He's leaning even closer now, knees bending. His fingertips glide over her neck before coming to rest on her bare shoulder; his other hand lifts hers to his strange mechanical mouth for a soft kiss.
"Anything for you, sweet thing."
Looking as proud as a peacock, Scaramouche draws back and straightens to his complete seven-and-a-half-foot height, his gaze never leaving her. The heat of her hand begins to warm up his own, her shoulder is given an affirming squeeze, and away they go, swaying to and fro, finding rhythm in no time at all.
But his attempts at fancy footwork--guiding them left and right, then back and forth to mix it up a bit--are clumsy at best. When he moves too fast, there's too much pull, and when he moves too slow, too much give. It becomes a stop-and-start slow dance. His attention falls to the space between them while he takes care not to step on or trip up his partner.
Who knew dancing with someone could be harder than dueling them?
His round and inquisitive optics slide to her face again. The smile that immediately pulls the corners of his mouth up is genuine.
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"Anything for you, sweet thing."
Looking as proud as a peacock, Scaramouche draws back and straightens to his complete seven-and-a-half-foot height, his gaze never leaving her. The heat of her hand begins to warm up his own, her shoulder is given an affirming squeeze, and away they go, swaying to and fro, finding rhythm in no time at all.
But his attempts at fancy footwork--guiding them left and right, then back and forth to mix it up a bit--are clumsy at best. When he moves too fast, there's too much pull, and when he moves too slow, too much give. It becomes a stop-and-start slow dance. His attention falls to the space between them while he takes care not to step on or trip up his partner.
Who knew dancing with someone could be harder than dueling them?
His round and inquisitive optics slide to her face again. The smile that immediately pulls the corners of his mouth up is genuine.