Work Text:
he bows, holds out a hand to them, and tiavyn's heart and jaw both clench. their hand twitches - they take a step forward, involuntary, a fisherman's reel tugging beneath their sternum, and wyll's soft smile grows light in anticipation.
tiavyn isn't a dancer. they can't remember ever being asked; what they do remember of themself is so far from dancing it feels heretical to recall, here and now, in this moment with this man.
they swallow, and wyll's eyes dip briefly to their throat.
his hands are warm. too warm, warmer than human flesh should be (though they've devoured colder) and calloused, rough against their own. they rub their fingers over a scar on his palm, exploring the silky texture of it without thinking, and he shivers, fingers curling around theirs as his eyes darken. tiavyn tries to swallow once more, finds their mouth dry as his breath hitches.
he smiles, and they-
-rooted to the ground, barely breathing, featherlight touch on their hand-
-their own heart between their teeth when it should be his, blood sweet as that smile and hotter than they can stand-
-exhale, let him twine his fingers with theirs. he tries to spin them, the gesture made awkward by their hesitance, a movement sharply aborted as they freeze, stumble, his hand lifting theirs before they get the picture, let him gently turn them as heat rushes to their face. their horn scrapes his wrist, and they sheepishly duck their head, pull their hand free so he can step away.
he doesn't.
"Sorry," they say quietly. "I'm not... I don't think I make a good partner."
they can hear leaves rustle underfoot as he steps closer. feel the heat coming off him - infernal, maybe, but it sears through them softer than any divinity.
his hand touches theirs.
"Let me be the judge of that," he says, laughter in his voice.
tiavyn's hand shakes. their jaw is locked, their teeth too large in their mouth. their heart thuds painfully, clawing to free itself from the tenderised meat of their body.
his hand is so gentle on theirs. he doesn't protest as they close their fingers over it, turn it palm-up. trace their claws over the delicate veins, dark skin that would split so easy-
-taste so good-
-necrosis rises in their blood, rot beneath their tongue from a god they can't name, and they bite down hard until their mouth is flooded, their throat red and wet.
wyll is frowning. they're still holding his wrist, staring at it; his hand lands over theirs, still so gentle.
"Tiavyn?"
"I-"
their voice is a croak. they press their lips together, swallow - mouth no longer dry - and make themself meet his gaze. see themself reflected, eye to eye, stone to stone, and maybe they're both damned but-
-but their fingers fit so neatly into the ridged scars on his neck, and his eyes half-close at their touch.
his lips are sweeter than his blood.
they have to believe that.