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It's rare to get a smile out of Tatsu. When Harley asked her to be shown the ropes, she barely got a side-eye for her trouble. Okay, the pun might've missed the mark by miles, but even Mount Rushmore has more facial expressions to offer.
Tatsu's hands, though, speak a different language. They're engaged. They map out every road for the rope to travel, guide it on its way, and leave warm trails where they tie the knots. Harley tingles where she touches. With every tightening coil, Harley feels lighter somehow, freer, less naked than before. Harley ain't usually one for bondage. Not only because of the trust that's required, but because she's too restless and longs for action. But this – Tatsu's fingers skimming over her skin, the hemp rope digging into it, hugging her close – this is crazy meditative.
The tension drains right out of her.
Harley eases into it, barely aware of how she's bent off-balance and into shape. Snug and secure, she's floating even before she's suspended, a ballerina frozen mid-jeté. She could stay like this forever, a pretty package without weight or form.
Once the ropes come off again, Harley feels cold and exposed. With her safety net unraveled, she requires a steadying hand and some comfort to come down. Tatsu has her, and in that moment, she's Harley's everything, like there's no one else on set. Her eyes are so soft, her expression so open that Harley doesn't need a smile to know she's accepted.