Description: On an island filled with hedonists and driven professional warriors, Amy Johnson is an anomaly, but so is the beautiful, compellingly-strange enigma known only as Angel. Their paths cross by a twist of fortune, and entangle all too deeply before they disengage... or, perhaps, not deeply enough...? (Also Featuring: the hilarious misadventures of Zack! And his wise manservant, the one and only Reginald!)
So far, Zack's Island has proven to live up to its claims of tropical island paradise which is no small feat considering just how much advertising and marketing the prize fighting whacko has put out into the world on short notice. That the island itself was a thing of natural beauty even before the addition of a few hundred scantily clad men and women certainly hasn't hurt the experience. One can hardly go a hundred feet without encountering breath-taking scenery. Be it gentle waterfalls rolling down from the craggy mountains into hidden glades away from the heavy crowds, smooth golden beaches unspoiled by litter or filth, or thick growths of heavy jungle covered with slick moss and shimmering dew - Zack Island has them all.
Ofcourse, now that it has become home to a resort of epic proportions the human factor is practically impossible to escape. Dozens of people can be found on every section of the small island, sometimes in groups, sometimes alone, but almost always dressed for the occasion. Even for the more prudish among the visitors the tropical climate makes heavy clothing exceedingly uncomfortable; not that this is a place for people like that anyways.
As indicated by people like Angel who seem to have taken the relaxed atmosphere and beach-theme as an excuse to wear as little as possible. Anyone who is familiar with the NESTS agent would know that she doesn't actually /need/ an excuse to dress in this manner. Angel has an exceptional ability to casually disregard anything pertaining to social graces, common sense, or standard dress codes while somehow maintaining a level of charm and allure that is quite frankly disturbing.
At the moment, however, she appears to have toned back from her initial choice of attire - and the word applies very loosely - and is wearing something that more closely resembles her usual outfit. A blue tube-top and a matching pair of bikini bottoms adorns her tanned skin, the former bulging outwards from her chest as if she were smuggling beach balls and the latter desperately clinging to her hips in an attempt to keep her modest intact for atleast a little while.
One of Zack's multitude of camera crews that roam the island appears to be following her around, perhaps hoping for more action after her bizarre tryst and subsequent death battle a few evenings prior. It's the very kind of event that the island was made to capture, life, love, and excessive marketable violence.
Angel is taking this attention in stride. A young man, one of the camera operators judging by the headset he's wearing, is currently clutched in the shapely woman's arms in what looks to be a rather unpleasant rear choke hold. Both of his hands are gripped around her forearm but judging from the funny shades of blue in his face he isn't having much success in attempting to free himself.
"Hey, Bob? BOB! Focus here! You aren't looking so good, so think hard on this, or you're gonna join Jimmy and Steve in the penalty box."
Some short distance away from Angel there is a fairly sizable hole in the beach. Next to that hole are a pair of heads protruding from the sand. Both are quite animated, shouting encouragment to their fellow, so presumably they aren't dead or NESTS has started practicing necromancy.
"Alright, Bob. Answer this question and you get uninhibited camera access to Angel's happy hour. What was the name of the boat that shipwrecked on the show Gilligan's Island?"
For some, this is a holiday. For others, a place rife with opportunity.
It may only be a relative few that would call this excursion 'work'. There's no privilege in the distinction however, and the small group arriving in the company of one Amy Johnson - to all known intents and purposes, little more than a neophyte fighter not even registered for the tournament portion of Zack's shindig - are variously businesslike in their approach. For her part, Amy sways more to the business end; she's a professional, and takes her goals more than seriously.
Which isn't to say she's shirking the temptations of pleasure, simple or otherwise.
There can be no doubting the incredible natural beauty of Zack Island, and on any other occasion it would be this scenery that the Templar is admiring. She's certainly paused to note it, gazing almost wistfully out over the more wet and verdant areas just inland from the beach. Something of a sucker for the extreme corners of wilderness, she's been tempted to follow the winding course of streams to the rocky prominence of waterfalls and their accompanying mountains. There's good climbing over yonder, and a better chance at escaping the crowds and being alone with God than she'll find elsewhere.
Rather than venturing toward her passions, Amy has kept close to the discomfort of crowds, stormy blue eyes scanning each area in outwardly-relaxed, but methodical, fashion as she sips on an alcoholic rum cocktail secreted away inside a fresh coconut. A utilitarian black straw emerges from the fruit husk, no umbrella nor sparkler decorating the beverage. She ditched those pretty promptly. Distractions have been eliminated as much as possible, and she doesn't really want to stand out...
Unlike some others one could name. The mixed 'clientele' of this unlikely island paradise are a diverse and strange bunch, and it says something that the gorgeous, dark olive skin of the bubbly Hispanic enforcer marks a figure more notable than most. Anybody with a sexual appetite can't help but notice Angel - she screams raw, untempered primal lust from every pore - but nor can anybody looking for trouble. Gripping a man in a chokehold as two buried compatriots look on is attention-grabbing, to say the least. She's got a small audience, and Amy sedately joins them.
For her part, the Knight Officer is dressed in a cross-backed sleeveless wetsuit, equal part style and practicality, light blue material with darker-accenting floral whorls. The garment is naturally tight, displaying a powerful physique that's muscular without being overt - clearly, she works out, and boasts a good deal of strength. Relatively small-breasted, she moves with a neat and measured grace that suggests formal training of some kind. Her legs are long and toned, though rather less than her arms - which practically ripple with lean muscle fibres - and are proudly on display, the wetsuit ending in a boy cut a third of the way down her strong thighs. Her feet are bare, her long, raven-black hair tumbling past her shoulders in faintly damp, sleek strands. The only other adornment is a silver crucifix on a lightweight chain, the accessory falling to rest just below the mid-height neckline of her suit.
Her face is distinctive, with full lips and an upturned nose touched by a smattering of freckles. She wears a relaxed smile as she watches proceedings, the faintest dimpling in her cheeks suggesting she could be smiling a great deal harder. It's not quite reaching her stare either, the oceanic depths of her eyes rather tough and cold in tone compared to the picture she otherwise presents. She's focused, wary, dark brows angled inward with delicately-expressed concern for what she's witnessing.
She's not looking at the throttled man, though; rather, his playful aggressor.
When Angel asks her question, the Templar clears her throat, a slightly hoarse 'a-hem-hem' that rises in volume and then yields to a crisp, clearly British accent. There's intelligence in her tone, along with a note of wilful confrontation and distant, curious disapproval. One imagines this emotion could accelerate, fast.
"Is anybody able to play?" She calls out before the man can choke out whatever desperate answer might be upon his lips, "Or just those who can't defend themselves from beautiful beach bullies?"
Her lips flick up at one edge, pronouncing a broad, crooked smile.
"I'm sure I could handle an hour with you."
"You can do it, man!"
"Yeah, you know this buddy!"
The shouts of encouragement from 'Bob's' companions intermingle with the cheers and hoots of the crowd. None of them are foolish enough to shout the answer out for him, however ; that's how 'Jimmy' ended up in the penalty box. That isn't actually their names, she just sort of assigned them at random. Though it isn't overtly obvious from just looking at his diembodied head, Jimmy is a rather sizable man with plenty of muscle and looks like he can handle himself. Except now he's buried up to his neck in sand. No one has been willing to do anything that might annoy Angel since that particular confrontation.
Several seconds go by as the poor technician struggles on the cusp of unconsciousness, his air and blow flow restricted just enough to slowly deprive him of much needed oxygen to the brain. Naturally, this makes cohesive thoughts somewhat more difficult to piece together but then that's part of the challenge!
Angel begins to hum the theme to Jeopardy loud enough to be heard over the noise, rolling her eyes as she starts to get bored. The polite cough, a very British way of introduction, draws her attention away from the spectacle at hand. Before the holy warrior can get her request out, however, Bob starts to sputter something that might be words and the pretty Mexican holds a finger up towards Amy.
"Hold that thought. What was that Bob?" More weak mumbles. Angel leans in very close, tilting her head to point her ear at his face, but within a few moments the man goes limp in her arms.
"Bzzzt. Oh, /so/ close. But the answer was not the Mrrmghm - it was the S. S. Minnow. Thanks for playing, Bob, you've been a great sport." Without expending much effort, she turns and tosses the unconscious body into the sand pit. "Somebody bury that fool. Looks like we have a new challenger!"
Pivoting sharply on her heels, Angel swings her body around to face said individual. Her hands shift position to clasp together behind her back and she leans forward in a lazy and somehow suggestive fashion, leering at Amy with a lopsided dopey grin. The mop of snow white hair on the agent's head drifts lazily down over her face with the motion and the shock of wild bangs adds yet another layer of distinctively seductive charm to her presence without the woman having yet said a single word.
"Nooow then~ Angel heard something that sounded like a challenge?"
Unperturbed by the casual command to cease her politick heckling, Amy curves a dark brow and then purses her lips to take a long sip of rum-soaked coconut water, savouring the heady refreshment without shifting her gaze from the bombastic Mexican. She's betraying no particular air of familiarity - beside her physique, there's no real reason to suspect she's anything but a possibly-jealous dissentor. Who wouldn't feel the taint of envy when comparing themselves to Angel? If she does, the Templar is clearly resolved not to show it. If anything, she seems... appreciative.
If not exactly approving.
"Seemed fair," she murmurs for her own benefit more than the other onlookers or the nearby camera crew, stormy blues rolling heavenward and a breath released as she lowers her nearly-emptied coconut husk and swills it around idly between dextrous, calloused fingers. When Angel leans toward her, she just renews her smile with a little twitch of lips, a twinkle of... mischief? Daring? Something... entering her gaze with a rumpling of the nose that's as disarmingly, understatedly cute as the laconically-sensuous assassin's display is... well, laconically-sensuous. "Mm."
