Reflections of Us - 18+
Synopsis~ college au where you are a state champion ballerina who gave it all up for a degree. K is a hip hop dancer who started at nineteen. You find each other in a practice room on a rainy Thursday and spend the next month pretending what's happening between you is strictly professional. The mirror doesn't lie though.
Pairing~ ex ballerina college student fem!reader x rookie hip hop dancer K
wc~11.8k (my bad) - one shot
ao3 link~
Tags/warnings~ explicit, minors dni, smut, pet names, fingering, voyeurism, rough sex, choking, hair pulling, biting, unprotected sex, belly press, multiple orgasms
author's note: heyyy, back in the &team college au. if you happen to be a ballerina or dancer please ignore any mistakes, I tried to be accurate but there's a chance something is wrong. there's a few No More Hiding easter eggs in here. Also please read the tags before getting to the smut. okay? okay. Anyways second ever post on the record. please comment your reaction. I'll totally reply. -nix
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The sound of the keychains on your dance bag clinking together echoes through the hallway of the student rec center. You feel unusually light as you glide down the hall toward the practice room.
Since moving from out of state you haven't been able to find time to practice the way you used to. Being a state champion ballerina has had to be put on hold so you can finish your degree, because dancing for a living just isn't practical anymore. Not in this economy. Not in this life.
You were ecstatic when you saw a break in your schedule late on a Thursday evening, a rare window to simply get back in the studio and move. You needed this for your own sanity. To you, ballet had never felt like discipline or like something you had to force your body to do. It always just felt right. You were craving that feeling more than ever now.
As you round the corner toward the dimly lit practice room you can already hear it. The unmistakable thump of bass bleeding through the door.
Great, you think.
You loved dancing in front of audiences and other dancers who understood the language of ballet, but dancing in front of someone who specialized in hip hop or contemporary was something else entirely. The styles felt so different, the priorities so opposite, and somewhere in the back of your mind you'd always wondered if they saw ballet as rigid. Outdated. You knew the thought was probably unfair. It still stuck.
You straighten your shoulders and regain your composure before yanking open the heavy door.
The practice room is small and cozy. Your school isn't particularly one for the arts, so the fact that it exists at all feels like a blessing. Located on the second floor of the student recreation center, the room has three massive arched windows lining the wall opposite the door. Rain tracks down the glass in slow, uneven lines, catching the dim light. The vinyl floors are in great condition. The mirrors are wiped down by staff twice a day.
The best part of the whole room is the barre. Bolted to the wall underneath the massive windows. It's the only place on this entire campus where you feel at home.
Your eyes find it automatically, the way they always do.
And then you see who else is already here
A figure, tall and slender, occupies the middle of the room. The retro beats of his hip hop music seep faintly into your earbuds. You don't have much time to take in anything else before you make yourself look away. A navy blue hat sits low on his face and the hood of his loose grey sweatshirt is pulled over his head. His baggy sweats hang off impossibly long legs and the squeak of his sneakers against the vinyl floor matches the rhythm of whatever he's dancing to.
You make sure to control your face. Don't stare. He might think you're judging him.
You stride past him and set your bag in one of the storage cubbies. His steps falter slightly as he registers he's no longer alone. Then he finds his rhythm again, settling back into the routine, and you watch him out of the corner of your eye.
You've never seen a hip hop dancer who managed to make the style look sharp and graceful at the same time. He glides through the moves with an ease that's difficult to fake, and you can't help but notice his control, the precision underneath the looseness of it. It's rare for someone to move their hips that smoothly and still look completely effortless. For him it seems like second nature.
You take out your AirPods to hear the song fully and pull your pocket mirror out of your bag, you busy yourself reapplying chapstick, watching him in the small reflection. Before he can notice that your lips have been coated approximately one hundred times, you snap the mirror shut and toss it back in your bag. You pretend to unlace your sneakers instead.
The speaker cuts out.
Suddenly you're both just two people in a small room, and the only sound between you is the quiet rhythm of his breathing coming down.
He walks over to the mirror and reaches for his water bottle. Takes a few slow sips, chest still rising and falling from the exertion. Then he snatches his phone up from the floor, punches in his password, and you catch the unmistakable green of the Spotify loading screen.
As if he just then remembered he wasn't alone, his face snaps up.
Your eyes meet in the mirror.
You hope he didn't notice how long you were staring.
You don't think you managed to hide it in time.
He's gorgeous. Even in a casual outfit, hood still half up, sweat still fresh on his skin, he is one of the most striking people you've ever seen in your life. His dark brown eyes hold yours in the reflection, calm and unreadable. Your gaze drops, just for a second, to where his hoodie has partially unzipped, his chest still catching its breath beneath it. His dark hair clings slightly to his forehead.
You feel heat rise to your cheeks.
Because he's still looking right back at you.
"I'm curious," he starts, and his voice cuts through the silence so suddenly it makes you flinch. "Do you think the steps leading up to the final chorus are redundant? I feel like I'm cycling through the same eight counts the whole song and I'm sick of watching myself do it. I think I've gone blind to my own mistakes."
You blink.
"Are you talking to me?"
"No, I'm talking to all the other people in this room with us," he says, and the dry sarcasm in his tone catches you completely off guard. Definitely not how a normal person talks to a stranger.
"Right, sorry." You shake your head and look down. You stand after finally prying off your left sneaker and risk another glance at him through the mirror. "I don't know anything about hip hop, honestly. But for what it's worth, it looked good to me."
He scoffs, short and dismissive.
"Here I was thinking another dancer walked in," he mutters, eyes already dropping back to his phone to scroll for another song. Then he glances up again. "Hey." His gaze travels over you slowly. "I think you might be lost. The yoga studio is in the basement."
Black compression jacket. Loose yoga pants. Baby pink headband. You don't blame him for the assumption.
But hearing it roll off his lips like an afterthought still stings more than it should.
You look at him for a long moment. Perfect face. Terrible manners.
There's nothing you love more than proving men wrong.
"I'm not lost," you say, and turn around to dig your ballet slippers out of your bag.
You could take it even further and shock him by pulling out your pointe shoes, but the amount of work that goes into breaking them in isn't worth it on a smug loser like him.
You unzip your jacket and shrug it off, revealing your long-sleeve boatneck leotard underneath. You step out of your loose yoga pants, baby pink tights and black leg warmers underneath those too. You slip your ballet slippers onto your feet quickly and tie the elastic ribbon in a neat bow. Then, before turning back in his direction, you put in your AirPods.
A silent message. Leave me alone.
You notice him stiffen slightly where he stands as you stride toward the barre and begin to stretch.
