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!
Leaning back into the water, inviting it to wash over his frame, his features, his mane, he threaded his fingers through his hair, allowed the lathered shampoo and suds to disappear. When he rose again, he shook his head like a dog, scattering droplets, laughing as they cascaded in different directions. It was repose once more, a calm, serene prosperity pervading and persisting through the room, his eyes flicking back to her as she followed the same actions. Why couldn’t things, events, circumstances, simply stay like this? Why couldn’t they remain in the tranquil abyss, instead of being pushed and shoved into chaos, into bedlam, into mayhem, the moment they stepped out of this threshold? A portion of him promised to show her everything, everything he possibly could, given the time, given the moments: the wondrous, powerful intervals of the ocean, with its endless, eternal prowess, the high rising peaks of the mountains, with its ice and rime, with its glaciers, with its beatific summits. The other pieces of his slate, of his vows, of his assurances, made certain to savor these spaces too, when the world didn’t toss its weight onto their shoulders.
His hands released her, striving to find the cloth and soap he’d released earlier, amidst other distractions and motivations. Fumbling around, intentionally sliding his fingers down her calf for a miniscule taunt, he found the abandoned wares, and used them to wash the rest of his form, then rinsed, finally cleansed by the time she was finished. The fathoms of his eyes watched her, taking it all in, appreciating the small, minute instances, framing it for a memory, a picture, a canvas, a tapestry, when the peace and havens couldn’t be found. He hoped his expression mirrored hers, in the best way he could; darker, embedded blue portraying all the ardor and affection exuding, existing, in his infernal essence. “Civilized,” he tasted the word; allowed it to simmer against his tongue. “Not certain it suits me.” The beast snickered towards her, then rose from the basin, a tower, a monolith once more. The Reaper’s gaze settled on the amount of water outside the tub, a slight chuckle emitted, before he stepped carefully out of the container, and grabbing a nearby towel.
He dried himself off quickly, before wrapping to around his waist, and maneuvering back to Amalia; efficiently swathing her in the soft, dulcet material, and lifting her from the bath. With easy gentleness, light tenderness, he slid it around her shoulders, aimed to dry her off as well; amusing himself only when he tucked it over her head, her hair, like a hood. Then he managed to find a few more towels in the closets and cabinets, draping them along the floor (results of earlier antics).
Only thereafter did he raise his head, a smell, a fragrance, reaching his senses. “Is that the pie?”
"Everything suits you." Perhaps there is something else she should have said, playful or eloquent, teasing or true- but oh, her mind is drawing a blank, thoughts fading in the shadow of his monolithic form. It is all she can do to keep from gasping as he rises from the tub, the full imposing breadth of him glistening and on display. More than a man, he is a mountain, carved lines and muscles like stone, crags and cool rivulets, ice and flame. Were she to make a monument to the human form it would look like him-
And somehow, by some miracle, he is hers.
By the time he steps out of the bath Amalia is composed enough to follow, rising in the lukewarm water, shivering as air assaults her damp skin, goosebumps rising quickly. Before she can ask for a towel, however, one is placed around her shoulders; she gasps and giggles pleased surprise as he sweeps her easily off her feet. The softness of the fabric is matched only by his touch, and as he works to dry her Amalia finds herself reaching out, littering soft kisses wherever she can reach him, her lips pressed dulcetly on any exposed olive skin.
He leaves the fabric on her head, and she raises her arms, miming Ludo, wrapped in scraps of cloth. As Deimos soaks up their inadvertent flood Amalia makes her way into the bedroom, the towel wrapped around her waist. Curious, brazen, a searching cat- she wants to see his haven, his sanctuary, to know him for all he is.
She has just opened a drawer when his voice floats into the room, a new sort of urgency fuelling her thoughts. "The pie!" Pulling on the first thing she can find - a thin white shirt that hangs halfway down her thighs - the baker scurries toward the stairs, bounding down them three at a time, laughter following in her wake. "Vi's beard, I completely forgot!"
