#derek wills

[homeb0ys]

Jack Davenport as Derek Wills from Smash, S1 E1

[youraveragemiscellanyenjoyer]

when are they gonna kiss

[chungledown-bimothy]

yeah hi i was today years old when i realized that norrington in the pirates of the caribbean movies and derek fucking wills are played by the same man

and i need him carnally

[rosebug3]

trigger warning: sa and homophobia

I get Chrisitan and Jack have chemistry, and I'm glad they're friends in real life, but what the hell was Derek Wills allowed to get away with and not develop from?

video credit: Tahlia Evans on YouTube

I believe he ends up blacklisted for sa, and he and Tom do decide to be friends, but the homophobia really just never gets checked, and people think Tom's weird for caring.

[mthguy]

The anthem for every theatre kid (like me.)

Jeremy Jordan performs “Broadway, Here I Come!” on SMASH 

"Broadway, Here I Come!" is an original song introduced in the first episode of the second season of the musical TV series Smash, entitled "On Broadway". It was written by Joe Iconis. Within the show's universe, it was written by the songwriting team Jimmy Collins (Jeremy Jordan) and Kyle Bishop (Andy Mientus) for their Hit List musical.

In the episode, the setting has Karen Cartwright (Katharine McPhee), having previously become acquainted with Jimmy and Kyle in a bar they work in, finds out from Kyle they are a songwriting team working on a musical. Karen overhears Jimmy singing the song on a piano and then moves closer to watch him perform it. During the song, she dials Derek Wills (Jack Davenport) to have him listen and tells him this may be the next thing they are looking for as the Bombshell musical they were working on has temporarily shut down.

Karen reprises the song in the ninth episode of the second season, entitled "The Parents", at a rehearsal for a benefit (though she is interrupted by Derek before finishing) and then at the benefit, where she is heard singing the last few bars. Ana Vargas (Krysta Rodriguez) reprises part of the song in the eleventh episode of Season 2, entitled "The Dress Rehearsal", as part of rehearsing for a new opening for Hit List. The song is reprised twice in the thirteenth episode of Season 2 "The Producers", with Ana singing part of it at the beginning of a performance of Hit List while she fires a gun at an unknown person, while Karen sings it a little later in the show as part of the sequence where the Diva shoots Amanda (Karen). The song is lastly reprised in the seventeenth episode of Season 2 "The Tonys", where the Hit List cast (composed of Karen, Jimmy, Ana, Sam (Leslie Odom, Jr.)) and the Hit List ensemble perform an a cappella version of the song at the Tony Awards.

The song is available as a single with Jeremy Jordan's vocals only and on the digital album Smash: The Complete Season 2 with vocals from McPhee, Jordan, Rodriguez and Odom as seen in the seventeenth episode of Season 2.

[bestie-enthusiast]

This is real niche, but I binge watched Smash and got inspired so, uh, here you go!

Tight

Genre: Hurt/comfort, fluff

Characters: Tom, Julia, Derek, Eileen

Summary: Tom ran a hand through his hair, uncaring if it mused. The room that Julia and Eileen had kindly locked both Derek and himself in was too small for his preferences

It was almost comedic, both the preceding events and the current occurrence, funny if you didn’t really have an understanding of comedy. Tom ran a hand through his hair, uncaring if it mused. The room that Julia and Eileen had kindly locked both Derek and himself in was too small for his preferences, even though it wasn’t particularly small at all. Slightly bigger than an elevator, still far from his favorite. Tom much preferred the wide, open concepts of studios, practice rooms, or stages.

How did he end up in this predicament? Really it was all Derek’s fault, he hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut about Tom’s most recent lover. It had been an off handed comment really, not intended to incite an argument, just piss him off, but Tom- oh he was in a mood. Having just finished breaking up with his most recent lover, he snapped when Derek made some stupid comment about cologne and spread legs. He had made a petty comment back, and they dissolved into arguing. Derek stood up first, but Tom was not far behind, the two of them leaning into each other's space, though unfortunately Tom lost the physical aspect of the fight, having been backed up against the wall.

