#furore.starter

[acidgems]

Jasper never fully woke up, he was always drifting in and out of some distant pipe dream, dissolving an orchestra of fantasies on his tongue like the tab of acid he’d been saving for a particularly rowdy Halloween. 'Don’t give a single fuck,’ was quickly becoming his sole mantra and thus his truest reality, he’d been free falling inside the gaps in the words like the syllables had created individual black holes just for his amusement. Never knew an abyss could feel like dipping your toes into such a warm pool. “Bro, really?” A sharp smack over the head crudely snapped him back to the task at hand -- carrying a lug of silver equipment across the main stage. “It’s just fuckin’ rehearsals, man, who gives?” Jasper groaned, making a point to clip his heels together like Billy Elliot as he shifted gears, if not just a little too rhythmically. “Any tips for the techs today, dancers? Tips out for the techs, please.”

[ncghtshifts]

Tongue stained artificial blue, it could be said that Monty wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to their surroundings - not that they’d admit that. If Monty were caught red-handed in the throes of crime, they’d somehow manage to spin tall tales about it until the blame were pointed elsewhere. Distracted by the YouTube video playing obnoxiously loudly from their phone, it didn’t take long before they were a person turned bulldozer, colliding with little grace into an innocent bystander, “Yo, the fuck -?” And right there, stuck to the person’s shirt, was the remainder of their lollipop, “Ah, fuck. Seriously? That’s my favourite flavour - you owe me a lolly. And no bullshit flavours, blue raspberry only, toots. I have a photographic memory, y’know.”

[blondcs]

status: open

her body aches. almost always does. she’s been warned about arthritis and osteoporosis since she was a child, scary words that reminded her of her grandmother and the stale scent of roses but she took the vitamins nonetheless and, when she made corps, the free massages, the team of nutritionists, the physical therapy. it’s her glute today, just one, maybe from a back attitude following an insufficient warmup or tensing weirdly during a frog stretch or spending too long on top last night. fingers dig against the muscle, pressing and kneading near her hip. “always feels better when someone else does it for you,” she quips around a sip of coconut water, a playful gleam in her eyes before full attention turns pointedly down to her ass. @furorestarters​

[maggotmouth]

setting:   one of the company’s rehearsal rooms, very early morning, like 4am. trigger warnings:   injury detail, blood, gore.    /    status:   open to anyone.

        alma’s restless. she’s a creature of impulse, flighty, rooted in her desires and possessed by whims, and free of the tasks that usually occupy her time ( sleep evades her and the clubs are tired repetitions of escapism ) she’s once again found herself in the studios, no one but the early-morning janitors to keep her company. despite her injury, the craft she once knew like the back of her hand never seems far away from the memory in her bones. first, second, pas assemblé, plié, brisé en arrière, plié, fouetté rond de jambe en tournant… it follows like a dream, a pulse in the muscles of her legs where warming up may have proven inadequate, feet en pointe when she feels the split of a nail and ‘fuck’ spritzes from her lips like a flame. “jesus, fucking, shit, fucker━” blood on satin ; an unholy mess of a thing, though it’s a mild inconvenience. bones are more difficult to mend than keratin. it’s only then, crumpled on the floorboards, yanking the slipper from her foot that she notices a figure at all, her head darting up catlike to clock their eyes.  “well, shit, don’t just stand there, why not make yourself useful?” not an official here to scorn her, as far as she can tell, but fuck if it hadn’t spooked her. “i could do with a plaster or three. first aid tin’s under the director’s desk. make that a gauze, actually.”

[girlshould]

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑  :  @furorestarters​ 

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 : auditorium 

           𝐀    𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘    𝐎𝐁𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒,    𝐀    𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘    𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃   sigh    escapes    his    lips,    hanging    his    head    back    in    a    dramatic    attempt    to    exude    total    and    utter    disappointment.    he    grabs    the    bright    red    megaphone    to    his    lips    and    clears    his    throat    to    prepare    for    his    tirade,    “    let’s    try    that    again    but    this    time    less    shit.    we’re    a    ballet    company    people,    not    a    farmer’s    market,    carry    yourselves    with    some    decorum    and    stop.    bumping.    into.    each.    other.    i    know    its    hard    since    you’re    all    touch    -    deprived     nepotism     infants    but    it    wouldn’t    hurt    to    try    !    ” 

[cannedstring]

        a little ways out, at a halfway point between her temp abode and l’academiae furorum, was a small circle of shops, an outdoor promenade, a common pitstop for many. most importantly for violetta, it was where she sourced her coconut cream latte, froth up to the brim with a sprinkling of nutmeg and no less than three shots of espresso. the lull of a morning smoke mixed with the kick from the drink brought her to what felt like a reasonable middle — depending on the day. sometimes, a shot of rum was needed. “ dude’s name’s something winded and tedious, like bartholomew or maximillian, which he has now resigned to as a power play, but it’s purely ‘cause ‘ bart ’...or ‘ max ’ made him feel tiny — total downer. it’s not about size, ” violetta drolls, watching the bald man — the object of her tale, through the café window. she rest her drink and then her arms on the already occupied standing table as she spoke; purposeful, since an audience was needed. “ between that and the fact that his wife is fucking the pool boy, which he can’t call her out on because he can’t do better, barty displaces his anger onto innocent baristas. ”  the man was flailing his arms in a dramatic fashion, spit sputtering as he pushed his drink onto the counter, likely demanding a re-do or a refund.  a sigh, and then sunglasses are pushed upward to rest on her head, revealing golden under-eye masks, as she peers beside her. “ what do you reckon bart does for a living ? ”  (  @furorestarters )

