she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
She tries to fade away, to fall back into the black pit of her chest, but the man will not allow it, his insistent fingers upon her hands, pulling her from darkness and into his light. It is another reason she cares about him, another thing she aches for and fears: one among countless, a multiplying array, every passing minute giving more and more incentive for her to cling to him. The gilded girl lets him have her (as if she has a choice, a say - as if she is not already his), smiles as he brings her fingers to his lips, shudders at the heat of his breath upon her skin. She laughs in return, shaking her head, his declaration swimming dizzy in her brain. she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
Once she would have mocked the pretty words, lovers promises made in heavy whispers, meaningless and unfulfilled, little more than air. Now she clings to them, lets each syllable fill her chest with a new knot of fire, incandescent and invigorating, leaving her fit to burst. Her mother would tell her: never trust a man who chatters, for he will be out of breath when the time comes to act. Deimos is a man of silence, of precious declarations and tightly held tales. Each word he has spoken has been supported, once and again and countless times more. He promised her care, and he here he holds her now; he promised her patience, and from there has not pushed, allowed her to set the pace that they make, to guide her own ship into his harbor, to wait until she is ready to accept any more.
She is ready, ready for boldness, ready to act on another desire, to find a new frontier and brave it with him. She has tried to evade and he has not allowed it, denied and ensnared, coaxed and beguiled. Each step of the way the man has been clear, his desire left plainly, his response given free. What is she afraid of, that he will reject? Then he does- and Amalia swallows hard at this thought, steeling herself against her anxiety, the silent war which wages on beneath her slender form.
Slowly, carefully, with all the tender caution of one striding into ice, Amalia pushes herself back toward Deimos, her body shifting and curling and coiling like smoke within his grasp. Gone is the urgent blaze of earlier, the inferno which lit her to burn on his lips; this is a gentler dance, a hopeful thing, aching and eager with tender desire, more intimate by far. Slowly she lowers herself into his lap, letting her body rest lightly against him, dark eyes never leaving blue, an unspoken question at every step. It is awkward - as with many things, the girl has never done this before - but graceful, too: she is pleasantly surprised to find she fits against him, her legs draping neatly over his, her shoulder falling against the crook of his arm. One hand comes to rest on his chest, settling over his heartbeat; the other reaches up to snake around his neck, leverage and an embrace as she presses against him, painfully and beautifully aware of every point at which they touch.
She is aware of every bone in her body, how sharp she is, how angular: but there is a solution after all. As she settles in fur begins to grow, thick and luxurious upon her skin, a padding to soften the blow of her bones. Her ears change, too, rounding and rising, and the leopard tail sprouts from her lower back, wrapping anxiously into her lap as she stares into his eyes. In the end the girl is still human, her face untouched by the abundance of fur, tawny locks falling onto black-and-cream shoulders, wide sable gaze turned worriedly towards his as she chews upon her lip. "Is this okay?" It is surprisingly gentle, a child's inquest, as though she fears she has gone too far, that he will reject her revealed form. "I'm sorry I did not tell you before."
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the l i g h t gets in
that's how the l i g h t gets in
