[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

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