[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

Deimos It was an extension of their game but far more feral, where his patience remained, persisted, chiseled and tangible, while their avaricious hunger clawed, the cravings not yet sated, the satisfaction arching back and threatening to consume. It was without fury or might, but the weight of a hundred unspoken, unholy designs, and he was devout in his devilish prayers, kneeling and crawling down the length of her form to grant his gifts and extend his pledges. It was deliverance and liberation in lust and licentiousness, their hunger never quite abolished or diminished, take and take and take, relishing the scintillating expositions, the painstaking, tormenting waves. It was Machiavellian in its pursuit, drawn out and composed in artful influence, a tandem of fixations, appetites, and adoration, the sharpest aspirations, the incandescent convictions. He listened for keen tones and incandescent mewls, the pieces and particles of her pleasure lingering on the river’s eaves, higher undulations than the babble of the brook, continuing the ministrations with emboldened tenacity. He wanted stars behind her eyes and suns in her horizon, a crossing of hot wires and fire in her blood, cosmic intervals rising on her intonations, solace and release in the manifested dedication, from him to her, love in the cinders, in the embers, in the zeal and fervency. But Deimos was still not urgent, meticulous in his hazed discipline, recalling her moans, her shudders, aiming to complete them along another interval, an audacious wake left by his tongue. Her compelling motions, meant to persuade, meant to persist, meant to ensue and insist he press onward, made him chuckle, and the billowing puffs of air from his rumbling fortitude curled and coiled along the inside of her thighs, until he was at the very core of her, charting details and desires on their singing inclinations. She wanted him, rock, rubble, and ruin, and only encouraged further disaster and disarray as her hands grasped his hair – he snagged and snarled at her quivers, at her quavers, at the shivering movements, brought his mouth down and down until there was only the taste of her on his tongue. More, more, more, the hearts sang, blood pulsing and pervading in its insistent, conniving madness, lips drawing and sketching his affection, his ardor, his vehemence, his dedication – intending to finesse a first release, to expose her to the overwhelming delights of departure and liberation. Wanton presses and scintillating fervor continued in its mounting exposition, a feverish shudder roaming down his own motions, unwavering and devoted, appealing and beseeching the wildest of discoveries. Urging and insistent, he explored and consumed, a bestial stimulation and arousal, the adamant attentions and intentions behind his rogue, ruffian grin, hidden behind the skin of her thighs, roaming and wandering until he thought he’d knew every part of her; conductor orchestrations amidst the savoring benedictions and intoxicating caresses. Stroke for stroke, they were a beating, heartfelt endeavor, fueled by muse, fanned by lust – the flames, the flames, the flames wrapping and coiling their way around his mind, his heart, his lungs. “What else do you want?” The warrior, the beast, the heathen, the fiend rumbled, teeth and tongue insistent; a grin on his lips, fueled and stirred, electrified. 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 Her hand entwined amid his locks, she is a ship at sea, a bird dancing lightly on summer winds, a stone sinking further into the hotsprings of her hazy lust. Deimos' tongue does magical things, new and exciting and enticing and good, making Amalia shift and move and dance beneath his touch. And then his tongue explores new places, pressing and searching the heat of her core, and Amalia gasps her amazement and shock, her hips bucking up in eager response. "Deimos!" she hisses between her teeth, and then falls speechless once again. Her knees are bent, one wrapping over his shoulder, tracing eagerly down his back (any contact, any touch- she wants to devour him with her skin), toes curling and uncurling with each new wave of bliss. Short, high gasps ring from her lungs, punctuated by laughs and moans, his name on her lips, a recited prayer only half-voiced because he is moving too quickly for her mind to catch up, making her shiver and shudder and ache. Slender fingers clutch at the wool of the blanket, her left hand snatching it greedily while her right remains upon his head, guiding with a feral, inborn knowledge, directing him to do things she does not know she wants. And then- a shuddering gasp escapes the girl as pleasure beats down on her like a wave, the swell of it rising in her belly, her groin, filling each muscle with want and torment, hot and hot and hot. Her fingers clutch the blanket, tension marking each line of her form, stretching the delicate sinew and angles into something feral, claws sprouting out of nails and fur rising on her shoulders, her back, her mouth dry from panting, her dark eyes drawn shut. It is not her first orgasm - she has fucked Frey, after all - but it is the first one offered by a lover, given freely without an associated price. Amalia gasps and calls out again, in incoherent exclamation, his name somewhere within, buried amongst the love and passion, the reverence and release and inerrant ardor. Like a crescendo she builds and builds, swells beneath his ministrations until, at last, release- Amalia collapses back onto the blanket, breathing heavily from her mouth. Residual shudders rack her body, but her lips are lit with a startled smile as she tries to catch her breath. "Mmm,"" she murmurs in response to his question, head still too hazy to formulate a real reply. Rising up on her elbows, she flashes