Luckily, by some miracle, it does not quite smell burnt.
Everything suits you echoed and bounded upon him, and as he glanced at her, uncertain, he found he didn’t have a response. He could’ve argued, made it all the more apparent where his faults, flaws, and defects lay, scorched and scathing along his bones, muscles, and flesh. He could’ve flickered apart from the seams, a barren wasteland, naught suiting him except dust, ash, and debris. Instead though, his eyes riveted, fixated, revered back to her, his Cheshire grin exuding, exhilarant at the way she watched him; he purposefully raked his stare over her too, an open encouragement and devilish predilection.
He failed to deflect any of her indulgences either, pounced upon while he laughed, thunder and mountain, marble and slate, pressing along as stars sought to ignite his skin all over again. They glance upon his shoulder and caress the plains of his biceps, the flick of his wrist, and were she not swallowed and consumed by the towel and its dulcet threads, he would’ve bent down to take the heavens once more – drowning in its luminescent beams. That was all he could now – sun-kissed, savage, and entirely impish, absorbing the warmth, the guidance, the faith, the reverent, the reverie, and give it back, back, back, enfolding and encompassing them both in something real, something just, something fair and loving and ardent.
But once he’d been distracted by the mess on the floor, clothes included, he hadn’t noticed her meandering towards his room. It was as Spartan as the rest of his home and belongings, nothing quite noticeable or furtive; the only treasure nearby on his night stand, the ornamental whale she’d gifted to him – what felt like lifetimes ago. He’d yet to put it within a hilt; secretly appreciating the looks of it before each evening’s slumber.
At his alarm, she raced out of the confines; just enough time for his brows to shoot up at one of his shirts on her form; admiring long legs as they scampered back down the stairs. The beast didn’t even bother to push down the sensation of superior pride, acquisitive possession, or a sheen of satisfaction at her appearance in his garb, enabling a snicker to wander along his lips as he followed her down, still only the towel around his waist; the cry of laughter reverberating over panels of wood. “Can it be salvaged?” He chuckled from behind her, peeking over her shoulder. Then, abruptly, as if he’d suddenly remembered, his gaze caught the basket she’d hidden from him earlier – turning, twisting away, puttering silently on hushed movements and motions towards it.
She hears him on the stairs behind her but does not turn around, a little bit sheepish about her attire, mostly caught in in saving the pie. It takes a moment or two of rummaging for Amalia to secure oven gloves, a bit too large but serviceable - she has certainly used worse. Amalia is in her element now: this may be his home, but the kitchen is her domain, and she will always be comfortable before a scorching oven, reaching hands into the coals and extracting magic from the flames. "Of course it can be salvaged," the girl says loftily, setting the searing entree down with a flourish, playfulness proving she does not believe her own boasts. "I am the best baker in the Hollow Grounds." It is a line they keep repeating, a line she doesn't believe, but it fun, for a moment, to pretend.
She turns around to face him, expecting him to be beside her- but no, Deimos is the one snooping now. Wrapped in a towel and nothing else (and oh, Amalia appreciates that), the behemoth is making his way to the basket forgotten on the floor, her surprises tucked away beneath a cloth. "That's for later!" the baker blurts, dashing over recklessly to snatch up the basket and hold it behind her back, the shirt rising precariously over long slim legs as she does. Standing on tiptoes she aims to place a kiss on his nose before dripping down and spinning away, a vibrant grin on her angular face. "I'll set the table if you serve."
