#I kinda crammed it..so 🥹 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pullhisteeth · 8 months

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Hi! I saw your "Wise Words" fic and got so excited because it was inspired by one of my favorite songs by miss blondie herself 🤣 And I loved your writing so much I thought I could request for a fic if that's okay 🥹

So the "Vigilante Shit" performance in the Eras Tour has been stuck on my mind for AGES (and for good reason) and I was thinking...what if reader is a dancer and is besties with Eddie, and he sees her perform like THAT for the first time...I wonder how he would react and keep his shit together lmaooo

Can't wait to read whatever masterpiece you come up with! Ahhh thank you and ilysm ❤️

oh this one was lethal. checked my notifs at like 10pm and bam! I was off!!! and now it’s like 2am lol. I loved writing this - I took some creative liberties because I do not know a damn thing about dance but I hope it’s okay! thank you for the request (and your lovely kind words) ♡

contains fem!reader, dancer!reader, best friend!Eddie, best friends to lovers, bad knowledge of dance (it shows), fluff. 3k-ish

The heat beneath your cheeks can’t be kept at bay. You’re all flushed, palms clammy the way they used to get before recitals.

It has been years since stage fright could even try to get the better of you. Too many hours spent in front of crowds - whether they be three people small, parents and siblings crammed into your living room, or hundreds big, it doesn't matter to you anymore. You know this is all there is for you, moving across a stage like you own it.

Today is an exception. You’re standing - hiding - behind the curtain, nose inches from the deep blue velvet, right on cue but without your guts or your confidence. There’s a gaping hollowness there instead. You’re nervous.

It’s not like nerves have completely escaped you before now. On stage you’re stoic, but in life you’re… Less than self-assured. Especially when it comes to boys, or rather one boy in particular.

“Hey,” someone whispers to your left, “you’re up in five.”

Seconds. She means five seconds. Soon, the curtain will lift, and you’ll be released into the open arms of cheering onlookers, and you’ll have to try your hardest not to look for him among them.

You hear the familiar rattle of the rope mechanism somewhere distant, the lowering sandbag and the gear up high, and then the light descends at your feet. The fluorescence is blinding as the curtain lifts above your face, but this is easy. Comparatively, holding yourself together here, on this stage, is child’s play. Holding yourself together in front of him? Not so much.

“I thought you’d be happy!”

Eddie stands at the foot of your bed with his hands on his hips. You’re recoiling, knees up at your chin, at the headboard, whinging something cruel about this surprise he’s been keeping from you.

“I am, it’s just-”

“What are you hiding from me?” he asks, smiling, coy like he knows already.

He doesn’t. If it goes your way, he never will.

“Nothing!” you exclaim, too enthusiastically. “Nothing, I just…”

“Just what?” He’s getting impatient; he’s started pacing again.

“It’s nothing, Eds. I am happy. I promise.”

“Good,” he says, grinning. It’s a smile you love dearly, and if this is something that encourages it, so be it. “Nance is coming, too. We got four tickets, so Rob and Steve are gonna try and get the night off.”

Before you can protest he’s throwing himself onto your bed, chest-first, his arms winding around your calves and squeezing a shriek out of you.

“I’m so excited,” he tells you, muffled, face stuffed into the comforter by your feet. “How’ve we been friends all this time’n I’ve never seen you dance?”

“You have,” you respond, absentmindedly threading your fingers through his hair, nails gentle on his scalp. You feel him relax into your mattress and you smile.

“The club doesn’t count,” he says, turning onto his cheek to look up at you. “I don’t even know what kinda dancing it is.”

“You bought a ticket,” you giggle, “surely you saw the name?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little confused, “but what the fuck is chair dancing?”

Before Eddie even makes it inside the club, he knows he’s sticking out like a sore thumb.

“Nance,” he whispers, bending ever so slightly so he’s closer to her ear, “where the fuck are we?”

“Shut up,” she says, laughing her breezy laugh and lifting her shoulder to brush him off playfully.

