( ugly scars, bared now with the parting of fabric, feel like shame beneath her feathered touch--the light, airy fabric of her gloves feels almost silken against him, a promise of something that he doesn't deserve, or maybe has never deserved, pressed against the sins of battle. it's easy for a devil's body to knit itself back together again; easy for a hybrid to pop their arms back or slurp up their innards. human devil hunters don't fare so well, which is why the death rate is so high: and though he takes care not to endure anything beyond what is necessary, the path he's made across his body is obvious. it's a means to an end, a vessel to carry him to revenge, and nothing further; the scars that she wonders over have no grand story, like a hero who's been off fighting a dragon for the sake of the town. he fights to protect the people, but they sure as hell don't know anything about him.
neither does she. is it a kindness to spare her those details? to not bother with a name, in case she thinks of it later and regrets it? is it easier for her to forget about him if he just leaves her with all the grimy, filthy details--that he fights devil, that he'd thought her a devil, that he's unkind and lacking charm and tact?
it's somewhere near where her hands connect down near his hips, where her thumbs push in near the crests of his hipbones and his knees jerk, like they might just buckle at the contact; no one's ever touched him there, and the ticklish feeling, spiraling up into the pit of his stomach, is foreign and uncomfortable. his legs hit the end of the bed, but his weight teeters, well-balanced between his heels, before he stops himself from toppling backward.
a strange, warm feeling: like his head is swimming. )
It's Aki. ( maybe this is the part where he's decide he wants to leave a mark on her after all. ) My name. Hayakawa Aki.
( she might want to do it herself; he stands his ground, practiced hands moving to his belt to start working it open, a crackle of metal and leather as it gets tugged and pulled apart, dropped near the end of the bed.
he doesn't know if expectation means he should reach for her, too: or how to even maneuver her out of her skirt with all the fancy trails and enticing fishnets; but he does at least make an attempt, reaching forward so that he can feel for her waistband, trying to circle it with long fingertips to find some zipper or latch. )
no subject
neither does she. is it a kindness to spare her those details? to not bother with a name, in case she thinks of it later and regrets it? is it easier for her to forget about him if he just leaves her with all the grimy, filthy details--that he fights devil, that he'd thought her a devil, that he's unkind and lacking charm and tact?
it's somewhere near where her hands connect down near his hips, where her thumbs push in near the crests of his hipbones and his knees jerk, like they might just buckle at the contact; no one's ever touched him there, and the ticklish feeling, spiraling up into the pit of his stomach, is foreign and uncomfortable. his legs hit the end of the bed, but his weight teeters, well-balanced between his heels, before he stops himself from toppling backward.
a strange, warm feeling: like his head is swimming. )
It's Aki. ( maybe this is the part where he's decide he wants to leave a mark on her after all. ) My name. Hayakawa Aki.
( she might want to do it herself; he stands his ground, practiced hands moving to his belt to start working it open, a crackle of metal and leather as it gets tugged and pulled apart, dropped near the end of the bed.
he doesn't know if expectation means he should reach for her, too: or how to even maneuver her out of her skirt with all the fancy trails and enticing fishnets; but he does at least make an attempt, reaching forward so that he can feel for her waistband, trying to circle it with long fingertips to find some zipper or latch. )