The heathen, the fiend, the savage watched as she quietly took over his kitchen; indifferent towards the action entirely, permitting her supremacy, just a witness to the event. It was amusing to listen to her boast though, even in a self-deprecating manner; because she’d always been the one to readily admit a flaw (and never; not even close – the beast understood and comprehended defects). It was an impudent, irreverent little moment, and he savored it with a smirk, enjoyed the spark of fire and flames, the boldness, the audacity, rendering her like the sun and the stars. He wanted to scorch his fingers on her skin, simmer and savor his mouth on her lips, again and again and again until they were both drunk on the haze, the lust, the whims, the ardency; turning the molten crescendos and thoughts for later. At her lofty decrees though, while he searched with curiosity and devilry, he added one of his own, notable for its ridiculousness and for days when they weren’t all so spread apart. “We made bread to rival yours, I believe.” Also because of her tutelage and instruction, despite the rampant amount of chaos and chicanery in the bakery, but he was careful not to mention that.
Secrets were still secrets though, baskets snatched away beneath his nose and hands before he could snatch a decent look. His features flattened in response, like a young child bothered that their game had been delayed or finished prematurely – and only altering as he watched his shirt ride up along her legs; entertained by the image. For his mischief, he was only rewarded a peck on the nose, furrowing his brow and mock-grumbling, given direction in his own damned house.
But he acquiesced, maneuvering back to his kitchen and the drawers laden with tools. He found an adequate knife (from a long range of other assorted daggers and stilettos – this one strictly for utensils and not stabbing), and waited for the pie to cool before cutting into it, taking a deep breath to savor the scents and smells. The Reaper snagged two plates, and placed a carved piece for her, then himself, before bringing them over to the table. With an ease, a certain level of comfort around her than anyone else, he spun back towards the kitchen for beverages, arms reaching for glasses. “Drink choice?”
Never one to brag or boast, she flushes beneath his playful smirk, her own audacity rising as he deigns to respond in kind. It is fun to play, if only for a moment: to expose the pride so often stifled, to be appreciated, if only in jest. Truthfully the young baker is, at times, proud; proud of her skills, proud of her persistence, proud of her ability to persist and resist, always trying, always pushing, until perhaps she is good enough. Usually that pride is swallowed and slandered by blistering anxiety, dwarfed by the dreaded weight of despair.
Here, though, with him, in the warmth of his regard, in the safety of his embrace, in the haven of his love- here, perhaps, she can, for a moment, allow herself to rest and thrive, to see a sliver of the woman he thinks that she can be.
His obvious displeasure as she steals back the basket is only met with laughter, lilting, teasing, unforgiving as she sets herself to work. Plates are secured from one of the cupboards, napkins found somewhere in a drawer, and cutlery pulled out of a bin, knives and forks and spoons. By the time she scrounges up a tablecloth he has sliced and segmented up the pie, two warm pieces steaming appealingly on the counter-top, the aroma rich and wonderful. Amalia eases eagerly into one of the chairs: when is the last time she sat like this, eating dinner with her loved ones in the comfort of a home?
Too long, and yet how easy it is to fall back into that routine, when her partner in crime is him?
Amalia watches with glittering gaze as Deimos spins away, her head on her hands, an expression of adoration lighting up her angular face. The question passes over her like a cloud before the sun: "Mmm?" she wonders, utterly and brazenly distracted by the way his hips move beneath the towel, the rippling musculature of his back. "Anything."
As a warrior confident in his own abilities, the mountain rarely saw fault in believing in one’s self – on some measure, an individual had to admit capability to even accomplish a task, a feat, in order to triumph. A soldier didn’t wander onto the battlefield in hopes of winning, in hopes of surviving: they trained, they prospered, they became breathing weapons, unhinged muscle memory, carving up swarms of enemies with practiced ease. Wasn’t it the same for her? Wasn’t it the same for everything she’d accomplished? He’d rather see her boasting, assertive, and assured of her role, of all the things she’d managed to instigate, unravel, and provoke, than lingering in self-doubt. She should’ve been like fire instead of ashes and dust; seething embers, provoked and incensed, than the endless worries and anxiety. The thought coiled along his sentiments and nuances, a little hum and endeavor stoked in his machinations; an unsaid goal of the fiend. Strength, he wished and yearned and longed for her to see – because she had it, but didn’t seem to recognize the worth, the sun, the beams.
