From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
Passionate reflections and resounding pleas, equalities and measures in pleasure; the Reaper fully intent on ensuring she’s had her satisfaction, her release. He could be selfish, mercenary, and greedy, but not in this, taking only to give back in return. It was how they functioned, how they burned, how they smoldered and scintillated against one another, back and forth, reward for reward, justice in the lustful renewal, in the ardent haze of unholy worship. His kisses were promises, pledges, and vows, avaricious and simmering, a fume, molten smoke on a heated sigh, on an indulgent decree. The fiend swallowed down her whimpers, her whispers, on the crescendo of his might, of his will, of his carnal affection, devouring them whole, consuming the dazed hymns, the aches, the yearns, the longing, hankering turns. He absorbed her begging, her pleading, with a snicker, with a smirk, with some smug, superior pride, that he could initiate and goad such reactions, that he could prompt upheaval in more than just the world – but in her, in him, echoes of cravings and inclinations rushing them headlong into grasping, into gasping, into contorting their frames back into primordial, beckoning strands. It swooned and sighed, clawed and grasped, tugged and cajoled, conjuring inveigling qualities, seductive endeavors, granting, granting, granting, seizing, pushing, a game of embraces and allure, beguiling the senses, both insisting the other have their fill.
His name was on her tongue and he did the same, intonating syllables and phrases across his lips, his mouth, his teeth, too many other intricacies and intimacies buried and burrowed in their hold, in their flesh, in their skin, groaning on her simper, breath a pant, a decree, on sin and sin and sin. His kisses continued, acquisitive and overwhelming, melding and melting, tongue sliding past soft lips and thresholds, adding his mewls, his groans, his simpers. They were wild and savage, and he didn’t care, didn’t give a damn, wanting the chords of her ecstasy to ring off of the walls; finger still caressing down, down, down, inclining and ascending, descending and imploring, wanting her songs to be moans, wanting her mewls to be liberation and release, wanting, wanting, wanting in their patterns. Sometimes it was a flutter, like hummingbird wings, and sometimes he gave her exactly what she hankered for - more, another digit rounding her core, delicate and tender, each one playing off the other. He sketched and outlined as if she were his latest oeuvre, his muse, a masterpiece in the making, artist and conductor, intending to tighten the strings for her brilliant hallelujah.
On and on and on he pushes, deeper and deeper, playing her like a melody, a symphony of strings in skillful hands. Sometimes his touches are feather-light and teasing, playing against the curves, the edges, enticing her into whimpers and murmurs, dulcet exhalations of desire and lust. Other times he rises the notes to crescendo, swift and adoring, measured and firm. He shifts her singing from a sonata to a symphony, mewls exaggerated into moans, heady and heavy and feral and his. His name is a broken refrain on her tongue, syllables patterned and played in staccato, little notes and fractured letters, reverent and wanton and full of ardor. Her hips rise in tandem with her actions, pulling and pushing and wanting and and hungry, as though she is a starving thing, dehydrated in the desert, an oasis in his touch.
She's close - she's close - and considering where she started she would be hard-pressed to hold out, to do anything other than ache and abandon, her body contorting in contours of lust. One leg stays hooked around his waist; the other pulls out of the tub entirely, widening, gripping, as she takes all he offers, feeling the rise of heat in her belly, the imminent onset of blissful release. Her right hand tangles and tears at his mane; her left slinks downward, tracing lines of his back, claws on his scapulae as she arches and aches. A guttural groan pulls from deep in her chest; "Deimos," she groans out from between clenched teeth, the hymn of his name pressed against his lips. Her tongue pushes forward, plundering, seeking, as her body shivers and dances and burns, her finale a lightning storm behind closed eyes. "Deimos, Deimos, Deimos-"
Amalia exhales and falls back into the tub, her body limp and shuddering, shock-waves rocking through her delicate form. For a minute it is all she can to to simply breathe, still shivering, still shaking, a spent and satisfied smile on her lips, her eyelids fluttering against raised cheekbones. Something like a purr vibrates through her as she hums a wordless yet eloquent note. "So much for cleaning," Amalia murmurs, too dizzy and delighted for anything else.