He’s out of his depth, surrounded by a strange concoction of people - plenty of gaggles of young women, sashes reading bride to be or birthday girl, as well as innocuous older men, distinguished in their suits and pressed shirts, speaking to each other in hushed tones.

Where the fuck is he?

The line gets shorter, and inside the door, once they’re past the lacklustre bouncers, Nancy hands their tickets over and Robin takes her by the arm, giggling with her as they descend the stairs.

Eddie eyes the posters along the walls - comedy shows, open mics, oddly themed club nights - but doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

The four of them emerge into a dimly lit room, where small tables hold even smaller lamps and are surrounded by leather chairs. He feels a firm hand on his shoulder and turns to see Steve looking at Nancy and Robin.

“Okay, girls, find us a seat, me’n Eddie’ll get us drinks.”

Eddie follows him wordlessly through to the bar, where a cheerful - and very pretty - woman takes their order from Steve, who turns to him as she wanders off.

“Hey,” he murmurs, dipping closer, “what’s up with you?”

Eddie groans and holds his head in both hands, elbows on the bar. “I don’t know,” he says into his palms.

Steve’s hand is back on his shoulder, firm again, grounding. “She’s great, you know.”

Eddie twists to peek at him. “You’ve seen her before?”

“Only practising. I was over at their apartment and she was in the living room.”

Eddie groans again, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I feel… Nervous, for some reason.”

Beside him, Steve laughs, boisterous and accompanied by a squeeze at his shoulder.

“You should be,” he tells him, “she’s hot shit, Munson. Better be careful, or she’ll be gone before you can catch her.”

The music is your favourite part of dancing.

The dancing itself is fun, of course, but it’s nothing without the bass beneath your feet, the smooth curves of sound that seem to run straight through you like a livewire. You like all of it: jazz, rock, country, even metal, when Eddie’s playing it. But there’s something about that sultry kind of pop, the darkness and the sharpness, that turns you into some type of marionette, moving almost without thinking to the sound of gutsy women.

That’s doing yourself a disservice, of course; you’re a good dancer. You’re an excellent dancer. Eddie’s just never seen it before, and suddenly you’re quite sure you’re about to trip over your own feet.

The thrumming bassline distracts you for a flash, and you look over at the other dancers. You move seamlessly between one another, bare legs weaving and feet precise. Your hands lift in the air and run down your body, feeling the intricate beading of the handmade bodice gifted to you by the director. Every nerve is on fire, hyper-responsive and humming with energy. You flip your hair, bend at the hips, move your mouth in time with the lyrics.

Your hand curls around the cold metal of the chair at the front of the stage, and as you lift your leg, planting a heel firmly on the seat, you forget there’s anyone watching, let alone him.

Eddie’s knee stopped bouncing the moment that the curtain shifted.

He loves music, but while you’ve made him listen to his fair share of pop, he’s never heard anything like this. It’s darker than the other stuff. Sexier, even.

His mind empties as the bass kicks in and the curtain hits its peak. There’s a line of dancers, each one beautiful and sparkling under the spotlights, but once his eyes find you there may as well be no one else in the room.

He knows what it’s like to be on a stage - the lights are too bright, the act of performing too consuming; trying to spot someone in a crowd is almost futile. And yet, for the first time in his life, he feels that insatiable urge to be noticed. For you to look over, meet his eye, and shoot him a wink or smile at him the way you do when he picks you up from work.

The way you move up there is unlike anything he has ever seen before. He knows you’ve been dancing your whole life, and when you’re out with friends you still move effortlessly, often emboldened by liquid courage and a good song, but even his wildest dreams - of which there have been many - could not have prepared him for this.

Your body moves with its curves, swaying and bending in a way that seems so natural on you. There’s a confidence he’s rarely seen before, and it’s electrifying, lighting him up from the inside.

“Isn’t she amazing?!” Nancy whispers beside him.

