She laughs again, drawing idle patterns on his skin with her fingers. Any time her touch discovers a scar, she traces it, feeling the raised reminders of violence enacted upon him. They would make her sad, were they not proof of his survival.
"I serve no-one," she says, and turns her head to better hear the thrum of his heart through his chest. "Except you."
Thea moves to snake her arms over his shoulders, around his neck. Getting to be face to face with him, while pinned, is no easy task, and the feeling of her body sliding against his to pull herself closer is perhaps too stimulating this early in the morning, but as much as she loves to be crushed she also wants to be able to see him, his eyes, kiss his lips, press her face into his neck and inhale his scent.
He does his best to make it easier, even if, the same as the first time, once he touches her skin, her body, it's a herculean task to pull away from her. Her warmth, that soft smell of olive oil and incense he could inhale deeply and sustain himself on for weeks, he felt.
Watching her features delicately shift, her deep brown skin illuminated far better now with the morning light then what the Cult had fed her. "You don't have to do that, now. Not for anyone."
That he will make sure of. He still does not know what he feels for the Cult. For what had been done to him. But watching her soft lips part in easiness. No, he will not accept anything else but that happiness fill her, ever again.
She lets that settle in for a moment. She doesn't have to serve anyone anymore. In the midst of haze, she would insist that she served the Gods, served the Cult, served him, and that it was what she was made for. Right now, she still feels the tug of those words wanting to be spoken, but she can finally resist that conditioning with a clear head and really think about who she serves and why.
She doesn't have to serve him, but she wants to, because she loves him. She puts her hands on either side of his face, looking at him like a sacred work of art despite his imperfections, his scars, his past. No, not despite it all. Those things contribute to how beautiful he is to her, like a shattered vase repaired with gold.
"Bastard, now I have to tell you the secret," she says, smiling at him. The way she says bastard sounds more like a term of endearment than an insult, reflecting the same soft adoration that shows in her eyes and the curl of her lips. "I...know that I don't have to serve anyone. But you're not just anyone to me."
Thea takes a moment to brush her fingertip down the line of his nose, tapping the tip once. Boop. When she tells him the secret, her voice is merely a whisper. One must always whisper secrets, after all.
He stills. Over her, around her, he stills. Look at her features in a rapture.
This is so unbelievably precious a thing. Small and fragile, Aphrodite herself had blessed him with it, he was sure, though he had not ever given offerings enough to sway her favour in such a way.
His voice is rough - but it's neither lust nor anger, in truth he doesn't know what it is. "Athessa..."
There isn't a complete absence of fear and doubt in her — as ever there is a thin tendril that worms its way through the cracks, tries to whisper fell nothings into her ears and sow seeds of uncertainty — but what fears she has and what doubts she has pale in comparison to the love that threatens to burst from her chest. To split her apart at the seams with not a bang but a soft sigh.
He doesn't have to say it to her. She knows he loves her, even if he doesn't have the words. He says it in the way he looks at her, the way he touches her, the way he saved her. He is a creature of war and pain but there is gentleness that he bestows on her and that alone is enough.
"I love you," she says again, mapping his face with her fingers. She could be struck blind and still see that face with touch alone. If she was smiling before, her face splits into a grin now, barely containing the joy that illuminates her from saying three simple syllables. It's like a fire ignited, its smoke stinging her eyes with happy tears and she can't not say it again: "I. Love. You."
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no subject
"I serve no-one," she says, and turns her head to better hear the thrum of his heart through his chest. "Except you."
Thea moves to snake her arms over his shoulders, around his neck. Getting to be face to face with him, while pinned, is no easy task, and the feeling of her body sliding against his to pull herself closer is perhaps too stimulating this early in the morning, but as much as she loves to be crushed she also wants to be able to see him, his eyes, kiss his lips, press her face into his neck and inhale his scent.
no subject
Watching her features delicately shift, her deep brown skin illuminated far better now with the morning light then what the Cult had fed her. "You don't have to do that, now. Not for anyone."
That he will make sure of. He still does not know what he feels for the Cult. For what had been done to him. But watching her soft lips part in easiness. No, he will not accept anything else but that happiness fill her, ever again.
no subject
She doesn't have to serve him, but she wants to, because she loves him. She puts her hands on either side of his face, looking at him like a sacred work of art despite his imperfections, his scars, his past. No, not despite it all. Those things contribute to how beautiful he is to her, like a shattered vase repaired with gold.
"Bastard, now I have to tell you the secret," she says, smiling at him. The way she says bastard sounds more like a term of endearment than an insult, reflecting the same soft adoration that shows in her eyes and the curl of her lips. "I...know that I don't have to serve anyone. But you're not just anyone to me."
Thea takes a moment to brush her fingertip down the line of his nose, tapping the tip once. Boop. When she tells him the secret, her voice is merely a whisper. One must always whisper secrets, after all.
"I love you."
no subject
This is so unbelievably precious a thing. Small and fragile, Aphrodite herself had blessed him with it, he was sure, though he had not ever given offerings enough to sway her favour in such a way.
His voice is rough - but it's neither lust nor anger, in truth he doesn't know what it is. "Athessa..."
no subject
He doesn't have to say it to her. She knows he loves her, even if he doesn't have the words. He says it in the way he looks at her, the way he touches her, the way he saved her. He is a creature of war and pain but there is gentleness that he bestows on her and that alone is enough.
"I love you," she says again, mapping his face with her fingers. She could be struck blind and still see that face with touch alone. If she was smiling before, her face splits into a grin now, barely containing the joy that illuminates her from saying three simple syllables. It's like a fire ignited, its smoke stinging her eyes with happy tears and she can't not say it again: "I. Love. You."
And she kisses him, laughing.