He would never admit it, but there were rare times where he found himself scared of Derek. Not often, never during rehearsal, but when they argued like this? He was shorter, and certainly weaker, than Derek was, and less aggressive too. Eileen had separated the two of them, tugging Derek out of her office with sharp words and Julia grabbed his shoulders and shook him, tone similarly upset. “I’m not scared,” He could recall himself saying. Now, sitting in a small, drywall box, he felt the need to rescind his earlier statement.

Derek hadn’t even done anything. They had both been shoved through the door, disoriented until well after the click of the lock, and ordered to get along if they wanted out. He wanted to pace, but he also didn’t fancy giving Derek a reason to get pissy with him when he’s locked in a room with the man. He wrung his hands, rubbed his wrists, tapped his fingers on his knees, anything to rid himself of the terrible nervous energy.

“Will you quit that?” Derek asked suddenly, sharply. Tom immediately stilled, squeezing his hands into fists instead. Slight pain radiated from where his nail dug into his skin, but he didn’t care, it was a distraction at least. Derek was eyeing the door like he was going to break it down.

“Sorry,” It was his voice, in a pathetic tone, a sound that made him embarrassed. Him, apologizing to Derek, could you imagine? The terrible things phobias made you do, honestly. The room was warming up, or maybe that was just his imagination, but he tugged off his jacket and undid a button on his shirt. He could feel Derek staring at him, and he could only imagine how pathetic he looked, having a freak out over being locked in a room. “Not a fan of small rooms.” Why did he admit that? Burying his head in his knees, Tom tried to focus on his breathing, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Really, he did not want to start crying in front of Derek. Of all people, why did it have to be Derek?

“Right.” Derek’s voice was flat, but Tom could still feel his eyes on him. To his utter humiliation, he felt tears pool in his eyes, so he kept them pressed against his knees so that he wouldn’t shed any. “Are you crying?” If he wasn’t actually crying, Tom would have laughed at the slight panic in Derek’s voice. If they wanted to get out, they needed to get along, and Tom crying definitely put a dent in that.

“No.” He lied, voice thick with emotion. He dragged in a shaky breath, and then another, and another, until he was on the verge of hyperventilating. He lifted his head off of his knees and clutched at his chest, but it only made it worse as he was reminded just how small the room was. “Fuck.” Through blurry vision, he could see Derek hesitantly take a few steps over, until he was standing above him.

“Listen, we don’t like each other. We probably will not ever like each other. But we need out of this room, so you need to. Stop. Crying.” Tom did laugh this time, slightly manic as he looked up at Derek, whose arms were crossed and whose face was in an angry scowl. “We can talk like adults when you stop acting like a child.” Ouch, that one hurt. It wasn’t Tom’s fault that he hated spending any more time than necessary in small spaces, or that he was hyperventilating, or crying.

“I- I-” Tom choked on a gasping breath. Breathe- he couldn’t breathe, the room was too small and he couldn’t- “Sorry,” He wheezed, shaking hands desperately attempting to undo another button on his shirt as he struggled to take in his next breath. Eyes squeezed shut, Tom pretended he was on stage, in a field, in his apartment, literally anywhere else but this too small room with a man who he hated and who hated him back equally.

Dizziness was creeping up on him, and he knew if he didn’t stop hysterically hyperventilating he was going to have a much more embarrassing situation on his hands. It had been so long since he’d had an anxiety attack, or at least one without Julia there to help, and the knowledge that Derek was watching him panic wasn’t helping anything at all. How was he supposed to calm down, again? He couldn’t remember- he wasn’t supposed to do this alone, Julia was supposed to help him- why isn’t Julia here to help him?

“Tom.” Shaking his head, Tom kept his eyes firmly shut and pretended Derek did not exist. “Tom,” That one was far more exhausted than Derek had any right to sound, so Tom pried his eyelids open to give the director a death stare. Derek looked back at him flatly, he looked annoyed, which was so unfair. “How can I help?”

