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He didn’t know what he was doing here, actually. He knew his friends brought him here for drinks, he knew his friends wanted to celebrate a promotion, but honestly, what was he doing here? Trying to hook up with someone?
He sighed. Nobody would want to hook up with him. He knew that for most of his social life.
“Jean!” He glanced up to see Sasha spinning on the little dance floor with Connie. “Come on! Dance!”
Jean just gave a small smile; he wasn’t in the mood for that kind of thing. It was one of those things he was afraid to show anyone.
Especially Eren.
He swallowed, tipped the shot of vodka back. Everyone was there, including Armin, Mikasa and Eren. And if you knew Eren and Jean, all you’d remember was that they’d fight and tease on a constant basis and it’s only Mikasa and Marco that can pull them apart.
Well, if you knew Jean and Mikasa, all you’d remember was that he tried for her but she never really anyone other than Eren, which, of course, greatly upset said blond. And every single time he tried impressing her, it just ends up in a flurry of anger when Eren makes some smart comment about whatever Jean did as ‘gay’. And of course, Jean’s pride didn’t want that. So flowers, chocolates, singing, cheesy signs, or anything cheesy in general wasn’t really something Jean wanted to do in fear of his ego.
...but then again, wasn’t Mikasa worth sacrificing that?
...but then again, why hadn’t he thought of that before? Why only now?
Oh, that’s right: he was stupid then. He wasn’t seventeen anymore, he wasn’t in high school anymore; he was a working college student. He saw things differently, even if he still did have this stupid crush on the class valedictorian.
He glanced up from under his lashes to see Mikasa, Eren and Armin in a huddle together. Not being far off from his old habits, the gears in his head started to work on a plan to, once more, impress the brunette.
What would work, drinking your ass off, punching Eren in the face, or throwing pickup lines?
...nah, I’ve tried all those before. What can I do, what can I do…? Be her brother? What the fuck, that’s the best idea in another dimension.
...maybe I could just go up to her and talk, you know, like make friends with her.
...nah, Eren would tell me something about it being gay again. And besides, she ignores me like I was a little fly.
WAIT NO. She doesn’t ignore me like I was a fly. She actually talks to me, remember the time I asked her about music for that little thesis and she just blurted out whatever Armin and Eren listened to? Yeah, that was a good conversation...pretty much the only full conversation I’ve had with her.
Well, what else can I do?
...I can brush Eren off. Like it was nothing. I’m not doing anything wrong, anyway. I’m just...talking to Mikasa. Socializing. Yeah. That’s right. Eren can’t stop me from talking to his sister, no matter what happened.
Relinquishing his glass to the bartender, he pushed off the counter to walk to the trio with a look that said, ‘Nothing can stop me now!’
But something could. And that was the flow of movement on the colored, open space. He glanced up, and all thoughts went out the other ear.
She’s beautiful, with [h/c] [h/l] locks and a [figure]. No, she wasn’t one of those who looked like bimbos you see in pornos. No, she wasn’t fat that it was scary. No, she didn’t seem like a twig, at least not for him. She was just right, as if her body had been engineered for dancing.
He hadn’t realized the remixed track had disappeared, and the DJ was calling out over the speakers to the people on the dance floor, and would be playing next something freakishly popular like J-Lo, but he knew it by heart. It was fast, it was intense. It was sexy.
I’ll give in, I guess. It’s been a while since the last time I let loose.
He thought it was just the alcohol talking, but he realized he wanted this. He wanted her.
For a moment it scared him. Would she turn him down, too?
By the look she gave him across the dance floor, she wasn’t considering it.
He hadn’t even realized their eyes met. He hadn’t realized, either, just how intense his stare was at her.
Now or never.
He sauntered over slowly, steps slow and deliberate, leading sometimes with his shoulders as he maneuvered past the crowd, golden gaze never leaving hers as he made his way towards the dance floor. He reached down, for her hand, and lifted the back of it to his lips, golden eyes unwavering as they peered out from under dark lashes to stare at her, lips stretching in a charming smile.
May I have this dance?
She did not move as he slowly lowered her hand, but the intrigued look in her [e/c] eyes urged him to continue.
