[ It's a leap of faith, and a quantifiable measure of trust that she doesn't flinch or otherwise redirect him away from the column of her neck. He knows better than to take that for granted, to file her lack of resistance away as weakness. Besides, if that makes her foolish, then what does that make him? Should she decide to put an end to his existence here and now, he'd hardly be in much of a position to stop her, lacking armor and, indeed, any armament at all, save the paring knife that sits in the basket nearby.
It's an admission of trust on his part, too, that he doesn't shy away from her touch — that he finds he desires it, is comforted by it. He wants her to touch him, rather than finding it stirs up feelings of self-hatred. Same as a feral cat, one might suppose; initially wary of any closeness, let alone an extended hand, but made as docile and trusting — as loyal, at least as any such creature can be, though perhaps that is where the comparison ends — as any house cat over the course of time.
And on top of that all, he knows it's no small feat that they're both still here after having discovered the darker parts of their pasts. For all that they'd been acting in the service of higher powers, there's no way of totally abjuring responsibility for the lives claimed or pain exacted along the way. And no, they can't offer each other absolution, but— it sort of comes close, to feel deserving of something like this. ]
Well, when you put it so nicely ...
[ As his lips find hers again, his knee slips between her legs, nudging them apart, the gesture itself enough to be suggestive, but stopping there. (A means by which to gauge her intent as well as a marker of how quickly — or slowly — he's willing to take things. As precious as the instinct sounds, he doesn't want to fuck this up, not by playing too loosely with what he's comfortable with, nor by failing to meet her expectations.) His hand, meanwhile, finds the small of her back, supporting the arch of her frame, as his other arm serves as a brace against the ground next to her head. ]
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It's an admission of trust on his part, too, that he doesn't shy away from her touch — that he finds he desires it, is comforted by it. He wants her to touch him, rather than finding it stirs up feelings of self-hatred. Same as a feral cat, one might suppose; initially wary of any closeness, let alone an extended hand, but made as docile and trusting — as loyal, at least as any such creature can be, though perhaps that is where the comparison ends — as any house cat over the course of time.
And on top of that all, he knows it's no small feat that they're both still here after having discovered the darker parts of their pasts. For all that they'd been acting in the service of higher powers, there's no way of totally abjuring responsibility for the lives claimed or pain exacted along the way. And no, they can't offer each other absolution, but— it sort of comes close, to feel deserving of something like this. ]
Well, when you put it so nicely ...
[ As his lips find hers again, his knee slips between her legs, nudging them apart, the gesture itself enough to be suggestive, but stopping there. (A means by which to gauge her intent as well as a marker of how quickly — or slowly — he's willing to take things. As precious as the instinct sounds, he doesn't want to fuck this up, not by playing too loosely with what he's comfortable with, nor by failing to meet her expectations.) His hand, meanwhile, finds the small of her back, supporting the arch of her frame, as his other arm serves as a brace against the ground next to her head. ]