Ahh, so mean. [but there's no heat in her words.] Where is the fun in that?
[She might have, on another occasion, teased him to take it off of her himself, but for all her talk about how she can be patient she doesn't waste anytime in pulling the shirt off to toss carelessly to the side.
She's been in various states of undress around him before, so this really shouldn't have been that different. Except, well, it obviously is. Usually he avoids actually looking at her body, keeping his eyes carefully above her shoulders, but now there's no sense of propriety to keep his eyes--or hands--from wandering.
Her own hands press against the scars between her breasts, the single unbroken one that bisects her body to below her bellybutton. The matching one on her back gives off a phantom sting, a pain remembered that she knows no longer actually exists.
When faced with the uncomfortable realities of her scars, Oona does what she's always done: She lifts her head a little and lounges back against the headboard as if to show them off, like they didn't bother her. 'Fake it until you make it,' she'd heard humans say before, and it was advice she certainly tried to follow.
So her hand slides from her body to grasp the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards slightly in suggestion. Her head tilts deliberately to let one lock of her hair slide across her face, the ends curling between her breasts] I want this off too.
no subject
[She might have, on another occasion, teased him to take it off of her himself, but for all her talk about how she can be patient she doesn't waste anytime in pulling the shirt off to toss carelessly to the side.
She's been in various states of undress around him before, so this really shouldn't have been that different. Except, well, it obviously is. Usually he avoids actually looking at her body, keeping his eyes carefully above her shoulders, but now there's no sense of propriety to keep his eyes--or hands--from wandering.
Her own hands press against the scars between her breasts, the single unbroken one that bisects her body to below her bellybutton. The matching one on her back gives off a phantom sting, a pain remembered that she knows no longer actually exists.
When faced with the uncomfortable realities of her scars, Oona does what she's always done: She lifts her head a little and lounges back against the headboard as if to show them off, like they didn't bother her. 'Fake it until you make it,' she'd heard humans say before, and it was advice she certainly tried to follow.
So her hand slides from her body to grasp the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards slightly in suggestion. Her head tilts deliberately to let one lock of her hair slide across her face, the ends curling between her breasts] I want this off too.