Amalia
the shield of safrin
She gasps and purrs as he drops down into her, his mouth on her neck, arcing back up into his own crescendo, hands and lips and legs and skin welcoming him int the haze of bliss. Long fingers curl indulgently in his hair, dancing lightly along the shell of his ear as he shudders his completion, enamored and inflamed. Feel good? she wants to ask, but her voice comes out as nothing more than a rumbling hum, a purr against his skin. Feel good is already said, an unspoken comment in the heat of their actions; love you exists in the spaces that no longer exist between their forms. There is no need for words, in this time of silent aftershocks. Everything she wants to say to him she has already gasped and sang.
In the afterglow of her crashing release her breath begins to slow and deepen, water lapping on a distant shore, relaxed and gentle, steady and warm, lazy as she traces scars and symbols down his spine, her fingers floating upward as he travels down her curves. A pause at her hip (more, more? she could take more, take it all) to rumble a question causes Amalia to lift her head, rising up on bony elbows as though to remind herself of the mark in question. "Mmm?" she murmurs, hands still gently caressing locks of his wild hair. The scar is a distinctive one, arcing electric from hip to ankle, silver slivers on her olive skin. "From the lightning storm. When we rescued Ashetta." Better days, and worse ones, too. There is no quantifying when life goes well, not anymore. There are only moments for them to enjoy, and she does not want to give this one up yet.
In the afterglow of her crashing release her breath begins to slow and deepen, water lapping on a distant shore, relaxed and gentle, steady and warm, lazy as she traces scars and symbols down his spine, her fingers floating upward as he travels down her curves. A pause at her hip (more, more? she could take more, take it all) to rumble a question causes Amalia to lift her head, rising up on bony elbows as though to remind herself of the mark in question. "Mmm?" she murmurs, hands still gently caressing locks of his wild hair. The scar is a distinctive one, arcing electric from hip to ankle, silver slivers on her olive skin. "From the lightning storm. When we rescued Ashetta." Better days, and worse ones, too. There is no quantifying when life goes well, not anymore. There are only moments for them to enjoy, and she does not want to give this one up yet.
you drew memories in my mind
i could never erase
you painted colors in my heart
i could never replace
