[ There's an anticipatory swoop in Shadowheart's belly as Silco drops to one knee, and she spreads her own legs for ease of access, breath soft through her nose as he fastens the garter. She watches his face, close enough now to get the measure of his scar, deep lines tracing the contours of his temple and cheekbone like rivers through rock.
And powder settled in them, the color of his skin. Something about that softens her to him: vulnerability, in covering a perceived weakness. A subtler armor than chainmail or leather.
As Silco begins to rise, Shadowheart reaches for the tie at his throat; doesn't pull him to her or back down, just lets the fabric slip through her fingers as she holds his gaze.
She stands, at the question, and steps in front of the mirror. Armored herself, in a way, with garments of Silco's choosing. ]
Hmm. [ A thoughtful sound, as Shadowheart smooths her hands over her stomach and hips, glancing at him through the mirror, ] I think I should let you dress me more often.
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And powder settled in them, the color of his skin. Something about that softens her to him: vulnerability, in covering a perceived weakness. A subtler armor than chainmail or leather.
As Silco begins to rise, Shadowheart reaches for the tie at his throat; doesn't pull him to her or back down, just lets the fabric slip through her fingers as she holds his gaze.
She stands, at the question, and steps in front of the mirror. Armored herself, in a way, with garments of Silco's choosing. ]
Hmm. [ A thoughtful sound, as Shadowheart smooths her hands over her stomach and hips, glancing at him through the mirror, ] I think I should let you dress me more often.