#ah yeah i totally got jealous huh. i got nervous bc she laughed at some joke he made

[number-1-crush]

i am so attracted to her it is insane

[wri0thesley]

dfnjvngfb please be nice to me about this because it’s VERY self-indulgent and also very explicitly self-insert and not reader-insert, but . . . i wrote some nat/prosciutto inspired by an ask i saw about being a dance teacher. and i thought; hmm. i’ve always wanted to learn how to swing dance for that 50s repro life, and i bet prosciutto would be up for that-- 

is this a meet cute

[brief a/n: nat is a 23 year old opera student at a fancy italian conservatory. they left a while before studying bc opera singer’s voices mature and also christ the price, they had to save up. imagine this dress. prosciutto swing dances because he likes it and also he picks up older women with rich husbands and money to burn who’ll spoil him a bit, heaven knows la squadra doesn’t pay him enough. he’s amassed quite a bit of wealth just by being older women’s - and sometimes men’s - sugar baby, but he likes the dancing enough to carry on doing it. usignolo means songbird/nightingale]

You linger outside the studio’s building for a minute, trying to gather up the courage to go inside. Sure, this had seemed like a good idea last week when you’d seen a flyer on your conservatoire’s notice board, and considered how your International Studies Coordinator had suggested getting more involved in the local community. You’re pretty sure she’d intended for you to try bars, socialising with other people your age . . . but. Well. You’ve never really been one for loud clubs or thumping music.

So you’d taken a phone number and booked a place in the class and tried to ignore the pounding of anxiety in your throat every time you thought about actually making a social commitment in a country you’ve barely been in for a month. 

You bite your lip, wondering if you’re going to be overdressed. Sure, you’re used to being overdressed - being in a full face of makeup and neat heels and stockings in an eight-in-the-morning Music Theory class when your classmates look like the walking dead after a night enjoying Naples’ nightlife, but those are people who you see every day. Making a good impression on people you hope to be social with . . . that’s a totally different can of worms. 

Some people have hurried past you in full ballet garb; neat chignons, elegant lines, holding their canvas dance bags and shooting you curious glances. You’re not built to be a ballet dancer, you suppose; but then again, that’s not why you’re here. You check the time again. You’re five minutes early. 

Okay. Good impression. You’re not going to walk into the room ten minutes late. Maybe if you get in there early, you can seem like you belong. Ignoring the pounding in your stomach and the fact your nerves are begging you to turn back and forget this whole idea, you push into the building and make your way to the dance studio number you were told to come to. Your heels clack on the wooden floor - you’d done as much research as you could before coming here (always terrified of being out of step, or just doing things wrong), but you can’t shake the nagging anxiety that perhaps you’re going to be the sore thumb.

God, you hope you’re not a sore thumb in all the worst reasons, peeking into one of the windows of the other studios and seeing a line of willowy androgynous ballet dancers, stretching elegant limbs up to the ceiling and pointing toes of well-muscled lithe legs. You tug at your dress, nervous again of your curves and your general being.

You push open the door to Studio Number Seven.

. . . Well.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have worried about being overdressed. The other people in here wearing dresses are wearing nice floral prints and swing skirts and neat cardigans. Your own black dress seems a little somber in comparison (cheered up by one of your collection of 1950s embroidered brooches), but that’s not the thing you notice. 

The thing you notice is the silver hair, the glasses perched on noses, the crow’s feet and the indulgent smiles when they see you. 

You are certainly not going to be befriending peers, that’s for sure. 

The instructor herself only has about a decade on you, and you’re almost relieved to see that she’s wearing a cherry-printed dress with faux Bettie Page bangs. That’s more like your kind of people. She bounces up to you, neat and enthusiastic.

“You’re Nat, right?” She asks, smiling, and you find yourself smiling back. “I know you said you were a student, but I was still expecting someone . . .” She gestures vaguely at the room around her, and you can’t help but let some of the tension drain out of your shoulders. 

“Yeah,” you say, “I’m not sure what I was expecting.”