He’d pull away hesitations, the clouds, and let her see.
Glancing back as she answered, with no preference, he was intrigued to find she’d managed to procure a tablecloth (he didn’t know he’d even owned one), napkins, plates, and utensils, likely scattered in amongst weaponry he’d haphazardly placed along drawers (for quick upheavals, if the rest of his munitions were elsewhere). The beast stifled a chuckle, at the warm presentation, at her at his table, in his chairs, the picture of comfort and indulgences he never thought he’d have. He embedded the image in his mind, in case it never came to light again – and then pushed those binding notions out of his head; too used to precariousness, to uncertainty, to tenors of peril and precariousness. It was why he savored and relished, capturing things before they could slip out of his grasp.
He missed her adoration, turning, busy contemplating the right response to a seemingly boundless wake. In the end, he allowed a pot of tea to brew, waiting for it to hiss, as he went about collecting everything else: settling the pieces of pie on their plates, watching the steam curl, and then placing a bottle of wine in the center, as an afterthought. When the pot finally announced it was ready, he turned his back to her again, sly and surreptitious, hands glowing only for a moment along the counter, until a mug formed beneath his hands, pristine, white, except for a pattern of stars along the rim. He poured the tea into the cup, silent, setting it along her designated place, before finally sitting down himself, in naught but a towel and a small, indulgent smile. It slowly chiseled into a smirk as they dug in, as he thought of an opportunity to strike. “So – why were you late?” For there was bound to be a story (and he wanted to tease and taunt again, just a little).
His figure in the towel makes her cheeks flush hot despite recent activities, and Amalia finds herself crossing her legs, something warm again in her stomach, onyx gaze glued to his form. She shuffles a little on the chair, reaching to pull the tunic further down her bare thighs, the chest still rather unsecured, her sternum visible in the deep V of the neck. She must look something of a fright, dressed in nothing but his blouse, her hair a wild halo of gold, already tangling again, scattered on shoulders and neck. Slender fingers run through the damp locks as she watches him make tea; by the time he returns to her side with the beverage she is something approaching presentable.
The cup fits comfortably in her hand, starlit and lovely with curls of steam; she raises it carefully to her lips, smiling at him over the brim. An eyebrow raises toward the bottle of wine: "Trying to get me drunk?" she drawls, a little bit of color in her cheeks, laughter in the lines around her eyes. Idly she wonders if he will partake, if she will see him merry and brazen, if tonight is the night they will once again sing. She would like to hear his voice raised in uproar, to see him grin and dance and cavort, would love to be the cause of his merriment, the thing that ignites his radiant smile. She would like to sit in peaceful silence, to enjoy the company of one another with out the pressure of small talk and scenes. She would like to exchange stories of exploits, to share each piece of her distant childhood, to learn every tale behind his scars.
It does not matter what they do, so long as she does it with him.
She takes a bite of the mincemeat pie, humming appreciatively at the taste, her lashes fluttering comfortably closed as she savors the result of their labor of love. It is not until she takes her second bite that Deimos breaks the silence, and Amalia glances sharply at him, smiling around the bite of food. "Mmm- I got done early, actually," the baker admits, swallowing down the forkful of pie. "So I thought I'd go to war with the blackberry bushes. They're absolutely incorrigible at this time of year." Amalia shakes her head, mischief in her onyx eyes as she watches for his reaction. "It turned out they suspected something, because they put up a terrible fight. It was close, I barely escaped with my life." She rolls up her sleeves to display the battle scars, scratches lining her knuckles and limbs.
