#duet routine

[jd-gifs]

Majesty by Apashe ft. Waisu || Just Dance 2023

[cryptid-on-a-string]

Ok but did YOUR synchronized swimming team qualify for state yet again ?? 🤔🤔⁉️⁉️⁉️💥💥🤨🤨🤨🤨

[cuntyromero]

KATE AND IZZY SILVER MEDAL!!!!!

[projectcatzo]

It is ironic that once they finally added Just Dance the song into an actual Just Dance game they a.) unceremoniously included it in a random yearly entry (2014) and b.) made it bad

[bestosunglass]

K, small HC moment of this AU. During their early years of established friendship, not yet a marriage, Vox spent his hours working on his plans for his future company, or simply out of a desire to relax, in Alastor's office where he broadcast his Radio show for silent companionship.

Alastor is a man of music, a man of jazz, a man of smooth melodies, so it was not at all a surprise to find a number of considerable musical instruments inside his office, much less when Alastor wasn't torturing victims for his show, he was offering long and pleasant segments of music. It was on one of those days that Al invited him to play the piano he had seen him ogle several times, and that little invitation quickly turned into a very personal ritual for the two of them, a very emotional tradition for both of them, the making of a melodic duet; Vox on piano and Alastor on vocals.

After some time at the hotel, some residents noticed his little penchant for playing the piano. It didn't take him long to invite Charlie and Angel, two residents he is most fond of and watches over the most, to observe one of his routines, and out of obligation, Nifty as well.

It is at that moment that he knows he has really gotten attached to the hotel.

[the-bottom-of-my-bucket]

I love how me and my roommate easily influence each other and just roll with all our odd quirks

[jd-gifs]

Danger! High Voltage by Electric Six || Just Dance 2023

Requested by @ssstarlighttt!

[straw-berrysoju]

Studio Heat (18+)

Pairing: Lee Jeno x Female Reader

Synopsis: YN and Jeno are both friends from the same friend group and part of the same dance club but never that close. That's until they are paired together for a dance routine which turns out to be more intimate than what you'd consider safe. During the late night practice sessions in an empty studio things take a wild turn when an 'accidental touch' unravels their desires.

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Genre: Smut, slight friends-to-lust, dance practice tension, accidental stimulation, sexual tension

Word Count: \~4.1k

Warnings: Public setting (empty studio), filthy language, oral (f receiving), rough sex, fingering, choking, spanking, degradation, mild hair pulling, mirror sex, dominance/power play, overstimulation, possessiveness

_______________________________________________________

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

You and Jeno were never that close. Friends, technically—part of the same group—but there was always a space between you two. A line neither of you crossed.

Until dance club paired you for a duet. Something sharp and hot. Intense.

You’d agreed. Of course you had. He was good—really good—and you weren’t about to let some mild tension get in the way of performing. But dancing with Jeno meant touching Jeno. A lot. And touching him meant… noticing.

The way his hands flexed when he gripped your waist.

The way he always licked his bottom lip when the music started.

The way he smelled—clean sweat and something deeper, darker.

And the way he looked at you in the mirror. Always through the mirror.

You weren’t sure when it started feeling like foreplay.

But tonight, it all breaks.

The studio is dim and empty, save for the two of you. The mirrors stretch endlessly, reflecting you back at yourselves—sweaty, out of breath, worn out from hours of practice

“This lift still isn’t hitting right,” he mutters, running a hand through his damp hair.

You sigh. “It’s probably me. I’m not getting the angle.”

He moves behind you. “Let’s run it again.”

You nod. You know the count by heart.

He steps in. Grips your waist.

And lifts.

Your thighs hover in the air, perfectly framed around his head—his face just beneath the waistband of your shorts. His grip is tight, strong.

But his foot slips.

And suddenly—his face is right there.

Pressed between your thighs.

And he stays.

Just for a second too long.

His breath fans your inner thigh, hot and sharp, and then—he inhales.

And you moan.

Not soft. Not subtle. A broken, filthy sound you can’t swallow back.

His grip tightens.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t make a joke or even pretend to reset. He just… stays there, breathing you in, face pressed so close you’re sure he can smell just how wet you are.

And then he lowers you.

You hit the floor on shaky legs, face flushed, heart thundering in your chest.

Neither of you says a word.

Neither of you dares.

You reset. Try to play it off. Run the routine again. Go through the motions.

But every time he touches you now, it lingers. His palm on your hip. His fingers brushing the edge of your sports bra. His hand trailing too low on your back.

And you… you stop pulling away.

You even lean in once.

The track ends.

There’s silence.

He exhales through his nose. “You moaned.”

You whip around. “You sniffed me.”

“I was trying to catch you.”

“You fucking stayed there, Jeno. Your face was in my pussy and you didn’t move.”

He stalks toward you.

You don’t back up.

“You liked it,” he mutters.

Your breath hitches. “So what if I did?”

His jaw clenches. “You want me to do it again?”

You glare. “You don’t have the balls.”

That breaks him.

He grabs your wrist, yanks you into him, and slams your back against the mirror. The cool glass bites your spine.

“Wanna bet?” he growls.

Then his mouth crashes into yours—hot, wild, desperate. His tongue slides deep. You moan, grinding against him, and he growls into your mouth.

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you stare at my hands?” he breathes, trailing one down between your legs. “You’ve been wanting this. Walking around in those fucking shorts like you’re begging me to snap.”

“You’re not special,” you snap back, panting. “Just another cock I could’ve sat on.”

He slams his thigh between your legs. “Then ride it.”

You do. Instinctively. Grinding on his thigh, humping it like you’re in heat.

“You’re so dirty,” he groans. “You get off that easy? Just a little friction?”

“Fucking shut up,” you gasp, chasing the drag of his thigh on your clit.

“Make me.”

You crash your lips into his again, biting, messy. His hand tangles in your hair, yanks it back so you’re exposed—mouth open, neck bared.

He licks a stripe up your throat. “Bet you taste good everywhere.”

Then—he drops to his knees.

You barely register it before he yanks your shorts and panties down in one motion and devours you.

His mouth is obscene. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, teeth grazing until your knees buckle. You moan loud, tugging his hair as your hips buck against his face.

“Fuck—Jeno—fuck—”

He moans against your pussy like he’s addicted, eating you like it’s his last fucking meal.

When you cum, it’s explosive. Your thighs quake, your body collapses forward, and he holds you there—tongue lapping up every drop like a goddamn reward.

When he stands, his chin is glistening. His eyes are feral.

“Turn around,” he commands.

You obey.

He rips the rest of your clothes off, like he’s starving. Then you hear the sound of his sweats dropping. A condom tearing open.

“Mirror,” he snaps. “I want you to watch.”

You lock eyes with yourself just as he slams into you from behind—and screams rip from your throat.

“Fucking tight,” he groans. “This pussy was made for me.”

He grips your hips, pounding into you hard, the mirror shaking with every thrust. Your tits bounce, your jaw drops, your moans fill the room.

“Look at you,” he snarls, voice right in your ear. “A filthy little slut getting railed in the studio.”

“F-fuck—Jeno—!”

He wraps a hand around your throat and pulls you back onto his cock.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say you’re my slut.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m your slut—I’m yours—”

He slaps your ass so hard you yelp. Then does it again.

“You like getting fucked like this? In front of a mirror like a porn star?”

You nod, gasping, broken. “Yes—yes, I love it—”

He laughs, dark. “Fucking knew it. Knew you were hiding this under that fake little good girl act.”

He grabs your hair, yanks your head back, and spits in your mouth.

You swallow it.

He moans. “Oh fuck. You’re fucking disgusting.”

You grin through the tears. “You love it.”

“Damn right I do.”

He pulls out and the loss of his heat makes you whimper immediately.

“On your knees.”

You drop immediately, taking him into your mouth—swollen and dripping from your cunt. You gag around him, tears streaming as he fucks your face slow and deep.

“Look up,” he pants. “Eyes on me.”

You meet his gaze, moaning around his length.

He pulls out just before he cums, hauls you up, spins you again, and slams back in. This time harder. Deeper. Faster.

“Gonna cum inside this pretty pussy,” he growls. “Wanna watch your hole suck me dry.”

Your orgasm hits hard��your walls clamp around him, a scream tearing from your throat.

“Fuck—Jeno—!”

He moans your name as he spills into the condom, burying himself deep and holding you there.

The room falls silent.

Only gasps. Shudders. Sweat.

He slowly pulls out. You collapse to your knees.

He kneels in front of you. Lifts your chin.