Her lips drawing out, Amy cricks her neck and then darts a gracious, humbly lowered glance to the man beside her. "If you wouldn't mind," she breathes in a near-whisper, dipping her chin to sketch the bow as she hands him her drink. Then, she's stepping across the sand on bare feet, pace quickening to a rather tomboyish stride to draw her just outside of easy striking distance. Close to be personal, without being intimate.
"An-hell, is it?" She queries with a deadly sort of friendliness, the camaraderie of an uncommon civility lacing her tone as she pronounces the name as it sounds - perhaps rather relishing the irony of the second syllable. "It suits you, though I'm not sure I'd refer to myself in the third person if I was quite so-- ah," she breathes a laugh, reaching up to rub at the back of her neck, dark hair rumpling, smile becoming warm with oh-so-faint embarassment that may or may not be feigned, "Striking, as yourself."
Pausing as if considering another action, she folds her arms beneath her chest, hugging the skintight material of her wetsuit with a calm tension. It disguises a stretch, shoulders and pectorals growing noticeably as muscles bunch and soften.
"Amy." She blinks, and lifts her chin, expression sardonic. "Dame Amy, if you like. Is the game just trivia? Seems a bit tame, for a girl so bold. What's the wager?"
Oho, someone who might actually provide an interesting distraction. The prim and proper way in which Amy comports herself is quite the change from the usual demeanor of the guests that the NESTS agent tends to entertain though it is pretty obvious that her particular brand of charm remains effective regardless, judging from the subtle body language and generous compliments.
"Oh you..." Angel shifts her stance, drawing herself upright and resting her fists on her hips as they cock to the side in a sultry fashion. "Angel likes you already."
Using some of that aforementioned boldness, the busty Mexican strides confidently over to the other woman and drapes an arm around her shoulder like they are the best of buddies, gently guiding her forward into a lazy walk, assuming she isn't immediately brushed aside. Their path takes them past the small burial mounds there the third man is now roughly up to his waist in sand while a small gaggle of giggling women in showy swimsuits work on finishing the job.
"You see, Amy," she continues, once they are out of ear shot of the other beach-goers. "Angel came out here to have fun! My job is very stressful. Lots of people always complaining and demanding things, yak yak yak. It's kind of like Office Space but with more travel. Great movie by the way, have you seen it? See there's this guy with a stapler and... nevermind, doesn't matter."
She waves a hand aimlessly in the air and continues to meander towards the far end of the beach which is composed of several large craggy boulders and rock shelves that jut out of the flowing tides. "Anyways. Normally Angel doesn't have any problems when people watch but these camera crews are a bit more nosy than I want to deal with right now. Angel wants two things while she is here - get drunk and get laid. The order is irrelevant."
She withdraws her arm and hops forward a few feet, turning to give Amy a view of her goofy grin and attractive profile yet again. "So, either of those sound like fun to you?"
Nobody's immune to charm. It's a lesson many of Amy's peers refuse to acknowledge, that their baser appetites are a part of being human and should be celebrated in moderation; to do the Lord's work is to pursue more than peace and justice alone, and certainly the lay cannot be turned aside because they care more for pleasure than discipline. When the over-familiar arm descends upon her, the Templar only adjusts the set of her own hips and subtly inclines her face away from Angel before glancing at her sidelong.
So far, so calm and collected, but she lacks the ability to entirely tame her innermost thoughts and feelings - there's just a bit more heat in her cheeks than there was before, freckles standing out more starkly even under the diminishing swelter of the sun. Amy's pale enough that it makes a big difference, and at this proximity Angel can easily smell the musky tang of expensive sun lotion upon her skin.
Whatever's going on beneath the proverbial hood, Amy keeps pace with her overly-friendly accoster, her own smoothly confident gait finding rhythm with Angel's until they move away from the madding crowd. Distance breeds another odd feeling; Amy's aura, it's palpable as a dense weight, and she feels more firm to the touch than even her athletic, weight-lifter's physique would suggest. Maybe they're both a bit odd.
Stormy eyes keenly scan the oncoming rocks, and the Templar's hackles raise a touch. She's already beginning to pull away when Angel disengages, a step and turn leaving them both presenting a profile, the older woman glancing back at the revelry and the cameramen still tracking their movements. "They're not following everyone," she observes quietly, no hesitation in her voice as she fails to immediately acknowledge Angel's devilish temptations. "Are they? You're... interesting."
The last is phrased slowly, gaze panning across in methodical time with the syllables falling into place. That crooked smile returns with a vengeance, teeth bared on one side in an expression that's more wild than any the lady knight has shown yet. With the nonchalance of habit she reaches to her throat fingers the delicate chain leading to her crucifix, before touching the simple cross itself. Amy's eyes close briefly, and when they re-open the stormy depths are positively swimming. Around, the air prickles and - to those of a certain sensitivity - the transitional point is clear.
One moment it's bright, clear sunny climes and the next tiny, insignificant tendrils of mist emerge like fingers through the searing curtain of heat. They dip downward, rolling easily off the Templar's tautly-clad frame until they lick at her heels and dive between her toes, thickening as they do so. From afar, it's probably barely noticeable - if at all. To Angel, it's only too obvious now.
"I can do something about the cameras, but I'm not sure why I should," her voice grows distant with wonder, her head tipping to one side, a sweep of raven-black brushing her freckled cheek as she examines Angel thoughtfully. She turns slightly, opening more of her small-breasted front to view, but keeping one foot forward and one hand hanging in line, fingertips curling. Around her trimmed nails, more of that odd mist curls lazily. "I also don't see how you got from this to classic American television. Did you offer the same to your friends back there? Or am I just so pretty you can't resist?" A faint snort expresses amusement, and she tosses her head with a measure of the prideful. "I'm looking for a man. I help you, we help each other, and maybe along the way we both get what we want. But if you're playing me, Angel..."
She smiles, and raises her hand toward the gorgeous Mexican, tendrils spiralling down her wrists with a rapidity betrayed by the course of their motion. It seems slow, and yet, when her fingers unfurl and stretch, that mist is suddenly interlinking them, grasping about Angel's own, tanned wrist like a strong, yet disarmingly soft cuff.
It will only tighten briefly before disengaging. A little squeeze. A little 'hello'.
"Let's just say the Order won't be irrelevant. Deal?"
Angel is an odd bird. Despite her extremely forward behavior and the fact that she's clearly dressed to draw attention to herself, she doesn't seem to pay a whole lot of attention to the increasing signs of embarassment growing within her new companion as she chatters on about her job woes. The flush in Amy's cheeks, the sharp scent of her lotion, the way that she averts her gaze rather than meet the energetic Mexican's slate gray eyes; none of it appears to register and she simply carries on as before. Either she doesn't notice or doesn't care.
It isn't until the other woman takes several moments to draw upon her lone piece of ornamentation that the NESTS agent finally takes notice of the tiny cross. Immediately, Angel's expression darkens, her lazy grin turning into a frown that furrows her brows together. "Shit. You're one of those religious people, huh?" Her hands come to a rest on her hips as her lips purse up into an annoyed pout and she turns her head again, clucking her tongue. "Don't suppose you're one of the hypocritical ones? You know a little sin is good for you every now and th-- hey hey?!"
The bizzare phenomenon that springs to life at Amy's command does not go unnoticed. Angel dances backwards a couple of steps on reflexive instinct, already quite a bit on edge after having fended off one attempt on her life already. The Mexican falls into something that looks like a karate stance that she might have seen on television once, clearly a spontaneous goofy reaction and nothing that could actually be practical in combat, but then you never know.
"You want a man?" She blinks a couple times then relaxes, leaning forward again. "What, you aren't into other girls? Shit, If that's the issue you can just say so, Ames. Can I call you Ames? No need for all the fire and brimst--urk!"
The squeeze on her wrist isn't what elicits the sudden cry of surprise so much as the speed at which it happens. Angel yanks her hand back like it were suddenly on fire and starts muttering curses under her breath.
"Damn, you /are/ one of those crazies! Shit shit shit, why can't I have a normal godamn vacation, argh?!"
Turning her back on Amy, which might not be the wisest move considering she could be a potential enemy, Angel vents her frustration on the beach, scuffing her heels into the sand several times and kicking up a fine spray of particulate grains. After a moment, she turns back to frown at the Knight then sighs and crosses her arms.
"Alright... alright, look. So long as you keep your uh... weird tentacles to yourself and don't give Angel any shit about how she spends her free time..." The Mexican shifts her weight and rubs the back of her head, looking somehow bored and thoughtful at the same time. "Yeah, I guess we could hang."
Gratifying. There's no other word for it, the rising crest of embarrassment washing away as Amy succeeds in rattling and unnerving this quirky, seductive creature. The karate stance is noted and dismissed immediately - after all, there are plentiful men, women and 'other' in this world that fight with unorthodox technique. She's seen Angel with her arms artfully wrapped around the throat of a grown man, and whether that makes her dangerous or just more dangerous than *he* was, it's not nothing. Martial parlour tricks or not, she's demonstrated grace and confidence until now.
"Crazy?" Echoes Amy when that muttered curse comes, laughing again - but this time without attempt to suppress or divert the sound, a bright tinkle at complementary odds with the clipped, careful tone she otherwise maintains. It doesn't help her case, honestly. She trails off with a murmured, "I couldn't possible judge for myself..."
