The thing about someone constantly offering themselves, is that sooner or later you're bound to be in a weak, opportune enough moment to need them. Once that happens once, and again, oh and just once more - you actually come to rely on them. Comfortable, familiar. You know them and they know you.

(In this case, probably better than Robin even knows herself. It's tempting, so tempting, when you know someone has seen so much and yet accepts you unconditionally.)

She shouldn't; she knows. It's a terrible mixed signal to play with the push and pull, and yet Tharja doesn't seem to mind, says it's what she wants. Maybe she just likes the chase best of all, and it gives her a reason to reset. So it goes. That another night, another throbbing in her head that cracks her vision into streaks of Thoron with voices that boom terrible things, and it leaves her brain aching in their wake, she calls Tharja to hold her close instead of standing by. She is the only one who knows.

No it's not a curse, she assures once again, slithering soothing fingers through twintails, but she'll help her sleep it off, like usual.

So nice, Tharja really is; caring and kind. She takes care of Robin, in a way. She meditates on this, as they tangle side-by-side on cushions in her tent. Thoughts are warmer and softer, like the ample curves she leans against and the silken sheer of what covers them. She snuggles in, and Tharja hums slow and happy (though an eerie tune, Plegian, she still finds comfort in it).

With each note, Robin offers a kiss to what's nearest by - from below the neck, and to the end of each inch of her collarbone. She presses gratitude into the woman's chest before settling her head into welcoming arms and drifting to sleep.