For Latin lovers everywhere--here’s a little something for you!
Something intense, something intriguing, something loving, something sensual: that described the guitar track.
She never really released his hand. Instead she pulled on it, as if possessive, and stepped back, leading him to the los beat of the music. Once on open space, he rounded her once, pulling her into the familiar hold. As he glanced down at her, her [/c] gaze, ever curious, met his.
Are you ready?
Neither answered as he stepped.
The tango is simple: steps in a closed ballroom hold. The Argentine tango is more than that: there are figures. But a true Argentine tango in itself delivers much more than just a dance: it is an intricate and powerful display of passion at its roots.
As they moved, slow and sure and basic, he took the chance to actually take in her features. [S/c] skin. [E/c] eyes. A cute nose. Fluffy cheeks/High cheekbones. [H/c] locks pulled up in a ponytail. For a moment his eyes darted to her cleavage, as she just wore a black tan, and when he got back to her gaze he saw her smirk. In the heat of the moment, he smirked, too. It was then he realized she had pearly whites and a dazzling smile.
Jean never realized he’d need this. Ever since his dance class for the PE department--one where he knew absolutely nobody, to his delight--and ever since wanting to ace that little competition that term, he’d gone farther than his classmates to learning social dances. In flirting, he’d always thought that girls would like swing or the waltz more because it was easy.
Not this time.
Not this girl.
It was like testing the waters somehow, as he moved: did she like tango? Did she know how? Would she be amazed?
None were answered as she made her first move.
A cross-step--a tentative pasada.
A subtle glance up at him from their feet.
A hesitant smile.
So she did know the Argentine tango.
His gaze softened, and turned in to her. The start of the second figure.
He walked her slowly, gently, and in the same way leaned over, pulling her into a dip. Her head rolled back as he held her by the waist and back, her hands coming up to caress his back, his shoulders, to wrap around his neck. He bent over to press two cautious kisses: one on her neck, one at her jugular, afraid to go any lower and offending her. He pulled up as her head snapped forward, and they stood toe-to-toe, staring at each other.
Are you ready? Ready to feel me?
She showed no anger, no remorse, but there was now a dark challenge in her eyes.
Make love to me.
The suspense snapped. With it, she jerked away.
He was quick to react, and she spun right back into his hold, arms wrapping around her possessively as he stepped back, nose pressed to her skin and inhaling her sweet scent, void of perfume. He heard her sigh as she followed him, her hands having flown to his wrists, willing him to let her go.
He released her, save for her wrist, the hold in which she spun in, and led him down the dance floor in a series of steps that spun, walked, brushed against his own legs. She kept them close, as if willing to mold against the narrow vee of his hips, against his hardened chest, against his lips.
He was well aware just how close she was to kissing him, having felt her lips brush against his. He shivered in her touch; it was electric, intense, passionate.
Just as their dance.
The guitar drew intense, and his breaths, heavy with exertion and emotion, sounded in her ears. She was the same, and their eyes closed, letting one lead the other, giving and receiving the pleasure of being so close, so attuned to someone, so...free.
She wasn’t like Mikasa, whose methodical ways and pining over Eren irked him. She wasn’t like Krista, ever reserved and womanlike. She wasn’t like Ymir, tomboyish and intimidating. She wasn’t like Sasha, always food and Connie on her mind.
She was her.
His dream girl.
One he’d always fight but always love. One he’d always tease but always admire. One whose fire won’t disgust him somehow.
His teacher was right. Unchoreographed, dance was never one to hide who you were.
She’s perfect.
The song’s coming to a close. Come on, think: what’s a good end--
He didn’t need to think. She launched herself into his arms, settling so she rested her weight on his thigh. He, in turn, held her around her waist, glancing up at her as she stared down at him, arms around his neck, noses touching.
He didn’t hear the music stop. He didn’t hear the cheer of the crowd. There was just her.
She didn’t smile at him, but he saw the light in her eyes, shining even in the dark space they shared.
There was nothing for him to say, nothing for him to think about. The cards were already on the table, or in this case, the dance floor. But what was he going to say?
Instead, she closed the distance between them in a kiss, and he gave in to the fire that fought to consume him.