Perhaps they were a chorus, a symphony, an orchestra of ministrations and savagery, songs, stanzas, and sonnets full of love and affection, deep-rooted desires, strains and anthems only for them, for them, for them. They were a combination of heady, beatific things, unraveling, uncoiling: storms and tempests, unleashed only to one another, riding on the clouds, on the heights, on the horizons, painting the skies with hues and blends of ecstasy, tremors in the skin, brushes of scintillating refrains. He wanted the lilts and tunes again, boundless in his ears, brought to her by his machinations and strokes, by his touches and caresses, by every ounce and fraction of his dedication, conviction and promises laden in their melodies, in their tunes, in the feral, wild preamble. The notes were something to be memorized so he could play them again, once more, in between feelings and disasters, before the next trial, before the next tribulation, when they didn’t come apart, when they didn’t burn at both ends, when they weren’t wakes of the brutal unknown. He stoked the mewls. He kindled the whimpers. He incited the groans. He wanted her heart and her lungs and her soul to fly into crescendos and otherworldly airs; ethereal ethers sending her to deliverance liberation, the quintessential release.
She was nearly there – coiled and contorted, distorted and movement, motion striving to bring her to the edges, to the fringes, to the brink, he offered and proffered, gifted and granted, as she hooked around him, as she tore at his hair, as he smiled against her mouth, as he waited for the inevitable. It didn’t take along; his name a blissful thing, digging into salacious and licentious and decadent qualities he’d remember and savor for eternity, waiting for her to play in the inferno, to set her ablaze, for her serenade to reach more than just his title on the quiver of her lips; his touches were more insistent, yearning to take her over the brim –
And then she shuddered, collapsing, shuddering, shaking, and they were boneless in the water; he absorbed her purr, placed his lips on the apples of her cheeks, on the corners of her eyes, on the top of her gilded head; both hands cradling her cranium as contentment and satisfaction preened from his chest. A chuckle reverberated along his sternum, attention barely on her murmur until he put more thought into it – frowning for a moment as if all his recollection had faded away in the haze of lust and ardency, a fervency tended and refined every time they seemed to find themselves on the verge of reverence. “I had tried,” he proffered, eyes ghosting over the towels, cloths, shampoo, and soap sitting right where he’d left them, except some tossed garment had also snagged on a few. “You were too distracting,” placing the blame on her, swift and silly, teeth reaching down to snag at the shell of her ear.
07-20-2019, 02:00 AM (This post was last modified: 07-20-2019, 02:03 AM by Amalia.)
Amalia
stop thinking so much
Her gaze follows his lazily, glancing over at the toiletries which rest, untouched, on the chair beside them, a caricature of innocence the pair has long since lost. Languidly she reaches out with pointed toes, trying to reach them, to pull them closer, not really trying with any great effort, giddily amused by anything and everything in the heavenly impasse of post-coital bliss. Were this perfect moment to extend forever Amalia would find herself more than thrilled; she could die here, she thinks, and she would die satisfied, wrapped in the arms of her unlikely lover, his name a last hymnal on tingling lips.
I tried, he protests, and "Not very hard," she challenges gently, more amused than indignant as her long fingers dance lightly across his spine. A laugh of triumph escapes her throat as her foot catches on the lip of the chair. She is about to pull it closer when his teeth touch her ear, and at once the girl is jelly again, simpering and gasping beneath his ministrations, catching her lip in her teeth as she moans. "Careful. You'll get me excited again, and then what will happen to our pie?" Another laugh, heavy and low: unlike Deimos she has no refractory period, and a touch on her ear is nearly enough to ignite another lusty fire.
Amalia returns her feet to the bathtub, arcing up to meet him, her hands rising gently up to his neck. She leans forward, lips rising up to meet his in the ghost of a kiss before pulling away just enough to to snatch up the soap. "Let me wash your back?
He shrugged at her insinuation; hardly worth arguing when the truth of the matter still simmered and shuddered against his skin. He watched her strive and struggle to grab hold of the cloths without rising, he was likely inhibiting the path entirely, but he made no motion to maneuver out of the way; content in their space, in their desire, in their bliss. The beast didn’t even look to survey her progress, occupying his time by his mouth still sculpting a path down her nape, amused by her reactions, incensed by temptation. At the mention of the pie though (other than a notion of let the damn thing burn), his stomach might have growled, far louder in the space of the tub, echoing against its boundaries. A differentiation of avarice and greed, ravenous qualities and quandaries: hungry for sustenance, rather than release.
He snorted, pulling back only to catch her laughter, and then she arched and arced anyway, hands slowly sliding up his neck, gathering at the back of tangled mane again, the smug, superior smirk rising slowly along his licks, much like a Cheshire cat, bemused by circumstances and expectations, by ardor and affection. The Reaper arched his brow at her suggestion – but had since grown comfortable in their intimacy, in the little touches and nuances that brought them together in more than just carnal interludes and passions.
