[It's indicative of just how much the aphrodisiacs in the scotch have affected him, the fact that he can't quite keep a noise out of his throat when she moves away from him instead of into him; it's equal parts the loss of heat and an annoyance at the perception of being deprived of having her close, short and huffy and terse. He's not quite far gone enough to actively chase after her, though, or to try to pull her back into his arms when she backs off; if he sulks a little, well, maybe that's just a matter of interpretation.
It's consolation enough that he gets to look at her when she puts distance between them, though. The absurdity of the novelty t-shirt gives way to the softer elegance of her bared body, and it's hard to regret the exchange. There are no visible scars bitten into her skin where a shirt or top might hide them, and he's not entirely sure why that's even something he looked for to begin with.]
Only one way to find out.
[It's hard not to wonder about her, the real living girl behind all the references to the Ancient that turned up in internal memos and research reports and Tseng's carefully level voice. What makes her blush, makes her writhe, makes her scream? Has anyone ever sought those answers? Does she even know them, herself?
He wants to know, he thinks, and when her hands push his shirt off his shoulders, he catches them by the fingers before they can retreat, clasping each of her hands in his own. Ostensibly it's to keep her from getting any further in undressing him — maybe. Maybe that's what it is. That's what would make the most sense.
(She's pretty, he thinks, unbidden, and files it away as irrelevant.)
Using her hands like they're leverage, he tugs at her now that they're both bare from the waist up, curious to see how much better it feels to be pressed together when it's skin to heated skin.]
no subject
It's consolation enough that he gets to look at her when she puts distance between them, though. The absurdity of the novelty t-shirt gives way to the softer elegance of her bared body, and it's hard to regret the exchange. There are no visible scars bitten into her skin where a shirt or top might hide them, and he's not entirely sure why that's even something he looked for to begin with.]
Only one way to find out.
[It's hard not to wonder about her, the real living girl behind all the references to the Ancient that turned up in internal memos and research reports and Tseng's carefully level voice. What makes her blush, makes her writhe, makes her scream? Has anyone ever sought those answers? Does she even know them, herself?
He wants to know, he thinks, and when her hands push his shirt off his shoulders, he catches them by the fingers before they can retreat, clasping each of her hands in his own. Ostensibly it's to keep her from getting any further in undressing him — maybe. Maybe that's what it is. That's what would make the most sense.
(She's pretty, he thinks, unbidden, and files it away as irrelevant.)
Using her hands like they're leverage, he tugs at her now that they're both bare from the waist up, curious to see how much better it feels to be pressed together when it's skin to heated skin.]
Now come back here.