Bolshoi.
Then again, there could be a surprise blossom among the thorns. His hopes weren’t high, but he made a mental note to check the roster of incoming dancers.
He watched as Svetlana lay her head against his shoulder.
“I know, but you deserve someone to love,” she said with almost a motherly tone.
Almost his mother’s tone.
A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I am not someone who deserves love, let alone someone to love,” he said with resignation. “I’ve got too much blood on my hands.”
“And yet you still treat me with love,” she pointed out. “Not everyone is capable of that. Even normal, boring Canadians.”
That earned her a real smile from him, one that made his eyes crinkle in the corners and deepen his dimples.
“Come on, Ilya,” she cooed as her hand ran up and down his stomach. “One more round before I go?”
Robert with perfect turnout and perfect feet and natural flexibility being even more of a smug asshole for it, with an ego the size of a planet
Robert who still can’t throw a punch for shit, but who can now hoist someone over his head one handed without breaking a sweat
Robert who doesn’t look like much but in reality is all compact, rock hard muscle whose extensions look effortless and whose leaps look like he’s floating
Oh nonnie, you are talking my language! (Lol, I went to my first dance class for a year this week - contemporary not ballet but still fun).
Sarah puts Victoria in ballet classes because she'd had a few years of lessons as a child and loved them. One day, there's a mix up with Robert's after school football club, and he ends up having to sit at the back of the class at the village hall. He's a restless kid, though, and after a few moments of trying to get him to stop fidgeting, Sarah gives up and asks if he can take part, just this once.
What's that saying about swans and water...?
It's easier to have Victoria and Robert in the same class and when Robert doesn't kick up a fuss about it, the ballet teacher lets them both attend. Victoria enjoys ballet, but it's only a fun little hobby for her, so when she makes a group of new friends at school and asks if she can join the girl guides with them, Sarah doesn't mind her switching.
But when Sarah tells the ballet mistress - a queer little woman with a faint accent Sarah can't quite place - she takes Sarah's hands in her own thin and fragile ones and begs "not Roberto; let the boy stay..."
And, really, it feels inevitable. Sarah has watched him practising his releves and tendus in the kitchen while he helps her with the dishes. She's seen how he stands with his feet in first position, working on his turn out as they wait in the queue at the shops. He takes a book out of the library and convinces Victoria to let him practice some quite dangerous looking lifts with her...
There's an inevitability about it. "Natural talent like that is so rare, these days" the ballet mistress tells her. "And combined with real passion - passion like Roberto has...?"
Robert is awarded a full ride scholarship to the Royal Ballet School one year, three months, and fourteen days after Sarah dies. Every time he dances, he does it for her. Every hour spent at the barre, each worn through pair of tights, each drop of sweat on the raked stage floor. All for her.
But where's Aaron in all this?
If this were the early 2000s then Aaron would clearly be a self-taught hip-hop dancer forced to work with Robert in order to receive Arts Council funding for a big intercity outreach program.
Part of me thinks it would be to have Aaron as a music producer, drafted in to work with Robert on Rob's first commissioned choreography, driven mad by his perfection and inability to fully express himself through any medium other than movement (there's a similarity between dancing and fucking, no?)
But, I confess, I've just read Heated Rivalry in one sitting, and the idea of Robert and Aaron as the principle dancers in different companies, forced to compete for guest roles and audiences, but always aware of where each other are performing and finding some excuse to be there for 'research' is oh so compelling right now...
[Also, I was today years old when I found out that Lawrence Robb can really dance (that man has had some serious training - musical theatre, do we think?) so we have to fit him in here somewhere too...]
ballet!au ?? I drew a bunch of croquis based off of male ballet dancers and then drew four pages of a silly comic where jules and sergiy meet at a gym. (i only included the cute panels, the rest look horrible)
idk if i feel brave enough to post the rest but i may redraw it digitally anyways
Things between Ella and Jordan barely thawed after that day, which made dancing together a totally different kind of torture. She could handle Jordan’s bluntness, she could handle their ruthless nature. When she trusted that they saw something valuable in her. But now...
