mycursedface | (no subject)

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sam linnfer

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One day, Medusa (who has entirely forgotten about being told what Valentine's Day is, and that a Certain Someone Forgot) finally decides that Lucifer Needs To Get Out More, and goes to Milliways to kidnap him.

Sam is very much not adverse to this kidnapping, possibly because Medusa is wearing a very pretty bodice.

Beyond Milliways' front door is an open area as would grace any farm; chickens in their house, a couple of goats stoped from their quest to eat the vegatables by a cunning wall, a shed and the peach-coloured wall of Medusa's own garden. There is another low building, too low to be anything but built partly under ground.

It's late afternoon, and actually fairly cool - autumn does that, even in North Africa.

And while she would give him a grand tour of the outside, she does have things cooking in the kitchen, so she leads him down some steps and around the corner. The kitchen is a large cavern, doubling as their main living space, and it is back up against the bathhouse. No sense in wasting heat, after all.

There is a large table in the middle, a working table, and it's a working kitchen for three people who love food and eat a lot.

"Welcome to my home."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mmmm, Medakissing. This is definitely Sam's favourite kind.

Which is why the only reason he pulls away - when he eventually pulls away - is to grin at her, bright and happy.

Eyes half closed, voice a little dreamy,

"I...I said not until after dinner, didn't I?"

"You did," Sam admits, delicately stroking one of her snakes.

"But I'm willing to forget you did if you are."

She shivers as he does that, and the snake pushes against his hand.

"Oh. Oh, okay. Can...can you forget?"

"For the right reason," he says softly, dropping a brief kiss onto her upturned lips.

"And you're always the right reason."

It's ridiculous, she thinks, how happy this is making her. Happy enough for it to hurt.

She's never going to complain, though.

"Come with me, then."

This is good. Complaints are not the point of the exercise, after all.

Sam grins, kissing under her ear this time, and takes her hand again.

"Of course."

She leads him to her room - a circular cavern, small enough to be comfortable and large enough that she can spread her wings. Mosiacs on the floor, walls and ceiling - patterns, geometric and lovely, with little cranies for lamps. She lights one, turns, and kisses him again. On the mouth, slow and teasing with her hands running up his arms.

Her bed is slightly raised, and made up of piles of rugs in the desert-nomad fashion. Perfectly comfortable.

Sam has been following her happily, periodically kissing her arms, shoulders, neck, cheek as they walk.

When she kisses him he kisses back just as slowly, his hands on her waist and his fingers drumming a little against her soft skin.

This time, she whimpers softly in response, even as her hands go to the bottom of his shirt and roll it up.

Sam reluctantly takes his hands off her, raising his arms to let her pull the shirt over his head, and doesn't stop kissing her until he absolutely has to to let the shirt come off.

This is why Medusa is firmly convinced her own clothes are far, far more sensible than his - all he has to do is untie the two small sets of lace of her shirt.

Sam's shirt is dumped on the floor, but not before she starts to giggle at him.

"You," kiss, "should look at your hair."

"Why?" Sam asks, nimble fingers quickly undoing the laces of her shirt.

As it falls off: "I'd much sooner be looking at you."

Solemnly,

"It's a mess."

"I gathered that," he says, unruffled. (Unlike the aforementioned hair.) "I just don't care."

"I think that," she says, a trifle absent-minded as she undoes his belt, "is a very good thing."

"Oh, good," he murmurs, kissing her briefly. "I like it when you approve."

"Mmmhmmm."

Distracted. Working. Belt is being tossed onto the floor.

Sam watches her, head bowed just a little, running his hands caressingly along her sides.

(He doesn't want her too distracted, not just yet)

Button, zip (tricksy things, jeans), and she glances up through her lashes as she hooks fingers around the top and slides them down.

Sam's watching her, dark eyes wanting. He slides his hands slowly along her sides.

His hands are distracting, and gentle, and teasing, and far, far too good at...whatever it is he is doing. Making her blush, if nothing else.

"You could help," she points out (voice husky and snakes hissing a soft undercurrent) once her hands have slid down his thighs.

"I could do," Sam agrees, his voice a murmur and his hands still moving over her skin. "But you're doing so well on your own."

His pants are now low enough to drop on their own, so she kisses him again. Deeply, passionately, with one hand around the back of his neck.

The other hand is trailing back up, claws ever-so-light against his skin.

Sam kisses her with just as much passion, and though it's just a little rough there's something completely adoring about his kiss too. He makes a soft, growling sound far back in his throat as her claws skate over her skin, hands neatly flicking down her panties to leave them pooling at her feet.