story qday x5d

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Posts tagged swing dance

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storyqdayx5d: Taken with Instagram The right partner makes a world of difference in swing dancing. Any dancing, really, you suppose, but swing is your favorite. It’s probably the clothes, you think. You appreciate his fedora, the crisp, clean lines of his button down, the way he leaves the top button of his vest undone, the tie he favors, incongruously printed with yellow smiley faces and completely at odds with the pale grey of his vest and his black pants. You’re dressed to the nines yourself. You never feel prettier than when you’re wearing your royal blue dress, the one with the full and flowing skirt. He spins you and it flies out like the bell-petals of a flower. There are scuffs in the wood from your kitten heels. Leopard print. He can dance anything. When you danced the salsa with him, it was hard not to stare at the way the boy moved his hips. “Eyes up!” he’d murmured into your neck, his tongue darting out to taste the sweat and salt there. Your eyes snapped up obediently. He wasn’t smiling with his mouth, but you could see laughter clear and bright as day on his face. He was already catching you and righting you and spinning you out again because you’d stumbled. You avenged yourself this indignity during the bachata, at the end of which he all but hauled you out the door. His tango, of course, made you tremble. But when he swing dances, he’s in his element. He’s all long limbs: the most handsome, giddy scarecrow you’ve ever met. He kicks his right leg out and you see a flash of white and shiny black leather. He leaps and clicks his heels. You mirror his movements. You play leap frog, you caper. He guides you with slight presses of his fingers. He traps you in a cage made of his arms, walks you side ways, triple step, triple step, shimmying. He releases you only as far as an arm’s length away. He calls you back. You whip around him like an errant car in an amusement park ride. He tugs the fingers of your left hand and you spin tightly three times around him, orbiting. Your arms make a bridge for the two of you to slip under. Louis warbles and growls into the microphone and he throws his head back and laughs. He stomps, claps, snaps, freezes. He kicks out his legs and you hop over them. He spins you like a sling shot and your hair whips the dancers surrounding you. He picks you up by the waist as if you’re made of nothing but air and your legs kick to the right, the left, and you slide on your back between his legs, springing up, swinging, and he spins you again. Swing is joy, and it is his dance and yours.

storyqdayx5d:

Taken with Instagram

The right partner makes a world of difference in swing dancing. Any dancing, really, you suppose, but swing is your favorite. It’s probably the clothes, you think. You appreciate his fedora, the crisp, clean lines of his button down, the way he leaves the top button of his vest undone, the tie he favors, incongruously printed with yellow smiley faces and completely at odds with the pale grey of his vest and his black pants.

You’re dressed to the nines yourself. You never feel prettier than when you’re wearing your royal blue dress, the one with the full and flowing skirt. He spins you and it flies out like the bell-petals of a flower. There are scuffs in the wood from your kitten heels. Leopard print.

He can dance anything. When you danced the salsa with him, it was hard not to stare at the way the boy moved his hips. “Eyes up!” he’d murmured into your neck, his tongue darting out to taste the sweat and salt there. Your eyes snapped up obediently. He wasn’t smiling with his mouth, but you could see laughter clear and bright as day on his face. He was already catching you and righting you and spinning you out again because you’d stumbled.

You avenged yourself this indignity during the bachata, at the end of which he all but hauled you out the door.

His tango, of course, made you tremble.

But when he swing dances, he’s in his element. He’s all long limbs: the most handsome, giddy scarecrow you’ve ever met. He kicks his right leg out and you see a flash of white and shiny black leather. He leaps and clicks his heels. You mirror his movements. You play leap frog, you caper.

He guides you with slight presses of his fingers. He traps you in a cage made of his arms, walks you side ways, triple step, triple step, shimmying. He releases you only as far as an arm’s length away. He calls you back. You whip around him like an errant car in an amusement park ride. He tugs the fingers of your left hand and you spin tightly three times around him, orbiting. Your arms make a bridge for the two of you to slip under.

Louis warbles and growls into the microphone and he throws his head back and laughs. He stomps, claps, snaps, freezes. He kicks out his legs and you hop over them. He spins you like a sling shot and your hair whips the dancers surrounding you. He picks you up by the waist as if you’re made of nothing but air and your legs kick to the right, the left, and you slide on your back between his legs, springing up, swinging, and he spins you again.

Swing is joy, and it is his dance and yours.

Filed under for nympheline swing dance texas i mean you KNOW he-who-shall-remain-nameless would totally kill it at swing dancing boy was made for it shameless rpf nympheline