DEIMOS
The threat hovered there, enough to make him turn his head back towards her, placing it along the edge of the tub, gaze equally fervent, adoring, and devilish. Half a smile returned to his lips, watching, waiting, as she toyed with her next decision, as they meandered and coiled along similar games and factions. Interest and intrigue, some unsettled challenge sparking, sizzling, smoldering in the depths of his eyes, watching as she finally chose to come closer, tracing over the rest of her. Equal hunger, cravings, abandoning any sense of pretense, sketching, outlining, in the midst of pervading, surrounding silence.
Tease and torment for him as she kneeled, as fingers maneuvered over the water, hovering above him, temptation, enticement, yearning, and never breaching past the surface. He rose then, breaking the veneer, listening to the water thrum and drum, to the rapid, inveigling torrent of his heart. Face and features close, stare locked on her, studying, scrutinizing her face, the softer, hallowed contortions humming from somewhere within. No sighs, no grumbles, no growls, just the palpable, tangible weight of decisions. The Sword always believed, thought, the answer to be the same: you, but just as much as he required some air of reassurance (because they were broken, fragile sometimes, close to shattering, to fracturing, no matter the amount of strength coursing through them; too much loss, too many responsibilities), so did she.
He raised one hand for her to take, to enter the confines, to share the space with him. “Come.” With the other, he snagged at the washcloths and soap settled nearby, eyes returning to her – absorbed, more than just ghosts and parallels in their sanction. “To have one another.” In whatever capacity they chose, wound, and declared; lost in their sanctuary.
Tease and torment for him as she kneeled, as fingers maneuvered over the water, hovering above him, temptation, enticement, yearning, and never breaching past the surface. He rose then, breaking the veneer, listening to the water thrum and drum, to the rapid, inveigling torrent of his heart. Face and features close, stare locked on her, studying, scrutinizing her face, the softer, hallowed contortions humming from somewhere within. No sighs, no grumbles, no growls, just the palpable, tangible weight of decisions. The Sword always believed, thought, the answer to be the same: you, but just as much as he required some air of reassurance (because they were broken, fragile sometimes, close to shattering, to fracturing, no matter the amount of strength coursing through them; too much loss, too many responsibilities), so did she.
He raised one hand for her to take, to enter the confines, to share the space with him. “Come.” With the other, he snagged at the washcloths and soap settled nearby, eyes returning to her – absorbed, more than just ghosts and parallels in their sanction. “To have one another.” In whatever capacity they chose, wound, and declared; lost in their sanctuary.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
