and you remember love

tell the wolves I'm home

He’d never thought about returning to a world of exile – but perhaps this was with a different mindset – a world on their own for short, minute fragments of time. The cabins were an intentional surprise; sneaky and compassionate subterfuge after glancing at crash sites or placing letters within boxes; gradually wielding and bending back sprigs of greenery hovering between floorboards, reconstructing beams until they were natural and new. Floorboards layered with vines and petals, drapery condensed into portions and portraits of the earth, windows glassy, open to let the warm spring air in, fire ready in the hearth for whenever necessary. The small pond out back, with its shallow bank and lingering thresholds, enticing points of view for mercurial or calculating notions later. Even the portions where he, Noah, and Cordelia once held campfires out front, so the three separate fortresses laid out like a threshold and village, while they conspired and plotted, sat eager and fervent now.

Having snuck away from receptions and their favored people when the time was right, the arrival was hardly subdued, on thunderbird wings and repose; the art and magnificence of what they’d accomplished tipped and scaled into mutual hearts. Traversing over land and sea ensured the sight of the sunset pressing low over waves, matching crimson highlights into melded blues, and his landing was intentionally brisk, made for amusement and skill. The shift was easy, and talons became hands, snagging and catching at their artifacts, change of clothes and anything else required stuffed within the bag of holding, placed along his shoulder as he waited for her reaction.

Cursory glances aside, he immediately teased, pointing out the two shelters. “I figured if you needed space you could take one of the others,” with a wrinkle to his nose and a wry, boyish grin.

the ressurected sword

Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd

Evie

tell me all of the things

that make you feel at ease

It had been an undoubtedly perfect surprise to have arrived to find their little hideaway mended and tended to, and Evie had only been capable of laughing and shaking her head. There was no use asking how and when Deimos snuck away to do it - or had others do it for him - because he was far too good at sneaking around. The rest of her reaction is entirely sappy, as she spins slowly in place and takes it all in. King’s End in the middle of spring is practically a grove compared to Halo, and the open windows and fading sun paint a mural backdrop that somehow still takes her breath away despite having flown in over the water in a fashion meant for storybooks.

Deimos’ teasing has a laugh slipping out like a surprise, and she turns and smacks a hand gently against his chest, trying - and failing - to level an unimpressed stare his way. Her smile hasn’t faded since she saw him in the greenhouse, and she’s certain her face will be aching by the end of it all, but she just can’t seem to stop. Not even to entertain his sass. “You’ll be lucky to have me out of arms length the entire time we’re here,” she threatens as if it’s at all a negative prospect. Evie isn’t sure she’ll be able to leave him alone if her life depends on it.

Smile softening, she steps into his space, hands coming up to gently frame his face. “I love it,” she whispers, because her heart is screaming it loud enough to make up for the rest. “Show me the inside?” The weather has no bearing on where they go with all the magic at their disposal, but Evie doesn’t assume the surprise and all the effort that had gone into it ends with the exterior.

tell the wolves I'm home

Only a pleased rumble exuded from his chest, the boyish grin entangled and centered, at the length of her own smile and the imminent, forgone conclusion. But he favored the slow, purposeful teases, the plentiful enticements and framed allures, “We will see,” along a grumbled counter, striving to step out of reach of the incoming hand flailing. But then her palms framed his face and he stilled, head tilting at the heady whisper, pondering over the rest of his daring. In a moment, maybe.

“Of course,” followed instead with breaths to ghost over sunrises and crimson flames for hair, stepping back to take her by the hand and lead her along the aperture. They passed by the row of logs where schemes were hatched or news shared, along dirt paths flanked by vibrant greenery, nature stoking its way back into the surface of past expulsions, before he opened the wooden door, standing back so she might have full view of the quarters.

He figured she’d conduct a full investigation, so his brow arched, waiting for the reaction, unfurling a bit of fire in the hearth to see by as the sunrise dipped and clipped through windows; the rustle of petals and drapery, and things once left to settle into the backdrop. Far more intricate and detailed than when he’d last left these Spartan quarters, heading for Torchline to enact a guild in between relic hunting and digging through possibilities; it might’ve looked like something out of groves and canopies, mended and tended forests. A small kitchen, a table for two, fresh wildflowers in a glass vase, petals continuing pathways in various directions, over couches and pillows, between floorboards and canvases, settled upon the bed, taken and snatched at some point so they might’ve matched the ones through their wedding aisle.

