[se] between two lungs

she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different

He watches her through those dark blue eyes, deep enough to drown in, to fill her heart and swallow her whole. Anxiously Amalia shifts, her body moving in his lap, the leopard's fur rustling where her long legs touch his. This is it, then: the step too far, the door which has opened and showed too much, revealing a thing he cannot love. He did not ask for feral beasts, for half-women gowned in ivory fur. If the girl was not pretty before, what makes her think she is beautiful now, wearing the skin of the gods who abandoned him, no more appealing than a doe to a wolf? She had thought to make him more comfortable, an objectively foolish idea. Silly girl, childish thing; and as she thinks it the fur sinks back, threatening to leave her barren and bald.

Then he exhales into the space, a single syllable which stays her retreat. Yes- and his laughter is a welcome balm, luminous and lovely, the acceptance she craves inexorably, inexplicably, implicitly gifted again and again. Amalia smiles, and then laughs, too, her voice joining with Deimos', a concordant symphony in the space they have made. The flush upon his cheeks delights her, makes him more boyish, more open; she, too, blushes, half-embarrassed, realizing what he means, remembering her playfulness, the way she had pressed against his hand. Too scared as a human to see what she wanted: too bold as a leopard to stop and ask. "And now you know mine." Another laugh, bashful and soft. She settles further into his lap, just as he starts to move.

His hands off her hips, above her ears- and it is only in that moment she realizes what she has done, the thing he must have believed would happen, the undercurrent of molten fire which binds them, thick enough to slice. He had not anticipated a leopardess: it was a human woman who entered this space with him, a gentle thing which placed herself within his grasp. How wanton and willful she must appear, teasing, taunting, tilting closer only to pull away, to shift from supple human girl to furred and fanged feline fiend. Did he think she would press against him, her lips on his again, burning on the heat of his vibrant sun? And did he expect more- and if so, what? Fingers slipping below his shirt, teasing patterns on his skin; claws tearing neatly through his clothing, exposing muscles and scars beneath? Hands on his back, his shoulders, his waist, and movement, and teeth on the curve of his neck, gently insistent, hungry and heavy and searingly hot-?

She realizes she has frozen, her dark eyes hooded and her narrow face flushed, feral and ferocious and governed by something wild. The thoughts which flood her are a torrent, a rainfall of yearning kept so long contains. Rapid breathing rises from her lungs; she can feel him hovering above her head, nearly close enough to touch, a promise and question left unsaid. The wise move would be to wait, to draw a comfortable space between them, withdraw before he takes and takes. The smart choice is a quick retreat, or else he might ask her for more, might let those firm hands stroke her gently, bury and travel through her fur. Then they would travel, venture and take, drink her up and swallow her whole into the fire within his soul-

It is the slightest movement, the narrowest shift; but oh, it is enough. Amalia stretches her neck and rises, closing the space between man and beast, onyx eyes fluttering lightly closed. There is something about his hands on her ears: it drives her wild, makes her dizzy with thoughts of what could be. And oh, she has so many thoughts, thoughts that are hers, wants that are hers, a ravenous desire to take it all ignited in the space between their lungs. Arcing in his grasp, she tilts her head, an insistent purr rising from her chest as she greedily asks for more. Her hands grasp at his clothes, one on his chest, the other coiled in his hair. "Hmm?" she growls in response to his query, not quite hearing though her eyes draw open, staring down and finding mischief in his. Turning to press her lips to his palm, Amalia hums against him again, kisses dropping down his wrist as she begins to speak. "I think it is your turn to show me something." It is an invitation, and a question: do we go on, or should the fire remain banked?

Amalia

we are all b r o k e n
that's how the l i g h t gets in