Deimos a brilliant grin. One foot nudges greedily at his ass, and she reaches down to draw him to her, fingers slipping beneath his chin. "Come up here and I'll tell you." the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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Deimos It beckoned and stirred, sweeping bounties of pleasure and passion, the greedy, avaricious gasps, the untamed intensity, ravished and ravaged. He absorbed the high keens and moans, inhaled his in the center of his chest, where a heart clamored behind a savage ribcage, hands and mouth moving along with her, cresting on her release. His name was a hiss and a demand, a command, an interval where he smirked and snickered, laughed and chuckled, puncturing gaze witnessing her come undone – unfettered, unleashed, clawing and toying with his skin, muscles bunched and undulated, body bowing, arching, then crashing. Her echoes, her din, her throng was incoherent but readily understood, comprehended by the conductor, pleased that she was pleasured, satisfied that she’d been sated. It was fire and radiance, vigor and brilliance, a hastening of rapture, both wicked and divine, and the covetous air slung to his flesh, to the salt beading along his figure, to the ardor and lust and love building in his refrain – waiting for the echoes, for the reverberations to catch on his flames and incise them both, again, again, again. His eyes lingered on her flesh and form, admired and exalted, caught in those enamored, enameled pieces and portions, a sensation of pride settling somewhere near his collarbone, but then his groin too: mine a temptation, a trace, a vestige in the back of his mind, hollowed out and carved there from arcane, primordial ichor. He was only too aware that she was of her own flesh and blood, and he could have her, and she could have him, and they were not one another’s possessions, but the glaciers and rubble, but the moon and the stars, but the darker traces of hell and the brightest glimpse of the heavens. He was blackguard and she was a beacon, and together they’d become resolute cosmos and celestial awakenings; he could be the Stygian hues, the shadowed blends, and she could be the gilded sun beams and star bursts, conjuring the landscape with their rapacious pledges and covetous expanse. The Reaper acquiesced, but not quickly – a warrior’s delight in unfolding the errant, unholy enticements again, minatory in his stalking, in his preying, in his vowing. A lazy grin prompted itself over his lips now, until they traced back over, lingering along the soft, dulcet skin of her thighs and then sketched her navel once more, tenderly, lightly, drawing his tongue over curves and edges, his eyes never leaving hers. It was a piercing, challenging juncture, the same audacity clinging to his form since the day they’d met – a boldness, a provocation, an incitement, never muted, never understated, sizzling and smoldering here and now, waiting for her to beg, to plead. Instead, she nudged at his bare ass, and he laughed again, smoke and embers, coiled and contorted, rising up and up and up, sliding his figure over hers (muscles and flesh and bone), but without the swift frenzy of an anxious, quick lover; biding his time, extending attention and fixation. He brushed over her navel, back to her breasts, tongue drawn and sketched over each nipple, a husky, molten growl caught along his throat, before reaching for her collarbone, her nape, the shell of an ear; thought about whispering nefarious, unholy vows, but left them on her skin instead. Then, finally, he hovered just above her features, arms straightened, powerful, potent limbs gathering him in a prominent position, an indulgent smirk clinging to his features; waiting to devour, to indulge, to consume all over again. “So tell me,” his brow arched and the mischief roamed along his gaze, behind the lust, behind the affection, behind the rising storm and the tempestuous designs; beguiled, allured, fascinated by her heaving chest, her shudders, her lips. 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 slithers and snakes his way up her body, and for once the girl is content to be patient, still riding the shockwaves of her release. Each touch elicits another shiver; she hums contentedly instead of mewling, low and smoky and nearly a purr. Like water Amalia shifts beneath him, fluidly rolling beneath his motions, her body conforming to his hands. She raises her right knee to better accommodate, her legs shifting brazenly over his form. Black on blue, and their eyes never break, her lazy smirk an echo, flushed face concession of happy defeat. "Hmm," she murmurs again, happily, a fluttering gasp leaving her lips as his mouth lingers once again over her breasts. The hand on his chin has shifted back to his hair, gesturing fondly across his ear, his cheek. Her left arm remains rooted on the ground, propping her up to more gradual inclines, the better to see his languid approach. And then at last he is above her, and she can feel him despite the distance, is painfully and powerfully aware of the heat that pulses between their groins, his musculature against her skin. His mischief is met with a decadent smiles, eyes drifting appreciatively down his figure before rising up, clinging onto his face. A long index finger traces his jawline, dancing gently over his chin, across his coral lips. "I don't know," she grins up at him, hand drifting back over his ear, lazily tracing the lines of his neck. "I'm feeling pretty... spent." She yawns her emphasis, lungs filling in tandem, her breasts just barely brushing upon his chest. Then she falls back, palm descending to his shoulder, her head tilted sideways as though in thought. "In fact, I'd hasten to say that, well..." And then, with the swiftness of one who has yet to surrender Amalia pushes against