[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

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

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