[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

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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