tell the wolves I'm home
Deimos would always attend to those he cherished, loved, and adored; the ardent weight of his gaze rested entirely on her now, piercing and narrowed, content and fervent. Perhaps it still stood to reason that Evie didn’t have the Attuned bond – that he had to preside in those footholds of love, acceptance, and confidence with every breath and action, with words and feelings, rather than simply letting it flood and carry over. But still, her eyes did much the same, and he couldn’t help but chuckle and shake his head at the vehemence of it all, to be fortunate and in her constant regards; endeared and devoted and together.
The murmur was enough of a tease to combine with his taunts, and together they orchestrated a familiar routine, their own boundaries and predilection for intimate amusements persisting no matter the scenery. Enough that he followed and maneuvered at her prompts, all with a measured and calculated arch to his brow, waiting for something to occur, to unfurl, to unravel – the sign of either yielding to the impending seduction. It wasn’t like Evie to wait; so something else was occurring, and his keen mind endeavored towards it with brushes of moth flames; laid upon petals not unlike some sovereign in his keep, eyes hooded and peering upwards at her, expectant, fond, but waiting to consume. A lion in a den, an eagle in the skies.
Her words inspired a low rumble of laughter, so it echoed against her touch until he found his cheek leaning into it. “I fear I spoil you enough,” to which he wouldn’t cease or subsist, but certainly goad and provoke. Surrounded and pervaded by flames and fervor, he found himself ultimately absorbed by the setting, eager and ready to drown in the wake. “What will it be this time?”
The murmur was enough of a tease to combine with his taunts, and together they orchestrated a familiar routine, their own boundaries and predilection for intimate amusements persisting no matter the scenery. Enough that he followed and maneuvered at her prompts, all with a measured and calculated arch to his brow, waiting for something to occur, to unfurl, to unravel – the sign of either yielding to the impending seduction. It wasn’t like Evie to wait; so something else was occurring, and his keen mind endeavored towards it with brushes of moth flames; laid upon petals not unlike some sovereign in his keep, eyes hooded and peering upwards at her, expectant, fond, but waiting to consume. A lion in a den, an eagle in the skies.
Her words inspired a low rumble of laughter, so it echoed against her touch until he found his cheek leaning into it. “I fear I spoil you enough,” to which he wouldn’t cease or subsist, but certainly goad and provoke. Surrounded and pervaded by flames and fervor, he found himself ultimately absorbed by the setting, eager and ready to drown in the wake. “What will it be this time?”
the ressurected sword