Patiently, she watches Angel, stormy gaze creeping idly down the length of the Mexican's frame, flicking to her kicking foot, then to the sand and back to-- wow, that, that's really hard to mess. She clears her throat quickly, managing to avoid further signs of discomfort as her eyes linger away from the offending spot. She's ready to meet the petulant glower with a calm smile, rolling her shoulders in a shrug and turning her raised hand palm up, mist still curling and coiling around her fingers.
"Sounds like we have an accord, and Ames is fine. As for my hypocrisy..." She fires a glance back over her shoulder, her mostly-bare back pale but thoroughly ripped for the watching camera. Her cheeks puff out in a brisk, focusing sigh, and then she beams as brightly and girlishly as she can, the opposite hand lifting now to direct a wave back at the voyeuristic crew. She's probably going to get tired of this, she thinks.
When she turns back to Angel, the mugging fades to a tight, terse half-smile, the mist kicking off her heels and rolling along the beach. It's spread, at some point, the tendrils now extending a few feet around the two women, licking along the line of boulders nearby and seeming almost to wave, itself, in the other direction.
"I'm doomed already," there's a resignation to the statement that makes a queer bedfriend for the tickle of amusement and the mischievous spark in the corner of her eye, "Trust me for one moment, and then-- I just hope you can run quickly."
Not waiting for a confirmation - though there's certainly time for one - Amy strides forward, the gray-white tendrils stirring at her step and suddenly whipping up toward her waist. The effect spreads, and the mist continues to rise, knotting and twisting into a thicker morass as the Templar reaches without further preamble for Angel's waistline. Her hand seeks to snake behind and tug with firm, if almost-apologetic insistence, and she takes one last step to ease against this flustered, sensuous weirdo and shield her from the cameras. To them, it looks like a lot more than it is, but the Templar doesn't do more than lean toward Angel's shoulder, and murmur...
"They'll want a close-up. Over the rocks, and to the nearest bar, okay?"
The mist, though, suddenly closes in thick and obscuring, the camera crew losing their collective shit as Angel appears to get up close and personal with the British chick. By the time they get there-- well, that's really up to Angel.
"Go," hisses Amy, stormy blues ablaze, "Go!"
Angel's attention darts around in a somewhat lazy fashion as the mist-tendrils continue to spread. This isn't looking like anything she wants to be a part of. She's got some experience in dealing with tentacles and K9999 isn't exactly one of her favorite people. Sure he's a hoot to be around when it's time to go smashing shit, and that time does come up a whole lot when you work at NESTS, but the guy doesn't seem to have a damn off switch. It's left her somewhat gunshy, you could say.
But then suddenly the religious whacko with the crazy powers is gettin real friendly-like and the busty Mexican finds herself pressed up against the Knight. "W-woah, make up your mind, girl!" Angel doesn't put up much resistance when she's pulled in close, partly because she wasn't expecting that and partly because this is basically what she was asking for a minute ago.
Almost instinctively, her arms snake out to encircle Amy in return giving the camera crew a real good view of her tanned hand going down to steal a little squeeze from the Knight's backside before the whisper in her ear alerts her to the real intent behind her actions.
"Oh... shit. Uh, alright, that works too."
The mists close in and Amy tells her to run perhaps with a bit more urgency than is actually required. Angel seperates herself from the other woman with a slight bit of regretful hesitation and a sultry wink then turns and takes off at a run. And damn is she fast. It actually takes some effort to keep her speed down to a level that isn't going to give away her true capabilities. Sure it'd be easy to to just translocate over the rocks in a flash but Angel's not entirely sure that a fight won't be in her future with this particular person so it's best if she keeps her in the dark.
Besides, it'd be rude to just leave her hangin like that and translocating with another person tends to create messy results. Most people don't share her genetically tampered durability. The mists provide more than enough time for her to get away, in any case, and she hangs back enough to remain in view of the Knight, guiding her towards the nearest jungle pathway that'll lead them to another small slice of the island where she knows a beach-front bar can be found.
She's pretty much memorized every such location at this point. For, uh, strategic planning.
Amy certainly doesn't know what she's messing with, here, but she seems entirely confident in her abilities - or at least stalwartly fearless with regard to any limitations she might encounter. It's a hard combination to deny, whether there are lingering sexual overtones to her actions or not. Business first, regardless, and though the sultry wink garners a bit of a disbelieving gasp-laugh and a double-take that almost sees her lose the speedy assassina, the Templar keeps in sight.
Sand sprays through the mist, which clasps behind the retreating pair until it becomes a near-solid mass. From this blossoms a pair of clinging shapes, tendrils intertwining with a sensual slither until they form near-perfect - if gray-white and ghostly - simulacrums of both Amy and the va-va-vroom girl herself. The portrayal of Angel is... a bit off, with wider hips and breasts that are... comical, even by the standards presented. It doesn't matter; it's good enough for the camera crew to be distracted, and by the time the mists fade they're a good distance away.
And, importantly, Angel probably didn't catch all that. "Damn--!!"
Hauling in breaths, Amy - used to being athletic and fast, her leanly-muscled frame driving her to a few speed-gathering vaults over rocks and around shrubs, a few tendrils occasionally emerging with a whipcrack motion to ease the necessity for a physical grip to be maintained. She'd be impressive herself, compared to anyone normal.
By the time the Templar catches up, she's gasping and her skin is fleshed, a faint beading of sweat covering her long limbs. Her dark hair is mussed and tangled, dried where it hasn't been freshly-moistened with perspiration, and in a haste to push the raven strands from her eyes, Amy stumbles with the threat of slamming right into Angel's back. Throwing out a palm, she twists to evade far too late. "...shit...!!"
Still seething for breath, she drops with an ungainly grace to a knee and, as if to cover up the super obvious and stupid thing she just did, throws her glance back over her shoulder with desperate intensity. All that composure and intimidating manner is replaced with the guilty focus of a teenager trying to get away with a groundable offence, though she's really just trying to check for Zack's paparazzi. Honest.
For her part, Angel moves with a lot more grace than her lackadasial attitude and top-heavy form might imply her capable of accomplishing. She bounds over rocks and around trees with a casual ease of someone who has done such things a thousand times and could probably accomplish similar results in their sleep. The NESTS agent parkours her way through the jungle, swinging around trees and doing unnecessary acrobatic manuevers to overcome obstacles, all while maintaining her lead.
Speedy Gonzales is waiting for Amy when she finally bursts from the jungle's mossy depths and back onto the open sands of another beach, her back to the Knight. The stumbling impact almost catches Angel by surprise but the shouted curse gives her just enough warning to react. The agent spins on one heel, pirouetting gracefully to the side of the outthrust palm like a matador. Rather than let the Knight tumble onto her face, however, the Mexican girl slips her arm around Amy's waist and pulls her into the spin for a single rotation, altering the course of her momentum and sending her staggering with a lot less force to the side.
Angel strikes a pose like she just performed a magic trick, a big dopey grin plastered on her face once again. Her gaze drifts out towards the far side of the beach where the wooden pavilion of the bar is visible in the distance, clearly not sharing any concern over whatever hocus-pocus was pulled to cover their daring escape.
Once she's had a chance to catch her breath and turn her attention back to Angel, the Knight will find that she appears no worse for the wear than she did before. She isn't breathing hard or flushed with exertion. Hell, she isn't even sweating, despite the absurd pace she set.
Angel turns to give her a glance after a few seconds and smirks though it is a coy gesture bereft of obvious malice. "What, a little jog and you're already out of breath? Tch, I thought you said you were good for a whole hour of play time?"
If she'd had doubts about Angel's capabilities before, it's a new level of respect that sees the Templar recovering from her assisted landing, still taking her knee and following through with the instinctive action to pretend she Totally Meant To Do That. Like a cat that's just walked clear off a narrow windowsill, Amy shakes her head briskly and then looks around and up, catching the ridiculous expression on the assassina's face and dispelling most of her tension with an uncertain, hoarse giggle and a hand straying to her crucifix. She adjusts it against the taut setting of her skimpy wetsuit, and whips her head to and fro one more time.
"I said you were interesting," she murmurs, gaze lidding and then re-widening with a renewal of vigour that sees her dark, swelling aura intensify. The mist is creeping from view, but it's drawn inward - clearly, she has depths she's not tapped, even if she may lack the sheer superhuman capabilities of her charismatic saviour.
"But don't count me out, I can match you drink for drink. I wasn't always--" What? She stops with her mouth open and prompty shuts it, lips drawn in and tongue lashing with determination against the salt-tinged flesh. Her sweat isn't pronounced; but it's there, mingling with the lotion to set a healthy sheen to pale features. "I can play."
With that she regains her composure, and thrusts herself to standing, setting to rearrange raven hair with a few quick motions of dextrous hands. "Come on."
The fingertips of the Templar's left hand splay and extend as she half-turns to the bar, and there's no hint of the Dragon's Breath this time - if she's seeking to capture Angel in her grip, it's solely physical. She'll stop short though, settling for a gently insistent, inviting beckon. Apparently she needs that awaiting drink.
"So," she adds with a smile over her shoulder, falling into that brisk stride with a quick breath, "Is 'Angel' your name or something deeper? A girl could get confused."
"Oh good because Angel was afraid she'd worn you out before the fun part~"
The off-hand comment is delivered with a jovial singsong tone and the Mexican girl bounces after her without any hesitation. Even though Amy still seems reluctant or shy in extending physical contact between them, Angel suffers from no such issues and her arm winds around the Knight's waist in a very familar fashion when she catches up to her, matching the quick pace without any difficulty.
