Lion Head Mesa [sc] root & gut

they drank, roaring up at the plinth and the dancing, coupling holy ones.

in the shouting throng, khusobek drew his arm around @Inji's waist. "the fellahin are watchful. we will not be needed while we honor Hathor, my love," he murmured into her ear, his breath resplendent with berry-tones from the wine handed out by dashing servants.

inji hated to be away from her babes. she had given a rather long, lengthy list of to-dos to the nurses, specific for each child; times down to the second, measurements down to the centimeter. she felt selfish having to return to work already, but this day would have come sooner or later, would it not?
she worked tirelessly, making arrangements and decorating, preparing food and scurrying to and fro. she had gotten so used to the blue palace that she had nearly forgotten the layout of akashingo! but the old faces of former comrades were welcomed nonetheless.
she came to her betrothed adorned in pink and gold, the din seemingly collapsing as she is pulled to his side. a subtle buzz brought warmth to her ears and a toothy smile to her face, a giggle rising in her throat; one dainty paw reaches to cup the handsome face. tell me again how we're meant to honor Hathor, hm?

he kissed along her palm, down her slim wrist, up one forearm to the slender shoulder; "i will show you, my wife," he promised in a throated voice, catching her up and all but carrying her off to the pleasantries of long grass in the sand.

he did not care who saw; such was the love of their royals and so would theirs be also, open to the amused eyes of god and mortal alike as the holy ones coupled in divine splendor.

and inji, he would make her remember she was woman before all else, the crocodilisk promised to his own masculine self.

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perhaps it was the drink, or the way the palace thrummed with such a virulent surge of lustful delight, or the fact that she had been starved since the birth of her children; maybe it was all of these things! inji laughs and shudders beneath the press of his lips and the way he crawls up her arm, sighing contentedly as she moves to arch her back against his chest.
show me everything, husband, she croons, breath hot; break me.

khusobek needed no further bidding. his love was not compelled by words, but by the warm tumble of her slim arms about him, the curve of her hips between his hands; in these moments she flashed with cactusfire and the lowlight storms which drenched the sands.

a khamsin; she burned as he kept them both at the very seat of their mingled power, gritting her name into the softpetal ears and commanding from her ensnared throat that she say his own;

inji's entire soul stood resplendent in her eyes.

he waited for her exhale and threw them both from the very top of the proverbial falls, losing himself at last to the intensity of feeling that made even his very spine feel as if it might break.

for a long moment he only lay there with her in the grass, hearing the chanting softly behind, the voices of others weaving with one another. the scent of wine, a woman's laughter.

he rumbled; he kissed her face, her throat, depleted and yet so wanting, hunger sharpened at the very sight of inji lying resplendent and languid with pleasure.

she had missed this.
inji was a firecracker, a tempest, sparking feverishly beneath him and crying out with sharp, broken moans and sighs. his name felt as if if had lost all meaning and was only a jumble of letters and sounds.
by the time they soared beyond the ever sought after peak, the fellahin girl was a royal mess; half-dried spit clung to one side of her mouth, fur tousled in a way that made her look as if she were a bat out of hell. panting, heaving, she rolls to meet the eyes of her betrothed with wobbly limbs that collapse onto his side.
holy shit, she is breathless as she laughs, dissolving into little giggles as he covers her in kisses. oh, gods, i feel like a mess.

"but you are my mess," khusobek grinned, winded and sated despite the leap once more in his blood! surely something had been added to that wine, and he did not dislike the spiced effects.

he kissed her, he stroked her slender arms; "you are very loved, inji," the crocodile murmured, voice gone husky with feeling.

she made him feel as if Ra would truly rise His barge each day, and khusobek knew the hubris of placing her where the god should stand, and yet it was Ra he thanked for inji's very light.

it was such a pleasant luxury, his gentle caress; her head lolls as she presses against him, limbs entwined with one another.
if her face had not already been flushed, it certainly was now, cheeks and ear-tips sizzling with alcohol and afterglow. she preens his neck, his strong shoulders. so are you, khusobek.
she traces the outline of his muscles with a neatly filed claw, featherlight, searching for all the tiny blemishes and scars beneath his pelt so that she may then touch her lips to them. khusobek would know the love of Ra, of Hathor, his wife acting as mouthpiece.