Work Text:
“The men come here to watch us dance, sometimes.”
His breath caught at the warm timbre of Christine’s voice, at the smooth movements of her body as she raised one elegant leg, leaning into the stretch. They did not have time for this.
She lowered her leg and turned back to him. “Have you?”
He tilted his head. They needed to leave.
“Have you watched me?”
He sighed. “You know very well that I do no such—”
“Not even from the mirrors?” She met his gaze.
His eyes flickered to the room’s many gilded mirrors, and he flinched. With measured breath, he brought his gaze back to her.
“I have not.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Such a shame.” She reached out and hummed, brushing his shoulder before withdrawing. “Perhaps I ought to give you a demonstration?”
“Christine…”
She slipped smoothly into a plié, dipping deep before extending her leg again, her eyes fixed on his.
He swallowed.
She leapt, streaming through the air with all the grace of her voice.
He followed her movements, the beat of them thrumming through his body. His hand reached out, but he drew it back and clasped the barre behind him. His gaze was captive to her. There was nothing left in his world, save Christine.
Her body kept the rhythm, swaying and weaving in time, her eyes bright and open. The music wafted through his mind, soft at first, then sharper, more insistent as her movements revealed its rhythm and tone. Playful, upbeat, yet still refined. The soft oranges and bright yellows of the fiddle lifted her steps as she leapt, joining her dance.
Her dance brought her closer, and he reached out again. She caught his wrist and pressed into him, her body brushing his as she returned his hand to the barre.
He inhaled sharply.
“Stay there.” She grinned and snatched his hat from his head before spinning out of reach.
He clenched his teeth and fought the urge to lunge after her and retrieve his hat. He wanted…he wanted, but such sharp, jerky movements had no place in the song she wove. Instead, he only tightened his grip around the barre and focused on his breathing. On her.
The unheard music thrummed through her, a frisson of sweet tension in the smooth lines of her body, poise in the turn and twist of her feet, a heady rhythm in the dip and the sway as it brought her closer, then carried her away again.
It was everything she was laid bare—childlike motions, first, playful and free as her father played the fiddle, then the training of the ballet corps, movements turning agile and adept. The music moved her, and she moved it in turn, her dancing effortless as she played out this song for him in silence.
She rose onto her toes, drawing into pirouette, her muscles held in sharp, beautiful relief. She drew her arms in close, spun faster, deft fingers at her waist. The fabric of the dressing gown billowed as she leapt forwards, nearer, revealing the inviting curve of her waist. It settled as she slowed, stealing the sight away, and he ached for it.
The music shifted, slowed, and she slipped the gown from her arms. It slid enticingly down the lines of her body, pooling at her feet like fresh snow. She stepped over it, and the music bloomed red and full.
He licked his lips, fingers tensing against the barre. He had read poetry of such dances, seen such things performed for other men. They would pay for this, beg for this—this palpable tension, this persistent ache…was that why? “Christine, what are you—?”
Footsteps shuffled in the hall, an abrasive and contrary rhythm. He flinched back, his eyes darting between Christine and the sound.
She only grinned and pressed close. A finger traced along the line of his mask. He held his breath as it met his lips, scorching crimson notes dancing in its wake.
He stared at her own lips, gaze slipping down to where her breasts rose and fell with her quick but easy breaths. Only the thinnest of laces held the bodice to her body. It could be so easily removed. So quickly.
The footsteps were fading. He reached for her—her wrist, her waist, taking advantage of the last of the discordant rhythm. But she danced away again, beyond his grasp.
He took a step towards her, but the moment his hand left the barre, she turned back and raised a hand in warning. He staggered to a halt, his feet prickling with the desire to move, his hands shaking with the need to touch.
She leapt, a soft laugh floating in her wake. He hissed in frustration, but she only drew out the tempo once more, lithe and silent. Her fingers found the strings of her bodice, and he clutched the barre until his knuckles ached from the grip.
Her bodice came away, the curves of her breasts soft by the warm glow of the gaslight. He bit back a groan as she let it fall, somehow perfectly in time. Her leaps and twirls carried her to a scarf—abandoned on a stool by one of the other dancers. She plucked it from the stool and wrapped it around her as she began again to twirl. It spun around her in vibrant red and green and gold, mirroring the music that now surrounded her.
She was so beautiful, body and song, and he could not help but admire her form, the strength in it, the grace. It was as though she sang with her entire body. The scarf brushed against her soft, bare skin, teasing as she leapt closer, then drew away yet again, the rhythm increasing to rollick and reel at a maddening tempo.
He kept his eyes on her, learning her movements, the patterns, the song, waiting for his moment. Silk settled around his neck as she dipped and swayed—her own lasso to encase him. He reached up to free himself, but she drew it tight, tugging him away from the barre.
He growled low in his throat and wound a hand into the silk, yanking her towards him on the beat. She went with a laugh, giving into his pull ever so willingly, and his arms were suddenly full of her, soft touch and warm skin.
The heat of her penetrated his clothing, and she leaned even closer, her lips brushing his. He lost himself in the sensation, sparks dancing everywhere she touched. Her hands slid up his chest, prying open loose buttons, exposing him to her gaze. His lips parted as he tasted her breath, warm and heavy on his tongue.
