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fanaticsnail · 1 year ago

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El Tango de Mihawk (Dance Series)

As promised, although arriving much sooner than anticipated and only half beta-read (apologies, but over-eagerness wins again). Warnings: dancing, flirting, danger, peril, kissing, touching, pining, prior relationship hinted, enemies to lovers.

Word Count: 5,223

Masterlist here.

Song Suggestions: Tango de Roxanne, La Cumparsita.

Arm hanging loosely within the crook of the young marine’s elbow, you took in the incredibly intricately decorated large, circular room. It was not difficult to feign wonderment; your eyes widening, a gasp falling from your parted lips and a coy cock of your head as your eyes danced around the room.

It seemed almost too easy for you to swipe an invitation at the bequest of the marine to attend as his date. As soon as your mischievous, scheming eyes fell to the advertisement plastered to the notice board; you knew the opportunity for finery-theft was too great to pass up. Feigning a stumble, you fell within the open arms of the marine who blushed at your praises of heroism. Fingertips dancing over his cheeks, a small flutter of your eyelashes, and spoken words of: “how could I ever repay such a valiant sailor?” had him baited and hooked as your prey for the evening.

He was old enough to know better, but ill-seasoned in the art of feminine flirtation and suggestion. Just how you liked your prey: pretty, dangerous and ill-prepared to handle your advances.

After purchasing your evening dress and lace adorned masquerade mask for you, you knew this night was to hold much more thrill than the average night of petty theft. You were simply itching for the loot the evening would have in store for you.

White and red roses hung loosely like vines cascading down the white pillars, candles thrust within the arrangement and lit with flamed wick to create a romantic atmosphere. The fragrances whispering upwards to your senses was of the tart bubbly champagne, the softness from the florals and the subtle perfume you dropped on your neck, chest and wrists. Oh, how you adored the rich. You adored them even more when you claimed their wealthy treasures as your own, adding to your hoard of finery with objects that shimmered and glowed.

The first item of the night was the ribbons of pearls clasped on the neck of the wife of a seasoned marine captain. You managed to obtain an introduction, feigning innocence in attempting to rise the rank of your date for the evening. Charisma, charm and innocence was the part you played; always the coy flatterer and encourager. Once you felt the clasp of the brass hook behind the woman’s neck within your fingers, it was immediately unhooked and fell within your skilled and feather-light hand with neither care nor acknowledgement from their prior owner.

As the music began, you twirled with a smirk; placing the beaded sea-gems within the crevices of your cleavage to fall slowly between the mounds of your breasts. Once established within their home for the evening, you allowed the marine in the attempt to sway his body with yours. This appeared to be the first time this particular nameless gentleman has ever graced a dance floor, his fluster adamant in his movement.

The orchestral arrangement of pieces thus far was mainly waltzing and an odd foxtrot falling within the air to paint it with their artistry. Your body had been trained by your mother for years to gather the confidence and skill necessary to surpass her abilities to steal and burgle your way up to the higher class; dance falling as a necessity to obtain such a goal.

Rings, bangles, necklaces, tie-clips, a small wad of berry; child’s-play to follow after the first item with similar ease. You even managed to snag a small switch-blade on the belt of one of the marines, much to your delight. The only hinderance halting your less-subtle advances on fine material was a small feeling that your maneuvers were not as discrete as you would like it. You felt eyes. Eyes watching, waiting in the wings and ready to pounce. As you spied a large diamond ring, you halted your advance as the burning eyes scorched your fingertips.

Seeking their origin, you would subtly gaze from the corner of your eyes to search them out; never locating their source. You would huff your chest, readjust your mask and plaster a false smile on your face to gaze in feigned awe up into the eyes of your date in lieu of your prize.

Feigning a small lip bite and praising his dance moves, you finally managed to trace your fingers atop his gold marine pin of honour, effortlessly removing it without the notice of your date; rolling it against your inner palm before stooping to lay your hand against the brush of your hip to fall the small object within the open back of your dress. The opening was high enough to be tasteful, but low enough to gain ease of access with one of your many hidden pockets.

