DEIMOS
Sinuous and unwinding, serpentine rhythms pressing in along muscles; soothing and maddening to the core, pleasure and fatigue brewing, brimming, contorting in guttural groans. Nothing to hide in the veracity of her motions along his shoulders and skin, arching beneath strokes of finesse, unknotting the rigid muscles until they were fluid structures, fortresses, ramparts, strength, power, precision notched into contentment. The purrs hastened, drawn along his throat, rumbling in accord with the rest of his fervent, unsaid, silent pleas, leaning back into each and every touch. Absorbing, taking, bound and unwound, pieced back together again with the shape of her palms.
Eyes closed, he missed the alterations across the upper contortions of her skin, his own fingers shaping and tracing outlines along her calves, teasingly drawing towards her knees, purposefully light, dulcet. Fleeting, as if they were feathered or never there at all, before another sketch, another canvas of soft caresses.
The kisses along his nape were met with shudders and shivers rolling down his spine, feral enticements searing and smoldering beneath his flesh, harsher intakes of breath, control and composure scarcely, barely maintained. They lingered on a fine threshold somewhere in his brain, fogging, clouding, mystifying, clarity gone on a sensual coil. He remained for a moment, until her fangs notched indentations, marks, bruises, claims along the bend of his neck, towards the skull tattoo, ensuing the briefest of growls. The Reaper would’ve roared his defiance, because no one was ever entitled to his person: unattainable, unreachable, an figure poised for demolition and ruin.
But the Shield had long since possessed the Sword, and there was no arguing that he was hers, tangible or otherwise.
He turned, twisted, still surrounded in her clutches, but his gaze was hooded, carnal, a maelstrom in piercing, rapacious blue. They followed her movements, lingering down her face, ceasing when they came to her lips – mouth descending, hungry, yearning, longing, devouring.
Eyes closed, he missed the alterations across the upper contortions of her skin, his own fingers shaping and tracing outlines along her calves, teasingly drawing towards her knees, purposefully light, dulcet. Fleeting, as if they were feathered or never there at all, before another sketch, another canvas of soft caresses.
The kisses along his nape were met with shudders and shivers rolling down his spine, feral enticements searing and smoldering beneath his flesh, harsher intakes of breath, control and composure scarcely, barely maintained. They lingered on a fine threshold somewhere in his brain, fogging, clouding, mystifying, clarity gone on a sensual coil. He remained for a moment, until her fangs notched indentations, marks, bruises, claims along the bend of his neck, towards the skull tattoo, ensuing the briefest of growls. The Reaper would’ve roared his defiance, because no one was ever entitled to his person: unattainable, unreachable, an figure poised for demolition and ruin.
But the Shield had long since possessed the Sword, and there was no arguing that he was hers, tangible or otherwise.
He turned, twisted, still surrounded in her clutches, but his gaze was hooded, carnal, a maelstrom in piercing, rapacious blue. They followed her movements, lingering down her face, ceasing when they came to her lips – mouth descending, hungry, yearning, longing, devouring.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
