what a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you
After this:
Medusa is in Sam's room, alone, and, yes, she's still annoyed. Angry. Despite the cookies and calming down, because it's just playing into other frustrations, and without being able to read, she doesn't have a lot of ways to distract herself, which she needs because after a week or so or however long it's been, here with him and it's...
Lucifer-who-calls-himself-Sam is many, many things. Kind and gorgeous and he makes her laugh and he is careful, careful, careful and gentle and just occasionally Medusa wants him to pick her up, dump her on the table and, just for once, kiss her roughly.
Among other things.
Other things involving hands and hot, hot, hot skin and that wicked voice of his whispering words dirty, filthy and lovely. Other things involving mouths kissing skin instead of lips, leaving red marks and making her feel giddy, swollen, unaware. Run his hands down her wings because metal, yes, but she can feel it against her skin and it feels good. Scratch her claws down his back and whisper please as his hands-
(she wishes that in her mind, if only in her mind, his pants had long since been discarded on the floor but she can't, she can't, she can't)
- well, she just likes his hands.
Not that, Medusa thinks as she chews her bottom lip in something akin to anger, he would. Fragile Medusa, breakable Medusa, as Atton made perfectly clear and even that fact that, normally, she adores being treated gently and (because she is in that frame of mind) gentle can be a torment all of its own, does nothing to relieve her current frustration.
Fuck it. Fuck him (that's the idea) and when Sam walks in his room, messy-haired and still out of breath from training, Medusa ignores the sword in his hand to shove him against the door and kiss him.
Hard.
Medusa is in Sam's room, alone, and, yes, she's still annoyed. Angry. Despite the cookies and calming down, because it's just playing into other frustrations, and without being able to read, she doesn't have a lot of ways to distract herself, which she needs because after a week or so or however long it's been, here with him and it's...
Lucifer-who-calls-himself-Sam is many, many things. Kind and gorgeous and he makes her laugh and he is careful, careful, careful and gentle and just occasionally Medusa wants him to pick her up, dump her on the table and, just for once, kiss her roughly.
Among other things.
Other things involving hands and hot, hot, hot skin and that wicked voice of his whispering words dirty, filthy and lovely. Other things involving mouths kissing skin instead of lips, leaving red marks and making her feel giddy, swollen, unaware. Run his hands down her wings because metal, yes, but she can feel it against her skin and it feels good. Scratch her claws down his back and whisper please as his hands-
(she wishes that in her mind, if only in her mind, his pants had long since been discarded on the floor but she can't, she can't, she can't)
- well, she just likes his hands.
Not that, Medusa thinks as she chews her bottom lip in something akin to anger, he would. Fragile Medusa, breakable Medusa, as Atton made perfectly clear and even that fact that, normally, she adores being treated gently and (because she is in that frame of mind) gentle can be a torment all of its own, does nothing to relieve her current frustration.
Fuck it. Fuck him (that's the idea) and when Sam walks in his room, messy-haired and still out of breath from training, Medusa ignores the sword in his hand to shove him against the door and kiss him.
Hard.