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes tied to you. Every move you make is slow, methodical, intentional. You lift your legs, tilt your hips, curl your arm upwards like you’re made of water, and Eddie is thirsty.

He feels the warmth of Steve’s chest pressing into his shoulder. “Dude,” he whispers in Eddie’s ear, “shut your mouth. Gonna catch flies or something.”

Three songs isn’t many, but holding your own body weight the way you have to takes its toll, and the oppressive warmth of the dressing rooms only make you sweatier. So you race through your post-show routine, saying quick goodbyes to your friends and hanging the bodice carefully on the hanger with your nametag. On quick but tired feet you race through the dimly lit corridors, thankful for the simplicity of your sneakers, in search of the fire escape and some fresh air.

You know he’ll be out here. Part of you longs to linger inside, wait it out until you think he might have left with the rest of them, but you know it’s no use. He’d wait for you all night if you made him, and you’re not in the business of making Eddie Munson wait.

With your bag slung over one shoulder, you push firmly on the bar across the fire door and emerge into the dark alley, the air crisp - just the way you like it. The smell of pot and cigarette smoke drifts and you hear the familiar hum of late-night conversation from around the corner, so you close the door softly and follow it.

As you round the front of the small building, you’re met by thick, strong arms around your middle, lifting you into the air with a force you couldn’t fight even before a full dance routine. You squeal, your feet kicking up behind you, finding the shoulders of your friendly attacker.

“Here she is!” Steve booms, his voice a little muffled by your stomach.

“Steve,” you pant, grinning too wide to make the v sound properly, “let me down.”

He gives you one last squeeze and relents, lowering you slowly until your feet hit solid ground. You’re still grinning and he is, too, beaming at you so wide you can hardly bear it.

“You did good, kid,” he tells you, foregoing his boisterous grip around your waist for a gentle squeeze to your bicep.

“Thanks,” you breathe, eyes drifting as Robin and Nancy weave between the two of you and descend, fawning over you, giggling like children.

“You were so good!”

“Why’d you never tell us you could do that?”

“And that suit, oh my god-”

“Y’know the redhead? Do you think you could maybe-”

“Robin, stop it-”

“What?! She was hot! I'm only asking.”

“Hey,” Nance suddenly hisses, smiling something cruel and cunning, “someone else wants to congratulate you.”

She looks quickly over her left shoulder and you follow her eye line, finding Eddie standing a few feet away with his back to the wall and a cigarette at his mouth.

“We’re gonna head over there,” she tells you, nodding at a bar across the street. “Come find us, yeah?”

They saunter away, looking smug as ever, arms looped as they cross the street. You watch them go until you feel the phantom of someone behind you. It comes with the distinct scent of smoke, and underneath it you catch the bright, fresh smell of his washing powder.

“Hi,” you whisper as you turn to him. He looms over you a little, his head blocking the streetlamp so he looks like a haloed angel.

“Hey,” he says and you’re taken aback, because there’s a waver there. Something like nerves, except this is Eddie, and Eddie doesn’t get nervous. You do enough of that for the both of you. “You, uh… You were really good.”

“Thanks,” you say, smiling.

“I mean it,” he says, the words coming out all together like he might have stopped himself if he’d taken too long. “So good. I had no idea you… I didn’t know you could dance like that.”

“It makes me a bit nervous, I guess.”

“It shouldn’t,” he says without a beat. “You looked amazing.”

You smile at him, a little lost in this sea of nice words. Standing on the sidewalk outside a dingy dance club, under the gaze of your lovely best friend, what are you supposed to say?

“I saw you,” you tell him, voice quiet.

“Huh?”

“I was obviously concentrating, it was just a second, but you looked… Entertained.”

He looks down at his shoes, at where the toes of his boots meet your sneakers, and scratches the back of his neck. You dip your head down slightly to catch him forcing down a smile.

“It’s okay,” you laugh, “it’s kinda the point.”

“I know,” he says, laughing too, though it’s a nervous, unsure sound. “I know, I just…”

He can’t meet your eye. It’s worrying you, pulling your gut apart to make space for that black hole of panic. You stand back up straight and pull your bag up further onto your shoulder.

“I, uh, they went over there,” you tell him coldly. He looks up at you, still stooped a little like he’s being told off. “I’m gonna go meet them, um… You coming?”

You’re backing away on uncertain feet, suddenly acutely aware of the aches buried deep within your muscles and the burn of the soles of your feet.

“Wait,” he says, reaching out to wrap his fingers around your arms. You stop moving but look away, too filled with those wretched nerves to face him.

“Wait a second, I just…” He’s panting, stumbling, and you have no idea why. “I can’t… Fuck, sweets, I need to-”

“Eddie,” you snap, patience wearing thin.

He looks at you again, and you see it: the wavering of nerves in his eyes, though they’re hiding from you in the dark, dissipates into something deeper. Some miniscule movement of muscle in his face tells you everything, and yet you hang onto every word regardless.

“I lost my shit when you came out from behind that curtain,” he begins, a hand on each of your bent arms now, shifting lower to cradle your elbows. “I couldn’t… It was like my head went empty, except all that was bouncing around in there was this, like… Bouncy ball of regret.”

You can’t help but giggle. This fucking boy.

“I know, I know,” he says, smiling again, slowly stitching the rip in your anxious gut back together, “but it’s true, I can’t… I can’t believe I left it this long, and I can’t fucking believe it took me seeing you like that to get it together, I… I feel like a fucking teenager. But I just… I need you to know you looked so fucking hot up there.”

He’s as close as he can be without crashing into you. His hands are drifting and returning, like he’s restraining himself, but he has managed to walk you backwards so you’re sandwiched between his body and the wall.

“I-” you begin, though you’re the one with the empty head now and you have no intention of finishing your sentence.

“You can head over there,” he says, tilting his head just so towards the bar, “no questions asked. And I’ll go home and leave you alone for a while, if that’s what you want. I just…” He lets his left hand leave your arm finally, and you let out a weak breath. He hovers over your hip, not touching but definitely there.

You hear him, but you don’t move, aside from letting your arm straighten so your bag can drop to the floor. There are people hovering around, loitering after the show, but you couldn’t care less, because Eddie’s knee is knocking yours and his hand has finally landed on your hip and his mouth is so close to your ear you could die.

“Eddie,” you breathe.

“Yeah, sweets?”

Looking down at you like this, Eddie doesn’t know how he’s kept his composure all these years. He really did feel quite stupid for being moved to act by seeing you on stage like that, but now that he’s this close, so close he could kiss you, he’s not feeling too bothered anymore. You’re looking back at him with wide eyes and your mouth’s in a slight pout and, god, maybe he could kiss you after all.

You crane your neck and lift up on tiptoes until your nose bumps his. You feel him smile and you smile back, until his lips brush yours and you’re knocked silly.

This feels a lot like dancing. Less like the dancing you do now; more like the dancing you did when you were younger, the more traditional kind shared between two people. A duet of movement that, once perfected, feels completely natural.

You’re no traditionalist, but you’re happy to let Eddie lead this one.

When he finally gives in and bridges the gap you whimper, because his knee is settled between both of yours and his hands are spread wide across either side of your hips, and you feel just as warm as you had running through the corridors. There’s the same sense of relief, though, that you’d felt opening that door.

He doesn’t linger, pulling back after only a few seconds.

“Thanks,” you say. He laughs.

“What, for that?”

“No,” you respond, smiling again. It won’t go away; maybe you’re stuck with it. You think about your grandfather and how he told you that if the wind changed, you’d be stuck making that face forever. “For coming to see me.”

He leans back in and kisses you again, more playful this time, firm at first and then dotting them like bursting stars around your mouth.

“You’re amazing,” he says. “So amazing.”

“So you’ll come see me again?”

“Every night, if you’ll have me.”

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