ma laila nō kāua
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,962
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#1
Mature Content Warning 
Amalia
the shield of safrin
Today is a day of rest.

They are few and far between, the days when Amalia sleeps in, if it can even be called as such. Normally up well before dawn, the baker is, by necessity, a morning person, basking in those lingering moments of starlight before the sun crests past its apex. She takes pleasure in seeing the world asleep, finds peace in her (ever more frequent) morning commute from Deimos' house to the bakery before the birds have awoken. It is when the world feels safest, these days, when she can close her eyes and almost, almost, almost pretend that all is right.

But today Amalia is sleeping in. Tucked into the large bed, the girl is half-covered by a duvet, curled on her side with the blanket caught between her legs. If she can be called a girl- since last years Long Night Amalia has taken to sleeping in leopard form, and though she has tried to break that habit since she began spending nights with Deimos, she still finds herself waking up covered in ivory fur, with ears and tail on display and a distinctly feline quality to her form.

It is no different today. As the first rays of a young sun threaten the horizon the Shield begins to stir, a gentle purring rising from her chest. Yawing widely, sharp teeth on display, the leopardess stretches across the bed, her body shuddering and shivering with the motion before she flops halfway onto her other side, looking for the warm form of her lover to nuzzle against.
you drew memories in my mind
i could never erase
you painted colors in my heart
i could never replace
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,819
MP:
#2
DEIMOS
Deimos didn’t sleep as an eagle.

The form wasn’t familiar enough for him to be comfortable in any vulnerable state – no feathers lined his edges, no plumage meandered along his figure, gone by the wayside for his human embodiment, tall and broad and contorted for this evening’s spread into morning. At some point he’d started out curled around Amalia, and then lingered, lost, along the bed, caught in torrents of tempestuous dreams that turned into nightmares; visions of other years taut and tethered behind his eyes, freshly dug graves with battlefield cinders wrapped in their accord, names pressed along stones, pyres with rooted ashes and titles. After he’d shuddered away from her, not wishing to disturb her sleep, he’d had difficulty returning to slumber, hesitant to dive back into those outlines and sketches, staring at the wall, pondering over why the distortions had returned. Perhaps it had been the constant consternations of the world around them, the failures, the disasters, the blight, pounding and grinding its way into their unsuccessful ventures, an overwhelming reminder of defeat, defeat, defeat.

At some point though, his mind must have shut off again, because he didn’t awaken before the press of dawn, his normal routine, rising when she did, seeing her off to the bakery, gathering supplies to hunt or continue with some other efforts necessary before Long Night. The sun lingered from windows, and he blinked rapidly, pondering over why and when and how, closing his gaze again, pressing his palms against eyelids, stretching undulating muscles and breathing slowly; no misguided returns of the chimeras, that he could recall, that he could remember. On his expansion of arms and limbs however, he found Amalia again – flipping and flopping nearby, shocked she was still immersed in dozing too, out of the patterns and rhythms too.

His hands rested on fur, and he nearly laughed, but it only came out as a sigh, acceptance of the inevitable, in her shifting overnight. “Morning,” he murmured, eyes reopening, watching, waiting, reaching for her in adapted habits.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,962
MP:
#3
Amalia
the shield of safrin
A fanged yawn, a whispered stretch of limbs, a contortion of her body as she half turns against him, face finding purchase in the rumble of his chest. Still somewhere far from fully awake, Amalia does not realize she is still in leopard form: all she knows is that he is there beside her, and so the world is right.

He reaches for her and she arches into it, instinct driving her to strive for skritches, her cold nose nuzzling against his neck, into the space beneath his beard. Morning, she replies, sleepy and silent, a happy chuff escaping her lips as she turns wide feline eyes up to blink at his face. Slept too much- but her silent laughter and toothy grin make it obvious she does not particularly care. At least, not yet.

