[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind Fingers on lips, the gentlest of strokes, and then he pulls her into him, enveloping her wholly within his embrace. She crashes against him like a wave, and he is a bulwark, taking in the force of her and letting her dissolve, break apart into sea-spray, droplets, rainbows and beams of his refracted light. Entrapped, enraptured, she feels every place they touch, his body meticulously well-defined, his moisture soaking into her. Despite the damp she is not cold: rather, Amalia is aflame, something heady and heavy stirring to life in a place she did not know existed, eating and gnawing and wishing for more. Starved and wild with frightening hunger, she thinks she could consume him; her hands lock into the folds of his shirt, spread out eagerly across his chest, awkward and earnest and ardent in her care. He does not need to lift her chin: she is already staring up at him, onyx sinking into blue, a stone within a pool. She leans against each gentle caress, exhaling shallow, shuddering breaths. The frantic beating of her heart thunders in her ears, and she is positive that he can hear it, feel it, sense her wild wantonness, the searing desire in her chest. Drops of fire touch her skin; her eyes flutter shut in unwilling response, the slightest whisper of a moan escaping from her mouth. "Do I?" she murmurs in response, utterly oblivious to any ulterior motives. Or rather, utterly suspecting of an ulterior motive other than what he plans. His hands slip down beneath her hips, and she is a feather in his embrace, a willful captive to his machinations. Acting more on instinct than thought, Amalia slides her arms around his neck, her long legs embracing his strong waist. Beneath the howling lust is terror, and beneath that something more, soft and delicate on her skin, notes symphonic and clean and pure. She can feel him against her thighs, her breast, and her body sings and sighs for him: Deimos, Deimos, Deimos. How could he want her, she who is bone and sinew and skin, gangly and awkward, inexperienced and naive? And he who is monumental and great, devastating and knowledgeable, tall and dark and as attractive as any man that she has ever seen? She doesn't know, may never know: like so much else it makes no sense, is incongruent with her world. Burying her face in his neck, the leopardess inhales his scent, presses kisses beneath his beard and wonders at it all. Where is he taking her? What is his plan? Is this the day they are consumed by the fire which crackles within them both, become the prey of baser instincts, take and take and take? He stops, and she raises her face again, a crimson flush across her cheeks, clouds in her onyx eyes. A thousand scenarios of what is next coil and uncoil in her mind, ideas and pleas and fear and want- And then her face is a mask of surprise for she is falling, falling, until- Splash! Amalia lands upon the water, stunned by surprise and the frigid cold. For a moment all she can do is wonder- a moment, and then the panic sets in, suffocating out any lingering heat, freezing in her stomach's pit. Amalia is not the strongest swimmer; she flounders now with untoward effort, struggling to break the surface of the pool. But Jyoti has followed her into the water, and even now she fills it with starlight, silently encouraging the girl to try. Raising her head out of the water Amalia takes a gasping breath, gulping for air and looking around through wild, vibrant eyes. "Deimos!" she cries, reaching toward him, hoping to grab onto his shoulders, to encase herself in his embrace, make the man her rock, her anchor, the thing which keeps her from floating away. Only then will laughter take her, relief outweighing treacherous fear. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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