Well, now that was unexpected. He stared at Derek, uncomprehending the words that just left the mouth of his enemy of several years. Unfortunately, Tom couldn’t respond, because he was too busy sobbing his heart out as his lungs struggled to remember how to breathe oxygen.

“Right,” An annoyed sigh, and then Derek was sitting next to him, close enough that their shoulders and thighs were touching. An arm, hooked around his shoulders, pulled him flush against Derek’s side, and Tom instinctually sought out his heart beat, resting his head on Derek chests as he gave hiccuping sobs and shallow, quick breaths. “Better?”

And how he hated to admit it, but it was. Derek was pleasantly warm, and he smelled great, and his heart was calm and consistent. Derek's hand absentmindedly stroked Tom’s arm, which helped as well, just contact in general was nice. It took a few minutes, but eventually Tom was breathing, mostly, normally, and his tears had all but stopped. He almost didn’t want to pull away, but then he reminded himself that this is Derek and he was shuffling over so they were no longer touching each other.

“Thank you.” He mumbled, turning to face the other way, as he was sure his face was quite the sight at the moment. Puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, and tear tracks aren’t exactly the most beautiful things to look at. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, uncaring if dampened the fabric.

Both Derek and him perked up when there was clicking noise, and the door swung open. Julia and Eileen both rushed into the room, and Tom scrambled up to his feet, pulling Julia into a fierce hug. Their embrace lasted a good few moments as Tom clung to her, laying his head on her shoulder to hide the way his eyes filled with tears again.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” He told her firmly, pulling back and looking at her face. “Please.” She laughed a bit, and he giggled, dragging her out of the terrible room at a brisk pace.

Things between him and Derek settled for about 2 hours, until Tom made a suggestion, and Derek got pissed at him again. Julia and Eileen exchanged a look of mutual suffering, but regaled to just telling them to knock it off and continuing on. No need for any more torture, even if it got them a few hours of peace and quiet.

-

Later, in Tom’s apartment, Julia would sit on his couch with his head in her lap as he made her promise to never, ever leave him alone when he has an anxiety attack and she can come help. She shushed him, coming her fingers through his hair as she promised, and it was one she would keep.

[director-extraordinare]

Hello

Right, yes, hello. I'm sure you know who I am, but introductions are handy I suppose.

My name's Derek Wills, I'm a Tony and Olivier award-winning director, and I'm currently working on "Bombshell"

I use "he" pronouns (I think that's what you're meant to say?) and uh- yeah.

You can send asks if you like, but I'm busy, so I might not answer.

(admin under cut)

OK I CAVED AGAIN. I CAVEDDDDD THAT TOM ACC MADE ME WATCH SMASH THEN WANNA DO THIS!!

Hihi it's grace again!!! I run LOTS of rp accounts giggles, I use they/she and im a lesbian :3

I apologise in advance cuz this guy is the WORST I PROMISE IM NOT A DICK IRL

Not being funny but this man REEKS closet case he so has a thing for tom!! giggling

[sassyygayy]

⭐️🎭

OMG YES!! (i forgot i reblogged this)

✨ SMASH Asks ✨

⭐️ - Favorite Character(s)?

Julia & Tom: i love them, their dynamic, and how well they balanced each other out (especially in s1). i wish i could’ve seen more stories of them from the past creating different stories.

Ivy: s1 she was definitely problematic but i felt that they at least explained where most of her bad tendencies/intentions came from (mostly how her mom treats her). s2 Ivy just thrived and i was so SO happy to see her finally as Marilyn on Broadway.

Eileen: BAD. B*TCH. i don’t think an explanation is needed, she’s just an icon and i wanted her to get everything she wanted. queen sh*t.

Derek: okay so i just joined this fandom so i don’t know how Derek is perceived just yet but i love his little problematic ass. he’s an awful AWFUL person at times, actually at most times but he’s got something about him where i can’t hate him 🤷‍♀️

🎭 - Hit list or Bombshell?

