[When she runs her fingers over his scars, he stops for a moment, worried that maybe she'll be bothered by them, that she'll find them unattractive somehow -- the ones on his arms and shoulders aren't so bad, but that doesn't always mean they're pleasant to look at, either -- and it almost startles him when she's asking whether they hurt. Most people don't notice, or they don't care.]
Not really. I barely even notice 'em anymore. The ones on my leg hurt a lot worse.
[There's no sense in pretending that he's not covered in scars elsewhere. She's seen the way he limps, of course, and it's only a matter of time, with the way things are progressing, before she sees just how badly scarred his leg is. He hopes she's not disgusted by it, because he knows that, unlike the faint, white scars on his torso and arms, the ones on his leg will never stop being dark, purple, almost angry looking. They bother some people. They bother him, if he looks too closely at them for too long.
Then, to distract from his scars, maybe, or to make her look a little less... is that guilt in her eyes? What should she feel guilty for? he tugs off his undershirt, too. It's not as though it had been concealing much, really, and at this point, the less clothes either of them has, the more comfortable he'll feel.
The same may not hold true for her, though, and that's why, as he reaches for her dress to tug it the rest of the way off, he's very slow in his movements, leaving no doubt that, if at any time she wants him to stop, she can say so. As he tugs it down, though, he notes a discoloration on her hip, a dark splotch on her otherwise pale, perfect skin, and he recognizes it as a bruise almost immediately, even with only the illumination of the moonlight to cast a glow on it. His fingers trace over it very, very gently, and he doesn't want to ask where it came from, because he thinks, somehow, that that question can't possibly lead to anything good, but he does ask...]
Does this hurt real bad?
[A clumsy mirroring of the question she'd asked him, maybe, but there is concern in his eyes, all the same.]
no subject
Not really. I barely even notice 'em anymore. The ones on my leg hurt a lot worse.
[There's no sense in pretending that he's not covered in scars elsewhere. She's seen the way he limps, of course, and it's only a matter of time, with the way things are progressing, before she sees just how badly scarred his leg is. He hopes she's not disgusted by it, because he knows that, unlike the faint, white scars on his torso and arms, the ones on his leg will never stop being dark, purple, almost angry looking. They bother some people. They bother him, if he looks too closely at them for too long.
Then, to distract from his scars, maybe, or to make her look a little less... is that guilt in her eyes? What should she feel guilty for? he tugs off his undershirt, too. It's not as though it had been concealing much, really, and at this point, the less clothes either of them has, the more comfortable he'll feel.
The same may not hold true for her, though, and that's why, as he reaches for her dress to tug it the rest of the way off, he's very slow in his movements, leaving no doubt that, if at any time she wants him to stop, she can say so. As he tugs it down, though, he notes a discoloration on her hip, a dark splotch on her otherwise pale, perfect skin, and he recognizes it as a bruise almost immediately, even with only the illumination of the moonlight to cast a glow on it. His fingers trace over it very, very gently, and he doesn't want to ask where it came from, because he thinks, somehow, that that question can't possibly lead to anything good, but he does ask...]
Does this hurt real bad?
[A clumsy mirroring of the question she'd asked him, maybe, but there is concern in his eyes, all the same.]