"You like my hair?" Now she's the one parroting in mild disbelief. She hadn't thought he'd care at all. Maybe a noncommittal chirp, maybe mild dismay in his body language, but that was it. Not actual protest. And he's not arguing about the girl's clothes, either, which is really weird, even in his condition. Shinji had never been much of a man, but his lack of concern is disturbing in its own right. It means she could do whatever she wanted to him.
Too bad he hadn't said that years ago. Asuka's kept her hair the exact same length and style for all this time-- though not for him-- the straight locks ending right at her bra strap. If her body wouldn't change, there was no reason to alter her hairstyle, make pretenses towards a maturity that wouldn't happen. She wonders, silently, if slicing her hair right in front of him would prompt a reaction. All she's looking for out of him is reactions now.
I like your hair. It might be the only compliment that's made her feel anything in half a decade. She glances away and twists a knob on her plugsuit, peeling off her gloves. Asuka's nose is hypersensitive enough to detect those trace cracker crumbs and concentrates still on the fingers. This plugsuit's more sleek than her old one, streamlined. Boring. After getting rid of the neckpiece, all she'd have left would be to depressurize the suit.
Asuka blearily remembers the last time he saw her naked. His face had turned crimson and she'd shrieked like a banshee for daring to peek. A Peeping Tom. A pervert. Then she'd been secretly pleased, wondering if he'd liked it. Deciding he had. Maybe the sight of skin might jar him a little more. It can't make him worse.
She sits down on the bed, removing the collar, looking at him. He'd probably close his eyes for her if she asked, but she doesn't ask before depressurizing the plugsuit and tugging it off her body, leaving it in a heap on the ground. Despite the chill, she's not shivering at all.
Well, Shinji hasn't realized some of the dresses are meant for him. They're in the same petite, cutesy style as the ones Asuka donned when she was an actual girl. Definitely inappropriate for him. Even in his addled state, he assumes that she has at least one pair of pants for him to wear. So, instead of lodging more protests, he sniffles and nods in reply. Her hair should stay right where it is, right as he remembers it.
His overall awareness is so muted that he doesn't think twice about Asuka's removal of her plugsuit. As soon as she tugs off the gloves, he knows what's coming next--she's going to get undressed--but he's expecting her to shuffle somewhere else. There's no way Asuka would disrobe in front of him... It's inconceivable, like a boy wearing a dress would be. It can't be happening. When she snaps open the collar, he doesn't avert his eyes; she should be stepping out of his line of sight soon. She wasn't the most modest girl back then--sometimes she allowed her bra straps to show--but she'd freak the fuck out if he saw too much of her skin. But, without warning, there's the milky reality of her neck and how it connects to her bare shoulders. There's an exposed clavicle and sternum. There's the meager swell of her breasts, capped with nipples that have hardened in the cold. He can't convince himself to look away, so he's treated to the slope of her stomach, her thin but still feminine hips, that dusting of red pubic hair. If she spread her legs any farther, he would be able to see her most private places.
Like a kettle that's slow to boil, Shinji's reaction is just the same. Pale pink embarrassment is leaking onto his face, and it cycles through shades, getting darker and darker. She stripped in front of him. She stripped! In front of him! In front of Ikari Shinji! He hiccups in what might be the fugue's version of a spluttering cough. His face is really warm, increasingly beet-red. It feels like he's swallowed a mouthful of hot water--it's traveling down, down, through his chest, into his stomach. The rush of blood through a body he can't feel the boundaries of is the strangest sensation in the world.
"Wh..."
Other than Ayanami, which was an accident, he has never been this close to a naked girl. His mind is unspooling like a broken cassette tape as he stares and stares and stares.
The thought doesn't come out of nowhere. Shinji's face is steadily darkening from pink to outright red. She doesn't meet his gaze for more than an instant at a time, but she can feel his eyes on her, eyes that haven't been on her in a long time, eyes that aren't wavering from her naked body. A part of her is sickly satisfied as he trails off, grateful. No. Satiated.
What is she doing? What is she thinking? But however long it lasts, this is the closest to the way he used to be that he's been in hours and hours. It's okay if she's had to use her body to do it. It has to be. Right?
Only it's not really about briefly snapping him back now. Her legs cross at the ankles instead of the knees, swinging nervously, childishly, as she sits on the edge of the bed. She's only looking at him in small, cowardly glances. She's unaccustomed to shame, buried as the feeling's been under all her layers of bitterness, but she is ashamed-- both of her immature body and for exposing herself like this, stripping down for a traumatized boy. No matter what her reasons, it's deplorable. Just awful. Asuka's head droops, strands of hair falling across her face. He's seen everything. He knows nothing's changed. She's still trying to get his attention, even under the most dire of circumstances. She hasn't grown up at all, just gotten older, too old for this selfishness--
She grabs the top dress without even looking at it, shoulders slumping, crumpling the material between warm fingers. She barely remembers what it feels like to really touch anything for more than the ten minutes she spends in the shower every day, as if she could wash away the lingering scent of LCL before stepping back into her custom-made prison of a plugsuit. It's nice. It's nice. She lets the dress drop into her lap, wishing she could coil up like a snake, tighter and tighter until she'd squeezed every awful particle of herself away. Do you like it and I'm sorry, I'm sorry compete on her tongue, but all she manages is a little, choked sound as she hangs her head.