his shoulder, swinging her hip and pressuring him to roll onto his back. Her goal is to get him supine beneath her, trapped and enthralled beneath her hips. She sets herself upon his waist, hovering above the length of him, a purposeful teasing in the act. "It's your turn." And thus the cycle of their game continues: giving and taking, grasping and yearning, fervent and passionate, a measured exchange. Hands at either side of his head, she lets her face dip down to meet him, her nose ghosting next to his cheek, a growl escaping from her throat. "What do you want, Deimos?" she asks, demands, lips a whisper on his ear. Her teeth pull eagerly at his earlobe, enticing an answer to her query, longing for instruction on how she can please. It is Amalia's turn to triumph, to rule: he has given her absolution, and she wants nothing more than to do the same, to reduce him to rubble with her eager caresses, melt glaciers and mountains into molten pools. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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Deimos It was a sinuous, winding, wound scheme, effective in its scintillating fervor, in its delicious orchestration – catching the smoke and embers with his tongue, on his breath, reaching, reaching, reaching, beyond their scalding, boiling, breaking point. Need and appreciation were adrift and at sea, rolling over in his piercing, blue depths, shifting to her onyx gaze, lost in the feverish delights, her butterfly gasps, her spent plumes. Again, his brain invited, coaxed, and enticed, blood boiling in the passionate, amore madness. Her fingers traced over his jaw, the beard, the stubble, and he leaned into the touch automatically, a Cheshire cat biding its time, closing his eyes, mouth maneuvering to place slow, molten strokes and caresses on each lingering digit, teeth made to snatch and snap on skin in a teasing, impish decree as they persisted over his lips. He was enthralled by the decadence in her gaze, in the clawing apertures, in the talons threatening to embark, her palms dancing on his shoulder, breasts brushing over his chest – Then he was flat on his back, spun, pushed, and shoved into the blanket, over the perimeter of sand and stone, eyes widening while his lungs choked and gasped. The set of his gaze only beheld bewilderment and surprise, instantly fighting over the loss of control – his precision, his calamity, his composure – mind struggling to adapt to her snares, to her traps. It was not a welcome feeling, netted and caught, lost to someone else’s ruses and duplicities, and for a moment, he forgot it was Amalia above him, his body contorting, coiling, like a vicious, stalking predator, waiting to raise their hackles, their fangs. The sudden vulnerability seized and paralyzed him, suffocating, stretching him out to a weary, agitated void, a rigid vessel, torso heaving, skull spinning. His first instinct was to always resist – never accept – forgoing how much taking he’d done and how much giving she was willing to embody. He was shackled and chained, seditious and insurgent, until his eyes took in the scene again, until his frame, his figure, remembered the feel of her against his flesh and bone, and she teased, she tormented, she eased and scalded just above eventual connections and beatific bonds. This was one more figment and fragment of their game, and he should’ve known she wouldn’t have stayed or been swayed for long; so he started to recall how to breathe, how to inhale, exhale, sharpened and keen. He bucked against her, hips rising in a feral, wanton, savage refrain, a sudden grin, easing back into comfort, reverie, and revelry, contortions no longer tethered together (safe, something whispered, seethed, and rattled; safe in her dominion, in her stars and galaxies, in her haven and sanctuary). Her hands locked his cranium in place, face meeting his, raising his chin in a defiant set of vehemence, a roar, a grumble, a howl brimming its way through his throat. Her growl was answered with his hiss and sigh, a phantom, ghostly foundation of words simpering and sliding over her skin. “Hmmm,” he drew out a drawl as his hands wandered their way along her hips, a lazy unleashing, curling their way downward, following the same path his tongue had traced earlier. The beast’s gaze was cowled, cloak and daggered persistence, pondering on her means and measures, on how no one had ever truly asked him his fundamental desires: more than glory and triumph, more than might and power, more than just simple greed and avarice. But before he gave her a resounding answer, he leaned forward, ascending, muscles bunching and undulating beneath her with the effort, meeting her halfway, off the ground, intending to make her slide directly into his lap. One hand left her core to maintain and support his position, arm outstretched, the other accommodating, remaining, while he rendered defiance in sultry, seductive form. He still didn’t know how to answer her, what clarifications he was meant to make: everything thundered and boomed around him, a constant echo and reverberation, reflections upon a looking glass, spiraling from the water, from the brook, from the river, coercing his senses into naught but needs and passions. He wanted to have her, all of her, every inch, every piece, every puzzle, every impulsive, inept action, every emboldened bout of fury, every shy seam, every singsong musing. He wanted her mouth on his skin and bringing him to flame, out of the ice, out of the glaciers, out of the rubble and doom. He wanted to be inside her, set an inferno across the landscape with her mewls and gasps and moans, wanted to be a part of her ferocity, her tenacity, her audacity, wanted to bring her to heaven, to hell, to oblivion. So he could only think of one word, “You,” incandescent, bending and blinding, as she tugged on his ear and he shuddered, shivered, quivered under her – the game the same, the results insistent and imploring. He’d let her do as she pleased. 