DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Mundane and droll his days might be, but the baker seemed utterly fascinated by the entire exchange (and was that how this worked – could he have every moment like this one: where they were ensnared in one another’s lives to the brink, to the edges, to the fringes, tales to come home to, to share?). At her joke about his newest blades, he managed a playful scoff and snort, as if particularly offended by this notion. “You can never have enough,” he grumbled, a satisfied smirk on his features for no other reason but impishness and mischief; not voicing the sentiments of why he’d been creating so many (in case he’d needed to outfit a rebellion, in case they needed to attack and assault a manor, in case they were required at a moment’s notice). They were extensions of arms and alms, a balm of munitions and exploits, a way to survive when adversaries were on the horizon, flanking from all sides, rushing into to commit death and destruction in the same fluid motions. But between her arched brows, the light humor, the challenges settling between them, there was also comfort, satisfaction, contentment, light and light and light, something he’d never been used to – yet, found himself quite capable of settling within. They were a reflection of heartbeats and rhythms, interludes of play and diversions, rooted in their amusements, and then lingering in so much more. He was being spoiled; and he relished in it for as long as he could.
Growing all the more accustomed to antics, to scintillation, to seduction, to a rise in upheaval and machinations, a plotting ruse, a devastating grasp, he laughed as she attempted to loosen herself from his grasp. The ensuing chuckles melded and molded and melted together, an echo on the walls he was suddenly overly fond of. He was encouraged for an entirely different reason when Amalia became rigid in his lap, then a shudder, a tremble, he already knew well – following the guttural croon with a delicate trace of his lips on her neck again, intending to trace lines and skin beneath fabric. “I rarely play fair,” the warrior whispered back, billowing the words across flesh, soft, baiting, goading, gestures to ruffle her feathers, to ensue another flutter of notions and expressions. He was rewarded with a movement of her hips, back against him, and he hissed in turn, breath undulating on the back of her neck, along threads of gold.
Then she twisted in his arms, and he made sure to put his glass back on the table, hands fully occupied by her essence, by her existence, by her everything. His eyes, rapt and riveted, swallowed and consumed her radiance, content under her ministrations on his cheeks, a purr, light, curling in his throat. A secret; the art of their musing and ruses – schemed delicately placed, not too difficult, not too duplicitous, but lingering, contortions and proportions to their dances. “You should tell me anyway,” was only followed by his lips gently shifting towards hers, a hair’s breadth away, gaze hooded, then closed.
Unite and spread the heart apart