The foundation had cracked.
“Again, Jackson. You keep coming in at the wrong angle.” She can’t suppress a sigh of irritation.
“Can we move on? You keep having me redo this entrance, and we don’t even know what the blocking will be. Let’s dance.”
“Again, Jackson.” They gritted out. That’s how it went, day in and day out. Any gesture towards collaboration was long gone, and the room that had been getting more comfortable for her was now icier than ever.
But she ran through her entrance again. And again. And again. And somehow, they actually completed the pas de deux before the sun had fully set. Despite their attitude, she still couldn’t deny the way their touch lit her up from the inside out. And she still couldn’t keep her eyes off of them while they danced.
“See you tomorrow morning, freshie. Don’t be late.” They said dismissively, once they finally made it through the scene to their standards. They made their way out of the rehearsal room without looking back, shoving their dance bag onto their shoulder with more force than strictly necessary.
The door slid closed behind them, trembling slightly in the tracks as it shut.
Saturday morning rehearsals were a total crap-shoot when it came to their mood, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Things seem to really be coming along for you guys,” A warm voice broke the tense silence of the dance room. She should’ve been more suspicious of Luke, trying to be nice so soon after Cate’s friendly advice, but something about Luke is disarming, in all the ways a pretty boy with a nice smile can be.
“It’s a lot of hard work, but that’s ballet, right?” She manages with a tired smile, untying her slippers and massaging her feet.
“You make it look easy,” He said warmly, and she couldn’t help but wonder what dance he’d been watching. How long had he been there?
“I don’t know about that,” She said, laughing awkwardly. “I- how are things coming along with you? For Mercutio, I mean.” The look that passed over his face was hard to read.
“Well. I mean, I’m getting pretty good at dying in ballet,” He made a show of collapsing to the floor, his arms held in a mockery of fifth position. She couldn’t keep from laughing at that, truly laughing. It felt like the first time in a week that she’d been able to take a deep breath. When she looked up, he was closer than she’d realized, blond hair slightly out of place. An easy smile pulling at his lips as he looked at her like she meant something. Like she belonged.
Looking back on this moment, it was so easy to see the manipulation. The way he played her so easily, like she was the winning move in a game of chess. But in the moment - everything he did, every move he made felt so genuine.
“Hey, I was meaning to ask. There’s a party at mine tonight - just a small get together, really, and I was wondering if you’d want to come?” He smiled at her like she’d be doing him a favor for going to his party.
“I mean, I have rehearsal in the morning...” She started hesitantly, the protest sounding weak in her own ears.
“It’s Friday. You think they’re staying in and watching HGTV?”
And how could she say no? If she was late or hungover tomorrow, Jordan could deal. She’d put up with worse from them in the past. And deep down, there was a part of her that wanted them to be there. That wanted them to see her in the dimly lit room, in a skirt too short, dancing in the way she can’t in the studio.
“Okay.” She said finally. A smile stretched across Luke’s face and he pushed himself off the studio floor with more grace than should be legal. He handed her his number, scrawled on a sticky note - complete with a smiley face.
“Text me for directions. See you soon, Ella!” She could feel a blush spreading up her neck, tinging her ears a pale pink to match her leotard.
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Severus Snape, Barty Crouch Jr., Rabastan Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange
Additional Tags: Muggel!Au, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Fluff, Mentor!Voldemort, Teacher-Student Relationship
Summary:
Harry’s dream of becoming a dancer seems unattainable. The high costs of lessons and his strict relatives hamper his ability to develop his talents properly. Nonetheless, he persists, trying to dance whenever he can. Until he catches the eye of Tom Riddle, a professional dancer, better known by his stage name, Voldemort.
Long has Voldemort searched for someone who can match him on the stage, who he can teach and cultivate to become his successor. But maybe this little runt, who has some promise, could be the one… someday. If only he would show up to training a bit more, he could shape him into a dancer like the world has never seen before.
