[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

Deimos Everything encompassed, implied, such a variety of entanglements that he had to dive beneath the current again to hide his smirk, his snicker, his grin, his blush; for despite the innocent proffering, the resulting thoughts were not so – incited, evoked, iniquitous developments, wanton, longing, yearning smoke, fire, and ashes. It was either a seducing, craving, hankering ministration on teeth and tongues, balanced between lips and skin, or nothing at all, so he saved the nuances, the sentiments, the bestial, barbaric elements of his imagination for the water, savoring the chill racing down his spine instead of a host of other elements. You could have me he almost announced, anytime, anywhere, but perhaps he conveyed it through motions, machinations, and gazes alone; and she wasn’t as eager, wasn’t as fervent, wasn’t ready, and there was a place, a threshold, he wouldn’t push. He’d gladly lift her up to the heavens, cajole her strength, her audacity, her provocations, but there were boundaries, lines, he wouldn’t dare cross. So it was a breath here and there, a long exhale, thoughts twisting and turning back down other paths and alterations, so he didn’t make a mess of things, so he didn’t frighten, so he didn’t lose her. It was a battle of apprehension, consternation, and trepidation, the tremulous, mercurial efforts tying and binding him in its intricate tethers – too long since he’d danced on those fabrications and entanglements, out of his element, stuck in the hollow, in catering to oblivion, the stretch of isolation and nonchalance. There was once a time when he didn’t worry about these things at all: completely, utterly detached from anyone or anything, a true behemoth and monolith within closed quarters and glacial outcrops. He’d been rampart and munition, indifferent to the likes of anyone outside his damned, tempestuous kingdom, rightful ruler of nothing but ice, anger, and acrimony. It had pulsed and bled within his soul for so long – when the rain was gone and then the cycle repeated, no matter what timeline he was in, no matter what life he was living – that sometimes it was hard to articulate how he’d ended up here, holding his breath underwater, thriving beneath the sun’s gentle caresses, quiet confidence, beatific graces. He resurfaced, caught her smile brimming along the shallows, grinned back in that rogue barbarity, pondered all the while on these layers, these lacquered, gilded days. Were it not for her, would he even be here now? The likelihood was frail and feeble; he understood very well his mode and method of behavior, would’ve been straight into the denizens of hell where he belonged, scouring shadows and growling at, with, fellow monsters. She’d pulled him out of the labyrinths and warrens, but wouldn’t be able to do so forever – he wouldn’t dream of it – and eventually, he’d have to learn how to find the luminous beams, the warmth, the sanctums and sanctuaries on his own. The Reaper would have to become proficient, would have to cultivate and manifest, would have to forge – but for now, he relished, he hungered, he desired, rapacious and voracious, intent on following the offerings, the affection, the ambience. He pushed his hands along his face, scrubbing the cold liquid into his features, then blinked the moisture out of his eyes, shaking his head from side to side as he intended to linger back to the shore. After all this time, his muscles had finally begun to ache, recalling, remembering, how long it had been since they’d been fully pledged to the depths, to the fathoms, and how much he’d stand to gain from swimming against the currents again. He allowed the rivulet to push him along, closer and closer, snatching at a few stones beneath his feet, glowing and golden, before maneuvering into the shallows, drenched, soused, shirt hiding absolutely nothing about his refinement. Only then did he notice an alteration in Amalia’s physique, tunic completely gone and tossed along the dirt, stone, and sands, only a breast-band clinging to her chest. At this, he raised his brows, eyes widening a fraction, surprised, bewildered, tempted, but saying naught about it. It was a suspicious bout though; normally he’d expect shyness, a retreat from the bold. Was she stringing along her audacity again, teasing, taunting, tormenting, delighting in forming the chase, in watching him scrutinize, puzzle out the complexities? He stifled a snort, then continued onward, until more and more of his form was revealed, totally soaked, nothing hidden, wandering out of the confines of the river and feeling the sudden chill wash over him, the water-logged fabric no longer useful, necessary, or practical. There, along the banks, he ghosted closer to her, but remained out of reach, concocting his own scheme and ruse. At her words, a Cheshire grin embedded itself along his mouth again, impish and devil-may-care, deep blue gaze entirely on her onyx stare. “I thought I already had.” He said naught more of the implication, on what it meant, on what it conveyed, turning and drifting closer to his basket, depositing the stones still held in his hands. Then, because while he was occasionally stalwart, valorous, and steadfast, he intended to remind her that he was also a fiend, a heathen, and turn-about was fair play, he lifted the hem of his soaked shirt and took it off, face rendered completely innocent. But he knew what he had – confident in those angles, undulations, and coiled sinew – muscles upon muscles, but also scars upon scars. They were a map, an outline, of every detailed march he’d taken, every sword he’d swung, every wound he’d endured, encountered, and survived; etched, sketched, deep into the contours of his strength, power, and brawn. The lacerations scattered along his shoulders and collar bone, then struck deep and fast along his chest, hardly a sliver of perfection anywhere on its section, some vicious and rapacious, winding their way down to his abdomen, unleashed over the muscles, skin, and flesh there. Some were mere jabs and stabbing marks, where he’d fettered and done something inept, stupid, slow, and suffered for it; each one a tale, a stanza he’d left untold. There were a few even along the dip of his hips, stretching below, beneath his pants – unseen, for now. The plains of his back were much the same; warrior, soldier, brute, and enforcer, guardian and protector of too many realms. The beast didn’t turn to see if she looked; a guiltless play on his face, hanging his shirt along a warm rock to dry. But he wanted her too – to stir, to incite, to induce, kindle, and instigate, to unravel, to bait, to goad – a configuration of emotions all calculated and ridiculous. Thereafter, in one more show of irreproachability, he leaned down to grab hold of her tunic as well, so that it could return to its former graces in the sun. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind Here's the thing- There are many aspects of Amalia which one may find unusual, perplexing, inconsistent with expectations laid out of the girl. Her tendency to boldness, when she has been so shy; her inability to see affection from others while handing it out herself; her love of home and adventuring, and anxious discontent while doing both. Paradoxical, as all people are, she is a set of contradictions trying to do naught but live, to love and thrive and succeed and be better while wielding a boulder of fear and doubt. She is tepid, tremulous, tentative, shy, never one for wanton displays, for overt flirtation, miserably displaced in their newfound game. Yet now she is shirtless under the sun, brazenly staring at the man, her arms bare, her chest heaving, her ribs clearly visible beneath olive skin. Here's the thing- Amalia has never been fazed by nudity. Oh, full nudity is, perhaps, rare, but the only thing which makes her pause is anxiety enforced by societal norms. That visibility equates to sexuality is foreign to the girl, who grew up infinitely capable of affection without the trappings of lust or need. Which is not to say she has no stirrings- the girl has thought throughout the nights, kept herself amused with wicked dreaming, looked upon others and wondered what it might be like. But for Amalia such things are always abstract, an exercise in hypotheticals, never searched for, never felt. She feels no qualms about losing her shirt: she is comfortable around him, unafraid of judgment, that he should call her immature for stripping down. In this way she is childish, perhaps, naive and unthinking. But Amalia has never been attracted, per se, never wanted for more than emotional closeness, never trusted enough to ask for more. But here's the thing- -people change. Deimos rises out of the water, and immediately Amalia feels her stomach drop. Or is it rising, swelling up, suddenly on fire and brimming with smoke which, she thinks, might rise through her trachea, ease its way out of her mouth and suffocate them both? There was heat earlier, moments of electricity, of sharp and shocking need, but it is nothing - nothing - next to this. Anything she might have wanted to say dies upon her lips as the monolith rises from the deep, a painfully slow and aching ascent, every step an agony. The shirt on his back is utterly useless, nothing but a thin and clinging tease, serving no purpose but to incite her envy that she is not