DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
While they needed distractions, while they needed to unburden the wakes tossed along their shoulders, broadening over backs, his still choked, still defied, still rattled against his entity. His half-hearted attempt missed, and he felt nothing – no shame, no humiliation, no chagrin, a callous numbness coiling down his limbs. If anything, he maneuvered his frame in the slightest worry (because maybe that all he was going to do now was mire himself in between trepidation and anarchy) as she tumbled, stumbling.
And bounced back up.
Because that was what they did too – except the Sword was going to take far longer. No mask, no pretenses, no brightness, no stars.
He swung and pivoted his hips, and therefore his tail, away from her mouth; the first billowing of a snort stirring at the ridiculousness, before he smothered them down in his lungs. From there, he propelled and burst forward, intending to collide directly into her side, via chest, muscles, and broad expanse.
And bounced back up.
Because that was what they did too – except the Sword was going to take far longer. No mask, no pretenses, no brightness, no stars.
He swung and pivoted his hips, and therefore his tail, away from her mouth; the first billowing of a snort stirring at the ridiculousness, before he smothered them down in his lungs. From there, he propelled and burst forward, intending to collide directly into her side, via chest, muscles, and broad expanse.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
