The Slumber Party Queen: A y/n and Beyoncé story

"So you mean to tell me," YN said, one brow raised, "you've never played 'Song Association' while eating gummy bears and pretending you're not competitive?"

Beyoncé smirked from her spot on the floor. "I am competitive. I just look good doing it."

They'd ended up ditching the couch and lounging on plush studio rugs, a bowl of gummy bears between them, the soft purple glow of LED lights wrapping the room in cozy, late-night energy.

"All right, superstar," YN said, picking up her phone to time her, "word is: love. Go."

Beyoncé didn't even blink. "'Crazy in Love.' Easy."

"Oh, wow. That's how we starting? With your own song? Self-promo during game night?"

"I'm just sayin', if the shoe fits..."

They went back and forth for a while—laughing, teasing, tossing gummy bears into each other's mouths and missing half the time. It was chill. It was dumb. It was... perfect.

Until Beyoncé stood up and said, "Okay. Dance break. Your energy is getting too cocky."

"I don't dance," YN said immediately.

"Lies and slander," Beyoncé shot back, already grabbing the remote. "I saw you nodding to the beat like a pro earlier. Don't hide the rhythm."

"Nooo," YN groaned. "I got the rhythm of a folding chair."

But it was too late.

Beyoncé pressed play, and a soft, soulful R&B beat filled the room—slow, sensual, and smooth like melted honey. She moved toward YN with a playful smile, hips swaying, fingers beckoning.

"Dance with me," she said softly.

YN blinked. "You sure? I might accidentally step on you and end up a tragic headline."

"I'll take my chances."

And so—against all instinct and common sense—YN stood up.

At first, it was awkward. YN shuffled, Beyoncé giggled, their feet collided once or twice.

But then Beyoncé placed her hands gently on YN's shoulders, guiding her closer. "Just feel it," she whispered. "Don't think so hard."

YN let out a breath and gave in.

Their bodies found a rhythm—subtle, close, warm.

The music slowed. The lights dimmed even more. And suddenly, it wasn't just a dance anymore.

It was something.

Beyoncé's hands slid down to YN's forearms. YN's fingers drifted to Beyoncé's waist. Their eyes locked. The kind of look you only share when the silence says more than words ever could.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them spoke.

Their foreheads almost touched.

And just when it seemed like one of them might lean in—

Beyoncé's phone rang loudly from the desk.

They jumped apart like teenagers caught sneaking in after curfew.

Beyoncé rushed to check it, rolling her eyes. "It's Blue. She's FaceTiming before bed."

YN, heart still pounding, nodded quickly. "Of course. Go ahead."

As Beyoncé stepped aside to answer, YN sat back down, rubbing her hands together like her palms had caught fire.

What was that?

⸻

After the call, Beyoncé came back with a smile that was softer, almost shy.

"Sorry. She always calls me before sleep," she said, flopping next to YN again.

"No need to apologize," YN said, voice lower now. "She's lucky to have you."

Beyoncé looked at her for a long moment. "So are you."

YN blinked. "What?"

Beyoncé shrugged. "Lucky. To be here."

There it was again—that quiet electricity.

But neither of them pushed it this time.

Not yet.