You quickly forget about the sting of being belittled and fall back into your old rhythm of warming up. Right leg, then left. Working each joint carefully until you're convinced you won't hurt yourself. Then your arms, your shoulders. You roll your neck and stretch your fingers one by one.
The stress of college life fades instantly. Your body reverts to autopilot and you finally feel like yourself again, like something that had been held too tight is slowly releasing.
When you turn to stretch your inner thigh against the barre you steal another glance at him. He's doing his very best to pretend he isn't staring, but you can tell he has been. You can see it in the tight line his mouth has pressed into, like he already regrets opening it.
Once every joint feels like elastic you reach for your phone and drift to an open spot in front of the mirror, about ten feet from where he's standing. You let your eyes meet his for just a moment, casual, unbothered, not giving him anything to read. Then you queue up your favorite song, set your phone gently on the floor, and wait for the first note.
When it comes, your limbs move without being told.
You float into it. Legs and arms weaving together, painting the air with whatever the song asks of you. School fades. Your job fades. The insufferable stranger ten feet away fades. You melt into the music and throw yourself around the room until you forget there's a floor beneath you at all.
When the song slows and the final note fades, you blink away the daze that always settles over you when you dance. Refocusing takes a second. Coming back to the room takes another.
This time, pretending the figure standing ten feet away doesn't exist is impossible.
He hasn't moved an inch since the last time you acknowledged him. Something caught between pure shock and something softer, something closer to yearning, is written plainly across his face.
Good.
Your chest rises and falls as you make your way to your dance bag and dig for your water bottle. You're already anticipating the relief of cold water against the burning thirst in your throat. Your victory is cut short when the bottle feels oddly light the moment you pull it free.
Of course.
You let out a slow sigh and are starting to push yourself off the floor when an ice cold sealed blue powerade bottle appears in your peripheral vision. You turn. It's the grey hoodie sleeve, arm extended, holding it out to you without a word.
"I guess yoga was wrong, huh?" he says, and there's something almost playful in the way he looks at you now.
You snatch the bottle out of his hand and drink half of it in one go. You wipe a stray drop from your chin with the back of your hand, and when you glance up you catch him watching that exact moment. You're not entirely sure how to feel about it.
"I told you I wasn't lost," you say matter-of-factly. "And don't discredit yoga. I know girls who do yoga that could fold themselves completely flat if they wanted to."
"Right. Right." He nods, like he's actually conceding the point. "So, uh, what's your name?"
Who is this guy, and what happened to the outspoken stranger who discredited you fifteen minutes ago?
"Y/N," you say plainly.
"Y/N," he repeats out loud, nodding slowly, like he's turning the syllables over for the first time. He doesn't say anything after that. Just kind of stands there and looks at you.
This is so weird.
"Usually this is the part where you tell me your name."
"Oh. Right." A smirk crosses his face. "It's K."
"Like K-A-Y, or just the letter?"
"Just the letter," he clarifies. "My real name is Yudai Koga. But when I started university I wanted to go by something different. So. K."
"Ah." You screw the cap back onto the bottle. "Well, K. Thank you for the Powerade."
"Yeah, you're welcome."
This time you actually look at him. Not through the mirror. Not from ten feet away. Not while he's in constant movement. Just directly, unhurried, in the full light of the room.
Yeah. You really have to give it to him. He could absolutely model.
He's smiling down at you with a cocky grin, but there's something sheepish living just underneath it, something in the way his eyes catch the light. He's still embarrassed and trying very hard not to show it.
"I've never seen anyone dance like that," he finally admits. "It's like you aren't even human."
You snort, which genuinely seems to catch him off guard.
You look at him for a second. "You're not so bad yourself," you say, and mean it. "That thing you were doing before the chorus. I couldn't take my eyes off it."
Something shifts in his expression. The cockiness softens just slightly, like he wasn't expecting that.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You set the water bottle down between you. "Your control is insane. I was watching your footwork in the mirror and I kept waiting for you to lose the timing and you just… didn't."
He's quiet for a moment, looking at you like he's deciding something.
"I'm sorry," he says finally, and it comes out flat and genuine at the same time, like he's not used to saying it but means it anyway. He lowers himself to the floor a few feet away from you, leaning back on his hands and crossing his legs. "The yoga thing was out of pocket."
"It was," you agree easily.
A beat of silence settles between you, but it's different from the one before. Less charged. More comfortable than it has any right to be given that you've known each other for approximately twenty minutes.
"How long have you been dancing?" he asks.
"Since I was three." You lean back on your hands, mirroring him without meaning to. "You?"
"Since I was nineteen." He tilts his head. "So you've got some years on me."
"You're lying," you say, laughing. You know that his level of talent would take far more than a few years of practice. "Be serious. When did you actually start?"
"I am being serious." He gives you a bewildered look.
You study his face for a moment, searching for the punchline.
There isn't one.
"Nineteen," you repeat.
"Nineteen," he confirms.
You let out a short breath that's almost a laugh, shaking your head slowly. Three years old versus nineteen. You spent your entire childhood being shaped by ballet, every weekend and holiday and summer poured into a studio. And he just decided one day, apparently as a fully formed adult, and ended up here.
"That's actually insane," you say, and you mean it as the compliment it is.
He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased. "I just loved it. Couldn't stop once I started."
You understand that more than he knows.
"I know that feeling," you say.
"I could tell." His gaze drifts to the spot in front of the mirror where you were dancing. "It was like you morphed into something completely different the moment you started. I couldn't hear your music but the way you moved made it so easy to track the rhythm anyway."
"I do morph into something different," you admit. "The music starts and it's like…"
"The whole world disappears," he finishes.
You go still for a moment, looking at him.
"Exactly," you say quietly.
A comfortable beat of silence passes between you.
"I was thinking," he says, "why don't we call a truce."
"I'm listening."
He shifts where he's sitting, and for the first time since you walked in, his confidence seems to quietly leave the room. "I've been working on something, but I haven't been able to show anyone yet." He pauses. "I choreographed a contemporary routine. But I'm not sure it's right, and I can't figure out what's missing." His eyes find yours. "Would you be willing to watch?"
"Knock yourself out," you say, extending a hand toward the empty room.
You adjust yourself on the floor while he carefully stands and moves to turn his speaker on. You pretend not to notice his hands trembling slightly as he pulls up the music on his phone.
He takes a sharp breath. His eyes find his own reflection in the mirror, and for a moment he just looks at himself. Steadying.
Then the song starts.
Your ears perk up the second you recognize it. A deeply emotional, atmospheric song, one you only ever let yourself play at midnight when you needed somewhere to disappear to. A private song. The kind you didn't expect to share with anyone.
And here this man was dancing to it.
