We really couldn’t get over what a thrill it was to watch the Australian Ballet’s company class on World Ballet Day. We’ll be up early tomorrow to tweet along with the National Ballet of Canada’s barre as well! Time to roll out and start that floor barre.
Good night, dancers. And enjoy the rest of World Ballet Day!
Calum Hood AU: You and calum have been bestfriends for years and recently you were accepted into the Australian Ballet Company, a massive shock to you but an even bigger shock to Calum as he thought you were just one of the boys.
NOT MY GIFS BUT I DID THE EDIT &&&& CREDIT TO OWNERS :)
Sarah Murdoch with ballet class. Photograph by Steven Chee for Vogue Australia, August 2014.
“Rocha dress, $4,710. On right arm, Sarah’s own bracelet. On left arm, Tiffany & Co. bracelet, $12,900.” Murdoch was appointed International Ambassador of the Australian Ballet Company in 2004 and joined The Australian Ballet Board of Directors in 2006.
Hi @ashadeofpemberley! I’m so excited to finally reveal myself as your Secret Santa and to present your gift.Your prompt ended up being a wonderful title, so thank you so much. I really hope you enjoy this Rumbelle Nutcracker story with a healthy side of Swanfire goodness. Merry Christmas, my dear!
Title: Find Me Tomorrow Rating: M (PG-13) Prompt: Nutcracker; Curse; Find me tomorrow. Summary: Ballet instructor and Nutcracker enthusiast Belle French has a terrible
crush on bitter divorcé Christian Gold. If only she could get him to
acknowledge her existence. When a mysterious blizzard and power outage
strand them in the Storybrooke Community Theatre along with Gold’s son
and star ballet student Emma Nolan, Gold and Belle discover that
appearances aren’t always what they seem. Will spending the night in a
dark theatre lead them to the Christmas miracle everyone’s been
searching for? Word Count: 10,880
“Pop, come on. It’s time to go now,” Baeden Gold announced, jangling the car keys in front of his father’s nose.
his dark head bent over his workbench and brow furrowed in
concentration, Christian Gold gave no indication that he’d heard a
single sound. Working away, he muttered to himself as though he was
alone in the shop.
A stranger or casual acquaintance might
consider the possibility that Gold really hadn’t heard, but Bae knew
better. His father had the sharpest senses of any man he’d ever met.
“Pop. Please.” Bae released the thoroughly exasperated sigh of a
16-year-old teenage boy. “I know what you’re doing.”
replied absently, refusing to avert his eyes from the antique vase he
was restoring. Perhaps if he stubbornly continued working he could avoid
going to the dance studio. Avoid seeing her.
“Emma’s counting on me, Pop,” Bae reminded him. “Counting on us.
We promised to pick her up from ballet practice and I really want to
watch her dance for a few minutes tonight. The ballet is on Friday—only
three days away!”
“I just need to finish this,” Gold stalled, but
even as the words left his mouth, guilt washed over him. He scowled,
hating the knowledge that Bae was right. Damnable conscience. For most
of the year he could and would just ignore it, but Christmas was upon
them, and even a Scrooge such as he relented in the spirit of the
In just a few days Emma would be performing in
Storybrooke’s rendition of one of Tchaikovsky’s most celebrated
compositions, The Nutcracker. Gold hated dancing, hated community
activities, hated anything that drew him out of his shop and among other
people. But he loved his son and he was fond of Emma Nolan. Baeden was
in another stratosphere of excitement for his girlfriend, and that meant
that Gold would grit his teeth and suffer in silence.
acknowledge the lame excuse, Bae said nothing, just continued to bore
holes into the top of his dad’s brown and grey streaked head.
the weight of that disapproving gaze, Christian groaned inwardly and
forced himself to look into his son’s hopeful visage. He placed the
half-finished Regency vase carefully on the bench. “All right,” he
relented. “I’ll get my coat.”
Relief flooded Bae’s face, the tension melting away into a bright smile. “Thank you, Pop.”
yes,” Christian grumbled, sliding into his greatcoat. “Oh! I almost
forgot.” Gold walked through the parted curtains separating the back of
the shop from the front and snapped open a display case. “Here, I
thought you might like to give this to Emma. An early Christmas present
or good luck with the ballet. Whatever you like.”
Baeden accepted the gift—an incredible hand painted wooden Nutcracker.
Festooned in a cheerful red coat, matching hat, blue belt, and shiny
black boots, the Nutcracker was the very picture of holiday cheer.
Beautiful dark eyes framed his face and his shoulder length hair was
dark and soft to the touch. “Wow, thanks, Pop! Did you fix this
yourself? It looks brand new. Emma’s going to love it!”
beamed at his son, pride in making his boy happy swelling his chest.
Yes, the many hours he had spent restoring the figurine were worth it to
see that expression on Bae’s face.
Peering closely at the wooden
solider, Bae stroked a finger down the smooth grain of its cheek. He
shuddered, then glanced at his father’s face. How strange. The
Nutcracker bore his father’s likeness.
“Hey, Pop? This Nutcracker looks a bit like you.”
Gold examined the majestic, brave figurine and snorted before wrapping
it in tissue paper and tucking it into a gift bag. Never had he looked
so proud and regal. “I think you’re imagining things, son. Come on.
You’re going to be late to meet your wee sweetheart.”
“You know,” Bae said casually, casting a sideways glance at his father as they walked to the car, “Miss French will be there.”
much for his not-terrible mood, Gold thought sourly as he impatiently
thumped his cane on the asphalt. “Why should I care? I mean, of course
she’ll be there; it’s her studio,” he amended quickly, giving a
disinterested sniff for good measure. “Between the ballet school, the
library, and the music classes she organizes, that woman is a walking
Fine Arts department. I doubt she eats, sleeps, or has any sort of
And that makes her different from you because? The voice in Gold’s head mocked him. Oh,
that’s right. You’re nothing but an ornery old cripple who can’t dance.
Belle French is a young, beautiful, vibrant, graceful woman adored by
the entire community.
“Shut up,” he commanded his brain.
“What?” Bae asked.
“Nothing.” Fantastic. Now he was yammering to himself like a daft lunatic in front of Bae.