[ her fingers dig into his scalp, tugging at his hair, as his teeth graze her neck. he's doing this on purpose, deliberately disregarding her command, teasing her with his laugh and his bite that isn't really a bite at all. she actually likes it a little better this way, him not listening to her, having a mind of his own. it makes things interesting, unpredictable, exciting.
he hoists her up and for the first time she's actually looking down at him instead of up, and she can't say she doesn't like the view. she almost expects him to shove her into the wall, but he doesn't, which is actually a little disappointing. where's the anger from before, the intensity? here is the raging inferno that nearly destroyed olympus reduced to only an ember. if he wants her to channel her rage, he'll have to meet her with the same level of intensity.
her legs curl around his hips, and she presses herself hard against him, the heat of him nearly searing her flesh beneath only the thin layers of fabric she wears. she thinks for a moment that it isn't fair that she's already half naked, but she's distracted by the way he looks at her, even just by the way he looks. it occurs to her she's never seen his face this close before and she takes a moment to stare at him, matching his expression with as much mischievousness but also with a hint of curiosity.
absently, she runs her fingers over the long scar under his right eye, almost with a sense of awe. she's no stranger to battle scars — they define her, scattered across her body, old and new testaments to her losses as well as her victories. they hold stories only scars can tell; some she wants to share, while others need no explanation. some she wears with pride, others with shame, though every scar is a victory in the end — proof that you're still alive to fight another battle, whether you win or lose.
she leans in, not to kiss him, just to tug at his lip with her teeth, breathing one word against his mouth. ]
no subject
he hoists her up and for the first time she's actually looking down at him instead of up, and she can't say she doesn't like the view. she almost expects him to shove her into the wall, but he doesn't, which is actually a little disappointing. where's the anger from before, the intensity? here is the raging inferno that nearly destroyed olympus reduced to only an ember. if he wants her to channel her rage, he'll have to meet her with the same level of intensity.
her legs curl around his hips, and she presses herself hard against him, the heat of him nearly searing her flesh beneath only the thin layers of fabric she wears. she thinks for a moment that it isn't fair that she's already half naked, but she's distracted by the way he looks at her, even just by the way he looks. it occurs to her she's never seen his face this close before and she takes a moment to stare at him, matching his expression with as much mischievousness but also with a hint of curiosity.
absently, she runs her fingers over the long scar under his right eye, almost with a sense of awe. she's no stranger to battle scars — they define her, scattered across her body, old and new testaments to her losses as well as her victories. they hold stories only scars can tell; some she wants to share, while others need no explanation. some she wears with pride, others with shame, though every scar is a victory in the end — proof that you're still alive to fight another battle, whether you win or lose.
she leans in, not to kiss him, just to tug at his lip with her teeth, breathing one word against his mouth. ]
Both.