You laser focus on every move his body makes. Every sharp beat is met with a perfectly timed jolt of his body. Every slow, cycling melody is answered with a graceful extension of a hand or a leg. He's completely mastered his turns, spinning with an ease that looks almost careless. Almost.
The routine is beautiful.
You catch yourself quietly humming along without meaning to, the melody surfacing in the back of your throat on its own. As you watch him glide and jump and sweep his legs across the floor, you find yourself arriving at a quiet conclusion.
He is a prodigy. Or a god sent down specifically to humble you with the presence of his dancing.
Either way, you're not sure you deserve to be in the same room.
You watch intently. It's good. Really good. But something's missing, like his movements are incomplete, a quiet question waiting for an answer.
When the last note fades he drops his head, chest heaving, and the room goes quiet again.
You don't say anything for a moment. Then the answer hits you.
"Can you run it again?" you ask.
He looks up. "Yeah." He wipes his forearm across his forehead. "Was it that bad?"
"No," you say simply. "I just want to watch it again."
He studies your face for a second like he's trying to read something in it, then nods and reaches for his phone.
The song starts again.
This time you don't just watch. You map it. Your eyes track the places where his body hesitates, not from lack of skill but from lack of an answer. The choreography keeps asking a question and then moving on before anything can respond to it. By the time the bridge hits you're already on your feet, and by the time the chorus swells you're already moving.
You don't ask. You just join him.
It doesn't feel like freestyling. It feels like being a poet finally spilling out the words you could never say onto a page. Your arms reach for him and his arms catch you in return.
The electricity between your bodies is undeniable. But neither of you feel it yet. Not really. Because the music has started and the whole world has disappeared, just like you both said it would. There is only movement and breath and the space between you closing and opening like a conversation finally being had out loud.
You dance like smoke curling off the end of a cigarette into a starry night sky. His movements pick up exactly where they faltered when he was alone. His hands find their place on your waist and it's like a puzzle clicking into its last piece.
You fall in and out of his arms. Spin in time with him, your bodies finding a language neither of you had to teach the other. And when the music finally comes to a slow, you're left breathless in his arms, staring up at him, right into those lethal brown eyes.
Neither of you speak.
You just breathe. Catching your breath together, not breaking eye contact. He moves first, but only to curl the corner of his lips up, slow and certain.
You feel like you never want to be anywhere else again.
Which is insane, you realize, when you remember you met the man currently holding you for the first time less than an hour ago.
"I think I found my missing piece," he says quietly. "And I don't think I'm the only one who already knows this dance needs you in it."
When he finally lets go of you, you both sink to the floor and talk through the dance. You discuss the logistics of the routine, what's working, what could be refined, how to truly polish it into something complete. You decide to keep the fact that the song means something to you entirely to yourself. That feels like too much to offer a stranger.
You don't know why this idea excites you as much as it does. You don't have a lot of free time. Your schedule is already pulling at the seams.
But this feels important. This feels real.
You're lacing your sneakers back up when his phone screen appears in front of your face. He's already opened a new contact with your name at the top.
"We'll probably need to stay in touch if we're doing this," he says.
You take the phone from his hands and punch your number in without overthinking it.
"Just so you know," you say, handing it back, "I'm really busy. I might not have much time for this."
He takes the phone. Looks at the number. Then looks at you.
"You'll make time for me," he says simply, and turns and walks out the door.
You sit there for a moment in the empty practice room, the rain still tracking down the arched windows, the speaker silent, the barre waiting.
And that was your first interaction with Yudai Koga.
A week later a sense of déjà vu washes over you as you walk down the hallway toward the practice room. The same sound of keychains dangling from your bag. The same even pace of your footsteps. But this time, when the familiar thump of a hip hop track reaches you from down the hall, instead of anxiety you feel something warm settle in your chest.
You decide not to examine what that means.
When you pull open the heavy door K stops dancing immediately, smiling at you through the mirror. Like he genuinely wasn't sure you'd show up.
"Well, well, well," he says. "There's my little ballerina."
You cringe.
"Don't call me that," you say, and fling your bag onto the floor. You sink down and start unlacing your sneakers, beginning your warm up ritual like this is any other day of practice. You'd come dressed for the studio today, pink leotard under your cream bolero, white tights disappearing into pink leg warmers, ballet slippers already sitting at the top of your bag waiting for you.
You make your way to the barre to begin stretching when a familiar figure appears beside you.
"What are you doing?" you ask.
"Stretching," he replies. "Obviously."
"If you're going to do it, at least do it right," you say, and reach over to guide his ankle up onto the barre. He winces visibly as you test his flexibility, and you pretend not to notice the way he writhes slightly under your guidance.
He's wearing a white tank top today and low black sweats, and this close you really get to take in his frame for the first time. His legs are three quarters of his entire body, his arms are perfectly toned like Michelangelo himself sculpted them, and his back-
Stop.
This isn't like that, you tell yourself. Except the feeling sitting low in your stomach isn't listening, warm and inconvenient and getting harder to shake off every time he gets within arm's reach of you.
You laugh watching him attempt to stretch anywhere close to as far as you.
"How are you doing that?" he says, nearly toppling off the barre trying to reach his hamstrings.
"Since I was three, remember," you reply.
The warm up winds down naturally and silence fills the space between you. You both drift toward the center of the room and then just sort of stop, the open floor suddenly feeling very large.
"I don't really remember how it even happened last time," you admit. "Or where to start."
"Me neither," he says plainly, reaching for his phone to pull up the music.
You'd listened to the song obsessively for the past week. Mapping out in your head where your body would go for each lyric. But somewhere between the choreography your mind kept drifting back to him. The way he moved, delicate and powerful at the same time. The way his hands felt when they found your hips like they already knew where they belonged.
There you go again.
That dark corner of your mind that wanted him, quietly and completely, in a way you hadn't invited and weren't ready to look at directly. You'd been pushing the door closed on it all week.
It kept drifting back open.
"Why don't we just go with the music?" he suggests, knocking you out of your daze. "If we find something that works we can go back and refine it."
"Sounds good," you say, and shake yourself back into the room.
When the music starts you both fall into a steady rhythm, stopping whenever something clicks and working it until it's right. The night stretches long around you without either of you seeming to notice, the practice room holding the two of you in its own small world while the rain continues its quiet work against the arched windows.
You find it deeply satisfying the way his contemporary style compliments your ballet. You're able to absorb more about the genre than you expected, and you genuinely enjoy watching him break down his interpretation of the lyrics, the way his body becomes a translation for something words can't quite reach.
The dynamic between you settles into something slightly teasing and quietly competitive. He enjoys critiquing your difference in timing. You enjoy critiquing his flow and his frankly embarrassing flexibility. Neither of you lets the other get away with anything.