Slowly the fur begins to recede, sinking back into human skin as she hooks a leg posessively over his hip, her now girlish lips pressing playfully into his jawline. "Don't you have to go off and do important things somewhere, Mr. General?" Amalia murmurs against his warm flesh, the words punctuated by trailing kisses as her right arm reaches out to trace some of the scars that line his arm. It is obvious the Shield has no intention of letting him leave the bed - if she is blowing off her duties today then so is her Sword.
you drew memories in my mind
i could never erase
you painted colors in my heart
i could never replace
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,819
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#4
DEIMOS
Fur first upon his fingers, then a chilling nose in the juncture of his nape and shoulders, and he only shuddered at its contact for a moment, snorting, hands finding leopard ears and scratching against them. It was a calm effervescence, a sleepy set of measures, no calculations required, no machinations needed, in the hazy slate of removing exhaustion and fatigue. His eyes blinked, slow and steady, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments, before his form leaned into hers, gaze staring, bemused, at content chuffs and feline conjectures blinking at him.  One brow arched, but the warrior didn’t ask anything – why she’d slept later too, why she wasn’t already at the bakery, why they weren’t maneuvering in opposite directions, intent on keeping the world together, as it cracked and fissured, for another day.

She shifted back, human all over again, a blatant tease and taunt as one leg swung over his hip, and he obliged by not moving at all at first, in her grasp, possessed and seized, taken in by the sun and the stars. Instead, he obliged it, turning more to glance upon her with sudden, stoked ambitions, one hand softly making its way down her lithe limb, purposefully dulcet, light, and not nearly enough. Lips upon his jaw might’ve made him purr, were he feline, and instead a rumble meandered its way down his chest, eyes half-closed, still in the blur, the daze, the smoke, the vapors, the sighs; taking in her murmurs with a gruff exhale.

In fact, he did have a number of things to do. There were defenses to shield them against Long Night to make, staffs to study, and some form of weaponry he was meant to manifest to potentially fight monsters (or be a wasted enterprise when they weren’t capable of fending off anything). At another interval he was meant to recruit those who hadn’t been willing to volunteer their dominion and prowess in the first place. The responsibilities mounted and weighed and here he was, orchestrating none of them – tempted by the siren.

A Cheshire grin folded its way over his mouth, then lingered, persisted, carried on, when his lips dropped to her shoulder, enticing, pulling down fabric with his teeth, then anointing bereft skin with slow, insistent caresses, molten and duplicitous, exacting and deliberate. “Maybe,” he breathed and billowed across pale flesh, words sinking, simmering, stoking, tickling, hooded gaze conspiring far more than General duties. “I thought you would be baking by now.” Or extending her knowledge of this earth, rehashing plans with gods and deities, encompassing saving the world – far greater exploits than he’d ever manage, far more important than the rest of them.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,962
MP:
#5
Amalia
the shield of safrin
Amalia arches into his scratches, basking in the attention as she slowly changes her skin. Her bare foot runs along his calf, toes curling against the muscles, light and teasing, an echoed response to his hand upon her thigh - large and firm, calloused and rough, hands she would recognize by a mere touch. Outside the birds sing of tasks to be undertaken, responsibilities that sit neglected beneath the winter sun. Amalia could list a hundred things she really ought to be doing today: preparations to be undertaken, perches to be built, people to go speak to, bread to deliver. She wants to check on the roses at the Spire and Safrin's shrine. There are luxere herds to go and feed, to coax into protecting their towns and homes. Amalia has a laundry list (which includes laundry) of tasks she must complete.

None of which are half as tempting as staying here, with him.

She grins against the side of his face, letting her lips trail up to his ear as he brings his mouth to her shoulder blade. She does not mind being his temptation, nor falling into his, when the reward for her sin is something close to heaven. "The world can live without bread for a day," she whispers into she shell of his ear, letting her tongue punctuate the words as it flits over his auricle.