She laughs. 

“Well,” she says, “it’s a dying art, swing dancing! We should be glad that there are young people wanting to take it up. Do you have any experience at all? You’re certainly dressed the part!” She winks at you. “I love seeing the outfits, honestly - one of my favourite parts of teaching for sure!”

You shake your head. 

“Not in swing dance,” you say. “A little in ballet and tap, but I guess that’s . . . not a transferable skill, huh?” She claps your shoulder.

“It means you’ve got some rhythm in you,” she says. “Now, let me see -- ah! I have the perfect partner for you. He’ll give you a hand whilst you’re finding your feet--”

She turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd of students, and that’s when you see him for the first time. He’s taller than the rest of the elderly bowed students, stoop-shouldered - standing above them with a quantity of slicked back blond hair and cheekbones you could cut diamonds with, sharply tailored suit cut to show off a muscled chest. He sees you looking at him and he turns his gaze on you, blue eyes icy, sweeping across your form in a way that makes you avert your eyes and try not to be swallowed up by the studio floor. You see, from the corner of your eye, the smirk . . . and then you see the instructor come over to him, tug gently on his arm and speak softly under her breath.

You’re flustered as the instructor brings the handsome blond over to you, flush rising to your cheeks - seeing your reaction to him, the man shoots you a charming smile, revealing the slightest overbite and a gap in his teeth, and oh . . . that’s unfair. He inclines his head, a half bow, holding out one hand for you to take as the instructor nods.

“This is Armando,” she says to you. “I think he’ll be a wonderful partner, he’s been coming here for months and he’s such a good teacher, I should be paying him some of my salary!”

“Just because you’re such a good teacher, I’m sure,” the blond man says. He turns to you as the instructor shoots you a wink and moves away to go towards the front of the room. His eyes on you make you burn warm. You resist the urge to chew on your lip, looking up at him through lowered lashes. 

“Did she . . .” You nod towards the instructor, “partner us together because you’re closer in age to me than everyone else?” 

The man hums, a small smile on his handsome face, as you hesitantly take his hand. His fingers are soft and warm but self-assured as he moves closer, other hand landing on the curve of your waist. His aftershave smells woodsy and smoky and it’s all you can do to not breathe it in deeply. 

“Perhaps,” he remarks, voice soft and deep. “I am only sixty five.”

“You must have an amazing skincare routine.” 

He smirks.

“I do.”

The instructor claps her hands together at the front of the class and you both turn, but his hand doesn’t let go of yours and his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. From the corner of your eye, you see looks from the other women in the class that are obviously jealousy. You try to ignore it; it’s unusual, for you to be the one people are jealous of. It’s almost . . . nice.

Still. You’re trying to make friends, so you don’t gloat in it.

The instructor talks, moving across the room, gently correcting some people’s holds, talking animatedly. She pauses by you and Armando, but she nods and smiles instead of touching you. As you and he begin to move, slowly, he leans in closer.

“You know . . . my name,” he says (there’s a lingering impression that something about this statement makes him uncomfortable; it’s strange to hear him sound unsure when every inch of him oozes confidence and surety). “But I don’t know yours. What brings you to our jolly class?”

“Nat,” you say, “just . . . just Nat.” He tips his head, leaving the conversation open, his eyes utterly focused on you in a way that you’ve never really felt. He seems genuinely invested. “I’m an opera singer. A student, I mean. At . . . at the conservatorio?” 

“Ah,” he says, smiling. “A nightingale.”

You blush, and the hand on your waist tightens imperceptibly at the way your eyes flicker away from him in embarrassment at the sweet name.

“And the swing dance?” He asks, one eyebrow raised. “I mean . . . I’m not complaining, but as you can see . . .” He inclines his head at the other students. 

“I just . . . like the fifties. You know . . . elegant dresses, petticoats, the music . . . I’m not romanticising it or anything, but I just like that idealised idea of it, you know? A-anyway! What about you? Y-you don’t look like the type--”

“Touche,” he says, smiling softly, but he doesn’t say anything beyond that. 