Bombshell! i spent most of the 2nd season not quite understanding what ‘Hit List’ was about and as much as i love Jeremy Jordan - his performances didn’t outdo the amazing numbers from Bombshell. even towards the end of s2 i didn’t ever really get goosebumps at any of Hit Lists performances.

[eriksangel666]

No but ESPECIALLY because Jack Davenport sings for 5 SECONDS and you realize the dude can SING and could’ve done so THE WHOLE TIME and the fact we can’t play it on loop for eternity IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY

The SMASH version of Under Pressure not being on Spotify is a crime against humanity

[hedwig221b]

hiii hope you're doing well ! can we be gifted with a sneak peek of what you're working on right now ? love ya !

Hi, anon! The Midsommar au stubbornly doesn't want to be written, so here's a piece of an Outsider POV au (yes, again, yes, it's gonna be amazing) on a weird hermit witch Stiles (partially inspired by this post and also a very old bloody witchy plot bunny).

Her eyelashes stuck together as she blinked. Bit by bit, the haze lifted off her fever-stricken mind enough for her to take in the surroundings. She lay on an overly warm but surprisingly soft bed, soaking the covers under her with her sweat. The flames that danced upon the ceiling turned out to be just shadows from the roaring fireplace.

She stared at her clothes drying on the racks not far from it. Slowly, with her stomach sinking, she glanced at the man again.

He was no older than her, his pale skin splattered with moles and four ugly scars going down his cheek to his neck. Deep honey eyes and eyebrows hunched together.

He stood in front of the large dinner table, casting sharp shadows on the walls, and was busy grinding something in a mortar. The table was heavy with jars, vials, and sacks upon sacks of dried herbs. The reflection of the flames tinkled upon the glass. Everything inside seemed dark of a color.

Allison swallowed thickly.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The man didn’t answer. He flipped pages of a book without any care and muttered something under his breath before hurrying to the right corner of the room. There, multiple feathers hung in a tight bundle; behind it, swung a single thick thread with a row of claws strapped to it by the fishing hooks.

Allison shifted her gaze, dread filling her stomach along with nausea.

Claws, feathers, eyeballs stuck together in a jar like pickled tomatoes. A deer skull in the corner with mittens hanging from its horns to dry. Jars upon jars of sealed violet flowers and a couple of cauldrons stacked together near the fireplace.

This cozy house lit with warmth and the cloying scent of drying herbs, belonged to a witch.

It would’ve been better if she died.

Allison didn’t have time to scream as the man leaned over her again.

Now that he had shed his winter coat, he looked slender but strong. He had to be fit to keep a house like this going, of course, but he also had to eat well. Was she his next meal? Was that fire for her?

A cry left her lips when the stranger grabbed her hand wrist up. She yanked it back with every bit of strength she had in her, only to yelp as his fingers gripped her wrist.

The man harrumphed as if her struggle for life was so annoying, and, to Allison’s horror, pulled out a dagger.

The diamonds glinted in the low light for a second before the blade pressed to her cheek, stilling her to death.

“We can do it two ways,” the man said quietly. “You can either stop wiggling and lose a bit of blood, or you can fight and lose it all. The choice is in your hands.”

A pearl of tear rolled off her eyes and onto the glinting blade.

The man smiled. His scars scrunched together.

God, how atrocious he was.

“Some brain left in you, heh?” he chuckled and swiped across her cheek.

Sharp pain burst through it, but then, all pressure was off her.

“See?” the man took the mortar off the floor and shook the droplet of her blood off the dagger’s tip into the mixture. “Nothing bad happened. Again, if you hadn’t fought, the cut would’ve been on your arm and not right there on your face, but…” he shrugged.

“Why?” Allison asked.

Why did you save me? Why are you doing this?

The man pretended to not hear her. He stuck his finger in the mixture, scooped up the gloopy bit, and put it in his mouth. With his eyes shut tightly, he hummed at the taste.

If only Allison wasn’t so weak, she would’ve disarmed him right there. Naked and with nothing but her hands for weapons, she would’ve won the fight, she was sure of it. Her father taught her to kill, and she learned it well.