Mischief still stoked at his fibers though. “You just want to admire my scars.” It was silly and benign; more than likely she didn’t crave to see the lines sketched into his form again, or the skull tattoo emblazoned at the base of his neck, hidden beneath tufts of curls. But he snickered and laughed anyway, obliging her with a turn, away from her, ripples in the lukewarm water, spine straightened as he reached for the other cloth and smaller bar of soap. Deimos took his time dipping both into the fathoms, intending to repeat the refrains and do the same for her.
The satisfaction that crosses his face is enough to make her shiver again, her spine tingling cruelly as he licks his lips, her dark eyes following the pink of his tongue. He's cruel, and he knows it, and she loves every second, every tantalizing motion, every heated breath, every glance and smirk and knowing smile as she simpers in his arms. Fingers curl around his cheek, stroking his neck, along his ear. How easy it would be to pull herself into his lap, to press herself against him and take and take and take, delving further into the pool of his love, seeing how much more she can incense out of the depths of his loins.
He turns away obediently, another laugh, another tease; and Amalia smirks in reply, raising her own golden brow. "Is that so bad?" she answers slyly, slipping her legs beneath herself so she sits on her knees inside the tub, her hands trailing gently down his exposed back. Grasping a towel from the chair, Amalia settles it into the water, wrapping it carefully around the soap. Her grandmother used to do this when she was a child, and for a moment the girl hesitates, wondering if it is juvenile, if she ought not to have offered such a thing. But... the feeling of hands running down her back has always made the girl feel safe and loved, comforted and cared for, warm and at peace. She wants those things for him, too. She wants to prove her affection runs deeper than the raging heat of sex.
Starting at his shoulders, the girl takes her time, tracing down the musculature that ripples on his back. She pauses when she reaches the skull tattoo, lifting up his tangled locks to expose the inky skin. "When did you get this?" she questions, curious, tracing over it with nimble fingers before continuing on. Each line is caressed, each scar followed: she wants to know the story of them all, to memorize the things that make him unique, the silver lines painted on his frame. At last she reaches his lower back, the soap and towel dipping under the water, down and dangerous on the curve of his rear. Her hand slips over a supple cheek, and she wonders how long he will allow it, if he will comment on her brazenness.
And then, on a whim, on a spark of mischief, the girl pinches playfully, blushing crimson and grinning wide.
He didn’t really have an answer for her first inquiry; it’d meant to be a simple tease and nothing more. The warrior had already shown her a majority of his scars, trivial trophies garnished and gained from a life led by malice and menace, and he wasn’t ashamed of any of them. They were concrete lines and sketches of survival, of existence, of triumph over death – each one another battle survived. The ones at his back weren’t as prominent as the ones lingering along his front, but still intertwined over one another, stories and strokes of another time, another world, where he insisted upon marking others the same, with more demise, with more menace, with more destruction. So he shrugged and smirked, glancing at her over his shoulder, eyes pinpointed on her actions.
She really didn’t have to prove herself to him, he knew, he knew, he knew – affection was affection, love was love, and they shared it in more than just desires and lust; his actions were details of his vows and pledges, his assurances and arts. But he allowed, permitted, her to finesse hers in whatever manner she insisted upon, stretching taller, waiting.
There was a towel along his shoulders, intertwining and tracing over the foundation of his muscles, the breadth of his back, and he visibly relaxed, a contented sigh flickering its way through his chest. He didn’t expect her next question though, the aforementioned ink long since forgotten, ancient and primeval, as if it were there from the dawn of time, instead of marking a rite of passage, a celebration of fiends coming together, then dying apart. He raised his head and imagined the tattoo again; hints of blue and black, a skull, meant to emphasize their military might and means, their measures against the enemy, that they were unwavering death, that they were cords of strength and fibers of irreverence. At some point, they had been. But none of them had cheated the swinging scythe. “When my unit finished training,” he spoke, nothing saddened or dismayed; just a memory, just a collection, just an assortment of days gone. “We thought we would all get one together.”