The more comfortable you become around him the more you start to notice small things.
Like the mirror.
K loves watching himself in the mirror. Not out of vanity exactly, more like he thinks better when he can see himself. And more than that, you notice, he loves watching you in it. Rather than turning to face you directly when he has something to say, he almost always finds your eyes in the reflection first, like the glass is a safer distance somehow.
When you dance he uses the mirror to its full potential, taking in every angle of the way your body moves through the song. You notice. You say nothing.
When the second meeting wraps up there's that same strange feeling sitting low in your gut. You don't want to leave. You'd enjoyed this far more than you expected, and now that the two of you are getting more comfortable you can feel something growing quietly in your chest that's becoming harder and harder to dismiss.
But you do. You're good at that.
You pack your bag and swing it over your shoulder, turning to give K a small smile before pushing open the heavy door.
"Goodnight," you say.
"Goodnight, little ballerina," he replies.
You roll your eyes. You also can't quite control your face fast enough to hide the smile that follows, wider than you mean it to be, spilling out before you can stop it.
You let the door fall shut behind you.
You spend the following week pretending your mind isn't completely and utterly occupied by brown eyes and long legs. Everywhere you go on campus you keep an eye out for him.
After a brief social media stalk you find out he's a sociology major. One year above you. You start pausing outside the sociology building whenever you pass it, just in case some alignment of the universe puts him walking out at the exact moment you're walking by. It never does.
You think you catch a glimpse of him in one of the campus cafes one afternoon. Dark hair catching the light, a flash of brown eyes, and then he's gone, swallowed back into the crowd before you can be sure.
Thursday creeps up again and you pretend to be less excited than you are as you walk down the hallway toward the practice room.
This time you aren't met with pounding bass. You pull open the door and the lights are off.
You beat him today.
You flip the lights on and begin your ritual. Halfway through your stretches the door flings open and there he is, the fluorescent light of the hallway framing his figure like he's being presented to you. Like a piece of art that wasn't asking to be looked at but can't help it anyway.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, slightly out of breath like he sprinted up the stairs. "I got caught in a meeting with my ethics GE." You can tell he wasn't thoroughly prepared for the rain. His dark hair clings to his forehead and his face is speckled with small water droplets.
"It's alright," you say. "It's not like you can do these stretches anyway."
"Careful, I might start thinking you're happy to see me." he says, throwing his bag on the floor and joining you at the barre.
You continue stretching and laugh at his attempts, guiding him through easier beginner level stretches so he can actually warm up properly.
"Woah," he says, testing the muscles in his shoulder with quiet amazement. "I feel like I could do the splits if I wanted to."
"Please don't attempt that. I have no interest in a trip to the ER."
You fall back into the same rhythm you left off the week before almost immediately. Teasing each other shamelessly, laughing in each other's faces when you get too close, both of you far too unserious to acknowledge out loud that the chemistry between you is completely undeniable.
Once you finish blocking out the first chorus you both collapse onto the floor for a water break. You crawl toward your bag and when you glance up you catch his eyes in the mirror. Looking directly at where your thigh high leg warmers meet the thin strip of bare skin before the shorts of your leotard pick up.
Okay. So maybe you did wear a slightly more scandalous outfit on purpose today. But if anyone asked you would blame it entirely on not wanting to do laundry.
You end up sitting across from each other on the floor while he grills you on your competitive career.
"How many medals do you have?"
"Too many to count."
"Okay but if you had to guess."
"Maybe just under a hundred?"
"Really?!" He looks genuinely astounded, staring at you like you're the most interesting thing he's ever encountered. Like he should consider himself lucky to be sitting on this floor across from you.
"I told you, I was the state champion," you say, laughing. "I have trophies too. And scholarships."
"I can't believe I never saw you in the news."
"Ballet doesn't get a lot of coverage as a sport. Or as an art form honestly." You pause. "Did you dance in high school or did you start after you graduated?"
"I ran marathons in high school," he says. "That's why I'm able to keep up with you. I have good stamina."
You pretend to ignore what that does to you. But your cheeks are already warming and you drop your gaze to the floor, just for a second.
He doesn't say anything about your cheeks. Just files it away behind those observant eyes and moves on.
"Hey, so I wanted to run something by you," he starts.
"What's up?" you ask, completely unprepared for what comes next.
"So I found out there's a dance showcase in a couple of weeks, run by the dance club." You feel your stomach flip slightly. "My friend Jo sent me the flyer. I was wondering if you'd be down to perform this." He motions between the two of you.
You've never seen him like this before. Awkward and genuinely nervous, watching you with a careful kind of hope like he already knows what he wants the answer to be and is trying not to show it. His eyes give him away though. That quiet pleading glimmer, like he's holding onto the possibility that maybe, just maybe, you'll say yes.
"Oh!" The question catches you off guard.
You give it a moment. In the scheme of things this isn't a good idea. You have school on top of work and committing to extra rehearsals just for a showcase sounds like a death wish on your schedule. But then you think about how dancing with K actually feels. The one evening a week where everything else goes quiet. The one place you've felt like yourself since leaving home.
You don't think any harder than that before answering.
"I'd love to," you say, smiling.
K looks like the wind got knocked out of him.
"Really?" he asks, and there's nothing performative about it.
"Don't make me regret saying yes."
"I definitely won't." The grin spreading across his face is absolutely insufferable.
You cannot stand him.
After running through more of the song you both pack up your things, joking with each other like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like you've been doing this for years.
The next week comes. Then the week after that you're meeting on Monday, then Tuesday, then Thursday. You've been quietly getting your shifts at the pub covered and front-loading all your homework as early in the week as you can. Just so you have more time in that practice room.
Just so you have more time with K.
Being with him has become the highlight of your week and you've mostly stopped pretending otherwise, at least to yourself.
When you see your friends every other Friday you bring him up in passing. Carefully, casually, not insinuating anything. Just mentioning that you love getting to dance again. That you found someone to practice with.
You leave the rest to them.
"Is he cute?"
"What does he look like?"
"He sounds mysterious."
A symphony of giggles fills your apartment when you explain with a completely straight face that your interactions are purely friendly.
You almost believe it yourself.
Finally the week of the showcase arrives. You meet K on Thursday, the day before.
"Hey, little ballerina," he says.
The familiar nickname makes you roll your eyes on instinct. You pretend you haven't grown quietly fond of the syllables, the way they come out easy and automatic every single time he sees you.
"Did you forget my name?" you say flatly, giving him your best unimpressed look. "Be honest."
"Nope," he says, throwing his bag on the floor and digging through it. "I just love seeing you annoyed." He produces a blue Powerade and tosses it in your direction. "Got this for you."
