[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

Deimos Yes was enough, enough, enough; satisfaction and contentment on their vibrant fringes, the apprehension there lifted and guided, off into the rivulets and the fronds, spinning and spilling off of her blushing cheeks, the sudden youthful smile curling along his lips. At the very least, he was capable of granting her something; even if it was innate and inherent, a natural, carnivore expression and pursuit, flanked on the heels of lust and wanton desires, but pressed in affection and adoration, in love and devotion, his vows an assurance in the intimacy, in the press and yearning, in the entanglement of limbs and heartache and the unknown. But a shadow clouded and veiled over the luminescent beams, and his brow furrowed, confused, rattled, addled, at the quick, vicious descent, and something like consternation and apprehension flicker along his bones and flesh, regard it with insistent, malicious contortions. Maybe you weren’t enough mired and muddled, clawed its way through his insides, and he breathed, a long, withering exhale, disregarding the unease, the disquiet, until she explained. There could’ve been a thousand broken little things stinging and tearing at his marrow, and despite the inclination to retreat straight back into diffidence, into reserve, where it was safe, where emotions didn’t cross, where vulnerabilities were tucked away and driven out of sight, out of mind, this was not the moment, the instant, to slide back into those nooks and crannies; dying a little more on the threads of each loss. Was this where they were damned to fizzle apart, because he couldn’t interpret her misgivings, because something was hollow and wrong in his brazen void, in his emboldened abyss? Why did it need to unravel at all? Why couldn’t he stitch some seams back together, knot and gnarl them back into some form, into some pleasure, into something from before? He thought about doing just that, finding a way to fix, to coil away the strands – But her words finally resounded, echoed, as he strived to lift her head back up to his, so his gaze segmented into hers and she could see, could understand, every proportion of his faith and adherence. “I am not everyone,” he proclaimed, a proud, haughty entanglement, meant to soothe her, amuse her, but also proclaim his differences; he didn’t stray, he didn’t loiter, he didn’t vanish into the ether. Everyone else had done the same to him: but not by choice, by death and desecration, by the final threads, breaths, and heartbeats, buried by his hands and his silence, each hushed mourning a little more like digging his own tomb. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that Frey had come up in all this; of course she’d entangled herself with a deity known for their sexual provocations – perhaps she hadn’t been immersed in someone steady, stalwart, or even trustworthy. The Reaper pressed his lips to her brow and sighed, uncertain of how to proceed or to further convince her he wasn’t about to flee. Somewhere, lost and amidst the clearing, she’d been betrayed and cast aside, and it was bewildering, saddening thing, to believe countless others would leave her behind – but they’d done the same to him. How many times had they simply no longer looked at him, because he didn’t know how to let them in, when he’d already become stained and mottled and burdened with hostility, with acrimony, with treachery, a weapon in the hands of monarchs? While he’d pushed them away, away, away, Amalia had somehow been forgotten, different lines associated with the same bristling, mauled path. The warrior hadn’t allowed it to break him – in a way, he supposed, more shell and vessel and maneuvering carcass, a predator, a monster, in the lightest of moments – but the baker’s haunted and loomed. She tucked and hid along his shoulder, and he let her stay there, not forcing her to meet his gaze, not if she didn’t care to, not if it hurt; tongue running over his teeth as he muddled and mired himself back into what to do, what to say. “I am not going,” he proffered, hands pulling her in, clutching, mooring her into his chest and figure, a whisper on the ethers of what should’ve just been pleasure and amusement. “How can I convince you?” 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 His haughty tone works as intended, eliciting a laugh from the quiet girl, a pealing of bells against the impending storm. "No, you're not," she answers wonderingly, one hand reaching up to cup his cheek, feather-light and reverent on the soft hair of his beard. Her thumb dances lightly over his skin, his lips, as though she is afraid of smudging off his smile, rubbing the ardent devotion away. He is a masterpiece she does not deserve, wrought from steel and ice and fire, copper skin and rosy lips and eyes like the swelling tides of the sea. Again she wonders what it is he sees in her, what she could possibly offer a man like him. He is stalwart, confident, courageous and strong; she is crumbling, faded, sharp edges and brittle bones, lost and lonely even