the one on her skin. There is little more modesty from his leggings, though those at least have remained opaque. Still he approaches, drawing closer, sun-soaked perfection spat back from the seas. Mouth suddenly dry, Amalia swallows, her mind a frantic, flailing blank. For the first time she is aware of her nudity as more than just exposed skin, aware of his eyes on her, his increasing proximity, the way he could reach out and touch her sternum, trace the vertebrate in her back. The urge to hide is strong; the urge to push against him stronger; in the end she is frozen, a deer in his wake, waiting for the collision, the things she never thought she would feel thundering in her chest- And then he passes with a whisper, a laugh, a devilish grin. Does he know what he has done to her, what he still does as he walks away (not a bad view, if only-)? Mechanically Amalia turns, transfixed within his orbit, her heartbeat a frantic what next, what next? He turns away, and she wonders in a bemused moment if it abashment, if he is trying to offer some dignity to her undressed state. Her feet still in the shallow water, she presses them among the sand, as though the earth might rise and quell the searing embers in her loins. It doesn't- far from it, because as she watches Deimos does more, strikes a blow and scores a point, ups the ante of the game. The baker's breath catches in her chest as he lifts his shirt, exposing a criss-crossed saga of scars, stories told in silver upon his copper back. She has never wanted anything so much as to follow every one, make him tell her every story as she traces with her lips. Shoulders, back, arms, hips, and down- again she swallows, frozen in place, her heartbeat frantic in her chest. Beneath the crescendo, another thought: what could he possibly see in her, stick thin and angular, wiry and hard? He deserves something supple, soft, voluminous, strong. As Amalia looks upon his magnificence she is that much aware of her own lack. How could he possibly burn for her, the way she burns for him? What ache and need could she inspire- and perhaps it is madness, perhaps she is strange, perhaps there is something wrong with her which incenses this lust, something broken and horrifying to scare him away. Because it is lust, heavy and hooded, avaricious, human, and entirely new- For Amalia cannot feel lust without love, and she knows, in that moment, that she- -is about to have her secret ruined. "No!" Panic, at last, cuts through the haze, and Deimos reaches for her tunic, the treasure still within. So carefully hidden, so thoughtfully put aside- the girl darts forward, no thought but to keep him from revealing prematurely his gift, that the shirt must be snatched away from his grasp. Her right hand reaches for the cloth, fingers lacing around the stone within, trying to tug it back to her breast, to shield it from his mischievous stares. But, here's the thing- In her quest to reclaim her treasure she has made a fatal flaw. Once the frantic nerves subside, Amalia realizes where she is: a hair's breath away from his exposed chest, dangerously and deliciously close. A new sort of panic rises in her now, a panic brought on by knowledge that she is entirely lost, that there is no way for her to withstand now. He is a black hole she has tried to skirt around, but at the end of the day there is nothing to do but give in. Narrow cheeks crimson with a wild blush, she lets her eyes trace slowly down his form, hooded and hungry as they take in sinew, lapping up muscle and hair and scars. Down, to the hips which rise from his waistband, and back up, her breath shallow, her heartbeat far too fast. She shouldn't let him see her, the fury which he has lit- At last her black eyes meet his blue, her expression unreasonable, her hand still on the shirt, her voice a hot exhale. "I... You... have a lot of scars." It is all she can think to say, the only decent, coherent thought, the only piece of decency above her roaring need. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding

Deimos The Reaper had never been entirely adverse to change, but it always took him the longest. The world had to erode beneath his feet before he dared move a muscle in either direction, subtle, too busy calculating, meticulous in his endeavors, to see effects and alterations. Sometimes he balked and strayed, stubborn, because he preferred his ideals of containment and reserve, where the realms couldn’t see his vulnerabilities, where kingdoms couldn’t come crashing down around his head, where adversaries couldn’t pick him apart, strand by strand. He’d had his moments where the mask slipped away, where detachment fell apart, but only just so; never enough for anyone to know, for anyone to care, for anyone to give a damn. The instances where affection won out had been so fleeting, so rare, that they were tucked into his mind like poignant, haunting things, overshadowed by loss and forbearance (when he’d surrendered, when he’d stripped down to his core, when he’d touched and loved, then lost it all). They were ghosts and wraiths, phantoms and specters, when they shouldn’t have been tainted at all, drowned in the murk and mire of ineptitude, of uselessness, of events he couldn’t control. After and after and after, he dragged his carcass, his vessel, through hell and presumed he’d stay there until his last breath was cast – fiendish and wicked, brittle and broken, content to brood his way to an early grave. Wild and bereft, alone and discarded, was a much easier way to live than to go through the pain, the torment, and the agony all over again. But then, here he was, entangled in suns and luminous beams, carved and sculpted once more – unbeknownst to him, a gradual sensation, when curiosity and intrigue molded and cast new wares upon his skin. Valor hung there now, bright, vivid, and stark, embedded in his ribcage. Stalwart conviction settled into his skull, when it’d been previously abandoned, sullied into irreverence and sedition, a spread of insurrection, a balm of antipathy and ruin. Love, love, love had somehow woven itself so precariously on the depths of his heart that he’d been stunned to find it there – and then returned. He was a beast. He was a fiend. He was a ghoulish, grim thing settled upon the dirt, sod, ash, and dust to enact vengeance, justice, and violence, vehemence was his king, vitriol was his maker, but somewhere in between he’d stumbled on another path, traced a trail he hadn’t embarked upon before. Then he kept going, going, going, sketching the foundation with his feet and fingers, drawing a sword, then putting it back; no danger, no treachery, no disaster on the other side. He’d seen galaxies and stars, heavens and light. It was devotion, affection, and acceptance, pressing in on his chest, on his bones, on his heart, and he’d struggled to understand. But he took it too – held it aloft for his piercing eyes to witness, to watch, to comprehend – savored and relished and revered as best he could. Is it enough? he’d wondered, he’d pondered, he’d waited, patient, composed again while he smoldered and wanted underneath; so strange, so bizarre, for him to yearn for anything other than bloodshed and ruin, devastation and annihilation. Am I enough for her? The air was charged and electric, tension looming, and his eyes skimmed back over to her, brow arched, simply watching, waiting, letting her come to him. It was anticipation, it was suspense, it was the great, gaping unknown, voracity holding them together, breathless and tender. It was need, it was want, it was desire, it was the inferno incited, coiled, and contorted within all of them, but he was still, he was silent, he was a part of the molten earth. Her eyes seemed hypnotized and spellbound, as if he was the alluring, beguiling thing now, instead of the other way around – and he allowed her to see, every inch of the follies, the mishaps, the scars, and the flesh they sit upon, raw and human and mortal, real and complex and contradictory surfaces; her breath hitched, and he clenched his jaw. The Reaper was the epitome of control, but only just so now, because he could have easily reached and skimmed over the rush of her skin, the smooth conjectures of her collar bone, tongue and teeth at her neck or mouth on hers, then everywhere else. He was fire too, he remembered, as it surged along his blood, in his ichor, threading through every damned armament. The ice was not returning, not here, not now, not in these feral, wild, untamed, savage little moments; he eased a breath but wasn’t sure how, taut, rigid, bound. His fingers inclined over her wet tunic, something he presumed was happenstance, nothing fortuitous, and it could be draped along stones so it’d be dry by the time they left. Instead, a panicked no scraped and lashed its way through the tension, through the sultry ether, and his hands resisted, pulled away, feet backing along the shoreline as if he’d been bit. One brow arched, ready to ask, inquire, or ignore; he wasn’t sure what was occurring, muddled, bewildered, something he’d missed while drenched in lustful thoughts. She used it as a shield, like armor, and he didn’t know where he’d erred – Then her face was at his chest, in all its marred glory, cheeks blushing, flushed, eyes raking down his form once more. The titan stood there, a readied canvas and portrait of crusade tales, magnificent glories, and barbaric, twisted disasters, waiting, waiting, waiting, forgetting to breathe. Oblivious most of the time to attention, since he usually avoided it, he was not quite used to the notion of another treating him as anything other than flawed; but her eyes, when she finally turned upwards, were reverent, sable depictions: avaricious, hungry, ravenous lines and hues. He wondered why they both starved themselves. Her breath billowed and fanned against his form, and it was a mercy he didn’t groan right then and there, remaining perfectly upright and immobile, despite every nuance, every thought battering against his brain. He wanted to reach out, expose, cherish, take, caress, love, sully; the contradictions kept him collected, but only just. One word, one needy, permissive statement, and he’d be gone, straight over the precipice – But there was an echo there, a reverberation behind the unholy, sizzling, smoldering demands, and he laughed, broke over the silence with a warm chuckle. “I have been in a lot of battles.” What did she want then – to trace them, light fingers ghosting on skin? To know their backgrounds? To justify their means and measures? Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind He relinquishes the fabric, but she is still caught, a captive to the magnetism that is everything the man exudes. A planet in orbit around her sun, she is anchored, marooned, left to crash upon his surface and smell the sweet salt in his sweat. A twitch of her fingers, a single step and she would be flush against his body, his skin on hers, enraptured and entwined, and oh, they would be lost. How he could want her remains a mystery, but he must - he must - because otherwise how could he be there, still staring, still warming himself on the fire of her lust? For a moment they are frozen, both pinnacles of ice, an unspoken challenge strung between them as each one pretends that they shall not melt. (But oh, beneath that thin sheen of ice, what molten metal boils in her breast!-) She stumbles, and he laughs, and she can move again, her hands dropping to her chest, an awkward smile stretching over her lips. "How many?" she whispers, because again she does not know how to have a conversation, how to express any of the things she feels, the longing demands and quiet pleas which ripple beneath her tongue. The shirt is a shield, cold and damp, the only thing standing between her and ruin. She clings to it, feeling the lump of stone beneath the fabric, remembering that she has a bigger purpose, a prize to conceal, a goal to achieve. It keeps her fingers from drifting too close, dancing across those silver scars, tracing each one in turn to its end and kissing the spaces between them. Her eyes have dropped again, trying to gaze upon things they should not. She raises them back up to his face, swallowing the knot in her throat, trying not to let him see each ravenous crack in her self control. Oh, but she is hungry, starved of a food she has never tasted, emaciated and wasting and gluttonous for him. She licks her lips, an unconscious action, her hands wringing anxiously through the strands of silver cloth, her toes pushing eagerly into the warm sand. Through the haze of it all her brain strains to work, to build a series of coherent thoughts, an escape route which will lead her to safety and away from this dangerous undertow. With a shuddering breath the girl steps back, and the reluctance is nearly palpable, painful in her quivering body, the hair which rises on her skin. "Wait a moment." She cannot say who the instruction is for- him? Her? Both together? Another step, and another, toward the waiting stone, her back never to him, her eyes always up. Until she reaches her destination, and the distance between them is at last enough that she can pull away, slip out of his orbit. Bending, she makes a show of hanging the shirt out, letting the treasure roll into her pack. The pack, from which she produces a blanket, woolen and soft, spun from the fleece of Rory's goats. She lays it out upon the sand and lowers herself cross-legged onto a corner, smiling shyly up at Deimos, gesturing for the man to join. "Will you tell me the story of your scars, Mr. Shade?" Will you let me know every thing about you, whet my hunger until we cannot stand? the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding

Deimos The Reaper waited, because he was infinite patience and composure, because deep, underneath all the flesh, all the sinew, all the entities, he was just as lost as she. Boundless and fleeting, in and out of vitriol, cast aside between abandonment and self-isolation, treading on thin lines and wires, uncertain of the directions, the intervals, the sways. He knew what he wanted but not what she declared – not in the choking, suffocating silence, where the simmering lacquer stuck to his throat, where the humming, siren yearnings crossed over his mind, a croon, a whimper, a tenor of possibilities. He was willing, he was fervent, he was avid; but it didn’t really matter if she wasn’t; the fires had been stoked, but not released, unleashed – drawn and taut, rigid and solid, an arrow cast along a bow. They went nowhere, a slow, languid, listless pace, the tension buffering in the still silence, in the listless air, lingering and loitering in the suspense, a ghost, a wraith, billowing across his back. Her whisper just barely reached his ears, too distracted, too kindled, too incensed, to make much sense of it until moments after, when it smoldered along the edges and fringes of her shirt. “I cannot recall.” Which was the truth of the matter; too rattled and addled, too indulgent and wanton, he could barely think straight – nor could he give much more clarity to those phantoms of the past, some small and minute, a passing spear thrown and hurtled, some enormous and all-encompassing, destroying company after company. They all blended together in a sinuous dance of the macabre, death knells and striking drums, fog and labyrinths and screams, where he learned bravery and stalwartness and valor amidst sepulchers and catacombs, makeshift tombs where his comrades and companions fell, ripped apart, shredded, torn asunder. His eyes watched beneath their hooded assemblage, not understanding, not processing, contorted in the heat and fire, in the molten entanglements; she licked her lips and he barely breathed – but she didn’t reach out, didn’t come to claim him, didn’t do anything more than push away, back into sand and salt, escape, evasions. Nothing and nothing. It chilled the inferno in his bones. He fought against the sting of rejection – for maybe it wasn’t that at all, but maybe it was. The warrior should’ve been used to it, to those sentiments, to the detachment, to the sudden uproar of naught. But it still gnawed at his marrow and he hung his head, staring down at the ground; perfectly willing to give everything and anything to her, to bask, to inspire, to provoke, to incite, to run his hands along warm, soft skin, to brush his mouth along curves and angles, to sink down into all of her and proffer what he could, carnal, carnivore abyss. Perhaps he was too much. Perhaps he wasn’t enough. Perhaps they simply weren’t ready and they were just fighting against onslaughts and disasters, a consuming plunge, past points of no return. Perhaps he was very foolish and not as imperturbable as he’d always believed. Perhaps he was weak and stupid, inexperienced, out of depth. Only her voice brought him out of the sudden, diminishing aspects, the flaws, the defects, of his existence. He didn’t know what to make of his stare now, less eclipsed and bright, lapsing back into reflective wraiths and decadent interludes, snapping back and watching her movements, her motions. He didn’t know what to make of her actions either, as she followed through on the exact thing he intended to do for her – as if it had been a shield, a barrier all along, a shirt, a tunic, to brush him aside, to keep him away, at a distance. The Reaper didn’t expect her to pull a blanket out of a pack, allow it to settle on the sand, or stay within the domicile either. He didn’t know what he envisioned anymore – the unknown and ignorance scorched in his chest, and he stood there like a damned fool, soaked and stupid. For a few seconds, he did nothing but stare, placing himself back into an unrelenting torment, wondering why she wanted to know about scars, if she wanted the ones lingering on his skin or the blasted pieces carved inwards, hemorrhaging along his lungs? Deimos followed, swallowing, devouring, consuming the length of their distance again, the haze not crossing over his face, taking an opposing corner, settling on the fleece, and then thinking better of it, laying down and stretching his body out  - never meant to fit in tiny spaces, legs extended well over the length of the blanket, but melded and molded, another open invitation. He pressed his eyes shut and then drew an arm up over them for good measure, hidden from the sun and its layers, ashamed, embarrassed. You are ridiculous he told himself, you deserve nothing, but instead of giving it any other solid explanation, his other hand raised and lingered in the air above a particular scar running down his right side, curving along his hip, before disappearing into his trousers. They were memorized: he knew them by heart, by pain, by torment, and by agony, by the stories and reasons when they cut and slashed into his skin. “Mr. Shade had a run in with a knight’s sword. A friend of his had fallen, and he was due to be next.” The deep tones rumbled and rambled, cut through his chest like all the other knives, a whisper of demise and tragedy, of those things immersed in his body and soul. He traced another upon the ether and over his skin, a deeper, broader slash embroidered and indented into his shoulder, down over his collar bone. “An adversary’s ax – but Mr. Shade was quicker.” Even as it burned and tortured, the warrior had slid his weapon straight into the other’s heart – one last breath, one last exhale, and then only death in the eyes. “Any in particular that interest you?” At this, he lifted his hand away from his eyes, allowed the depths of those puncturing hues to linger on hers, to inquire in an innocent bemusement. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind They ebb and flow, touch and fly, grow close together then fall apart again and again and again. It has been games, so far, a child's thing, fun and folly and ever easy to find the rules, to follow where the other might lead. And they have taken turns leading when the destination did not matter, when both were clearly falling and tumbling, their edges and armors smoothed away by the wild journey they shared. Everything has been play thus far, an easy dance composed for two, steps taken with eagerness if not grace, skirting and stepping around the fire. But when the time comes to look, to truly move forward instead of to the side, the game begins to fall apart. Foundations built from folly will fall apart like sand: and oh, how close they are to crumbling, neither willing to admit to need, to confess they are afraid? There is something suddenly cold and shuttered in the distance between them, something she does not see at first. Too preoccupied with small treasures and minute victories, meaningless trinkets and innocent mischief, she does not notice what she has lost, does not catch his crestfallen nature until he sits at a abyssal distance- and then the blanket may well be the universe, the space between them the barrier she had long thought thrown aside. Bemusement, pain, alarm, and guilt grapple for dominance in Amalia's heart, clawing and choking in her slender throat, the heat of his presence doused with sudden cold. Was she too forward, too coy, too bold? Was offering nearness a mistake on her part - did the man yearn for distance, ache to be freed? The young girl shifts, extending her legs, curling them up and resting her chin upon the prominence of bony knees. She ought to have put her shirt back on, considers, for a moment, grabbing the thing, rebuilding the shield between them so that at least there is an excuse, a reason for the frigidity she feels. Except- Deimos' voice is like ichor, like tar; she sinks into it, is drowned by his tenor, the gentle lapping of deep intonations a balm upon her skin. Turning her head so she faces the man, Amalia follows his hand with her eyes, watching him trace the silvery lines, listening as tales are revealed in turn. The world he comes from sounds wicked and strange: the baker cannot imagine such violence, such bloodshed, and her heart twists and aches and burns for the knowledge she cannot save him, that he has had to endure. How many wounds has he had inflicted, how much steel carving into his skin, and why, why, why could it ever be needed, what action could justify such wanton hate? At last Deimos lifts his arm, revealing the face she has come to equate with light and acceptance, safety and home. "All of them," Amalia is quick to reply. "All of you." For a moment after she is silent, a quiet contemplation of onyx on blue. She lets her hands peruse down her ankles, a flurry of thoughts hidden behind her calm stare. There is a path to choose here, a fork in the road, an option which opens up trails in her mind. She can let the distance widen, fester and burn, can keep her own fear and wear it like armor, shielding herself against inevitable pain. It is a safe option, the one that has held her thus far, and it would be a shield for him, as well, sparing him disappointment and dismay, letting him run now before she can betray him, leave him wishing he had not stayed. Or she can close the distance, return to innocuous play, pretend that the cold moment was only a breeze, continue to stumble blindly in the dark. It would be fun, and foolish, and sustained for a time, until the fire grew once more too hot, and her feet brushed against it and she pulled back again. Misunderstandings would grow in between them, sharp shards of glass they tried to avoid but inevitably stepped on again and again. Blood would be spilled in the sand between them, footprints of indiscretions and mistakes; but they could ignore them, probably, for a time, let them mount until they invariably crumble, leaving baker and Shade buried by the thousand, million things unsaid. Or she can be strong, and radiant, and bold. She can have conviction, and accept herself- the things he said he saw in her, the qualities he claimed had made him hers. Sighing softly, Amalia shifts, extending her body upon the blanket, her actions mirroring his own. She can hear the water in her ears, ringing and ringing like a fire alarm, cautioning her that this is not the right plan. She can feel the hot coals in her loins, telling her to take the step, to close the distance with actions and leave the world unsaid. She can hear her heartbeat in her chest, a rhythm on repeat. Lying on her left side, Amalia looks at the man, her face and voice carefully composed, attempting and failing to keep out the quaver which vibrates electric through her form. "Deimos," she says into that space between them, filling the silence with an alto hum, her voice a statement, an admission, a fact. "I think I love you." Then she moves to roll onto her back, her heartbeat visible in the thrum of her chest, unwilling and unable to look and see the inevitable shock and rejection on his face. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding

Deimos The paths divulged: bracken and mire, murky in their steps, stirred up mischief brimming to the surface, then leaving everything else to shift and scatter in its wake. He’d tied himself into columns of disarray and devilry because it was safe, a sanctum, a sanctuary of relentlessness while maintaining a wicked composure: juvenile tactics allowed to be freed. Violence wouldn’t have had the same pleasures, the same acceptance, and he was permitted to fray all his Machiavellian strands with smirks and grins, with the gallantry, with the valor, still stuck into his sides somewhere. It’d been a shared affection from the start, beyond indifferent features and reserved statures, enticing, pulling, pushing, closer, closer, and closer still, and when the diversions ended, when the antics dissipated, they were left with the premise and preamble. He couldn’t hide there, out in the open, vulnerable and discarded, the worthless beast aligned before someone far better than he could ever be – flawed, defective, tucked behind his armor and shields, struggling desperately to rebuild them before she could see, before she could understand, just how pathetic and diminished he truly was. You would not want me he almost said, the words brushing along his teeth, even though she’d promised, she’d persevered, she’d rooted herself deep into his thorns and nettles, kept little blossoms and blooms there, amidst his shards and shadows. Why couldn’t she comprehend that there was naught else to him but ruin and loss? Sometimes he was just a maneuvering carcass, a silent vessel, dragged along by the inhibitions of his wake – never quite freed from his chains. Sometimes he was just one massive, colossal mistake, wandering and wandering, lost and lost, crumbling, disintegrating, struggling to understand what to do besides obliterate and weaken, erode, then solidify. Maybe he was only vehemence and bloodshed, then the blight that came after, destined and doomed to roam alone, a sardonic cloud, a bewitched, eldritch skull, macabre motions, unearthed so the world could witness what happened when they rebelled and seethed. But Amalia wanted all these revelations, and he had naught to give but those concave scars and tangible defacements; his eyes still on her, disbelief smoldering on the blue, then tucking his arm back over them, so he could conceal the pain again. It would be easy to have the ground swallow him whole, for the sand to sift and devour, consume, to escape and evade so she wouldn’t be hurt, so he wouldn’t be so ashamed. Was he such a coward? His fingers pulsed, still dusting along the emblems and scorch marks on his flesh and bone, turning and twisting, a mess, a contradiction, a bestial, barbaric shade of everything clustered together in self-doubt and loathing. They trailed above his hip and picked one nearby, a rush of rash memories, a cluster of daggers and rapiers, stupidity and weaknesses, bound, gnarled, knotted. “Too slow,” and then they swayed towards the tip of his ribs. “Arrow,” before trickling down a line on his left arm, haphazard seams sewn. “Slash; the field doctor stitched me up and sent me back out.” It sung of desperation, the haunting doldrums and echoes of the battlefield, where wounded men were called out again and again, ears ringing, blood flowing, pouring, shooting, ichor