DEIMOS
Pitch for pitch and crescendo for crescendo, waves and torrential storms bristling past his eyes, and he could see, feel, the siren swells plunging down over them, stare rekindled and ignited on her, for her, by her, as they coasted and coaxed. It was a rush of momentous heat and infernal boundaries, those fringes pressing and caressing down along spines and across his chest, beating, beating, beating wanton reveries and rapacious pleasure. He drew into her and she drew into him, no longer sketches or outlines but tapestries and fiendish, avaricious brushstrokes, more than needs and cravings, more than lust and ardor – his name an opus on her breath, and he arced and simmered, smoldered and bucked, played those raptures down the breadth of her thighs and the connection below hips. Her release was a portrait of ecstasy, rising plumes and molten songs, and he wanted to climb and clamber along with her, her name a whisper, a croon, a hymn, a rite, a psalm, across his tongue, behind his teeth. It doesn’t take much more, not with her presence like a sanctum, like a pledge, like a vow along her heavenly bliss, flushed and drawn in her essence as she maneuvered across him. They were pieces and portals and sanctions of oblivion, and he was sated, content, unfurled, unchained, untethered along her hands, mouths upon mouths, her ministrations swallowing him down – until the Sword finally felt the oncoming rush, joined her in liberation and providence, a growl, a murmur, a feverish hiss above whimpers and mewls – her name was a groan, a gasp, a sigh dwindling across his lips and over her cheeks, along her brow, pressed into her hair.
Then he collapsed completely back along the bed, pillows and blankets and everything twisted, turned, in piles, heaps, and entanglements, a warm chuckle residing and echoing from his chest when they were satisfied and complete. His hands lingered on their incline, brushing past the slightest of her curves, gaze a portal of adoration and devotion as he surveyed her again, fingers finally coming to rest along her face, pushing back bits of hair. They could remain in the afterglow for as long as she wanted or desired; he had no misgivings, below and beneath her power, her movements, her motions. The accord of his Cheshire grin curled and coiled though, wild locks everywhere, some manifested statue of satisfaction, bliss, and still warrior machinations outlined in his presence. “This is where we needed to be,” in reference to their complete utter lack of misgivings; no General outposts, no bakery assignations, certain, the accord to his voice solidifying the notion. The beast’s stare only slid away from her to glance out the window, ascertaining the time and how much had passed since they’d simply enjoyed one another. They swept back and riveted to her presence once more, an arch to his brow. “Breakfast or a bath?”
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
