DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
The Sword had to relearn the art of taking - of snagging what he could, of wanting, of having, of being permitted to even think outside granting and giving to others. And perhaps he still did, intending to cherish and torment to the best of his ability – but to remember that there was no harm, no shame, in forgoing weights upon shoulders and the overwhelming blows of responsibilities. That the mountains would still stand, even if they were tucked inside the warmth of one another for a morning, for a haze, for a daze.
A sense of triumph unfurled as a laugh against her skin as he won the first challenge – one only known to him, anyway – listening to the noise unfurling from the back of her throat. Satisfied and content, he followed after the trail of pale, ivory skin, intending to cause another, as his mouth reached the rise of shoulders and muscle. His free hand released the back of her head and all the idle crimson locks for prying along the top of her shirt, just barely, so it inched downward, so his lips and beard could trace there too.
Deimos wasn’t without his own exhales though, a breath pooling and hitching along flesh as her fingers found their way under his shirt, teasing in their descent. He might have been flushed too, unknown, indifferent, uncaring at the potential reddening of his cheeks; chasing down the pulse beneath complexions. But as the rest of her pressed closer, entangling further around form, there was a muffled sort of snort, an inherent, instinctual rise of his hips to meet hers.
A sense of triumph unfurled as a laugh against her skin as he won the first challenge – one only known to him, anyway – listening to the noise unfurling from the back of her throat. Satisfied and content, he followed after the trail of pale, ivory skin, intending to cause another, as his mouth reached the rise of shoulders and muscle. His free hand released the back of her head and all the idle crimson locks for prying along the top of her shirt, just barely, so it inched downward, so his lips and beard could trace there too.
Deimos wasn’t without his own exhales though, a breath pooling and hitching along flesh as her fingers found their way under his shirt, teasing in their descent. He might have been flushed too, unknown, indifferent, uncaring at the potential reddening of his cheeks; chasing down the pulse beneath complexions. But as the rest of her pressed closer, entangling further around form, there was a muffled sort of snort, an inherent, instinctual rise of his hips to meet hers.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
