but now it is a competition of whichever is heavier:
my will, or the pull of gravity into the grave
my will, or the pull of gravity into the grave
His amusement is a flit of color between the gaps of vines, nothing more than a red-breast flash on a sparrow passing through. She chases after it, no closer to ascertaining the reasoning for it, but delighted by the challenge it presents. Surely he can sense the intrigue and playful grumbling of irritation that doesn’t coalesce into real words, the same as she can sense his teasing withholding of what he deemed to say.
The hunt is not too dissimilar from that sensation. The swoop of the belly as they dive, the giddy glee of success that thrums between them like a taut wire, Deimos’ emotions feeding into her own and making her talons ache with desire to rend and tear. I’m ready, she assures, all savage glee, circling tightly around him and sipping a short length below to account for the throw, ready to pluck the slider from the air with cruel accuracy. Delighting in the game they make of the hunt.
The hunt is not too dissimilar from that sensation. The swoop of the belly as they dive, the giddy glee of success that thrums between them like a taut wire, Deimos’ emotions feeding into her own and making her talons ache with desire to rend and tear. I’m ready, she assures, all savage glee, circling tightly around him and sipping a short length below to account for the throw, ready to pluck the slider from the air with cruel accuracy. Delighting in the game they make of the hunt.
