DEIMOS
These opportunities were rare and fleeting, between backdrops of treachery, disaster, loss, and ruin, stretches of animosity, and the foreboding filaments of what was to come next. Other than a contented sigh, and his hands skimming over her skin, he had no intention of moving, sinking into the warmth, the ardor, the refrains for as long as they were willing. To linger in the moment, instead of outside its gone vestiges and ether, or craving it for later when everything dissipated: the here and now, the present sanctity, the devoted sanctum they’d created and contorted for themselves. Something to cherish, something to savor, something to hold – because for multiple lives such things had been an illusion.
But not in these instances, where she was real and whole and tangible, not in these breathtaking, poignant tangibles. He could stay there for an eternity and not mind, taken completely in by stars and suns. A pleasant rumble echoed and bounded from his throat, from his chest, as she slid her way down, and only when she attempted to draw away did his gaze rivet back to hers – hands remaining along soft skin and backbone, not permitting an escape. The Sword stayed perfectly still, save for the tilt of his head, the curiosity in his stare resounding along the arch of his brow, waiting for a break in the silence. She added naught, and he arched, lifting his hands to the back of her head, following through until fingers enclosed over her cheeks, holding her with calloused palms. Deimos leaned forward, brow pressing upon hers, before his mouth, his lips, traced billows of air, fire, and fervor over her mouth. “I love you,” again and again and again, an anthem, a promise, a vow he’d let her hear for eternity.
But not in these instances, where she was real and whole and tangible, not in these breathtaking, poignant tangibles. He could stay there for an eternity and not mind, taken completely in by stars and suns. A pleasant rumble echoed and bounded from his throat, from his chest, as she slid her way down, and only when she attempted to draw away did his gaze rivet back to hers – hands remaining along soft skin and backbone, not permitting an escape. The Sword stayed perfectly still, save for the tilt of his head, the curiosity in his stare resounding along the arch of his brow, waiting for a break in the silence. She added naught, and he arched, lifting his hands to the back of her head, following through until fingers enclosed over her cheeks, holding her with calloused palms. Deimos leaned forward, brow pressing upon hers, before his mouth, his lips, traced billows of air, fire, and fervor over her mouth. “I love you,” again and again and again, an anthem, a promise, a vow he’d let her hear for eternity.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