You had three major points you had managed to place upon your person for ease of concealing your many finds: your bag attached to your left hip, the crevices of your breasts down into your cleavage, and a small bag above your hidden daggered holster on your right thigh.

Every good thief has their specialty weapons. Your father used a blow-dart with toxins to paralyse their victims, your mother used a sword: both options you would prefer to steer clear of for agility and the thrill of the chase. Toxins were too easy, swords were too bulky: throwing knives were a perfect fit for you.

After the completion of one dance with the marine, he bowed lowly to you and offered to retrieve refreshments on behalf of you both. You bit your lip, a large sigh falling in thanks with more slow and deliberate eyelash kisses in thanks and encouragement had that similar light blushed pink once again gracing his cheekbones and upper ears. After he turned to walk away, you felt your character slipping in joy of the ease the role took to you; a smirk tickling the corners of your lips.

“Too easy,” you whispered in a light sigh, rolling your shoulders back and rotating your neck to relieve the tension. At the lull of your neck, you felt the familiar sensation of being watched. The hairs on the back of your neck prickling to attention at the unwanted gaze, with the skin elevating behind them in subtle bumps. Slowly dragging your feet around the floor, your toes raking deliberately against the polished marble, you attempted to find the owner to the unwanted attention you seemed to snare.

You raked your sights around the room, first falling to the orchestral ensemble as they once again made to equip their instruments to begin their melody; before your sights fell onto the silver-haired Vice-Admiral, Garp. He was engaged in deep conversation with another higher up amongst the marines. Your mind was screaming: “Danger, Danger. Do not approach,” yet as soon as your eyes dropped to his platinum and gold-plated pocket watch; your mind was immediately persuaded to halt all warnings eclipsed by desire to obtain the item.

Eyes glazed, you began your approach from the rounded dance floor to only feel the inner arch of both of your elbows clasped within the talon-like grip of unfamiliar and unwelcome hands. Your breath hitched, back arched outwards as the familiar and dangerous oaken-fragrance of the person behind you overwhelmed your senses before his voice cut through the silence.

“One wrong move, vixen,” he uttered in a low tone, “and I’ll reveal you to the masses.”

“Dracule Mihawk,” you whispered in a small hiss, your lips curled into a small grimaced snarl, “why are you here?”

“I could ask the same of you, little thief,” you felt his signature taunting smirk rise up within his bored tone, prompting your scowl to deepen further atop your brow. He tugged at your arms, your body responding by laying your back flush against his bare torso, his lips falling to tickle his wine-scented breath against the outer shell of your ear.

“I see you have come chaperoned this time,” he whispered into your ear, your eyes darkening beneath your ornamental mask concealing the upper half of your face, “how very clever of you.”

A small growl fled from your lips as you continued to hold your sights forward, lulling your head to the side to reveal more of your neck to him.

“I’ve learnt from my prior mistakes, warlord,” your scowl turned into a small smirk, unwrapping your right arm from his tight grip by circling it around itself; raising your arm behind your head to trace the outer neck of the broody swordsman behind you, dragging it slowly downwards.

“So it should seem,” his voice taunted you, allowing your small gesture to fall against his skin; your fingertips dancing in a small brush down towards his collar and torso.

He twirled you to face him, your hips swaying against his guidance as the silent hall gathered to couple up for the next musical interlude. Your gaze met with his honey-coloured eyes, his finely manicured facial hair rising against his lips as his smirk broadened to meet your face.

“Here is what’s to happen,” he uttered darkly, his smirk dropping as an air of dominant superiority fell in its stead, “you are going to return all of these items to these fine people,” you huffed out an exasperated breath, “and you are going to leave.”

“And should I refuse?” you challenged him, angling your chin upwards in defiance. His lip curled upwards into a frustrated snarl.