"My name, ofcourse. Angel is Angel," she says, prouncing it the proper way. "There isn't any Inception bullshit going on here. Though..." Her hand wanders south a little to grab another quick squeeze from Amy's toned rear as she pulls the knight up against her momentarily. "If you wanna go to heaven, I can be your guide~"
The sexual overtones are strong with this one. Ofcourse, she isn't always this overt in her flirting. The mixture of tropical air and the general attitude of being on the first proper vacation in years seems to have flipped a switch in her head that doesn't want to turn off. She'll be back in the grips of far less friendly hands soon enough so she might as well get all the naughty fun out of this trip she can manage. And who knows, maybe she can make a friend among one of her potential enemies. She has yet to regret creating situations where people want to kill her /less/.
The bar quickly grows from a small dot in the distance into a wide open-air pub nestled up against the edge of the jungle on a spot where the tide can't threaten to weaken its supports. No one else seems to be around at the moment save for a weathered looking old man in a Hawaiian print shirt and khaki shorts standing behind the counter.
Reticence on the part of Dame Amy isn't indicative of any particular aversion, but she's clearly out of her element compared to the feisty NESTS agent; but how many wouldn't be? Generally comfortable in expressing her own sexuality, the formality of Holy Orders not withstanding, the Templar can't compare to this lackadaisical onslaught. Her firm, lean frame falls like a warm, moist jigsaw piece against the supple, aggressively-feminine curves of the Mexican, and the flush on her cheeks is only partly disguised by exertion. Her chin lifts, head pulling up and stormy eyes flickering with a momentary conflict before she relaxes into the grip with a husky gasp. Her body responds more readily, glutes tensing in instinctive pleasure.
If nothing else, Angel knows what she's doing.
"Heaven," murmurs the Templar, flashing a smile through parted lips, teeth closing on the lower with the growing heat of flirtation. Her right hand slips behind, grabbing the assassina's own digits and caressing them, the callouses on palm and digits carrying a power that doesn't quite compare-- but it's enough of a match, so long as she's not heavily resisted. Chancing her arm, Amy pushes herself around and turns as they make the final approach to the bar, keeping a firmly-insistent grasp on Angel but gliding the other hand up her abdomen to the space between her breasts. She finishes with a lean-and-shove, all but brushing her lips against Angel's before she presses the younger woman away. It takes an effort. "Can wait for another day."
There's a beat, in which she flicks her deep blue stare to the crusty bartender and back to the loqacious speedster. On a further impulse she keeps her arm extended, curling out one finger to follow the curve of a breast.
"Or at least for an hour or so. We have a deal, and this isn't the man I'm looking for." Easing herself back, she leans against the bar, folding her arms as if to ward off further advance. "Short. Indian. Doctor. Loud and uncompromising. Possibly more dangerous than I am." A soft snort, and a smile, "I'm not sure about you."
Angel's had a whole lot of practice at being a saucy little purveyor of sin, ironically. While she cloaks herself in the obvious vice of lust and desire on the outside, her destruction of the laws that most religions, and most decent people for that matter regardless of their beliefs, consider important is pretty thourough. Murder, thievery, idolatry, promiscuity, just to name a few.
Most have been as a result of her job, if you can really call it that, and not all of them are fond memories. While she doesn't mind getting rough when the situation calls for it, there's some pretty shady shit that goes on when your boss is a megalomaniac with aspirations of godhood. People just stop mattering that much. Anything becomes acceptable to achieve goals. Angel's actually a pretty nice person, all things considered. She likes being friendly. She likes people. And she prefers that persona over the one she has to use when official business is at hand.
So when she's got a chance to be friendly with someone who might one day be her enemy, she's /very/ friendly. A bit of overcompensation? Perhaps. But you have to keep the demons at bay somehow. This is how Angel copes and she's gotten a lot of practice at coping with dark thoughts.
So when she gets the ol bait and switch, Angel's pretty much caught completely offguard. People usually fall into two categories when it comes to her particular brand of charm. They fall for it completely or they ignore her like some kind of mime performing whacking tricks in a park. Her half-lidded eyes slide open slightly in surprise at the suddenly aggressive touch but just when she's about to find solace in the soft warmth of the Knight's lips, she's denied.
"Oh you magnificent teasing bitch!"
Angel grins like a moron at the sucker punch and scoots over to take up a seat on one of the bar stools next to the Knight. The old fossil of a bartender wanders over, having no one else to serve, and she digs a wad of Zack Dollars out of her cleavage without a hint of shame.
"Top shelf, grandpa, and keep em coming." She turns to peer at Amy as he goes to collect a couple bottles of brew, her nose wrinkling up in an unpleasant fashion at the description of the man she's after. "Uh... " She draws the sound out as she looks away, rubbing the back of her head. "I... may have... met him."
It's hard, mixing business with pleasure, not least when you're a rebellious teenage hellraiser turned Warrior of God. Amy's seemingly capricious diversion from smooth flirtation to awkward, flustered avoidance is only a side-effect of that dichotomy. It's still left mysterious as to what she'd do if she had no actual business here-- but that's all part of the little game. Though not considering Angel a foe as such, she's an enigma - a very fast, skilled enigma with a surprisingly amount of cunning for someone who's occasionally observed to lapse into Poké-speech.
"Does it cease being a tease if I do something about it later?" Amy returns crisply, putting out a hand to receive the drink that's on its way - she doesn't turn to look at the bartender again, which might be construed as somewhat rude, but it's likely he's *also* having trouble removing his gaze from Angel. She's... distracting.
Even moreso when she's falling into an apparent trap.
The Templar had no reason to think she had a substantial lead here, beyond singling out someone gregarious and aggressive who's likely to have frequented the same general areas of ambience as her target. It was a shot in the dark, and so far a not-unpleasurable and certainly fascinating one. To yield such a hit is stunning. She almost laughs, yet holds herself back with a hint of concern, dark brows furrowing.
"Don't hold back on me, Angel," she half-pleads, half-instructs with a voice just shy of being born to command, directing a glance and a tip of her head behind to the old timer as he fills her hand with a drink. She hands this one to the Mexican, not shy in retiring her grip. "I just need to speak with him. The only people you'll be protecting by not telling me are a lot worse than--" Than Angel is prepared to deal with? Possibly not, she decides, seguing back in with a bittersweet smile. "Please, anything you know. You've got my oath I won't betray your trust, whatever else I may or may not do..."
Angel continues to stare off into some middle distance, suddenly very dodgy about giving her attention to anyone. The cold drink finds its way into her hands and she snatches it up with perhaps a little too much haste, tilting her head back to pour the sweet ambrosia down her parched throat.
"Look... it's not about trust... it's just... fuuuuck, I knew that asshole would bring me more trouble!"
She takes another drink, swiging the stuff like it was water, and runs a hand through her hair. A sidelong glance finally makes its way towards Amy again and then shifts over to the barkeep who's made himself busy with something or other on the far side of the establishment.
"Alright, look," she says, keeping her voice down for the first time. A petulent scowl tilts the corners of her mouth down and her brows furrow together. "If I tell you this story you have to promise not to laugh!"
There are some promises even a holy knight cannot keep, and Amy rightfully hesitates, her mouth open and gradually curling into a bemused grin before she draws and releases a heavy breath. Arching her back against the edge of the bar, she leans back, running a hand through her own hair and allowing it to rest at the nape of her neck in exasperation. For all she's unorthodox and arguably sinful, the Templar takes her role - as she sees it - seriously. She's not going to lie to anyone who's extending trust, however hazy the nature of that trust may be. She rights herself with a helpless shrug, taking up her own drink and draining half of it in three swift gulps.
Wiping her free hand across her mouth, she bows her head to Angel, keeping her gaze up and alert upon those odd grey eyes. More unreadable than her own, she's sure, and harbouring at least as many secrets. There's a twisted kindred here.
"I'll do my best, but I can't promise that," her smile surfaces and with chin raising she reaches out with thumb and forefinger to gently caress the Mexican's jawline, "Tell me what you know, and if I wrong you, I'll pay whatever forfeit you desire. At the least, the drinks will be on me. What did this man do? Where did you see him?"
Angel is used to being the one in charge when it comes to this sort of thing. For one, she's a lot better at not giving a shit what people think about her in general and has almost no trace of shame, which helps when doing the kinds of stupid shit she does on a regular basis. Her almost suicidally laid-back attitude and general disregard for the normal rythms of conversation also tends to throw people off their game. When the situation delves into a spiral of uncontrolled chaos and confusion that's where the master of making shit up becomes king.
So when she finds herself on the receiving end of the kind of playful bullshit she's used to handing out every day, Angel can't help but break out into a grin. "Tch, fine, fine. But I'll make you regret that promise, chika."
Draining the rest of her first beer, Angel tosses the bottle into a receptacle and turns away from the bar, matching Amy's relaxed lean. "Alright, so there was this party, yeah? Big event for the grand opening and all that. Angel was naturally getting her party on. Met some cute guys, lots of cute girls, but everyone was too busy dancing and shit to have some real fun."
As if she is possessed of a third eye, Angel holds her hand out just in time to receive a fresh beer from the old man, not even bothering to turn her head to acknowledge him. She starts in on this bottle too, gulping with reckless abandon like she has a grudge against her liver.
"So I spot this famous actor guy - Johnny Cage, incase you're wondering, he's around here somewhere if you wanna go get an autograph or something - and your doctor friend comes up and tries to act all serious about telling the guy he's got herpies or something. It was pretty obviously bullshit, I've seen that trick used before, but whatever."