His lips brush yours—gentler, this time.

“You gonna ignore me again tomorrow?” he murmurs.

You grin. “Not if you promise to fuck me stupid again.”

He smirks.

“Studio. Same time. Don’t wear panties.”

_______________________________________________________

Author's note: y'all don't understand how badly I crave this man please god just fulfill this one wish please uhhmmm anyway haha hope y'all like it. I have too many smuts in my draft and what for????? i never thought I'd be posting them but I guess a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do

[cryptid-on-a-string]

yall today was synchronzied swimming sections and i got such fucking good scores on my solo routine!!!!! holy shit!!!!! the theme was rocky horror and im really proud of it <3 im so fucking happy i won two ribbons as well <3

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you are nothing short of everything

It started on a Tuesday.

Paige hadn’t meant to stop. She’d only been cutting through the west wing of the student center to get to the library faster. That shortcut had never led her anywhere interesting before—just past a few empty classrooms and the occasional music practice room. But that day, as her sneakers squeaked across the linoleum floor, she caught the faintest sound of singing.

Not the kind you’d hear through a phone or headphones someone forgot to mute. It was live. Pure. Like honey in tea.

She slowed, head tilting. The notes floated through the cracked door, spilling like light onto the floor. A soft voice, low and aching, wrapped around the lyrics like it was holding something close. Paige’s hand paused on the strap of her backpack. Her heartbeat slowed.

She didn’t recognize the words, didn’t even try to. She just listened. Maybe a minute. Maybe three. Long enough for her chest to feel tight in a way she couldn’t explain. And then—just as suddenly—she left. Shaking it off. She had things to do. Conditioning at four. Film at six.

But the voice stayed.

It happened again. Two days later. Same hallway. Different song.

Again. 

And again.

It became routine. Paige would find herself lingering, walking a little slower when she reached that stretch of floor. Sometimes she’d stop completely, standing still like an idiot with her ear tilted just enough toward the door.

She never peeked in. That felt too personal, too much like crossing a line. She didn’t want to know what the singer looked like. Not yet. There was something sacred about the not-knowing.

The voice didn’t just sing—it felt. Like it lived every word.

She started timing her library trips around it.

Azzi nudged her shoulder one day at the dining hall. “You’ve been real quiet this week. What’s going on in that deep brooding brain of yours?”

“Nothing,” Paige mumbled.

“Liar,” KK chimed in, tossing a grape at her.

Aubrey raised a brow but didn’t press. She never did. She just watched Paige like she already knew.

Paige didn’t say it, didn’t want to explain why her chest ached a little every time she walked away from that hallway. Why she kept hearing the same voice when she lay in bed at night, headphones in but volume off, trying to match it in her head.

She didn’t even know the girl’s name.

The open mic night wasn’t her idea.

Azzi found the flyer. “It’s across town. Cute cafe vibe. Candlelight. Coffee. Poetry. Music. Let’s go.”

KK looked at her like she was insane. “You lost me at poetry.”

“You can just sip your overpriced matcha and be hot in the corner,” Azzi said, batting her lashes. “C’mon. It’s Friday. No practice tomorrow.”

Even Aubrey nodded. “Might be fun.”

Paige didn’t argue. She had no reason to. A night out would be good. Distract her. Maybe even help her forget.

The place was packed.

Paige slouched in her seat, hoodie half-zipped, sipping a lukewarm vanilla latte KK swore she’d love. The lights were low, the stage small and intimate. People performed slam poetry, a jazz duet, and someone recited something about the moon and loneliness.

Paige’s attention drifted in and out. Nothing gripped her.

Until she heard it.

The first note.

She straightened. Her latte almost slipped.

There you were.

Stepping onto the stage like you didn’t even know you were changing someone’s life.

A guitar rested in your hands. A simple mic. A shy smile.

“Maybe I came on too strong…”

Paige didn’t breathe.

Her fingers curled tight around the paper sleeve of her cup. The world blurred. The clinking cups, the murmured chatter, the coughs and shifting chairs—they all disappeared. It was you. That voice. That voice. Her voice.

And now you had a face.

Lit soft by the string lights, your lashes low, your expression a mirror of the ache in the song. “Dive” by Ed Sheeran. Paige recognized it now. Had never liked it much before. But you—you made it yours. Every lyric lived in your throat like it belonged there.

When you got to “So don’t call me baby… unless you mean it,” Paige’s chest burned.

You weren’t even looking at anyone in particular, just singing into the dark. But Paige felt like it was only her in that room.

Her mouth went dry.

The song ended too soon.

You strummed the last chord, gave a little smile, and walked off stage like you hadn’t just left someone breathless in the third row.

Paige didn’t move.

Her eyes followed you—wide, stunned, quiet.

Azzi leaned over. “Dude. Are you okay?”

KK squinted. “What happened to her? Her face looks like she just saw God.”

Paige opened her mouth.

No words came out.

Aubrey leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, thoroughly entertained. “She’s in love.”

“I am not,” Paige finally snapped, but it came out too fast. Too defensive.

Azzi laughed. “You’re stuttering.”

KK grinned. “You’ve been bewitched.”

Paige stared across the cafe where you stood by the bar, your guitar now slung across your back, chatting with someone and smiling softly.

“I’ve heard her before,” Paige mumbled, finally. “Like… a bunch of times.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“In the student center. Some music room or whatever. I didn’t know what she looked like. I just—heard her. Singing.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” KK practically shouted.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Paige muttered, eyes still on you.

Azzi elbowed her. “Well, say something now. She’s right there.”

“Nope,” Paige said, panicking a little. “No, no, no. I can’t. What would I even say?”

Aubrey raised a brow. “Hi would be a start.”

“I can’t,” Paige repeated, now looking genuinely distressed.

KK laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone. “Basketball superstar, national icon, but she can’t talk to a girl with a guitar.”

“You don’t get it,” Paige said, still watching you. “I—I’ve been hearing her voice for weeks. I built this whole idea of her in my head and now she’s real and she’s right there and what if she doesn’t live up to it? What if I don’t?”

Azzi softened. “Or what if she’s even better?”

Paige didn’t answer.

She just sat there, pulse racing, legs bouncing under the table, until you turned slightly and your eyes scanned the room, then landed on her.

For one second, just one—you smiled.

Right at her.

And Paige smiled back, dazed, like she forgot how to be cool.

You looked away.

She didn’t.

Paige didn’t move for a full five minutes.

Your smile had burned a hole into her brain, and she sat in that little café chair like someone who had just time-traveled. The lights buzzed. The next performer came and went. The chatter picked up again. But Paige only heard the echo of your voice.

KK, predictably, had pulled out her phone and started typing. “I’m making a list of icebreakers. What about… ‘Are you a magician? Because whenever I hear you, everyone else disappears.’”

Azzi groaned. “Please don’t let her say that.”

Aubrey took a sip of her tea, then muttered, “She won’t say anything. She’s gonna sit here and spiral about it for three months.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Paige muttered, eyes still trained on you as you made your way through the crowd with your guitar case, waving at the barista. “I’m… calculating.”

“Calculating?” Azzi echoed, eyebrows raised.

Paige shrugged. “My odds.”

“Your odds of what? Getting her number?” KK grinned.

“My odds of surviving when I get to say hello.”

She stood up before she could overthink it. Hands slightly clammy, hoodie sleeves tugged down over her knuckles. Her sneakers felt too loud as she crossed the room, weaving through chairs and tables, trying not to trip on someone’s tote bag.

You were alone now, leaning against the far wall near the bathroom hallway, on your phone.

Paige slowed. Stopped. Took one shallow breath.

You looked up.

Eyes met.

You smiled again—so effortlessly kind it made her ribs hurt.

“Hey,” she said, voice softer than usual.

“Hey,” you replied, sliding your phone into your pocket. “You’re Paige Bueckers, right?”

Her stomach flipped. “Uh—yeah. Guilty.”

“I thought you looked familiar. I’ve seen you on the court.” Then, with a playful smirk, “Didn’t expect to see you here, though.”

“I didn’t expect to hear you here,” Paige said, and immediately wanted to smack her forehead. “I mean—I did, obviously, you were on stage, but—what I meant is…”

Your head tilted slightly. “You okay?”

“I’ve heard you before,” she blurted. “In the student center. You sing sometimes—room 205, I think? Every Tuesday. Or Thursday. Or both. I wasn’t… I wasn’t being creepy or anything, I just—your voice—it always stopped me. I didn’t know who you were until tonight.”

The words tumbled out of her like they’d been waiting weeks.

