Foster is, as usual, not wearing anything but those pyjama pants, so pulling them down from his hips exposes him completely. Her indulgence is exciting and shameful all at once--it is his perversion she's accommodating, and he has a shiver that's not just the chill of the bathtub or the touch of air on his flushed skin. He steps out of the pyjama pants and sits--well, actually, he sits on them, knees bent, legs slightly apart, sparing his backside the cold of the tub's bottom for at least a moment.
He feels her eyes on his body, feels how much more... vulnerable he is in the bare tub rather than on a bed or over a table or even on the floor.
He doesn't speak, because he knows better. Whatever role his is now, it's not that something permitted human speech.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-10-23 03:53 am (UTC)He feels her eyes on his body, feels how much more... vulnerable he is in the bare tub rather than on a bed or over a table or even on the floor.
He doesn't speak, because he knows better. Whatever role his is now, it's not that something permitted human speech.