The man’s eyes opened slowly. He swallowed and looked down at Allison, his gaze cold and calculating.

“Want soup?” he asked and jumped from the bed.

What?..

“I’ve just finished making it when I sensed you wandering around.” The man puttered around the table, closing the vials and screwing the jars shut. “I’m not giving you any meat, but the stock is delicious. Delicious!” He grinned to himself, though his smile wilted as he noticed her wide terrified eyes. “You get to live, okay? Don’t look at me like that. God!” He rolled his eyes and took out a bowl, which he promptly filled with a ladle-worth of steaming broth. “You are not a heroine in a romance novel, stop suffering.”

“I was ready to meet my death in the forest,” Allison insisted hoarsely, lifting herself on trembling elbows only to quickly fall back onto the pillows. Even that tiny bit of anger took everything from her.

“I’m not your chaperone!” the man bit out as he sat on the bed. He glanced at her weak body and, with a huff, put the bowl on the floor. Then, he took her under the armpits and pushed her into a sitting position.

Even with her head spinning, Allison tried to cover her suddenly naked breasts. A moment later, hands pushed covers up her shoulders and tucked them behind her back.

“Don’t try that with me,” the man grumbled, unfazed, and picked up the bowl from the floor. He swirled the spoon in the rich broth. “I have a mate.”

What a weird man. A mate? Like the one animals had?

She glanced at the lone pair of boots near the heavy door. One fur coat drying on the stand. One hat.

The man didn’t have anyone, did he?

Either he drove himself mad from loneliness, or his “mate” wasn’t… human.

Her gaze fell on his scars all by itself. It was the first thing one would notice about him, and then would stare at it forever, unable to tear their eyes away. They barely missed his eye, but that was a small consolation, considering how deep and white they were, how the skin pulled together and froze in place for the rest of his life.

Perhaps, Allison would’ve considered him handsome if it weren’t for the scars. His eyes were striking even with their coldness, and his nose was pushed slightly up. Despite living alone in the woods, he kept himself clean and shaven, although a beard would’ve hidden some of the scars.

“Say ‘aah’,” the man opened his mouth in example and pressed a spoonful of oily broth to her lips.

It was surprisingly nice, though very gamey. She didn’t dare purse her nose, though, as the liquid coated her tongue and soother her parched throat. By the end of the meal, her stomach was full, though unpleasantly warm, and her lips shined with the thin layer of fat.

“Who are you?” Allison tried again, her blinks slow.

“Stiles.”

She frowned. “What?”

“What?” the man mocked her in a high-pitched voice. “That’s my name, you idiot. I’m gonna call you Idiot.”

“I’m Allison.”

“And I don’t care.” With an inexistent grace of a newborn fawn, the man rose from the edge of the bed, glanced at it wistfully, and went to the kitchen area to stack up her bowl on top of the others. “Why are there always dishes?”

With her eyes closing more and more, Allison watched as the man loaded the dirty dishes into the basin, lifted it up, and walked to the door.

At the last moment, as if he just remembered Allison was there, Stiles stopped and glanced at her.

“Oh, yeah, stay here,” he said. “If you try to run, I am going to break your legs. If I break your legs, my mate is going to think I am giving him a prey to chase.” He cringed his nose in thought. “Nice idea, by the way. Nice, nice, nice…” he shoved his feet in the boots and shuffled outside, cursing at the cold.

Yes, thought Allison as the sleep forced her eyes closed, death would’ve been a mercy.

[divider source]

[callieyanderechan]

Me because Derek Morgan x reader is full of Aaron and Spencer fics

[noyzinerd]

Stiles: Um, sure. Let's see...hmmm...Oh! If you see a drowsy looking bee on the ground, you can give it a little drop of sugar water to help make it feel better.

Derek, in the middle of cleaning out a bullet wound:

Stiles:

Stiles: I'm now starting to realize that you were probably asking me for a "Q-Tip" rather than a "cute tip".