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 feels him freeze beneath her but takes it for surprise, no part of her expecting to have incited alarm. Her lips trace prayers and praise and ploys, butterfly kisses on his neck, his ears, hungry and savage, lingering allure. He bucks his hips and the girl laughs, delighted to have caused a wave of desire, to be the catalyst of his need. Fingers trace his neck, his sternum, dipping into the space of his throat, down and down in lazy circles, lingering upon each scar. She dips her head down as she does, mouth upon his clavicles as digits continue their exploration, raining like rivulets through his chest. Nails play rhythms on his ribs as she descends, her body coiling, her hips sliding down, and then her hands are on his navel, in the trail of hair below, and further, between them, taunting and teasing, ministrations to match the sly grin on her face. He rises up before she can do more, sliding his way further between her hips, the heat of her passing over his length before leaving it between them, a thing unsaid. Her left arm slips around his shoulders, steadying herself upon his lap; the right continues its fervent descent, until finally she is low enough, her fingers slipping around him, slinking slowly up his cock. And there she lets them linger, awaiting his reply, the instruction for more or request of stop, the thing he aches and yearns for, the knowledge of his desire. One word and she will be ignited, her lust inflamed anew. Onyx eyes as hazy as smoke stare into the blue, enticing, inviting, wanting permission, to be the only thing he thinks of, to make him buck and burn for her. Tell me, tell me, tell me- '-You-' - and Amalia blazes with a feral grin, incandescent and wondrous, reverent and amazed. She'd known - she'd known - but to hear it sears, sparks the embers in her soul into an inferno of heat. Scarcely do the words leave him than she is on his mouth, hungry, demanding, her tongue on his, her left hand tangling greedily in his hair as she rolls her hips against him, the invitation for him to take implicit in the act. Her breath is a growl on his mouth, a purr, a crescendo, a symphony of desire. The invitation is there: in her unsaid words, in her grasping thighs, in the way she pushes her body against him, her breasts and stomach flush on his form, skin on skin on skin on skin, passion and ardor and avarice and love. "What are you waiting for?" she hums against his neck, her hand still on him, another invitation, directing, pushing, leading, asking. "I want to be yours-" - and she rises up upon her knees, the final invitation, his last chance to recant, even as her fingers direct him inside her, even as her eyes lock onto his, waiting for him to rise and meet her, to seal their affection in the fires of lust. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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Deimos Human, mortal, man, bending to no one but the goddess sketching worship and reverence upon the impudent, and he swallowed, devoured, consumed by fire and need, absorbed by her laughter, by the combined decibels of havens, thresholds, and rivulets. Her nails didn’t leave scars, but marks on his soul, where he gasped and clawed for them again, the outline of fervor and fever brandished, building, brimming, along his lungs, down his ribcage, conforming and tethering their beatific lines along his neck and his throat. The only sounds he made were keening ricochets, infinite snarls catching on coiled strokes, once threatening annihilation and condemnation, and here, now, only begging, aching, for more. His eyes were inclinations and impulses, dipping low to follow the lines and curves of her frame, one hand regarding paths he intended to cross again, mouth dipping across one shoulder, teeth briefly catching on skin, burning an infernal wake in their fanged torment; and he only seized altogether when her palm managed to graze him, lower and lower. He froze, shuddered, shivered, at her mercy for those few, perilous seconds, when his gaze slid over to her with an emboldened predilection, unrelenting, vicious, predator prowess akin to urging her onward - go ahead - immersed, shadowed, in a wicked, nefarious, unsaid refrain. He licked his lips, sought to advance, sought to progress, sought to dive straight into her and make any giggles turn to mewls, moans, and groans. They were already ignited, setting fire, ablaze, a tapestry and canvas of infernos, a painter’s licentious, decadent masterpiece, somewhere in between an oeuvre and an orchestra, sparks blazing on skin and sin. There was only smoke and fire and plumes twisting and turning along the backdrop, behind their eyes, in smiles, in depths, in conflagrations, avaricious with no resistance, nothing to cease, nothing to stop, nothing to halt the advance of their combustion. It must’ve been just enough to push her over the edge – he had half a moment to admire and revere the savage smile (when had they become such beastly, untamed things – his composure gone, her shyness no longer intact, reserves scattered straight to the stars?), before she descended upon him, hungry, craving, and he was swept into her essence with no hesitation. He barely breathed, hands somewhere in her hair, grazing her spine, her hips, he really didn’t particularly care, tongue sweeping along her lips, then further, tasting more and more and more, blinded by yearning, longing, and lust, passion curling in his groin, in his heart. He’d never tasted anything ambrosial, but likened it to her, taking, taking, taking, covetous art in their serpentine strains. She rolled her hips into his and he was thoroughly