DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
He didn’t really have an answer for her first inquiry; it’d meant to be a simple tease and nothing more. The warrior had already shown her a majority of his scars, trivial trophies garnished and gained from a life led by malice and menace, and he wasn’t ashamed of any of them. They were concrete lines and sketches of survival, of existence, of triumph over death – each one another battle survived. The ones at his back weren’t as prominent as the ones lingering along his front, but still intertwined over one another, stories and strokes of another time, another world, where he insisted upon marking others the same, with more demise, with more menace, with more destruction. So he shrugged and smirked, glancing at her over his shoulder, eyes pinpointed on her actions.She really didn’t have to prove herself to him, he knew, he knew, he knew – affection was affection, love was love, and they shared it in more than just desires and lust; his actions were details of his vows and pledges, his assurances and arts. But he allowed, permitted, her to finesse hers in whatever manner she insisted upon, stretching taller, waiting.
There was a towel along his shoulders, intertwining and tracing over the foundation of his muscles, the breadth of his back, and he visibly relaxed, a contented sigh flickering its way through his chest. He didn’t expect her next question though, the aforementioned ink long since forgotten, ancient and primeval, as if it were there from the dawn of time, instead of marking a rite of passage, a celebration of fiends coming together, then dying apart. He raised his head and imagined the tattoo again; hints of blue and black, a skull, meant to emphasize their military might and means, their measures against the enemy, that they were unwavering death, that they were cords of strength and fibers of irreverence. At some point, they had been. But none of them had cheated the swinging scythe. “When my unit finished training,” he spoke, nothing saddened or dismayed; just a memory, just a collection, just an assortment of days gone. “We thought we would all get one together.”
She traced over the blemished and marks, and he rumbled, satisfied, pleased, preening; if he were a cat he might’ve purred, though the emboldened reaches of her touch didn’t go unnoticed. He snorted and arched his brow again as he twisted his head to glance at her. She was an image of daring, pinching, regaining her brazen torment, the sizzle of mischief. Abandoning the cloth and soap in his hands for the moment, sliding them to hang over the edge of the tub, he swiveled his head back around, as if he hadn’t noticed her intentions at all, made no comment, no shock or awe – burrowing into his own diversions and antics, plotting, musing. He folded his arms over his chest and waited – then leaned backwards, intending to use his mass to squish her frame against the other side of the basin.
Unite and spread the heart apart
