DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
His reverence had always been into vehemence and violence, the rapturous efforts of vitriol, animosity, and hostility, so ingrained, so imbedded, so inherent in his muscles, in his brawn, in his movements that to exact anything else seemed unordinary, perplexing. But not here, not now, not in the threshold and boundaries and orbit of her, where the sun rose and fell and the moon basked and the stars glistened behind his eyes – not a holy man, not a pious individual, summoning all his homage, dedication, and devotion to Amalia. He didn’t need gods, he didn’t need celestial beings, he didn’t need veneration: it simmered in his blood for her, for her, for her, a play of worship and adulation to her existence and no one else’s. He wanted to bring her light, guidance, protection, the avaricious dedication of his love and ardency, fervent, diligent oblivion. She was solace and sanctuary, a haven, a luminescent, effervescent beam in his gaze; and he wouldn’t allow it to dim, wouldn’t allow it to fade, wouldn’t allow it to seethe or lose its luster. They offered to one another, bodies and words, forms and figures, incandescent, unsaid things that still brimmed on tongues and loosened from lips – his eyes were hooded and then closed altogether, following the arcs and blends of her skin, smooth paths he’d already memorized, kept sheltered in his heart. His mouth traced and imbibed, drunk on the essence of her, ambrosial and acquisitive, not enough, not enough, sketching an outline of her shoulder, head dipping towards her breasts, inhaling on her fire, exhaling on his growls. “Amalia,” he gleaned and crooned and murmured into her skin, a hint of the impending rise and fall, the only thing he could manage to impart behind his teeth: you, you, you. His movements and motions were still controlled, but all the more barbaric and simmering, a smoldering facet of lines and ligaments and muscles and undulations; hips imploring, inveigling, alluring, beguiling, closer and closer still. He wondered if she was simply waiting for him; neither first, nor last, together in some lustful folly, and he almost laughed. It was a challenge, rankling and ricocheting down his spine again, igniting the feral knots in his bones and the looming, poignant crescendo embarking in his loins. Ascending, descending, a pattern in their moans, in their gasps, in their salacious, seductive whispers, but he sought for her to claim victory before his. One hand was lowered, tracing over her thighs, soft, light, almost like a breath, like a whisper, like a chaste kiss, until he traced where they were joined, beckoning a flame, intending to bring her over, for her to fall apart in his ministrations, along the echo of their beating hearts.
Unite and spread the heart apart
