[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind He looks upon her and she wonders how she ever bloomed without his light. There is a hunger in his face, and a reverence, too, breathtaking and captivating and near enough to make her collapse. He looks at her as though she is the world; as though the scars and cracks of her mistakes are nothing more that a paintings flaws, veins of gold among the rivers of blue and green, delicate and intentional and worthy to be loved. The play at innocence leaves him unimpressed, but at least he does not rain rage upon her, does not shun her for childish games. It awes her again and again, this acceptance, the way he grabs with prying fingers and pulls away the shards of glass around her heart, unafraid and unperturbed by the wounded girl who lives inside. Instead of leaving he shakes again, and she raises an arm, trying to shield against the onslaught while crying out in indignant delight. The cold water stings against her body, refreshingly sharp, leaving goosebumps on her skin. Amalia curls up into herself, rising her legs to guard her chest. Laughter pealing from her lips, the girl wraps around herself before slowly peeking out of her nest once the onslaught stops. Above her, Deimos no longer towers: he has deigned to kneel at her level, and Amalia feels a furtive flush rising up her neck as she stares, unable to peel her eyes away. Soaked, saturated, doused and drenched, the man's shirt presses on his skin in a way that leaves little to imagination- and the baker has a vivid one, happy to fill in any gaps. She has always known that the Reaper is handsome, strong and rugged, blue eyed and brown skinned. But she has never seen him quite like this, and as she looks upon him she feels a fire ignite somewhere in the pit of her stomach, foreign and unexpected and totally new. He extends a hand to her and she swallows, trying to breathe while she drowns in his gaze, confident she would rather fill her lungs with him than any air. There is no choice, no thought behind the act. The baker's hand slips easily into his, fingers on fingers, and even that burns. "Always," the girl rejoins, her alto voice breathy, an eager and thought reply born from something more primal than sense. Pulling against him, Amalia rises, ready to spring up and join him on the stone, desperate to be closer and wildly afraid, her ricocheting heartbeat an ardent and fervent thing. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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