You blinked. “You’ve been listening?”

Paige nodded, sheepish. “Yeah. Every time I walked by.”

Something shifted in your eyes—curiosity, then warmth. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Paige said quickly. “You always looked so into it. Like it was just you and the music.”

“It usually is,” you admitted. “It’s kind of my favorite part of the day.”

“Mine too,” Paige said before she could stop herself.

You smiled again, and this time it lingered.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Y/N.”

Paige repeated it under her breath. Like a secret.

You leaned back against the wall and looked at her, fully now. “So. You like Ed Sheeran?”

“I didn’t,” Paige said honestly. “Until you sang that.”

You laughed, and damn—Paige swore she could live off the sound.

“Well,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks for listening. For… noticing.”

Paige rocked on her heels. “Would it be okay if I… came by next time? I mean—on purpose. Not just walking by.”

“Room 205,” you said. “Tuesdays and Thursdays. Four p.m.”

She grinned. “Noted.”

You glanced down at your shoes, then back at her. “You know… if you’re free after this, there’s this late-night taco truck a block away. I always go there after these open mics.”

Paige’s heart flipped. “Really?”

You gave a tiny shrug, smile shy now. “You could come. If you want.”

She nodded—too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I want.”

From the other side of the room, KK spotted her and dramatically mimed fainting. Azzi and Aubrey gave each other knowing looks.

You followed Paige’s glance and laughed again. “Your friends?”

“The very loud ones,” she deadpanned.

You zipped up your guitar case. “Then let’s sneak out the side door.”

Paige blinked. “I love you.”

You froze, eyebrows raised.

Paige turned red instantly. “I mean—I—not love-love. I mean I love that idea. Sneaking. Not… okay, yeah, I’m gonna shut up now.”

You laughed so hard she thought she might combust and reached over, hand brushing her forearm. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

“I’m never nervous,” Paige lied.

You raised a brow. “You are with me.”

Paige opened the door for you, heart pounding, wondering how it was possible to feel this much after a single song and one very overdue hello.

And just like that, she followed you into the night.

The air was colder outside the café than Paige expected.

She stuffed her hands into her hoodie pockets, trying to ignore the way her heart still hadn’t settled since stepping out with you. The sidewalk was mostly empty—just a few people loitering near parked cars and someone locking up a bike. You walked a step ahead, guitar case slung over your shoulder like it was second nature.

“You sure this taco truck is real?” Paige asked, mostly to fill the silence.

You glanced over your shoulder with a grin. “It’s very real. And very good.”

Paige nodded. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You didn’t say anything, just smiled to yourself and kept walking.

The truck was parked on the corner of a quiet intersection, half-lit by a flickering streetlamp. Bright red paint. A little speaker sitting on the counter playing soft reggaeton. The guy running it looked like he’d seen it all and didn’t care anymore.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said without even looking up.

“Hey, Manny.” You stepped up and started reading the chalkboard menu like you didn’t already know what you were getting.

Paige hovered behind you, awkwardly peering over your shoulder. “What’s good?”

“The carnitas,” you said instantly. “Or the lengua. If you’re brave.”

“I’m not brave,” Paige said, then winced. “I mean—like—I could be. If I had to be. But probably not for… tongue.”

You smiled again, but didn’t tease her. “Carnitas it is.”

Manny raised an eyebrow. “For both?”

You glanced at Paige, who nodded. “Yeah.”

Manny scribbled something on the notepad and disappeared inside the truck.

Paige shuffled a little closer to the side of the truck where the heat was spilling out from the open window. “You come here every week?”

“After every open mic,” you said, stepping up beside her. “It’s kind of my thing.”

“That’s cool,” Paige mumbled, unsure of what else to say. “I don’t really… have a thing.”

You looked at her. “Basketball’s not your thing?”

She tilted her head. “I mean—yeah. That’s kind of my whole thing. But it’s… different. It’s not like tacos after singing. That feels more like a… soul thing.”

You were quiet for a second. “Singing is my thing, yeah. But only when no one’s really watching.”

Paige blinked. “You just performed in front of like fifty people.”

“Exactly.” You smirked. “Not enough to feel real. But enough to hide in.”

She didn’t get it—at least not fully—but she liked the way you said it. Like there were layers underneath everything. Paige wasn’t used to layers. Most people just said what they meant. You made her want to ask better questions.

Manny handed you two paper baskets stacked with tacos and napkins.

You walked over to a low brick wall nearby and sat, setting your guitar down beside you. Paige sat a careful foot away. Not too close.

She watched you take a bite and hum in appreciation.

She took a bite too. “Oh, damn.”

You grinned. “Told you.”

The silence wasn’t awkward—but Paige didn’t know how to fill it, either. She picked at her tortilla, chewing slower than usual.

After a while, she asked, “So you majoring in music?”

“Nope,” you said between bites. “Creative writing.”

“Cool. That’s… cool.”

You sipped your drink. “You’re not very good at small talk, huh?”

Paige groaned and flopped backward against the wall. “Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda.”

She covered her face with one hand. “This is why I don’t talk to people.”

“But you walked over,” you said softly.

Paige peeked at you through her fingers. “Yeah. I don’t do that either.”

“Why’d you do it tonight?”

She didn’t have a good answer. Not one that wouldn’t sound stupid.

“I think I just had to,” she said finally. “I heard your voice before I saw you, and it got stuck in my head. Like… really stuck. You made everything else quiet. That’s hard to do.”

You looked down at your basket of tacos. Paige worried she’d overstepped.

But then you said, “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my singing.”

She flushed and went back to chewing.

“You have a really… still energy,” she said out of nowhere.

“Still?”

“Yeah,” Paige shrugged. “Like… not in a boring way. More like—when I’m near you, I feel like I don’t have to rush. Like I can just sit and not be anyone for a second.”

You blinked. “You’re really bad at flirting.”

“I’m not flirting,” Paige said instantly, then looked horrified. “I mean—not that I wouldn’t—if I was! But I’m not! I just meant that like, platonically… your vibe is chill. Not that I only want it to be platonic. Wait. I’m gonna eat this taco now.”

You buried your face in your hands and shook your head, laughing.

Paige took the biggest bite she could manage just to shut herself up.

You let her flail for a moment before nudging her arm with your elbow.

“You’re weird,” you said gently. “But I like it.”

Her face turned red again. “Thanks.”

“Same time next week?” you asked.

She blinked. “Like, here? After the open mic?”

You gave her a look. “Room 205. Tuesday or Thursday. Four p.m. You listen. I sing.”

Paige nodded too fast. “I’ll be there.”

You stood and tossed your napkin into the nearby trash can, guitar swinging easily over your shoulder again.

“I’ll see you around, Bueckers,” you said, walking off into the cold without needing to look back.

Paige sat there, chewing slowly, staring after you, heart thrumming under her hoodie.

Yeah. She’d definitely be there.

It felt strange walking into Room 205.

She wasn’t used to being on the inside of the door.

Every time Paige had passed by before, it was just a fleeting pause in the hallway. A quiet moment stolen between practice or meetings or pretending like she didn’t hear the music. But now—now she was invited.

She arrived early.

Fifteen minutes early, actually.

She stood outside the room for five of them, pacing the hallway like an indecisive freshman, wondering if she was going to seem too eager. Too intense. Too weird. She considered texting you that she couldn’t make it—just to bail before she embarrassed herself.

But then she heard it.

A strum. A single note. The guitar.

You were already in there.

So she slipped inside.

The room was small—barely more than a practice box with beige walls, a dusty upright piano in the corner, and a few mismatched chairs. You were sitting on the little stool with your guitar, hunched over it, tuning quietly.

Your head lifted when you noticed her. “You came.”

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “You said four.”

You smiled. “You’re early.”

“I… like to be on time,” she said, awkward as ever.

You nodded, eyes flicking back to your guitar. “You can sit.”

She took the seat closest to the wall. Sat stiffly. Backpack still on.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You played a few chords without singing—simple, steady, like muscle memory. Then your fingers stilled.

“I don’t usually have an audience in here,” you said.

“I don’t usually be the audience,” Paige replied.

You gave her a small look. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. Please don’t.”

You smirked to yourself. “Alright then.”

And you began.

No microphone. No stage. Just you. Your voice.

It was quieter in this space—more intimate. Like you weren’t performing. Like you were just being. Paige hadn’t realized how different it would feel up close. The way your eyes softened when you got lost in a lyric. The tiny creases between your brows as you focused on your fingers. The breath you took before each new line, like it mattered.

