DEIMOS
While there was no hesitation in his ardor, there was a quiet, unsung pause in his mind, waiting, waiting, waiting, pondering if he’d overstepped again, if he’d muddled boundaries, if he’d crossed lines, if this world he’d concocted and created wasn’t what she had in mind. They’d always been from separate realms and voids, beyond Natural and Outlander: he blended into too much darkness and she craved the light and though they always met in between, perhaps the Spartan outlook was too little, and his offering too overwhelming. She had her bakery, she had her aspirations, she had her dreams, and he had no intention of interfering in any of those grand distinctions – just ensuring, assuring, she had a place within his if she wanted, if she craved, if she desired. So even as his fingers maneuvered along hips, drifting in slow, languid strokes, he pondered over the inevitable refusal, guarded his heart against the rebuttal. Within the Basin, the beast had always opened up his kingdom to others – it was how they survived - and had faced numerous, countless rejections. Some didn’t like the ice. Some didn’t want mountains. Some saw him and sneered. This spurning would sting a bit more, but he understood.So he lifted his head and stared at her when the whisper met his ears, drinking her in, the boyish curl of his smile betraying the ease of ebullience in her presence; saving the rest of the discussion for later, when they were sated and gratified, indulged and irreverent.
Ravenous and tempestuous, a mercurial shoal and sea, her rapacious encouragements sought condemnation and upheaval, and he followed into the avaricious fathoms with his lips, feral caresses on the inside of her thighs, traces and only the merest of foundations, light sketches, artwork deigned for hunger and wanton reaches. The Sword waited for her shudders, for her moans, for her gasps, for the croons of passion to simper and linger, strings knotted, daring, deigning to be plucked, before continuing in his ministrations, persuasion of strokes and endeavors towards her center. His teeth, tongue, and mouth inscribed and wrote covetous, acquisitive sonnets, oeuvres and masterpieces, compositions and musings, breath billowing along soft skin, tempting, enticing, imploring. Never a pious individual, his homage and tributes were solely to her; the monumental exploration of his sedition spread through hands sliding up along her rib cage, beneath breasts; wanting her to sing, wanting her to fall apart in his grasp.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
