"In the front," he mutters, equal parts revelation and annoyance. Of course it has front buttons. Don't mind him moving his hands out of the way to make room, or leaning back a few inches to watch as she fiddles with them. It's a great visual, is all — seeing her fingertips pop the clasp, and the long stretch of pale skin slowly put on display as it loosens.
He has a real love-hate relationship with corsets. In that moment, it skews very much toward love.
Seems like he'd be content to take a few too many seconds taking in the sights, until her you are way too overdressed snaps him out of it. Yeah. Right. He should probably... get on that.
An arm arches overhead, curls so he can grip the fabric of his shirt between the shoulder blades and tug it up over his head. He's in great shape, that much isn't a question. Put on some muscle mass, even, since he's been here. What stands out more, maybe, aside from the tattoo, is all the scars. Probably not surprising either, considering the life he lives, but they litter him here and there along his back, along his stomach, along his chest. Lines from cuts, from slashes. From claws and knives. Burns. Bullet wounds. Most of them faded with time, but a few that are newer, a few still healing from his time hunting here. He is not a blank canvas, that's for sure.
Once he's shirtless, he doesn't waste much time reeling her in again. Pressing them together from waist to chest, skin to skin. That's one of his favorite sensations, and it's been god damn forever since he's felt it. With it comes another rush of heat, and... yeah, this ain't gonna last all night, that's for sure.
no subject
He has a real love-hate relationship with corsets. In that moment, it skews very much toward love.
Seems like he'd be content to take a few too many seconds taking in the sights, until her you are way too overdressed snaps him out of it. Yeah. Right. He should probably... get on that.
An arm arches overhead, curls so he can grip the fabric of his shirt between the shoulder blades and tug it up over his head. He's in great shape, that much isn't a question. Put on some muscle mass, even, since he's been here. What stands out more, maybe, aside from the tattoo, is all the scars. Probably not surprising either, considering the life he lives, but they litter him here and there along his back, along his stomach, along his chest. Lines from cuts, from slashes. From claws and knives. Burns. Bullet wounds. Most of them faded with time, but a few that are newer, a few still healing from his time hunting here. He is not a blank canvas, that's for sure.
Once he's shirtless, he doesn't waste much time reeling her in again. Pressing them together from waist to chest, skin to skin. That's one of his favorite sensations, and it's been god damn forever since he's felt it. With it comes another rush of heat, and... yeah, this ain't gonna last all night, that's for sure.