The sleeve of her nightdress falls off her shoulder easily- the shirt is his, after all, far too broad for the slender girl. It comforts her to wear his things, wrap himself in him as she sleeps, satisfies a deep and primal need to be firmly marked as his. With a quiet laugh she rolls away, her arm pulled off him as her body shifts, lying on her back now, the loose white shirt halfway down her chest. "Unless, of course, you wanted me to go?" Her dark eyes glitter with mischief and invitation, a pretty half-pout on her coral lips which is wholly offset by the little bit of grin.
you drew memories in my mind
i could never erase
you painted colors in my heart
i could never replace
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,819
MP:
#6
DEIMOS
They played bewitching games, signatures and stanzas of their relationship, amusements and diversions filled with only light refrains of mockery; contorted and coiled well before any establishment of devotion and ardor had been recognized or known, a taunt, entertainment, a slipping of armor, blades tossed aside, divertissements coiled in their unrelenting glances. It was when he relaxed, bolstered mischief instead of agony, made homage and tribute to pieces and portions of his soul only kindled and stoked by her; permitted to act like ridiculous fools when the world shook and grimaced, when the earth seethed and tormented. Perhaps they shouldn’t have laughed and paid irreverence to the distinction of winter’s edges, minded their tasks, administered straight to their responsibilities, but in the flares and simmering strands of temptation, he really didn’t care. Let them be missed for a morning, tucked and secluded, consecrated and blessed in their own intervals.

If it were a disastrous route, he really couldn’t give a damn either, incapable of conjuring anything on his mind now except her: illustrious and reverent, a sinful concoction in gilded, beatific rapture. His mouth sought to capture the juncture of exposed flesh, a sweeping laugh billowing from his lips as he lingered further down, then inclined upward, wanton ministrations along the soft skin of her nape. It was followed by his short gasp, a riotous inhale and an arresting smile on the edges, as her voice and tongue wound its way along his ear. His frame flickered with a shudder of pleasure, stoking the flames in unholy reverberations as his shirt barely lingered on her, possession in the darker predilections of his gaze, promising to swallow, devour, and consume –

Then she rolled away, a portion of their dodges and subterfuge, taking and giving and trapping and ensnaring; he shook his head, proffered a small snort, then his stare shifted wholly onto her, clearly tantalized, enticed, allured. Slowly, drawing out the plains of fruition, because that was in the Sword’s schemes too, he slunk over her, arms braced on either side of her head, absorbing the mischief, corresponding with his own. “You are free to leave,” not captured, not caged, with the brightest of snickers and smirks, boyish and youthful in his devilish decibels. It was another means and measure towards their ardor: taunting as well wishes, teasing as devotion, nonsense and impishness in place of endearments. Reflections of attachments, of yearning were designated in how far they could unravel the other, how deep their desires brewed, devotion and infatuation in the mocking accords; or how often they risked themselves for the other, how sword and shield went hand-in-hand into the darkness.

But there were no shadows now, not in the bright sun preening its way across the bed; ignoring it entirely, the warrior’s mouth descended, aspiring to entangle it upon hers, the only celestial body he intended to revere.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,962
MP:
#7
Amalia
the shield of safrin
Adoration and absolution is the song of their morning: freedom, however brief, from the crushing oppression of not enough. With him as her armor Amalia can hide, withstand a few more blows than otherwise, revitalize her aching heart and reset her resolution. How long has she been so close to crumbling, and how often, and why? Weight upon weight she wears on her shoulders, never able to shed the first before another joins it, bearing ever further down.

But his eyes are like the ocean she has never seen, and when they smile down upon him the girl feels buoyant, as though a little of the weight is lifted, as though her bones may not yet break. He follows her as she rolls away, the steps of the dance well choreographed by now, curling her lips into marvelous mischief, a playful smirk in her onyx gaze. Slowly she raises a slender finger to trace the lines of his jaw, lazily stroking the bristled cheek as her dark eyes flick to his mouth and back. "And why would I ever want to do that?"

She rises up to meet his lips, her fingers tangling in his mane, hungry, yes, but gentle too, devotion in the ministrations of his lips. She wants him to feel how much she needs this, the brightness he brings into her life, and without consideration the Shield's mind opens, adoration let loose into the bond between them, and though she does not yet know if he can sense it it thrills her to know that one day he will.

