when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
It’s the gentle tempo of her breathing that Wyrm garnishes as reward. Underneath the bejeweled skin she presses close to -so tenderly, impossibly sweet- a change takes place, invisible but to himself because the shifter is directly responsible for the adjustment. He’s subtle, for good reason, about rearranging the nerves because the action could easily backfire, but the slick tendrils of receptive flesh stretch and grow to blossom along the length of his neck where at this very moment, Heartfire is molding one of her signature smiles. Wyrm feels the action, compares it to the moment they had conceived the twins, and thinks to himself how ironic it is that his spotted woman (through the most basic of actions) is now doubling that pleasure with every inch of skin she trails those dark lips over. He’s naughty, but then again he’s never claimed to be a saint.
When she murmurs into him, a shudder involuntarily spasms the length of his emerald body. There’s never been another creature alive that could match Heartfire’s tenacity for acquiring what she desired, Wyrm is certain beyond a doubt that she’ll gain retribution for Bruises actions … one way or another. That mental lens of hers is deadly when it focuses on an enemy and still, when it directs itself to him with the intention of good rather than harm, he finds that he enjoys the spotlight. “You know how to reach me.” He supplies, that switchblade-quick smirk of his own twisting his lips while a short, deep chuckle breaks the sovereign silence.
For now, though, he basks in the feeling of of her appreciation and tucks away each rare kiss to that spot between his ribs - where Rapture and Longclaw hide away. When she’s had her fill and settled comfortably into the curve of his body, Wyrm hums, “I’ll see what I can do for Rapture.”
And he will. But not now, not right this moment. Instead he deigns to repay her affection with a form of his own and in doing so moves around her, beneath her neck like a far too familiar cat so that he can offer his back for her head should she need it while his neck curves ‘round for his teeth to begin their assault on her muscles. A massage, of the horsey nature, and a slow, thorough one at that. He’ll leave soon enough, he always does, but it’s moments like these that make him feel almost … normal.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