lost; Machiavellian mind gone, entirely vacant, ardent ambitions filling in the hollowed, calculating vacancies, breath pooling in waves across her face as he pulled back, as she rose – “Hang on,” the Reaper laughed, managed to chuckle into their pressing allure, dipping his cranium only to concentrate, bringing one hand over his cock, a gilded glow resonating only for the shortest of seconds, creating protection, a barrier, a sheath, while she hummed along his nape, his skin. He arched to her without a second thought, leaning back only to savor, to admire, for another wild, vicious interval, and then roamed along her hips, inviting, coaxing her, down, down, down, upon him, over him, so they slid, united, together. “All right?” He inquired, humming, crooning, the most rapacious, ravenous dedication and declaration in the stitches and seams of him – eternally avaricious, scrambling for purchase, for bedroom hymns to echo in his movements, in his motions. The beast waited, completely, utterly undone, body and love proffered up to her in their salacious actions, encouraging her to adjust, before bucking upwards again, intentionally slow. A crooked grin incensed, incited, and aroused the absolution, the revolution, the sedition, pooling molten vehemence, ardor, and intensity into the particular rhythm, mouth reaching for hers again, stealing gasps and tremors. 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 'Hold on,' he says, as though she can, as though anything close to patience were in her repertoire, her arsenal, as if he has left her with a modicum of control. A growl is all he gets in response, exhaled hungrily against his neck. Impatience is a maelstrom underneath her skin, urgency running hot in her veins. By some miracle she is able to hold off, shivering, yearning, placated by his hands, until at last he rises to meet her, coaxes her down upon him with a scintillating touch. Arching back to meet his eyes, Amalia lets herself begin to fall, black eyes sinking into blue as lines are crossed and thresholds met. Pressure, first, a slight surprise. "Ah-" It is more than she expected, somehow, but less as well, different than her experience with Frey, than her first. And then, further; she bites her lip, her cheeks flushed red with the feeling of it, the sensation coursing through her body. Pressure gives way to pleasure then, and the beast in her belly roars to life again, roaring, avaricious, but tentative too, lapping up the feeling of fullness before asking for more. "Mm-hm," she answers, a throaty hum, her hands clasped tight upon his shoulders. Yes, she is alright, and then again, content for a moment to hold him beneath her, to adjust to the feeling of fullness and belonging. Nothing last forever. Slowly, gently, Deimos moves again, his hips rolling up and into her, a careful and measured thrust. Amalia gasps, her mouth a marked O, black eyes widening in renewed surprise, her fingers pulling at his skin. The next time he rises up she is ready: her pelvis pushes down to meet him, holding him closer before letting him go, finding a rhythm that matches his and falling into it. She had worried she might not satisfy, that there might be something wrong, but Deimos' smile and guiding hands is enough to assuage any anxiety, to ease her into abandon and heat. His mouth comes toward her and she meets it greedily, savoring his taste on her tongue, letting his lip slip between her teeth. She traces up from his lips to his cheek, his forehead, her breath a fire on his face. Each movement is punctuated gasps, by whimpers, gentle moans and exhalations pressed against his skin. Faster she moves, encouraging, wanting, savoring the feeling of him inside her, wanting to bring him closer to bliss. One hand tangles in his long dark hair, gripping eagerly as she rolls and whimpers, encouraging his mouth to travel back down her chest. She drops her head back, eyes falling shut, her body arching in happy abandon, beads of sweat upon her brow. "Dei- Deimos," she murmurs, moans, prays, reverent adoration in each alto intonation, his name a hymn upon her tongue. She does not know what she wants (she wants everything, she wants him), except to make him feel as good as she does, to worship him with her body and mouth, to enthrall and entrance him and make him her own. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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Deimos The Reaper waited – still as stone, as rock, as mountains, despite every keening, voracious rush boiling in his skin, in his flesh, urged him to move, to take, to relish, to consume. Instincts were a malicious, vehement course, gnarling and gnashing their teeth at his patience, at his sharp inhalations, staying until there was acceptance, until there was a whimper, a mewl, a moan. Then came the bestial hums, the barbaric croons, the crushing, rolling pursuits and persistence, his mouth on her neck, tongue unleashing its own path, as his hips coiled upwards again, precise, calculated, feeding on her gasps, on her moans, on the cadence, tempo, and time they conjured and manifested. It was a sultry dance, more effective, more diverting, than any previous one they’d entangled and raptured themselves in – reverent and smoldering, scintillating and ravaging. These were greedy, avaricious details and passionate interludes, games no longer quite as afoot, predilections abandoned, estimations settled elsewhere; the carnal, carnivore heat pulsed and pervaded his soul, left him tied and gnarled in knots he had no intention of unraveling. Lips sizzled along her nape and back again to her mouth, the feverish reverberations of his growls, of his hisses, of his moans, were swallowed by hers, an echo of tension and love and willful relinquishing; power was power, ardor was ardor, lust and intimacy and devotion were parallel