She traced over the blemished and marks, and he rumbled, satisfied, pleased, preening; if he were a cat he might’ve purred, though the emboldened reaches of her touch didn’t go unnoticed. He snorted and arched his brow again as he twisted his head to glance at her. She was an image of daring, pinching, regaining her brazen torment, the sizzle of mischief. Abandoning the cloth and soap in his hands for the moment, sliding them to hang over the edge of the tub, he swiveled his head back around, as if he hadn’t noticed her intentions at all, made no comment, no shock or awe – burrowing into his own diversions and antics, plotting, musing. He folded his arms over his chest and waited – then leaned backwards, intending to use his mass to squish her frame against the other side of the basin.
Her hands continue to caress his skin, a thoughtful expression on her face, a brow raised behind his back. The tattoo, it seems, is another piece of a puzzled past, knowledge given simply and plainly with his usual marked economy of words. It is fascinating, how generous he can be in action, giving and giving again and again, loving and tending to her. At the same time she has never met anyone who guards their words so jealously, each statement measured and precise, letting things hang in the balance, unsaid. It reminds her of her mother, the taciturn woman who kept everything in, driving a wedge between them with her silence, both of them too stubborn to bend. Will it happen with him? It is something she fears, something else, because of course she does not have enough on her mind, because all she needs now is to drown beneath the past, the water rising up and up and up-
Or perhaps it is she who will fall down. A squeak of surprise is all she can manage before her body is largely submerged, pressed down by his far greater bulk as he leans against her. Surprise, and then a hearty laugh ripples through her compressed chest, a little muted by his weight on her diaphragm but rich and amused nonetheless. There's something comforting about the feeling of a body pressed to hers; her knees rise up to hook beneath his arms, and she lets her fingers trail to his upturned face, dancing lightly across his nose, the apples of his cheeks. She holds onto it as long as she can before the need to breathe becomes too much; coughing a little, Amalia pushes his shoulders, hoping to get him off her belly so she can inhale a much needed breath.
Say]"You're huge!" she exclaims once she catches her breath, laughing playfully, her arms around his shoulders, falling against his chest. She lets her lips linger on the curve of his neck, kisses placed in a rising thread, up his nape and over his ear, distracted once again. The feeling of hair makes her nose crinkle a little, his beard tickling on her skin. "Do you ever shave?" she questions idly, between the ministrations of her lips and tongue.
The lack of discourse was another portion to him kindled and incensed by walls and fortifications, learned during a brutalizing edge, in tempestuous storms, in mercurial hollows. The less said, the better, because then words couldn’t be hurled back, to maim, to hurt, to scald, to maul, to menace – a delicate balance when secrets were kept close to hearts and machinations were constantly cycling and coiling through his head. He didn’t mean for it to be a wedge. He didn’t mean for it to be deceitful. He didn’t mean for it to be anything other than a contemplative silence, a measure of control and contortion so the rest of the world couldn’t come back and taunt, haunt, him; she already knew far more about him than anyone else in the glimmer of this world or the last. What else would she want to know from ink across skin? That they’d been drunk and befuddled, ridiculous and stupid, triumphant and tender in their requests for matching skulls – signifying a brotherhood ultimately destroyed by the next year? That their commanding officer had shaken his head and called them foolish, then showed one on his arm from some other time, some other land, some other kingdom, and they’d laughed until their heads spun, innocent and idiotic? Because those were the things he left for himself, because those were the things he figured no one else cared about, because those were the things that could spin into his soul when the view became dark and cruel.
Her squeak was all he required to remove himself from the melancholy edges, the leer of his smirk unseen, only for the walls, laughter buffeted at his back. Before long she seemed to adjust, knees contorted beneath his arms, and he’d be settled there again, if she let him, as her fingers picked a path along his face, airy on his nose, on his cheeks. There was a blissful ease in the silence, on his tranquil, serene breath, then she coughed, sputtered, and he released her from the makeshift prison.
You’re huge circled around his ears, and if he were a more charismatic, debauched creature he would’ve taken the opportunity for salacious response; instead he allowed her to surround him, arms lingering above his chest, spine straightening again as her lips curved on his nape, over his ear. He shuddered in her hold, ricochets and aftershocks, barely even listening to her inquiry as her tongue swept along his skin, wholly distracted and deterred from whatever they’d been doing. Shave?; the notions managed to wander their way back into his mind, circumventing again when comprehension seemed to dawn. “Yes,” he snorted; one hand reaching to brush down the length of his beard, but it’d clearly been some time. “I have been a little busy,” he rolled his eyes in her direction; turning his body halfway in her hold, as much as she would allow before mischief ignited on his features – alight in the depth of his eyes as he peered upon her. “You do not like it?” Then he purposefully, gently, aimed to grab her chin, and rub his cheek against hers; bristles and bear and all.