drenching their shirts, their tunics, their armor, fighting a battle they’d never truly win. For glory they’d once shouted, yells stirred by drunken stupors and nefarious, ancient air - for triumph, they’d once sputtered and laughed, dreaming of the future, when hardly any in that room would ever obtain one. Those were the concrete lacerations and lesions, where blades settled for an instant in their rapacious, voracious songs; the veiled, concealed ones were sharper, much more painful, when the ghosts never waned and the haunting catacombs thrived. I am nothing he thought to signify to her, nearly begging her to run when all he wanted was for her stay. “You can have it,” he laughed, a cold, dark chuckle, empty, truthful. You already do lying in between them, in the space, in the sand, in the hallowed sanction barely keeping him together. “But it is not worth much.” The Reaper was giving her ample opportunity to flee – a warning, a foreboding, ominous edge, saving her from his stupidity, from his nature, from the fault lines, from the inadequacies, from the obvious, utter failures. He wasn’t asking her to save him, to pull him out of the deep, out of the fathoms he managed to sequester and lock himself within (he was trying; but the surface was so far away, and he kept holding his breath, waiting for the tide to turn his way). He heard her shifting but thought about burrowing into the dirt and soil and remaining there; ashamed, ruined man. Only when she called his name – like a ritual, like a summoning, like a siren – did he turn back towards her, arm lifted from his gaze, the unrelenting hues pinpointed on onyx, on sable. Her next statement echoed and reverberated, struck him straight into his soul, until he was simply silence. For a second, he believed he’d misheard, replayed the instant over and over his head for a few moments while his eyes widened and his entire figure maneuvered towards hers, on his side, head supported by his arm, a line of broken, chinked armor in his wake. The warrior’s initial reaction was to ponder why: what could she possibly see in him to ever believe him worth loving? There were a thousand others who were far better than he would ever be. There were ones who were brave and strong and determined to be something other than a foul, grim monster, who weren’t held back and down by wraiths and contempt. There were ones who conveyed everything without secrets, who were unafraid, who basked in the glow of happiness, who could relish other sentiments besides sedition. The second thought was to shy away, duck and run, save her from herself. The third intonation was to revel in it, to somehow process this shard of wonder, try to reason and explain how he’d been so lucky, so fortuitous, to have been granted hundreds of chances. He couldn’t fathom it, couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t do anything but shake himself and presume it was a dream; gods, he wanted to be worthy of it though. Deimos wanted to sink into her radiance and never retreat. He wanted to glide along her light and find his own. He wanted to be bold and chaotic, embraced by something other than hatred and malice. Love and love and love, affection and warmth and attachments when his lonely soul had been pierced too many times, devotion and passion and all the ardent sentiments that came with it. The silence was thick on his tongue, and he knew he had to say something, do something, otherwise it would resound as rejection; and he could never refuse her, even when she shouldn’t have ever glanced his way. He slithered along the fleece, serpentine, body fluid in its arches and tilts, until he slid by her side again, the void gone, the distance vanished, the tension carving its blade down his spine. Then he reached and reached and reached, hot, molten, scared, vibrant, resolute, intending to pull her against him, so she could feel the boundless tenors and tones of his heart, frantic and exuberant, wild and chaotic, untamed, afraid, variances pulsing, pervading, scattering like stars and galaxies and moons and suns. He ducked his head into the space between her neck and collarbone, breath a ghost, lips pressing his love and affection on her skin, the howls behind his eyes roaring, blinked away, a rush of salt on his cheeks. “I do not deserve it,” he whispered, choked on it, barely audible, barely surfaced. “But I will try,” an echo, a reflection, of his failures and misses, of things he wanted and craved and somehow inevitably missed. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind He tells stories; stories of bloodshed, stories of wounds, each scar another stroke on the canvas that has made up his life before. How can one man have endured so much bloodshed, have taken each blow yet still be able to laugh, to smile and delight with mischievous radiance? Does he miss that life, a sword in his palm, wounding and crushing and fighting and killing, extinguishing life without a thought? She cannot picture him a killer, but she knows it must be true. Perhaps this is why he shies away: because he is strong and she is weak, he has lived and she has stagnated, he has blood and blood and blood in his hands, and her is all inside her veins. She is weak, she is small, she is sheltered. She has seen so little, experienced naught. How is she to stand beside him, see herself as something close to equal, satisfy the needs beneath his skin? He is vast, and experienced, and wild. He frightens her, makes her frighten herself, the searing want that boils within her more terrifying than anything she has ever known. Looking at him is a blow to the gut, stealing her breath and leaving her dazed, stumbling, stammering, stupid. Does he know the things he does to her, or has he done them all before, to the rain and then to others, prettier, smarter, more experienced than she? Oh, she does not doubt it, no matter what he says. Someone so handsome, so daring, so good- how could he not have had suitors, lovers, consorts, queens? Besides these fictionalized women Amalia is nothing, a length of straw in a tower of gold, brassy and dull, meaningless and small. But as she traces the silver scars, she knows that it does not matter. The past is left far, far behind, literally a world away; they are here, they are together, and by some strange miracle he is hers. It is not worth much, he chuckles; "I suppose they don't really matter, now," comes her quiet reply, not a rejection but the opposite, in fact. It is a statement on the value of the past, and its absence in the present. The scars are not important to her: he is, the he who is here and now, the man before her and the soul within. There will be new scars, new wounds, new fires, new burns. There is room in his life for her, and she will take it, carve herself a niche, live within the comfort of him until he grows weary of her and she becomes another memory, a silver story etched into the past. It is a remarkable thing, to fall in love: slow at first, subtle, a stumble, a slip. The incline of friendship, but a little bit steeper, scarcely enough for the girl to notice until it is too late, until her feet have fallen from under her and she is tumbling, careening, head-over-heels faster than she can track, her stomach dropped down and her heart in her throat. When did it happen, that original fall? Just now, as she watched him arise from the deep? Was it the day in the village, or perhaps that first dance? Or earlier, even, in the flour-filled bakery, as she watched him plant flowers, when she woke in his arms? Has it always been destined, written in one of the books that she gave him, that day in the library so long ago? Does it matter, truly, in the end? What matters is this: now, in this moment, Amalia loves him. She knows this, though had anyone asked a day ago she might have only laughed, replied with a shrug that who was to say? And because she is Amalia, and because she is a fool, the knowledge is such that it cannot be kept secret. He deserves to know the truth of it, the depth of her feeling, the extent of her heart; he deserves it so that he might escape, might run from the quicksand that makes up her soul, can bow out with grace if he does not feel the same. She keeps her gaze averted, staring up at the sun, her left arm raised as a shield might be, casting shadow on her face. Amalia prides herself on honesty, on fairness- and to her it is not fair for him not to know, to be kept unaware of her deepening feelings, the things each moment means to her. The heartbeats stretch to seconds, the seconds to minutes, hours, days. Silence, deafening, roars inside her ears, the wake of her confession a frigid, burning thing. She does not turn to him as he rises, though she is acutely aware of his shifting frame, the way his blue eyes bore into her, the rhythm of his breath. She will not ask him to say it back, to make admit to things he does not feel. She is not seeking commitment or marriage, she is not trying to lock him away. "It's okay," she whispers into the sky, her dark voice a lilting, sing-song alto, carrying on the breeze. She almost laughs; she can feel it rising, mounting panic in her chest, the weight of his silence at last too much to bear. "You don't- I don't need you to say it back, I just... I wanted you to know, before-" But then he is there, a second away, a hair's breadth, a whisper, and she softens at last, turning to