when she is not alone. Amalia gives herself away, pieces offered and rarely returned, her heart on a plate served without reserve because it is who she is, how she is made. All she asks is a heart in return, that the exchange be made, the hollow in her filled; but inevitably she is left without, a little emptier, a little more betrayed. How to explain this to him, to make him see? It is not that she thinks he will hurt her, that she thinks him cruel or uncaring or wont to betray. It is simply that the world has been as much to her, that her past is full of kindness and love easily whisked away, taken by death or distance or disinterest, debts paid. Amalia reaches for the sun, but clouds plague her sky, leaving her shadowed, shuttered, caught in the dark. Deimos is a sunbeam caught between her fingers, hot against her skin. She cannot let him slip away. She cannot bear the clouds. In the hold of his arms the girl relaxes, shielded and secured by his embrace. She lets her hands slip over his shoulders, down his back, though one tangles comfortably in his hair, gently teasing the tangles among the curls. Her face buried comfortably in the crook of his neck, Amalia exhales heavily, his words curling in her ears like smoke. I'm not going anywhere. Even though she doesn't believe it, she also does, because she has to, because she has nothing else. She has to give to be given back, to put the faith in him he has granted her; she has to give him a chance to love her, before accusing him of betrayal. Wrapping her arms tightly around him, Amalia smiles against his skin. How can I convince you?- and only one thing springs to mind, an immediate answer, a little silly, a little sweet. "Teach me to swim," she murmurs across his skin, pulling back just enough to peer up at his eyes, the blush upon her cheeks eloquent and sincere. Share with me the things you love. Give me your time, your attention, your care. Give me your heart, and I'll take it all, and give you everything in return. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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Deimos Amalia had more courage than she seemed to ever realize: beneficence without a second thought, proffered to the entirety of humanity no matter the gnashing teeth or the blistering tongues. He’d never been quite the same, once his bridges were burned, concaved, or fettered apart, so was he, draped and cloaked and garbed in the worn hollows and shallows of his nefarious ambitions, drawn back into the shadows because then no one would touch him, no one would bother him, no one would carve him apart, bit by bit, ever again. Hardened and barbaric, twisted and damned, consecrated straight into hell and chosen to live once more in its plagued sanction, in the dusky reaches of a faithless torrent – stuck in the downpour of his own making. But he gave himself to her freely, proffered the armaments, the munitions, the sunken, seditious array of his irreverence, of his vile, vehement frame – maybe she’d had enough. Maybe she’d seen it, he, was worthless and exhausted, too many walls, too many structures, too many fortifications she no longer wanted to climb. Those notions cut deeper than the wounds and scars dug into his back, along his chest, and he forced them away on her laughter, raising his head, befuddled, rattled, so confused, bewildered, uncertain of which waters they tread upon or within. He was not the same. He wasn’t a slinking, mercurial tide, lingering before pulling away, crushing hope in his wake. He wasn’t volatile or capricious, not in her hands, not in the promises and vows he always intended to keep. He stared as the dulcet motions of her fingers rested lightly, on his cheek, leaning into the touch as if he thought it all fleeting, all going away, in an instant, meant to stab him in the heart like lifetimes before. The warrior swallowed down so many things – a thought pressing into his mind, for who, for which, he was not certain. When will you realize you are not alone? The Reaper was boundless adherence in a world scrambling and squandering to render itself whole. The demon was unrelenting ferocity and force in a land that didn’t know where to turn or how to exist in pieces and shackles. The monster was mayhem and discord and irreverence on his best days, but even corded on those occasions, he was still certain, sure, and devoted. Maybe one day she’d see it. Maybe one day it would rampage past her eyes and her mind, chisel and funnel and sculpt its way down into her veins, and she would witness, she would watch, as he committed to every vow he’d ever concocted. He breathed, somewhere in the midst, releasing the tension, the rigid, apprehensive coils managed to nestle in his ribs. She was still wrapped around him, still there, not escaping, asking for him to teach her how to swim. His penetrating eyes took her in, the sun, wondering why he hadn’t been blinded yet. “Of course.” So they would give and give and give and give again, perhaps until they truly understood one another. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime