It takes two to samba
idol!James x sambaDancer!Reader
Summary âââ A Brazilian samba dancer and a ârespectfulâ idol who canât keep their hands off each other.
Content âââ rushed making out, secret relationship?, idol au, ISAC set, james awkward af, reader is Brazilian and has microlocs somehow
Author's note âââ shoutout to my girl @koiya-runsthewrld for the suggestion cause we MIGHT share a brain atp
~
The humid afternoon air clung to your skin as you gathered your things, the rhythmic beat of the samba music still pulsing in your veins. Ludmila leaned against the mirrored wall of the studio, her arms crossed as she watched you with that knowing look she always wore when she was about to dissect your life.
"He's still doing it, isn't he?" Mila asked, her voice cutting through the fading music. "The hovering hands."
You sighed, securing the tie on your dance bag. "It's worse than hovering. Today he literally apologized when his thumb brushed my waist during the rotation. Like he'd burned me or something."
Mila pushed off the wall, stretching her arms overhead. "Honey, that's not professionalism. That's terror."
"He's just being respectful," you defended, though even you could hear the lack of conviction in your voice. "James is a gentleman."
"Gentlemen don't look like they're about to pass out every time they accidentally touch their dance partner," Mila countered, stepping closer to lower her voice. "I've watched you two practice. The way he watches you when you think you're not looking... that's not professional interest."
You adjusted your microlocs in the mirror, avoiding her gaze. "He's focused on the choreography. We both need to be."
"Is that why he's memorized every freckle on your shoulders?" Mila smirked at your reflection. "I've seen him, you know. When you're demonstrating something alone, his eyes follow you like you're the only person in the room."
Heat crept up your neck. "He's studying the form."
"Studying the form," Mila repeated with a dramatic eye roll. "Please. The man is terrified of touching you because if he actually lets himself feel it, he might not be able to stop."
"Love is a big word for someone who's just being respectful," you shot back, turning to face her.
"I'm not talking about love," Mila said, her expression softening slightly. "I'm talking about that thing that makes a grown man act like a teenager around a woman who drives him crazy. I wonder what would happen if he stopped behaving like a gentleman for once..." She wiggled her eyebrows.
"Ew," you said, though a smile betrayed you. "Don't put that image in my head before the biggest performance of our lives."
Mila laughed, grabbing your arm. "Just admit it..you've thought about it too."
You didn't answer, which was answer enough.
~
The days that followed were a delicious torture. Each rehearsal became charged with unspoken tension as James struggled to maintain his careful distance while the choreography demanded intimacy. The samba was nothing if not sensual. Hip rolls that brushed against each other, turns that required his hands to span your waist, lifts that left you breathless and pressed against him.
"You're holding back," you told him during one particularly frustrating rehearsal, your hands on your hips as you tried to catch your breath. "The audience will feel it. Thatâs not what we want them to feel."
"I'm giving it everything," he protested, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
"No, you're not," you countered, stepping closer until you could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Samba isn't just about the steps. It's about the heat between partners. The connection. You're treating me like I'm made of glass."
His jaw tightened. "I'm trying to be professional."
"Professional is giving the performance what it needs," you said, your voice dropping slightly. "And right now, what it needs is for you to stop being afraid of me. Please, yeah?"
The way your Brazilian accent always rolled off your tongue would always get him weak. It was one of those many things about you. The words hung between you, heavy with meaning. Something shifted in his expression. A flicker of surrender, perhaps, or maybe just frustration.
"Fine," he said, his voice rough. "Show me what you need."
The next hour was both exhilarating and agonizing as you demonstrated exactly what the choreography required: hands that gripped rather than hovered, bodies that moved as one rather than two separate entities, eyes that held contact rather than darting away nervously. By the end of rehearsal, you were both breathing heavily, the studio air thick with everything you weren't saying.
~
The fluorescent lights backstage buzzed with nervous energy as performers rushed past, makeup artists adding final touches, and stage managers shouting instructions. Ten minutes until showtime. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a rhythm entirely separate from the samba beats that had become your life's soundtrack.
"Have you seen James?" one of the coordinators asked, clipboard in hand. "He needs mic check five minutes ago."
"He went that way," you pointed down a dim corridor. "Probably looking for some quiet before the performance."
As you turned to follow, a hand grabbed yours and pulled you into a storage room. The door clicked shut behind them, plunging you into near darkness except for the flickering fluorescent overhead that hummed and sparked intermittently.
"James! What are you doing? We need to get ready!"
"I know," he said, voice strained. "I just needed a moment with you."
His stage costume was brilliant orange with gold accents, matching your own vibrant samba outfit. In the flashing light, you could see the sweat already beading on his brow, the pulse jumping in his throat.
"Your hands were shaking during rehearsal," you said softly, reaching up to adjust his collar. Your fingers brushed against his neck, and you felt him shudder.
"They always shake around you," he admitted, his eyes finding yours in the dim light. "I've been trying to keep my distance because... because I thought it was professional."
"And now?"
"Now I realize I'm just being a coward," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I've wanted to kiss you since the day we met."
Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, hesitant at first, then deepening as you responded with equal urgency. It was messy and rushed (partly due to the lack of time), teeth clashing slightly in their haste, hands tangling in each other's hair and costumes. His fingers traced the patterns of your microlocs as he pulled you closer, the months of tension finally breaking. You could taste the mint from his gum, feel the heat radiating from his skin, smell the expensive cologne mixed with his sweat.
This wasn't a gentle exploration but rather a desperate collision, months of suppressed desire erupting in the cramped space. His mouth moved against yours with an urgency that matched the frantic beating of your heart. One hand slid from your hair down your back, pressing you against him until there was no space between your bodies. The other gripped your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your costume like he was afraid you might disappear.
You responded with equal fervor, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat beneath your palms. His tongue swept against yours, and you melted against him, all coherent thought dissolving into sensation. The storage room, the competition, the audience waiting outsideâŠit all faded away until there was only this moment, this desperate need you'd both been denying for weeks.
"James! Y/n! Where are you?" A voice called from outside, followed by rapid footsteps. "Two minutes to stage!"
You sprang apart, breathing heavily. He straightened his jacket, you smoothed your skirt, both avoiding eye contact as you composed yourselves. Your lips felt swollen, your body still humming with adrenaline and desire.
"I'll go first," he said, his voice still shaky. "Count to ten before you follow. Act like we just ran into each other looking for props."
The stage lights blinded you as you stepped into position, the roar of the crowd washing over you. The first notes of the samba music began, and all thoughts of the storage room vanished as you moved into the first steps.
Your bodies moved in perfect sync, the months of practice evident in every hip shake and turn. The chemistry was electric. Hands lingering where they usually shouldn't, eyes meeting during spins, the tension between you visible even to the farthest seats in the arena.
During the intimate partner work, his hands finally touched you properly, firm on your waist, confident as he lifted you, your bodies moving as one. The audience gasped at the passion in your performance, the raw emotion that transcended mere choreography. Every touch, every glance, every movement was infused with the knowledge of what had just happened backstage, the promise of what might happen after.
As the final note played, you struck your ending pose, chests heaving, sweat dripping, eyes locked. The stadium erupted in applause, the judges rising to their feet. You could barely breathe, could barely think, could only feel the intensity of his gaze even as confetti began to rain down upon the stage.
"And the winners of the ISAC Samba Championship..." the announcer's voice boomed, "...are James and Y/n!"
The podium ceremony was a blur of medals and confetti, champagne spraying everywhere as you celebrated. As you stood with your gold medals, his hand found yours beneath the podium, fingers intertwining. The cameras flashed, but in that moment, it was just the two of you with your gold medals around your necks, hands still clasped, the beginning of something more than just a championship partnership.
"I was wondering," he said, voice barely audible over the celebration, "if after all this is over, you might want to get dinner? Just the two of us?"
You turned to face him, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "I'd like that very much."
His relief was palpable, the tension finally leaving his shoulders as he squeezed your hand. "Good. Because I was terrified you'd say no."
"Why would you say no?" you asked, tilting your head. "It's not like we made out backstage or anything, right?"
His eyes widened slightly, and a slow grin spread across his face.