You and he spend the rest of the lesson partnered together. He’s elegant, quick, smiling at you when you catch his eye amongst a whirl of petticoats and a breathless swell of the music. You know that you’re a little clumsy on your feet (you can’t help that! Not with a man like this so close to you, leaning down to murmur close to your face, holding onto your waist so firmly as if he doesn’t want to let you go). 

He murmurs things about some of the other students as he whirls you around, that make you laugh and widen your eyes and insist ‘no!’. Every time he gets a rise out of you, a response of flushed cheeks and giggles and demurely turned down eyes, he seems to get a little more intense on how he’s handling you.

You’re in a mess of a beating heart and short breath and pink cheeks by the time that the instructor calls time on the day’s class, and you feel like you’ve had a successful time. Sure, you didn’t mingle with anybody else but . . . Armando, but you’ve had a good time. You feel confident and excited at the prospect of next week’s lesson. Pulling away from him and straightening yourself out a little, you offer him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry if I wasn’t very good,” you say. “I’m . . . I’m not the most graceful.” You gesture down to the curves of your body, that often feel so ungainly and as if they’re taking up more space than you deserve to. “I guess you’ll go back to another partner next week, but thank you for helping--”

He quirks his lips, one eyebrow raised. 

“I don’t have to.” He says. “I’m perfectly content to partner you, you know. You were . . . Well.” He laughs, a little soft noise that you can tell from the look in his eyes isn’t intended to be at all mocking. “You were a pleasure to dance with, if we were off-beat plenty of the time.” He pauses. “And . . . if you want, I’d be more than happy to go over some things with you before next week’s session,” he says, his words easy, and your heart skips a beat. You’d worried that maybe he’d be annoyed by being paired off with someone who’s got no idea what they’re doing, by someone who looks like you when a man like that probably spends most of his time surrounded by people just as beautiful--

“Really?” You ask, blinking up at him. “I don’t want to be an imposition.”

His laugh is light again, his fingers gently dancing up your arm, a touch that’s intended - you’re sure - to be comforting, but that sends a frisson of electricity all through you.

“Oh, you won’t be. As long as you’re willing to indulge me with dinner first, bella.”

You know that your blood rushes to your face even beneath the powder and the makeup, and you know, too, that there’s no way he misses it. A smirk pulls at the corner of his full mouth, and you question whether you actually fell over and hit your head at some point and are now hallucinating. 

“Perhaps afterwards,” you tell him. “I don’t know if I could dance on a full stomach.”

He laughs, the noise low and smooth. You can feel jealous eyes on your back - and can you blame them? Look at him. 

“I didn’t say it would be dancing, did I?”

“I--” Your brain moves lightning fast, trying to get your brain to respond to him in kind, but he doesn’t give you time to think of something witty. The hand on your arm moves, dancing across your collarbone, brushing the vintage brooch, resting briefly on the full warmth of your cheek, tipping your face up to him. 

“Verpazza, Wednesday night, 9PM,” he says to you. You recognise the name of one of the more upscale restaurants you pass on your way to classes from your shitty rented room in the boarding house for international students, and you fight to stop your eyes widening. Your poor student budget certainly wouldn’t allow for such luxuries. “Ask for Prosciutto’s table if you’re there before me. I’ll take care of it.”

There’s something in his smile that suggests to you he loves the idea of taking care of things; that he’s getting a real thrill out of playing the knight in shining armour. Well. You’ve heard plenty of tell about Italian men (and plenty of horror stories from other people in your class) - but he seems . . . indulgent. Like he loves the idea of providing for someone.

“Like the ham?” You ask him, and a flicker of amusement passes over his face. “Is that your surname?”

A flash of something else in his eyes. You can’t quite name it - but you don’t fail to notice his eyes flicker, as if checking nobody else is listening. He tries to keep his voice easy.