“I will have no choice to reveal you,” he informed you, arching his face down in a stoop towards your own. You hummed at him, tilting your head and swaying it innocently.

“Reveal what, exactly?” your coy smile returning to your lips, batting your eyelashes up at him with a small air of confidence, “I have done nothing wrong, and I have a formal invitation at the hands of my young chaperone.”

The warlord’s hand clasped firmly against your lefthand hip, grasping a handful of your flesh alongside the satchel containing some of your hoard. A small whimper fled from your lips at the unwithheld gesture, eyes immediately fleeing from his hunted and accusatory gaze to search the room for your date; praying he wasn’t watching the interaction.

Mihawk chuckled, leaning down further into you; yourself feeling small under his dominance as your back again arched away from him. The musicians began their open-stringed tuning of their instruments before the lectern was tapped by the conductor with their long, steel rod.

“As uncooperative and stubborn as always, I see,” he smirked down at you as the conductor began to tap the introductory beat against the wooden frame, “then I shall simply have to rid you of the items myself.”

You twirled from his grasp, your back arched as you stooped low with your hips swayed to the sultry arrangement; “you may certainly try, swordsman.”

It had been years since the Mihawk had first laid his eyes on you, and you had blossomed beautifully under the guidance of your parents. You had just reached the cusps of adulthood, your abilities as a thief had only began to be explored in the field where he first saw your flirtatious advance of some decrepit and disgusting marine with his travelling hands making you uncomfortable.

Of course he felt hooked to free you from the cusps of the uncomfortable exchange; and the price he paid for such a valiant feat be the relinquishment of his berry clasped within his leather-bound wallet. Only one small kiss was paid against his cheek in the exchange for it, without his knowledge of being parted from the object in the first place.

Your youthful and innocent eyes were what snared him then, but your sultry and tempting expression is what captured his attention now. Challenge rose within the chasms of the broody warlord’s chest, a small rotation of his shoulders rid him of his inhibitions, as he raked his feet along the ground to engage you in this dangerous dance of flirtatious conquest.

His hand reached for yours, outstretched and demanding rather than requesting your own. You smirked before tracing the palm of his hand with a dance of your fingertips to claim it; his hand firmly wrapping his digits around your own with haste and confidence in response.

This was not the Mihawk you remember. The valiant saviour, the all-too willing to draw his blade, the desire and eagerness to win your heart and hand was long since fled from his demeanour: an overly confident, arrogant and almost bored gentleman now rose within the shell of such a man. A dangerous man. A man who was purchased by the World Government in the stead of leading a life of piracy.

Twirling your body within his own and falling back to press chest to chest, your senses were once again filled with his signature cologne; a scent he had not changed in all the time fallen between you. The oaken undertones, the smoky and oceanic middle and the almost sweet floral hint enchanting you as he held you so tenderly pressed against himself as he engaged you in dance.

His curled, raven locks shorter than they once were, his moustache and beard grown and shaped into a fine art piece atop his face; and he had you cornered as a predator would his meek prey. His guiding hand found the small of your back, cradling your body firmly against his as he swept you throughout the circular hall to the seductive and tantalising music. His hand travelled once again to your left hip, thumbs tracing the outside of the material flush against your thigh.

“My, my,” he commented with his smirk once again gracing his lips, “so many fine additions to your hoard today,” his hand dipped against the leather satchel, expertly unhooking the clasp from your hidden girdle and falling the bag to your knees, “it may even cover the berry you took from me all those years ago.”

Your lips formed into a small pout as he gathered the satchel within his open right palm, twirling you to place the bag on an empty table framing the dance floor before turning you both to the centre of the room again.

“But that was such a long time ago,” your breathy gasp was laced with a slight sarcastic whine as you allowed him to continue leading you through this dance with danger, “surely the amount of berry has been recovered by now.”

“No, no, little thief,” he cooed at you his left hand falling to your right thigh and drawing your knee over his left hip; raking his broad fingers against your exposed flesh to draw closer to the concealed blades, “in fact, the interest gathered alone from your theft has left me in complete ruin.”

