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!
Her croons were all he required – a keening hum of contentment brewing from his chest, rising to meet her notes, echoes of rumbling throngs and knells. He scoffed and snorted her insinuation, a cat indeed, permitting more of a distracted haze of lust and satisfaction again, tormenting and teasing, leaning into her, her, and only her, mouth pressed, hungry, a constant, avaricious declaration on his lips. The depths of his eyes closed, and his figure melded and molded to feel: the rays of the sun, capturing them in his grasp, kissing over her infernal splendor, Icarus with his wings, falling along the plains of heat and plumes. Something about persuasion marked the corner of his mouth, in the curls of his hair, but in their ardent holds he really wouldn’t be able to recall if anyone asked. It was the longing venture instead, not enough, never enough, as if he couldn’t be sated, satisfied, more and more, give and give, take and take, languorous predilections and explorations because they could, had the time, had the world. His lips parted and let her in, followed on the same motions, on the same rhythms, interludes of passion and persistence, proffering everything all at once – hands rising away from her hips and gently coiling along the back of her head, cradling, fingers finding gilded tassels, intertwining along the interplay of gold.
Only when she pulled away did he manage to come to any of his senses, and just barely on her devilish grin, gaze flicking back open to watch her lick her lips, growling, leaning forward, coming to snag her again with ruffian, roguish affection, yearning, riveting over his features – until laughter and a hum reached his ears, and he sat there, back in the depths of his chair, baffled and stunned. “I am not sweet,” spoken in a bewildered tone, snorting again, pondering where and when on earth he’d delivered such a message. Was it wrong to feel offended and slighted? Sweet grated at his senses, stifling back a grimace; likely a ruse to perceive a provocation out of him, landing squarely at his core.
Out of recoil and retribution, he rose from his seat, palms clinging to her hips and taking her with him, shifting to swing her in the air, legs dangling, before placing her back on the floor. Only then did he remember to hitch up his towel again, barely resting along his hips, tying it off to the side, an absent-minded thought. Then he meandered back to the basket, left haphazardly nearby, the mischievous penchants and inclinations returning to his face– bright eyes hastening in impish decrees, handing it back to her, to unveil, to reveal, while he collected the dishes.
He seems taken aback by her comment, her compliment, and Amalia can do nothing but laugh as his bewilderment, a gentle chuckle elicited from his lips as he pushes himself back in affront. "I think you might be a little sweet," the baker teases, her fingers running down his bare chest, black eyes vibrant with glittering mischief, a playful smile on her expressive face. "Somewhere under all that grump." The girl leans forward to kiss his nose, softening the sting of the teasing, the barbs, though everything she says in genuine, everything is true: he is sweet, both in nature and taste, sugar and softness under so much stone.
If only he could see it, the things she sees in him. If only the flaming, molten core that burns within him like an inferno could glisten and break and shine through the ice, as clear as crystal in her eye.
Maybe it's for the best he is shuttered, she thinks, tilting her head with a distant smile. Maybe the world isn't ready for anyone or anything so good.
Maybe she isn't ready to share.
All those thoughts are pushed away, buried as Deimos rises to his feet, hoisting the girl into the air. She chirps her surprise, squawking indignation as her body is swung high, swung around with effortless grace by the man whose strength she trusts in full. Still she grasps his forearms tightly, grinning, laughing, gleeful with delight. Dizzy, her feet touch lightly on the floor and she falls into the now vacant chair, still laughing, still grinning, her knees pulled up to her chest without thought, exposing almost all of her legs and placing her head on her knees. She does not miss the hitching of the towel, a rumble of something like disappointment rising from her chest.
Amalia watches as he meanders, tracing his steps with her ardent eyes. By the time he returns with the covered basket Amalia is ready to reveal her treasure. And so with no little amount of aplomb she pulls back the towel to show what lies within: freshly baked lemon and blackberry muffins, with goat butter and jam set on the side. Not so lavish as he may have expected, and for a moment the girl is anxious, expectant, trying as hard as she can to keep from staring as she waits for the judgment that is destined to come.
No one had ever used sweet to describe him: asinine, persistent, bitter, and belligerent, perhaps, but never something made of sugar. Those days were long gone, drifting in amongst boyhood, before things became rotted and nefarious, before the world shifted and turned and revolved into its irreverent efforts, leaving behind the shells and vessels of decency, morals, and ethics. In reality, maybe he didn’t know what he was now, so used to lingering in bouts of ice and glacial walls, in tactics meant to keep everyone at bay, to hold them away, away, away, and no matter what he did, they all appeared to stay – wreaking havoc against his enclosures and tethers, his lines in the sand, in the snow, in the dust. Then he kept letting them in.