How romantic.
"Wow," you say, pressing it dramatically to your chest. "Just like the day we met. I'll cherish it forever."
"If you're going to be weird about it just give it back," he says, pulling a red bottle out for himself. "They only had one blue one left and everyone knows that's the best flavor."
"So you gave it to me?"
He doesn't answer that. Just twists the cap off his red bottle and takes a long sip, very deliberately not looking at you.
You smile at the Powerade in your hands and say nothing.
The practice goes smoothly. The choreography is completely polished and after running through it four times you could both probably perform the whole song in your sleep. You take a well deserved break, settling into your usual spots on the floor. The blue Powerade is surprisingly refreshing after all that work.
"Wow, what's it going to be like when all this is over?" you joke.
You ignore the pit that opens quietly in your stomach. You never wanted this to end. You never thought you could have this much fun away from home, or feel like you belonged somewhere new. But here you are in this warm little practice room with this boy who somehow completely changed the shape of your days without asking permission.
"Let's not focus on that," he says. You sense the same feeling radiating from him. Neither of you are ready to look at it directly.
"You're right," you sigh. "Have you decided what you're wearing tomorrow?"
"Yes, but it's a surprise," he says, smirking. "You?"
"You'll see," you say, standing and offering him a hand up.
You run through the choreography two more times for good measure. When the song ends for the last time that night you feel that aching feeling settle back into your chest. It never truly leaves when you're around him. You both take longer than necessary packing your things, moving slowly, neither of you in any real hurry.
"I'll see you tomorrow, little ballerina," he says softly, shouldering his bag and heading for the door.
"Hey, K?" The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
He turns. And the way he looks at you in that moment, patient and still, like he's been waiting for you to say something real for weeks, makes your heart climb into your throat.
But you don't. You freeze. The words dissolve somewhere between your chest and your mouth.
"What is it?" he asks softly.
"Oh, uh, sorry. I was just going to thank you for the Powerade," you say, and even as it comes out you can hear how hollow it sounds.
A beat passes.
"Anytime," he says quietly, and disappears into the hallway.
You stand there in the empty practice room for a moment, the rain long gone from the windows, the barre waiting in the silence.
You really have to stop doing that.
You hardly sleep in anticipation for the showcase. When morning comes you pull your outfit from the closet and smile. You always loved this one, rarely getting to wear it because of the strict guidelines of competitive ballet.
You press it against your chest in your full length mirror. A simple black dress, chiffon skirt draping softly around the bodice, sequined lace appliqués climbing up both sides, the neckline gathering into a delicate mock neck. You can't wait to see his reaction.
You get ready, slip into your dress, do your hair and makeup, and head to the showcase rehearsals.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
Yudai had been there for twenty minutes already when the room shifted.
He didn't see you walk in so much as he felt it, some change in the atmosphere that pulled his attention across the crowded backstage before his eyes had even found you. And then they did.
He forgets how to breathe.
You're standing on the other side of the room in a black dress, arms and legs on full display, your hair neatly pinned up, your makeup doing something to your features that makes it genuinely difficult to look directly at you. Like staring into something too bright.
He's seen you in leotards and leg warmers and ballet slippers every week for over a month. He's watched you move like the floor doesn't quite apply to you the way it applies to everyone else.
None of that prepared him for this.
His friend Jo appears at his shoulder.
"Is that her?" Jo asks, following his eyeline with obvious interest.
Yudai doesn't answer immediately.
"Yeah," he says finally. "That's her."
Jo looks between the two of you, taking in the yearning his friend is hardly bothering to mask anymore. He can't help but smile.
"What?" Yudai asks.
"Nothing," Jo shrugs. "I'm just sensing that you're in trouble." He claps him once on the shoulder and walks away.
Yudai watches him go.
He doesn't argue.
Before he can admire you from afar any longer you spot him across the room and begin weaving through the crowd of other dancers toward him, smiling slightly as you go. Like you're just as happy to see him as he is to see you.
Almost.
"Hi," you say when you finally reach him, huffing out a small laugh at the sheer number of bodies you had to navigate to get here.
He can't quite find words. But he tries anyway.
"Hey, little ballerina," he says, his voice coming out softer than usual. His eyes drop briefly to your dress, gaze lingering just a moment at the spot where the chiffon rides up your thigh. "Look who dressed up."
"Not too bad yourself," you say.
He glances down at his outfit. Black pants and a white flowing button down one shade away from being sheer. Simple, clean. He's glad he went with it. You deserve to be the main event tonight.
"Are you ready for this?" he asks, because it's the only thing he can think to say that isn't everything else currently running through his head.
You look up at him, completely unbothered, completely certain.
"I've been ready since I was three."
You both head to the main stage for the rehearsal.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
You and K sit backstage sharing your usual blue Powerade, both of you doing a poor job of pretending you aren't nervous. His phone lights up on the floor beside him and he smiles at the screen.
"My friends just got here. Come on, let's peek through the curtain."
You agree immediately, curiosity getting the best of you. You've wondered about his friend group for weeks.
You both make your way to the wings and position yourselves at the edge of the curtain, looking out at the auditorium slowly filling with students.
Before K spots his friends you spot yours. All four of them settled into the second row, smiling too wide and laughing with each other about something that is almost certainly about you and K. Then their attention shifts, drawn to the other students filing into their row. Eight seats next to them, eight other guys settling in, greetings exchanged.
You watch your friend on the end of the row go completely still, leaning sideways to mouth something into your other friend's ear. You catch the words "history" and "office hours" from across the auditorium. She smiles at one of the guys and he gives her a quick nod back.
Then, as if fate itself decided to test you, the guy on the aisle seat makes direct eye contact with you and waves enthusiastically.
K waves back.
"That's them," he says, grinning. "Looks like they made some friends."
He turns to look at you and you burst out laughing.
"Looks like they did," you manage, and one of your friends finally spots you through the curtain, waving, the other three following immediately after.
K shakes his head slowly. "Of course they found each other."
Out in the auditorium the entire group of twelve are now fully mingling, animated and buzzing. Presumably about the both of you.
When the showcase finally starts everything stops being funny and starts to feel too real. You and K are fourth, and after the first two acts finish and the third starts you both get called to the wings. You feel like you're about to throw up. You never felt like this at ballet recitals or even in competition. But this is different. You're nervous because you don't want him to look bad. You don't want to let him down.
"How are you feeling?" you ask shakily, finally looking up at him. He's practically vibrating.
"I can't wait to get out there."
Well. That wasn't what you expected. You aren't surprised that he loves to perform but you also wish he felt at least a little anxious. Just so you could feel slightly less alone in it.
The third act ends. The dancers walk offstage. The wings go quiet.