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astrobleme) wrote2015-09-13 09:06 pm
no subject
Too bad he hadn't said that years ago. Asuka's kept her hair the exact same length and style for all this time-- though not for him-- the straight locks ending right at her bra strap. If her body wouldn't change, there was no reason to alter her hairstyle, make pretenses towards a maturity that wouldn't happen. She wonders, silently, if slicing her hair right in front of him would prompt a reaction. All she's looking for out of him is reactions now.
I like your hair. It might be the only compliment that's made her feel anything in half a decade. She glances away and twists a knob on her plugsuit, peeling off her gloves. Asuka's nose is hypersensitive enough to detect those trace cracker crumbs and concentrates still on the fingers. This plugsuit's more sleek than her old one, streamlined. Boring. After getting rid of the neckpiece, all she'd have left would be to depressurize the suit.
Asuka blearily remembers the last time he saw her naked. His face had turned crimson and she'd shrieked like a banshee for daring to peek. A Peeping Tom. A pervert. Then she'd been secretly pleased, wondering if he'd liked it. Deciding he had. Maybe the sight of skin might jar him a little more. It can't make him worse.
She sits down on the bed, removing the collar, looking at him. He'd probably close his eyes for her if she asked, but she doesn't ask before depressurizing the plugsuit and tugging it off her body, leaving it in a heap on the ground. Despite the chill, she's not shivering at all.
no subject
His overall awareness is so muted that he doesn't think twice about Asuka's removal of her plugsuit. As soon as she tugs off the gloves, he knows what's coming next--she's going to get undressed--but he's expecting her to shuffle somewhere else. There's no way Asuka would disrobe in front of him... It's inconceivable, like a boy wearing a dress would be. It can't be happening. When she snaps open the collar, he doesn't avert his eyes; she should be stepping out of his line of sight soon. She wasn't the most modest girl back then--sometimes she allowed her bra straps to show--but she'd freak the fuck out if he saw too much of her skin. But, without warning, there's the milky reality of her neck and how it connects to her bare shoulders. There's an exposed clavicle and sternum. There's the meager swell of her breasts, capped with nipples that have hardened in the cold. He can't convince himself to look away, so he's treated to the slope of her stomach, her thin but still feminine hips, that dusting of red pubic hair. If she spread her legs any farther, he would be able to see her most private places.
Like a kettle that's slow to boil, Shinji's reaction is just the same. Pale pink embarrassment is leaking onto his face, and it cycles through shades, getting darker and darker. She stripped in front of him. She stripped! In front of him! In front of Ikari Shinji! He hiccups in what might be the fugue's version of a spluttering cough. His face is really warm, increasingly beet-red. It feels like he's swallowed a mouthful of hot water--it's traveling down, down, through his chest, into his stomach. The rush of blood through a body he can't feel the boundaries of is the strangest sensation in the world.
"Wh..."
Other than Ayanami, which was an accident, he has never been this close to a naked girl. His mind is unspooling like a broken cassette tape as he stares and stares and stares.
no subject
The thought doesn't come out of nowhere. Shinji's face is steadily darkening from pink to outright red. She doesn't meet his gaze for more than an instant at a time, but she can feel his eyes on her, eyes that haven't been on her in a long time, eyes that aren't wavering from her naked body. A part of her is sickly satisfied as he trails off, grateful. No. Satiated.
What is she doing? What is she thinking? But however long it lasts, this is the closest to the way he used to be that he's been in hours and hours. It's okay if she's had to use her body to do it. It has to be. Right?
Only it's not really about briefly snapping him back now. Her legs cross at the ankles instead of the knees, swinging nervously, childishly, as she sits on the edge of the bed. She's only looking at him in small, cowardly glances. She's unaccustomed to shame, buried as the feeling's been under all her layers of bitterness, but she is ashamed-- both of her immature body and for exposing herself like this, stripping down for a traumatized boy. No matter what her reasons, it's deplorable. Just awful. Asuka's head droops, strands of hair falling across her face. He's seen everything. He knows nothing's changed. She's still trying to get his attention, even under the most dire of circumstances. She hasn't grown up at all, just gotten older, too old for this selfishness--
She grabs the top dress without even looking at it, shoulders slumping, crumpling the material between warm fingers. She barely remembers what it feels like to really touch anything for more than the ten minutes she spends in the shower every day, as if she could wash away the lingering scent of LCL before stepping back into her custom-made prison of a plugsuit. It's nice. It's nice. She lets the dress drop into her lap, wishing she could coil up like a snake, tighter and tighter until she'd squeezed every awful particle of herself away. Do you like it and I'm sorry, I'm sorry compete on her tongue, but all she manages is a little, choked sound as she hangs her head.