She forgot to breathe sometimes.

You sang something she didn’t recognize—a song you wrote, maybe. Paige didn’t ask. She wouldn’t know how.

She just listened.

And when you finished, you didn’t ask for applause. You just looked over.

Paige was staring.

You tilted your head. “What?”

She blinked. “Nothing.”

You laughed lightly, setting the guitar down against the stool. “You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem.”

“I’m just thinking,” she said.

“Dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice soft this time. The cocky teasing gone. “I don’t usually let people hear this part of me.”

Paige’s smile faded into something more sincere. “That’s kind of how I feel when I play ball.”

You leaned back on your palms. “Is that why you didn’t tell your friends about me? About hearing me sing?”

She shifted in her chair. “Honestly… yeah. It felt… mine.”

Your eyes met hers.

There was a long pause.

Paige suddenly felt like she’d said something too honest, too soon.

But you didn’t flinch.

You nodded. “I get that.”

You didn’t press her. Didn’t make a joke. You just let it be what it was.

And Paige relaxed.

You ended up sitting on the floor, legs crossed, the guitar leaning between you both. The air was still but light. No expectations.

“What kind of music do you usually write?” she asked after a while.

You shrugged. “Sad stuff. Melancholy acoustic girl things.”

Paige laughed. “So you’re the reason people cry in coffee shops.”

You smirked. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

She leaned back against the wall, watching you tap your fingers absentmindedly on your knee like there was always a song playing in your head.

You turned to her suddenly. “Do you sing?”

She choked. “God, no.”

“C’mon,” you nudged. “Just a little?”

“I’m an athlete,” she said defensively. “We don’t do that.”

You smiled. “Tell that to the UConn locker room.”

“Okay, yeah, but that’s different. That’s shouting lyrics in a group of sweaty girls, not—this.”

You gave her a mischievous look. “Afraid I’ll judge you?”

“No,” Paige lied.

You grinned wider, but didn’t push.

Eventually, the sun started to dip through the narrow window, turning the room gold. Paige didn’t realize how much time had passed. She checked her phone—Azzi had texted “where r u???” about 30 minutes ago.

“I should go,” she said, but didn’t move.

You were lying flat on the carpet now, arms spread, eyes closed.

You opened one eye. “Then go.”

She didn’t.

You smirked. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to get attached.”

“I’m not.”

You closed your eyes again. “Mmhm.”

Paige stood slowly. Her legs ached from sitting so long on the hard chair, but she didn’t really mind.

“Same time Thursday?” you asked, eyes still shut.

Paige hesitated. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not,” you said, quiet now. “It’s nice, having someone listen.”

She looked down at you. Your features soft in the fading light. At peace.

“I’ll be here,” she said.

And she meant it.

Two weeks later, Paige didn’t even need to check the time.

It was just automatic now—Tuesday, Room 205, you.

She still pretended like she wasn’t waiting for it every week, but her body gave her away. She’d get antsy around 3:30, check her phone three times, leave whatever gym or classroom she was in by 3:45. No one questioned her anymore.

Not even Azzi.

She didn’t even knock anymore. Just walked in, gave you a soft nod, and sat down while you tuned your guitar like clockwork.

You’d started calling her your “favorite audience.”

She said she preferred “only audience.”

You said, “Still counts.”

On a random Friday afternoon, Paige texted you:

Paige: “You like Mario Kart?”

“I’m not bad at it.”

Paige: “You just said you’re good without saying you’re good.”

“Do you wanna lose or what?”

She didn’t expect how easily you fit into her living room.

You were curled into the corner of her couch in a hoodie she swore used to be hers, holding the controller like it was part of your hand. Your eyes narrowed at the screen. Paige had just blue-shelled you at the finish line. You threw your head back and groaned.

“I hope your joy-cons drift forever,” you muttered.

Paige cackled. “Don’t hate the player.”

“I do, actually.”

“Wow.”

You smirked and tossed a popcorn kernel at her face. She caught it in her mouth. Show-off.

Eventually, the game was paused and forgotten. The controller batteries started dying. Neither of you bothered to fix them.

Instead, you sprawled across the couch, shoes off, half under a blanket. Paige leaned against the opposite armrest, socked feet crossed near your hip.

“What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever believed as a kid?” you asked randomly.

Paige blinked. “Uh… that the moon followed me specifically? Like it was my thing.”

You snorted. “Narcissist.”

“You asked!”

You told her yours was that if you swallowed watermelon seeds, a full vine would grow out your throat.

“You were dramatic from the start,” Paige said.

“Still am,” you agreed.

The night drifted on. You didn’t leave until close to 2 a.m. Neither of you realized how late it had gotten. Paige watched the front door close after you, a little stunned at how easy the silence had felt.

The next night, you invited her over.

“Movie night,” you said. “My pick.”

Paige said, “What are we watching?”

You smirked. “It’s a surprise.”

That was the warning. She should’ve known.

It was The Notebook.

Of course it was The Notebook.

You acted like you didn’t care much about it, even made jokes during the early scenes.

“Wow, nothing says romance like threatening to kill yourself if a girl won’t go on a date,” you quipped.

“Yeah,” Paige muttered, “real healthy.”

But somewhere around the boat scene, you stopped talking.

And when Allie’s mom gave her that box of letters, Paige looked over.

You sniffed. Subtly.

She blinked. “Wait… are you crying?”

“No,” you said immediately. Too fast.

You wiped your cheek with your sleeve and kept your eyes glued to the screen like if you just didn’t look at her, she wouldn’t know.

But Paige was already scooting closer.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“You said this movie was stupid.”

“It is.” Your voice cracked a little. “It’s manipulative. There’s rain and kissing and Alzheimer’s. They’re cheating on people. It’s a mess.”

Paige didn’t say anything. Just watched as another tear slipped down your cheek.

She reached over slowly, gently brushing it away with her thumb.

Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t move away.

“Shut up,” you whispered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Her hand hovered for a second longer. Warm against your skin.

You turned toward her slightly, chin tilted. “You’re enjoying this.”

Paige smirked. “A little.”

You narrowed your eyes, then shifted under the blanket and muttered, “Fine. But I get to pick next time too.”

“And you won’t cry this time?”

You shoved her shoulder lightly. “No promises.”

She stayed until the credits rolled.

You didn’t talk about what happened.

You didn’t need to.

But Paige smiled the entire drive home.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no sudden realization. No thunderclap. No internal monologue screaming oh my god I’m in love with her. Paige kind of wished it had been like that—quick, clean, definite.

But instead, it was slow.

Annoyingly slow.

Like a song that changes keys so gradually you don’t even notice until you’re standing there, listening, heart in your throat, and everything sounds different.

It was the middle of a Wednesday when she noticed it.

Not a moment, really—just a text from you. No punctuation. No context.

“it’s raining”

That’s it.

Not come outside, not listen to this, not I’m sad and need you.

Paige stared at them for way too long before replying.

“window’s already open”

You sent back a voice memo—just a few seconds of rain hitting the windowsill. A soft hum. Your laugh in the background.

And that was it.

Paige had to sit down.

Azzi was the first to say something.

“You’re smiling at your phone again.”

“I always do that.”

“No you don’t.”

KK chimed in. “You used to smile like that when you watched highlight reels of yourself.”

Aubrey raised an eyebrow. “Now it’s a girl who plays sad songs in practice rooms.”

“I don’t—” Paige started, but even she didn’t sound convincing anymore.

They didn’t tease her the way they usually would. Azzi just looked at her gently, then asked, “Have you told her?”

Paige blinked. “Told her what?”

Aubrey leaned in. “That you like her.”

Paige went quiet.

“Exactly,” KK mumbled.

It’s not that Paige was afraid of feelings.

She was just… unfamiliar with them.

Romance had never been easy for her. She didn’t like being vulnerable. Didn’t like people seeing her shaken. She was used to control. To focus. To knowing the outcome before she took the shot.

But this?

You?

She didn’t know where it was going. Or if it was even going anywhere.

She just knew that things were changing.

Because she started noticing everything.

The way your voice got quiet when you were tired. The way your hoodie sleeves were always a little too long. The way you never asked for help, but always showed up for everyone else.

The way she missed you on the days she didn’t see you.

That was the scariest part.

On Sunday, you came over again. No Mario Kart this time. No movies.

Just you, barefoot on her couch, eating leftover pasta out of a tupperware like you owned the place.

Paige sat on the floor beside the coffee table, legs stretched out, head tilted lazily against the couch cushions.

