she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
She loves the rosy blush of his cheeks, loves the way the man regards her, blue eyes inexplicably full of ardor, mischief and madness muddled within against a backdrop of her. It is a face she wants to memorize, that she may revisit in in dreams, know each line and scar and curve and paint it in the stars. There are his lashes; there is his smile; there is the dimple of his cheek, half-hidden behind curling strands of beard. So many hidden things he has, secrets to be found. And for her? "Of course not," Amalia laughs, but it is not strictly true. The girl is not a creature of secrets, merely untold truths. She lives with her life upon her chest, a wall of glass, a beguiling exposure which keeps the world from trying to get in, for why should it bother read an already open book?she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
Except he still reads her, still wants to turn each page, has seen the things she has to offer and somehow aches for more. What will happen the day he learns she has no more to give; that she is not a pile of scintillating secrets, just a boring baker with an anxious heart which belongs, in whole, to him?
Until then she will continue to give, offer and promise until she is bled dry, until there is no more for him and he moves on to something more beautiful, more deserving of him.
The feeling of hands upon her ears is startlingly intoxicating, addictive and aching, a chord on her soul she did not know could be played. Amalia knows little of the hunger of lust, the way a body can yearn and want and quiver beneath gentle ministrations of a patient hand, but oh, the girl is learning quickly, a heat she did not know she had brought forth by Deimos' every touch. Almost unconsciously her soft lips trail along his wrist: she does not know what she is doing, but she knows it feels right, that it is this she wants and this she craves. For once her body has outpaced her mind, taken the reins and led her somewhere dangerous, an adventure far more terrifying than any venture into the Fae. She is a boat upon a dark sea, and a storm rages beneath her skin, threatening to swallow any sense and leave her at his mercy, wild and reckless and his.
But he is a lighthouse: he will not let her fall astray, give in to the feral wants of the leopard without her own consent. She whimpers as he leaves her ear, the hand beneath her lips withdrawing; and oh, it is cold without him, his touches and his breath!
Cold, perhaps, is what she needs. Cold is clarifying. Cold is good. Amalia feels her heartbeat slowing, the thunderous rapture in her chest winding back to something normal, the heat which boils blood and flesh subsiding to a normal burn. Dark eyes hooded, the girl exhales, her hands returning to her side as the man begins to work. It is beautiful, the magic which he wields; enraptured, the baker can only stare as he pulls something from the void, weaving air and ions and atoms into thread and stitch and seam. With careful fingers she takes the item, unfolding it with baited breath: an apron, clean and crisply made, and upon the breastplate-
"Oh!"
From the dusty books Jyoti returns, drawn in by the sunlit delight which illuminates her soulmate. Upon seeing her reflection she croons her pleasure, vain and proud and thrilled beyond belief to find herself a part of the gift. She takes the place on Deimos' lap which Amalia has vacated: as soon as she unwrapped the cloth the girl sprung up to try it on, wrapping the apron around her waist, a perfect, flawless fit. Practical, purposeful, starlit and true: "I love it," and her voice is breathless with sincerity as she stares down at the man, smiling with a serene exuberance, overwhelmed by the generous act.
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