The rest of beer number two vanishes into her mouth and the bottle vanishes into the trash. Angel doesn't even slow down, her voice calm and clear and free of any slur. Clearly she can hold her liquor too.
"Anyways, long story short, I fucked him and he turned out to be a robot assassin or some shit."
In some ways, they're polar opposites, Amy and Angel. Bound by codes and knightly vows, the Templar is equally obliged to care what just about everybody thinks - her role as much relies on subterfuge as the enforcement of a stolid, unyielding presence in the face of extremities. She's not the greatest at her art, but she can't afford to lower her guard completely... when she does, it's because she senses something special, or simply lapses into old, bad habits. Like a recovering alcoholic, she strives for excellence versus her devilish innermost core.
Turn and turn and turn again, she has the upper hand now, retracting her hand but keeping it poised, the opposite arm crooking under her elbow and supporting open fingertips. She forgets her half-empty drink for the moment, watching Angel with a calm wariness, her aura gently buzzing away as she otherwise listens and waits.
It's... not the harrowing tale she might have expected. Used to dealing with eldritch beings and ancient evils more likely to demand blood sacrifice and horrific murder rituals, tales of movie stars being diagnosed with herpes by pretend-doctors...
Comfortable she may appear, but she's out of her Zone. Without the bloom of alcohol, the heat, the atmosphere, and the stunning tanned specimen before her, she'd probably balk immediately. Yield to laughter, if only from a loss in ironic bewilderness.
As it is, she manages to reach the end before suddenly emitting the most unladylike snort, her lips pressing together and a blush consuming pale, freckled features. Good job keeping your composure, Knight Officer. Good job.
"You...?" She begins with an apologetic, self-effacing roll of her eyes and a helpless single-shouldered shrug that would do interesting things to her anatomy if she had more flimsy assets to hurl about. As she is, it still holds an outermost strength and lithe rigidity that imparts a certain grace. "I'm sorry, I could have sworn you just told me you *shagged* a former agent of the I--" Woah, woah. WAY too relaxed. She clears her throat, 'a-HEM' and straightens her back, abruptly disengaging her arm and draining the rest of her own beer, going for the next immediately. She brings it to her lips, touches the glass rim with her tongue, and then glances down, shaking her head.
"I... apologize. Really. I did my best, Angel." Gazing into the younger woman's eyes, she smiles with absolute warmth and commiseration, her features softening into empathy that would be condescending if it weren't so damn heartfelt. "That--" Words. Words fail her. Robot assassin? It's troubling, out of kilter with anything she's been led to believe, and yet she can't be entirely surprised. "God *damn* them." It comes in a soft, yet deeply empassioned hiss, stormy blue eyes flickering this way and that before finding, once more, the windows to the oddball asassin's soul.
"You have my permission to make me regret *everything*," she resumes, tone still lowered but with far less sibilance, "But I've got to find this-- thing. Before anyone else gets hurt. You're okay? I'm..." The smile returns with a wry note, and she taps the bottle against her lip, examining Angel with an intent intimacy that's as much kind as playful. Teasing. "Having trouble seeing you as a victim."
Angel takes the teasing in stride though her lips press together in the most adorable pouty fashion, arms crossing over her chest as she stares out at the rolling surf. Another beer appears at her side promptly. Apparently the old guy took it seriously when she told him to keep em coming.
"Yeah, yeah, make fun of pool little Angel," she says with a hint of played up bitterness as she snatches up her fresh brewski. "Whoever built that thing has issues, girl. I didn't get a good look until after the fact but I'm pretty damn sure they stitched an arm onto his crotch. You have no idea. I am /still/ sore."
Well, that's... probably useful information, right? Angel meets her gaze with slightly narrowed eyes that might be considered confrontational if they weren't so alluring in the lazy effortless fashion that comes naturally to the NESTS agent. She doesn't show it but that almost-slip from Amy piqued her curiosity.
So that robot, whatever it was, belongs to some larger agency. She had her suspicions but for all she /knew/ it could have been some whacko side project that escaped from Zack's underground sex dungeons. Now she has another little bit of information to carry back home. Clearly, this was her goal all along. That is how she will be writing it in her report anyways.
"You better believe I'm gonna take you up on that." She taps the neck of her bottle against Amy's and takes a sip. "But yeah your uh 'doctor' friend apparently has buddies on the island. His body - oh I thrashed him pretty good by the way - was gone when I went back to check later."
Writing a report is going to be... interesting. A brief, dark thought in Amy's subconscious points out that now might be a good time to actually go rogue - but it's dismissed by one of her more quirky inner demons, an iconoclastic yet basically honourable facet pointing out that she's on the trail, and all her actions have been justified. All of them. That's the bit that ends up surfacing, as their bottles clink.
"Cheers," mutters the Templar, blinking slowly without removing her gaze, stormy blue eyes beginning in distracted thought then positively smouldering for the following instant before she glances askance and unceremoniously drains the bottle. She's about to go for another when she fails to suppress a small, decidedly girlish belch. Smirking in passing shame, Amy glances back to Angel and repeats her toast a little louder - and more hedonistically - already downing the next drink before she can think about the events of the last few moments. Or, indeed, anything. "I'd better..."
There are a lot of things she'd better, and far too much to be preoccupied with. An arm stitched onto the crotch? Seriously, what the hell. She's frequented a few unsavoury nightclubs, but really? Belatedly she double-takes, but decides to take it in her stride as part of the whole, Angel-tastic package. Fingering her crucifix, she sets the newly-drained bottle aside, finding another, indeed, is present.
She'd better fish in the hem of her wetsuit for money, is what. A deal is a deal.
Dextrous digits stray from the cross to her crotch, or near as dammit, and she pokes a couple of fingers in to hook out a small, stealthy pouch tucked just inside the skintight garment. Much like Angel, she doesn't hesitate or blush. Past that.
"Hmph. I suppose there's no rush, then," she declares with as close to a 'fuck it' expression on her face as most are ever likely to see, slapping the warm and slightly sweaty pouch down on the bar to cover what's liable to be an astronomical tab. "I owe you a good forty minutes; the drinks are cold, the sea is warm, and I'm better qualified to prescribe than that abomination of science." As by now her abused but questionably victorious informant is sure to need a few less braincells, she flips another beer toward her, catching it extended by the handle.
"Doctor's orders," she finishes with a smile and the curve of a dark brow.
"Mmmm... wish all my doctors thought like you. Usually they're all about needles and watching me run around in my underwear. Damn nerds."
Angel takes the fresh drink, despite still having half an open one in her hand. Shit, is she falling behind? No way that's gonna fly. Both bottles find their way to her lips in short order, one after the other, and she also lets loose with a belch. Hers is a lot less pretty than Amy's.
Now that they seem to have gotten Amy's personal crisis out of the way, Angel allows her arm to slink back around the other woman's shoulders all friendly like, drifting the tips of her fingers along the exposed skin on her arm. She's good at being friendly; has that been established yet?
"So, Ames..." Angel turns to peer at the knight sporting a much more pronounced look that stands testament to her ability to give a shit about 'important' things at the moment. Hint - she doesn't. "Tell me about yourself. Ya know, the stuff you can share without having to slit my throat in the middle of the night."
It's warm; really, too warm for the woman from northern England. She's grown up around cold and damp, chill winds and soggy raindrops the size of ping pong balls. Half a decade spent trotting the globe has done nothing to change this, and yet it also does nothing to prevent her enjoyment of the warmth and proximity of the flippant Mexican. She stiffens only briefly, her spine gently arching inward, and then she's simultaneously swigging booze and leaning subtly, comfortably, against the arm around her shoulders. Her opposite arm goosepimples in seconds, and she shivers in spite of the heat and the telltale buzz creeping through her veins.
Yeah, Angel knows what she's doing, the counter-awareness running only so far as Amy is willing to resist at this moment. Though the more reserved by far, she doesn't flinch from the proximity in the least, her expression relaxing and only warming further.
She's far from being beyond teasing, though.
"About me?" She queries in unnecessary echo, wetting her lips and lidding those stormy blues. A tilt of her head sends dark, dishevelled locks cascading close to her eyeline, and she makes no attempt to shift it, mouth quirking to a dangerous half-grin. "I could tell you everything. How would you know the difference until it's too late? I'm not sure," she pauses, breathing the ghost of a laugh and then tipping forward on her heels, the smallest shift of her balance bringing her almost nose-to-nose with the tan beauty. Close enough for their breath to mindle. Amy wrinkles her nose, freckles dancing. "We can share much without paying for it later. You're more than you seem."
She uptilts her chin, bringing them even closer, and then she laughs. It's lilting this time, her gaze flicking playfully away.
"But, fine. I'm an Aries, born an hour after April Fool's, in York, England. My father's in the US military - I've never met him - and my mother left a year after I was born." It's reeled off casually, like none of this is actually important. "I was raised by my aunt. You've seen Indiana Jones?" She shrugs, leaning back finally, though it only brings them a few more inches apart. "Cut his bits off, put him through the menopause, and that was her. Taught me almost everything I know. Shall I go on or would you like to ask something in particular? Life's been..." She smiles, but it's the bittersweet one from earlier. Of course she's hiding things. "Eventful."
She's not even trying to hide *that*.
It's an emergency.
'King of Hearts, this is Jack Two. King of Hearts, come in.'
The roar of engines drowns out all but Zack's voice as he places a forefinger upon the bluetooth ensconced in his ear.
"This is Funky King, over!"
'King of H-- er, Funky King, the targets have been sighted again at the bar on the edge of the jungle. Funky King, recommendation is that you redirect course. Over.'