“Mm. An unfortunate family name, and a name that’s stuck.” He winks at you. “You’ll never hear anybody outside of this room call me . . . Armando.” The name sounds wrong on his tongue, the slightest grimace following the syllables. Blue eyes turning icy, just for a moment. He pulls himself back, smiling at you again. “You can call me Prosh, if you want.”

“You don’t seem the nickname type.” He laughs.

“Mm. Well. . . I’d prefer to hear the full thing, but if it’s your voice, usignolo--”

You recognise the nickname and flush, warm. The smile he gives you is crooked and makes your toes curl in your heels, your entire body feel warm, your head feel light. Okay, you might not have made friendly connections . . . but you’ve certainly made some kind of connection. 

“Wednesday?” You ask him, again, wanting to really feel sure. You’ve been . . . stood up, plenty of times. Used as a joke. Your shoulders draw in imperceptibly, but Prosciutto - you try and reconcile calling him after the meat - tilts his head to the side.

“Your phone,” he says, holding out a hand. “Let me put my number in, and you can call it for proof. I’m perfectly serious, cara. I’m a man of my word.” He looks at you softly, hand on your waist, and gently helps guide you out of the studio. Most of the other dancers have left by now, and you can see the instructor glancing towards you and clearly waiting for you two to leave too so she can prepare for her next class. Pausing in the corridor, he looks down at you, face perfectly serious. “I don’t know who’s had the nerve to hurt you in the past . . . but I’m not that kind of person.” 

You bite your lip, and he shifts closer to you. He’s not incredibly tall, but you’re small enough that the height difference feels pronounced. The hand is soft when he tips your chin up, blue eyes meeting blue eyes. His own are half-lidded, drifting down to your lips (when you’d applied the dark red lipstick marketed as ‘kissproof’ this morning, you hadn’t thought that it was going to be something that was tested!). He leans into you and you find yourself unconsciously rising onto your tiptoes--

The kiss he gives you is almost chaste, save for the slightest nip at your lower lip (you think about the gap between his front teeth and feel like you’re going to melt). Your breath stutters against his, the taste of mint toothpaste and smoke and honey leaving a tingle upon your mouth. 

“I’m serious,” he breathes against you, pulling back. “Nine in the evening. Wear something pretty,” his eyes flicker down, caressing the curves of your body in a way that makes you warm all over. “. . . though I don’t doubt you will.”

[savetheblackpaladin]

I was driving today, and I imagined Hunk was teaching me, even though I already know how to drive and I don't know, maybe you can write something in which the paladins are teaching their s/o or something how to drive?? Or maybe they're just being really annoying about it lmao

This is adorable. And I feel you. When I have to drive on a long trip by myself I imagine I’m on a road trip with my fave characters and we dance like idiots to my music. Or all scream when there’s snow on the ground and my car turns into a metal death trap. Fun stuff!

Shiro + His Expedition:

“You…you don’t know how to drive? Nono, you’re fine! Yeah, I can teach you!”

what a sweet man. but you ain’t getting in his baby without your driver’s permit so tough shit

“Ok, so that’s the brake, that’s the gas. Both are a little touchy so press gentle ok? She’s an old girl. And that’s the blinker, please use it…”

he goes on and on about where things are. even going to far as to show you the radio and the ac/heater system even though you’re not allowed to touch either when driving

“Two hands on the wheel at all times. Ten and 2 o’ clock are where your hands should always be.”

yes mom

Seems calm and collected all the way until the point where you turn the car on. Then he realizes that he is in fact in a very large car, that you don’t know how to drive, that’s not really beginner friendly.

“Slowly…slowly…slow-THIS ISN’T SLOWLY!”

“Shiro, I haven’t even touched the gas. We’re just rolling…”

“…Right! Good job! Let’s just uh, let’s test out those brakes! They are you’re best friend.” *awkward smile*

he’s pretty sure his white patch has grown by the time you finally drive home

“So, can I try again tomorrow?”

*sweats nervously* “Ye-ah, sure. Totally okay! No problemo! Excellente! Okie dokie, artichokie!”

“I wasn’t even that bad!”