He gives you one last look, something unwritten living in his expression, something he's been carrying around for weeks that neither of you have found the words for yet. Then he reaches out and takes both of your hands, and the shock of it roots you completely to the spot.
"Stop thinking," he says quietly. "You've been doing this since you were three, remember?"
You look up at him.
"Don't let go until we're out there," you say.
He doesn't
The lights illuminate the two of you and suddenly the stage feels enormous. You're frozen, trying not to think about the hundreds of faces watching from the dark. You fix your eyes on the floor in your starting position and before you can spiral any further the music starts.
Before you even recognize the shift in yourself you're back in that small practice room. Just the two of you. Nothing to worry about.
You move through the first verse with ease, floating around and with each other like two swans who learned the same water. Every time you move he meets you there. Every time the distance grows his hands find you again. Every time the music slows before the chorus you get to look at him, really look at him, and nothing else exists. Not school. Not work. Not the hundreds of people watching from the dark.
Just you and him.
Your bodies collide when the bridge hits and you're back in his arms, and you savor every second of it. The more you practiced with him the more aware of him you became, how he feels beside you, how he looks at you when he thinks the music has your full attention. This is the boiling point. When his arms find you for the last time and you tip toward the ground and your eyes meet, it's undeniable.
Your heart aches. You want him so badly it fully consumes you.
An eruption of applause shatters the moment. The second row is practically on their feet, all twelve voices combining into something that sounds less like applause and more like a small riot.
"That's my best friend!" someone hollers, and you can't help but giggle even from the stage, even still tucked in his arms.
You look up at him.
He's smiling in a way you've never seen before. Full and unguarded and entirely real. Something happened in the last three minutes and you can feel it sitting between you, warm and undeniable and impossible to put back.
You both bow. You wave to your very enthusiastic second row fan section. And then you walk off the stage together.
As soon as you're out of the audience's line of sight you barely have time to breathe before you're back in his arms. He picks you up and hugs you tightly, lifting you clean off the ground.
"We did it," he says, setting you back down. You barely have time to process what just happened in the last four minutes before the stage managers are shooing you both away toward the green room.
When you arrive you sink into chairs across from each other and immediately start dissecting the performance, the way only two people who have been practicing it together for over a month possibly could. Every moment that worked, every transition that felt better than it did in rehearsal, every small thing only the two of you would notice.
The showcase ends and you make your way out to the lobby to find your friends, who have of course already become completely inseparable from each other. Your girlfriends shriek when they see you, pulling you into a group hug and shoving flowers into your arms. Beside you K's friends are clapping him on the back and raising their eyebrows pointedly when their eyes move between the two of you. The shorter one who waved from the aisle seat produces a bottle of champagne you recognize immediately from Trader Joe's. Three dollars
Your four friends just stare at the dynamic with matching expressions.
The whole group is mid argument about where to go to celebrate when K interrupts.
"You guys go ahead," he says. "I need to grab my speaker from the rec center." He looks at you. "Y/N, want to come with me?"
You gulp.
Who are you to deny him anything right now.
"Sure," you say, and say your goodbyes to the group. As you and K slip out through the exit you hear one of the more enthusiastic boys suggesting the college bar down the street to your friends. They agree immediately and far too eagerly.
It makes you happier than it should.
When you and K round the corner toward the practice room a steady silence has settled over you both. Neither of you acknowledge the shift. He pulls the door open and holds it for you, and you step inside and flip on the lights.
You feel warm immediately. The same place where it all started. The same barre. The same arched windows with rain tracking quietly down the glass. The same four walls that have held every version of this thing between you for the past month.
You don't ever want to lose this.
K strides to the corner where he left his speaker and takes a slow breath, looking around the room the same way you are.
"Good to be back," he says.
He turns and looks at you, and something in your expression gives you away. The twinge of sadness you weren't quite fast enough to hide.
"Wanna run it back one more time?" he asks. "You know. For old times sake."
"Only if you dip me lower this time," you reply, smiling despite yourself.
"Try to keep up, little ballerina."
He starts the music.
And there you both are again. Two stars tracing constellations across the same floor you met on. This time neither of you pretend to be serious about it, smiling widely at each other the whole way through, laughing when he nearly misses your hand at one point and catches it anyway. You move through the routine like two people who have been dancing together for years, like the choreography was always yours, like this room was always meant to hold the two of you.
When the song begins its slow close you feel it rising in your chest before you can stop it. This isn't the last time, right? You'll see him again. This means just as much to him. It has to.
When he dips you for the final beat and the music fades to nothing he looks down at you.
And sees the tears streaming quietly down your face.
You look at each other in the silence. You sniffle once, soft and helpless, and then his hand finds your face. His thumb brushes a tear from your cheek with a gentleness that undoes you completely.
Before you can find a single word his face dips down to meet yours.
And your lips collide.
You let out a muffled noise against him. Your whole world has just shattered, you don’t have to question anything anymore, the way his lips move against yours are proof in themselves to how he feels. You can’t let him do all the work, so you kiss him back.
He slowly lifts you to your feet, not breaking the kiss, and his hands settle on the side of your face, like he's making sure you're real. Your lips work together in the same way your limbs do when you dance. In perfect rhythm, each of you picking up where the other left off. Finally you break the kiss, just to look at him.
“You don’t know how long I've wanted to do that.” he says in a breathy voice, looking down at you, those brown eyes slightly glazed over.
“I think I do know,” you say softly, and stand on your toes to meet his mouth again.
He deepens the kiss, his tongue grazing your lips slowly, like a question. You answer by parting your mouth and letting him in. Your tongues, still blue with the remnants of the Powerade, dance in tune with each other.
His tongue navigates yours like uncharted territory, unhurried and deliberate, like he never fully believed he'd get here and now that he has he has absolutely no intention of rushing it. Like he's committing every second of it to memory.
Your hands find the top buttons of his shirt. You undo them one by one, unhurried, and when his chest is fully exposed your palms slide up and down the lines of his stomach, feeling the definition beneath your fingertips. The same frame you've been pretending not to stare at for weeks. You finally let yourself look. He shrugs off his shirt completely and your arms loop up around his neck and pull him closer.
He breaks the kiss.
His hands find your waist and without a word he turns you both slowly until you're facing the mirror. You catch your own reflection and feel heat rise immediately to your cheeks. His chin drops to your shoulder, eyes finding yours in the glass, steady and dark and completely certain.
"I want to watch," he says quietly against your ear.
Your breath catches.
Oh.
It makes sense, you realize distantly. He always loved the mirror during practice. You just never thought it went any deeper than that. A knot forms low in your belly, warm and insistent. You love what this is doing to you. What he's doing to you.