Especially her, drifting in the furthest, touching and scorching and stitching back together the broken shards of a barbed, malicious soul, the blackened, warped enamel of an unholy heart.
The beast lifted his eyes to hers as she teased, residual taunting for equal measures and endeavors, a soft sigh billowing from his chest as her fingers resided there briefly, soaking in the play, in the warmth, in things he’d craved but never truly had, cherished, grasped. His features were less stone and rubble now, more exultant and revering, taking in the sun’s rays and raising his head to be consecrated and blessed in return; a muffled snort at her comments, but naught more. He accepted them, buried and hallowed in the corners of his ribs, in the maneuvering sway of his lungs.
Maybe one day he’d be worth all her laughter, all her devotion, all her warmth; tilting his head to smugly watch her curl away, eyes purposefully roaming on her legs. He gathered up the plates, pacing back and forth from the table to the sink, left the glasses in case either required more; peaceful, wandering along the repose as if he didn’t know what to do in it except ponder its mysteries and depths.
Then – there was the basket.
He must’ve looked like a youth, ruffian and rogue, the way he readily applied himself to her side the moment she thought to unearth the mysteries. Too curious, too inquiring, too much like a cat, the Cheshire grin unfolded again as she hastened to her wares, permitting the revelation to finally take place. The scents alone were deemed heavenly and ambrosial by his countenance, the aromas flooding his senses, lips licked with avaricious intentions. “Ah, this is what you fought for,” and there was something incandescently feral in his gaze, slightly hooded, as he riveted his attentions on her – lavished his appreciation. “Bested them all,” he smirked and snickered, lips pressed to her brow in a sudden bout of affection, while fingers slipped along the threshold, grabbing one of the muffins. Greedy, ravenous, a ridiculous sweet-tooth since he was an untamed thing running along coasts and squalls, Deimos bit into the contents, relishing and savoring the taste on his tongue with a covetous croon; no words needed.
Amalia loves the youthful qualities that peek like sunlight through his shadows, the rogue behind a stoic face of glacial carvings and ancient stone. He is a cat, the girl thinks, chuckling fondly as she inches closer, eager and enthused by the secrets she carries, the treasure she has yet to reveal. It seems so small and trivial now, a foolish thing, a snippet, a segment; no grandiose finding, no riches of the sea, only the product of her hard work and artistry. Even the quality is not exceptional: Amalia is not, as some have claimed, the greatest baker. She is adequate, acceptable, her products good, but nothing for him to drive himself wild for, nothing to move him to heaven's gate.
Still, as he grins and admires she nearly forgets her mediocrity, nearly forgets she is not enough. The way he looks at them (at her) is staggering, breathtaking; it makes her feel as though she is better, a thing that is worthy of his respect and love.
She matches his grin, proud and amazed, purring her happiness as his lips reach her brow. Fingers reach up to caress his cheek; "All for you," she murmurs, promises, avows and teases and laughs and declares. His appreciation for the muffins is palpable, and the girl watches intently as he swallows one down, crooning appreciation, a rumble which echoes into her chest. This is why she bakes, she thinks: to see the way people's faces can light, to inspire happiness and safety and love with little more than flour and heat.
Elbow on the table, head on her hand, Amalia smiles up at the Sword. She is content for the moment to watch him, a muffin uneaten in her fingers as he finishes his. Then she reaches for the butter, delicately slicing down the middle of the pastry before slathering some inside, half a blackberry treat brought up to her lips, pleasure and enjoyment clear on her face.
The measure of worth always seemed to be a daunting thing: capable of weighing it in ample sums for one another, but not for themselves. No matter how many times he uttered her power, her strength, her kindness, her rays, her ambience, he wasn’t certain if it resounded in her heart, in her soul, if it touched the portions scalded and blistered from eternities ago. Hadn’t he been committing the same actions – roaming closer and closer to the insecurities, to the ineptitude, to the ineffectual notions, instead of all the things she prospered his way? Refuting, rebuffing, as if they held no meaning? Except they did – he pressed them close to his chest, close to his entity, but didn’t know if he could believe in them, because he understood himself, all his ventures, all his schemes, all his vile, horrific actions. Did she cherish him even with the iniquities? And how, how, how? This was why he thought he didn’t deserve her, because he didn’t, and they cycled right back to the beginning, commendable beacons warranting love and devotion, but having lost it too many times before to expect the ardor, to believe they could have attachments.