“Only if you want to be,” he intoned, snickering, never forcing, never demanding, never commanding, not to her – if she yearned to partake in the wine, it was available. He rose to grab ahold of it himself and hastened to pour it into his glass, slipping it back along the middle of the table, an arm’s length, her choice, her option and alternative. After a few cuts with his knife, always precise, lines of lacerations orchestrated and demonstrated without fault, and portions of the pie swallowed, savored, he did the same with the wine, consuming, waiting, a brow arched in the tranquility. Thereafter, he simply enjoyed the scarce, freeing moments, uncertain of what to do to in their midst, so infrequent, so minute, chasing away oblivion for an evening, lost in the throngs of stories.
Then he watched her over the rim of his glass, bringing it to his lips again, as she began her tale. He hid the smaller parts of his amusement behind the wine, but only for so long, placing the ware back down, grabbing his fork, chewing thoughtfully on delicious food, immersed in the dramatics and theatrics of the blackberry battle. His attention was solely for her, admiring, revered, the riveting contortions of his gaze segmented on gilded threads and onyx indications, muffled chuckles broken apart by maneuvering jaws. “Nearly thwarted by berries,” he whispered, as if he were disappointed she’d almost been outdone by thorns and nettles, expected her to conquer their upheavals and arrangements. He shook his head, the wet mane striking down over his bare shoulders, remembering the stains across her cheek, then his stare focused on her scratches, on the newfound scars and blemishes. Snorting, he reached across to take her hand and wholly inspect, a farce, a play, devilish and amused. “Lucky these did not have to be amputated.” He lifted it to his lips, pressed his mouth to the few remaining marks, breathed laughter across the bridge of knuckles and dulcet skin. “I am glad you survived.”
Then he set her free, leaning back in his chair, the wine making him restless and relaxed all at the same time; brow furrowing as he strived to fill in the gaps, to laden a tale or two. Nothing monumental (besides death throngs and knells, besides open graves and catacombs, besides loss) came to mind – but maybe, if she asked, he’d grant her some random accord.
The temptation to reach out and play with his hair is nearly overwhelming as he shakes his head, her fingers itching dance over his shoulders, following the remaining rivulets of water down his chest, to trace the curves of his musculature and feel the beat of his heart. She loves this playful version of the man, his lilting grins and mischievous glances, the way he takes her foolish tale and continues to string it along. Amalia arcs an eyebrow at his mock disappointment, affecting an expression of wounded pride. "It was a ferocious battle," the baker protests indignantly, lacing her fingers in with his, her elbows on the table as she leans toward him. "You thought the gourds were bad... our blackberries are truly murderous. I was doing a public service." A grin lights her angular face as he presses her fingers against his lips, reaching out to caress his cheek, her thumb running playfully through the still-damp curls.
He settles back, and she does too, though her foot slides forward to brush against his, her long leg pressed languidly into his calf. "What about you? What did you do today?" What does he do when she is not there, what actions and adventures does he engage in, what kind of mayhem does he dream up? She imagines him marching through the fields, waging war and fighting scoundrels, casting light in a bitter world.
Or perhaps he stays home. Maybe he knits. Amalia does not know, but ah, she wants to- wants to know everything about him, from the grandiose to the mundane, details and dreams and secrets and songs.
Slipping her last bite of pie into her mouth, Amalia hums appreciatively around the fork, taking her time to savor the flavors before at last pulling it from off her tongue. "Delicious. Ah. I might be too full for anything else. Oh well, time to go." So saying Amalia moves to stand, a mischievous challenge in her dark glittering eyes.
Between the ferocious battles, murderous blackberries, and public services, he was content, angled into serenity and tranquility, the beatific aspects of repose. It eclipsed over any other untoward notions or unholy factions, drifting along the wine haze and the bliss of the hour, sneaking rapture and reverie into his chest again and again, and he savored it, favored it, clung desperately to its halcyon turns. He leaned into her touch, a damned cat, Cheshire and emboldened, would’ve purred given more alcohol or time.
