NIGHT WILL FALL AND DROWN THE SUN
WHEN A GOOD MAN GOES TO WAR
It’s obvious their mutual love language is touch. If it isn’t apparent with their eleven children (eleven times they have met under autumn skies and vibrant trees, though there are more outside of that), it should be in the way they twine around one another like unhindered bits of flame. They are two wispy tendrils burning bright-hot, both silent and raging at the same time, and the sparks they give off land someplace nearby and grow into their own licking flames. But they are the raging, reckless, undeniable tangle of heat that wraps around and through itself until nothing can separate it.
He thinks, in these moments as her lips touch more passionately, that nothing can separate them. Their hearts have grown so close together it is as if they are one, tugged closer by the iron and weed of time and affection. Not even the whispering, skinny, slippery fingers of death can tear them apart, as cliche and sickeningly romantic as that might sound. So too, in physicality, are they unable to be alone. Her words — smoky and low — pry at the pieces of him that had remained dormant for more years than he could count.
She ignites color (among other things) into him and he accepts it (among other things) with open arms.
Their fire burns hotter and he does nothing to put it out. In fact, he encourages it, stroking the glowing embers with his scarred hands until they come alive beneath his palms. In a similar fashion, she comes alive beneath him. While she winds her pale body around his russet one, he places teasing bites against whatever skin he can find. Some are more sultry (a little lip tossed in, his mouth roaming across her flesh) while others are dominating (bruising the tissue beneath his mouth and adding in a few rustic noises from his throat).
When she turns her hips toward him, an audible sigh leaves the clutches of his chest. He takes a moment to observe her beauty (where others might see her charred body and straggling hairs, he sees her both for the glory that she was and the glory that she is) and build the tension between them. His pelvis is ignited with desire, just as he knows hers is, but before he sadates their longing he places his mouth close under the meager remains of her tail, inhaling the scent of her.
“God.” It’s a low, stormy sound riding on the breeze of his exhale. “I really fucking missed this view.” His voice is so deep it could rumble the earth under their feet, but he’s positive she will feel as though the earth is spinning in her knees (if not from the sound of his voice then definitely after they have spent themselves). He presses his mouth closer then, his tongue extending to taste her before he moves forward to press his deep chest against her loins.
With a quick nip to her lower back, the russet stallion mounts his queen and further strokes the fire. It is passionate adventure, one that obviously shows the amount of time they have been apart. He wastes no time in prodding at her favorite delicacies (marking her shoulders and crest with the bruises of his teeth, pushing his heels into the swell of her ribs, moving to the tandem of first slow and then rapidly quick) until they are so spent he wonders if he will be able to drag himself off of her.
He does though, winding his muscular body around her broad one, shining with sweat and the glow of a man after lovemaking. He nudges another quick love-bite against her cheek, whispering, “I love you so much, il mio fuoco.”
Hestoni
@[Scorch] <33