Prompt #57: Dance

Rating: T

He moved very silently for a man twice her weight. He probably thought he could catch her unawares – she smiled inwardly as she backhanded the mannequin – but the feeling of any accusatory gaze was unmistakable, and he was obviously not aware of his uncanny ability to fill any room with his presence, even one as large as the gymnasium. It was easy to pretend not to notice him. Always so quiet, so controlled, so tensely restrained. She wondered briefly if he'd be as cold in bed.

Rolling her eyes at the inevitable trajectory of those thoughts, she decapitated her unresistant opponent and whirled around to face him. "Good morning, General. I suppose you've come to honour our agreement."

The general had dressed down, and stood with his weight shifted over a hip. His shoulder-length hair was tied back; she could see the outline of his collarbone, and a glimpse of sinew beneath the thin undershirt; if he had been Jadeite, she might have thought that the loosely laced fabric and skin-tight breeches were for her benefit… Her own outfit most certainly was for his. After all, tight, damp cotton could be just as distracting as heels and a skirt.

"Of course, milady," he inclined his head stiffly. She didn't know whether to be frustrated or intrigued at his obviously very limited spectrum of visible emotion. Always polite, always gracious, but never more than was expected. Even the famously stoic Hermeans could be prodded into a smile. But she smirked as she recalled his Surprise face in the garden – a memory she would treasure with great glee – and now she had made it her life's mission to push his buttons until he cracked, and Mina was nothing if not resourceful, even for a Magellan.

Stupid, frustratingly intriguing Earthling-creature. I haven't had to work so hard for something since the champagne diamond debacle…

She wouldn't classify it as a particular emotion, but his gaze had taken on a particular gleam – she'd worn it herself often enough, when she turned through strategies and mapped scenarios. So... misogynist or traditionalist? She watched him spin a spare practice sword fluidly with a flick of the wrist. He'd find out soon enough that it was dangerous to be either, on this side of the solar system. With a flick of her own bokken, she saluted him, and he returned the gesture.

There was a breath before she closed the distance in two strides and opened their exchange with a clean thrust. He met her easily, deflecting the sword tip off course. She had anticipated this and her body was already curving around to bring her arm into a wide swing towards his neck. He blocked it as she'd expected – catching her weapon with the base of his blade, before turning his wrist and hitting her arm harmlessly downwards. She swung up, and he caught her again clack-clack-clackclackclack-clackclack. Neat and effortless, as reputed.

He moved with a grace that belied his bulk. Really, nothing less than she'd expected, that the great General be filled with form and technical prowess. She wasn't so arrogant that she'd anticipated breaking his defence to be a walk in the garden. If there was anything more formidable than his stony regard, it would be his sword work, certainly a point of pride for the man. The classic, fluid Magellan style, against mechanical Terran blade work with his longer reach and greater height, was not to her advantage (not that there were many advantages afforded a woman in any situation anyway).

But even barely after opening statements, she felt the nudge of irritation. He parried like he was placating a child. He returned her advances dutifully, and refused to baited into moving into offence. She feinted, deliberately leaving her flank exposed, but when he ignored that obvious opening, she followed her attack through, letting him block the initial strike but lending enough force to the blow that the blade pushed his bokken back enough for her to catch him against the shoulder. Before he could recover, she broke form and switched sword hands, driving the flat of the sword hard into his ribs. He grunted at the impact.

She backed up, completely unapologetic. "I'm disappointed, General. You should fight like you mean it."

He cleared his throat as if he hadn't spoken in years, wincing. "You play dirty, Princess."

She gave a bark of laughter. "You haven't seen anything yet! At least I had the decency to show up clothed." And he suddenly was reminded of Zoicite recounting with glee the Magellan custom of naked sparring, and silently agreed with her.

"Not very diplomatic, are you," he observed as she readjusted her stance.

She shrugged. "I can be, when the occasion calls for it. But politics tire me."

So they would agree on at least one point, it seemed.

She re-engaged again with a hybrid style of her make, safe in the knowledge that her poor sword master would never witness this. Earth-light broke over the horizon, illuminating the floors of the gymnasium, and also the planes of his body as he maintained that stoic Terran defence. She had an admittedly crippling weakness for his type, those tall pillars of masculinity with watching eyes, and hands of both formidable strength and the deftness and lightness of air. Velvet over steel something or another. He parried her strike downwards and back again, far back enough that it was simply faster for her to full turn instead of negotiating a sword-arm retake, and she struck him hard across the midsection after emerging from the turn having switched hands again.

He groused with growing ire. Not with any words, of course, but she was pleased to find his attacks less restrained, maybe even a little mean, though he still refused astutely to strike her in any overt fashion. She readjusted again, and, looking forwards at him, realised that her last swipe had slashed a sizeable tear in his shirt. She could see the reddening of the skin underneath, and remembered that she'd probably hit him hard enough to bruise. Her eyes darted quickly back up to his, and she groaned inwardly at his cocked eyebrow. Now he probably thought she'd torn his shirt on purpose.

She cleared her throat self-consciously, opening another exchange with a left-handed swing. "So, how are your fellow Generals? Have they recovered from their spars yet?"

He returned her attack easily, carefully watching for that inevitable switching of hands. "Somewhat. I must commend the Arien princess for that skillful arm wound." He was referring to Rei's heated treatment of one blonde misogynist, who'd tasted her signature twin swords and came out with a broken arm.

