DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
The Reaper was not a thing to be worshipped. He’d been carved out of fire, water, earth, stone, death, and rubble – then sketched and blended into desecration, into menace, into malice; nothing reverent worthy, nothing for anyone to kneel before, nothing to pay homage to. His frame was no work of art, no temple, no sanctuary: just needle point conjectures, just brushstrokes of the damned, just war-torn assemblages and might gnarled back together. He’s never done anything noteworthy except survive, which all of them could scream from the tallest tower or the highest hill: an achievement measured in altering circumstances – he’d fought his way to here and now, and never for a single moment thought they’d lead him into more than just thorns and upheaval.He wasn’t partial to begging or pleading, capable of counting the amount of times he’d done so on one hand – for the sake of others, never for himself. But this hour’s only met by smoldering need and avid desire, taking and giving and meeting in the middle. He was distinctly human in those feral interludes, no longer the unattainable, unreachable, firmly in her grasp, fingers weaving their way through her hair, gentle but succinctly imploring. Pleasure, lust, and satisfaction contorted their way through his brain, along his frame, barely held upright anymore by the entanglements and wanton yearning flooding through him. Yours and and yours and yours were nestled and blinding, somewhere in his blood, echoing and crooning on a gasp, on a shudder resounding, resonating, rumbling in his chest. His moans filled the room, pulsed through the water, left him there as a wild, untamed thing – her mouth on him, proffering omens and opuses behind his eyes as they drifted closed.
The beast didn’t open them as she crusaded on, dark lashes covering deeper blues just so he could embody and feel every notion, every semblance, every ricochet of indulgence. His pants, his hisses, were a declaration for her to continue, one of her hands persisting in his hunger, grabbing hold of his ass to steady herself, hips thrusting forward on her assault. His head was raised at some point, as if he were there for some glorious praise or benediction; but it was her, only her, that ever managed to render such a reaction – it only dropped on a growl, on a hint. “Amalia,” he groaned, her name stretched out on deepening tones and guttural expanses, barely able to whisper her name without some mewl crooning from it. But it was also a warning, an impending commotion and release, if she aimed to go any further – control and composure lost somewhere along the way.
Unite and spread the heart apart