“You will not take my arms,” you firmly stated, Mihawk twirling you to the rhythmic swell of the melody.

“I will take as much as I desire for your ill-cooperation, vixen,” he taunted you, fingers tracing lower to fall to your thigh as his breath tickled your neck in a seductive taunt.

Eyes widening, Dracule Mihawk teased the circular daggers from your holster one by one and expertly threw them silently to imbed within the rose-covered pillars within the room.

You breathed out an air of irritation, your snarl once again rising as you warned him; “then you will also take my fury, alongside my revenge.”

“I am simply quivering in anticipation, vixen,” he chuckled darkly, lips trailing over your jugular as he toyed his index finger against the outer ring of your final throwing blade. Your eyes fluttered shut against his adventurous touches, arching your back to press your torso into his own as he breathed in the subtle florals of your perfume.

His mind became foggy from the thrill of the hunt, you falling so easily into the role of prey to his pursuit. The vixen and the hawk: both as dangerous to one another without having one truly triumph in their battle of victor. He was now winning, and he was relishing in such a victory.

Your prized daggers, now effortlessly disarmed from your body, now became a part of the scenery surrounding the dance floor. Your breath haltered in your throat; now not having a failsafe method to protecting yourself, you felt you had no choice but to allow Mihawk to continue prying your treasures from your body.

Annoyance fell to your face, committing the landing points to memory regarding your blades as Mihawk dropped your thigh back to fall your feet to the floor. Both of his hands now raked slowly from your shoulder blades down to fall to your hips; his right hand locating your bag on the righthand side above your holster.

“Clever again, vixen,” he praised you in a small, sarcastic purr, “you thought I wouldn’t frisk your dominant side again in my search.”

“Truthfully, Lord Dracule,” your addressal caught his attention, his yellow eyes snapping back to your own, “I did not prepare myself adequately to receive such attention from your travelling hands.”

His hands faulted in his retrieval of your secondary pouch slightly; just a whisper of hesitancy before he continued on his journey of ridding you from your lifted wares.

Necklaces, rings, bangles; everything the wealth of the evening you could’ve brought home to add to your hoard was now collected from you within the sultry dance Mihawk was guiding you through. The swell of the music in addition to the dangerous aura he engulfed you within had you set on a slight disadvantage. You needed something to even the odds, something to bring the control back to you as you held it for the majority of the evening.

His eyes fell to your cleavage, noticing the glimmer of a pearl beneath your brassier. Floating his eyes beneath his dangerous, dark eyelashes, back towards your own; he made to reach his hand down into your chest to retrieve the fine item. You immediately broke from his embrace as you spun away from his direct withdrawal of the object from your breasts.

Stalking and calculated in his approach, he circled himself behind your back; drawing your left hand to thrust delicately and horizontally within the air. He trailed the ghost of his lips along your forearm, your eyes flittering shut under his flirtatious advance.

“I will not leave here with less than what I arrived with,” you whispered your warning to him, his lips now falling to your outer neck.

“Then by all means,” he flicked your hair to fall over your other shoulder as he continued to circle your body, “retrieve your daggers and be on your way,” trailing his lips down and firmly clasping your right hand within his own and turning your wrist to face the inner, soft flesh to the chandelier above, “if, that is, you can find them.”

He drew his lips down to press a tender kiss against your inner wrist as the character you adorned for the night began to truly slip away; the smirk beneath his moustache rising more of a hateful blush to your cheeks as he continued his flirtatious tirade of insults with his words and actions. You wanted to stab him with something sharp, something that hurt for the embarrassment he was pulling to best you. Having no such blade upon your person would make that feat all the more challenging, but truly delicious should you pull it off with success.

He again drew you to himself and danced you around the floor in slow and calculated strides, his smirk not once falling from his controlled face; relishing in the knowledge that he had bested you truly. His eyes once again were drawn to your cleavage, the ribbon of finely beaded pearls once again within his sights as he decided this time to dive his face within your breasts in lieu of his hands.