"Rest assured, she treats all her new friends to it." She still had a scar on her thigh from their disagreeing days. "Only the best and cleanest of fractures – we wouldn't any compound breaks causing problems for your sword arms in the future."

"Unfortunately, Jadeite is left-handed." For a moment, he forgot to treat her carefully, and slipped under her guard for a strike to her back, and was surprised to find her meeting him right there, and pushing back skillfully. That quirk of her lips made him more than a little uneasy.

"She must like him especially then, to bring out that extra half-turn at the end. She never bothers with all the whistles and bells." Their hilts locked, and they both retreated.

He ran a finger along the flat of his mock blade out of habit, noting all the new dents and corners in the wood. "I'll be sure to make him aware of the honour he was bestowed."

She propped her bokken against the floor and leaned to catch her breath. "Your blade work is acceptable, for a Terran."

He knew she was just baiting his reaction, but he played. "We place emphasis on the basics. And we play by the rules," he added pointedly.

"Sword work must be altered to the physique of the individual." She stretched out her aches, and he watched her muscles flex. "The Magellan style favours the smaller reach and emphasises fast footwork, but in combination with the Arien style, produces both an aggressive offensive and an agile defence. Perfect against your stiffly defensive Terran sword." She smirked. "Admit it. You're a purist at heart, but you agree with me."

He was, and he did, "There is no room for stringent adherence to purity of style during combat." He swung his sword in a wide arc, and, after a thought, discarded his shirt now torn from shoulder to midsection.

She rolled her eyes, but swallowed thickly as she prepared. Now look who's the one not playing fair.

She remembered the first time they received his company in the Queen's Court, the first Earthlings to set foot in the Lunar City. She'd rolled their names in her mouth like a new incantation, and then his again: High General Kunzite. So severe in full regalia, that high-cut livery and cloak and silver hair tied in a tail down his back, eyes so grey and cold like flecks of stone.

But something had changed and now this one was different. Her blood raced through her and she felt her feet and her hands fly through movements that had become second nature. She felt the flat of his blade high against her bicep – he actually hit her solidly without shying away! – and she let the momentum of it propel her through the next strike, and then the next. When he lunged, she came in close and threw her weight against him, her forearm pressed to his front, her sword cutting towards his neck... and instead of losing balance, he let the motion turn them enough so that his foot caught the ankle of her grounding foot, and as she stumbled, pulled her back hard against his chest, sword's edge balanced delicately across her windpipe.

She sucked in great lungfuls of air, and the rush made her heady. She couldn't conceal the delight in her voice. "You've been holding back on me, General."

His breath stirred her hair. "Yes."

She could feel the tremble running under his skin, like electricity. For a brief second, she savoured the heat of him behind her, the knotted muscles curled around her, before ramming a well-aimed elbow into his solar plexus and twisting out of his hold. Her body felt supple and liquid, and she knew she would never enjoy another bout more. In the split second before he straightened, she kicked out his feet from under him and settled her weight over his torso, pinning his sword arm down by the wrist and pressing the flat of the adjoining sword across his throat.

She had to admit – immobilising the great General Kunzite would remain forever one of the highlights of her military career. She couldn't keep the grin of self-satisfaction from her lips at the laboured expansion of his chest as he groaned and blinked. It wasn't exactly his Surprise face from the garden, but she supposed she could live with that. "Will you concede?"

He looked directly at her then, and she realised his eyes weren't grey like she'd thought, but a very pale blue, and that his eyelashes were thick and black like ink. He blinked some, then opened his mouth and she felt his baritone voice and something else reverberate in the last words she expected.

"You're wet."

The words barely registered but her grip must have slackened because that mouth twitched into something like a smirk as his body rolled forcefully from under hers. Her head impacted the wooden floor as his hands closed tight over her wrists and she was suddenly watching his loosened hair slip from behind his shoulders as he hovered over her, his gaze unreadable. Feeling uncomfortably like an open book, yet unable to stare back, she turned her face away, irked that she of all people would buckle under such scrutiny.

She jerked as his lips closed over the corner of her mouth, and her stomach dropped to her feet. As if not his own, his teeth worried the skin of her jaw, the fleshy lobe of her ear, then right over the throbbing of her pulse. He licked away the sweat on her neck, his nose pressing into the hollow of her throat. The tip of his tongue traced the curve of her collarbone and his body was hot so hot and she arched against him as his name spilled from her mouth in a gasp–

He froze as if he'd been shot, his lips stilling, his hands loosening over her wrists. She knew, and she didn't dare open her eyes, because she knew that he'd again donned that mask of his, and for all she knew, that other man – the torn shirt, the dancer, the one with the electricity – had just been some wildly vivid, fantastical daydream, and she'd dreamt it all.

He stood. She felt him pause over her; maybe he was considering taking her hand and helping her up like many a respectable gentleman, or escorting her somewhere, or maybe to apologise for his actions and call her 'milady'...

"Just go." – her voice was low and husky, but he heard.

Hello – this can be stand-alone, or it can be read as the continuation to Chapter 1 (Gauntlet).

I've always loved the idea that sparring could equate to foreplay, much like the tango is akin to sex on hardwood or whatever. But I guess it would take more than that for our Kunzite to crack all the way... poor Mina haha

As always, let me know what you think! Yay :)