DEIMOS
Were she to ask, the Sword would have carried the world for her – eased it across his shoulders with the myriad of other weights and burns, scars and mettle, daring and audacity stoked on their undulating fibers, on their brawn, on their habitual condemnation. He would have snagged at the wretched edges of her broken heartstrings and mended them together as best he could, aligned them back into the sun, the moon, or the stars; set them alight, intangible, incorporeal, wistful, whimsical fringes no longer so heavy, so cumbersome, so overbearing. He would have taken each and every wound, inward or along flesh, for her, capable of riddling a few more blemishes on nefarious intricacies, on a keen balance of predilections – joining the fortifications of his frame. The beast thought about tugging them from her mind and whittling them down, down, down, into the scorching grit of his tenacity, allowing them to fissure away in his bones, out of sight, out of mind.Except that wasn’t how their world worked – but he’d eternally willing to share the burden.
He followed, followed, followed, chased down remnants and ramparts, leaning into her motions, a rapacious intention igniting in his gaze as her fingers lingered on his jaw, against the bristles of his beard, on the curling fronds of her words. Then she met him, measure for measure, both ravenous and longing, caught in too many snares and nooses, desperate for the freedom, for the liberation of their own entangled enthrallments. He took her inferno and pulsed a feral wake, absorbing lights and benedictions, eyes closed merely to savor the feel of her; mouths scalding, pressing, insistent, why would I ever want to do that a laugh on his tongue that he plucked and brewed into hers. The hunger snatched and snarled, a tireless, tenacious dynamic, and he threatened to unravel right then and there, in the glimpse of her movements, in the possession of her knee, pressing him closer, hers and hers alone.
He stretched downward, arms leaning, still upright, slanted over her form, precision and prowess, lips still enraptured with hers, eyelids opening as she pulled away, stare embracing the rest of her scintillating form, an arch of appreciation on his Cheshire grin. He wasn’t one to shy away from scars, but he saw them again, noted it in the back of his mind – something to cherish, something to behold – (it means you lived), tilting his cranium a fraction at her whisper, at her blush. Deimos followed it down, mouth angled over hers again, silly and devilish because he was allowed to be here – permitted himself to love and enthrall and enjoy, to cherish her and the sacred intervals far as long as he could. “Then we should make a habit of it.”
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
