He's the one calling the shots where all this - God stuff is concerned, so if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for her. Or so says the grin she presses into his mouth, full and laughing. "Good, reckon no one will bug us here."
Because no, she doesn't think about his legs, any more than she thinks about her arm when she exposes the tattered skin that is her upper body in scars. Those things to her mind are just what has to be worked around, not a prohibition against. Especially not after being so long on Pandora. But as her clothes come off, tossed over her head eagerly, she's left in her mostly sensible underclothes, she shivers a little to let him inspect as she briefly wipes at her eyes. Nothing fancy, just a bra, underwear and where her black stockings hug the top of her thighs. She was never a big girl, tall or otherwise, but certainly not lacking, though these days it's all lean muscle that rolls smoothly in her direct purpose. Might be half metal on her arm.
"So," she breathes it out, squirming that little. Coming in close, dragged her words against his lips and yeah, just a problem to solve. Her fingers going to his jacket, beginning to yank at laces, kissing him in bites between it. "How does this work?" does he need to stay in the chair. "I should say, I'm pretty flexible. So don't be afraid to ask."
Closer, though, easy for him to reach and touch in return. Differently textures to brush overs. Shrapnel on her shoulder, a bullet graze on her hip, acid and fire burns mottled in patches. But the mess, the mess is her arm, it hadn't been a well thought out plan that she hacked it off. A mangled off angled cut at her shoulder where it had come off. The metal of her robotic arm was maintained but well worn, especially in comparison to, say, Rhys. But it works just as well as one of flesh and blood, when she leans over him, meeting his gaze, her eyes so green against the red of the blood.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-09-22 05:43 am (UTC)Because no, she doesn't think about his legs, any more than she thinks about her arm when she exposes the tattered skin that is her upper body in scars. Those things to her mind are just what has to be worked around, not a prohibition against. Especially not after being so long on Pandora. But as her clothes come off, tossed over her head eagerly, she's left in her mostly sensible underclothes, she shivers a little to let him inspect as she briefly wipes at her eyes. Nothing fancy, just a bra, underwear and where her black stockings hug the top of her thighs. She was never a big girl, tall or otherwise, but certainly not lacking, though these days it's all lean muscle that rolls smoothly in her direct purpose. Might be half metal on her arm.
"So," she breathes it out, squirming that little. Coming in close, dragged her words against his lips and yeah, just a problem to solve. Her fingers going to his jacket, beginning to yank at laces, kissing him in bites between it. "How does this work?" does he need to stay in the chair. "I should say, I'm pretty flexible. So don't be afraid to ask."
Closer, though, easy for him to reach and touch in return. Differently textures to brush overs. Shrapnel on her shoulder, a bullet graze on her hip, acid and fire burns mottled in patches. But the mess, the mess is her arm, it hadn't been a well thought out plan that she hacked it off. A mangled off angled cut at her shoulder where it had come off. The metal of her robotic arm was maintained but well worn, especially in comparison to, say, Rhys. But it works just as well as one of flesh and blood, when she leans over him, meeting his gaze, her eyes so green against the red of the blood.