“I know, I’m sorry!”

it takes a few times, but eventually he loosens up enough to let you have fun with Black and kinda enjoys not having to always be the one to drive

Hunk + His Truck, Butter:

“Awww, babe. Can you drive? I’m ti~ired….What do you mean you can’t drive? Huh, ok, can’t believe I didn’t notice. We’re changing that tomorrow, it’s like a…uhm, what the word here, a rite of passage!”

please be careful with Butter, she’s his baby and and a classic

“Ok, so this girl is a manual. There’s your clutch and here’s the shifter, don’t get the brake and gas confused with the clutch. Please.”

really chill about you driving his car, but not quite ready to have you leave the parking lot quite yet. might take you out of the city for a bit, maybe drive around on some dirt roads

“You’re doing awesome! Ok, so get a little loose now, you don’t need to keep both hands on the wheel and stick unless you’re in a tense situation. Keep relaxed, let Butter do the talking, you just listen to her.”

“Nice park job, but let’s try making it in one go this time.”

Might be a little nervous when you get out on the road though

“Ok, you’re a little close to the right line, let’s move a little ove–TOO FAR OH MY GOD!”

“Let’s try easing on the brakes ok? I’m getting nauseous.”

He stops at parallel parking

“STOP! Stopstopstop! You’re gonna hit that truck! Ok–whew, breathe Hunk, breathe.” His eyes are closed and he looks like he’s struggling to remain calm.

“Did-did I do bad?” You’re nervous but luckily there’s no traffic around to see you half out of your spot.

“Not…bad,” he opens one eye to peek at you, “just…we’ll practice more later. I can’t take much more. Let’s find a different spot.”

You feel your stomach drop, “Oh…yeah, sure.”

“Hey now,” he reaches over to squeeze your shoulder, “It’s alright. You’re still learning. Keep that cute chin up!”

still the main driver but some days, when he’s just too tired, he’s really glad that he taught you. Totally worth the week of indigestion.

Lance + His Camry:

is absolutely ecstatic when he finds out you can’t drive

bc 1. it’s adorable for some reason?

and 2. he gets to pass on his skillz

also he’s got a perfect training car. Camry’s are freaking tanks and never die Heroes never die

“Go ahead, start her!” He waits with a shit-eating grin because his car is a sensitive lady and usually doesn’t start for anyone but him and Hunk.

But she starts right away, even easier than she does for him.

he’s not jealous

nope

no way

ok fine, he’s a little jealous

“So before we put her in gear, what exactly do you know about driving? Because I don’t want to treat you like an idiot or something.”

Luckily the Camry is an automatic so Lance is pretty unconcerned with taking you immediately out into the road

he’s got so much trust in you

“Yeah, getting her into drive is a little tricky. You’ll miss it the first time and slip straight into second. Just give her a little bump back into drive. Perfect!”

high five!

might have forgotten to put his seatbelt on and when you first used the brakes he went flying into the dash

“That one is on me. Rule numero uno: seatbelt.” Satisfied he’s not bleeding he continues, “Let’s just be a little lighter on the breaks. You wanna lightly press down and continue pressing down slowly towards the floor until you stop. Just one lo~ong, slow, good push.”

“Was…was that a sex joke?”

“It was bad wasn’t it? Sorry.”

Makes you practice parking next to other bad park jobs, just so you get a feel for how the Camry handles

“I think I’m gonna hit that car.”

“Naw babe, you still have a couple of inches. Let it roll….ok, now stop. Back up a bit but turn the wheel all the way in the opposite direction. Stop. Now you can slide all the way in.” *eyebrow waggle*

“Please stop using those words.”

He’s really soft and excellent at explaining what you need to do and surprisingly, he doesn’t panic.

Only grabs the wheel once when you were coming off the highway and the turn ramp was turning harder than you were and he needed to stop you from running off the road

Afterwards explains that it was all good and that he is in no way disappointed or scared about your driving skills. Turns are scary sometimes.