schisms and catalysts, drunk on one another. The warrior permitted, surrendered her control of the pace, unwinding, faster and faster, breath billowing as they ebbed and flowed, as they surged and descended. They rose and fell on the shuddering of bliss, teeth biting over her lip, taunting and teasing, the smallest of smirks and snickers crossing over his lips even as he released a sordid moan, eyes closing as he simply felt – immersed in the sun and the stars, the galaxy and the heavens. His tongue licked a trail of salt and skin along her collarbone, hands following the course of her movements and motions, sinking along his fathoms, his depths, as he chased passages down her chest, imploring another exploration as she arched again. He shivered and quivered, a ripple in his spine, in his abdomen, as she murmured his name (it sounded like devotion, sweet and ambrosial, nothing he deserved but everything he was willing to grasp and clench). It coiled in his ears and made him nearly come undone – but not too early, not too soon, he brooded and breathed, exhalations scattering along her breasts, another growl of her name, maybe a warning, maybe a song of predators and might, chiseled its way through his throat. His senses were aflame and he was an inferno, thawed glacier brought to life by the scorching touch of beacons, mine, mine, mine a desperate persistence in the back of his voracious mind. He wanted, wanted, and wanted, never quite content, thrusting upwards again, stronger, more insistent, while his lips slid and serpentine their way (a rivulet, a winding, twisting road of wild, imploring abandon) towards her neck again, behind her ear; sin singing a moan. He didn’t need words, not now. 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 Gods, but it feels good to have him inside her, as though something has been missing she did not know she lost, as though he is filling not only her body but her soul, the anxious loneliness replaced by reckless abandon, forgotten and distracted and left far behind. There is not room for doubt here: there is only him and her and the sway of their bodies, the dance like the ebbing and flowing of tides, an age old duet of nature and love. He is fire beneath her, pools of molten glass, the glaciers gone and replaced by heat, by lust, by need. She needs him, wants him, and she tells him so with her lips, her tongue, her hands, her hips, her breasts, every beat of her thundering heart. Teeth trace over the shell of his ear, whispered incoherence exhaled within, wordless promises and entreaties and mewls. Then he begins to travel down her chest, his mouth on her breasts. Appreciation is shown in many ways: the tightening of her grip upon his hair, the quickening of her rhythm on his cock, the gasps and moans and growled pleasure which courses from her lips. The tightness in her stomach is coiling up again, pressure rising in her groin, causing her to tighten around him, to clench him tighter in her grasp. Glassy-eyed, she tries to meet his gaze, to find the blue below her flush, to communicate her urgent, rising need. "Deimos, I-" (-they are a reservoir, an ocean, and she is about to overflow, to break the floodgates and release, to given in to his ministrations once again, to take and take until she can take no more-) She pushes her mouth back onto his, hungry, boiling, gasps and incoherent pleasure exhaled against him as she crashes down, her body at last unable to keep itself, her crescendo a glorious series of notes. Her body trembles, vibrates against him, coiling tight as a compressed spring before breaking, releasing, enveloping him. Greedy she tries to pull him close, to feel his skin against her as her orgasm swells, to drown him along with her until neither of them can breathe. And when at last the quake subsides, she is left with nothing but everything, because he is there, his shoulder beneath her sweat-soaked cheek, her face buried in his curly hair, her arms around him possessively as she continues to tremble with the aftershocks, putty in his hands. "Love you," she murmurs against his neck, the low alto hum of it vibrating happily on his skin. And then, because her brain is too clouded with pleasure to think of anything else: "Mine." the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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Deimos He was not a mountain, not made of stone, not contorted or framed in glacial walls or rime; too molten, too unfurled, too caught up in the fire and flames. Encouragement only pulsed and persisted in the framing of her hands, in the nonsensical refrains curling down his spine and through his ear; no thoughts, no complexities, only pure, wild abandon in its inherent, innate form, stealing over the unearthed pleasure and gasps, swallowing them whole, continuing his devouring tactics, plucking at strings and tunes and stanzas to make her sing. He could hear her heart in its own savage ramparts, thunder in his emblems, in his rhythms, while he reached for the stars, above the storm clouds and the tempestuous ethers. Just them, just them, just them, entangled and enshrouded, bestowing their own measures and consecrations: he anointed her with his enticement, with his allure, with his power and prowess, the strength rippled and corded through his muscles, through each and every undulation, and then his affection, the holds, his teeth, his tongue, his mouth, savoring every inch of her figure as if she were ambrosia and he were the greedy, avaricious wolf, come to hunt, come to prey, come to feast. He blessed her with his silent, reverent shards of love, where he’d melted and thawed, where the blackened, nefarious chambers had returned to life, where he ran kisses, sublime and infernal, down the length of her neck, where he unwound her from the inside out and pressed his faith, his