The beast needed to be better.
It was another unsaid pledge between the entangled grins, the softened gazes, the dulcet caresses, all the beneficence prospered and granted, and he wanted, he wanted, he wanted, her to have it all, everything and anything. All for you she promised, and he might’ve said the same, honored it in the midst of quiet, intending to deliver it when she least expected the raptures and reveries, when it was more than heaven sent and alarming. The mountain hummed in thought, chewing, swallowing, and savoring, less glacial and more infernal, his stare roaming from her gilded hair, halo-lined and seraphic, raking down, watching her contentment with her pastry. At the core of him, he didn’t want to lose this – the peace, the repose, the sanctuary, the haven they’d managed to create before it was inevitably squandered away by something else slithering in the midst – inclining and tilting his head, striving to make it last for as long as possible. “Would you like to stay the night?” Deimos wasn’t aware of what her plans had been for after dinner, and frankly, they’d already been derailed a multitude of times by their fiendish, feral desires (nothing he was apologetic for). Perhaps she had other things to take care of before the morning, or a myriad of reasons she simply couldn’t remain - but the invitation was open, there, lilting.
Would you like to stay the night? If asked, Amalia could not have said why this simple question catches her off-guard, makes her stop her musing and chewing, half a muffin still raised to her lips. Perhaps she is simply taken aback, caught off guard by this newest of firsts. Perhaps because it has been so long since she slept beside someone she can scarcely remember the feeling of it. Perhaps she is self conscious of her own restless sleeping; or she is worried about the bakery and Jyoti; or she fears that he might snore.
Perhaps it is simply so rare that she is asked to stay, always having begged for others not to run away, always having clung to ghosts without feeling embraced in turn, that she does not know if she can trust her ears when the offer is extended.
The mouthful of food makes a perfect excuse for silence, a mute response as her eyes open wide. Words failing the baker is not unusual, and perhaps Deimos will not think it odd, especially since her expressive face says more than her voice ever could. Color rises to her cheeks; black eyes speak of disbelief, of wonder and happiness and anxiety and hope, of dreams she's had that he would ask this, of fears she shall not be enough. Somehow the Shield of Safrin believes she can fail everything, even sleeping.
Let her never be accused of being a logical creature, the Chandrakant baker with her heart on her sleeve.
At last she swallows down the bite, already smiling, a small shy smile on her lips. "I think I would like that," she whispers, confesses, falling once more, black into blue. Raising her hand up to pull a lock of hair behind her ear, Amalia drops her eyes a moment, pausing before turning her gaze back up. "If... If you don't mind."
A master of silence and composure, his eyes simply took her in: read emotions and sentiments lingering across attempts at a hushed demeanor. Her facial features were loud, fragments going from one rumination to the other, so he tucked his chin in his hand, and waited. For a moment, the soldier thought he’d pushed too far, tread along lines either hastily drawn, fabricated, not recognized at all, or simply unwanted. Had it been a foolish inquiry? Maybe she had a myriad of other commitments waiting in the wings, on feathers and plumes, on starlight and sunsets, on baked goods and merchandise to be sold, delivered, the following morning. He grimaced inwardly, should’ve thought better of merely springing it upon her; and for one so meticulous, so detail-orchestrated, it should’ve have dawned on him just now. But he stared at her widened eyes, the aura of surprise, and hovered, the answer pervading somewhere in the midst, pondering if he should have kept himself busy in the quiet, instead of remaining, witnessing segments of color rise back to her cheeks.
He didn’t tell her he hadn’t done this in eons either: permitted others in, in, in, or presided in vulnerability, letting another soul breach his senses.
Deimos was rewarded for his patience with wonder and delight and hope thereafter, absorbing it all with the lightest of smiles grasping his mouth, the reply more than he could ask for – a reverent divulgence, followed by the arch of his brow, tender inquiries going unvoiced as onyx lanced on blue, then shifted away. “I would not mind.” He didn’t tease her that he’d been the one to ask, that he’d extended the invitation without a single regret. His Cheshire grin was enough of a ruse, a taunt, a goading, a provocation, meant to wield her back into fervency and ardor, instead of the impasse they were suddenly immersed within.
