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Post by WESTLEY SAGE HUNTER on Apr 1, 2012 4:38:51 GMT -5
Despite spring's best efforts, the chill of winter still clung to the land, the brisk wind seeping through the layers of the tent and cooling the only current occupant despite the many layers he'd donned. West had been with the circus since he'd passed his nursing degree, the past couple of years having flown by just like the many cities as they travelled over the country. Truth be told, he was quite content to be staying put for a little while, especially so close to a city like New York. Whilst here he might even break his own tradition and leave the circus to actually step foot among the more normal of people in society.
Sat in one of the few chairs scattered around the medical tent, West rested his chin on the heel of his palm, his eyes slowly scanning the area time and time again with a look of utmost boredom. The circus was a brilliant and wonderful place to come and work if you fancy the attraction and thrill that comes along with every showtime. Between shows though, when the visitors were few and far between and the accidents nigh on non-existent, well.. there wasn't exactly much to do for somebody like him. Not when his services were required upon at the drop of the hat if something did occur.
He doubted that 'I got bored' would be a liable excuse for not being easily found in his little tent.
With a loud sigh he leant back in his chair, the old legs creaking in protest as his body weight tested the back. One eyebrow raised minutely as it did, almost daring the thing to break beneath his weight. At least then he could scout the rest of the circus for a new chair. Not that he would, if anything he'd take up residency on one of the 'beds', or he'd clean around the tent all over again. West has a thing about dust, contamination through germs and of course disorganisation. It's why people wouldn't dare to move anything within the tent when he's around, his keen gaze will catch the culprit and he won't hold back in snapping at them with all the sharpness of his crisp British accent.
Long fingers fiddled with the hem of one of the sleeves of his white coat just seconds before both hands shot to his face, a loud and rather unbecoming sneeze suddenly shooting from his lithe frame. Needless to say the shock of the bodily function doubled when his chair gave way with a loud 'crack' and he tumbled unceremoniously onto his ass. With wide eyes and the resonating 'yip' of a scream of surprise still lingering the last thing he expected to see was the entrance to his tent to suddenly become occupied with somebody.. |
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Post by LACIE ANNE BELROSE on Apr 1, 2012 13:57:03 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] MAYBE I LIKE THIS ROLLERCOASTER, MAYBE IT KEEPS ME HIGH. WORDS: 850+ TAGGED FOR: chris w/ west NOTES hope you don't mind me jumping in here =P
She was dancing. Dancing as she always did with her mind off in another plain of existence while her body moved of its own sensuous accord. Day seven of rehearsals for a new routine their coordinator had concocted, and already Lacie felt she knew it all by heart. The music was a heady cloud of deep brass and honky-tonk piano, and as she wove between the chairs they'd added as props, she could feel the sound in her heeled toes. Egging her onward like a conductor calling his orchestra to action.
She held a hand out to one of the folding chairs in front of her, slid her legs around the bottom rung while her pelvis rolled slowly and her eyes glanced unblinkingly outward. Burlesque was all about the sleaze and the confidence. The ability to make a spectator feel a show were all for him and that he was thoroughly deserving of a woman's seduction. In Lacie's experience, very few of them truly were. The vast majority to frequent the Burlesque tent were horny old men not worth a single second of her time. But the circus was all about the revenue, and it was a dancer's job to keep those fat dogs coming back for more. Lacie fought a smirk at the thought as she dipped down in front of a fellow dancer and ran a knee between her thighs. All part of an honest day's work.
At last, the music died down, and their choreographer--a short, blonde woman who was incredibly flexible for a woman going on forty--started prattling on about some things a few of them would have to work on. Lacie's mind descended back to earth and she listened in with vague interest while leaning onto one of the battered folding chairs. It was strange how she'd moved from the life of an artist to a dancer in a matter of weeks. With little formal experience aside two years of ballet during primary school, she'd come seeking work here as a prop designer or the like. But her spontaneous bouts of dancing whenever suitable music arose had peers telling her she ought to try out for the Burlesque show, instead. Now, here she was on an entirely new and different path. Loving every second of it.
"Lacie. Help me bring these chairs backstage?" Giselle, a shapely brunette questioned quietly once the lecture from their instructor had concluded. "Oh, yeah, sure thing," Lacie replied folding up the chair in front of her and then circling the stage to gather a few others. Always best to complete the clean-up in as few trips as possible. She'd gotten four all bunched together and was pulling them backstage when Giselle shoved a few more chairs up behind her own. They clacked together noisily and Lacie suddenly felt a surge of pain in her fingers where the wood had crunched down on them. Blue-grey eyes grew wide and she hissed "Holy shit!" without even meaning to let the words slip. She let go of the chairs and sharply brought her hand up towards her mouth in an instinctual attempt to suck the pain away.
Immediately, Giselle started spouting apologies like a teapot, but Lacie ensured her it was nothing and that an assortment of wooden chairs surely couldn't do any real damage. Giselle, however, didn't think this a rational mindset and advised Lacie to swing by the medic tent on her way back to the hotel. Since her early teenage struggles with anorexia, she'd never been too fond of doctors. But now that her fingers were starting to develop a mottled blue shade, it probably wouldn't such a bad idea to see what they had to say.
With her right hand, she concluded the work of helping Giselle lug the chairs back into storage, and then wincingly changed from bejeweled bawdiness to a pair of black jeans and a PETA t-shirt she'd gotten from her vegetarian friend, Johnny. With a hasty goodbye to her fellow dancer, she went darting out towards the medic tent. Head bent slightly against a cool wind that had started to pick up over the course of the fading afternoon. It smelt like rain and she wasn't too keen on getting caught in a storm. The entire way, she kept her left hand held tightly to her side, hoping against hope she hadn't gone and broken her fingers in such a lame twist of circumstance. Unlike a skateboarding injury, or one sustained from a treacherous hiking expedition, there was nothing story-worthy of busting one's fingers between a sandwich of Burlesque props.
At the entrance to the medic tent, she heard a loud sneeze filter out from inside, closely followed by a sharp crack. Briskly, she swung into the tent in time to spot a young man thumping onto the floor with the split remains of a chair thrown about. "Whoa, are you alright?" Lacie questioned in surprise, stepping over to the other with an alert glimmer to her gaze. The faintest trace of a lopsided smile had seized the edges of her lips, but it wasn't a condescending grin by any means. "First my hand gets fucked by a chair, and now one screws you over too!" She pointed vaguely to her own black and blue digits and then held out her right palm in order to help the medic from the ground.
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