[youraveragemiscellanyenjoyer]

[dr-handballslector]

Spencer Reid early season with glasses was hotter than his post prison

[rosebug3]

sometimes I want a Smash revival cause I miss some of them, but I think they ended a lot of characters in places they can't come back from.

[intrepidacious]

dangerous game

summary: After another frustrating day of rehearsals, Derek offers to help you relax.

pairing: derek wills x f!reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: smut (18+ only!!), semi-public mirror sex, fingering (f receiving); unprofessional behaviour at best; derek being an asshole; mostly unedited; please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: let me tell y'all, being in bed with an absolutely awful cold for days on end is one hell of a way to remember that you have free will. and while i truly can't do much at the moment, what i can do is post my incredibly niche smut. honestly, no prior knowledge of the show required, this is mostly me going feral.

masterlist | read on ao3

You can feel your blood thrum in your ears with every step, your movements strong and precise despite your exhaustion. Your chin stays up, five-six-sidestep-eight, don’t look down, hold that note, smile at Jamie, turn around—

"Stop."

—don’t glance over, kick-two-and-four-and-what-was-the-line, turn left into the dip and—

"Stop!"

The music cuts out and you turn your head to glare at Derek. "What is it now?"

"Funny," he says, leaning back against the table with his arms crossed in front of his chest, "I was going to ask you the same thing."

You roll your eyes.

Under any other circumstances, you’d have probably found yourself quite enamoured with your assistant director. After all, Derek Wills is brilliant, dedicated, handsome; he has a keen eye for detail and he’s unafraid of anyone’s judgment of him. If you’d met him in a bar or a friend introduced to you, you’d probably let yourself fall head-first into an ill-advised dalliance.

Unfortunately, the first time you’d met was on the first day of rehearsals for your first ever principal role, and all of his intriguing traits make him an absolute nightmare to work with. Most days, with your director present, he holds himself back at least somewhat, even though it clearly pains him when things don’t go his way. This time, though, he’s outdone himself.

The show opens in less than two weeks, and with tech looming just around the corner, he’s decided to completely uphaul the entr’acte number. Now, there’s a whole new choreography you’re expected to learn on top of everything else.

The whole company is irritated over it, of course, but most of them have more of a dancing background than you do. Add to that nine and a half brutal hours of rehearsals and you want to rip Derek’s head off.

"I’m doing your damn quick dance," you say through gritted teeth. Jamie pulls you upright again, giving your hand an empathetic squeeze.

"However much I wish that were true, here we are."

"What on earth is your problem with me?"

"My problem isn’t with you, it’s with your performance today."

"Alright," the stage manager interrupts, tiredly massaging her temples. "It’s been a very long day. How about we break this up and come back tomorrow at 10:00?"

There’s a relieved mumble of assent as everyone around you starts collecting their bags and trickling out of the room. In the end, Derek is the first one to look away. You shake yourself out of your angry stupor.

"Ignore him," Lucy whispers as you take a long swig from your water bottle. "You did really well today."

"Not as well as you."

Even over the noise of everybody leaving, Derek’s shout of your full name is sharp enough to make her flinch.

"Breakfast tomorrow?"

"If I make it out alive."

She squeezes your shoulder and then hurries out the door. It falls shut with a foreboding thud.

You can feel the glare in your neck, but it doesn’t deter you. Unhurriedly, you pack up your things, rolling your aching shoulders. Once you get home, you’re going to take a nice, hot bath to soothe your burning muscles; it’s the first thought in a couple of hours that makes you smile to yourself, however briefly.

When you finally do turn around, you’re met with pure British disdain.

"Can I help you?"

"You do realise I’m doing this so the press won’t eat you alive, right?"

"How kind of you."

"It is, actually. You know, I have two other shows that I should be working on instead of doing this."

"Well, no one asked you to, Derek. You’re not the director. Steven thinks I’m a fine dancer, or else he wouldn’t have cast me."

