[ Various beeps and clatters of medical paraphernalia echoing on their tray, he takes a seat where she can't see him save for the lone horn protruding from beyond the barrier over her lap. As if to postpone the inevitable, his hands wander the curves of her buttocks first; the only surface part of her left that he hasn't touched. Or... almost, but not quite. She'll be able to hear the unmistakable snap of surgical gloves, reminiscent of countless routine and military physicals over the course of her life.
He is delicate, professional in the way he examines her: careful over her innermost thighs, the weaker connective tissues where leg meets body, the soft tidy little expanses where her hair is trimmed for reasons he's peripherally aware of but doesn't understand, and it's the sight of how wet she is that bashes him against his insistent mental refrain that this is technical. Words that go with parts (parts of Shepard), terms for particular structures (mons pubis,
labia majora, labia minora,
clitoral hood),
and because he is so professional it is over so soon and somehow nothing catastrophic has occurred. But this was just the beginning, wasn't it.
He almost, almost asks her if she has a preference about where to start before deciding it's better just to get on with it, choosing to take care of the likely more unpleasant portion first. That it is also likely the less erotically-charged portion for her is not coincidental. All in all, he finds himself fretting about the best way to go about it more than usual—could've had her turn on her side, bend over the table, but... preoccupied with her comfort. Maybe above and beyond the call of duty.
Maybe prefers her to feel good.
The thought is terrifying.
Fortunately for occasions such as these, Mordin is really, really good at compartmentalization.
His tone is softer now, as though apologetic. ]
Will... probably be cold. Hopefully not for long.
[ Maybe it's not a bad thing that Mordin's fingers are a little slimmer than a human's would be. But no matter how slim or how gentle or how assisted, there's only so much you can do to detract from the awareness of one sliding into your butt. Sorry, Shepard. ]
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branchandroot
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Date: 2014-06-14 08:57 am (UTC)He is delicate, professional in the way he examines her: careful over her innermost thighs, the weaker connective tissues where leg meets body, the soft tidy little expanses where her hair is trimmed for reasons he's peripherally aware of but doesn't understand, and it's the sight of how wet she is that bashes him against his insistent mental refrain that this is technical. Words that go with parts (parts of Shepard), terms for particular structures (mons pubis,
labia majora, labia minora,
clitoral hood),
and because he is so professional it is over so soon and somehow nothing catastrophic has occurred. But this was just the beginning, wasn't it.
He almost, almost asks her if she has a preference about where to start before deciding it's better just to get on with it, choosing to take care of the likely more unpleasant portion first. That it is also likely the less erotically-charged portion for her is not coincidental. All in all, he finds himself fretting about the best way to go about it more than usual—could've had her turn on her side, bend over the table, but... preoccupied with her comfort. Maybe above and beyond the call of duty.
Maybe prefers her to feel good.
The thought is terrifying.
Fortunately for occasions such as these, Mordin is really, really good at compartmentalization.
His tone is softer now, as though apologetic. ]
Will... probably be cold. Hopefully not for long.
[ Maybe it's not a bad thing that Mordin's fingers are a little slimmer than a human's would be. But no matter how slim or how gentle or how assisted, there's only so much you can do to detract from the awareness of one sliding into your butt. Sorry, Shepard. ]