Description

He didn’t know what he was doing here, actually. He knew his friends brought him here for drinks, he knew his friends wanted to celebrate a promotion, but honestly, what was he doing here? Trying to hook up with someone?
He sighed. Nobody would want to hook up with him. He knew that for most of his social life.
“Jean!” He glanced up to see Sasha spinning on the little dance floor with Connie. “Come on! Dance!”
Jean just gave a small smile; he wasn’t in the mood for that kind of thing. It was one of those things he was afraid to show anyone.
Especially Eren.
He swallowed, tipped the shot of vodka back. Everyone was there, including Armin, Mikasa and Eren. And if you knew Eren and Jean, all you’d remember was that they’d fight and tease on a constant basis and it’s only Mikasa and Marco that can pull them apart.
Well, if you knew Jean and Mikasa, all you’d remember was that he tried for her but she never really anyone other than Eren, which, of course, greatly upset said blond. And every single time he tried impressing her, it just ends up in a flurry of anger when Eren makes some smart comment about whatever Jean did as ‘gay’. And of course, Jean’s pride didn’t want that. So flowers, chocolates, singing, cheesy signs, or anything cheesy in general wasn’t really something Jean wanted to do in fear of his ego.
...but then again, wasn’t Mikasa worth sacrificing that?
...but then again, why hadn’t he thought of that before? Why only now?
Oh, that’s right: he was stupid then. He wasn’t seventeen anymore, he wasn’t in high school anymore; he was a working college student. He saw things differently, even if he still did have this stupid crush on the class valedictorian.
He glanced up from under his lashes to see Mikasa, Eren and Armin in a huddle together. Not being far off from his old habits, the gears in his head started to work on a plan to, once more, impress the brunette.
What would work, drinking your ass off, punching Eren in the face, or throwing pickup lines?
...nah, I’ve tried all those before. What can I do, what can I do…? Be her brother? What the fuck, that’s the best idea in another dimension.
...maybe I could just go up to her and talk, you know, like make friends with her.
...nah, Eren would tell me something about it being gay again. And besides, she ignores me like I was a little fly.
WAIT NO. She doesn’t ignore me like I was a fly. She actually talks to me, remember the time I asked her about music for that little thesis and she just blurted out whatever Armin and Eren listened to? Yeah, that was a good conversation...pretty much the only full conversation I’ve had with her.
Well, what else can I do?
...I can brush Eren off. Like it was nothing. I’m not doing anything wrong, anyway. I’m just...talking to Mikasa. Socializing. Yeah. That’s right. Eren can’t stop me from talking to his sister, no matter what happened.
Relinquishing his glass to the bartender, he pushed off the counter to walk to the trio with a look that said, ‘Nothing can stop me now!’
But something could. And that was the flow of movement on the colored, open space. He glanced up, and all thoughts went out the other ear.
She’s beautiful, with [h/c] [h/l] locks and a [figure]. No, she wasn’t one of those who looked like bimbos you see in pornos. No, she wasn’t fat that it was scary. No, she didn’t seem like a twig, at least not for him. She was just right, as if her body had been engineered for dancing.
He hadn’t realized the remixed track had disappeared, and the DJ was calling out over the speakers to the people on the dance floor, and would be playing next something freakishly popular like J-Lo, but he knew it by heart. It was fast, it was intense. It was sexy.
I’ll give in, I guess. It’s been a while since the last time I let loose.
He thought it was just the alcohol talking, but he realized he wanted this. He wanted her.
For a moment it scared him. Would she turn him down, too?
By the look she gave him across the dance floor, she wasn’t considering it.
He hadn’t even realized their eyes met. He hadn’t realized, either, just how intense his stare was at her.
Now or never.
He sauntered over slowly, steps slow and deliberate, leading sometimes with his shoulders as he maneuvered past the crowd, golden gaze never leaving hers as he made his way towards the dance floor. He reached down, for her hand, and lifted the back of it to his lips, golden eyes unwavering as they peered out from under dark lashes to stare at her, lips stretching in a charming smile.
May I have this dance?
She did not move as he slowly lowered her hand, but the intrigued look in her [e/c] eyes urged him to continue.