If he appeared confident, it was a farce, a pretense, a barrier to his inadequacies and poor, social graces, once brutally, barbarically cold, thriving on voids, on hollowed shells. No one stayed with the Reaper and no one ever seemed to crave it, not after –
The mountain rose from his chair, returning to dishes and any other materials he’d left out. What now – a question engaged in his mind because they’d probably marched along the steps all wrong, never remotely domesticated, wild and savage and feral and ignorant to all these other footfalls. Once everything was in the sink, he turned his head back over his shoulder, studying her, utterly disbelieving in what he had – undeserving, unworthy all over again. “When you are ready, then,” was all he could come up with – the uncertainty clawing at him, not sure, not sure, not sure.
Her smile does not broaden, not does it fade, but the color and angle on her cheekbones rise and her hands continue to play through her hair, a shy sort of excitement creeping into her chest. Excitement, but anxiety too- she agreed without much thought to her sleeping rituals, without consideration of which he might find odd or whether she will be comfortable, foregoing them for a night (for many nights, for a future, a sacrifice and adaptation made in the name of love).
He sets about cleaning, methodical and sure, a Scion in his kingdom, a ferocious thing made comfortable by the sanctity of home. Amalia watches, suddenly unsure, not wanting to interrupt his actions with her bumbling ineptitude, to betray the fact that she does not belong. It is nice, she thinks, to simply see him, to bask in the security he displays; it is terrifying to think of interrupting that, of inserting herself into a clean tableau.
When at last he turns that blue upon her it is with the infinite acceptance she has come to know, breathtaking in it's absolutoon, an affection she does not, cannot, deserve. Her evenings, her nights, her bedtime routines- they are strange and simple things, private and personal, totally unassuming but suddenly glares, flaws, weaknesses in her facade of normalcy, a facade she has never worn well. When you're ready, Deimos' says, and a swift calculation runs through her mind as she tries to determine what she can abandon for the night, which rituals can be left behind.
One, among others, cannot.
"I need to say my nightly prayers." Amalia's eyes are not downcast; she does not try to conceal herself from him, cannot deal shame for this. The love of her gods is a precious thing, one he must know and accept if he is to accept her. A glance is thrown around the room for something she knows she will not find: a shrine, an altar, any semblance of reverence in the Spartan space. Biting her lip, she looks back at him. "I can go outside for it, or do it here. It won't take long."
Deimos hadn’t given much thought to his sleeping rituals either – mostly because there wasn’t much to it. The only disconcerting thing might be the potential for nightmares, for ghosts returning in the middle of the evening, leading a time of rest to devastation and ruin too. But it’d been a lengthy amount of time since his last one, perhaps his mind was too distracted and deterred by everything else going on, to even bother with his history of wraiths and phantoms. The warrior would apologize if the event came up – otherwise, any apprehension towards impending slumber was largely withheld. Had he of known about her consternation, the beast might’ve extended his nonchalance, composure, and calm platitudes, lending his acceptance and tolerance, as so many had done for him.
To think she doesn’t belong too – he’d always ensure that she did.
Yet, it was the vibrant unknown, so he continued with his work, scrubbing away at dishes in the sink, deviating attention between her and any food stuck on plates. He glanced back up from his tasks when he heard her answer - nightly prayers - and the heathen, the fiend, confirmed another notation of credence. While he had almost no faith in celestial beings, in gods, in deities, Amalia had ample amounts, a fundamental difference between the pair. Their experiences in those regards wildly contrasted; he’d been a bestial, irreverent, seditious force, otherwise ignored from anything or anyone secure in Elysium, and she’d had them seemingly all her life. The Shield of Safrin; a vital contortion to the stars and the skies.
He didn’t begrudge her that fact; he’d been born into Abandonment, the magic in his veins destroying any opportunity or chance, and then his exploits thereafter further segmenting any ideals they might have longed or craved in a barbaric beast.
There was nothing bitter in his nod, complying with her necessities. It could be much the same for his rituals of swordplay, and she’d never reacted negatively along those intervals (though simply not choosing to impart in them on a regular basis – her decision, nothing forced upon her). She must’ve comprehended there would be no shrine in his vicinity, naught paying homage to those a vast majority worshipped, but she wouldn’t be unwelcome to commit to her rituals within his home. “You may go where you wish,” he endeavored with a smile, another nod, as he dried the dishes, towel in hand, placing them along the counter.