Shock would be the first emotion to fall against your face, your innocent character behind the masquerade mask the only thing keeping you firmly held within this dangerous game of cat and mouse; or hawk to a vixen. As his lips fished out the pearled end of the long piece of ribboned ornate string, your hands instinctively fell to the back of his neck to hold him in place.

But what was that your fingertips brushed? Was is a solid bayonet clasp holding a priceless metallic necklace against the chest of the warlord; a warlord currently distracted by his own task within your breasts? Why yes, it appears it was.

Stampeded by the will to not leave this arena of seductive taunting empty handed; you ushered any inhibitions away from your mind as you convinced yourself to once again thief from the warlord in front of you.

Immediately, your fingertips expertly pried the clasp open with ease; you holding the chain in place beneath your palms and feigning freight beneath the swordsman’s ministrations, as his teeth reclaimed the lengthy necklace shamelessly from within your breasts. He unlaced one hand from behind you to collect the necklace from his mouth, his eyes holding his gaze as piercing as the hunter’s arrow against your own.

You danced your eyes between the two of his, glancing down briefly to meet with his lips as he completely withdrew the necklace from his slacked jaw. Sensing a slight shift in your emotions, his eyes narrowed to seek out the source for the shift.

“What are you playing at, little thief?” he asked you with an air of dangerous caution, “you’re staring at me like you’ve won, whereas I am clearly the victor in our little charade.”

Immediately, you dropped your right hand from the back of his neck to fall onto his cheek; caressing his bearded skin within your palm as the other held fast to the clasp around his neck.

“You have won this round, my lord,” you confirmed with him, ushering his face closer to your own, “now allow me to present a reward for your victory.”

You drew him truly downwards, cradling his face within your right hand as your parted lips captured his own. Where once was an innocent kiss parted onto his cheek in your youth, this amorous exchange felt like opening a tabbed chapter of a long-since neglected novel. Mihawk’s breath was stolen from his lungs as you held his lips fastened in a dance of passion against your own; your own heart beginning to swell as he reciprocated the tryst of your lips.

As he leant further into the kiss, his shoulders stooping as his hands wove around your shoulders to dip you in a low arch perpendicular to the floor. You almost felt bad for the way the chain around his neck fell so easily into your hand beneath him. The gold cross, now clasped firmly within your left palm, was to be your prize for the evening. Your hoard of trinkets worthless against the excitement this item brought to you.

The musical decrescendo began to dip, informing the two of you, and the other dancers on the circular floor, that the melody had come to its conclusion. Unbreaking the kiss, Mihawk rose you from your dip and nudged your chin with his own; his tongue darting out to brush with your own briefly before retuning behind his lips as briefly as they opened.

Not truly desiring the moment to end; you rewove your left hand, which now clasped Mihawk’s neck-chain and cross within it, behind his neck to hold him firmly to yourself. Your lips opened to pry more of himself against you, his gasped breath again claimed by your unwithheld ministrations. Eyes closed, you tilted your head and drew your torso completely flush with his as you stood on your toes to bring yourself fully flush with his chest.

The warmth radiating from his open shirt, the heat pouring from his skin was enough to hold your attention captive entirely. Mihawk again arched your back to chase your lips with his, unbreaking and unwavering in intensity before he closed the exchange of romance by withdrawing his lips from their proximity against your own.

“My, my,” he teased with his hawk-eyes half-hooded as he gazed at you, “what a reward that was for my efforts, vixen.”

You sighed against his teasing, your heart almost breaking for what you were about to depart from the ballroom with; but not enough to halt your strategic withdrawal.

“I will take my leave then, warlord,” you curtseyed low, the cross within your palm concealed by the gathering of your dress out to the side as you dipped in respect; a curt bow of his own with his feathered hat falling to your view.

