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.
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
