DEIMOS
Amalia had earned her scars; through heroics and curiosity, through intrigue and sometimes battered luck. They were similar in that regard, occasionally unraveling themselves to save others, neither bothered nor rankled by the notion of their own sacrifices – time and time again proven in the rattled chords of his poisoned lungs or the depths of her wounded heart, seemingly incapable of leaping out of the way. Shields and Swords, layers of offerings between the pair, and while he promised brutality, she proffered faith, and somewhere they settled in the middle, artfully weaving dedication, devotion, ardor, and support, a stoking of conviction and rapture that went farther than they’d likely understood. So he conducted the same for her here, in dapples of sun and forgotten duties, responsibilities cast aside, neither perilous nor terrifying; intending to ravish and embolden, intoxicate and devour, consuming in the enamoring, enticing plays of bliss. He smiled against her whimper, intending to fan the flames, to curl the distinction of merciless pleasure in the motion of her movements, a consistent, constant hum filling in the spaces between hearts, ribs, and souls. His inquiry had been for her, for her, for her, mind and body and entity driven to the decibels of her desires, waiting, wafting, hovering along the threads as she lingered for a moment. When she rose, it was only to ask for his presence again, and he arched a brow, frame tugged upon, an insistent lure, a siren pull, a temptress’s sway, dipping his head so his mouth skimmed along her palms, lips hot and infernal against warm skin.
Deimos had every intention of reveling and wallowing in her growls, purrs, the arches of her lust-driven pursuit. His gaze still hooded, smirk still chiseled, he embarked on a thorough exploration of thighs, navels, and breasts again - while his face was in her grasp, deliberately brushing skin against skin, dragging contortions and portions, slinking, sinuous. He hovered instead of releasing too much brawn and weight, like shudders, like traces, like sketches, outlines, a tantalizing, rich tease, until he was before her all over again. They were like a twisted conflagration of limbs, no end and no beginning, the arch to his brow still there, playful and bold – the smile on his features all she’d require for permission – to taste him, to consume him, to embolden him back into the flames too (and he’d ensure she’d join).
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