"Bird of Paradise, hearing you loud and clear!" Zack shouts as he steers the jetski with his other hand, turning it so that it slices through the waves on approach to the island. "The babes will soon be in my sights! Can you confirm their activities, over!?"
'Funk-- Ki-- Bird of Paradise, despite review of the footage, we cannot confirm what transpired during their embrace before they fade beyond our sights. However, it is possible-- that they were making out.'
VVVVRRRRRRMMMMM, goes the jet ski as Zack guns it, shooting toward the sands. His afro, which looks for all intents and purposes real as it endures the winds despite it being pretty likely he was shaven-headed yesterday, whips to and fro as he leans forward, eyes gleaming behind his sunglasses (which also have somehow stayed on all this time). There, in the distance, perched in a lovely location twixt sands and jungle, is a quaint little bar that one of his subordinates persuaded him to construct. It's not popular, but even the lively Zack cannot deny it has a certain charm despite its lack of wild parties. At this point, however, Zack can pay no respect to aesthetics. His enthusiasm knows no bounds.
He accelerates further as the beach looms, bunching his legs for a leap.
When his jetski hits a hidden rock.
Rather than jumping, Zack is bodily flung forward as the jetski violently capsizes, the King of Zack Island tucking into a flip as he's hurled toward the outside patio of the bar, launched toward the establishment as though by a catapult. Within moments he has crashed through any partitions in his way, colliding bodily with an empty table several seats down from Amy and Angel and splintering it into smithereens. At last stopped by this impact, covered in dust and debris, Zack lies there for several long moments.
Before he rolls to his side and strikes a pose, bracing his elbow against the ground and supporting his head with his hand, grinning widely and ignoring the chair leg in his hair.
"King Zack's not too late for the show, is he!?"
Despite being born in Mexico, Angel is about as far from the average Latino as you can get. Her skin may be bronze, her attitude spicy, and her favorite drink tequila, but that's about as far as the similarities go. Hell, she doesn't even speak Spanish. She likes the heat about as much as Amy, which is to say, not particularly much, seeing at her outfit of choice consists almost entirely of leather. Heat and leather don't mix.
Still, she has some advantages over the knight; there are some good things that come from being one of the favored assassins of an ultra powerful organization that tinkers with dna and genes like they were legos. So despite the sweltering oppression of the sun, Angel remains completely free of sweat or visible discomfort.
Amy's sudden shift back into playful mode is a welcome one though it's not entirely clear if she's just some kind of robot who can flip between serious and casual on a whim or if the beer's getting to her already. Either way, Angel looks pleased by the reactions she's getting, particularly when the knight decides to bring herself in even closer.
"Shit, sounds like you read that off a dos.. doser.. those reports that tell you stuff about people." She takes another drink, finishing off another bottle, which takes a trip to the trash NBA style. Oh hey look now her hands are empty. Well they say idle hands are the devil's play thing so the pretty Mexican just sliiiides them on around to rest against Amy's hips, allowing her to lean back but not completely escape the agent's personal space.
"Girl there are a /lot/ of questions I want to ask you but uh... none of them are appropriate for this venue."
There's two sides to every story, and every coin, and every Templar, it would seem. Life for Amy has never been so simple as 'be yourself' - it leads too readily to the question, 'who am I?' With no concrete means of defining herself at the core, torn between fractured families, lifestyles desired and otherwise, between being the messiah and nothing more than another aspirant knight... and even whether she could be that much. She's spent a lifetime questioning, and pursuing answers has led her to embody both sides at once. Order and chaos, justice and rebellion, nice and naughty...
She had both coal and candy in her Christmas stocking, when she had one at all.
None of which she's personally thinking about, of course; it would be hard to think about much outside of her narrow confines as she finds herself not-unwelcomely entrapped between the bar and two toned, tanned limbs. She draws in a sharp breath, but it carries a pleasurable twist of the lips with it, her own strong, lean frame making no attempt to retreat. They're of a height, and she may be slightly larger, physically - she doesn't feel intimidated, or trapped. She feels... well...
"My role requires me to both thorough and well-informed," she replies with the smooth grace of beautifully-feigned professionalism even as she subtly shifts her hips, pressing more firmly against one side as she pauses and finishes her own beer. "It also requires me," she glances down, toying with the bottle before letting it fall loose in one hand, the other gliding to rest against Angel's stomach, fingertips alighting with a spider's touch that doesn't intensify just yet. She eases forward. "To be discrete."
Stormy blue eyes widen, the abyss of whirling emotion suddenly spiralling out of control, the smoulder of willing passion suddenly stoked to an astonished blaze as a fit, afro'd male quite literally explodes into the vicinity. Her hand presses firmly against Angel and instinctively pushes the beautiful assassina back, beer bottle striking the ground and shattering between them as Amy's hand lifts, misty tendrils spiralling around her forearm as if they'd been there all along. "You--"
She blinks, taking a moment to rationalize first that there's nobody *there*, another to realize the person in question is there but possibly DEAD, and then another to process the fact that Zack leaps to his feet and makes a confounding announcement.
"Who the *hell* are you?"
Her tone is demanding, authoritative and yet just a teensy bit whiny. It's not clear whether she's more annoyed, embarrassed or just plain startled. She feels...
She feels like punching this interloper in the mouth.
So she surges forward as if she's going to do exactly that, the Dragon's Breath leaping to her command, sheathing her arm then springing to her palm in an instant--
This would be a good time for someone else to do something.
Zack's grin flips upside down, an almost exact mirror image.
Wailing, his arms windmilling in a manner unbefitting of a trained Muay Thai fighter, Zack elects, of all things, to fall onto his back and raise his hands while tucking in his legs, looking as much as anything like a surrendering dog. "Jeeves," he cries out, "help me! Save your King!"
The old man polishing a glass behind the bar looks up, having maintained his immaculate composure even after Zack exploded onto the patio.
"Respectfully, sir, I must again remind you that my name is Reginald," he begins, with just the barest hint of wear upon his patience. "This, ladies, is the owner of this fair island and resort, Zack, surname unknown. He has no doubt arrived to court you, and forgone the entrance once more."
"Yeah, baby!" Zack exclaims, lurching to a kneeling position, still supplicating and still hopefully less of a target for Amy's wrath. "Court is in session, and Judge Zack pronounces you both smokin' hot!" This is one of his better interpretations. "My Majesty is most pleased to see that you both are so thoroughly enjoying my island paradise!" He's grinning again, gesticulating wildly, the chair leg lodged in his hair bobbing up and down with equal enthusiasm. "But I don't believe I've seen either of you on the list of participants. Although I have seen /you/," he adds, grin somehow redoubling to reach mythic proportions as he looks at Angel, "at the party! And quite a bit of you!! But not enough!!!"
Zack rears back and howls to the bright blue sky.
"It's never enough!!!! Reginald!!!!!"
"Yes, sir," the old man calmly replies.
"Drinks for everyone!!!"
"I'm two-thirds there, sir."
Zack's spectacular entrance damn near gives the bronze beauty a heart attack and she fails to maintain her composure quite as well as Amy. Her bottle smashes against something as well but rather than the floor, it turns out to be the side of the bar, and she whirls around to face the fallen king with her makeshift bar shiv in about the span of time that it takes for the initial dust to settle.
"Sons of bitches, they're comin for me again! I ain't goin out like some punk bitch! I'll cut every last one of...!"
Her rant is cut short by the Knight's protective impulses and Angel staggers backwards upon being pushed aside, promptly being seated on the bar stool behind her. She starts to push back up again but then a very familar voice hits her ears and she immediately relaxes, tossing the broken back over her shoulder. Naturally, it goes into the trash.
"Oh, it's just Zack. Hey, Ames, try not to bust him up too much. He like... owns the island or something. Probably best to play nice."
Zack's grovelling earns a dopey grin from the assassin girl and she rests her head in the flat of one palm, leaning her elbow on the bar while waiting to see what Amy ends up doing to him. He /did/ just interrupt what was pretty much guaranteed to turn into something hot and steamy if their momentum kept going as it was. On the other hand, he's goofy and weird, and for some reason Angel likes him.
"That was Angel alright. Not sure exactly how much more of me there is left to see, considering the outfit I was wearing."
With nobody stopping her assault, the Templar's surge is accompanied by a wordless, bloodthirsty cry. As if Angel hadn't seen enough sides of her already. Tendrils continue to rush down her arm in a wild semi-helix, intertwining before streaming into her palm where they join the thick, oscillating mass already gathered. It doesn't take long to reach Zack, and by then her palm is already thrust out, the heel aimed with pinpoint accuracy for the solar plexus. Seeking to drive her blow in and *through*...
...she's astonished when her glaring eyes behold only upraised legs. Tilting her stare downward, she's bewildered and disgusted to find the well-built, dark-skinned male cowering like the world's most pathetic puppy. She considers following through-- but by then, the gray-white throb of conjoined tendrils has slowed and faded, the mist curling away from her arm more naturally now, and so she allows it to fade...
Reginald's interjection waylays any progressive intent for action, and Amy lowers her now-shuddering arm with a scathing outbreath. Closing her eyes, she pauses for two long, cooling breaths, and then extends her hand downward to either help the eccentric 'king' up or shake his hand, but he's already gabbling away. With the alcohol fresh in her system and her brain a fog of lascivious intentions, she just sort of stands there.
On the one hand, says her demon, he's one of her least favourite types of people.
On the other, says the voice of reason, he does own the island.