For Latin lovers everywhere--here’s a little something for you!
Something intense, something intriguing, something loving, something sensual: that described the guitar track.
She never really released his hand. Instead she pulled on it, as if possessive, and stepped back, leading him to the los beat of the music. Once on open space, he rounded her once, pulling her into the familiar hold. As he glanced down at her, her [/c] gaze, ever curious, met his.
Are you ready?
Neither answered as he stepped.
The tango is simple: steps in a closed ballroom hold. The Argentine tango is more than that: there are figures. But a true Argentine tango in itself delivers much more than just a dance: it is an intricate and powerful display of passion at its roots.
As they moved, slow and sure and basic, he took the chance to actually take in her features. [S/c] skin. [E/c] eyes. A cute nose. Fluffy cheeks/High cheekbones. [H/c] locks pulled up in a ponytail. For a moment his eyes darted to her cleavage, as she just wore a black tan, and when he got back to her gaze he saw her smirk. In the heat of the moment, he smirked, too. It was then he realized she had pearly whites and a dazzling smile.
Jean never realized he’d need this. Ever since his dance class for the PE department--one where he knew absolutely nobody, to his delight--and ever since wanting to ace that little competition that term, he’d gone farther than his classmates to learning social dances. In flirting, he’d always thought that girls would like swing or the waltz more because it was easy.
Not this time.
Not this girl.
It was like testing the waters somehow, as he moved: did she like tango? Did she know how? Would she be amazed?
None were answered as she made her first move.
A cross-step--a tentative pasada.
A subtle glance up at him from their feet.
A hesitant smile.
So she did know the Argentine tango.
His gaze softened, and turned in to her. The start of the second figure.
He walked her slowly, gently, and in the same way leaned over, pulling her into a dip. Her head rolled back as he held her by the waist and back, her hands coming up to caress his back, his shoulders, to wrap around his neck. He bent over to press two cautious kisses: one on her neck, one at her jugular, afraid to go any lower and offending her. He pulled up as her head snapped forward, and they stood toe-to-toe, staring at each other.
Are you ready? Ready to feel me?
She showed no anger, no remorse, but there was now a dark challenge in her eyes.
Make love to me.
The suspense snapped. With it, she jerked away.
He was quick to react, and she spun right back into his hold, arms wrapping around her possessively as he stepped back, nose pressed to her skin and inhaling her sweet scent, void of perfume. He heard her sigh as she followed him, her hands having flown to his wrists, willing him to let her go.
He released her, save for her wrist, the hold in which she spun in, and led him down the dance floor in a series of steps that spun, walked, brushed against his own legs. She kept them close, as if willing to mold against the narrow vee of his hips, against his hardened chest, against his lips.
He was well aware just how close she was to kissing him, having felt her lips brush against his. He shivered in her touch; it was electric, intense, passionate.
Just as their dance.
The guitar drew intense, and his breaths, heavy with exertion and emotion, sounded in her ears. She was the same, and their eyes closed, letting one lead the other, giving and receiving the pleasure of being so close, so attuned to someone, so...free.
She wasn’t like Mikasa, whose methodical ways and pining over Eren irked him. She wasn’t like Krista, ever reserved and womanlike. She wasn’t like Ymir, tomboyish and intimidating. She wasn’t like Sasha, always food and Connie on her mind.
She was her.
His dream girl.
One he’d always fight but always love. One he’d always tease but always admire. One whose fire won’t disgust him somehow.
His teacher was right. Unchoreographed, dance was never one to hide who you were.
She’s perfect.
The song’s coming to a close. Come on, think: what’s a good end--
He didn’t need to think. She launched herself into his arms, settling so she rested her weight on his thigh. He, in turn, held her around her waist, glancing up at her as she stared down at him, arms around his neck, noses touching.
He didn’t hear the music stop. He didn’t hear the cheer of the crowd. There was just her.
She didn’t smile at him, but he saw the light in her eyes, shining even in the dark space they shared.
There was nothing for him to say, nothing for him to think about. The cards were already on the table, or in this case, the dance floor. But what was he going to say?
Instead, she closed the distance between them in a kiss, and he gave in to the fire that fought to consume him.