Insecurities met with simple acceptance: somehow the girl is not accustomed, even after nearly two seasons, even after moments and secrets and soft confessions shared. The guard she wears upon her heart softens and slips down once again, shield defeated by a gentle sword, succumbing to his simple nod. Go wherever you wish- and she wishes to stay here, to show him this piece of her, though she knows it is unlikely he will understand. "You can join, if you like." Amalia has never known Deimos to hold much regard for the gods, but she prays for him nonetheless.
She prays for everyone she loves.
Slipping lightly from her chair, Amalia walks to the west side of the room, swallowing down the apprehension of performing this most sacred adulation in the gaze of someone else. Lightly she settles onto the floor, cross-legged, breathing softly, drowning anxiety in pious reflection, letting her mind drop like a stone into a meditative state. "Vi," she murmurs, "Thank you for this and every day that we are blessed with the gift of life. Lend us your herald, Safrin, that her stars might guide our sleep. Mort, as the sun falls behind the horizon once more, keep the darkness at bay. Lend us your herald, Ludo, that it might guard our souls through the night. Rae, bring us another tomorrow soon, and with it another opportunity to excel. Lend us our herald, Frey, that they might make the world bloom. Caido, in your name, we thank you for today, tomorrow, yesterday, and all."
There are more things, unsaid things, but these are the words of the classic praise, a prayer she has known since she was a girl, simple wishes for a pious life. Already Amalia feels calmer, soothed by the sanctity of routine, the knowledge that wherever she may be her Gods are with her, and she with them. Exhaling, the baker opens dark eyes, blinking a moment before glancing over to see where Deimos is, a slight smile on her angular face as she rises lightly from the floor. "Okay. Done."
At her offer, he only arched a brow. He was not one to recite pledges or prayers to celestial beings – his faith was reserved for people, for individuals who sparked, inspired, or provoked him to stay at their sides, at their backs, before their prowess. They were the ones he guarded, he fought alongside, he protected, he defended; vows and assurances melded to their cores, presences, and entities. The gods had little to do with any of it – he liked to believe his commitments, his achievements, and his strengths were his own, and not dictated by their designs and orchestrations. “I will listen,” he tilted his head instead, the small grin still there, before leaving her to the praises, appeals, orisons, and devotions, acceptance and acceptance and acceptance, allowed to believe in his notions, and she adhering to hers.
But he did pay attention, concentrating on the words she proclaimed: Vi with life, Safrin with stars, Mort with flickering, falling suns, Ludo, leading souls, Rae on tomorrows, Frey and worlds blooming, Caido, for the earth. While he dried dishes, placing them quietly, carefully, on top of one another, so the clinks and clangs didn’t resound, reverberate, or echo across her murmurs and croons.
While she spoke, his mind wandered primarily to Helovian gods, the ones he could recall, proud even with their cracked shrines and decimated disciples, the ones who’d embodied each kingdom, the ones who craved oracles, the ones who gave and took. God of the Moon, dark and enigmatic, capable of orchestrating others to do her bidding (murder). God of the Sun, wild and caustic, mercurial, burning at the seams. God of the Earth, gentle and just, lending them information and assistance. God of the Spark, keeper of the Basin, tempestuous, snarky, and combative. Some to be revered, some to be detested. He’d done neither, really, except grind or grit his teeth at their blasé’ insinuations, at their detachments, at their affairs; wishing they’d leave them all alone.
There’d been others in Isilme, but he’d forgotten them now – little fragments and sparks of war and incisions on their tongues – didn’t glance down upon him when he pleaded and begged, so he ceased talking to them too: a cycle he was damned and doomed to repeat.
Upon her announcement that she was completed, his attention deviated back to black eyes and slight smiles, placing the last dish on the counter, intending to put them away later. “Done.” A light grin finagled its way back to his face, a challenge in the air, a way to diminish the apprehension, returning to dares, summoning visions of chases amidst renewals. He started walking towards the stairs, aloof, detached, appearing nonchalant, before uttering a proclamation and uncoiling long limbs up the steps. “Race you!”
He takes her without question, without reproach, each prayer repeated in quiet comfort as easily as she might at home. He does not join her; not does he interrupt, and Amalia appreciates the silent observation, the reverence for her faith if not for her gods.
