Nymeria & Lilómiel

baby, I'm a sociopath / sweet serial killer / on the warpath / 'cause I love you / just a little too much.

The fond smile flickers, fades, guttering (candle in the wind!) as his gaze—made to meet hers, twin pools of melted cherry and cerise—does not grace her statuesque features. Oh, but Volterra! Does he not realize her heart is meant for him, a treasure trove of affection and tender predilection directed only to his divine touch, promise, and casual company? No companion, even in the throes of it's influence, could change her unchanging faith, her utter and oblivious devotion to her wombmate, bonded, cherished brother. Russet and vermilion is obscured by gray shade, lids sweeping together, lips twisting in part scowl, part ferocious admonishment: stupid Volterra!

She should comfort him, extend a coy invitation for him to step close to her silvered hips, press against him and let the heat of her intoxicating body spell out what words cannot [and will not] explain properly. Yet she, fierce in her absolute abhorrence for his sombre misery, does no such thing. Grow up! They were not meant to be juvenile fools forever, but to be king and queen, emperor and empress; jealousy couldn't get in the way of that. This; this Lilómiel was to be family. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. And sooner rather than later, he must come to terms with that, acknowledge that their chemistry was to be mainly untouched by the catty and peculiar nature of her precious dark baby.

Soft sweet breath, ragged in the nature of a crow's primaries, smooths, straightens into the plush softness of an owl's beauteous wings, and she allows a grateful grin to fold and wrinkle up lovely features. A ripple of her tail, a flick of tufty hairs in quiet approval, and she side-steps, making room for her red-eyed twin.

"He is my Lilómiel," the daughter of Confutatis says proudly. In her enlightened opinion, it's a most fitting name. War-god! He would be flame, and she the quenching rain, balancing each other out in perfect tandem. Yin and yang. Two halves to a whole. The arachnid eyes the dragon cautiously; the delicate black thing unfolds wings and straightens out, finally exposing the downy feathers scattered out silken leather skin. Flashing draconian ivories snap towards Volterra's muzzle, pointed needles aiming to barb through flesh and fat. A ripple of contempt surges through the fragile twining of their bond, a fierce and burning derision coupled with intense hunger. Damn. Mother told her he would need to be fed.

Beneath the son of Tyradon's scrutiny she squirms, lupine muscle slithering, veiled behind a velvet coat. A crooked smirk splits her lips; her head tilts, graceful, as if she is probing outwards (mentally) for what he speaks of. Yes. It's there. The... slow... steady... coming. Like the steady enslaught of winter, or summer, burning flame and incendiary ash, blooming flowers and sweet-smelling smiles. "He's... trying to. It's more like we're reaching out for one another, fumbling together." A little stamp of her right forehoof emphasizes the point. "It's... scary. Alien. Like when we were little, and looked at our reflections for the first time."