“What if,” you said suddenly, “you were born in a world where music didn’t exist?”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“No sound. No songs. Nothing but silence. You’d still play basketball, sure. But no rhythm. No hype songs. Just… empty air.”

“That’s depressing,” she muttered.

You nodded. “I think I’d lose my mind.”

“Yeah,” Paige said after a moment. “You would.”

You glanced down at her. “Would you miss music?”

“I’d miss you,” she said.

Then froze.

You looked at her.

And smiled.

But didn’t say anything.

Didn’t tease her. Didn’t make it weird.

Just said, “Good.”

And kept eating your pasta.

That night, Paige laid in bed and stared at the ceiling.

She tried not to think too hard. Tried not to name it.

But every time she blinked, it was you.

Laughing on her couch.

Crying during The Notebook.

Singing in Room 205.

And suddenly… Paige wasn’t so sure if just being friends would ever feel like enough.

Room 205 felt different today.

It wasn’t the weather—though the windows were foggy from the spring drizzle. And it wasn’t the time—4 p.m. sharp, like always. Paige walked in with the same hoodie, the same messy bun, the same slightly anxious energy she always brought when she didn’t know what you were about to play.

But the air felt heavier. Like something was hanging in the corner, waiting.

You sat cross-legged on top of the piano bench, strumming a quiet chord progression you hadn’t played before. Paige closed the door gently behind her, dropped her backpack in the usual spot, and slid into the chair by the wall.

You didn’t look up. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, slower than usual.

She watched your fingers move. You were quieter today too—not in a bad way. Just… focused. Like your mind was somewhere far away and also nowhere at all.

“You okay?” she asked, voice soft.

You nodded. “Just… thinking.”

She didn’t press. Just let the silence settle between you.

After a few minutes, you finally looked up. “Can I play you something?”

Paige sat up straighter. “You always play me something.”

“No, I mean—something I haven’t shown anyone. Ever.”

That made her heart beat a little faster.

She nodded.

You exhaled, fingers settling into place.

Then you began.

We'll play Nintendo though I always lose

‘Cause you watch the TV while I'm watching you

There's not many people I'd honestly say I don't mind losing to

But there's nothing like doing nothing with you

The first line hit Paige like a whisper to the chest.

She froze. Eyes fixed on you. Your voice was soft—not performed, just spoken in melody. You weren’t doing anything fancy with the chords. It didn’t need it.

Paige heard every word.

Dumb conversation, we lose track of time

Have I told you lately I'm grateful you're mine

We watch "The Notebook" for the 17th time

I'll say it's stupid, then you catch me crying

Paige’s expression shifts as the song continues. The lyrics are simple, but the meaning is clear. The way the words flow feels like a quiet confession. Each line hits a little harder than the last. Paige, who’s been so used to guarding herself, begins to feel something stir in her chest. Her heartbeat quickens, the truth behind the words sinking in.

You’re not just singing about love, about waiting for something you want but can’t have. You’re singing about her. The way you feel when you’re around her, the longing, the quiet frustration that she’s been unaware of, or maybe avoiding.

She barely noticed when the song ended. You let the last note linger like it didn’t want to leave either.

Then there was silence. A thick, full silence.

You finally looked at her.

“I know it’s not flashy,” you murmured. “But it’s real. For me, at least.”

Paige didn’t speak right away.

Because something had snapped into place.

All this time, she thought maybe she was imagining it. That maybe she wanted it too much to see it clearly. But this song—your song—was proof.

Not a maybe.

Not a coincidence.

It was her.

It was you seeing her.

And loving her in your quiet, unspoken way.

Her chest felt too full. She didn’t know how to hold everything you’d just given her.

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Sorry. I probably made it weird.”

Paige shook her head fast, voice low. “No. You didn’t.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “It’s just… I didn’t expect to hear myself in it. In your words.”

You smiled, finally letting yourself look directly at her.

“Well,” you said quietly, “you’ve been in my head for weeks now. Felt fair to put you somewhere else too.”

Paige didn’t know what to say to that.

Her brain was screaming: Say something. Do something.

But she just stared at you, heart pounding, realizing…

This isn’t nothing.

The walk back was quieter than usual.

Not awkward. Just... full.

Like something sacred had been left unspoken between them after you played her that song. The words still clung to Paige’s ribs. They echoed every time your hand brushed against hers as you walked side by side on the sidewalk, neither of you talking, both pretending not to notice.

Your guitar case was slung behind you. Paige carried your notebook. She didn’t ask—you just handed it to her like you trusted her not to drop what was inside.

The sky was dark now, the streets humming with distant traffic and warm porch lights.

“Paige,” you said softly as you reached the last block before your building.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t stop walking, but your voice dropped. “You haven’t said much since the song.”

She looked over. You weren’t anxious, just… open. Waiting. You’d handed her something vulnerable, and now you were giving her the space to either hold it or step away.

Paige took a breath.

“I haven’t said much because I’m scared I’m gonna say the wrong thing,” she admitted. Your lips quirked. “You already told me I’m your favorite audience. I think the bar’s pretty low.”

She smiled with you, but then quieted again.

“I meant what I said,” she continued. “Every line of that song—it was like watching us from the outside. It was weird. And beautiful. And a little terrifying.”

You turned toward her slightly, walking slower now.

“Terrifying?”

She nodded. “Because I didn’t know you were seeing me like that. I thought I was the only one…” Her voice softened. “...feeling all this.”

You stopped walking.

So did she.

The streetlamp above you buzzed faintly. The wind picked up. The moment cracked open.

Your voice was quiet. “You’re not the only one.”

Paige looked at you.

And this time, she didn’t flinch from it.

She took one slow step closer. Her voice barely above a whisper. “You make everything quieter, Y/N. And I didn’t know how much I needed that until you.”

You tilted your head, eyes full and soft. “Are you sure?”

Paige nodded, closer now.

“I’m sure.”

Your breath caught.

She looked at your mouth for just a second.

Then she said, like a confession. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in first.

So she did too.

It was soft. Barely even a press at first. Just the meeting of two people who had spent weeks circling something sacred.

Paige moved slowly, gently, like she didn’t want to startle whatever this was. Your hand came up to rest on her wrist, anchoring her.

She deepened the kiss—just a little—and it felt like everything she’d been holding in finally exhaled.

You pulled away first, barely.

Paige kept her forehead resting against yours.

“I was scared,” you whispered. “That if we crossed this line, it’d stop feeling easy.”

Paige smiled. “It still feels easy.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

You stayed like that for a while. No rush. No pressure.

Just breathing in the space that had finally, finally opened.

Then you said, “Wanna come upstairs?”

Paige blinked.

You grinned. “Just to hang. I wanna write more. You could help.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

She followed you inside, heart steady, hand brushing yours.

This wasn’t nothing. This never had been.

[headdinthewall]

BLAST FROM THE PAST ──  g.clarke  ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

summary : where you and george, your best friend and major crush, are paired up together for an INSIDE challenge a/n : second part to this ‘series’ !! when i’ve finished it to my liking, i’ll put them all into my master list in chronological order according to the show but for now you can just read them as stand alones xx content : flirty friends (to lovers) , mentions of reader being an ex-dancer , one mention of bodily insecurity (vague) , innuendos

─────── VIKKSTAR AND SPECS stood before all of the insiders, holding cards that would be revealed to be their challenge of the day. You were — to absolutely no one’s surprise — cuddled up next to George. It was practically a second nature at this point due to the constant air of subtle hostility and the eager desperation to win this money that lingered around the set.

“Two of these cards are duet acts, in which two people will be required to perform them.” Vikk explained, making sure to look at everyone, but his eyes lingered on you for a split second longer. “We'll start from the left, go round to the right, and you can pick a card from either the lovely Specs, or myself."

Mya stood, clutching the horny beast in her arms and took a card from Specs, reading it out to be "Ballroom dancing for two people."

Jason got playing the kazoo, Whitney had to give a perfect dap up, PK ended up being Mya's dancing partner, Farah got spoken word, Milli had animal noises, Cinna with impressions and DDG got breakdancing.

"Y/N, please come and retrieve one of the remaining cards." Vikk told you.

"Well now I already now whatever's left is gonna be the second duo act, because no one else has it." You scoffed out a laugh, standing up anyway.

"You're smart, y'know, 'coz I wouldn't have connected that." Specs said, handing you his card.

You snorted with a shake of your head and flipped it, frowning, "Blast from the past? What does that mean?"

Vikk didn't reply, handing out his card, "Mr George Clarkey, please come and take this."