Even as they settled back, they didn’t let go; an emblem, a stature, no lines drawn but the pinnacle of together; teasing as her leg maneuvered into his calf – he narrowed his eyes, informing her he knew exactly what she was doing, pressing back with ease. At the inquiry, he drew himself a little straighter, back against the chair, hands holding the glass as he swallowed more of the crimson concoction, pondering over what he had done that day. “Made some swords,” and his gaze slipped from hers for a moment, to stare upon the newest ones in the corner, some hilts not quite complete, uncertain what he wanted to place into their pommels. “Hunted,” indicating the grouse they’d consumed. “Thought about sneaking into the bakery to snatch some cookies,” with a wry grin suggesting that he’d been thwarted somehow; but on a later day he’d just as easily try again. “Irritated Kiada,” and then he hummed, crooned under his breath, endlessly amused by the notion. “And practiced some assaults on the targets out back.” Only thereafter did he realize that sounded endlessly boring; his daily rituals, his habits and routines, so he slipped in mischief when he could. “Saved an entire family vicious vampire gourds. I will have to guard them from blackberries next, I am sure.”
The challenge was back on though, the moment the fork slipped from her mouth, delicious, too full for anything else, moving to stand to leave - and he knew it was a dare, a provocation, serpentining directly into it with nothing held back. A chase. He maneuvered swiftly for a man of his stature and size, intertwining his arms along her middle, intending to pull her back into his lap. “Not so fast,” he whispered, a delicate trace of molten air toying from his mouth, along the shell of her ear. His chin, ticklish beard and all, maneuvered to rest on her shoulder, lips moving slowly, deliberately, at exposed skin, sketching, tracing her nape. “What is in the basket?”
She leans against the table as she eats, her expression a picture of innocent fascination even as her foot travels up his leg, ankle easing comfortably over the swell of his calf. It is not hard to appear intent: she is truly intrigued about his day, her dark eyes glittering as she soaks in each word. He may think it dull, but she finds it anything but, relishing in the amount of activities, captivated by even the mundane. She follows his glance toward the set of new swords, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head. "Because you did not have enough already?" A laugh; her voice is rich with humor, teasing and taunting, a hum behind the barb. Hunting, and she has already seen the fruit of those labors. Snatching cookies, and this again earns an arched brow, a sound of consternation easing from her lips. Irritating Kiada. Practicing assaults. It is a series of activities that make up a life, a real one, lived in, experienced, complete.
A life he is willing to share with her, if only in small part- and oh, does it feel lovely to spend an evening like this. A normal day with normal activities, followed by lots of sex a normal meal, made in tandem with joint skill. A normal night, a normal conversation, and someone she cares for at her side. It feels like peace. It feels like happiness.
It feels like home.
"Definitely." Amalia's smile is soft and warm, something vulnerable in the expression, the word, despite the humor of the topic, the laughable idea of blackberry assaults. She rises and tries to make her mistake, and his response is exactly what she would expect, wonderful in its predictability, because it means she knows him, that they have reached a level of comfort the girl has only ever dreamt. She settles easily in his lap, putting up a protest wholly for show, struggling and squirming through laughter and grins. Only when he whispers upon her ear does Amalia freeze, briefly going rigid before melting in his embrace, a shudder ripping through her figure as her hands clench the arm of the chair, toes coiling, a guttural moan exhaled from her lips. "Not fair," the baker hisses, tilting her head to allow him access, giggling as his beard tickles her neck. Her hips move almost involuntary, half attempt at escape, half response to his touches; for a moment she is too distracted to fully grasp his question. "Mmm? 's a secret," Amalia replies, twisting in his arms to turn her face toward him, trying to lay her own kisses on his cheeks.
