( for just a moment, it's like the words aren't computing--like he isn't parsing them, isn't putting together the melodic sound with the curve of her lips, or that look in her eyes. his fingers still, the tie loosened, but not undone; his mouth parts, pushes shut, and then it hits him, and embarrassment rockets through all the same. he doesn't know if it's worth it to even tell her that he's got very little idea of what the hell to do, here, outside of the distant knowledge that comes from listening to people like denji and himeno, rich with thick, perverted jokes that don't really fit, either--maybe it would be a comfort to her, or maybe it would just scare her off. it isn't that he's against it, either: this is his problem, and she's only been kind enough to go along to fix it.
but his fingers work the knot of the tie loose, shrugging it out from his collar with a practiced hand, letting the unraveled material shrivel to the floor at his feet; he's torn between continuing his monotonous, practiced stripping, or crossing the space between them, and his weight pivots there for a moment, lips pursed. )
You can. ( it's easy enough to answer that question, but his gaze rolls across the mattress again, looking at the stupid thing--and then he's abandoning it, moving to cross the room so that he can stand in front of her, instead of at a distance.
he might regret this: or his ego might regret this, but it just doesn't sit right with him, something that feels colder than he wants either of them to be. )
But I want to do something, to you. ( it sounds wrong; his eyes close for an extended moment, annoyed with himself, before opening again. ) For you.
( it's not transactional, when his hands reach for her hips; they steady there like he's not sure he should have put them there at all, but his grip is light, fingers that spread out and hold her like she's something precious, not like she's something delicate. )
no subject
but his fingers work the knot of the tie loose, shrugging it out from his collar with a practiced hand, letting the unraveled material shrivel to the floor at his feet; he's torn between continuing his monotonous, practiced stripping, or crossing the space between them, and his weight pivots there for a moment, lips pursed. )
You can. ( it's easy enough to answer that question, but his gaze rolls across the mattress again, looking at the stupid thing--and then he's abandoning it, moving to cross the room so that he can stand in front of her, instead of at a distance.
he might regret this: or his ego might regret this, but it just doesn't sit right with him, something that feels colder than he wants either of them to be. )
But I want to do something, to you. ( it sounds wrong; his eyes close for an extended moment, annoyed with himself, before opening again. ) For you.
( it's not transactional, when his hands reach for her hips; they steady there like he's not sure he should have put them there at all, but his grip is light, fingers that spread out and hold her like she's something precious, not like she's something delicate. )
Does that bother you?