tell the wolves I'm home
He likely didn’t have a name for it either – interwoven pinnacles and heights of love, of adoration, of lust, of all the feelings and emotions built, fostered, and laden across skin, flesh, and bone. He’d give her anything: a thousand promises on his tongue and through his ribs, where lungs pooled hundreds of breaths across her body and anointed them into forged convictions. The steel of his might pulsed and pressed and crossed. The devotion, the ardor, the compassion welled into ichor and souls, everything uttered and even those left unsaid. He’d chase her through the weeds, the flames, the ocean, the broadest seas, until they were lapsed and laden together, an eternal knot of parallels – earth, fire, blades, the hereafter.
This race didn’t need a triumphant haze like all their other games; infernal boundaries tightening and drawing alongside. He tucked his mouth into her nape while she stuttered and assured, unfurled and raised all those other heights across his senses; the incessant need to drive, pierce, and pulse. A rumble of his prowess followed, something miniscule, a moan hidden and ghosted in feral platitudes, goading, needing, craving, wanting her to unfurl again before he could give way.
Locked around him only insisted his hips maneuvered in the same stead, deeper, harder, intending to overcome, overwhelm; each echoing elation a cajoling, enticing, lure further into the midst. He wasn’t without maneuvering amidst other senses, striving to bring her to heights, to abandon, one hand drawn to the inside of her thighs, curling towards where they merged and offering more sensations, the other steadfast and pulling her into him on each thrust, a tighter, vigorous motion amongst their connected bodies.
This race didn’t need a triumphant haze like all their other games; infernal boundaries tightening and drawing alongside. He tucked his mouth into her nape while she stuttered and assured, unfurled and raised all those other heights across his senses; the incessant need to drive, pierce, and pulse. A rumble of his prowess followed, something miniscule, a moan hidden and ghosted in feral platitudes, goading, needing, craving, wanting her to unfurl again before he could give way.
Locked around him only insisted his hips maneuvered in the same stead, deeper, harder, intending to overcome, overwhelm; each echoing elation a cajoling, enticing, lure further into the midst. He wasn’t without maneuvering amidst other senses, striving to bring her to heights, to abandon, one hand drawn to the inside of her thighs, curling towards where they merged and offering more sensations, the other steadfast and pulling her into him on each thrust, a tighter, vigorous motion amongst their connected bodies.
the ressurected sword