She rises when the prayers are done, the oversized shirt still hanging to her thighs, warm in the sanctity of his home. He, too, appears to have finished his evening rituals, each of the plates meticulously washed and laid upon the counter, neater and more fastidious than she. Tilting her head, Amalia smiles, anxiety beating thunderous in her chest as he turns to make his way to the stairwell and all it represents. For a moment he is poised, control, a monolith in his kingdom, a statue to salvation preparing now to rise.
And then the moment breaks, as it always does, severity given way to mirth and challenge, humor and delight in the antics of youth. Deimos' long legs uncoil like a shot, and it takes the girl a moment to so much as react- but only a moment, and scarcely that. Laughing, Amalia leaps toward the stairs, her body twisting in mid air as she takes on a distinctly avian form. Small and swift she ascends the stairs, beating wing and hoping to spiral under his arm and past him, to claim victory in talons and beak.
Amalia shifts back as she reaches the bedroom, dropping down, breathless, into his bed. "Did I win?" she asks him, rising up onto an elbow to grin up at the behemoth, his shirt half open upon her chest and dangerously risen up her thigh. Flush cheeked and grinning brightly, the Shield regards her Sword with fondness, all anxiety lost to play.
The challenge had been taken – absconded quickly in her favor, a near-silent stroke of wings below him and he had no chance, no opportunity to ever scale the stairs as quickly. The beast had no plumes, no talons; just the enigmatic twist and turn of his barbaric presence. He followed with swift speed regardless of his sound defeat, an eyeroll along his gaze and a snort in pursuit. Upon entering his room, he noticed she’d made herself comfortable already, dropping across the massive expanse, either the anxiety, the apprehension gone, or wilted away on the fringes of play and diversions. It suited the moment just fine – he took ample opportunity to survey her from the threshold, eyes raking over open collars and visible thighs, sinful predilection making its way into his piercing depths.
He crossed the room, standing before her, a tower, a blackguard, before bending down, leaning over, hovering, taut arms locking on either side of her; a Reaper cage without the locks or tethers. The snicker on his lips intended to brush over hers, “Yes,” echoing and bounding along his mouth, soft at first, before their hunger caressed and stoked, gaze hooded, then closed, taking, taking, and taking, giving, giving, and giving, a signature of their rituals and traditions.
On purpose, because he understood the instances for teasing, for taunts, for another set of provocations, he pulled away, absent air where he’d previously stood. Impish grins and devilish ministrations unraveled once more, he wandered over to his various drawers, pulling out boxers and sweatpants – and without warning, dropped his towel on the floor, kicking it aside to pick up later. Stripped down again, he took meticulously, slow movements, tenacious in his composure, in his juvenile tendencies, before putting them on (and if they came off swiftly thereafter, then so be it). The beast glanced over his shoulder, complete ruffian and Mephistophelean, arching a brow, imploring, instigating. “As a prize, you may choose your side,” and he laughed, indicating the bed and its opposing edges.
Triumph fills her with a blazing fire, fueling her grin into something fierce, proud and pleased, possessive and wild. In some strange way it feels as though the girl has staked her claim, made his home and heart her own, won the treasure of his regard, the prize of being allowed to stay, to once again belong. The smile softens and contorts as he comes to stand above her, dark eyes hooded, a smirk on her lips, her breath coming fast and her hips shifting. "Good," she whispers fervently, reaching up to place her hand upon the curve of his cheek, her knee bending, inviting him close to her supine form.
Lips meet lips in an ardent kiss, hungry and searching as though she were not sated, as though she has not already taken again and again and again. Her other arm reaches for his hair, slipping down the curve of his neck, his shoulders, his back, down and down, searching for the edge of the towel, eager to free him from that last constraint. Long fingers at last reach the cloth, and she grins against his mouth, dark eyes glittering-
-Only to have him pull away, a mewl of protest on her lips as she is left without his warmth.
Pushing herself up on her elbows Amalia watches him walk away, a mixture of relief and frustration pushing through her stomach. She wants to pursue him, to tackle and take him into her, to draw out her victory and claim her prize. Ah, but there is a consolation; the girl's face flushes as he draws off the towel, leaving her with a spectacular view, all intention of mischief and mayhem gone as easily as the cloth.
"Hmm?" she answers distractedly, reluctantly raking her hooded gaze back to his face. "Ah- the one closest to the door, I guess," the girl replies, practicality suddenly making her aware of the hour, of responsibilities waiting with the dawn. Sitting up Amalia sighs, running her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to detangle it. "I'll have to get up and leave early, to go to the bakery. I wouldn't want to wake you."
