DEIMOS
Basking in contentment, in satisfaction, he reaped the benefits of her singsong, intending on escorting and kindling another inferno. Before then though, her hands were in his mane, in long, likely wild tassels, stirring more rumbles and croons, a growl beneath the beats of his feral, thawing heart; voices barely more than breathless whims, conveying anything and everything between skin and molten flames; incandescent desires in the coils and raptures of the sun. His devotion was endless as the sea, as the mountains, as the rising heights of the sky, granted and given time and time again. The lazy haze drawn over their figures was hardly familiar, tethered peace they’d carved for themselves, and he was hesitant to let it go, to set it off into the rest of the day – savoring the opportunities they had (greedy predilections set aside; but an avaricious plunge was not). The beast repaid her skimming motions along devil’s backbones and fiend’s spines, over scars, over tattoos, with an irreverent hiss, with a tremble, a shudder, in his figure, never receding from her orbit, lingering in her pull.His mouth does the same, toying and taunting, listening as she rose up on her elbows, as she unfolded notions of new scars. He tilted his head, studying, examining, her frame beginning to become another with tales of woe, tribulations, and trials along its roots, fortifications collected in survival and perseverance. Why she’d be out in a lightning storm was beyond him, but he didn’t question it – he’d committed enough asinine endeavors and exploits in his two lives to understand and comprehend motivations that went well beyond sensical. To hear some good came of it though – Ashetta’s liberation and rescue – was enough to bear the lines no ill will; electricity in arcs and sparks, a sizzling display of silver fragments and contortions. The Sword followed it with his mouth, teeth, and tongue, lips a wanton display as he sought to stoke a constant hum along her skin, enticing, tempting, inveigling, maneuvering on a deliberate, slow, meticulous pace. They’d already savored one another once, and he had every thought to incite the heat, the simmer, the searing rapture and reveries – serpentine and sinuous, sliding down from her hip, threading along her thigh, down to her calves, until finally ending on the ridges of the sparked scar. His eyes, hooded and shameless, unholy and decadent, glanced up to watch, to wonder, as lips pressed back into skin, as his vocals resounded with no space in between, a rush of his smoldering convictions sketched and billowing. “What do you want?”
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
