( maybe it's something in her eyes. something pretty, something that moves like waves do across the tide, where sand seems to scatter but never really goes away; trails and patterns of it, across a shore, where the water takes something away, but always returns to give something back, all the same.
he doesn't feel like they're scars that can be healed, or it could be that he's never taken inventory of the ones left deep below the skin, severed across a heart that beats only for revenge, for retribution, and nothing more. he hasn't had dreams since he'd been seven years old, ten years old, when he'd wanted for things and then, quite suddenly, had nothing left to want for.
but it's her eyes, maybe, or the soft patter of her breath across her own lips, or the way that her hair hangs around her face that gives him the sense of some kind of peace; her fingertips touch at him and he feels more want, than worry, feels more desire, than determination. she isn't afraid of him, surely, not anymore: he watches those feathers that whisper above her ears like they might tell him a secret.
but does she really want him? could someone really want him, a husk of a man, burdened by a life that he's so willing to give away?
her laugh makes him embarrassed, but not in a bad way, not in a way that gets in the way of anything else. because he wants to laugh, wants to shake his head, and instead just lets his chin duck, like she shouldn't be saying his name like that; she shouldn't be able to say it so warmly, pretty on her lips like it belongs there. abandoned, his fingers give up somewhere in the midst of tightened ribbons along the corsetted back of her clothing; she doesn't peel his slacks off, and he leaves them like that, for now.
wordless, he pulls his hands back, measures his weight, and sits neatly on the end of the bed, his knees spread: not to offer her some kind of lascivious offer, but more in case she would rather find purchase on his thighs, than the bed, than the floor, than anywhere else. )
If it's Robin, then it's Aki. ( he decides, with some low, quiet thread of amusement. ) Unless you like hearing something else.
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he doesn't feel like they're scars that can be healed, or it could be that he's never taken inventory of the ones left deep below the skin, severed across a heart that beats only for revenge, for retribution, and nothing more. he hasn't had dreams since he'd been seven years old, ten years old, when he'd wanted for things and then, quite suddenly, had nothing left to want for.
but it's her eyes, maybe, or the soft patter of her breath across her own lips, or the way that her hair hangs around her face that gives him the sense of some kind of peace; her fingertips touch at him and he feels more want, than worry, feels more desire, than determination. she isn't afraid of him, surely, not anymore: he watches those feathers that whisper above her ears like they might tell him a secret.
but does she really want him? could someone really want him, a husk of a man, burdened by a life that he's so willing to give away?
her laugh makes him embarrassed, but not in a bad way, not in a way that gets in the way of anything else. because he wants to laugh, wants to shake his head, and instead just lets his chin duck, like she shouldn't be saying his name like that; she shouldn't be able to say it so warmly, pretty on her lips like it belongs there. abandoned, his fingers give up somewhere in the midst of tightened ribbons along the corsetted back of her clothing; she doesn't peel his slacks off, and he leaves them like that, for now.
wordless, he pulls his hands back, measures his weight, and sits neatly on the end of the bed, his knees spread: not to offer her some kind of lascivious offer, but more in case she would rather find purchase on his thighs, than the bed, than the floor, than anywhere else. )
If it's Robin, then it's Aki. ( he decides, with some low, quiet thread of amusement. ) Unless you like hearing something else.