DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
They could be fire and brimstone, and he’d purposefully send their flames into infernos, where pyres would flare and conflagrations would rise, savoring every figment of their intertwined blaze; the heat bending and blurring, scorching along skin and flesh and bone. He snagged at arches and chased after them in revolutions and tides, undulations of sinew, matching her chorus with low rumbles and gravelly rubble, unfurled rhythms maneuvering in tandem, in pace, in union. His were low, diving below the higher pitches of her voice, intending to heighten and reach and pull and grace of her sounds; tongue drawn against her nape, catching at beads of sweat, urging her onward.
Legs wrapped around his hips just brought him closer to her, tilting, angling, finding their ferocity and timing. Hands entangled in his hair caused more shudders along his skin, pooled a myriad of things in his ribs, coiled and contorted and knotted and gnarled. His words might have been nonsensical too, if he had any to share; save for deeper growls and minatory murmurs, a low groan punctured by her shoulder, or pierced beneath her ear. Eventually, his teeth and tongue and lips found her jawline again, following curves until mouths met, devouring and savoring, managing a feat of framework rumbling past his chest. “What do you want?” was a low whisper – meant for pace, for control, for consistency, to send them both over the edge.
Legs wrapped around his hips just brought him closer to her, tilting, angling, finding their ferocity and timing. Hands entangled in his hair caused more shudders along his skin, pooled a myriad of things in his ribs, coiled and contorted and knotted and gnarled. His words might have been nonsensical too, if he had any to share; save for deeper growls and minatory murmurs, a low groan punctured by her shoulder, or pierced beneath her ear. Eventually, his teeth and tongue and lips found her jawline again, following curves until mouths met, devouring and savoring, managing a feat of framework rumbling past his chest. “What do you want?” was a low whisper – meant for pace, for control, for consistency, to send them both over the edge.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
