( she's not sure what she expects to come out of it. as far as propositions go, someone with more experience would probably take more time to ease into it instead of waiting until the door's locked for the awkward rejection, and the no escape. way to go, robin, committing a sex-dungeon-posing-as-a-casino faux pas right out of the gate. no one will ever want to sleep with you.
but it could be worse. it could've gone differently, too, if he'd said no and she would've stayed anyway, let the pieces fall in the appropriate slots where they may otherwise. part of it isn't kindness, because part of her is still disbelieving. if they do this, then what do they really get from it? and what price do they really pay? songstress embroiled in a sex scandal, the headlines would say in the taglines of that pornographic paraphernalia. she thinks she'll pay the price eventually, somewhere down the line. most people do.
and it's still not worth someone else's punishment.
he walks up to her with that honed, respectable veneer of calm, and she offers him the gentle politeness of her full attention, her eyes kept respectfully on his face. he said he was boring, uncharming, and without dignity — and maybe it had been unfair to ask him when she's more than capable of putting that all together, when the chances of his refusal are next to none, with a personality like that. but then, his low, level voice, his hands seeping warmth into the slanting curve of her waist, his own flubbing tongue around a slip that sounds, frankly, subconscious are all interesting. charming. dignified enough.
she smiles at that, her face lighting up with a dust of pink to match how embarrassment slips into both of their mannerisms. mister devil hunter could be colder. mister devil hunter is too kind, and much kinder still, to not tell her his name or maybe even no. )
... Not quite.
( it's a quiet non-answer. her gaze finally drops, regarding him somewhere at collar-level as her hands lift up, popping open the first button of his dress shirt with very little flourish, almost domestic in the gesture as she sets about his previous bland attempt to take his clothes off.
she's going down the row of buttons, anyway, not quickly or slowly but evenly enough that the way she steps forward, how she's just as meticulous about it, might make him feel less like he's being herded back and more like it's just part of the process.
just like a dance, she thinks, with the proper steps to go about it. )
You're just very kind... It makes me feel like I'm taking advantage of it.
no subject
but it could be worse. it could've gone differently, too, if he'd said no and she would've stayed anyway, let the pieces fall in the appropriate slots where they may otherwise. part of it isn't kindness, because part of her is still disbelieving. if they do this, then what do they really get from it? and what price do they really pay? songstress embroiled in a sex scandal, the headlines would say in the taglines of that pornographic paraphernalia. she thinks she'll pay the price eventually, somewhere down the line. most people do.
and it's still not worth someone else's punishment.
he walks up to her with that honed, respectable veneer of calm, and she offers him the gentle politeness of her full attention, her eyes kept respectfully on his face. he said he was boring, uncharming, and without dignity — and maybe it had been unfair to ask him when she's more than capable of putting that all together, when the chances of his refusal are next to none, with a personality like that. but then, his low, level voice, his hands seeping warmth into the slanting curve of her waist, his own flubbing tongue around a slip that sounds, frankly, subconscious are all interesting. charming. dignified enough.
she smiles at that, her face lighting up with a dust of pink to match how embarrassment slips into both of their mannerisms. mister devil hunter could be colder. mister devil hunter is too kind, and much kinder still, to not tell her his name or maybe even no. )
... Not quite.
( it's a quiet non-answer. her gaze finally drops, regarding him somewhere at collar-level as her hands lift up, popping open the first button of his dress shirt with very little flourish, almost domestic in the gesture as she sets about his previous bland attempt to take his clothes off.
she's going down the row of buttons, anyway, not quickly or slowly but evenly enough that the way she steps forward, how she's just as meticulous about it, might make him feel less like he's being herded back and more like it's just part of the process.
just like a dance, she thinks, with the proper steps to go about it. )
You're just very kind... It makes me feel like I'm taking advantage of it.
( and isn't that mutual? )