Raising her knee to hold his body closer causes her shirt to rise up as well, the fabric lingering tantalizingly over her otherwise bare body, the lacing lightning bolt of scars flickering silver on her right hip and leg. She is nothing, however, compared to him: the towering and powerful physique will never fail to captivate her, and Amallia pulls away a moment to admire her lover in the light of the sun. "I love waking up to this," the baker whispers almost shyly, angular cheeks flushed with passion, bottom lip tucked between her teeth.
you drew memories in my mind
i could never erase
you painted colors in my heart
i could never replace
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,819
MP:
#8
DEIMOS
Were she to ask, the Sword would have carried the world for her – eased it across his shoulders with the myriad of other weights and burns, scars and mettle, daring and audacity stoked on their undulating fibers, on their brawn, on their habitual condemnation. He would have snagged at the wretched edges of her broken heartstrings and mended them together as best he could, aligned them back into the sun, the moon, or the stars; set them alight, intangible, incorporeal, wistful, whimsical fringes no longer so heavy, so cumbersome, so overbearing. He would have taken each and every wound, inward or along flesh, for her, capable of riddling a few more blemishes on nefarious intricacies, on a keen balance of predilections – joining the fortifications of his frame. The beast thought about tugging them from her mind and whittling them down, down, down, into the scorching grit of his tenacity, allowing them to fissure away in his bones, out of sight, out of mind.

Except that wasn’t how their world worked – but he’d eternally willing to share the burden.

He followed, followed, followed, chased down remnants and ramparts, leaning into her motions, a rapacious intention igniting in his gaze as her fingers lingered on his jaw, against the bristles of his beard, on the curling fronds of her words. Then she met him, measure for measure, both ravenous and longing, caught in too many snares and nooses, desperate for the freedom, for the liberation of their own entangled enthrallments. He took her inferno and pulsed a feral wake, absorbing lights and benedictions, eyes closed merely to savor the feel of her; mouths scalding, pressing, insistent, why would I ever want to do that a laugh on his tongue that he plucked and brewed into hers. The hunger snatched and snarled, a tireless, tenacious dynamic, and he threatened to unravel right then and there, in the glimpse of her movements, in the possession of her knee, pressing him closer, hers and hers alone.

He stretched downward, arms leaning, still upright, slanted over her form, precision and prowess, lips still enraptured with hers, eyelids opening as she pulled away, stare embracing the rest of her scintillating form, an arch of appreciation on his Cheshire grin. He wasn’t one to shy away from scars, but he saw them again, noted it in the back of his mind – something to cherish, something to behold – (it means you lived), tilting his cranium a fraction at her whisper, at her blush. Deimos followed it down, mouth angled over hers again, silly and devilish because he was allowed to be here – permitted himself to love and enthrall and enjoy, to cherish her and the sacred intervals far as long as he could. “Then we should make a habit of it.”
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,962
MP:
#9
Amalia
the shield of safrin
He rises above her, a beacon of warmth, more comfort than any blanket could offer, more welcome than the brightest rays of sun. How can she help but love him, she wonders, and how was she lucky enough to be the one who he holds in return? It is not a thing she would have dreamt of, nothing she wanted for herself; yet now she cannot imagine it else wise, her life without him fit within. The taste of his lips, the feel of his hands, the scent of his sweat, the white of his smile: they are parts of her now, tucked against her heart, as revered and adored as any holy icon. Where once she believed her only purpose was to serve at the whim of her absent gods, now she can worship at the altar of him.

And ah, it is a worship that feels sublime.

Slender fingers find purchase in the mess of his thick hair, tender ministrations with passionate hues, never releasing even as they separate, her head falling to the pillow, his rising up above. The blush deepens, darkens, rosy and demure, prompted by the swell of thoughts he prompts with his reply. To wake up to this every day, to find herself belonging here, in his life, in his bed... it feels not unlike having a home, something other than a bakery attic, something to call her own. It isn't, of course- for all the nights she has spent beside him, she is aware this is not where she lives. She would not take his autonomy from him, impose on his sanctum without his consent.