Now he just tosses you the keys when he doesn’t want to drive. He likes being able to do that. Sometimes, a boy just wants to gaze forlornly out a rainy window while driving to Del Taco.

Keith + His Motorcycle:

“You…wanna learn to ride a bike? Uh yeah, I can-I can do that.”

He nervous. How does one teach a person to ride a motorcycle?

Decides the best way is to sit behind you so he can yell directions or quickly take over if necessary

also, now he gets to wrap his arms around you

“You can ride a bicycle right? I don’t have to worry about you falling over?”

Has you sit on it first with the kickstand down, pointing out the hand clutch, the throttle, the gear shifter by your left foot, the brake by your right

“Rule of thumb: the left side changes gears, the right changes speed. I know it’s weird, but we’ll get it!” 

He’s so sincere about teaching you but honestly? He thinks it’s really hot to see you on his bike.

Looks bored the whole time but he’s trying to remain as neutral as possible, so he doesn’t scare you or something with his over-eagerness

“Keith, I can’t tell if I’m doing okay or not.”

“You’re doing great. You’re a natural.”

“Can you say that with feeling???? I’m getting mixed messages here.”

getting balanced is the hardest part

He’s doing his best to let you catch the bike but he can’t resist long

keeps his feet just off the ground but still straight out so he’s the one keeping you from falling over

his excuse is that he has stronger legs, not that he thinks your gonna drop Red or anything (it’s his biggest fear rn)

Finds a nice parking lot to practice in 

doesn’t have you go fast at all, just kinda put-putting along, getting a feel for the shifter

realizes that he’s probably a hindrance on the back but he’s scared you’ll fall over or off or somehow zoom too fast and crash

he needs to be close enough to just turn it off

lets you control the turns, working as a counter weight

his heart is in his throat now because you both could very easily topple over

he doesn’t want you hurt or scared to be on his bike because of one tumble

also he doesn’t want to have to buff Red out, because he will

but he gets bored easily. The moment you are able to stop it in second and drop it down to neutral he’s taking you on the road

nothing major though, you take the back streets home

probably won’t offer to let you drive. Red is his girl. But if you ask nicely, he’ll let you take the reins.

low-key is keeping an eye out for cheaper bikes he can fix up for you

Pidge + Her Prius:

“Yeah, no, you’re not going another second without knowing how to drive. Strap in loser, you’re getting the crash course.”

Ok, so Prius’ are weird but that’s half the fun!

“Guess where you put the key?” She’s got a shit-eating grin too. This gremlin.

“Th-there’s no key? I don’t...Pidge what do I do?”

“Oh don’t pout, you know it’s my weakness. See that hole in the dash? Put the fob in it and press start.”

“Seriously. I press start? Am I playing Nintendo or something?”

She snorts, “It’s exactly like that! Ok ok, so now it’s on.”

“You sure? Because I didn’t feel it turn on.”

“You doubting me?”

She also laughs when you see the shifter. It’s a freaking knob on the dash. Also, you press the park button to get into park???

WHAT THE HELL IS A PRIUS

“Ok so, the windows are tiny as hell in here. You gotta twist around to see where other people are while you’re moving. We got a clear road, go ahead and practice checking your blind spot.”

Might get a little nauseous during this part. You keep over correcting and swerving back into your lane.

“Ok, let’s just...take it easy...we can just chill in the right lane all the way to Jamba Juice. I don’t care how much slower it is.”

Fucks with you just once

You’re at a four-way stop and it’s about your turn when she reaches over and presses the power button, causing it to immediately die

She’s cackling because you can’t get it to turn back on and the other car is waiting for you to go

eventually they do and you’re yelling at Pidge who thinks this is hilarious

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist doing it at least once. Just put it back into park and then you can restart it.”

“Jokes aside babe, you’re doing great. I almost feel like I’m not about to die.”

doesn’t mind you driving now. but she does not like it when big trucks and semis get close while she’s a passenger. She so smol and so scared

she needs to be in control

she drives on freeways and highways. she can suffer in the city