Standing along the threshold, his brow arched, before leaning against wooden frames and beams. “What do you think?” Eyes drawn back to hers, he jutted his jawline towards one of the open windows. “There is a pond out back as well, in case you wanted to practice swimming again.”

the ressurected sword

Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd

Evie

tell me all of the things

that make you feel at ease

His teasing evasions end the moment he can tell she is sincere, and even that small indicator of how well he can read her is enough to melt her heart. Things she has never taken for granted before their wedding now seem all the more precious in the wake of such a momentous day dedicated to all the reasons she loves him.

The greenery would seem to otherwise swallow the cabin, but it stands like a befriended fixture instead, as part of the landscape as the ivy and dirt pathways. It continues on, into the cabin, and Evie makes a strangled noise of indiscernible emotion as she takes in petals upon petals, flowers and ferns, like a scene from one of her favored novels. All of it so genuine, so painstakingly detailed.

Turning to see him leaned confident and attractive against the doorframe, any notion of swimming is put to shame by the happy tears that cling to her fiery lashes. Surely to be this happy must be impossible, but even the ache in her cheeks doesn’t matter as she laughs, choked and wet. “It’s perfect. It feels like a dream.” She moves into his gravity just to lean up to kiss him, needing proof that it isn’t. It’s a kiss that lingers, slow and sensual, pouring every ounce of admiration and gratitude for his forethought into it.

Pulling away, she tilts her forehead against his and blinks away the happy tears to make way for her grin. “Would you prefer night swimming, or swimming with the sunrise?” Swimming always ends pleasurably for them, which is frankly the perfect positive reinforcement for Evie to keep learning how to.

tell the wolves I'm home

There would’ve been days long before this one where he might’ve wondered if it had been enough – that age-old, primordial apprehension drawn through spines and bones, a side effect of years spent striving to understand rights from wrongs. But he knew Evie; the way the world bloomed and blossomed around her, the essence of greenery laden through her entire being, the assertion and distinction in how she understood, chased, and snagged at the realm around them. She’d made herself open to emotions, and in turn, he could permit the same, and enough time had passed between the pair that he had figured, with some amount of confidence, that the vines, the petals, the ramparts around them, would be enough to herald another round of delight.

So his smile remained, still juvenile and boyish along the tucked ends of his mouth, as she turned and maneuvered into him, proclaimed the perfection, and he smothered a laugh with the shake of his head and the piercing slate of his gaze solely upon her. “Good,” Deimos had enough time to whisper before she was upon him, a kiss that paused and persisted, contorted over nerves and ichor until he was forced to breathe.

He reached for her thereafter too, one thumb gently maneuvering the tears away, before brows rested together. The preferences hardly mattered, he’d relish any moments amidst the pools or along the cabins, nestled and intertwined. “Sunrise,” came with a grumbling finality. “I am certain we can find something to do until then.”

the ressurected sword

Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd

Evie

tell me all of the things

that make you feel at ease

The weight of his gaze, all-consuming and focused entirely on her instead of this magnificent piece of art he has created, is gift enough. She would drown happy in the blue of his eyes, if only he would keep her there forever. How she can yearn for him in a way that aches to her bones when his name is hers and his ring sits upon her finger is a concept she can't wrap her head around. Everything feels too much all at once - the weight of her love a crushing thing that surely she can't bear -

He quiets every roaring, aching thing with the gentle brush of his thumb beneath her eye, sweeping away her tears and leaving her at the bottom of the ocean of her love but no longer drowning. Magic - as he has always been, as he taught her to be.

"I have plenty of ideas," she murmurs, lifting a hand to fall along the back of his, keeping it still long enough to nuzzle into his palm, pressing kisses across his lifeline and up to his fingertips. Then she takes that same hand and pulls him in from the doorway, careless if it remains opened or closed, and follows the trail of petals to the bedroom where hundreds more await her. Bringing him around in a slow half-circle, she backs him up against the bed and presses lightly, urging him to sit first and then pushing yet again until he is comfortably laid out across the petals with feet still comfortably on the floor. "Can I have one more gift?" It's a whisper, bracing her knees around his hips and leaning down, red hair a curtain that melts against the flower petals surrounding him like a halo as she gently runs the backs of her knuckles down his cheek.

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 ressurected sword

Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd

Evie

tell me all of the things

that make you feel at ease

It's inherently true that Evie is an impatient woman, especially regarding her husband. The mystery of her restraint, however, is for Deimos to unearth. The arch of his brow makes it clear he's intrigued; the rest will come in time.

He looks like the King he will never call himself when he is spread out over the petals and linens. Though Evie stands as his equal, she would bow her head to him all the same in any given circumstance, if only to express some pale measure of fealty that might embody the devotion she feels for him with every iota of her soul.