"You might get tired of me." Amalia's tone is light and harmless, though there is truth of insecurity to her words. Oh, they have promised they will never grow weary, but still she cannot help the anxiety that lives beneath her skin. Still she smiles, her dark eyes playful, hand slipping from his hair to press against his face. "Of waking up with a faceful of fur." At least she has the presence of mind to look mildly chagrined, her thumb trailing over his lips as she grins up at him, leg still hooked to his waist.
you drew memories in my mind
i could never erase
you painted colors in my heart
i could never replace
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,819
MP:
#10
DEIMOS
Tired of her, as if she still had no idea of her effects and her hold, all the compassion and beneficence, all the halcyon ramparts and sun-kissed dispositions; she should be exasperated of him, who sought out parallels of darkness because it was comfortable and familiar, still uncertain when the light shined in his eyes. Perhaps it was something needing to be said over and over again, because they dwelled in haunting, poignant onslaughts, and often the terror was well beyond monsters needing to be conquered, or blights requiring restoration, but the before, the after, and everything in between. When things fell apart they were never quite the same, shattered remnants of the twice-broken shards, only enough enamel and lacquer to put things back together again. But piece-by-piece, he’d strive, because the Sword didn’t ever give in so readily, held exhaustion and fatigue at bay, knotted and gnarled his foundations into the most stubborn and resolute of roots. He laid the notions at her skin, tucked them into her soul on a feral kiss along her nape, rising along her ear, pulsing, persisting, pervading the infinite promises and convictions where she could remember, where she could adorn them, where she could wear them as armor. “Never,” was an ardent whisper crooning from a rumble along the back of his throat, intertwining in his chest, beating over the muscles and ramparts of his heart; igniting there in the coast of his mouth, as it inclined and devoured, sliding down her neck, over collarbones, pushing aside whatever remnants of his shirt remained.

Molten and ignited at her touch, his explorations, returning sojourns, continued, unbidden at her chest, only invoking a hallowed laugh that softly exalted near soft skin at her remarks about fur. His lips sketched and outlined favored routes, teeth lightly tracing, teasing, taunting, dangerously close to the rest of her exposed chest, more promises, more endeavors. He wanted her alive and kindled at his touch, savoring, scintillating, casting aside embers for infernos, resplendent and luminescence, predilections of the wanton, of the devoted – any and all of his reverent piety for her.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,962
MP:
#11
Amalia
the shield of safrin
If she is soaked in insecurity then he is a drying sun, warming her with the flame of his kisses, drying the droplets with a brazen tongue. She purrs beneath the ministrations, arcing her back in eager invitation, nimble toes working eagerly to pull his pants down from his waist. A sharp inhalation is released as a moan as his teeth graze over the shell of her ear, curling smoke and fervent embers, heat and lust and helpless ardor. Yours, her body seems to whisper, to howl and scream and gasp and claw. Yours and yours and yours and yours.

Hips rising up in invitation, Amalia whimpers as his mouth drifts low. She throws her head back on the pillow, biting her lips as her dark eyes close, her skin exposed beneath his caresses, goose-bumped and flushed as her heart beats hard. Fingers coil back into his dark hair, a little bit grumpy she can reach nothing else; her feet, meanwhile, continue their mission of shoving the sweatpants off his waist. He is teasing, taunting, his soft mouth hovering, moments away from touching her skin. Ah, but she wants it, and Amalia arches, emblazoned and yearning, eager and aching, her body offered up to him. He wants her wanton and the girl obliges, alto voice raising in a pleading hum. "Deimos," she purrs into the air between them, tantalizing, taunting, playing, praying. "Show me how you want me."
you drew memories in my mind
i could never erase
you painted colors in my heart
i could never replace
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,819
MP:
#12
DEIMOS
Between the sharp inhalations, the molten gasps, the curl of fumes and smoke, a tantalizing ease coiled over him, ruffian and rogue, dipping his head, hands moving, mouth meeting the arcs and arches of her back, pressing lips into skin and encouraging her fire. He wanted them as infernos, stoked and fueled, kindling and provocations laid out by hovering, harpooning breaths, a finesse of his caresses meeting breasts, nosing open the shirt as much as possible, rewarded with pale flesh beneath ministrations, unfurling tethers and lines of fabric to tease, to taunt, to return favors. His were wanton benevolences, maneuvering on the air of her moans, on the sinking and swimming of their senses, the sentiments raw and beatific and glorious. “You could move in with me,” he whispered into her essence, into her presence, into her entity – a crescendo of his offerings, of the multitude of things he’s always proffered. She had a space here, in his heart, in his home, if she wanted (and for an instant he considered she’d likely refuse; the bakery was her refuge, and maybe this sanctum was too much). He lifted his cranium only to follow through on fingers, quickly, swiftly, unbuttoning the rest of the garments, leaving her wide open to him – a rumble of approval when he returned to his avaricious attentions.