"I'll put on a show then," you say, keeping your voice low and even. It doesn't rattle him even slightly.
He just looks at you in the mirror for a long moment. Then his lips find the skin of your shoulder, and his mouth moves slowly against it.
"You won't need to."
Then he gets to work on your neck, eyes still fixed on the mirror.
Watching him move his mouth against your skin in the reflection is almost too much. Soft breaths leave you before you can stop them, quiet sounds you don't bother trying to suppress. His own small groans vibrate warm against your skin in response. His hands begin to move, one settling at your hip like that's simply where it belongs, the other cupping your breast through the fabric of your dress.
"This is cute," he murmurs against your ear.
His hands snake around to your back, fingers finding your zipper, and he drags it down slowly. Deliberately. When he reaches the base of your spine he peels the fabric away from you, leaving your skin bare to the cool air of the practice room. His palm slides up the length of your back and a shiver runs all the way through you. In the mirror you watch him press small unhurried kisses into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, his eyes never leaving the glass.
The pure shock and adrenaline of it all moves through your body like a current. Goosebumps rise across every inch of exposed skin. He notices immediately.
"y/n," he says softly, his voice dropping into something low and steady. "It's okay." His arms tighten slightly around you. "You can relax. I've got you."
You sink into him, barely trusting your own legs anymore.
He presses his lips to the taut skin of your throat, bites softly, then soothes the sting immediately with a scatter of gentle kisses that make your eyes flutter.
His hands leave your back and find your thigh. His fingers graze the skin there lightly, the thin layer of chiffon gathering and rising the further up his hands travel.
When his fingers finally reach the thin line of your underwear he hooks one finger through the fabric and pauses.
You can feel the restraint radiating off him. The deliberate, careful way he's holding himself back and taking his time with you.
"This okay?" he asks.
"God, yes," you breathe.
In the mirror you watch him smile, slow and satisfied, as he draws your black lace thong down. You take a small step away from him to shrug the rest of the ensemble off entirely. You figured it was time.
Now your full body is revealed to him in the mirror. A stark contrast to his own mostly clothed frame still standing behind you.
He yanks you back against his chest without hesitation.
The feeling of your bare skin meeting his bare chest hits you somewhere deep, like something you've been quietly craving your whole life without knowing what to call it. He still towers over you, looking at you fully in the mirror, both hands resting on your shoulders like he's grounding himself. Like he needs a second too.
"Look at you," he says quietly. "I knew you were perfect."
He catches your chin in his hand and turns your face until your lips meet his. He's hungrier this time. More urgent, kissing you with a restrained desperation that tells you exactly what he's holding himself back from. Barely breaking away he drops his forehead to yours.
"I want you to watch too," he murmurs, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and dragging it slowly. "I want you to see me make you cum."
His long fingers find their place between your legs. He pauses there, deliberate and unhurried, just long enough to make you buck your hips up toward him before he finally gives you what you want. His fingers sweep slow and devastating through your already slick folds, and the sensation crests so sharply your whole body sways back into him.
In the heat of it your eyes fall shut.
A hand closes around your chin.
Your eyes flutter open.
"I told you to watch, didn't I?"
In the mirror his grin is wide and completely satisfied, dark eyes fixed on the reflection like he's been waiting for exactly this. Like this is everything he wanted to see.
You force yourself to keep your eyes open.
It's the hardest thing you've ever done.
He works you diligently, coaxing sounds out of you while his fingers find a steady rhythm against your most sensitive spot. The hand wrapped around your chin tightens slightly every time your head tries to turn away, and every time your eyes threaten to close he stops touching you entirely. He's winding you up in a way you have never experienced before, patient and merciless in equal measure.
The knot in your belly pulls tighter when he finally slides one long finger inside you. A choked sound leaves your throat. In the mirror you can see exactly what it's doing to him too, his eyes glazed over and dark, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, holding himself back by a thread. He needs to savor this. He doesn't want to rush.
You're too important to rush.
He slides in a second finger, moving them in and out with devastating ease. When the pressure builds past bearing he curls them and a sharp jolt rockets through your entire body.
"K, I'm close," you whimper.
His fingers retreat entirely.
You slump back against him, breathless and desperate, nothing left to anchor you except that unrelenting hand still wrapped around your chin, still holding your gaze forward.
He looks at you in the mirror for a long moment.
"Look at you," he says, and the satisfaction in his voice is almost unbearable. "Doing so well for me without even having to, what did you call it?" A beat. "Put on a show?”
"K." You give him a desperate look in the mirror. "Please. Please don't stop."
"Who am I to deny you anything right now?" he murmurs, and his teeth catch the soft flesh of your earlobe as his fingers find their way back inside you.
His pace is steady but his breathing is climbing. He pulls you even closer and you feel it, pressed firmly against your lower back, the undeniable hardness of him. He grinds against you slowly, chasing any friction he can get, and you can sense how desperate he is by the way small sounds have started leaving him too, quiet and unguarded, matching yours.
He tears his eyes from the mirror only to bury his face in the curve between your shoulder and neck, taking a sharp inhale like he needs to steady himself.
Your orgasm builds again and he knows it before you say a word. He can feel it in the way your legs begin to tremble and your breathing goes shallow and uneven.
"Look at me, baby," he murmurs gently when your head starts to tip back.
You try. You genuinely try.
But the moment you face forward his thumb finds your clit and your orgasm detonates through you. White stars swallow your vision. Your head falls back against his chest despite everything and you hear both of your voices tangled together somewhere above you, his hips grinding steadily against your back as his fingers guide you through every last wave of it.
When you finally come back to earth you're gasping, leaning the full weight of yourself against him.
This time when you look up he isn't looking at the mirror.
He's looking at you. Just you. His hand lifts and tucks a loose strand of hair gently behind your ear.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft and sincere. The tenderness of it combined with his hand warm against your cheek sends an entirely different kind of heat through you. You feel the tips of your ears burn.
"I'm perfect," you say. "What about you?"
You turn to face him fully now, your back to the mirror. Your eyes travel down his front and land on the visible strain against his pants. You reach out and grab him through the fabric without overthinking it.
His hips buck immediately into your touch. He hisses at the sudden contact, the sound escaping before he can stop it.
You rise onto your toes, something you happen to be incredibly good at, and bring your lips to his ear.
"We should probably do something about this, huh?"
Both his hands reach behind you instantly, squeezing the soft flesh of your backside between his fingers. His lips find yours again, his breathing coming in short unsteady bursts against your mouth as he tries to keep himself quiet. Your hand continues working him through the fabric until he lets out a couple of sounds that are entirely unguarded and you decide you've taunted him long enough.