George did as Vikk said and then you both walked back to the sofa and sat down, remaining none-the-wiser.

"Y/N . . ." Vikk paused for tension, "You used to be a dancer. Competitive."

"Yeah? But Mya and PK are already—“

"Shush!" Specs shouted, making you fake offence and everyone laughed.

"What is your most viewed competitive dance on YouTube?" Vikk asked, a smug smile on his faced as he watched your expressions change into one of intense thought.

Then, it dawned on you, "Oh my fucking God!" You cackled.

"What is it?" Mya turned to look at you.

"It's an old duet I did when I was 16 with my duet partner and it got 1st with a perfect 300." You explained, fiddling with the card and staring at the two hosts, "You can't expect me to remember that whole routine and teach it to George!"

"No, of course not, we're not that horrid."

"Could've fooled me, look at the set up.” George joked and everyone laughed.

"All you have to do is three partner work moves from that routine." Vikk clarified.

"And y'know, you're technically going against Mya and PK so maybe that'll stroke your competitive side." Specs attempted to stir a rivalry in the challenge.

"I don't want anything of mine to be stroked." You quipped, causing George to throw his head back in laughter.

"Wait, this ain't fair!" PK exclaimed, "She used to do this for fun and was actually good at it!"

Your response was quick, "Oh my God, cry about it!"

It was obviously sarcastic, and caused a few chuckles.

After everyone grew comfortable with their challenges, you all dispersed into different areas of the set. You and George took the gym, opting for the smart idea of using the only room with padded flooring.

"Right, this is all down to you, because I don't know the techniques for the moves but I remember what they looked like." George admitted, holding his hands up.

He watched it?

"You watched it?" You gazed up at him with a soft smile.

"Yeah, 'course. Why wouldn't I?" He nodded sincerely, pulling his hoodie over his head.

Your eyes trailed down to the slip of skin that was revealed by the uplift of his white t-shirt, and you subtly bit your lip. You couldn't believe that George actually watched your old dance videos, and knew exactly which routine you were doing.

You'd posted many of your old dance routines, including multiple of your duets, so the fact that he knew what your most viewed video was and what parts of the routine looked like.

"See something you like?" George smirked, noticing your teeth tugging on your lower lip and your zoned out expression as your eyes remained trained on his lower stomach.

"What?" You snapped out of it, blinking and returning your eyes to his face, "No— No, sorry." Your face heated up and you internally cursed, worried that your cheeks would be flushed, "Just . . . trying to remember the moves."

"You're telling me that you're not completely in love with this sexy sight." George taunted, gesturing to his torso.

"Oh, shut up." You scoffed, slapping his chest and moving to be more central to the room.

You tried to picture the routine in your head, remembering the moments on stage from eight years ago. Surprisingly, it all flooded back to you and you marked the routine in the small amount of space.

"Okay, so—“

You went about explaining the first move to him, telling him how he had to hold your hands, launch you off the ground so that you could straddle leap across his back before propelling around so that you were chest to chest.

"And then when my legs are around your waist, I'll tip my head back so that my head's upside down."

George nodded, "Okay, so where do you want my hands when you do that. Am I still holding yours and just keeping the rest of your body upright? 'Coz I don't know, if from a physics stand point, does it make more sense for my hands to be on your hips so I can support your upper body and not just your arms?"

"Mmmm . . ." You thought about it, trying to imagine how it would play out, and then you pictured his large hands gripping your waist and you had to squeeze your eyes shut to refresh. "We can try it and see how it would go."

Just as you got to your knees, on the floor so that he could pick you up off of it, you felt a slight tug of insecurity weigh on your heart.

"Oh, by the way, I'm heavier than I used to be when I did this on stage, so . . . yeah."

George shook his head, "I don't care. I've literally carried you home drunk before."

"Yeah, but now it's about weight distri—"

"Y/N." George said firmly, "I'm strong, I can hold you. I picked up Max and sat him on my shoulder, for Gods sake."

You giggled at the memory of seeing that TikTok and nodded, getting into your starting position.

You performed the move twice, in which he changed the positioning of his hands to see which one worked better. It ended up being the first one where he stayed holding your hands.

You suppressed a sigh of disappointment that you wouldn't get to feel George's hands on your waist, but then reminded yourself that a lack of physical touch is better than a broken neck and paralysis.

Besides, you still had two more moves to teach him.

By the time you were done and confident enough, Vikk and Specs were hollering for everyone to come back into the 'living room'.

All of the Insiders congregated yet again, sitting on the sofa and waiting for the hosts to announce the first act.

It was Mya and PK, in which they performed a very basic ballroom dance (if you could even call it that), but finished it off with a nice — not technically accurate at all — spinning embrace and her sliding between his legs.

Everyone clapped as Mya giggled, and PK puffed his chest out with pride.

Vikk grinned from his place at the judges table, "I'm impressed with that. I'm gonna give it a nine. What do you think?"

"Nine as well." Specs agreed. "Nine."

Everyone cheered and clapped for them

"I want Y/N and George next, put the two dancing acts against each other." Specs hummed.

"Which makes no difference at all because we're all going against each other." George pointed out the obvious and got a mocking glare in response.

"I also want Y/N and George to show us their moves now." Vikk said, gesturing for you two to take the floor.

You huffed and stood up, shuffling over to the open area and getting into the first starting position — which was your knees.

"Woah." Jason laughed, "Guys, it's a competitive dance, not a strip dance."

"Erm, actually, I was sixteen when I first did this dance, so don't sexualise me please." You put on a fake nerd voice and held one finger up.

Jason snorted, his shoulders shaking in amusement.

"Ready?" George asked and you nodded.

He held his hands out, planting his feet firmly into the ground as you took his hands, and he used his upper body strength to lift you up and around his back. You had your legs out in a straddle leap as you rounded his back and when you were chest-to-chest, your legs locked around his waist and he dipped you back.

George lifted you back upright, arms firmly encasing your waist as he lowered you to your feet.

Your friends cheered and whooped, clapping.

"Move number two, please." Vikk requested, a large grin on his face.

"Move two and three are kinda combined." You told him, "'Coz in actual dance they're too separate moves but my dance teacher turned it into a combo."

"Do we allow that?" Vikk conferred with his partner.

Specs replied with, "I'll see how impressed I am."

You rolled your eyes dramatically and stood slightly in front of George.

"Whenever your ready, babe." He murmured.

Woah.

That threw you off slightly.

But you didn't let it distract you.

You sighed before bending backwards, sliding your head and shoulder blades between his legs. You swung your legs upwards and clenched your thighs against the sides of his ribs as his hands gripped the front of your thighs before quickly switching to your chest (his fingers accidentally grazed the underside of your boobs, but you didn't say anything) as your smooth motion put you upright again.

"Yo, George we saw that!" PK cackled, clapping loudly.

"Oh, shut up." George huffed.

He delicately placed you on your feet, and you tapped his hand, telling him to go into the next one. His hands held your waist as he lifted you onto his shoulder — just like he did with Max.

You wobbled slightly.

"Sorry!" He exclaimed, hands gripping your thighs.

You laughed and tapped his head.

"You going back?"

"Yeah, please don't drop me this time." You snorted.

"George, you dropped her?!" Milli gasped.

"It was an accident!" He defended himself, "Right, shush, so I don't do it again."

His fingers dug into the skin of your thighs, really keeping his grip tight as opposed to the practise you had in the gym.

You bit your lip in concentration before lying backwards, your back against except you were upside down. Your arms locked around his waist, hands clasping at his stomach, and your legs — graceful and straight — came floating down in a scissor-shape.

You landed on your right foot and decided to throw in a penche just for good luck, leaning on George's shoulder.

"Okay, now you're just showing off!" Farah laughed, but clapped regardless, along with everyone else.

Specs even stood up for a round of applause.

"Oh my God, Simon Cowell, I didn't even recognise you." You joked.

"That's a straight ten, that's insanity. Eleven, even. Give them an eleven."

"It was very impressive." Vikk nodded.

"Thanks." You grinned, giving George a high-five as he slung an arm around your shoulders.

You returned to your places on the leather sofa, tucked under his arm and pleased that you hadn't come out of that challenge with an injury.

All the acts eventually went by, and as Vikk and Specs revealed the final scores, you and George exchanged a smug expressions, knowing you had it in the bag.

"And with a score of eleven points—"

"Extortionate, the boundary was a ten." PK spoke up, kissing his teeth jokingly.

"Yeah, extortionate, just like the price of things in the shop." You quipped.

