Rated: T for sensuality and sexual tension and my dirty mouth
Pairing: Oh, guess.
Summary: She would stand on that dance floor, tonight, here, and not move. Unless he made her move.
AN: You have got to listen to Paralyzer by Finger Eleven while you read this, and you should definitely try to see the video for it (either before or after, preferably before) because while the song certainly kept the inspiration flowing, it was the video that started the spark in the first place.
Disclaimer: I don't own shit.
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"Well I'm not paralyzed/ But I seem to be struck by you/ I want to make you move/ Because you're standing still/ If your body matches/ What your eyes can do/ You'll probably move right through/ Me on my way to you."
Finger Eleven - Paralyzer
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He never thought he'd see her here.
In all the possible encounters he'd ever anticipated or imagined or planned for, he had never once, not even for a moment, entertained the idea of encountering her on his own ground.
But there she stood, looking as incongruous to the casual observer as she did to him, if only for the quiet stillness of her presence. She was an island of isolated immobility amidst the pulsing beat and thrashing bodies. The dancers around her gave her a berth of several feet, though no one seemed to notice the girl in the middle of the cleared space on the crowded dance floor.
Nobody except him. And he couldn't seem to take his eyes off her. He didn't know if it was the pure shock of her appearance, or the way she stood unmolested in the middle of all that gyrating humanity, the way she looked so purely… unguarded.
Her head was tilted slightly back, her eyes closed and arms held slightly apart from her sides, her palms outstretched as if tasting the texture of the air. The way she breathed, he noticed, began to deepen, synchronizing to the beat of the music, her chest almost heaving beneath the thin blue chemise she wore as if she were just another of the frenetic dancers, despite that she moved not an inch.
She was stillness, calm and poise, embodying that perfect immobility of body and spirit, unbending in arm or leg or spine, just as she was always immovable in her will, refusing to give an inch in battle. Unless he took it from her. Unless, like in the pitch and fury of the fight, he demanded with action from her an equal reaction, a fist for a kick, her block to his jab, his retreat from her advance.
To him, the challenge was obvious.
She was there, on that floor, her presence mocking him and taunting him as always, throwing in his face how her world revolved in steady apathy of him unless he disrupted her order and snatched her attention. She would stand on that dance floor, tonight, here, amid the whirling and twirling bodies of the club's revelers, stark counterpoint to the frenzy, and not move.
Unless he made her move.
It didn't require thought or deliberation or careful consideration of intent and consequence. He was a man of action. He would make the first move.
He slid from the bar stool in a whisper of denim on vinyl, the sound drowned in the throbbing beat of the music, his sharp, purposeful stride cutting like a knife through the strobing technicolor light.
No hesitation. He crossed the floor to her, breaking the invisible line that kept everyone else distant. He was inside her space before she had even opened her eyes to look at him, and when hers met his, his intentions stood clear in them.
She said nothing, merely arching one inquiring brow. In answer, his mouth curved into a sure smirk, and he placed a commanding hand at her waist, taking a step closer. Her head tilted back to maintain the eye contact, and he grinned broadly down at her, breaking their consensual silence.
"When the music plays, it mean you're supposed to move."
Her face was as blank a slate as on any rooftop arena, but the brightness in her eyes and flush of her cheeks told him she was no one's hero tonight. "Make me."
Her verbal echo of his earlier thought released a grin the devil would envy, and he graciously inclined his head. Then, pulling her against him, he took her at her word.
As his hand slipped to the small of her back and his right thigh pressed leadingly against hers, the compelling circle that kept the writhing masses at bay vanished, and they joined the crush of energy and rhythm.
She stepped back as he pressed forward against her, his deliberate steps eating every inch of ground she gave, and then she pushed back, with her hands and her hips, but he trapped one hand against his chest as the heated air filled the gap between them.
With her caught hand, he flung her away, snapping her sharply back in in a tight spin she ended in crashing against him. She surprised him by making the next move herself, her hand in his switching to grip more securely, and it was pure instinct, the language of flesh and body that brought his other hand to the small of her back as she slowly dipped backwards.