“Until next time, little thief,” he rose from his bow as you did from your curtsey, “enjoy wallowing in your own pity as I relish in my victory. May you win the next round.”

You bit your tongue, opting to not give yourself away from his taunts while fighting the blush his voice drew out of you. Desperately hoping to never see him again to keep his golden cross all to yourself; while hopelessly longing for another chance to best him and greet him with an embrace had your heart racing, judgement clouded and eyes glazed.

“May our next meeting arrive sooner than the time parted between our first meeting and our now,” you offered him a warm smile, “I do miss your charming face and your way with words, Mihawk.”

“Flatterer,” he purred at you, before clicking his boot heels together in a curt tap while turning to rejoin the gathering of warlords and representatives of the world government.

Opting to not seek out your blades, nor locate your chaperone for the evening; you immediately danced yourself away to withdraw to the shadows of the event. Raising your right hand up to fix your mask in place, you located the nearest exit from the venue: a large arched doorway with glass panel windows on a white frame. The roses hung low from the tall arch, ivy and baby’s breath sporadically placed in lieu of the candles.

This was not the large entrance you originally entered through with your young chaperone, but the ally entrance to the finely and meticulously maintained labyrinth of green hedge-ends.

You paused, turning one last time towards the dance floor to seek out the warlord with your sights. Upon your eyes tracing the floor to meet your sights with his form, you were immediately met with the piercing yellow-eyes you were craving; he, too, seeking you out to set his eyes on yours once more before your departure.

Lips parted, a small quivered tremble in apprehension and pity fell to your face as the valuable metal remained secured within your left hand. You raked your eyes over his neck to the place his cross was once hanging, noticing how truly beautiful you found his statuesque physique.

Unfortunately for you, his brows furrowed at your sights dancing on his skin; his chin dipping, his jaw hanging slack as soon as he found vacant space instead of his inestimable necklace. Your breath hitched in your throat, eyes widening as he snapped his sights back to your face.

Anger. Pure and unadulterated fury fell to his face, prompting you to shy backwards through the archway while holding his burning gaze.

The first time you bested him with your thievery, he only noticed what was taken from him as he made to purchase a pastry from a nearby bakery on his journey retuning to the inn he’d purchased for the night; finding vacant space where his wallet once was. He was angry and upset then, he was enraged and his fury burned brighter now you remained behind to witness it.

Seeing no other option, you scurried immediately to your feet as you stampeded towards the entrance of the labyrinth; the moon the only illumination for the dark emerald and navy hues of the circular leaves. Tunnelling through corner to corner of the confusing muddle of gravel, dirt and shrubs; you continued to swiftly barrel through the winding road to seek out the true exit to the maze.

Not a sound was uttered, the music far from your ears within the large ball-room not travelling far enough to grant you the pleasure of its company. Your breath picked up in hitch as you panted against the hasty retreat, your body propelling to the centre of the maze; well lit with domed fire pillars with an ornate marble table at the centre.

Five openings surrounded the table: one you just exited from, alongside three options to trap you in your doom and one to throw you into your victorious freedom. Your head bobbed frantically between the options as you debated which path to fall your feet towards. Finally choosing for the path closest to the north; your steps were halted as a knife was thrown to whistle past your eyeline and imbed itself within the cement, torched pillar beside you.

“As you have learnt from your mistakes, vixen,” his voice relayed in an agitated tone under the cover of darkness, “I, too, have learnt from mine.”

“M-Mihawk,” your voice wavered in your throat as another blade cut through the air beside your head to imbed itself lower in the pillar.

“You stole from me once,” he taunted from the shadows, “made me out to be a fool,” another blade whispered it’s sharpened edge against your cheek, not quite making contact but enough as a warning, “I despise looking to be anything less than what I am.”

“And what are you, Lord Dracule Mihawk?” your own agitation drawing itself to your brow.

“I,” he began, stepping into the light of the central area in slow and steady strides, “am the consequence you have brought upon yourself this evening.”