"Y/N and George, you have won todays challenge! And have also been granted with a token for the shop each!" Vikk pulled out two purple circles with black texts printed on them.

You grinned and stood, taking George's hand in your own as you skipped to receive your prize.

You took your tokens with a little 'yay!', making George laugh.

"Round of applause for our winners!" Specs announced, and everyone did as he said, Jason even put his fingers in his mouth to whistle loudly.

"Yeah!" Cinna shouted, pumping her fist in the air.

You hugged George and he lifted you off the ground.

It didn't matter that the challenge was basically meaningless and it wasn't that much of a riveting moment. All that mattered was that you had an excuse to remain in George's arms for as long as you want, and he didn't seem particularly willing to let you go any time soon, either.

[steddieas-shegoes]

black swan

for @steddiesportsau prompt 'dance'

rated t | 3331 words | no cw | tags: ballet dancer steve, ballet dancer eddie, high school, steve has bad parents, not canon compliant, getting together, sort of strangers to lovers

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Steve stops dancing when he’s 12. His dad insists it’s time for him to “grow out of it” and “play a real sport.” It’s fine. It’s not like he’s the best in the class and on a fast track to an invitation to the New York Ballet or anything.

He starts swimming because he has the build for it and it’s easy.

He starts basketball to make his father shut up about being on a team.

The worst part is that he’s good at that too. Not great, not like ballet, but good.

He makes both teams in high school, even makes varsity basketball his sophomore year. He’s captain by junior year.

Sometimes, he stops by the studio he used to dance at, between classes, just to check in with the director and make sure everything’s going well. She always asks if he wants to come back. He always wants to say yes.

****

On his 18th birthday, his parents are gone, and he’s lonely. Nancy’s busy, and even if she weren’t, they aren’t anything except friends. Barely that.

Tommy and Carol have written him off now that they’re going away to college in the fall, and he wouldn’t want to have them over anyway. They’re on a different path than Steve, always have been. He’s just been so desperate for connection, he’s let everything slide.

Just before dinner, he drives to the dance studio. There’s not many classes happening on Tuesdays, but maybe someone will be there to let him in. He doesn’t see any cars in the parking lot, but there’s a light on inside.

The door is unlocked, and music is playing from the back room. It’s a much smaller room, designed for solos and duets only, not group routines. The music is not ballet music, but it could be a jazz or tap routine.

The man dancing is beautiful, in loose sweats and curly hair up in a bun that seems like it’s barely hanging on. He moves gracefully, but there’s an edge to it, something Steve always wished he had, even though he didn’t technically need it. His pointe shoes are torn, much more worn in than what’s recommended for anyone, especially men on pointe.

Steve’s amazed, the way he moves to a song that’s mostly heavy drums and guitar, makes it look like a classical piece as his arms and legs do everything the way Steve used to. He resists saying anything.

Then he catches sight of the man’s face.

It’s Eddie Munson.

Eddie Munson dances?

“What the fuck.”

Eddie freezes, turns to him, falling to the flats of his feet. He looks caught out, as if he’s doing something wrong. He must be allowed to be here if the place is unlocked for him. Eddie might be a terrible student and definitely deals weed out of a lunchbox, but he’d never break into a dance studio just to use it.

He looks like he’s gonna run.

“Wait,” Steve says to stop him before he can. He steps closer. “How long have you danced?”

“Uh, five years?”

So they never took a class together. Steve was worried he’d somehow forgotten.

“Did you always take classes here?”

“I’ve never taken classes here.”

Now, Steve’s confused even more. He’s lived in Hawkins for at least 10 years. He remembers when he started living with his uncle. His first day at Hawkins Elementary set the tone for the rest of his time in school; Tommy and a few of his friends making his life miserable because of his much too large flannel shirt and greasy hair.

Steve had stayed quiet then, just as he did for most of middle and high school.

“How are you in here then?” He asks.

“I’ve had a key for two years. Ms. Laseaux made sure I had one when she had to cut her evening hours during the week,” Eddie explains. “I swear I’m allowed to be here. Don’t call the cops, please.”

“Dude, I’m not gonna call the cops. If you say you have permission, then you’re good,” Steve hates that Eddie still looks like he might run. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Is it okay if I watch?”

“Uh.”

Eddie’s music stops and the silence is almost as loud as the heavy music.

“It’s okay if not. You’re just beautiful,” Steve says honestly.

Eddie’s face flushes red and Steve has an immediate and overwhelming urge to see how far the blush goes. He shakes the thought from his head.

“Um. I guess I can start from the beginning?” Eddie offers.

“I’d love to see the whole routine,” Steve smiles.

Eddie rewinds the tape and starts it again, gets into position, and changes Steve’s life.

It’s even more beautiful from the start, a whole story unfolding before Steve’s eyes. Instead of the music being a distraction, it builds the emotion. Steve hasn’t seen anyone dance quite like Eddie.

Eddie seems a little nervous, but he never falters. He knows this routine well, front to back, probably back to front, too. It’s stage-ready and Steve wonders if he’s ever performed it outside of this room. He doesn’t think anyone else could possibly know he dances, at least not this well. He belongs on a stage.

He feels water on his cheek and he reaches up to wipe it away. He’s crying.

He remembers the time his mom cried at his first solo during a recital, how proud she was of him, and how proud he was of himself. He wonders if anyone has ever been that proud of Eddie.

“Steve?” Eddie asks.

The music’s stopped and Eddie’s breathing hard from fifth position. Steve’s tears are still falling.

Eddie’s hands cover his face, wiping away tears that just won’t stop.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s amazing; You’re amazing. Please tell me you perform somewhere,” Steve sniffs, smiles at him. “Did you get a senior solo last year?”

“No,” Eddie says quietly. “I can’t afford the fees for actual studio time and it’s required to perform at the recital. But I get to come here once a week and get it out of my system.”

Steve is about to offer to use all of his savings to pay for whatever Eddie needs. He has to get out of here, dance on bigger stages, be seen by people who can get him where he should be.

“The timing of the arabesque, Eddie, it’s beautiful. The leaps are textbook. The way you timed that kick with a cymbal crash. I mean, everything. You’re so technical, but emotional, and it’s like it takes no effort for you. You could easily get into a ballet school or a company,” Steve is talking and Eddie is still holding his face. He’s probably still crying.

“Thank you, but this is kinda it for me. I just love dancing,” Eddie takes his hands away and Steve instantly misses them. He knows he’s feeling a bit lonely– it’s his birthday, after all– but he liked how warm they were, how the blisters across his palm seemed to rub just right against Steve’s cheekbones. “You seem to know a lot.”

“I danced when I was a kid. Here.”

“Really?” Eddie seems genuinely shocked. “I thought you were, like, a stereotypical jock guy. No one’s ever mentioned you.”

Steve laughs, but he feels a pang in his chest. He knows why no one talks about him here. Most of the history of him being here was erased at his dad’s demand.

“Pretty much from the time I was potty trained to when I was 12. I had to quit,” he doesn’t feel like going into a deep dive of why he had to quit while he’s standing in the room he had to do it in. “I still come by to see Ms. Laseaux when I won’t interrupt classes. She was my instructor for six years of my life. She put so much into my lessons.”

“Were you good?” Eddie asks.

Steve laughs again. He’s not as confident as he pretends to be most of the time, but he’s sure of one thing: he was a phenomenal dancer.

“I was her best student.”

Eddie nods like he was expecting that answer.

“She mentioned wishing she could’ve had me earlier. Said she would’ve done anything to pair me with her star.”

Steve wishes more than anything he could’ve danced with Eddie. They would have been unstoppable. His dad would’ve never allowed him to dance with another boy, but the thought still makes him warm.

“I’m sure she would’ve had us in New York or Boston or Europe the second she could,” Steve smiles fondly. “She tried to bribe my mom into going behind my dad’s back for nearly a year.”

“I’m guessing he’s not okay with his son dancing like a fairy?” Eddie’s lip curls up in disgust.

“Bingo.”

“Well, join the club. That’s why I didn’t start until I lived with my uncle, but he couldn’t afford to put me in real classes,” Eddie explains. He’s rolling his ankles one by one while he stands there, something that Steve knows is a nervous habit, one he had backstage before shows. “Ms. Laseaux was a bit sweet on my uncle when I first lived with him. He didn’t have much time for dating, but I think they would’ve fallen in love if it weren’t for me. She wanted to do what she could to help, even when it was obvious they weren’t gonna work out.”

