[se] between two lungs
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: shark Offline
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Posts: 3,098 | Total: 4,577
MP: 2580
#15
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?

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
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 6,554 | Total: 10,647
MP: 9824
#16
Deimos
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the
l i g h t gets in
He would regard her for eternity if she allowed it; a thousand little nuances and sentiments wrapped and chorded, courted, aloft in her features – he wanted to know them all, the pathway to discovery and curiosity. He enjoyed the lilt of her song, curving along the bow of her lips, the audacity simmering behind her eyes, the rash, reckless embodiment of faith and ardor; tiny pieces and strands he’d never understand without her presence. The boldness kept him there, contained and content, merely to watch the plains of her face adapt and adjust to whatever he concocted and conducted, stars aligning and chasing down galaxies. Of course not she answered, and the warrior nearly rolled his eyes, juvenile, but the world, and she were complex; he’d have it no other way, the depths and truths of the allure. The beast permitted her secrets and kept his too, pondered how to unravel them all, piece by piece, strand by strand, endeavor by endeavor, the enigmas twisting and turning along his fingers, across his figure; ready, willing, eager.

Deimos knew too much of hunger and its raw, clawing sentiments; different strokes and needs, wanton desires and yearning, the hankering for things they couldn’t have, not yet, not yet. Sometimes it’d been violence, the stinging, unrelenting abandonment of thought and innocence, virtues assailed on the backs of swinging, cutting rapiers, in the length of lacerations, wounds, and shuddering, snagged, stolen breaths. Sometimes it’d been desperation, clawing and crawling across vast lands out of spite and vitriol, the stance, the predilection, consuming his being, his core, survival bleeding its way out of his new scars, his heart, his lungs. Sometimes it’d been voracious, needy lust, the rain coating his naked flesh and drowning him in its wake, a willing compatriot. Sometimes it was starlight and the sun coiling across his skin, unbidden, relished and released, a feverish pitch that would take the right ministrations, the depths and wells of patience. She lingered in there now, in between, a tease, a torment, he readily proffered, swallowed and consumed, unabashed and unafraid.

They withdrew: the right thing to do as he devoured the last annals of the smoldering, seething, thundering smoke and gun down his throat – his eyes flickering over her acceptance, over her reaction, to the magic he’d offered. It wasn’t death – the draining of life wasn’t quite magnificent, didn’t hold the same conviction or undulations; likely to be done again when vehemence and fury took over, when he had naught left to give but damnation upon his foes. He waited, wallowing in the same back and forth notions – pondering whether she would like it, if it’d been too much or too little, if it was daft and stupid, the uncertainty layered upon him so vividly and awkwardly, not used to the position of incertitude and consternation. He didn’t care for it. The soldier preferred composure, calm, stoic, and binding; not this apprehension building in his chest.

I love it echoed, chiseled its way down into his bones. “Then it is yours,” he laughed, more than one meaning contorted in those decibels and sounds, as if he intended it for anyone else, one hand ghosting along the tip of Jyoti’s tail, another folding behind him, secret and furtive, already concocting and creating something else. This one was hidden for a reason, to be exchanged later, using her distraction to mend and mold it, then slide it within a back pocket.
keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word


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