It's not spoken loudly, or with any particular authority, but it doesn't lack the confidence of the Templar's convictions. Her hand lifts to her brow, brushing aside dishevelled raven's wing strands and pressing to her temple.
Saying nothing else, the conflicted woman turns and walks back to the bar, leaning against it a few feet from Angel and staring mutely into space until she notices a drink has been helpfully placed in front of her. Right, then.
Still wordless, she picks it up and swigs long and hard. She might need a minute.
"Ohhhh!" Zack exclaims as Amy eventually decides not to obliterate him. "She is both merciful and wise! And hot! She's really hot! Reginald!!"
"I am here, sir," the barkeep says neutrally, stopping short of affirming Zack.
"There's always more, Angel my angel," the King continues unabated, lurching to his feet up from his kneeling position and practically swiveling toward the assassin. "There's always more to see of a gorgeous woman. Her intimate expressions, her quiet secrets, her nipp-- Reginald, do we have any of the you-know-what!?"
"Yes, sir. It remains on the You-Know-What Shelf."
Every time Zack turns, his body moves before his head does, leaving him looking like an owl every three seconds as his gaze refuses to be torn from whatever good-looking woman he has set his eyes upon at any given moment. After this necessary time lag, his eyes fixate on a shelf high above the others, where strange libations in eldritch crystal rest, looking as though they were produced less in a distillery and more in a witch's cauldron.
"Yes! Reginald, I'm goin' for it!"
"Sir, perhaps this time the ladder--"
But it is too late. Zack has lunged forward, feet landing on the bar adjacent to where Amy has seated herself, before he leaps upward with hand outstretched. In a Space Jam moment, his movement appears to slow as his fingers brush against a particularly brightly-hued vessel, one which seems to shimmer with subtle and multilayered flavors.
And then, inevitably, his hand slams onto the shelf, tearing it from the wall, and he falls in a heap behind the bar with a deafening crash as the whole pile of bottles collapses upon him. Reginald does not stir from his task even for a moment, though this time, Zack does not get up right away. Actually, he's not even twitching.
"This time," the barkeep remarks, "I ensured my personal blends were contained in reinforced containers. Last time, the King cried for half an hour while we picked glass out of him. I'd thought it possible they might break regardless, but it appears his body softened the impact."
The bottles are okay. Zack ... maybe ... will be.
Amy's gallant display of outrage turning into confused bewilderment earns a wry grin from the Mexican as she loiters against the bar. Zack has that effect on people. Angel hasn't seen much of him but you don't have to get prolonged contact with the King of Hearts to come away with a memorable experience. Infact, being in Zack's presence for extended periods is probably not recommended. There's likely a Surgeon General's warning tattooed on his foot or something to back her up on this.
"Don't let him get to you, Ames," she offers helpfully when the Knight attempts to murder the braincells responsible for dealing with whatever it is she just had to witness via intense alcohol intake. As if to set an example, she casually tilts her head to regard the Island lord as he lays his philosophy of love on her, only to promptly divert his efforts towards knocking himself unconscious.
Angel winces a little as the shelves come down, her lazy expression twisting into a vague mask of empathy, but her concern is short-lived as evidenced by a paltry shrug in the direction of the mess. Instead, she turns her attention back to Amy, her lopsided grin returning in full force as she slides off the bar stool and moves to weave her arms back around the understandably shaken woman's waist.
"So, I'm pretty sure we were somewhere... right around... here..."
Her hands slide over the taut fabric of the diving suit, wandering around adventerously while she presses herself close again Amy's back, bring the full soft warmth of her own body to bear. Then she pauses, as if stricken by some random thought.
"Wait, is that how this works? Did I remember to save? When was the last checkpoint?"
All told, whatever realities in which Amy Johnson might be forced to dwell are firmly rooted in dogma and the absolute belief in something greater - a uniting whole, a presence whose iron gauntlet she wields in the defence of beauty and goodness, in the pursuit of justice and righteousness. That can be an uncertain path to walk, but it's a role she takes so seriously that she's ever on the precipice of black-winged doubt and soaring, angelic hedonism. God is in all things, even the bizarre actions of this island's unhinged King and his counter-balancing, long-suffering staff.
Propped against the bar, resting on her elbow and the upheld bottle of cold, fermented hops, she regards the insanity tha ensues with a necessary distance until it comes to a very literal crashing halt. She flinches outwardly, whilst inwardly clinging to a metaphorical rock. She eyeballs the fallen eccentric, about to instinctively offer assistance when the calming presence of the old bartender stays her hand.
"He's responsible for..." She gesticulates with her resting arm, fingertips cutting a deft and encompassing circle far wider in connotation than she could ever encapsulate with a mere hand-movement. "...all of this?" She glances again at Zack, oceanic gaze flittering through the emotions on offer, and deciding to opt for the safest possible route; she takes a drink around an up-burbling peal of laughter, managing a swift swallow before she laughs hard enough to almost snort the mouthful back up into her nose. The laughter dies a few seconds later in a few rapid, giddy breaths.
Lifting the bottle, she tips it toward the bartener with a chagrined smile. She doesn't let her mind settle back on the prior object of her affections until Angel is behind her, that same tingle instantly rushing down her back into suddenly, deliriously-weak legs. She straightens with an effort that's only too welcome, pressing against the warm, too-perfect form as she clung, before, to the life raft within.
"Mm," it's a tiny noise, her eyes closing and Reginald abruptly forgotten. With the delicate judgement of all great barpeople, he busies himself in whatever needs he must, leaving Amy to set down her burden and begin to turn against the warm, comforting presence. Slow at first, she moves in a graceful spiral of motion as the assassin hesitates. The beer is set down in the same motion that brings that same hand to her throat, effortlessly slipping the chain from around her neck over long, dark hair.
Guiding Angel's arms around to the nape of her back with the other arm, she slips the crucifix around that tanned neck, smoothing the brilliant white of Angel's hair and then lingering just above her sumptuous breasts. Deep blue eyes are filled with smoke and fire, her gaze back to that steady, passionate smoulder, touched distantly with the uncertainty that's wracked her this frantic past minute or so.
"All that matters," she murmurs, one bare foot pressing to the base of the bar to drive her more deeply into Angel's embrace. Her weight is not insubstantial, but she entrusts it to the strange, mysterious, gloriously-odd young woman. "Is where we were, and where we are." The words still and then there's just a forthright, bold manuever, full lips parting as she presses her mouth against Angel's and insistently twists her mouth against the assassin's, deepening the kiss a moment later.
When she disengages, it's only to draw a breath, barely pulling back with tongue darting across her own lips and forehead pressed to forehead. Her eyes haven't closed, keeping her gaze throughout, but brows and lids are lowered. Her hands remain where they were, pressed to Angel's sternum, caressing both firmly and tenderly.
But now they slide up, seizing a double handful of white hair, bunching it and dishevelling it, her chin lifting and eyes widening to stare in a mixture of questioning disbelief and powerful, passionate conviction.
"Consider yourself saved," she breathes, tone husky, pupils dilated. "Who ARE you?"
So far, all Angel's managed to accomplish this afternoon is to mercilessly tease this young woman. Without fully understanding what had drawn her in, the Knight had stepped into the ever-present trap of the assassin's bizarre charm and stunning good looks, both of which are designed by their very nature to do precisely that - ensnare and entrap the unwary like moths to a glowing flame.
Angel is very good at her job. She has quite a few of them, actually, most involving some sort of violence and all them incorporating her unique form of charm, overt sex appeal mixed with a casual friendliness and levels of relaxed disregard for the gravity of the threats that often face her usually attributed only to the very drunk. This strange blend of personality clings to her like an aura, a part of the Mexican girl that cannot be turned on or off at will. It is simply who she is.
The passionate fiery surge of emotion that is pressed against her soft lips is something that has been inevitable for quite some time now, a culmination of the subtle tantalizing promise of incomparable pleasure and indescribable sensation that wafts off her skin like a heady perfume. Angel doesn't fight the sudden fierce embrace, her arms instead following the soft contours of her companion's body, pulling her closer to bask in the glow of the holy warrior's intense zeal.
Whatever bizarre tangent the strange girl had been off on is forgotten as they separate once more, peeling apart by inches but remaining firmly clasped in each others arms. The intensity of the experience leaves her with an obvious afterglow and Angel returns the half-lidded sensual look with her usual lazy stare, the dark greys of her granite eyes serving as pillars of unwavering support in the raging waters of lust and desire that have engulfed them.
However, it seems that Amy needs a bit more than that, her hands moving to gain more concrete and literal grips on the enigma that stands before her. Angel grins coyly as the gentle fingers grip her loose mane of snow white hair and she tightens her own grip, digging her digits into the flesh of Amy's pleasantly firm backside.
"My name is Angel," she says, her voice a playful whisper as she stares directly in the stormy seas of the Knight's gaze. "Ninteen years old." She leans in, brushing the side of her tanned cheek against the pale flesh of Amy's neck.
"A naughty girl with dirty secrets..."
Into the shadow of the valley of death she walks, unwittingly the jaws of doom close about her, and yet the Knight Templar fears no evil. The heat of her body, the tang of lotion and the faint, arousingly-musky scent of dried perspiration upon her skin, it mingles with the dusky aroma of the assassina and drives Amy's passions aflame. It's here where she comes the most alive, sometimes, as flesh entangles with flesh, her left leg snaking around to haul Angel in, closing her own countering trap even as she's driving herself forward still. As if seeking to merge their bodies, her breasts nestling neatly between and against the Mexican's own, ample assets.