Steve does remember one visit only a couple years after he quit where she talked about a nice man who fell into some unfortunate circumstances, and how she wished she could do more than help his nephew out.

“She’s always been amazing. I wish I brought my slippers, I could’ve at least stretched and tried to learn some of that,” Steve gestures towards Eddie. “Not that I’d do it any justice with how long I’ve been out of it.”

“If you were as good as she says, I think you’d catch on quick enough,” Eddie smirks. “I have an extra pair if you think you can fit?”

It’s a huge no usually. Wearing someone else’s broken in pointe shoes is just asking for bad luck and injury, especially if you don’t know the dancer well. As nice an offer as it is, Steve should say no.

“I could try,” he says instead.

Eddie’s beaming smile silences any doubt he had in his head that this would be a mistake. He rushes to his bag in the corner and pulls out a practically brand new set of shoes.

Steve is hesitant to take them when he offers.

“These look…shouldn’t you be trying to break these in for your own feet?” Steve doesn’t know why he’s wearing torn up shoes when he has these. They look nice, and he recognizes the brand when he turns them over in his head. They are nice. Some of the nicest shoes you can buy without getting into the thousands of dollars range.

Eddie shrugs. “I like these.”

“But these cost a fortune. How did you even get these?”

“I saved up for them. I’ll break them in when I can’t wear these at all anymore,” Eddie smiles, nudges his shoulder to make him put them on. “C’mon, you need to stretch.”

Steve listens, walks over to the corner to put the shoes on, stretch out his legs and back, groaning when he pops his shoulder. He’s been a little tense all week, worried that his parents would come home for his birthday and expect him to do some kind of business dinner.

This is a much better way to spend his birthday.

Eddie is…frolicking might actually be the best word for it. He’s not exactly dancing, but he’s not really walking either. Steve almost gets too caught up watching his movements to finish what he’s doing.

“Do you want me to show you this one or do you wanna show me something first?” Eddie asks. He sounds excited, maybe even more than Steve is.

It’s not like quitting dance meant Steve actually stopped dancing. He just only did it at home, and had to make sure he was alone, which has been increasingly more difficult over the high school years. His friends practically lived at his house, even when he didn’t want them to.

But he’s still out of practice, and probably not nearly as nimble as this dance would require. He’s not sure what he would even show Eddie. His last dance recital was six years ago, and he doubts the tape with his music is even here anymore.

“Um, you can show me some of yours. Maybe the drum part?” Steve’s voice shakes with sudden nerves. He hasn’t had eyes on him while he danced in a long time. He wasn’t built like this the last time he properly danced, either.

Eddie smirks. “The whole song is the drum part, but I know what you mean.”

Steve blushes. Eddie takes position in the center of the room, leaving enough space for Steve to stand next to him.

They look at each other in the mirror. Steve nods.

Eddie moves so fluidly, even when he’s going slower to show Steve. It’s like he’s a waterfall and Steve’s the river below, waiting to take what he’s giving to move it along in a beautiful and seamless way.

It hits Steve when he’s watching Eddie turn that if Eddie’s never taken a proper class, he must’ve choreographed this dance himself.

“Steve?” Eddie’s hand on his arm startles him from his thoughts. “Need me to do it again?”

“Sorry. Yes, please,” he doesn’t know why he can’t focus, but Eddie continues to show him three more times and he still doesn’t quite get the timing right. “Sorry, I think I’m just distracted.”

“Why don’t you show me a routine you’re familiar with?” Eddie asks.

“I’m not sure I remember any enough,” Steve tries to say, but Eddie shakes his head.

“You’re a dancer. You remember.”

He’s right. He may miss a few steps here and there, or get the timing just a bit off, but he can remember most of every routine he ever did on a stage. He does it without music, something that Ms. Laseaux always made him do before recitals to ensure he knew the timing in his head.

He doesn’t pay attention to Eddie’s reactions until he’s done.

He’s breathless, and not just from the dance. Eddie’s eyes are shining, and his lips are parted in a way that makes Steve want to slip his tongue between them and taste him. He’s a bit thrown by the thought, but only because he hasn’t had those kinds of thoughts in a long time. Not since Nancy broke up with him.

Eddie stands from the floor and walks over to him, still seemingly in shock over his dancing.

Steve’s ankles are sore, and he’s a bit mad he chose the hardest dance he ever did. His heart is trying to beat out of his chest. His legs are shaking.

Eddie cups his face, eyes searching his.

“You should have let her bribe your mom,” he says quietly. “You belong on the stage, too.”

Steve feels tears prick his eyes and it’s ridiculous to be crying for the second time in front of Eddie, but he’s a little overwhelmed.

“I miss it,” he chokes out. Eddie nods because he knows. Maybe not the same way Steve does, but he knows his own yearning, his own pain at being unable to perform the way his body is capable of. He might be the only other person in Hawkins who understands him. “I shouldn’t have let him stop me.”

“You were a kid, Steve,” Eddie’s voice breaks. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I do now,” Steve sounds more sure than he thought he could with tears streaming down his face. “What can he do now that I’m 18 other than cut me off? He won’t. My mom wouldn’t let him and his business partners would think less of him.”

Eddie’s brows furrow. He looks away for a moment, his lips moving around words Steve can’t hear. When he looks back at Steve, he looks heartbroken.

“Is today your birthday?”

Steve nods. He’s not sure why Eddie looks so upset. This is turning into one of the best birthdays he’s ever had and he’s starting to feel relief that he finally feels brave enough to stand up to his dad.

“And you came here?” Somehow, he sounds even more upset.

“I didn’t really want to go anywhere else,” Steve tilts his head as he answers. “This is always where I’ve felt the least lonely.”

“Dance with me.”

They danced already. A little. But Steve thinks he means something different now.

“What do you know?” Steve asks, a flutter in his chest at the thought of touching Eddie, lifting Eddie, feeling Eddie against him.

“Swan Lake?” Eddie asks.

“You know Swan Lake? How?” Steve doesn’t mean to sound rude, but he’s a little shocked someone who’s never even taken a ballet class would know the most famous pas de deux.

“I have eyes and an uncle who buys me tapes of famous ballets from some guy in Chicago. They’re shit quality, but I watch them so often, I’ve taught myself.”

“You’re amazing.”

Eddie laughs. “Let’s see if I can pull it off first.”

Eddie rushes over to the corner, searching through the tapes on the shelf. Most of the popular ballets are there, and Steve knows every piece from Swan Lake is probably on the top. All the seniors tend to use those for their solos.

He finds what he’s looking for and slots the tape in the stereo. Steve knows there’s a slow start to the music, and it allows plenty of time for them to get into position.

It’s easy falling into this with Eddie. They don’t even discuss who will take which part, they just fall into what’s natural. Steve hasn’t spent as much time en pointe as Eddie clearly has, so he takes the male lead, happy just to have his hands gently guiding through the dance. He’s not meant to be the star of the show, and he wouldn’t wanna be as long as Eddie’s the one front and center.

When they finish, it’s easy to close the distance between them, lips brushing together in the gentlest kiss Steve’s ever experienced. He immediately wants more, but he waits.

He may have been leading the dance, but he doesn’t want to lead with this.

Eddie cups his cheek, still catching his breath.

“Happy birthday, Steve.”

It throws Steve off. He almost forgot it was his birthday. He got so caught up in just being around Eddie, dancing, feeling this freedom he only ever felt at the studio.

He doesn’t remember the last time he actually celebrated his birthday. It had to be before high school, even though he remembers Tommy insisting on throwing him a party at his own house with his own food and beer for his 16th. That was less for his birthday and more for Tommy to show off that he knew Steve Harrington.

“You’re okay,” Eddie says.

Not asking. Telling.

Steve believes him.

The next time they kiss is in Eddie’s van, not even ten minutes later, after Eddie asks Steve where he wants to go for a birthday dinner, his treat.

“Benny’s?” Steve asks.

“You sure? Just the diner?”

Steve nods. “My parents are gonna drag me to some five star restaurant next week where the only decent food will be the dessert they don’t bring enough of. I want greasy shitty food and a milkshake.”

Eddie kisses him a third time and puts the van in reverse.

They’re both sweaty from dancing, and neither of them should technically be out this late on a school night, but Steve’s not alone.

It’s his birthday, he got to dance, and he’s not alone.

[sedlex]

Soooo I was wondering, what happens if you turn the parts of artistic swimming filmed both under and over water upside down?

This:

[music is Dance It, Dance All (Violet & The Mutants Remix) by The Easton Ellises]

[video is from the de Brouwers twins duet technical routine]