credence, into their reckless, unrelenting movements; a blackguard, a shadow, but hers. She grasped upon his hair and he came back to meet her, hands tethered to her hips, keeping her steady, holding her aloft and down again, currents and calculations despite the heady lust barely keeping him afloat; his name dragged across her lips again caused him to look up – the piercing, puncturing set of his eyes telling her everything his lips, his mouth, his tongue could not. They were eternal flames and avaricious stars, a cosmos of ice and savagery, but in her wake, sanctioned, permitted, to be so much more. He caught her sable gaze the crush of amber and need alive, awakened in them, rolled his hips more, settled on a more brazen, audacious pace, a means to push her onward, to the end, to sparks and incandescent reaches. He watched, felt, her crash, a coiled intonation and vibration humming diligently against his skin, along his flesh, drowning in her undulations, finally allowing himself to give in, to surrender, to breathe. The Reaper unwound on a zealous, fervent regard, pervading precision igniting behind his eyelids, closing them so he could see the cosmos in the dark; a release on a wave, on smoke and plumes and fumes, mouth moving to hers, fierce and ferocious, avaricious, wanton, as her lips swallowed his croons, his roars, his howls. Then he was boneless, caught in her wake, salt-laden brow pressing into her shoulder, where it stayed, breath fanning across her naked skin. She burrowed and buried into him too, and he couldn’t help but smile, hidden in the depths of her, a possessive grin matching the enveloping over his frame, both quivering, quavering, shaking from their pleasures, from their resonations. His chest heaved, sated, satisfied, content – nearly indulgent to ask her how she was feeling; when the affection and devotion pooled against the clamors of his heart. He turned his lips further into her fold, relaxed, sculpted a reverie from the granules of his throat. “Yours.” Another dulcet vow, soft and imploring, but restless against her flesh, insistent, drumming, a beat, an assurance on an exhale, brimming and overflowing with the unsaid measures threatening to spill across his tongue. “Always yours.” 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 The aftershocks continue to pulse, causing her to shudder occasionally, pleasure rippling through her lithe form. Breathing heavily, Amalia sighs, content to remain against his shoulder, safe in his embrace, endorphins calming her, making her hazy, happy, at peace, in love. He, too, seems to be spent, and the stargirl cannot help her grin, a strange sort of pride rising in her at the thought of being the cause of his bliss. He wanted her - wanted her - and she had brought him to the precipice, pushed him down beneath the sea, drowned them both in the tide of their ardor, passion shared between them like a song. An alto laugh escapes her lips, disbelievingly delighted, still awed by what has occurred. Exhaling softly against his skin, Amalia begins to trace patterns down his back, her fingers spinning lazily between the lines of his scars. Still draped across him, she is happy to remain so as long as he will allow, their sweat making them sticky, their heartbeats intertwined. Humming softly, the baker presses absent kisses to his shoulder, his neck, her black eyes hooded as she gazes across the Stonesong, heavy in his arms. She knows it must end soon - they cannot remain frozen forever - but wishes it could not, that this moment might be encapsulated in perfect shards of memory, held in glass and memorized, a tattoo on her soul. When at last she draws away it is with no little reluctance, her hands never leaving him as they pull up his back and over his shoulders, sliding down to rest on his chest. But what if she's wrong, has been wrong this whole time? The last time she did this had been so very different, ending with absence and broken hearts and pain. Suddenly nervous, she drops her head, gold hair making a curtain over her eyes as a blush spreads hot across her cheeks. "Are you- I mean- was it good?" The words are a murmur, the question weighted by nerves and yearning, eager and earnest on her alto tone. Was I good enough, am I good enough, are you going to leave? "Please don't go yet." Because they always did: the first boy, and even Frey, taking their payment and leaving her alone, and while she does not think Deimos will do the same, she cannot help the creeping fear, the anxiety which constantly sits in her breast, crushing her lungs and snuffing out hope. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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Deimos The afterglow was a resplendent thing in its gilded sanction, contentment and pleasure, rapture and reverence, caught in the crossfires of his existence – he didn’t know what to do with all the soulful interludes, too long since he’d felt anything other than ferocity or loss. But they still raced and pulsed beneath his chest, along his ribs, between muscles and flesh, pervading their way until he was certain of their fulfillment, of their presence, nestled and relished, amused and gratified. The steady pulse of his affection implored softer kisses along her neck and then ascending, sliding, skimming across her cheek, lips caressing her brow and maneuvering along to her nose; connections and trust and adoration even as the lust withdrew and all they had left was salt, laughter, and certainty. His strokes were light and airy, barely there, another tease, another ruse, as she laughed, and the delight spiraled its way down into his cold, deadened heart, ignited the inward scars and the blistered, decrepit chambers. When her hands finally glided along his back, traced the filaments of wounds and lacerations cut deep into his form, and