Of the things she expects to have happen, being scooped up into Deimos' arm is not one of them. Her face drops immediately as he unhands her chin, his silence resounding, resonant, painful, a clear acceptance of the truth of her words, the validity behind what she is trying to say. You could never lose me, but she could lose him, watch him walk away and be unable to stop him, unable to do anything but collapse, her knees buckling her down onto the floor. It is what he deserves, what she deserves, to be alone, isolated, where she can no longer hurt, no longer ruin, no longer damage the world.
So she does not expect Deimos to stay. She does not expect his hands on her waist. She does not expect to leave the ground until his arm is below her knees and she is cradled against his chest, her arms rising instinctively around his neck, her face pressed into his sternum. Stunned to silence, the girl is a feather in his strong arms, a lost bird on an ocean current , blown away by a summer storm. She is a ship without a mooring, and he is the only thing keeping her afloat. She can smell him, taste him, feel him on her skin. He is haven, he is heaven.
For a moment she feels safe.
As they settle into the chair she thinks of slipping away, easing out of his embrace and falling to the floor. Swift and slender, she might be able to do it. It would be another opportunity for him to escape, another way to grant him freedom. She does not want to be this thing, broken and bashful in his arms, tears lurking just beyond her vision, hands coiled up upon each other as she curls closer to his chest. She could try to leave, but she really couldn't, because she is captive, because she is his, because he has given her everything she needs, everything she wants, everything she doesn't deserve.
His words do not particularly matter. They fall upon her like so much rain, pattering down against her defenses, soft and dulcet, tender and deep. More than the content, Amalia listens to the rumble of his chest, the sound of air traveling through his larynx, the vibratory hum of his baritone. Curled and coiled against his body the baker begins to breather a little easier, her body no longer trembling, her figure no longer taut. Warm ears press against her skull; she purrs into his lap, a tail wrapping around his arm, fur rising up from her goosebump skin.
By the time he poses his practical question Amalia is not equipped to answer with anything more than a rumbling growl. In place of a girl, Deimos now holds a leopard, the big cat kittenlike as she peers up at his face.
So she does not expect Deimos to stay. She does not expect his hands on her waist. She does not expect to leave the ground until his arm is below her knees and she is cradled against his chest, her arms rising instinctively around his neck, her face pressed into his sternum. Stunned to silence, the girl is a feather in his strong arms, a lost bird on an ocean current , blown away by a summer storm. She is a ship without a mooring, and he is the only thing keeping her afloat. She can smell him, taste him, feel him on her skin. He is haven, he is heaven.
For a moment she feels safe.
As they settle into the chair she thinks of slipping away, easing out of his embrace and falling to the floor. Swift and slender, she might be able to do it. It would be another opportunity for him to escape, another way to grant him freedom. She does not want to be this thing, broken and bashful in his arms, tears lurking just beyond her vision, hands coiled up upon each other as she curls closer to his chest. She could try to leave, but she really couldn't, because she is captive, because she is his, because he has given her everything she needs, everything she wants, everything she doesn't deserve.
His words do not particularly matter. They fall upon her like so much rain, pattering down against her defenses, soft and dulcet, tender and deep. More than the content, Amalia listens to the rumble of his chest, the sound of air traveling through his larynx, the vibratory hum of his baritone. Curled and coiled against his body the baker begins to breather a little easier, her body no longer trembling, her figure no longer taut. Warm ears press against her skull; she purrs into his lap, a tail wrapping around his arm, fur rising up from her goosebump skin.
By the time he poses his practical question Amalia is not equipped to answer with anything more than a rumbling growl. In place of a girl, Deimos now holds a leopard, the big cat kittenlike as she peers up at his face.
Amalia & Jyoti
WE MIGHT BE HOLLOW, BUT WE'RE BRAVE