Mundane and droll his days might be, but the baker seemed utterly fascinated by the entire exchange (and was that how this worked – could he have every moment like this one: where they were ensnared in one another’s lives to the brink, to the edges, to the fringes, tales to come home to, to share?). At her joke about his newest blades, he managed a playful scoff and snort, as if particularly offended by this notion. “You can never have enough,” he grumbled, a satisfied smirk on his features for no other reason but impishness and mischief; not voicing the sentiments of why he’d been creating so many (in case he’d needed to outfit a rebellion, in case they needed to attack and assault a manor, in case they were required at a moment’s notice). They were extensions of arms and alms, a balm of munitions and exploits, a way to survive when adversaries were on the horizon, flanking from all sides, rushing into to commit death and destruction in the same fluid motions.
But between her arched brows, the light humor, the challenges settling between them, there was also comfort, satisfaction, contentment, light and light and light, something he’d never been used to – yet, found himself quite capable of settling within. They were a reflection of heartbeats and rhythms, interludes of play and diversions, rooted in their amusements, and then lingering in so much more. He was being spoiled; and he relished in it for as long as he could.
Growing all the more accustomed to antics, to scintillation, to seduction, to a rise in upheaval and machinations, a plotting ruse, a devastating grasp, he laughed as she attempted to loosen herself from his grasp. The ensuing chuckles melded and molded and melted together, an echo on the walls he was suddenly overly fond of. He was encouraged for an entirely different reason when Amalia became rigid in his lap, then a shudder, a tremble, he already knew well – following the guttural croon with a delicate trace of his lips on her neck again, intending to trace lines and skin beneath fabric. “I rarely play fair,” the warrior whispered back, billowing the words across flesh, soft, baiting, goading, gestures to ruffle her feathers, to ensue another flutter of notions and expressions. He was rewarded with a movement of her hips, back against him, and he hissed in turn, breath undulating on the back of her neck, along threads of gold.
Then she twisted in his arms, and he made sure to put his glass back on the table, hands fully occupied by her essence, by her existence, by her everything. His eyes, rapt and riveted, swallowed and consumed her radiance, content under her ministrations on his cheeks, a purr, light, curling in his throat. A secret; the art of their musing and ruses – schemed delicately placed, not too difficult, not too duplicitous, but lingering, contortions and proportions to their dances. “You should tell me anyway,” was only followed by his lips gently shifting towards hers, a hair’s breadth away, gaze hooded, then closed.
He is brutal in his onslaught, lavishing attention on her long, tender neck, tongue and teeth and soft caresses playing her in ways only he knows, eliciting notes that none have heard, that she did not know she could croon. Amalia squirms again in response, gasping at his delicacy, the tunic rising up her thighs, the towel soft but not quite skin. She wants to rip the barriers off, to expose them both once again, but she is tired, too, and content, and full, and she does not want to push, to ask for more than he will give (though when has he been anything but generous, giving and giving and giving to her need?)
She she coils and curls and shifts instead, turning in his lap, her hips dancing on his thighs, her face raised up to face the sun. The rumbling of his purr is felt more than heard; "I swear, you're more a cat than I," Amalia laughs between soft kisses, blowing the words against his cheeks as her hand finds its way into his beard, gently caressing the opposite side, leading him closer to her mouth. By the time he speaks again the girl is gone, her eyes half-lidded, close enough to taste him, aching for his heat. "Hmm?" she murmurs, pressing another soft caress upon the corner of his mouth. "I suppose I can be persuaded."
The kiss she lays upon him is fervent and gentle, passionate and pure. Languid, longing, she presses her tongue against his mouth, looking for access, caressing and stroking as her arms fall easily across his shoulders, fingers coiling in his hair. She holds him there as long as he'll let her, her body molded into his, enjoying the sensation of his chest on the other side of the thin shirt, enjoying being his.
And when at last she pulls away it is with glossy eyes and a devilish grin, licking her lips as though to capture every atom of the way he tastes. A hum, half-whispered, dreamy and without thought escapes her throat, wafting out from her half-lidded gaze. "Nothing in that basket is as sweet as you."
Then she laughs and colors pink, suddenly self-conscious, the silly praise sounding cheesy even to her own ears.
