It takes a leap of faith

Amalia

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stop thinking so much

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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."

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you're breaking your own heart

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