She runs her fingers over his skin, a constant string of caresses, affection, adoration and adulation wordless on her lips. The ability to distract and deter is something she savors, revels in, embracing her power whole-hardheartedly with teeth and and nails and mouth. There is so much left for her to discover, so many things to learn and know. What does he like? What does he not? Is he ticklish? Tender? What more can she give?
The comment about his beard seems to elicit some indignation, and Amalia grins behind his back, running her fingers soothingly over his curly cheeks. The comment that they have been busy lessens her mood a little; she drops her hands back to the water, biting at her lip. "We all have." Busy is an understatement: cataclysmically preoccupied would perhaps be more fitting. The world has been chaos and brimstone, falling apart and coiling into disaster, false queens and lost friends and days of fear and regret. Shaving, in the scheme of things, is far from an important task.
She is distracted, and so does not expect the onslaught, the hand upon her chin. Blushing at the sudden proximity, she wonders, waiting, her breath caught for a kiss, an embrace- but no. Swift and silly the man is upon her, his coarse hair running over her cheek, tickling and taunting and drawing out a laugh. "Not when you do that!" Her giggles betray any true indignation. She reaches down into the tub, hoping to splash and douse him with water, to saturate and distract with a sudden assault. Pulling away from his grasp, the girl regards him with sparkling eyes, her hand rising up to caress his face, fingers entwining in the wild locks. Mockingly serious, she stares him down, a little bit of a smile and flush on her face. "Nobody has the right to be as attractive as you."
He leaned into her, always, always, always, like a siren, like a beacon, like a signal fire, the way his eyes chased after hers, the way he searched for her across a crowded room, the way they beckoned and clawed their way back to one another time and time again. Alone, the behemoth was just a behemoth, monster, monolith, the Reaper, a callous, cold figure awaiting the next moment of sin and iniquity, lingering in the drowning stead of his failures, of his disasters. With her, he was more, so much more, because he strived to be something, someone, deserving of her affection, her embrace, her love; changing, altering, under her ministrations. The world wasn’t always death. It wasn’t desecration. Sometimes it really was adoration and love, and he took and he gave what he could.
The laughter presided over him; far greater than the outcries of a battlefield, the monumental breakdown and collapse of an army, the thundering shame of defeat. He’d chase down the sounds she made at any interval, at any moment, drowning the world in the length of their singsong interludes and pieces, compositions, of repose. They sounded better than demolition, than desecration, than abhorrence and contempt; melodies of serenity and tranquility, even when brought forth by the most ridiculous of antics. Her assault wasn’t unexpected, but he reeled away from the splashes just the same, turning his cheek away from the siege of water, then shaking his head like a burly dog, allowing any other cascading droplets to descend in her direction. His hands are larger, and one drops into the basin with a great relish, insinuating a tidal wave as it maneuvered below the surface, streaking for her figure.
Then she pulled apart, her eyes on him and he expected some further mischief, an unleashing, but her fingers slipped into his mane again, catching over tangles and tresses, and he watched, mildly suspicious. Her words, however, were wholly unexpected – never anything he’d heard directed at him his entire life. His eyes widened in surprise before he could relegate and render them into deepening fathoms – and the blush across his cheeks was an indication of his surprise, bewilderment, and bemusement. He attempted to soften the premise, the compliments, with some disparaging comment, not used to accolades, to commendations, acclaim, or any form of flattery. “I knew you were only with me for my looks,” he sighed, a wistful, put-upon pretense, stare chasing down the mischief, the ruse, settling his gaze back along her face – a calm, boyish smile managing to meander its way along his mouth, blue depths admiring her too.
His flush takes her by surprise, an eyebrow arching as he seems to doubt it, that moment of abashedness easy for her to read. He has to know he is attractive, handsome, chiseled, gorgeous, a mountain cut from marble, the figure of a prince. Even before she loved him Amalia knew that much, and now, now he is radiant and dazzling in her eyes, a chiseled altar for a glorious soul, the only one she has ever wished to worship with carnal urges, to serve and service with such ardor. The blush upon his face is dizzying, delightful, ridiculously out of place; she rubs her finger over his cheek, her own expression a little smug. He is gorgeous, and he is hers, and she will never let him forget either of those facts.
