DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
As a distraction, a taunt, and a tease, his words still curled and contorted over her, echoing grumbles to see if he could divert or deflect or amuse in one fell swoop. “Where did you want to vacation in Deepfrost?” As he’d been told, numerous times by numerous people, that such notions should be considerations after all they’d been through. It’d been his aim all along, in multiple ways. Rather than wallow or be consumed by the pressures surrounding, by the gloom dissipating, they could simply bask in one another, here, now, and later – something he feared they didn’t get enough of when trial after trial hovered, loomed, and pierced. Balances had been delicate and certainly not infinite, but he intended to tip the scales far in the other direction – towards affection and all its wanton decrees and degrees, consuming, devouring, enthralling, ardent and sublime.
He laughed at her assured murmur, knowing well the art of all her hands-on demonstrations; letting the deep rumble echo and billow across her lips as she melded into his mouth. “Mm. They have been some of my favorites.” She’d always been willing to share in their expansive natures, not dwelling, not latent, not listless, and he fed into it now, another content reverberation melding through his chest as her fingers began their drawn lines and fixtures. He’d quite eagerly take more, anywhere, but closed his eyes, followed the warm pinnacles of her angles into deeper ministrations, purposefully teasing and coy when his teeth dragged slowly over her bottom lip, followed by his tongue.
His hands slid lower, down the arches and curves of her back, her hips, finding the hem of her shirt, the band of her pants, hooking a finger along the upper fabric initially, fully intending to remove the barrier quickly, efficiently.
He laughed at her assured murmur, knowing well the art of all her hands-on demonstrations; letting the deep rumble echo and billow across her lips as she melded into his mouth. “Mm. They have been some of my favorites.” She’d always been willing to share in their expansive natures, not dwelling, not latent, not listless, and he fed into it now, another content reverberation melding through his chest as her fingers began their drawn lines and fixtures. He’d quite eagerly take more, anywhere, but closed his eyes, followed the warm pinnacles of her angles into deeper ministrations, purposefully teasing and coy when his teeth dragged slowly over her bottom lip, followed by his tongue.
His hands slid lower, down the arches and curves of her back, her hips, finding the hem of her shirt, the band of her pants, hooking a finger along the upper fabric initially, fully intending to remove the barrier quickly, efficiently.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
