[ It's the emotional stuntedness. He's working on it!
At some level, though, Heathcliff's already caught that he picks on Ishmael because they're the same person in different circumstances. Identities in the same mirror world. He hopes she can change for the bat's chance in hell that people do change, that he does change, that it doesn't always take a clock ticking to help him find his way. Sometimes it's a revised message on a bat. Sometimes it's a hand on the snout of an abandoned hound. Sometimes it's ripping a hole into gross white whale gristle to pull out the pisshead wanker inside. ]
Tosser. No, I don't know what to do either. I just know what I like, and so on.
[ Heathcliff gives her kind of a flat look when she wipes his face — he isn't a child, she isn't Nelly — but holds still until she's done, sipping the rest of the coffee down and brushing off his hands over the tray. Good, full stomach. Head's not too bad. Could be better, but could be much, much worse. ]
Lay down.
[ He nudges her back with a hand to reinforce the command, and he'll move back to make room for her if she does. Regardless of whether she does or not, he'll reach out for the bottom of her shirt and begin unbuttoning it, aiming to see stomach skin. He has to confirm a few things, and he's a hands on sort of guy. The only way to find out is through direct confirmation.
(The panties are good, though. Are those freckles on her thighs? He's looking. He's very focused.) ]
no subject
At some level, though, Heathcliff's already caught that he picks on Ishmael because they're the same person in different circumstances. Identities in the same mirror world. He hopes she can change for the bat's chance in hell that people do change, that he does change, that it doesn't always take a clock ticking to help him find his way. Sometimes it's a revised message on a bat. Sometimes it's a hand on the snout of an abandoned hound. Sometimes it's ripping a hole into gross white whale gristle to pull out the pisshead wanker inside. ]
Tosser. No, I don't know what to do either. I just know what I like, and so on.
[ Heathcliff gives her kind of a flat look when she wipes his face — he isn't a child, she isn't Nelly — but holds still until she's done, sipping the rest of the coffee down and brushing off his hands over the tray. Good, full stomach. Head's not too bad. Could be better, but could be much, much worse. ]
Lay down.
[ He nudges her back with a hand to reinforce the command, and he'll move back to make room for her if she does. Regardless of whether she does or not, he'll reach out for the bottom of her shirt and begin unbuttoning it, aiming to see stomach skin. He has to confirm a few things, and he's a hands on sort of guy. The only way to find out is through direct confirmation.
(The panties are good, though. Are those freckles on her thighs? He's looking. He's very focused.) ]