"Oh, they do," he murmurs as she traces his scars, "as long as you get them before." Every mark he carries now has come from after the change, each one a souvenir of a newborn lucky enough to get the bite in, unlucky enough to get the bite in on him. Hundreds, maybe thousands, all of them dead by his hand. It used to flood him with guilt, but he's realized more recently that his guilt comes less from his regrets at his actions and more from the fact that these gentle people he's surrounded himself with have been burdened with the knowledge of those deaths.
Natasha isn't one of those people. He doesn't need to feel as though he's burdening her with that knowledge. So he doesn't shy away from her exploration of his scars, although he doesn't elaborate yet either. Plenty of time to tell his stories, possibly even a few he's held back from relating before, for the sake of propriety. There's something singularly fascinating about having found someone who won't shy away from anything he's done, someone he can talk to who won't brush it aside with a placating 'you never need to do that again.' Yes, it's a relief to know he won't need to be that particular flavor of monster again, but that doesn't mean it hadn't happened.
He moves easily enough when she moves him, unresisting, letting her set the pace and the position. He'd learned from his brother's mistakes, he supposes, but giving her this measure of control may have been a mistake, if she's going to use it to draw things out to this extent. His eyes never waver from her as she settles on him and smiles, and when she finally leans over to tease at him and taste, he exhales slowly and takes the risk of reaching out to slide fingers through her hair, just once before he pulls his hand back. It's a struggle not to move, but he knows he's very likely to move too quickly, with too much strength, and so he stays still, unblinking, savoring the heat from her hands and her mouth, even the warm weight on his legs as she's perched there. It's a gift, and he's going to treat it as such, but the question makes him smile and sit up just enough to be able to reach out and cup her cheek carefully.
"I am," he says simply, tracing her cheekbone with a thumb. "I'm sure, Natalia."
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Natasha isn't one of those people. He doesn't need to feel as though he's burdening her with that knowledge. So he doesn't shy away from her exploration of his scars, although he doesn't elaborate yet either. Plenty of time to tell his stories, possibly even a few he's held back from relating before, for the sake of propriety. There's something singularly fascinating about having found someone who won't shy away from anything he's done, someone he can talk to who won't brush it aside with a placating 'you never need to do that again.' Yes, it's a relief to know he won't need to be that particular flavor of monster again, but that doesn't mean it hadn't happened.
He moves easily enough when she moves him, unresisting, letting her set the pace and the position. He'd learned from his brother's mistakes, he supposes, but giving her this measure of control may have been a mistake, if she's going to use it to draw things out to this extent. His eyes never waver from her as she settles on him and smiles, and when she finally leans over to tease at him and taste, he exhales slowly and takes the risk of reaching out to slide fingers through her hair, just once before he pulls his hand back. It's a struggle not to move, but he knows he's very likely to move too quickly, with too much strength, and so he stays still, unblinking, savoring the heat from her hands and her mouth, even the warm weight on his legs as she's perched there. It's a gift, and he's going to treat it as such, but the question makes him smile and sit up just enough to be able to reach out and cup her cheek carefully.
"I am," he says simply, tracing her cheekbone with a thumb. "I'm sure, Natalia."