[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

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