EVIE
The notion of having a story about her - little Evie Wordsworth, Abandoned and last of her line - is preposterous, but she can’t help the warmth in her expression and the small, pleased smile at the idea; and the drawing, as it begins to take shape in the flour, crude as it is. “Think it’ll encourage people to try and ride them? Melita asked to learn how, maybe we shouldn’t spread the word or people are going to start losing limbs.” There’s a fondness and mirth to her tone, happy to let him steer the conversation sideways, sensing it needs to be done but admittedly uncertain why. Not that Evie is the type to pry; if he wants to focus on her instead, she’s happy to be the butt of the joke.
Temporarily, of course. Evie deeply and truly believes in the spirit of revenge.
Undoubtedly it’s surprise that gives her the opening to his chest, but she grind like a hellion as the ivory shapes of her fingers spread upward onto his neck and clavicle. She’s too up close to evade when she sees him reaching for the flour in turn, but it doesn’t stop her trying to backpedal; laughter hitching into a hiccup of startled noise as she runs straight into the counter with her right hip. “Don’t-!” she tries to threaten through laughter, but it’s useless. Cringing playfully away from his hands does nothing but smear the flour further when it hits her skin, blanching her pink cheeks and sprinkling over her freckles in the shape of his large hands.
Her own come to brace against his front in useless attempt to push him backwards; even without the strength disparity between them, Evie’s arms are useless jello with the force of her laughter. Determined not to give up yet she reaches blindly for the flour he’d been drawing in with one hand, the other catching in his shirt to keep him close so he can’t back away, scooping the powder in her free hand only to shove it upward between their bodies towards his chin and cheek - and the plentiful hair it has opportunity to catch in there.
Temporarily, of course. Evie deeply and truly believes in the spirit of revenge.
Undoubtedly it’s surprise that gives her the opening to his chest, but she grind like a hellion as the ivory shapes of her fingers spread upward onto his neck and clavicle. She’s too up close to evade when she sees him reaching for the flour in turn, but it doesn’t stop her trying to backpedal; laughter hitching into a hiccup of startled noise as she runs straight into the counter with her right hip. “Don’t-!” she tries to threaten through laughter, but it’s useless. Cringing playfully away from his hands does nothing but smear the flour further when it hits her skin, blanching her pink cheeks and sprinkling over her freckles in the shape of his large hands.
Her own come to brace against his front in useless attempt to push him backwards; even without the strength disparity between them, Evie’s arms are useless jello with the force of her laughter. Determined not to give up yet she reaches blindly for the flour he’d been drawing in with one hand, the other catching in his shirt to keep him close so he can’t back away, scooping the powder in her free hand only to shove it upward between their bodies towards his chin and cheek - and the plentiful hair it has opportunity to catch in there.
Don't look up, just let them think
There's no place else you'd rather be
There's no place else you'd rather be