"Steven doesn’t give a rat’s ass about this performance. Which is why he’s added all of these last-minute changes we’ve been trying to get through and I’m the one having to drill it all into your heads. A job which, frankly, would be a lot easier if I didn’t also have to try to stop this show’s only real musical talent’s attempts to bulldoze her career before it’s even taken off."

It’s about as much of a compliment as he’s ever given you, and that very fact takes the steam out of you somewhat. You watch as he turns away from you again and flicks on the metronome on the table.

"You’re insufferable," you say, but it doesn’t have the same conviction in it.

"Maybe. But I’m right, and you know it." He pulls up a chair and sits down on it backwards, crossing his arms on the backrest. "Go again from the pivot."

"What, on my own?"

He raises his eyebrows in clear amusement. "Please."

There’s a challenge in his eyes, and despite your aching bones, the last thing you want is to back down from it.

You hold his gaze for a couple of moments longer, the only sound in the room the ticking coming from the metronome. Then, with an annoyed groan, you drop your bag.

"When—"

"No," he interrupts immediately and you roll your eyes. "Just the dance."

You press your lips together, but don’t argue. Pivot left, double step, head stays up, don’t flap your arms. It feels strange not to sing over the routine; it’s gotten so ingrained in your head over the past couple of days. Breathe now, five-six-sidestep-eight—

Derek sighs. "You’re doing it again."

You finish your turn with a glare. "Doing what, exactly?"

"The little stick arms. Your entire back is stiff and it looks like you’re going through a checklist whenever you reach that part."

"So you want me to, what, smile more?"

"Would your character smile more?"

His question catches you off guard, as does the fact that he seems to be expecting an answer.

"In the script, she’s—”

"I know what it says in the script. What do you think?"

"It’s not just the choreography. I don’t think this number makes sense. I get why the show needs an uptempo number to start act two, but I just … it doesn’t really connect."

It gives you emotional whiplash, going from this scene to the next, but that addition seems a bit too unprofessional.

Derek squints at you, seemingly lost in thought. You wrap your arms around yourself self-consciously.

After some time, he adjusts the metronome to a slower tempo. "Go again."

It’s funny; even though nothing else has changed about your choreography, it feels much clearer, more deliberate, almost—

The chair scrapes over the linoleum floor as Derek stands, crossing towards you in a few long strides. You hesitate, one arm still outstretched to where you would normally catch Jamie’s hand for the twist.

"Ignore me," he mumbles, his look of concentration never wavering. "Again."

Ignore him? Like you've ever been able to do that. You can feel his gaze prickle in your neck, cataloguing every move, every tilt of your head. Your fixed smile wavers.

Chin up. Sidestep. Eight. Turn.

Your dip is coming up. Why isn’t he interrupting you?

When you turn left, a warm hand catches yours while another curls around your arched back in one smooth motion. You freeze, your mouth half-opened in surprise, and your fingers inadvertently tighten around his.

A rush of adrenaline courses through your veins as the world turns upside down.

Slowly, gently, Derek pulls you up into the rest of your spin. You watch yourself in the mirrors covering the opposite wall, coming to a standstill way too close to him, his chest almost brushing your back. He smells nice, you think nonsensically.

"You need to relax," he says lowly, his breath fanning your ear, and, oh. That’s what this is.

Tension hums in the air between you, and you’re not even facing each other.

You let go of his hand, but you don’t step away. "Funny."

"I can help you with that."

It’s an offer, maybe even a question. For a moment, it hovers, just like the two of you do, not quite touching, not quite crossing the line. Yet. The metronome on the table keeps clicking.

Heat trickles down your spine.

This is a terrible idea, one you’re certain to regret tomorrow, hell, a few hours from now. It’s unprofessional, unethical and plain wrong, and …

Almost imperceptibly, you nod.

You don’t see his eyes in the mirror, but something about him softens as he moves even closer. His hands graze your sides as they settle around you, sending a shiver down your spine. Slowly, gently, they wander towards your waistband.

"Say the word and we never have to speak of this again."

You exhale shakingly.

