maybe i'm a runaway train, maybe i'm a feather in a hurricane
'Well, it wasn't just your nakedness.' The alchemist points out with a wry tilt of his head. "But even in a place like this, I thought it was still polite." He wasn't a paying customer after all, and had let himself into the wrong room.
As Maeve's fingers dance to where his skin melds into the bones of his wings, he can feel her curious uncertainty. His smile is fleeting, as his head lowers somewhat; an untamed creature allowing for her exploration of him. "It feels..." But she hadn't any sort of appendages that he might liken the experience to, and so he merely shakes his head. Instead, he stretches out his wings to their full length, his wingspan enormous even in these large apartments, that she might feel the way his musculature shifts and moves beneath skin and feathers alike.
Her question brings a look of thoughtful consideration to the alchemist's face, as his wings relax and he takes a step backward. Softly his eyes fall over her, regarding her not with hasty boyish lust, but with the understanding of a painter, or a sculptor. And alchemist, even. With Isla, LongNight had been upon them and though there had been candlelight in the room, he'd been so consumed by her, that'd he hadn't really let himself look at her. No stranger to the female body, it was true that it had been years since he'd been invited to properly consider it, and so with Maeve's permission, he did just that.
Reaching forward, he pushes back a lock of her hair which had come to rest over her shoulder, that he might take in the curve of her neck and hollows of her collarbones. His green eyes wash over her studiously; reverently, almost. Holding up his palms to her breasts as if gauging the size in comparison to his hands, his skin just brushes against her nipples before his finger begins to trace the contours of her tattoo in the air. Glancing at her face, wanting to ensure he had her permission still, Remi lowers himself to his knees that he could more easily take in the lower half of her. His hands continue to ghost around her—never quite touching her—as he maps the narrow channel of her waist and then rise of her hips. (She'll notice, if she's quite observant, that despite how his hands float above her skin, never do they cast a shadow on her). His lips are moving, noting every freckle, every beauty mark. Reaching now for her thigh that he might turn her slightly, Remi's head leans to the side as he gazes up the length of her back; the slow roll of her thighs and where they crease against her ass, the waves of her back and how they fall into her spine, the protrusion of her shoulder blades.
'You're beautiful.' He murmurs at last, his accent growing all the more thick for his whispered words, as he gazes up at her from her navel. "But you have to know that."
As Maeve's fingers dance to where his skin melds into the bones of his wings, he can feel her curious uncertainty. His smile is fleeting, as his head lowers somewhat; an untamed creature allowing for her exploration of him. "It feels..." But she hadn't any sort of appendages that he might liken the experience to, and so he merely shakes his head. Instead, he stretches out his wings to their full length, his wingspan enormous even in these large apartments, that she might feel the way his musculature shifts and moves beneath skin and feathers alike.
Her question brings a look of thoughtful consideration to the alchemist's face, as his wings relax and he takes a step backward. Softly his eyes fall over her, regarding her not with hasty boyish lust, but with the understanding of a painter, or a sculptor. And alchemist, even. With Isla, LongNight had been upon them and though there had been candlelight in the room, he'd been so consumed by her, that'd he hadn't really let himself look at her. No stranger to the female body, it was true that it had been years since he'd been invited to properly consider it, and so with Maeve's permission, he did just that.
Reaching forward, he pushes back a lock of her hair which had come to rest over her shoulder, that he might take in the curve of her neck and hollows of her collarbones. His green eyes wash over her studiously; reverently, almost. Holding up his palms to her breasts as if gauging the size in comparison to his hands, his skin just brushes against her nipples before his finger begins to trace the contours of her tattoo in the air. Glancing at her face, wanting to ensure he had her permission still, Remi lowers himself to his knees that he could more easily take in the lower half of her. His hands continue to ghost around her—never quite touching her—as he maps the narrow channel of her waist and then rise of her hips. (She'll notice, if she's quite observant, that despite how his hands float above her skin, never do they cast a shadow on her). His lips are moving, noting every freckle, every beauty mark. Reaching now for her thigh that he might turn her slightly, Remi's head leans to the side as he gazes up the length of her back; the slow roll of her thighs and where they crease against her ass, the waves of her back and how they fall into her spine, the protrusion of her shoulder blades.
'You're beautiful.' He murmurs at last, his accent growing all the more thick for his whispered words, as he gazes up at her from her navel. "But you have to know that."
THE LULLABY
maybe it's a long gray game, but maybe that's a good thing
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