You make quick work of his pants, unzipping them and letting them drop. Then after spitting in your hand you start working him again.
"Fuck," he groans into your mouth. You can't help but smile against him.
His hands find your waist and he steps out of his pants, he doesn’t stop walking you backward, deliberately, unhurried, like he already knows exactly where he's taking you. His lips stay on yours the whole time, steering you with quiet certainty across the practice room floor. When your lower back finally meets something solid he breaks the kiss just long enough to glance at it.
The barre.
Of course.
He looks back at you, eyes dark and completely certain.
“Grab it.” he says against your mouth, “both hands.”
You give him one of your tentative looks and he's already smirking back at you.
Then he turns you around.
You reach for the barre in front of you, hands finding the familiar wood without having to look. The same barre your hands have known since the first night you walked into this room. Interesting, you think, that this is where it all started. And where it finally reaches its climax.
His hands find you immediately, tracing every line of you slowly, deliberately, cataloguing every reaction he draws out. You turn your head to the right and find him in the mirror without even meaning to. Old habit.
His palm settles flat against the center of your back and presses you into an arch.
He leans down and peppers slow kisses up and down your spine, his hands roaming your chest as he does. You can feel him sometimes brushing against your entrance, the contact fleeting and maddening, but you're too entranced watching him work in the mirror to do anything except grip the barre tighter.
Finally he lines himself up.
The reality of this actually happening, here, in this room, crashes over you and your breathing picks up. You deliberately push back against him, trying to speed things along.
He lets out one of those insufferable smirks and pulls away.
You could scream.
He catches your eye in the mirror, completely unbothered.
"You like watching too, huh?" he asks, slightly breathless. A pause. "Then let's both watch."
His hand wraps around your throat, gentle but deliberate, angling your head until you're facing the mirror directly. The slight pressure of his fingers against your pulse point sends heat flooding through you instantly. Your reflection stares back at you, his hand at your throat, his eyes dark and fixed on the glass.
When he pushes into you your mouth falls open. Every inch of him is devastating and satisfying in equal measure, a slow consuming stretch that makes your fingers tighten around the barre. Like this is what you were always meant to find each other for. Like every practice session, every stolen glance in the mirror, every almost moment was leading precisely here.
When he finally begins to move you see stars.
He doesn't build to a fast pace. Instead he pulls back as far as possible, almost completely out of you, and then drives himself back in until he's buried to the hilt. Slow. Purposeful. Devastating.
You watch the place where your bodies connect in the mirror, letting your choked sounds do all the talking for you.
His own sounds are exactly what you'd expect from him. Breathy and low, almost like he's laughing, like this is the most satisfying form of entertainment he's ever discovered. Like he's incredibly pleased with himself for getting you exactly where he always wanted you.
"You're doing so good for me," he says. "Do you like watching me fuck you like this?"
The words should probably embarrass you. Normally they would. But something about the complete certainty in his voice, the quiet confidence of it, makes it the hottest thing you've ever heard in your life.
He plunges into you again and stays there, not pulling back. He bends forward and you watch his mouth find the shell of your ear in the mirror.
"I asked you a question."
"Y-yes," you manage. "Fuck, K. Yes."
He finally settles into a steadier rhythm. His hand leaves your throat and you feel the absence of it immediately.
"I'm trusting you not to look away anymore," he murmurs.
His arm reaches around your front, his palm settling flat against the skin just below your navel. And then he presses.
You feel him driving in and out of you through his own hand. The contact forces him to glide over your most sensitive spot with every single thrust and your orgasm climbs faster than it ever has before, sudden and consuming and completely out of your control.
"K, I'm close," you manage to squeak out.
He picks up immediately, moving harder and faster, his hand pressing firmer against your lower belly. This feeling is all consuming. All you feel is him. Even the barre you're practically about to snap in half between your hands fades away entirely.
You writhe, your head dropping down between your hands, and before your forehead can meet the wood his fist bunches in your hair and snaps your head back.
"Sorry baby," he says, and he doesn't sound sorry at all. "But I told you to watch."
You use the last of your strength to face the mirror.
Your orgasm crashes through you with one final thrust and your vision goes completely white. The room dissolves into flashes and through it you can just barely make out his face behind you, brows pressed together, jaw tight, continuing to drive into you through every wave of it. His hand, still twisted in your hair, begins to tremble. The only truly human thing you've witnessed from this version of K you've been discovering tonight.
You're still riding the last of your high when his hips begin to falter. His hand releases your hair and drops to your hips instead, gripping hard, using the leverage to intensify his thrusts. His eyes never leave your conjoined bodies in the mirror. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth.
Then, with one final guttural groan, he drives into you all the way to the hilt and stills.
You feel him release inside you and take the opportunity to flex, tightening yourself around him. His voice cracks. His hips stutter through the last of it, riding it out until there's nothing left.
The sight of you both in the mirror, breathless and undone, makes heat rise to your cheeks all over again.
He gently pulls out and drops to his knees behind you, taking a moment to simply look, watching himself seep down your thigh. Then he presses one slow, soft kiss to the back of your thigh, stands, and disappears to his bag to retrieve a clean towel.
You can't help but laugh at your own reflection, watching yourself stranded in place, unable to move without making a mess of everything. He hurries back over, towel in hand, and begins cleaning you up carefully. Starting at your thighs and working up. Taking his time with it.
"Was I too much?" he asks while he works. You glance in the mirror and notice he's deliberately not making eye contact. He's looking down, focused on his hands. That awkward K from the first night in this room is back, standing right in front of you.
"K," you say. "I can't even pretend. I've been wanting you for so long and I never expected it would be that good."
That earns you one of those insufferable smirks.
"Yeah?"
"Yes," you confirm.
You both quietly make your way to your things and swap your performance outfits for the spare changes of clothes you've both taken to keeping in your practice bags. Once you're dressed you sit down and fidget with your fingers before speaking.
"K?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't think I can go back to normal after this. After you." You meet his eyes. "I don't want to."
"Me neither, Y/N." He sits down beside you, closer than he ever has before. "So let's not."
He kisses you gently this time, unhurried and soft, like he's setting something new in stone. You melt into it completely. When he pulls back he's grinning wide and unguarded, the most open you've ever seen his face.
"Should we go see what chaos our friends have caused at the bar?"
"Yeah," you say. "Absolutely."
You both grab your bags and head for the door. Before stepping out you turn and give the practice room one last look.
Same barre. Same arched windows. Same mirror. Same four walls.
You smile. Just for yourself.
Then you let the door fall shut behind you.
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I have to write an 8 page paper due Monday and the only thing getting me through it is remembering this masterpiece is 33 pages long. If I can write 33 pages of fanfic I can write 8 about gender equality.