face him, compelled by a magnetism greater than her pride. There are tears in her eyes as she looks at him, searching, waiting, her breath still and her heart wild, a lump rising high in her throat- And then his hands are on her, and his mouth is on her neck, and Amalia laughs, giving in to his touches, melting like snow in the heat of his embrace. Her own fingers find purchase in his hair, weaving in among the locks, caressing and touching and soothing and exploring, drifting down along to the curve of his ears, the line of his jaw. She gasps beneath his ministrations, toes curling in the sand- And then he speaks, and she pulls away, a sudden hot fury bright in her gaze. "Don't say that," she growls, rising onto her knees, kneeling above him, her hands on his face. Her thumb slips over his lips to still them, to keep the lies and falsehoods within. "I get to decide who deserves my love, and I decided on you." Her voice is a warning, but her mouth is a smile, laughing and loving, tears in her eyes. Then she lets her mouth drop back down, eager and hungry and wild on his his, and her hands travel at last to his shoulders, his chest, fumbling and eager, youthful and bold, taking and taking and taking it all. Deimos, to her, is many things: mountain, glacier, lighthouse, bastion. He is her shield, her shelter, her inspiration, the thorn in her side and the balm for her wounds. He is blue seas and blue skies, infinite and expansive, waiting and wanting to swallow her whole, to surround her and fill her and never let go. Deimos is thunder in a summer storm, rumbling, fantastic, the drums of the gods vibrating through her bones; he is lightning, electric, each touch a shock coursing down her nerves, brilliantly bright and painfully hot. Amalia is young, and a fool, and in love, unafraid of thunder, happy to dance beneath the storm. She is a kite in his gale, a leaf on his breeze. She is his, and she is ready to give, to release herself without reservation into his calloused and gentle hands. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding

Deimos The battlefield had long since rooted itself inside him: a tangle of thorns, nettles, scars, and vehemence. In his nightmares, he watched his comrades fall over and over again. In his dreams, they were like scattered stars, crossing front lines and barraging enemies, victorious cries and melees over the sounds of the dying. In the back of his mind, it was always there, the rush of a sword surged and pierced into another’s flesh, protection, vigilance, quick, swift calculations – he wouldn’t have ever truly escaped its anomalies, its quirks, or its foundations. It was just a part of him as his lungs, as his ribs, as his blood, wouldn’t be stalwart without its bindings, wouldn’t be menacing without its cloak and daggers. It hummed and thrummed throughout his body, in little pieces of blemishes, in little decibels of longing, a lifetime of violence scorched and emblazoned along the inclinations of his flesh, ichor, and bone. He endured its hardships and crooned for its madness; a cyclical chaotic embrace, contradictions and calamities, because it’d taken his comrades and it’d enslaved him to perseverance and fortitude, might and brutality, the silent lilts of detachment, of isolation, of teamwork, opposing sides clashing and rumbling down his sides. It was just as bizarre and enigmatic as his presence – startling, intimidating, grim, but glorious, vital, and necessary. But his strength, the core, vitality of it all, came from conviction, resolution, and determination. He thought Amalia’s was much the same, blending and burning from the inside out, raising her head to stare at the constellations and sun, where undoubtedly the star would eventually bow, a deity next to a goddess. But then there are no other comparisons he could make: she was far more riveting than a thousand other things he’d come across, gilded and triumphant, capable of saving herself form quandaries and quagmires, from ominous entanglements and foolish tirades. The world shifted for her; while he rampaged against it, rebellion and revolution constantly on his sights, instead of accepting, imploring, exploring other avenues, routes, streets and pathways – she was infinite and daring, while he was ineffectual and ignorant, witless, inexperienced into how one gave credence and faith to something else entirely, uncertain how to wander into realms and not fight them. So he gave his credence to her. It was all he had. She uttered that the scars didn’t matter: but they’d etched and sketched their lines so deep into him he was wildly uncertain about the statement – how did one let go of the past? How was he supposed to forgive and forget? How was he meant to billow around those plentiful walls he’d scourged and created, concocted to repel and protect his vulnerable, hidden sentiments? How did one simply allow themselves to heal, piece by piece, shard by shard, ruin by ruin? Deimos had spent so long in annihilation that he found it entirely improbable to look across the other side, to drift in amongst the staunch and steadfast. But then he’d made room, granted and proffered and offered and let her take those small, minute gestures, until they loomed larger, wider, grander, more immense and intense; heartstrings above damnation, surfacing from purgatory and oblivion. Had he already ventured outward, and not even realized it? Had he tiptoed into the promised land, dragged along, and the shadows were behind him, no longer encasing his empty, hollowed vessel? Perhaps, because the Reaper felt alive here; into the light, scorched by the sun, melding his bones into something other than contempt and loathing, savoring, relishing, those knotted, gnarled threads where they’d plucked at strands and unraveled them together. If he permitted himself those days, those moments, those seconds, where he could enjoy, where he could lavish, where he could exist, he might’ve understood more than just reverence, more than just desires, more than just love. It was riveted in his bloodline too; cherished in the ichor, pulsing and pervading, ricocheting and reverberating an emblem, a tattoo, against his heart. It chiseled in waves of old tomes and narrowed eyes, high cheekbones and golden hair, the light from broken doors and golem menace, pumpkin scones scalding tongues, paws beside palms, and hundreds of other written lines, sketches of stories and foundations. Those were amidst the pits and pendulums, but so much brighter, so much better, supreme and exalted; a paragon, enriched and ambrosial. It’s okay her whisper wound its way through his ears, and maybe it was, it was, and he’d believe in it, put his soul into its boundaries and leap. They were so very stupid, he knew it, he understood it, he laughed at the coating of tears in her eyes and flooding his own, traced over in a laugh as his thumbs reached out to stroke the salt away from her cheeks, from their bouts of melancholy that should’ve never existed. He couldn’t fathom why she wanted him, why she dreamed of him, why she loved him, but he wouldn’t deny it any longer, or keep it at bay, holding onto it like a beacon, like a sanctum, like a sanctuary. Acceptance enlightened and ignited him, then roared, a beautiful, wild, untamed, savage flame, taking its time to extend into an inferno, a rush of devotion in the ardor. He abandoned the melancholy, took hold of the embers, the cinders, and let them press their way into his skin; a searing, smoldering ache, a beating, beatific crescendo. Liberation, freedom, and deliverance, all intertwined by her essence, by her soul, by things he couldn’t ever describe. Her fingers curled into his hair and he was lost again, in her eyes, in her caresses, in the nestled fury ebullient in her stare – he gasped at the sight, came undone at its stature, fixated on the sable rising, rising, rising into rage – for him and all his ineptitude, his face surrendered to her hands, mouth agape, a raw, fascinated wonder. “Are you certain?” balanced on his tongue, slid between his lips, because he was so afraid she’d regret it, that he’d take everything and she’d realize it was a pathetic mess, that it was nothing in comparison to her – but then he conceded defeat as her mouth slid to his, and he was hopelessly immersed again. On his knees, embraced and taken: at first, it was a demanding, a voracious, hungry exploration, fervent, rapacious; lips searing, emboldening, a groan, on the back of his throat growling and rumbling into the ether, both equally possessive, wanton, the slow, idle seduction a forgotten thing. Then he strived to shift it, to not tear the world apart in her touches, in her caresses, in her strokes, mouth unhurried, taking his time, exacting pleasure and demonstration, the love he whispered into her skin, never quite requiring words when he had action for his eloquence. It billowed along her cheeks and then upon her ears again, a stiletto cast of molten breaths and scintillating air; drifting down, down, down her neck, selecting the arches of her nape, pressing and pressing until he heard moans of satisfaction, tongue resting, tasting, along the pulse beneath her skin, on the waves of the sun and earth and stars. He closed his eyes and felt; recalled what she meant and who she was and everything else in between, lips scattering kisses and caresses downward while his palms lingered up and up, until teeth were at her breast band, pulling and imploring, head and neck bowed, fingers on the edges of her rib cage, memorizing the patterns, the curves, the angles. They were bold, and they’d be bolder still: alive, awakened, incensed, together, together, together, not a dark hymn, but a balanced oeuvre. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind She uses her mouth to stop his protests, silence the uncertainty that lingers on his lips. How he can possibly be insecure is far beyond the girl: he is mountainous, fascinating, alluring, statuesque. He is iron wrapped in flesh, molten, strong, carefully carved lines and jagged edges, resonant whispers and penetrating stares. Constant, ceaseless, an anchor, a lighthouse, Deimos reflects and shines and burns but keeps himself in shadows, believes that because he illuminates others he cannot be bright. He does not see how vibrant he is, but she can, written between the sun and moon, glaciers glowing in the evening light. He rises up to her and she lets him, abandoned to the onslaught of his mouth. It is a dance with steps as old as time, and despite herself she falls into it, her breath catching and hitching ardently in her throat, her hands still mapping and searching for more. He groans into her and she moans against it, shocked and delighted, a shiver in her spine, fervent and willing to take and take and never mind the cost it may have, she will pay it all and all again. That she could incense such desire is miraculous, wildly inexplicable to the slender girl. Heavy and heady they crash into each other, and Amalia would be happy to leave it at that, give it all away in one simple gesture, urgent and demanding, voracious and bewitched. But Deimos does not let her off easy, will not allow them to sear and burn out. Always patient, always controlled- Amalia loves and hates it about him, finds it scintillating and infuriating all at once. Whimpering as kisses caress her ears the girl slips closer into his lap, leg drifting over until she is astride him, the heat of their bodies near enough to boil. They are both fire: hot and consuming, hungry and needy, devouring and destroying so new life can regrow. Eating at each other and begging for more, hands in hair, on muscle, on skin. Her fingers grip at his scapulae and travel, down and down and down with his kisses, tugging at his rib cage, skating over scars, lingering and lilting like a drawn-out hymn, each caress another note in the reverence of her ardor. Nails that are nearly claws pull at his flesh, never enough to break the skin but enough to show her need, to express the things he does to her and the ache that it inspires.  Quiet gasps and exhalations burst between her teeth. She lets her hands slip further still, gripping greedily at the curve of his hipbones and into the waistband of his pants, hunting blindly for strings and bindings and growling when they cannot be found. She is not patient, she is not controlled: she is wanton, wild, an animal in human form, and now that she has been given permission she will devour until the world is hers, until she has sated herself upon him and left his breathless in her wake. It is his teeth which stop her from tearing at leather, the feel of them upon her sternum momentarily dulling her concupiscent mind. She leans back, giving him easier access, her face tilted down to kiss his scalp, inhaling deeply the smell of his hair (water and earth and smoke and fur and musk and him). Removing the breastband is not a challenge: wrapped around narrow chest, there is little but tension binding it there, and the counteraction of Deimos' effort means that it easily falls away. Suddenly exposed, Amalia withdraws slightly- not from any sort of modesty so much as a rising swell of fear, anxiety gripping her as she is laid bare and remembers, again, how much she lacks. Hard edges and sharp lines, raised ribs and keen hips: the only soft part of her is now on display, and even that is slight and slender, scarcely the thing she wants to give. She wishes she was voluptuous, wishes she had sensuous appeal, that she could offer him anything other than bones beneath a casing of muscle and flesh. Amalia's hands move up to his chest, palms beseeching against his heartbeat, fingers nesting in the curls of his hair. Through sable eyes she regards his expression, looking for signs of rejection, appall. "Is this okay?" she asks him softly, leaving the real question unsaid. Am I okay? Do you still want me, even though I am not special, cannot offer you beauty or grace? the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding

Deimos There was no more room for dissent, they take and give, give and take, remorseless and unrelenting: not as foes, but together, beatific and incandescent. He could, would, burn bright here, in this sanction and sanctuary, glorious and triumphant in his rapacious ascent; made her an altar, worshipped her presence, her essence, her existence. His hands were offerings, his teeth, his mouth, his lips a burning ritual, scalding, simmering, smoldering. Already on his knees, undone, unholy but divine in its own rites, craving and honoring, snagging and tempting, thirsting and savoring, wanton and thriving on their longing hymns. For those irresistible moments, he believed her: he was an inferno, he was a rampart, he was a bastion, he was a seething, audacious, emboldened beast, capable of lighting the world on fire, but only wanted her to catch ablaze with him. They could scorch and they could rampage and they could smolder in his fortifications, alive, whole; scalding ministrations bringing them higher and higher, beyond the heavens, beyond the stars. Unfaltering and resolute, the picture, the portrait, of interwoven tapestries and canvases, bestial bombardments in which to dream and conspire – listening to her whimpers, her moans, her groans, responding with relish and appreciation, a reverential whisper on his tongue. Somewhere along the way she’d slid into his lap, legs on either side of hips, and he stayed there for a time, a voracious sigh when her fingers trailed on his scars, on his skin, hot and bothered, flesh tingling and shuddering, shivering as they sketched and dipped. Reveling and revering, his heart was a crescendo while his mouth swallowed her mewls, need, need, need expressing its orchestra, its cacophony, against his flesh with nails and inhales, gasps in between the gaps, imploring them to go further, further, further, nothing to cease and desist. He wanted them breathless, senseless, without inhibition; untamed, savage, and wild without pretense or preamble, some newfound genesis in the sultry, sensual air. Her hands eventually pulled and tugged at his trousers, and he laughed against her lips, eyes closed, opened to their hooded fixtures, her greed mustered against his own as he strived to rearrange their current stance. One hand lifted her away from his hips while the other worked on divesting his remaining clothing, pulled, pushed, tossed, and shoved away to the sand, exposed and stripped and naked; not waiting for a reaction, settling her right back to where they’d started. Then his teeth tore away another portion of her hidden oeuvre, a masterpiece of suns and constellations. Thereafter he paid homage along her chest, breath billowing across her breasts, finding her lacking absolutely naught, far more than bones, far more than edges, and lines, mouth seeking absolution in the curve of her refrains and frame. His lips lingered on one, taking, devouring, consuming, little flames brought to fruition, yearning to kindle, to incense, to provoke. He followed the same pattern to the other, while his hands roamed, suspended and brushing against, along, the skin on her hips, teasing, encouraging her to quiver, to quaver, to shake in his arms, one finger, then two, tugging and dipping upon the waistband of her pants. At some point, she spoke into the haze, and he broke out of his cloud of lust and ardor, raising his head to glance at her – blue upon sable, radiant, glowing, aflame, while her hands wove their way into his hair, while they clutched and dug and his senses spun. “Yes,” came the guttural response, half animal, half ember, caught in fervid, igneous depictions, control and constraint an echoing demeanor, quickly becoming a figment of imagination. Is this what you want? his head tilted, incited inquisition to go further, if she allowed, if she granted, if she wished. She already had him; it only amounted to how much she was willing to take. