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It's a little like fighting.
(At least, the way they dance, all sharp edges and blood in the mouth.)
It's a little like fucking.
(At least, the way he dances, all slow hips and intent dark eyes.)
They
(all concentration, all control)
move, and Wyll
(all confidence, all—)
moves with them, sliding back a step to leave them in the warmth of his shadow. It's instinct that has them reaching for him, mirroring him as he raises his hands;
it's instinct that has them catching him as he spins into their arms, swandive, swallowtail;
instinct, that has them draw him close, his head tipping back against their shoulder as he laughs, leans into them.
“See?” he says, voice light, breathless, reverberating through them, and they tighten their hands until his body is flush against theirs, until his cheeks flush and his chest hitches. “You are good at this.”
“I'm not sure.” He moves away, and they release him unspoken, let his hands raise theirs as he spins beneath their arm, curve of his horn grazing their wrist. “You seem to be doing most of the work.”
“It's about having a good partner,” comes the easy reply, the easy motion as he pulls them forwards, one-step-two, ungainly and awkward but he smiles at them all the same, runs his hands up their arms all the same, links their fingers all the same. “I wouldn't do this with just anyone, you know.”
Backstep, sidestep, just-barely-miss his feet as he moves in their space—
(feel his laugh brush their throat)
—hands on their waist to turn them, confident and encouraging, nevermind their inertia, the weight of them sin-skin-bone against his hands as he pushes and they spin away, miss the warmth (miss the moment) and—
—instinct, always.
Instinct, a killer.
Wyll moves, quicksilver quickstep, weight shifting down the length of their arm and momentum carries him past them, spins them, carries them tangled with him, counterweight-wide their hand on his waist:
instinct, in the end.
They reach him as he falls, arches back, spine a graceful curve, the swell of his horns brushing the ground. He's a lodestone in their arms, everything in them pointing Wyllwards: their heart pendulums, swinging on its leash, and for a moment they're falling and he's falling beneath them, bearing him down with all their weight into the black earth as gravity swallows them both.
And then:
muscle, marrow, brandhot against their palms, they catch him.
the fall ends, and he's safe in their hands. Laughing, breathless, warm weight on their shoulders as they pull him upright, inelegant and abrupt. He drapes himself across them, fingers linked behind their neck, turns their too-sharp too-fast movements into something less frenetic, smoother, more intentional. Beauty to their beast, sunlight on the shadow of them.
“Don't do that,” they say, once he's settled firmly in their grasp, once they can feel his laughter echo in their ribs. Wyll tips his head, horns clacking softly off theirs as his hands drift, as he meets their eyes blackred, blackblue.
“You weren't going to let me fall,” he says, smug. Certain. Placing all too much faith in them, as always, a Blade to their heart. He grins up at them, hands at their neck, chest against theirs. Too intimate for any courtly dance as he scrapes his nails over their throat, draws his hands down their arms, sways into them slow-slow-slow.
It's a little like fighting, and a little like fucking, and as in both, they follow their instincts.
His lips are soft, and he smiles into their mouth, and they, the only rhythm in their heart a wardrum, find themself smiling back all the same.