He could feel her toes working on his sweatpants, pushing the band down, down, down over his hips and waist, a sliding descent along muscle and power, stifling the smallest of laughs when he maneuvered above her. The garb managed to cease its slithering crawl just above his knees, and with a swift shake of his cranium, another raw chuckle into her coiling form, just above her navel, teeth and tongue paying homage and tribute to her litany of scars, he removed the rest of them, bereft and stripped, naked in and amongst the sun. The challenge was there within a moment’s notice, a plucking of strings she had long since known the music to (provocations, dares, a summoning of instigated diversions). And oh, he’d show her, moaning and gasping as her fingers molded into his hair, against his scalp, a basking growl reverberating along her hip, then mouth trailing and tracing towards thighs.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,962
MP:
#13
Amalia
the shield of safrin
You could move in with me. She inhales sharply at the casual way he breathes the invitation into the space between them, dark eyes wide with wordless wonder, the air in her lungs still and trembling as she searches for secrets in his face. Does he mean it? Has she imagined it? How can he offer something so simply, lay it upon her between kisses to burn and sear upon her soul? She is nude by now, her blouse stripped fully away, bare and barren there beneath him, with nothing to offer but her endless ardor. Does he truly want her to live here with him, to carve a place of permanence, find solace in his sanctum?

"It does get lonely at the bakery," she whispers in reply, cheekbones red with warmth and wonder, assent in the helpless curl of her lips.

There is not time for more discussion, because his mouth is on her body again and Amalia is falling, falling, falling, sinking into the absolution offered by his lips. The Shield's breath shudders as he laughs into her skin, her left foot tracing along the curve of his spine, right knee slipping beneath his arm in a clear invitation for him to go further. The fingers that coil in his hair do not let up their eager grasp, willing to take all he will offer, avaricious and hungry, a space for him to fill. He has offered her home, he has offered her pleasure. He has offered her love, and she will take it all, devouring and consuming all that he is and giving herself in willing exchange.
you drew memories in my mind
i could never erase
you painted colors in my heart
i could never replace
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,819
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#14
DEIMOS
While there was no hesitation in his ardor, there was a quiet, unsung pause in his mind, waiting, waiting, waiting, pondering if he’d overstepped again, if he’d muddled boundaries, if he’d crossed lines, if this world he’d concocted and created wasn’t what she had in mind. They’d always been from separate realms and voids, beyond Natural and Outlander: he blended into too much darkness and she craved the light and though they always met in between, perhaps the Spartan outlook was too little, and his offering too overwhelming. She had her bakery, she had her aspirations, she had her dreams, and he had no intention of interfering in any of those grand distinctions – just ensuring, assuring, she had a place within his if she wanted, if she craved, if she desired. So even as his fingers maneuvered along hips, drifting in slow, languid strokes, he pondered over the inevitable refusal, guarded his heart against the rebuttal. Within the Basin, the beast had always opened up his kingdom to others – it was how they survived - and had faced numerous, countless rejections. Some didn’t like the ice. Some didn’t want mountains. Some saw him and sneered. This spurning would sting a bit more, but he understood.

So he lifted his head and stared at her when the whisper met his ears, drinking her in, the boyish curl of his smile betraying the ease of ebullience in her presence; saving the rest of the discussion for later, when they were sated and gratified, indulged and irreverent.

Ravenous and tempestuous, a mercurial shoal and sea, her rapacious encouragements sought condemnation and upheaval, and he followed into the avaricious fathoms with his lips, feral caresses on the inside of her thighs, traces and only the merest of foundations, light sketches, artwork deigned for hunger and wanton reaches. The Sword waited for her shudders, for her moans, for her gasps, for the croons of passion to simper and linger, strings knotted, daring, deigning to be plucked, before continuing in his ministrations, persuasion of strokes and endeavors towards her center. His teeth, tongue, and mouth inscribed and wrote covetous, acquisitive sonnets, oeuvres and masterpieces, compositions and musings, breath billowing along soft skin, tempting, enticing, imploring. Never a pious individual, his homage and tributes were solely to her; the monumental exploration of his sedition spread through hands sliding up along her rib cage, beneath breasts; wanting her to sing, wanting her to fall apart in his grasp.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in


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