His growing bulge presses into you from behind as his fingers slip lower, teasing you through the thin material of your panties. You gasp when they find your clit, your hips chasing his touch.

For all his usual antics, he’s surprisingly careful with you; almost tender, even in the way he pushes the fabric to the side and starts spreading your slick. It seems so at odds with the scene that unfolds in the mirror, your head falling against him as you hold onto his arm, his neck, trying to anchor yourself with a low whine.

"Shhh," Derek whispers, dragging his lips down your neck. "You need to be nice and quiet for me. Can you do that?"

People might still be working, your mind supplies hazily as a soft wave of pleasure starts to build. For some reason, the thought doesn’t deter you in the slightest.

You buck into his hand again, making him stifle a groan of his own against your shoulder. Before you can feel too happy about that, though, one of his fingers pushes inside you and you have to bite your lip in order not to make a sound. Your grip on him tightens, your stance widening.

"Look at you," he mumbles, sounding almost mesmerised as he keeps thrusting into you, his thumb lightly flicking over your clit. You clench around him, desperate for more friction. For once, he obliges. "You’re doing so well."

Another finger sinks into you right as he adds the perfect amount of pressure to your clit, his other hand rubbing soothingly against your stomach as you're pushed closer to the brink.

"That’s it," you hear him murmur, as if to himself. "So good for me."

You gasp, your eyes rolling back in your head. "Derek!"

"I’ve got you," he says, his hold steady and warm. "Eyes open, darling."

You whimper softly, trying to find him in the mirror. He smiles against your shoulder, nipping at your skin.

"I want you to let go for me now," he tells you, his voice a gentle rumble against you. "Can you do that?"

You nod, or you think you do. It’s hard to tell, really, when all you can focus on is the mounting pleasure building higher and higher, until—

"Just like that. Good girl."

With a shudder, you come undone.

You’re boneless in his arms, your knees wobbling in your high-heeled dance shoes as you ride out your orgasm on his fingers. His hardness is pressing against you, but before you can even attempt to turn in his arms and help him take care of that, he slips his hand out of your pants and takes a step backwards.

"Now go again."

You blink, your chest still heaving. "What?"

"Go again," Derek repeats. "Try to feel it this time instead of just moving."

A breathless laugh falls fro your lips. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"I think we both know that I am." He sits down on his chair again, his erection painfully obvious. "Try it. Stop being afraid to feel."

"I’m not," you say automatically. The metronome keeps clicking.

He raises his eyebrows. "Show me."

So you do.

There’s no way in hell any of your steps are anywhere close to precise. You’re off rhythm and shaky, and you almost stumble when you catch Derek put his fingers in his mouth as he watches you, his face that unreadable mask of concentration again.

Somehow, though, the number feels different this time. Like you’ve released some inner tension that had kept you from falling into the routine.

This is absolutely fantastic, you think to yourself as you move. On top of everything else, he had to be right.

When you twist to a halt just before you’d normally dip, Derek smirks. "Now we’re talking."

"You happy now?" you ask, breathing hard.

"Exceedingly, darling." He flicks the metronome off, reaching for his script next to it and starts flicking through. "You’re right about the tempo," he continues, scribbling something down. "We’ll slow the second half of the number to transition into the next scene."

"You think Steven’s gonna let you get away with that?"

"Leave that to me," he says, looking at his watch. "Shit, I need to go. You, go home, try to be on time tomorrow."

You gape at the dismissal, watching him gather his things without so much as another glance at you. "Derek!" you say incredulously.

"Right." He turns, a hectic look in his eyes, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. "You’re gonna be a star, darling. Just you wait."

Before you can reply, he’s out of the room, still half-hard in his pants.

The lights flick off.

thank you for reading 🫶🏼 leave a comment to send me virtual tissues because honestly i'm running out. if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

edit: i'm currently high on ibuprofen and completely forgot to give the appropriate shout outs 😭 big thank you to @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane and @scrumptious-delusion who read this fic first, i would do anything for u 🫶🏼