She pulled back, leaping from his arms, too quick and agile to catch. He arched up into the space, the heat she’d left, her scent filling his mind. She turned back to him, eyes sparkling, and his cue shuddered through him
At last.
He followed her lead as surely as the tug of the scarf. She darted away yet again, but this time he did not give chase. She caught his shoulders in a steady grip. He spun, and she moved, drawing away his coat, his shirt, baring his chest.
She pushed him onto a stool and leaned in, her lips meeting his in a kiss. He let out a soft sound as she pressed him back, tremors running through him as the cold wall met his skin. He reached up to take her into his arms, but she clasped his hands and perched above him. Hair wild, her dark eyes raked over his skin, piercing him with their ferocious hunger.
He tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat, fighting the urge to hide. To run. Her fingers trailed along his waistband, and his eyes slid shut, his breath speeding to match her tempo. His body burned for her, hotter with each trouser button that slipped free, and his hands twitched, breaking time.
“Christine,” he gasped.
She smirked down at him and released his hands as she settled nimbly on his thighs. His fingers fluttered, hovering just over her skin. Even the slightest brush of her fingers was maddening.
Somehow, she still kept the tempo, slowing it ever so as she drew herself over him, the heat of her searing and slick. He hissed when her hand tightened around him, rocking her body against him. His hips twitched up, pressed against her, and she hummed, low and aching, as she let him in. His body sought her heat, her scent, her music. She moaned, her hips drawing up, then down, pressed flush.
His hands flew to her thighs, unable to resist the temptation of their heat. An intoxicating shiver slipped over her skin, and her fingers stuttered, tracing down his chest, dancers in their own right. She rocked her hips with her rhythm, drawing him into it. He gasped, welcomed into her dance, matching the press and shudder of her body with the bend and flex of his own.
Waves of pleasure cascaded over him, his hips pressing against her. The colours swirled around them both, the reds darkening and deepening, the yellows taking on a fiery glow. He rose with it, arching up to capture her lips and bring them closer together. He tangled a hand in her hair, lay one against her back, further immersing them in the song, the dance.
Soft, dusky notes caressed his skin with each hitch of her breath, and the sharp blue of her cries flashed like electricity in his veins. Her lips parted, and his tongue traced into her, eager to taste each sweet sound. She moaned, pulling him against her, and he was lost to the feel of her, the scent of her, the sound of her. He shuddered at the contrast of her heat and his cool, of her nearness and the cold opulence around them.
“Please,” she gasped between kisses, pressing her weight into him, her elegant control collapsing against him. Her breaths uneven, her cheeks flushed, he held her close, skin on skin. It was overwhelming, torturous, rapturous…perfect. He pressed the bare side of his face against her shoulder and breathed, his hips jerking helplessly as he found his release inside her.
She held him close, stroking his hair as he shivered beneath her touch. He resolved slowly back into himself, idly tracing the echoes of the music into her skin. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck, drawing her back with him as he sagged against the wall. She laughed, warm and happy, a lovely, shimmering gold.
He hummed against the curve of her shoulder, softly at first, then with growing intensity. His fingers played down her arms and over her back, drawing out the rhythms she had with her dance. She shivered against him, and he pulled away only enough to draw her closer still.
He slipped his hand between her thighs and trailed his fingers through the slick between her legs. She shivered, parting her thighs for him, and her hips bucked up, encouraging him onwards. But his fingers brushed only gently, to start, tracing the places she wished him to press against, waiting for a desperate whine that burned ruddy and saturated between them. He pressed closer, taking his cue and tracing through her folds. His fingers teased out a palette of sounds, a heady chord of colors that lingered in the air as she moaned. Her breath hitched in a small gasp, and he hummed with it, biting at her shoulder.
Her head fell back as he stroked her, his voice sliding over her body, enveloping it in greens and golds and reds, just as the scarf had before. Hands clawed at his skin, pulled him closer as her hips shifted, seeking pressure, pleasure. He pressed deeper into her heat, stroking, moving in time with the leaps and skips of the song. It was her song. Her dance. The one she had done for him earlier. And now, he pressed it back into her body, the only way he knew how, lilting and teasing, and growing in intensity.
He sang a particularly distinct leap. She gasped in realization. “You—”
Her hips jerked, and her breath hitched. Her lips parted again, but the only sound she made was a soft cry. He kissed her neck, the sound utterly perfect against his lips. Her thighs shook and trembled against him, her body clenching around him as she found her release.
He continued to sing to her, the song slowing with her soft breath.
“You heard it, my song.” She pulled back, her eyes capturing his. They shone with an awe he scarcely believed he deserved.
“Yes. When you danced.” He nodded. “It was quite clear.”
“You…” Warm, gentle fingers stroked his cheek. “You’re magnificent.”
“It was you who wrote the song, you who showed me the rhythm and the movement.”
“Yes, but many have seen me dance.” Her smile was as gold and shimmering as her laughter. “You are the first to truly see.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to face her. Then, with trembling hands, he lifted them to the mask that covered half his face. Before his mind changed, he lifted it and let it drop softly into the clothing on the floor.
Slowly, he opened his eyes to see her. Tears stained her cheeks as she beamed up at him.
He took a shaky breath. “It was you, Christine. You, who saw me first.”