slid down his chest, he shuddered, coiled, rapacious brawn rippling beneath her touch. His fingers were lithe along the curved edges of her ribs, collecting and gathering her there, still in his lap, still in his sanction. Something else stirred though: her head dropped, not against his shoulder, but as if she’d hidden. The notion struck him as bizarre, considering he’d seen every damned inch of her and still wanted more, quirking a brow, gaze lingering on the rush of the river beyond, on the shore, awaiting some sort of answer. Perhaps she was embarrassed, the intervals extending beyond her reach, or he’d pushed too far – a gnawing sense of regret spread itself rapidly over the clambering fringes of his soul – they’d both wanted this and – The inquiry that followed made him snort. His hands ghosted away from her side, lifting so fingers traced over her cheeks, raising her eyes back to his, the steady, stalwart blue narrowing to a finer edge, ravenous regard in their threads, in their depths. His voice was a contented rumble, a lion's purr, a wolf's growl, everything clear and concise, his actions more of the apparent, rapacious indulgences. He would've rested there, skin upon skin and hearts upon hearts, for an eternity. “Yes. Very much so.” Then he tilted his head, followed her question with one of his own. “And for you?” Because he’d rather know, rather understand, rather comprehend if the euphoria, if the moans, if the whimpers, had truly been bliss, had been enough, or if it was lacking. Her next statement broke him though. He wasn’t sure of the direct cause, if there was an unknown catalyst brooding and brewing behind her golden gaze, if some distant haze or memory sparked and sizzled, or if, somehow, someway, he’d been the source of this saddening focal point. Hadn’t he always been constant? Hadn’t he always promised conviction, faith, and adhered to those vows? Had he committed some action that made her wonder, not believe? The warrior’s entire existence, foundation, had been built upon his promises and assurances, the follow-throughs, the commitments, the persistent decree when his mouth finally formed words. His proclamations were not useless, wasted things, not a spouting fountain of eternal discourse. They weren’t vapid, weak diatribes. The calm, controlled response coiled back into his fathoms, restlessly, fervently, chased down the answers, uncertain of what invoked or incited her apprehension: curiosity entangled with his fervor, with his ardent, compassion (for her, for her, for her). “Why would I leave?” 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 fingers reach beneath her chin; compliantly she raises her head to meet him, dark eyes beseeching, entreating his blue, looking for secrets in a sunlit sky. "Yes." The blush that paints her dusky cheeks is enough to answer him, but she gives a vibrant smile as well, small and rich with unsaid things, a promise that yes is the least of her feelings, a grain of sand on the cascade of her bliss. More than good, she wants to say. Perfect, because it was you. Again, she wishes she could freeze this moment, the heartbeats that pulse between them, the happiness she feels. It is pristine, flawless, too good for the girl - he is too good for her, but she will take his offerings, his alms, his pleasure and words. She will take it all and hold it close, the dearest treasure she has ever been given. But beneath her happiness apprehension lurks, still unsure of what comes next, how this dance will inevitably conclude. Because it will - it must - it always has, and as the waves of passion begin to subside fear creeps in to take their place. Loss, and loss, and loss again- it is all Amalia has ever known, the penumbra on every point of brightness, threatening inevitable eclipse. He is her sun, her beacon, her lighthouse, her guard: to lose him would be devastation, but it is better to know than be taken aback, caught unawares as the ground shifts beneath her and she tumbles into her own despair. Onyx gaze drops down again, to his beard, his neck, her hands on his chest. Why would I leave? he questions, and the girl nearly laughs, brows furrowed tight to hold in her emotions, to keep from breaking, from scaring him further away. "Everyone does," she answers simply, trying to swallow the lump in her throat, to keep her voice measured (she does not succeed). "After - not that there have been many - and one was Frey -" She's a mess, tripping over her words, unable to communicate the thing she feels, to make him understand. Biting down on her lower lip, the gilded girl inhales deeply, a rattling breath that expands her lungs, dark lashes falling to her cheeks. "Everyone leaves me," she whispers at last, the words a shudder from her chest, and the everyone is not just the men she has been with, but the rest of them as well, her family, her loved ones, her friends. Raising her gaze back to his blue (endless and warm and perfect and hers, but for how long and at what cost, and what if she cannot pay it, if she does not measure up; what if he grows tired, or bored, or finds someone better, prettier, less destitute-?), Amalia gives a mirthless half-smile; she does not know what to do, is spiraling and floundering and doubtless making it worse. Her heart is a hammer pounding on her ribs, threatening to splinter her from the inside out, to break her apart and lay out the pieces, shattered and worthless at his feet. She sighs again and shakes her head, wishing she could wind back time, could go back to that moment of perfect bliss. There is nothing left, no explanation to give, and Amalia leans forward once more, trying to put her head on his shoulder, to bury herself in his embrace. "Just... don't go yet." the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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