[ if anyone were to think his performance only begins at the first pluck of a lyre string, they would be dead wrong. he is a man who knows himself and his assets; it's clear in the way he puts on a show for her when he meanders about the small room, shame a burden the gods saw fit to relieve him of.
like a true artist, olivia cannot help but admire his beauty, the almost ethereal way his form cuts an image so soft yet so imposing still. she delights in the curvature of his muscles, how they tense and flex with every little movement he makes. her eyes make a trail over his form that she has indulged in many times before, yet has still never grown tired of. by the time he finally reclaims a spot on the bed by her feet, she has propped herself up on an elbow, laying on her side with the sheet draped over her figure just enough to keep as decent as he is, but in her eyes is a look much appreciative, and between her teeth is a lower lip she'd caught to keep less proper thoughts to herself. ]
Is there anything about you I can dislike? [ she muses in the same teasing lilt he takes on. ] If there is, I haven't found it yet, and I doubt I will this morning.
[His grin drapes lazily over his lips as a grapevine might train over a branch, and he delights in the way her eyes follow him as bees would seek the next flower upon which to land. Then his fingers dance nimbly over the strings and in a slow stream of notes begins his song.
The songs that swell in his throat are usually of his homeland, the heroes celebrated by the Achaeans and the gods revered, yet now what rings forth is a tale of a stranger shore. Yet even so he begins with the familiar evocation of the muses who atop Mount Parnassus dwell, and the tune sways like wind through the boughs of ash trees, like waves upon the wine-dark sea.]
Sing, O muses sweet, of the splendid tree, The ash whose mighty boughs do bear the name Yggdrasil, the heart which in the world's breast beats, And all in the nine realms know of its fame.
[Such is one of the stories Olivia had once read to him from the book given by gold-clad Gilgamesh, the stories of lands he cannot place, where dwell gods and men whose names are unfamiliar against his ears. Another two verses he weaves together, ere his voice falls away to leave the lyre to sing out alone: the instrument seems a part of him, so in tune he is with his music, his body bobbing and bending to the shape of the notes even as he sits there atop the bed.]
[ she recognizes the story instantly, prompting a warmth to spread across her cheeks, making the curvature of her lips soft and tender. ]
Your voice never ceases to put me at ease, my love, [ she hums when the last note of his song peters off into the cool morning air. she shudders, but she cannot say if it is because of the song, or the winter lingering behind their window. still, she does not think to draw the blanket higher over her body, leaving her just covered enough to be decent.
slowly, her hand slips down to cross the small space between them, finding the curve of his knee, settling just a little above it. should he look, there in her eyes would be an offer of a solution for the cooling air, but it is not one she is quite so bold enough to put a voice to. at least not yet.
instead, she draws her lower lip between her teeth, and hopes he is as keen to subtlety as he is to directness. ]
[She need not speak words to make clear her intent, not when her gaze hangs so heavy upon him beneath lashes lowered and her delicate hand impresses upon him the weight of her desire. With a grin perched upon his lips like a finch ready to take flight, he sets aside the lyre that he may answer Olivia's quiet invitation. He curves his body toward her and draws aside the blanket that drapes her naked form: this he does slowly, as if to better delight in how her beauty is thus revealed to him by degrees, as if her radiance might blind him if he were to look all at once.]
You shall feel all the more powerfully my love, dear Olivia, with your heart that so clearly sees into the depths of mine.
[His hand roams up her thigh, the welcoming coast of which he has learned so well in all the time he has spent navigating it, then passes over her rear, which he squeezes with deliberate drowsiness on his way to her waist. His every movement pours over her as would honey, slow and sweet and thick, as he arches over her and urges her to lie back upon the bed. His lips latch onto her neck, fervently parted to impart kisses upon her sweet skin, while his beard tickles her throat and his unbound hair spills over her in silken streams.
The rest of the morning they shall spend with limbs entwined in the complicated knot of love, draped loosely in the tangled blankets and the winter air which loses its chill with each bold endeavor of lips and hands and hips. Perhaps too the shroud which draws around Olivia's thoughts shall fall away degree by degree with each exultant cry of her name upon his lips and each love-sweet word murmured against her flesh.]
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no subject
like a true artist, olivia cannot help but admire his beauty, the almost ethereal way his form cuts an image so soft yet so imposing still. she delights in the curvature of his muscles, how they tense and flex with every little movement he makes. her eyes make a trail over his form that she has indulged in many times before, yet has still never grown tired of. by the time he finally reclaims a spot on the bed by her feet, she has propped herself up on an elbow, laying on her side with the sheet draped over her figure just enough to keep as decent as he is, but in her eyes is a look much appreciative, and between her teeth is a lower lip she'd caught to keep less proper thoughts to herself. ]
Is there anything about you I can dislike? [ she muses in the same teasing lilt he takes on. ] If there is, I haven't found it yet, and I doubt I will this morning.
no subject
The songs that swell in his throat are usually of his homeland, the heroes celebrated by the Achaeans and the gods revered, yet now what rings forth is a tale of a stranger shore. Yet even so he begins with the familiar evocation of the muses who atop Mount Parnassus dwell, and the tune sways like wind through the boughs of ash trees, like waves upon the wine-dark sea.]
Sing, O muses sweet, of the splendid tree,
The ash whose mighty boughs do bear the name
Yggdrasil, the heart which in the world's breast beats,
And all in the nine realms know of its fame.
[Such is one of the stories Olivia had once read to him from the book given by gold-clad Gilgamesh, the stories of lands he cannot place, where dwell gods and men whose names are unfamiliar against his ears. Another two verses he weaves together, ere his voice falls away to leave the lyre to sing out alone: the instrument seems a part of him, so in tune he is with his music, his body bobbing and bending to the shape of the notes even as he sits there atop the bed.]
no subject
Your voice never ceases to put me at ease, my love, [ she hums when the last note of his song peters off into the cool morning air. she shudders, but she cannot say if it is because of the song, or the winter lingering behind their window. still, she does not think to draw the blanket higher over her body, leaving her just covered enough to be decent.
slowly, her hand slips down to cross the small space between them, finding the curve of his knee, settling just a little above it. should he look, there in her eyes would be an offer of a solution for the cooling air, but it is not one she is quite so bold enough to put a voice to. at least not yet.
instead, she draws her lower lip between her teeth, and hopes he is as keen to subtlety as he is to directness. ]
no subject
You shall feel all the more powerfully my love, dear Olivia, with your heart that so clearly sees into the depths of mine.
[His hand roams up her thigh, the welcoming coast of which he has learned so well in all the time he has spent navigating it, then passes over her rear, which he squeezes with deliberate drowsiness on his way to her waist. His every movement pours over her as would honey, slow and sweet and thick, as he arches over her and urges her to lie back upon the bed. His lips latch onto her neck, fervently parted to impart kisses upon her sweet skin, while his beard tickles her throat and his unbound hair spills over her in silken streams.
The rest of the morning they shall spend with limbs entwined in the complicated knot of love, draped loosely in the tangled blankets and the winter air which loses its chill with each bold endeavor of lips and hands and hips. Perhaps too the shroud which draws around Olivia's thoughts shall fall away degree by degree with each exultant cry of her name upon his lips and each love-sweet word murmured against her flesh.]