His feathered hat atop his head danced within the whispered wind, his eyes hidden beneath it as you stepped back to fall your lower back against the marble top of the circular table.

“And what such consequence must I prepare myself for?” you asked him with a pointed tone, “turning me over to the World Government would be low, even for you.”

He hummed a small shadow of a chuckle within his throat, tilting his head up to grace your vision with his yellow-eyes; wild with a sadistic joy above his smirking mouth.

“Turn you over?” He approached your body, raising his left hand to caress your cheek while his right sought out the blade clutched within the palm of your left hand, “such a simple solution for a complex vixen. I hardly see that as a fitting consequence for your crime.”

You swallowed a dry breath, your body screaming as you were finally captured within the talons of the mighty warlord of the sea. His fingertips brushed a stray hair behind your ear, the pad of his index finger toying at the ribbon clasping your masquerade mask close to your right eye.

“I am going to work you hard to settle your debt, little thief,” he informed you in a low whisper, his fingers trailing to the bow unifying your mask against your face, tugging on it to fall the laced object from your eyes, “from this day and all to follow, you are mine.”

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lostinwildflowers · 2 years ago

Text

The Dance

Erwin Smith x Reader

Summary: Your steps were not working out with your current partner. So when a tall blonde rival's partner becomes ill, do your steps smooth out?

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings: Rivals to lovers, not really angst- just some tension, otherwise ✨dance✨

For reference:

-The Tango for this fic: "La Cumparsita"

-Tango dance is one the most famous partner dances that emphasizes the vibrant and playful style of movement, rich expressions, improvisation and requires close connection and passion between dancers.

A/N: I guess I still write y'all 😂 this is dedicated to my lovely @bluebellhairpin who always supports my ideas. It's not much but it's honest work. Set in the same AU as "Quickstep"! Please enjoy my loves❤️-Birch<3

Part 2 - "Promenade"

Part 3 - "The Olympic Games"

"Alright everyone, we are going to warm up with some rock steps, please find your partners," the instruction came.

You nod in the direction of the voice, (colored) eyes searching for the brown hair of your usual partner. Instead, you are met with the eyes of one of the girls who helps run your practice.

"Hey, Y/n...", she starts off slowly, nervously drumming her fingers on her clipboard, "Hayden swapped partners for the upcoming competition. He mentioned something about how you two didn't have any chemistry or something."

Your stomach drops at her words. What?! Your competition was in 3 days, the most important competition of your life, your Olympic Qualifier, and your partner dipped?!

Your mouth parts in shock as she stares at you nervously before she stutters out, "B-but on a good note, I guess, is that we just got a new lead on the team, and he's already qualified for the Olympics."

Thoughts are fluttering in your mind as you gawk at the trainer in front of you. You shake your head to try to clear your thoughts, coughing once to clear your throat and then you ask, "Who is he?"

Who is he? What did he look like? Was he tall?

You liked a tall lead, even though the steps could be large and hard to keep up with.

Was he any good? Well, he must be if he's already qualified.

And that's when your heart stops. A blonde head of hair entered the room, perfectly kept standard ballroom shoes on his feet.

Sharp blue eyes snap to yours, and all you can see is ice. It couldn't be him. Not him. Anyone but him.

Erwin Smith.

"Alright everyone, let's get to it. This will be the song for your choreographed part with your partners. The two of you will design your own set with the help of an instructor. For now, just dance freely to start figuring out steps you like."

You turn to snap at the assistant instructor who had been right next to you. And when you turn around, you are met with the broad chest and sharp eyes of your rival, Erwin Smith.

You see, Erwin was the bane of your existence. He was the reason you hadn't qualified earlier in the season with Hayden. Because he and his follow, Patricia, had gotten the only qualifying spot at that competition.

He always was one step ahead, figuratively, because there was no one with better timing or rhythm than Erwin. He was impeccable, consistent, and ever so intense. There was nothing that could distract him from the heat of the dance with his partner.

