tell the wolves I'm home
Deimos tried to do well on his promises – whether they were made from compassion, pettiness, vengeance, or somewhere in between. These laden throngs were swift paybacks for her earlier gifts; a fleeting touch of his fingers along her thighs or upon her core alone, a whispering rhythm of his tongue tracing, outlining, with the incited moans and yearning, pining mewls. If he were more acrimonious, he might have drawn it out a little longer – until there were merely echoes and fringes of caresses, her voice a begging notion far removed from meditation.
But at some point he’d have to give and grant and beseech – so, on a guttural rumble through his chest, the Sword proceeded; curling his fingers into a diligent precision, recalling steps and pathways of emboldened layers and lavishes before. His mouth did the same, until there was a unison of carnal endeavors, persistent in the intention of casting her over and over on pleasurable heights.
But at some point he’d have to give and grant and beseech – so, on a guttural rumble through his chest, the Sword proceeded; curling his fingers into a diligent precision, recalling steps and pathways of emboldened layers and lavishes before. His mouth did the same, until there was a unison of carnal endeavors, persistent in the intention of casting her over and over on pleasurable heights.
the ressurected sword