She laughs again at his statement, tracing a finger down his chin, flicking it up from under his beard to softly boop his nose. "Yep," she answers simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, mockingly serious, light and blase. "Handsome men and wild sex. All I care about." Her own face turns a little crimson, as though embarrassed by the very idea of these priorities being hers. "The praying and baking and books? It's all been a long con, ever since we met. And now you know the truth."
Laughing, the girl reaches down to pick up a forgotten washcloth, squeezing it out before lifting it up to begin scrubbing at her skin. Her hair hangs damp and messy on her shoulders; she leans back to wet it further before reaching for the shampoo, leaning pointedly across Deimos, her arm snaking over his shoulder, her breasts pressed to his chest. "Pardon my reach."
Perhaps they were fools, but they were fools together, and he snorted at her response, for all the lightness he couldn’t quantify, for all the things he had now that once were so out of reach. A brow and some sort of smug, superior smirk hastened its way to his mouth at her insinuations, at the long con, and the dulcet flick of her finger on his nose. Anyone else might have received raised hackles; Amalia was granted Cheshire grins and mischief, walls and fortifications left open. “It all makes sense now,” his deep voice rose along the cooling water, bounding against the basin; the rosy hue to his cheeks gone, credence and assurances sizzling on his features, in his eyes. He didn’t mock her now, didn’t squander things away on teasing or ruses, the silly lines gone, the benediction for her on the breadth of his breath. “Even with the praying, baking, and books, I was drawn to your strong heart and convictions.” There was more, so much more, but he waited to see how she reacted to those, an arch to his brow, a challenge for her to defy them, because then he’d insinuate others, he’d glorify all her virtues and triumphs.
But then his gaze was caught by her actions, stilling for a moment, a predator on the prowl. She was concocting the motions on purpose, that much he understood, a lilting tether to his soul, to his desires, encroaching again. While she grabbed hold of the washcloth, he suddenly remembered his, still sitting there, absent and forlorn on the side. The beast snagged that too, ensuring the soap was rubbed into the fabric, aiming to commit to the same actions as she had before, an offering, a retribution –
Except when he turned back around, her chest, rounded and curved despite her claims that it was nothing (it was enough), against his, purposefully sliding her skin, enticing, inveigling. He narrowed his eyes, forgot about the cloth in his hands again (it dropped somewhere, cast aside), and rose upwards; his mouth drawn along the underside of her nape, where her pulse beat and presided, a hand snaking and intertwining along her spine.
07-28-2019, 09:46 PM (This post was last modified: 07-28-2019, 09:52 PM by Amalia.)
Amalia
stop thinking so much
She meets his grin with one of her own, an emblazoned rebuttal, play for play. The games they play are classic adventures, teasing and jovility and desire and snares. She tells him a truth - that he is gorgeous - and wraps it in a delicate lie, laughing her way through earnest flirtation, sharpening the edges of her keen-honed ardor. She is afraid to tell him all that he means, the spaces her fills in the cracks of her heart, the shadows he chases away with his light. That he does not know all that he is continues to bewilder and bemuse the girl: how can he not, when she sees it so clearly, in every action and movement and word, in the steadfast silence and eloquent touches.
Oh, but she is guilty of all the same, blind to her own host of virtues, wrapped in the shroud of a million flaws. The praise he offers with such conviction makes her shake her head, disbelieving, a silent protest, her cheeks stained red with pleasure. "I was drawn to your constancy, and your humor, and the way you take care of people without asking for anything in return." Raising her hands up to her bare arms, the baker pulls back a little, earnest adoration on her face. "When did you know?" she wonders softly, gazing up through sable eyes. "About... You know. Me?" What could I have possibly done, to earn your love?
He turns away as she reaches for the shampoo, and for a moment she fears her ruse will fail, that he will not fall into her poorly laid and perhaps slightly juvenile trap. But no- he is a warrior, a Savage beast, instincts wrapped in a muscular package, aware and eager and ever alert. In the end it is Amalia who is caught by surprise, his onslaught eliciting a moan from her lips, her breath catching as tongue and hands assault her, making her exhale a shuddering laugh.
She slips down further into his embrace, her body pressing unabashedly against him as she slides into his lap, legs falling comfortably down to either side of his hips. Her hands, however, are preoccupied; as she's maneuvered and enjoyed she has been working as well, uncapping the thick shampoo and taking some on her fingers. Now she slips them into his mane, massaging gently against his scalp, her arms stretched over and around his shoulders, her neck arched in invitation for him to continue his devotions as she works.
