Wicked
Evelyn Claire, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The air itself was thick with the scent of sacred incense and the raw musk of mortal sweat, a heady perfume that clung to the skin like a vow. His hands, which had shaped the very firmament, now traced the delicate architecture of her spine, each vertebra a small altar beneath his celestial touch. She arched agat him, a supplicant offering not prayers but the soft, yielding warmth of her mouth, a silent hymn agat his lips. The boundaries between them dissolved like mist under a rising sun, her whispered gasps echoing in the vast, silent cathedral of their joining. He was the storm and she the fertile earth, trembling as he poured his lightning into her waiting depths, a flood of divine grace that felt like damnation and absolution intertwined. Her nails scored his back, not in defiance but in fervent worship, etching temporary scriptures into his eternal flesh. The world outside ceased its turning, holding its breath for this primal communion of power and surrender. In the shuddering aftermath, their breath mingled, a single shared rhythm in the quiet dark, the only testament to what had been forged between heaven and earth. This was the first covenant, written not in stone but upon the trembling, sweat-sheened canvas of their bodies.
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