[ The raised and carved skin that map burnt-red marks are dead tissue: fried nerve endings are less than adept at picking up sensation (it's not a lie when he says that his scars don't hurt anymore), but the graze of fingers still send chills up his spine, makes him brace against his elbows and rasp a breath over the curve of Oona's lips. ]
...Don't provoke me. I'm not a saint.
[ Spartan, yes. Sparing, absolutely. Selfish? No. A saint? Also no. It still eats at him, he still bleeds from where the ring touches his chest under his shirt, but the sound of Oona's voice and her hum cutting through his ears prompts his voice to pitch low, his brows to furrow visibly.
Not in any discomfort, no— it's restraint.
He ducks his head so that she can't read his expression, slides down to rest his jaw on an exposed neck from where his shirt (it looks better on Oona, he decides) dips down too low. Her scars are there like the ones that litter his own body, but they look more like coral forests to him; he traces a long line with his mouth, down to her clavicle. ]
no subject
...Don't provoke me. I'm not a saint.
[ Spartan, yes. Sparing, absolutely. Selfish? No. A saint? Also no. It still eats at him, he still bleeds from where the ring touches his chest under his shirt, but the sound of Oona's voice and her hum cutting through his ears prompts his voice to pitch low, his brows to furrow visibly.
Not in any discomfort, no— it's restraint.
He ducks his head so that she can't read his expression, slides down to rest his jaw on an exposed neck from where his shirt (it looks better on Oona, he decides) dips down too low. Her scars are there like the ones that litter his own body, but they look more like coral forests to him; he traces a long line with his mouth, down to her clavicle. ]