[ The conscious choice this time, for Adolf is to look. At every inch of her, because there's something about the way she leans back and shows him that he can't refuse. She breathes— inhales, exhales— and that in itself is beautiful, the way her scars curve with her ribs.
Whether it's a provocation or not seems moot by now, and Adolf finds himself running one hand up from where the scar ends beneath her navel and up between her chest. He lets the palm linger over her heartbeat for a few seconds before he finally concedes to her request, shifts back along the sheets so he can peel his own shirt off and toss it gently to the side.
If there was a time when self-consciousness was appropriate, he's passed that juncture long ago: he knows what he looks like, his mess of scars and discolored burns, the inorganic metal embedded in his chest, his joints, his bones. Despite that, he also knows that Oona won't flinch, and that's the reason he complies without protest. ]
...Not exactly what you were promised in stories, is it.
[ Princes usually come in better shapes and sizes, with charm and promises and 'ever-afters'. There's self-deprecation nestled in Adolf's words, but it's overshadowed by a brand of shyness that he tucks under his bangs and a tilt of his jaw downwards. He clears his throat, and moves forward to loop a hand around Oona's waist to push her gently back down onto the mattress. ]
What else do you want.
[ His voice is a rasp against her ear, simultaneously as serious as he always is (sincere, always sincere) and somewhat knowing (so he can spoil her, yes, and probably worse). ]
no subject
Whether it's a provocation or not seems moot by now, and Adolf finds himself running one hand up from where the scar ends beneath her navel and up between her chest. He lets the palm linger over her heartbeat for a few seconds before he finally concedes to her request, shifts back along the sheets so he can peel his own shirt off and toss it gently to the side.
If there was a time when self-consciousness was appropriate, he's passed that juncture long ago: he knows what he looks like, his mess of scars and discolored burns, the inorganic metal embedded in his chest, his joints, his bones. Despite that, he also knows that Oona won't flinch, and that's the reason he complies without protest. ]
...Not exactly what you were promised in stories, is it.
[ Princes usually come in better shapes and sizes, with charm and promises and 'ever-afters'. There's self-deprecation nestled in Adolf's words, but it's overshadowed by a brand of shyness that he tucks under his bangs and a tilt of his jaw downwards. He clears his throat, and moves forward to loop a hand around Oona's waist to push her gently back down onto the mattress. ]
What else do you want.
[ His voice is a rasp against her ear, simultaneously as serious as he always is (sincere, always sincere) and somewhat knowing (so he can spoil her, yes, and probably worse). ]