Her own laughter is a soft undercurrent in the wake of his, certain of the truth of his goading. Though his eyes may be hooded and keen, Evie has not asked for something of this caliber before, and she hopes she may yet still be able to surprise him. Leaning lower, the Evergreen presses trailing kisses down the opposite side where her fingers caress, finding yet more skin past the jut of his jaw and down his neck as she murmurs between motes of affection.

"I want you to lay here and let me lavish my love on you," she murmurs, gentle fingers now sliding into his hair to thread between and gently pull to allow yet more access to the column of his throat. "No interrupting, and no touching anyone but yourself." This may yet be the hardest part of the deal, so Evie withdraws and aims her own hooded gaze at him with a slight quirk of a smile that promises a near future of ecstasy. "I want to spoil you for a while." And since this is their honeymoon, surely he cannot deny her.

tell the wolves I'm home

Caresses were enough to already unearth a shudder rippling through his flesh, and her statement a furrowed brow. Confusion, first and foremost, even as his body instinctively turned into roaming fingers, the pleasurable spread of motion through his spine and down his throat instigating a low grumble in his chest, while he struggled to formulate thoughts. Pondering, if this was somehow punishment for all his prior teasing and taunts, his formidable relish in bringing her to grander and carnal heights well, and multiple times, before himself, or something else altogether.

And Deimos wondered if this was supposed to be a struggle, because all he craved and yearned to do was reach and pull and provoke, to rankle his own fingers along her thighs or map his way across her skin; reach new paths and sojourns, cause her breath to hitch and come undone. To give and give and give until they were spent and then ready for more instances later; uncertain why accepting this current protocol seemed much more challenging than others he’d surmised and presided upon.

The essence of himself being spoiled was all the more confounding, and his eyes widened upon the reflection, before narrowing at her hooded gaze, a war over his own needs and her wants. “I cannot promise that will last,” the roughened gravel of his voice surmised honestly, the rest of his form settling into the bed; a goading of his own, maybe, that her time was limited.

the ressurected sword

Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd

Evie

tell me all of the things

that make you feel at ease

She wonders if it is the urge of man or beast that has him turning subtly into her fingertips, pressing and searching blindly like how a cat might arch its spine into your hand or a canine might press their muzzle against your idle hand. Not unlike the way she follows him like a flower does the sun - it merely reminds her of the power and intrigue that lies within, deeper than the skin she caresses.

It is a request she expected to inspire reticence, doubt, and she is prepared for the time it takes him to mull and ponder as he automatically refutes the notion of being spoiled and pampered. When he hands over his consent, it is perceived as both the gift and burden of trust that it truly is. Smiling at the underlying goad and setting a mental countdown for herself, Evie lowers herself closer until she can kiss him - light, but slow. “Patience, love,” she murmurs, aware he may not heed it.

Not to be rushed despite the assurance of little time, Evie sets about undressing him. Rucking up his shirt and letting him decide if he would remove it entirely himself, she kisses slowly across as much of his torso as she can. Slow, meandering, occasionally laving her tongue against sensitive spots as she maneuvers her way down. There is no teasing or torturing (as there has been in the past) when she reaches his hips and the waistband of his pants. Her hands smooth up his sides to trace his ribs, up his sternum, and down the insides of his arms until her fingers can trace and massage into the lines of his palm. Simultaneously worshipping, memorizing, enticing, and relaxing him.

But alas, hands are necessary if she is going to continue. Pausing, she kisses across one hip as she works blindly to begin removing his pants, allowing any assistance he provides.

tell the wolves I'm home

He’d always been an instinctual, inherent, primordial being; contorting within facets of inclinations and intuitions. Either as man or beast, the response would still be the same – drawn as ever to the corporeal expanses and the earthly, physical shades of their devotion and love and ardor. More than once his breath caught and hitched, and his hands would rise, intending to follow suit, drag with light touches or infernal caresses, uncertain if he should be irritated at the current clause, ignore it entirely and grant in return, or simply allow himself to take. To be pleasured, to be loved, without any stipulation.

A vulnerability – to permit and grant her this rare opportunity, and all the rampant uncertainty that came with it. Willingly giving himself over, extensions of faith and trust and deeper, keener notes, brimmed and pulsed along the surface, and he might’ve said something else had he not been wholly distracted by the touch of her fleeting fingers or mouth; justifying her response with an eyeroll and snort of his own. Reaching, emboldened and audacious as ever, to follow and trap with his lips, for teeth to drag –

And then her hands were unwinding things and he couldn’t help but laugh as his shirt was pushed up as if it were nothing more than skirts; peeled away from skin and over muscles until it bunched ridiculously. But she catered to the whims along skin and muscle while he pulled the rest of it off, flung somewhere else, abdomen and ribs unfurling another semblance of shudders as he fought tooth and nail to stay in one place. Her movements along sinew and flesh and bone inspired multiple hisses, wants, and needs, the rankling of his hands along sheets, fast approaching the drawn line of his patience and fortitude. A few other moments drew him to wondering if she intended to make him beg, which then led to further pondering if he was simply going to do the same to her when he snagged at the right instant.