Improvising, he followed her down, raising their joined hands in the air as his breath feathered over her arched throat, and his hand twisted from her grasp, sliding down her palm, over her wrist, and she allowed him to reach her elbow before her head snapped up, eyes snapping like electric lights at him as his only warning.
With sudden, boneless grace, she bent at the knees and slipped from his grip on her waist, sliding down the front of him to crouch, twist, and angle through under and behind him, rising to her feet in a fluid movement that sent her short, flared skirt bouncing as she twirled short steps away from him. He recovered with haste, straightening and spinning in place in a single graceful move, reaching out to follow her before she could escape him.
His reaching fingers unexpectedly tangled with hers as she returned the gesture without glancing backwards at him, and before he could pull her back to him, she tugged him towards her instead. Answering the summons of momentum, he took one wide stride to meet her where she stood in place, and he laughed, breathless, as he must make her move again.
Half-expecting to see her end the game for the bold move, he took possession of her hips in a firm grip, but she only placed her hands securely over his. This time, he stood still as she moved, her feet firmly planted and legs in exact position with his as she bent at the waist, folding slowly, tauntingly in half, running her hands teasingly down over his, past her hips and down her thighs to her knees, then flinging them sharply in the air as she straightened abruptly, her short hair slapping across his cheek with the movement.
In silent accord, she brought her hands behind her head to rest on his shoulders, sliding her fingers over them and hooking behind his neck as he began to guide her hips to move with his in a slow circle, then in a dip and roll. Taking her own cue, she jerked away from him, and he hooked his arm with hers at just the last second, keeping her from getting too far.
Whirling at the sudden capture, she faced him and slid her forearm along his, their eyes locking, challenging. He grinned, and she smirked in return. Lining her hand up against his, she began to stalk around him in a circle, and he mirrored her, like two predators sizing each other up.
And then, moving almost as one, they crashed together, their bodies stopping a handbreadth from touching and both palms striking together, and the focus shifted to footwork. Matching each other step for step, they moved back, then forth, stepping to one side and then the other, then another slow circle.
Striking like a snake, she shoved against his hands, sending him backwards rapidly, but he recovered quickly enough to keep hold of her hands, and returned her force with a show of his. When he shoved back, she yielded to the momentum, slipping one hand free and twirling to the end of her reach, their joined hands stretched between them like a tether. She turned her head to peer sideways at him, and just as she began to turn her foot towards him, he pulled on her hand, and she spun back into him.
She crashed against him like a wave against a seawall, and her leg came up to curl her calf behind his knee, and his hand slipped down underneath her thigh to keep it there.
They stood that way for an interminable moment, their hearts racing in their chests and skin hot and damp with exertion. Their harsh breaths mingled, and their faces were too close to look into each other's eyes.
Just as he thought he couldn't stand this stillness any longer, he bent his head to close the remaining distance between them, and was halted by the faint brush of her lips against his mouth as she said, "New dance, new music… but the same old moves."
Shock moved up his spine in an electric jolt—she knows, she knows, she knew all along—and he could do nothing but stand there as she extricated herself from their embrace, could do nothing but watch, frozen, as she disappeared into the crowd and left him caught in the press of bodies.
He had done the impossible. He had moved her.
But she had moved through him, and left him standing still.
Paralyzed.
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AN: If you're still confused, he's Red X, she's Raven. It should be pretty obvious, though. If somebody cries OOC on Raven at me, I might just smack them. She's not a robot, people, she does feel, she does react, and she's gotta let off steam sometime, somehow. Physical exertion is great for catharsis, and dancing is always good. If you need a more technical justification, bug me in a review; I'm not feeling particularly garrulous tonight.
To returning readers: many apologies on the extended absences, recent lack of review response, and continued failure to update certain ongoing fics. I'll get there, I promise, but I would like to make my life stop erupting in chaos every third minute first. Thanks for your support, enthusiasm, and understanding.
Abbie
PS: This is a ONESHOT. No updates. No continuation. Period.