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind Humans are a funny creature; what other animal aches with such purposeless need, yearns and takes and touches and devours for no reason other than pleasure and lust? She sings into his mouth, gasps and mewls, adding fuel to the fire of their desire, each sound a prayer for him, him, him. Amalia is reverent, pious, a student and acolyte, quick to give herself away, to devote and adore, care and confess. She has never been worshiped in the way he does now, and the very act of it makes her shudder and claw, her fingers mapping the lines of his back, her lips transitioning from mouth to neck to ear and back, each kiss a whispered declaration of want and need and love. Hips on hips, and they dance against each other, moving with soft urgency, flame ignited everywhere they touch, a burn wherever she feels his skin. The feel of him between her legs is a brilliant thing, and despite herself she undulates, silently begging for and demanding more. She pulls at his pants and Deimos complies, lifting her briefly and divesting the garment, leaving his body raw and exposed and hers, a strange miracle, an unexpected turn. A blush sears rose across her cheeks - "Oh," she gasps in abject wonder, pausing a moment in her ministrations to admire the beast, the behemoth before her, eyes skirting brazenly over his form. Appreciative, enthralled, she consumes every inch of him, silver scars on warm bronze skin, curves and edges and soft hair and oh- Then he brings her back to him, closes the space, and she responds with renewed and ignited vigor, her hands in his hair and traveling down, down, down to his waist, his hips, skirting over the curve of his ass as he pulls her breastband away. She inhales uncertainly, a breath of insecurity exhaled as a moan as his hot mouth dances on her breasts, a new sensation for the girl and one she wholly appreciates. Arcing, breaking in his grasp, she swells her chest to better his access, hungry and needy, starving for more. Head dropped down and mouth on his ear, her breath comes hot in appreciative gasps, whimpers elicited at his every touch. "Deimos-" she hisses, murmurs, prays, singing into his skin with kisses and moans, her hips pressing urgently against his waist, her grip on his hips tightening possessively. Her insecurity is met with simple acceptance, a clear appreciation in his syllabic growl. It makes her shiver, the animal exhale, the flames that dance in skylit eyes as they look upon her form. Part of her wants to laugh, retreat, deny that she could have appeal, declare his mistake before he makes it. How can she satisfy when she knows nothing; what could she offer to such a man? But the other part is larger, louder, instinct and ardor working in tandem to ignite her desires. Passion and lust rule her mind now, creating a haze of pleasant delight through which nothing but he can pass. His fingers slip beneath her waistband and she rises in response, arcing her hips to let him undress her, peel away the last of her guises and expose her to the world. Hand on his neck she slips from his lap, drawing him with her as she falls to the ground, an invitation for further, more, adoration vibrant in the black of her eyes. The other hand searches for one of his own, lacing fingers in intimate affection, a slight squeeze of invitation mirrored boldly on her face. "Deimos," she intones, her husky voice a purr. "I want you." Amalia chews delicately on her lip, sable eyes hooded, lithe body on display, the blanket beneath her and above her only him, the beast to which she offers herself, the object of her love. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding

Deimos Carnivore amore; christened and anointed with fire, with brimstone, with coals and embers raking over the salacious waves, the ice lost somewhere between rapacious need and voracious adoration. They lingered along the sojourn now, crusading and exploring, configuring, detailing, maps of where molten mouths instigated, initiated, incited gasps, moans, and whimpers. Despite her urgency, he was still methodical and meticulous, careful and thorough, insistent upon knowing, understanding, every inch of her skin. His tongue burned a sinful wake over the mounds of her breasts, just to listen to her sharp inhale, the beatific intonation of her mewls and exclaims. A growl loosened, a moan hastened, from the depths of his throat on a seditious spread, as her hands, fingers, nails, traveled and traversed over scars, rubble, and ruin, before scheming and skittering their way along naked flesh, enveloped by the sun and stars. She arched into him, a bow, curved and bent, a half-moon, and he implored, further and further still, awakened and alive, sizzling and smoldering, a scathing reproach to anyone, to everyone, who ever thought him a mere, broken machine, a grim weapon, a brooding, brewing affliction. In her arms he was ignited and blazing, infernal and gallant, wicked and demonic, dragged straight from hell to finesse her into pleasure and adoration; delicately plucking at the strings. He devoured and consumed her insecurity, wanted her to feel, wanted her to understand, wanted her to comprehend everything at once: the heightened demeanors of their connections, of their release, unleashed satisfactions, appreciative of the wonder, of the discoveries laden between something more than declarations. Deimos was brazen, in his element, divested of clothing, stripped down to those passionate intervals few had been ever privileged to see, to touch, to feel. The beast drew a sharp inhale, a sinister whimper, at his name on her tongue, woven along a feral, intertwining hiss, as she sang into his flesh, as she lingered on his waist, as they clustered in the wolfish, sultry haze. “Amalia,” he grated across her skin; a deeper, guttural sound and intonation, the rumble of a volcano, the echo of a storm, the masterpiece of arcane, ancient swords, cutlasses, and rapiers. The Reaper smoked and fumed, laden on decibels of sighs and wants, needs and yearnings, longing tying them amidst knots and gnarls, taking his time in undressing her, in sweeping cloth from skin and back again, invitation extended and accepted with an arch, with a lilt, with a demonstrative echo in his piercing gaze. She laid herself open to him, drawn to the blanket, to the ground, and he tilted his head, watching, stare appreciative and commanding – he didn’t need to say anything about desiring her, the proof was in his form, in his figure, in the way he rose over, a tower, a shadow, and then drifted downwards. While one hand was caught in hers, his mouth lowered and ghosted, like billowing strands of air, of ether, light and dulcet, teasing and taunting, an extension of every game they’d ever played, marking their descent with desire and infatuation. Kisses were scintillating, ravishing, in careful brushstrokes, below her breasts and over her ribs, memorizing the patterns, the edges, the curves, before extending down to her navel, tongue sweeping its way further and further still. He inscribed love notes and scrawls on the inside of her thighs, wrote her name with the tip of his tongue and the keen edges of his teeth, taking her offerings and granting his own. Naught hastened, meant to simmer, meant to seethe, meant to brew and boil over; homage and veneration, exaltation in lust and ardor. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind Impatient, avaricious, longing and hungry, she bucks and aches and pulls and wants, consuming, desiring more and more. And again he stops her, slows her, torturous and tumultuous, forces them to slow and savor, his movements methodical, his touch sublime. She moans against him again and again, each new sensation another symphony, emboldened and ignited by his every caress. Claws pull rivulets upon his skin, threatening new scars but never quite breaking, never hurting, only needing him to see, to feel, to know the torment he is putting her through, and that she is enjoying every second. Lips on his neck, she bites and sucks, tasting salt on her ruby tongue, the sting of his sweat an aphrodisiac, fueling and fanning her lust. But it is nothing next to the sound of her name, exhaled and growled on his tongue. She shudders at the sound of it, compelled into movement, her body a wanton and undulating thing. No longer shy, she grasps at his hips, pulling herself closer to him, feeling the length of him against her and making her desires apparent in turn. Her thighs tighten on his waist, toes digging into the blanket, the sand, curling and clasping as her body tenses, drawn taut and arching as a bow. And then she falls, descending to the blanket, her body still arcing up to meet him, her legs still tangled around his waist. She only disengages as he removes her breeches, slow and sinful, playful and perverse, taunting her with winsome wiles and eliciting a new array of frustrated whimpers and needy mewls. Then, at last, they are both the same: undressed, exposed, their desire obvious in figure and voice, waves and waves crashing down. Rising over her like a monolith, he is adamant, Adonis, Goliath in her heart. She takes his hand within her own and holds it, squeezing all her need and desire into the simple gesture, trying to communicate the urgency she feels as his mouth begins to trace her body, down and down and down. If she thought she had felt pleasure before she is in for an awakening: there is nothing in her repertoire to compare to his caresses, no experience equivalent to feeling him on her skin. Even Frey cannot equate, that moment having been transactional, pay for knowledge in pleasure but not love. This, this is something deeper, every fumbling mistake smoothed over by emotion, every moment of awkwardness a brilliant laugh. Love and love and love: she feels it, sings it as she arcs beneath him, her body conforming to his touches, rising and falling under his ministration, an instrument to be played. And as he descends between her thighs she sighs and simpers, her hand in his hair, grasping and encouraging as her eyes fall closed, a shiver coursing through her at the promise of new discoveries, letting him lead her into vibrant delight. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding