He sighs. The dubious "jig" is up. He stops with his fussing and pushes a sleeve up. He reveals a colorful collage of images, wrapped around and interlocked all around his arm but for one waving black stripe that works it's way down. The images don't seem to stop where his sleeve does.
"They're tattoos. And not supposed to be there. The world I came from gave them to me. And no, far as I am aware, I was not in a gang." But he still doesn't really know.
She sniffs fervently at his exposed arm, and while she just barely bites back any exclamations of how cool those tattoos are, the impression is clear on her face. They are, indeed, cool as fuck.
The mention of gangs gets him a small look--What would gangs have to do with any of that? But it's easily brushed aside. "Man, lucky you. All I got from my world is a bunch of lousy scars." Among other things...
"You still didn't mention why you were hiding it. If I had arms like that, I'd rip the sleeves off every shirt I own and charge people money to stare." She comes a little closer, trying to get a better sniff, then pauses a moment.
"Can I lick it? Or do you want to just pretend I didn't ask that?"
She seems to love the tattoos and the more she expresses as much the more his frown deepens. It is clear they are on a very, very different page. But he can at least answer her. Just one thing to get out of the way first.
"We're going to pretend very hard you didn't just ask that," He says with a wry, bracing grin. He starts tugging his sleeve down.
"I'd rather scars than this," He says, honestly. "For one, they make me look like a street thug, and a tool at that. For two..." He hesitates, debating on saying it when it might just get him even more questions. Finally, he goes on, "I don't like what some of them represent. They're not things I'd get tattoos of even if I were that kind of person."
He takes it well, but she's clearly not allowed to partake of the decadent buffet stretched across his biceps... Spoil sport. She shrugs a little at his wry grin, as if to say 'your loss'... even if it's not.
"Well, I can promise that you don't smell like a tool, so you're good there," she informs him, trying to keep things somewhat light. She's a little more curious about that second part, though. So, just as casually, she adds another question: "What sort of things do they represent?"
His mouth presses to a line. This is the real reason he wouldn't get tattoos like this. Questions. Assumptions. Looking too close at what it all means.
But he can't pretend he hasn't looked.
"It's a bunch of metaphors," He says. "Things I've said. Things I had and lost. Little reminders about the crappier parts of what I am." A pause. "A few markings I had already. I think, whoever or whatever was in control of the world I came from, they wanted some way to highlight who and what I am, even while trying to force me into their new story." He frowns. "If you're that curious, I'll tell you a few at a time, but I don't really want to go into all of them and definitely not at once."
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pythianjudgment) wrote2013-11-02 10:30 pm
no subject
"They're tattoos. And not supposed to be there. The world I came from gave them to me. And no, far as I am aware, I was not in a gang." But he still doesn't really know.
no subject
The mention of gangs gets him a small look--What would gangs have to do with any of that? But it's easily brushed aside. "Man, lucky you. All I got from my world is a bunch of lousy scars." Among other things...
"You still didn't mention why you were hiding it. If I had arms like that, I'd rip the sleeves off every shirt I own and charge people money to stare." She comes a little closer, trying to get a better sniff, then pauses a moment.
"Can I lick it? Or do you want to just pretend I didn't ask that?"
no subject
"We're going to pretend very hard you didn't just ask that," He says with a wry, bracing grin. He starts tugging his sleeve down.
"I'd rather scars than this," He says, honestly. "For one, they make me look like a street thug, and a tool at that. For two..." He hesitates, debating on saying it when it might just get him even more questions. Finally, he goes on, "I don't like what some of them represent. They're not things I'd get tattoos of even if I were that kind of person."
no subject
"Well, I can promise that you don't smell like a tool, so you're good there," she informs him, trying to keep things somewhat light. She's a little more curious about that second part, though. So, just as casually, she adds another question: "What sort of things do they represent?"
no subject
But he can't pretend he hasn't looked.
"It's a bunch of metaphors," He says. "Things I've said. Things I had and lost. Little reminders about the crappier parts of what I am." A pause. "A few markings I had already. I think, whoever or whatever was in control of the world I came from, they wanted some way to highlight who and what I am, even while trying to force me into their new story." He frowns. "If you're that curious, I'll tell you a few at a time, but I don't really want to go into all of them and definitely not at once."