"Y/n," you hear rumble out lowly from him. Your heart had already started hammering in your chest from your realization when he walked in, but now? You couldn't believe your eyes.

He looked... pristine. His white button-up was the perfect mimic of his competition wear, just ever-so-slightly more casual and comfortable for many repeated reps.

Everything about the way he stood in front of you made you want to scream. Curse. Yell at him up and down until you got a new partner.

But you knew there weren't any out there. Leads were hard to come by, and good ones? Even harder. Ones as good as Erwin Smith? Impossible.

You shift your weight and murmur, "Erwin Smith. I can't imagine what would bring you to a different team, let alone having me as a partner. Patricia up and leave you?"

Erwin's brows furrow as he takes a looming step toward you, his gaze hard as he looks down at you as he firmly replies, "Patricia is ill, for your knowledge. She cannot make it to the qualifier this weekend. And whoever I dance with this weekend is who I take to the Olympics. You are merely the best statistic I could find."

A pang runs through you, and you can't place what feeling it was, but it didn't feel great. Before you can respond, you can hear the sound of a metronome clicking.

Erwin's icy gaze glances away to the instructors before he offers you the invite to dance, in the classic standard way for Tango.

You narrow your eyes and begrudgingly accept, placing your left hand on the meeting between his shoulder and his bicep.

Hayden was not this tall, you think to yourself as you find Erwin's stony gaze. Nor was he ever this... intense. Why is he looking at me like-

Before you can finish your thought, you hear the music start, and Erwin takes his first step toward you. Your body immediately follows his easy and practiced lead.

As much as you hated to admit it, Erwin was good. Really, really good. Although your steps were not rehearsed nor choreographed, he directed you in the easiest and most delicate way possible.

It was as easy as watching rain fall from the sky on a drizzling spring morning. As easy as reading your favorite book and seeing your beloved characters fall in love.

He was so easy to follow that you didn't have to worry about your steps or where you were going. It almost felt fake.

You held his strong and icy gaze through the song when needed, not even realizing that as you were guided down the line of dance, the other partnerships dropped out.

The music was loud in your ears, the counts and metronome a blur as all you could focus on was your body moving. The feeling of your hips moving, the touch of Erwin's hand on your waist.

The look he was giving you.

It made you furious. It made you furious that he made it this easy, that he made the two of you look like an effortless pair.

You heard some playful whistles from behind you as Erwin pulls you almost flat to his chest, the two of you moving into a classic Tango Walk.

Your lip just barely brushes the material of his shirt, your mouth parted as his eyes bore deeply into your own (colored) ones.

You feel a wave of butterflies in your stomach, but they quickly dissipate when you feel Erwin push you into an Open Fan, your fingers releasing from his shoulder to put you in a dramatic "v" shape away from each other.

Your fingers gracefully point in the air above your head before you are whisked into a Promenade, Erwin directing your every move.

It was the subtlety in his touch, the way his hand grazed your side when bringing you back to him. The way he was firm and solid in his footwork.

There was absolutely no doubt that he was amazing. And you managed to keep up with him. Keep up with him, and perform.

Before you know it, the music swells and you are whipped into a dramatic dip, Erwin's grip tightening up on you ever so slightly.

Your chest is pounding and you're breathing heavily when you regain eye contact with Erwin, who is already lost in thought, staring at you.

The song ends and the metronome stops when the two of you are surrounded by whistles and a few pairs of hands clapping together.

Erwin pulls you back up and then immediately releases you, reaching up to brush a stray blond piece of hair back into place. He doesn't glance at you once, and suddenly the rush of adrenaline you had been on drops, and you're left with a grimace on your face.

He was good, and he knew it. You knew you were good too, and the way neither of you made a mistake? The gears were turning in your mind, and as Erwin walked away, you couldn't help but feel a fire burning in your belly.

Because in 3 days' time, your dance partner was in for it. And you couldn't wait to show him what you were really made of.

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