[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

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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