[tragicsbled]

 *     ⅋        —        enterfurore​          ❪         o     starter

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞:  some  empty  studio  in  the  company  𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞:  anyone

                                                  she’s   comfortable   surviving   in   the   silence.   a   childhood   forced   upon   into   it,    rather   let   it   consume   nataliya   conquered.   a   teenage   girl,   having   more   balls   than   an   entire   board   room   of   cold,   capitalist   soliders   ⸻   a    righteous   kick   in   the   teeth.   nataliya   is   yet   to   settle   into   the   new   position,   find   a   throne   to   call   her   own.   so   she   claims   a   studio   in   the   meantime,   paperwork   neatly   spread   out   over   the  piano   as   she   leaned   over   her   work.  ❛   it’s   rude   to   sneak   upon   a   lady.  ❜   nataliya   doesn’t   give   the   other   the   gift   of    her   gaze,   not   yet   at   least.  ❛   what   is   it   ⸻   you’re   interrupting.   ❜

[acidgems]

“Reckon you can tell a lot about someone judging by their chosen bev’.” Jasper’s gaze travelled the chunky lime stem of a microbrewer’s beer he was drinking labelled “Big Ole Cock” with a watercolour portrait of a winking cockerel keeping it company alongside. Replicating that same wink to their exasperated bartender, Jasper swivelled sharply on his stool, legs faintly kicking like a dandelion in the spring breeze so he could focus his attentions on the latest cowboy waltzing into Furore’s closest dive bar. In true Clint Eastwood fashion, Jasper squinted until any incoming rays of sunshine were obliterated. “What brings you to this shit hole on a Tuesday? Tell me your dirty excuses, I’ll tell you mine.” @furorestarters​

[ncghtshifts]

The first time Rosa had ever gone to a party, the room had been spinning uncontrollably by the time she got to her fourth beer. She gave the impression that she would spit in the face of ‘fun’, but on days like this, Rosa was grateful for the pub a mere block away from the company - even more so that she was a cheap date. However, eyes had been boring into her skull for the majority of her time there, her visible sneering and world-renowned death glare not even enough to scare away the boy who either didn’t have eyelids or simply didn’t believe in blinking, “Hi,” she greeted the bartender, unpleasant goosebumps the off-putting character gave her forgotten after a few more drinks and an hour had gone by, “can I get -?” As if her nightmares were coming to life, arms wrapped around her from behind. Rosa didn’t allow herself to immediately cringe, friends touchy enough she could pass the movement off for one of them, but her eyes landed on the man of the night, moments before they were all but bulging out of her head, “Ugh, no, not hi you,” Rosa scoffed, elbowing him away from her with one arm and reaching down the bar with the other. In one fluid movement, her hand was slipping into the closest one she could find, pulling her (hopeful) saviour to her side, “Can you, like, not be such a tool? I’m here with them. And they have a black belt and will totally kick your ass if you don’t lay off. Right?” she pressed, turning to the person she dragged into the situation with a desperate glance that screamed HELP. @furorestarters​

[tragicsbled]

    ♡        —        @furorestarters​          ❪         open   starter           .

where:  furore’s  fire  escape. with:  anyone  !

                                                𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄   𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓   𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃   sink   in   at   this   moment.   a   child   grown   to   the   sounds   of   lectures   of   the   hideous   things   cigarettes   does   to   a   body,   poisons   from   within   and   falters   god’s   perception   upon   thy   soul.   yet   the   gold   cross   that   hangs   around   romeo’s   neck   hums   with   his   breathing,   exhaling   precise   lines   of   smoke   into   london’s   cold   inhale,   a   half   empty   bottle   of   whiskey   kept   between   his   feet.   nothing   sinks   in,   he   feels   numb   (   possibly   from   the   cold,   but   blame   the   pleasure   of   such   minor   catholic   anarchy   gives   the   hubris   its   daily   kick,   make   up   for   lost   time   )   until   a   set   of   eyes   sends   a   chill   down   the   pianist’s   spine.   crouching   under   the   window,   there’s   no   hesitancy   to   annoy   karma   as   well.    ❛    you   can   either   join   me   or   bitch   to   the   directors   that   you   caught   me   here,    ❜    another   drag,   rolled   cuffs   fall   to   the   elbow,   ❛   i’ll   just   know   who   to   blame   when   i   suddenly   have   no   job.    ❜