He eventually might have sank further into the luring, enticing maelstrom of pleasure scratching the surface, of waiting and looming, had her hands not withdrawn, and then wound up elsewhere. There was an incoherent grunt when she eventually reached his pants, and when she only went further with her mouth on his hip, a low growl persisted in the back of his throat. “Tease,” he managed to grind out, guttural and clawing, as if promising reciprocity whenever he could snag it. But the Sword obliged at this juncture, unbuttoning his pants and waiting to unravel in equal measure.

the ressurected sword

Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd

Evie

tell me all of the things

that make you feel at ease

From her periphery, she can see each time his hands shift and rise before falling back to the bed, and it makes her smile privately to herself. It may be a struggle for him to resist, but this is a gift to herself as much as to him. Evie may lavish him in attention and love every day, but she never gets a chance to do so at this slow, memorizing pace.

She does not intend to make him beg, no, nor does she intend for it to be teasing, though she's aware it must feel that way. Her laughter escapes all the same at his accusation, a gust of warmth across his navel as she primly ignores it in favor of divesting him of his bottoms entirely. Evie suspects he does not have the patience for the slow unveiling of layers.

Her hands resume their explorations; down the tops of his thighs, then the insides as they trail back up. Around his hips, the backs of his knees, the beginnings of his happy trail. Gentle, but with enough force to prevent any tickling. With Deimos' body bare to her now, she resists the urge to drink in the view and instead uses her time to kneel between his knees and gently run her lips in a soft caressing line up the side of his cock. Once she reaches the top, she kisses her way back down, and then repeats the motion with the tip of her tongue this time. Still just as languid and self-serving as all the rest of her touches have been - because while this may be his pleasure physically, this is for her to indulge in, to take pleasure in providing while lingering on the stimulating sensations on her own side.

tell the wolves I'm home

Pleasure for pleasure, exposed to only one another; moments he’d only give and grant to her – garments taken and removed and gone somewhere that his mind clearly wasn’t focusing on. Perhaps now Evie would see the reward in slow, meticulous designs, but as he was now on the receiving end, his eyes narrowed, waiting, watching, for the snares to play out. A mesmerizing haze, intertwined and woven with something feral and carnal, head tilting vaguely as his eyes became vastly hooded and piercing. It’d be even more enticing if he could touch as well – but Evie would know her time was becoming more and more limited.

She could laugh all she wanted, he supposed, gaze catching her in firelight and not much else, the pulse of warmth and air skimming over his skin sending a ripple effect through muscles and flesh, an abrupt snort to follow. He’d like to, if he wasn’t quite so enamored and besotted and keen with other efforts. Sinking further into the sheets and petals, and shaking his head as she maneuvered further downward, he strived some speech with maximum effort, murmuring something guttural and muffled. “This is torture,” in some amused sense; she probably knew it too –

Only to be made worse and better simultaneously as her hands explored, and then her mouth. Bewitching and without guile, his breath became a restless hitch, a hiss of indulgence warring between his teeth, hands clenching very close and hovering nearby. Desires and restraints and everything else mixed within had steady moans and inclinations rising through his chest, a shaking of his head as he fought the urge to maneuver and chase and plunge. His hips bucked and rippled instead, especially as her tongue reached certain points. At some measure he managed to choke out other words, but they may not have held much meaning; he couldn’t recall. “Your time is nearly up.”

the ressurected sword

Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd

Evie

tell me all of the things

that make you feel at ease

As a matter of fact, she is seeing the benefits of being slow and meticulous, partially because she has never enjoyed it from this end before. Not for this long, or this slowly. Though she suspects she will still writhe and recoil with impatience the next time he switches their roles.

Her laughter at his groaning claims of torture is muffled by the further torment she inflicts, hands coming to brace down against his hips as they roll and buck, though she has no hope of truly pinning him. With his warning in place she hums in understanding (intentionally with her lips soft and open around his flesh, so he might feel the vibrations) and takes him fully into her mouth, bobbing and luxuriating her tongue in waves at a faster pace than she might have orchestrated had she the time to indulge. Her nails dig slightly into his hips for further sensory overload, content to let this be the last chance she has to torment him before he turns the tables.