( ... somehow, for the blip of that shared awkwardness, it does actually help.
somehow. anyhow. even when, yes, it is a little silly. even when, yes, there are his long fingers caging each of her bird-boned wrists, and somehow she can sense his calluses through the fabric of her gloves as he maneuvers — not ungracefully — to get her to ruck up the fabric of his shirt.
it helps because he's still steady, his heartbeat even, even when hers is somewhere up in her throat. and it especially helps because he keeps running through his words until he trips up, and it tells her that he isn't as impassive as his expression makes him out to be, his cards and consent laid out on the table for her to do with what she will. )
... thank you. Though I'd hoped you were, at least a little.
(that depends, he'd tried teasing once. is the willing participant in the room with us right now?
she must be one in this narrowing space, in the end. her lashes flick down as she trails over the lean muscle of his body, considering the bare sight with soft, sudden attention. her hands drift then, less hesitation and more curiosity as she marks the lighter outline of an old scar, some splotchy keloid where the flesh and blood must have stitched over something terrible, making a path over his bare skin without much warning, without permission, without fanfare. but at least her gloved fingers are soft over the indentations between each of his ribs. there's just no way for her to know if that does anything for him.
well. except the one. )
Otherwise I don't think we'd be in this room together...
( later, if aki were to ask what was done to him, then robin would tell him the truth. that she's no devil, but that she can read his mind, that resonance sometimes feels like the sudden passing of a headache — clearing, clear-mindedness, and a multi-colored sensation like you're light-headed and standing up too quickly.
maybe that only sharpens the sensation of everything else: how she presses her thumbs against the crests of his hipbones until he might try to squirm away, or thinks about it, or literally anything until she digs her fingertips into the junction of his hips instead, guiding him back until his legs finally hit the edge of the bed. )
no subject
somehow. anyhow. even when, yes, it is a little silly. even when, yes, there are his long fingers caging each of her bird-boned wrists, and somehow she can sense his calluses through the fabric of her gloves as he maneuvers — not ungracefully — to get her to ruck up the fabric of his shirt.
it helps because he's still steady, his heartbeat even, even when hers is somewhere up in her throat. and it especially helps because he keeps running through his words until he trips up, and it tells her that he isn't as impassive as his expression makes him out to be, his cards and consent laid out on the table for her to do with what she will. )
... thank you. Though I'd hoped you were, at least a little.
( that depends, he'd tried teasing once. is the willing participant in the room with us right now?
she must be one in this narrowing space, in the end. her lashes flick down as she trails over the lean muscle of his body, considering the bare sight with soft, sudden attention. her hands drift then, less hesitation and more curiosity as she marks the lighter outline of an old scar, some splotchy keloid where the flesh and blood must have stitched over something terrible, making a path over his bare skin without much warning, without permission, without fanfare. but at least her gloved fingers are soft over the indentations between each of his ribs. there's just no way for her to know if that does anything for him.
well. except the one. )
Otherwise I don't think we'd be in this room together...
( later, if aki were to ask what was done to him, then robin would tell him the truth. that she's no devil, but that she can read his mind, that resonance sometimes feels like the sudden passing of a headache — clearing, clear-mindedness, and a multi-colored sensation like you're light-headed and standing up too quickly.
maybe that only sharpens the sensation of everything else: how she presses her thumbs against the crests of his hipbones until he might try to squirm away, or thinks about it, or literally anything until she digs her fingertips into the junction of his hips instead, guiding him back until his legs finally hit the edge of the bed. )