One hand remains trapped in her hair, twisting just enough to make its presence known and exert the illusion of control, teasing at wrenching more tightly with only the aggressiveness of wanton lust behind it. The fingers of her other hand fall, stroking the temple and cupping the cheek of the younger woman as she brushes up against the Templar. Further down, her abdominals tense and ripple, forming a firmly-yielding wall as her hips buck inward, thrusting the rather coarse material of her wetsuit against the source of at least of one of those secrets...
Seeking greater warmth. Deeper abandon. Something she can't find elsewhere, certainly not in the dark halls of the Templar, nor any church ever erected. The dark throes of heady ecstasy call out, and her knee rises to forcefully part Angel's legs. The hand cupping her cheek tightens and lifts, just enough for Amy to sink her teeth into the outer edge of an ear, nibbling around and down until she suckles the lobe, then kisses around the jawline before forcing Angel's head back to her waiting neck.
It's sensitive there, a shudder running down her lean form in anticipation alone.
"So open," she breathes, lids closing as she lifts sightless gaze and open mouth to the skies beyond the pleasantly cool confines of the bar. "So bright, so willing..." Both hands drop, one to caress the nape of the neck, the other a breast and then, her trimmed nails tighten on the Mexican's tender flank, enough to leave marks without raising welts, rending a trail inward and down, along the abdominal line...
Amy's hips pull away, the warmth briefly receding, and then her hand makes its move, plunging into the fragile hem of flimsy bikini bottoms. Tracing the tender flesh there, too, she coils her fingers inward and out, dancing a little nearer, a little further, each time, her hand suddenly stilling and clenching inches away.
She presses Angel against her, savouring that moment.
"But you're holding back *so much*," she hisses, becoming a sibil's desperate gasp, her form quaking from head to toe but making no further searching movement. A heaving breath tempers her spirit and fights the worst of the shaking. When she speaks again, it's with a composure that was so far away before, a sardonic mischief creeping through crisply-delivered words, breaking the spell, shattering the prolonged agony--!
"I think that's an hour."
Like an exotic insect from the depths of some unknown corner of the world, Angel allows her flesh to be nibbled upon, her body to be entrapped in the strong caress of her prey as she gives the Knight just a taste of what could be hers. The illusion of control, utter and absolute, over another person is a powerful drug, a potent aphrodesiac against which there is little defense save the strength of one's own soul. It is fear that wards away the evil from a man's heart, fear that warns him of the danger of giving in to temptation and greed. There is no fear to be found, however, when the lie of power is there to take its place.
Like all of the other lures that exist within her whimsical nature, Angel is unaware of the sweet taste of her own forbidden fruits. There is a certain measure of conscious effort behind her antics, a choice to embrace the wordly vices of flesh and pleasure, but there is only so far that open seduction can take one. It does not account for the intense mesmerizing magnetism that she exudes nor the speed at which the woman who willingly stepped into her embrace falls into the mind-numbing madness of ecstacy.
Amy's insistent touches elicit soft moans of pleasure from her companion, faint whispers that once more hint at the possibility of something more, spurring her onwards to seek out greater sensation. As lithe as a cat, the assassin twists and conforms to every movement, meeting the overwhelming lust with equal yet subdued passion, her eyes drowsy and wanting for more.
Angel's hands are not idle during this time. Held quite firmly in place by the vigor of the knight's embrace, she allows her grip to loosen and her fingers dart here and there, seeking out the sensitive places that will bring the greatest reactions forth. She is not shy in her quest to bring greater pleasure, her long fingers squeezing the surface of the wetsuit in all the right places, then disappearing underneath the smooth fabric at her back to seek out more direct contact.
And then the moment is gone, the glamour of her entrancing presence shattered by means unknown. Angel stares with bleary unfocused eyes for several moments, her dark irises shifting to meet the stormy blues within Amy's comely face. As before, she does not share the shortness of breath or the loss of composure that should accompany such intense exchanges, and it takes but a few moments for her wits to return.
Angel smiles languidly in response and takes a step back, smoothing out the fabric of her skimpy swimsuit with casual motions that practically seethe with crackling sensual energy but it quickly diminishes as the more whimsical aspect of her nature comes to the fore once again.
"Well. I'd offer to buy another ticket for the ride but I spent all my cash on the booze."
Turning back to the bar, the white-haired girl lifts her hand up to cup around her mouth as if to shout at the bartender about bringing her another drink but by the time she's pressed up against the counter a bottle is already sliding her way.
"Hey Reggie, I--! Oh...shit, that was fast."
"When you work this job as long as I do, young lady," he says with a faint smile that brings out a multitude of wrinkles on his aged face, already turning to wipe down a glass, "you learn to read the customer's needs."
There's a purity in desire that dies in the fulfillment, and even as she speaks the words that draw too sudden and jarring a close to the motions that threaten to bring an unspeakable and exhilarating infatuation, Amy's heart pulses more quickly in her breast, further spreading the heat that burns and sears. Inwardly, she reaches out, greedy and clawing for the desirable, beautiful beast pulling away from her. They share little and much-- but at her most sincere core, the Templar needs this to end.
Like a moth dancing toward the flame, she might singe away her wings. Passion is glorious, a taste of that sumptuous fruit causing saliva to rise and deep, dark hungers to further stir. As soon as Angel pulls away, errant from lust, she finds a less-restrained mirror image before her. Amy takes more moments to catch her breath where the assassina needs few, but their needs are the same, at least here and now; a brief dalliance, an entangling of their tendrils, a fleeting merger of hungry souls.
To seek more is to plunge into secrets neither can spare.
The Templar can give her whole, or merely a whisper on the wind. A stirring in the ocean depths. Besides...
She retreats against the bar, her palms finding the warm wood as she reclines with a slow, almost feline smile. She loses herself in quiet meditation for several, long seconds, allowing Angel to recover and find her saunter once more before straightening herself. Straightening her skimpy uniform - such as it is - Amy pushes off and steps out into the rays of the sun. She's damper now, the moistness of body and the lubrication of her very soul an elixir in which she can continue to swim.
The marks she leaves behind, the cross now hanging about that impossible creature's neck, the jarred line of nails upon her sublime torso, she'll not take back. Let the capricious beauty remember as best she might; Amy can still smell the younger woman, taste her, feel the insistent, distant-yet-wholly-present pressures upon her body. She's excited, yes, but that's what she strives for - the pulse of adrenaline, the quickening of natural pheromones, the stirring in her loins.
She smiles back over her shoulder, considers just leaving...
And a moment later, she's behind Angel, reaching out with unfurled fingers to just barely brush from the lower edge of that barely-restraining tubetop to the delicate gulf of the lower back. Her fingertips linger only an instant, wondering briefly on what she'd have found, striving for more - unwrapping that dark, sacred treasure.
But would it have been so hard, so rewarding? To go where her forsworn foe has already gone, to conceal herself in the deepest, murkiest depths.
No. Not today. Not here. Not now.
"I had fun," she murmurs, disengaging abruptly from any lingering wishes, her smile genuine. "But duty calls. Perhaps next time our paths cross," her mouth quirks, teeth baring at one edge, daggers unsheathing and then slammed home. Lifting her chin, she looks out across the ocean, her gaze mirroring a darkness not found beneath the burning sun. Found beyond. "Perhaps we'll see the truth in each other."
She laughs, that same merry lilt that's so rare compared to the restrained and the bitter. A hand runs through raven locks, scattering them in the seabreeze, and then she takes off at a stride, withdrawing as quickly as she came.
Was either one of them trapped? Was there a game to be won or lost?
She doesn't know. She doesn't care.
She looks forward to their reckoning, should it come.
First, another awaits. She needs vengeance, and justice, more than she needs the peak of pleasure.
Angel's long slender fingers close of the surface of the beer bottle and for a few moments she simply enjoys the cool touch of the chilled glass against her skin allowing it to seep into her nerves and spread a welcome numbness through her arm like creeping electricity. Sadly neither she nor anyone else has found such a balm for the burning passion within her spirit. Her place within NESTS is a precarious one, a role fraught with danger both from the enemies which she must face in often deadly combat and that which she confronts in the madness that grips those who command her. But despite, or perhaps because of, the harrowing circumstances which face her every waking moment, Angel remains a carefree soul, unable to be contained or controlled in any real sense of the word for either good or ill.
The bottle rises up to touch her lips and that cold pleasure seeps down into her stomach where it can spread more effectively throughout the rest of her and she is quite content to merely revel in that simple pleasure for a time. However, even as she prepares to begin the devoted process of drowning her joy in hooch, a feat which takes a great deal more time than most might guess thanks to her enhanced physiology, one final tantalizing ghost of a touch traces along her spine, causing the Mexican to shift her posture instinctively to enjoy it.
Angel listens to the parting words with a lazy smile on her face. She has nothing to offer in return save a gentle nod of her head and then the Templar is gone leaving her with nothing but the sun and the sand and the gentle smile of a kind old man for company. Oh, and Zack's legs, still protruding out from underneath the pile of fallen bottles.
Angel lifts a finger, idly brushing it over the polished surface of the cross hanging about her neck. It feels heavier than it should for such a little thing of such minor consequence, a symbol of something greater than herself and yet utterly irrelevant to her existence. A wicked grin spreads across her face and with a suddenly little flick of her wrist, Angel tucks the bit of silver into the cleft of her cleavage, leaving it nestled firmly between her breasts in a simple but satisfying display of personal sacrilege.
"Keep em coming, Reggie," she says, casually tilting the bottle up to her lips again. "Keep em, coming."
Log created on 06:33:09 02/05/2015 by Amy, and last modified on 11:11:58 02/06/2015.