Nymeria & Lilómiel

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

His ears sew back firm, nettled and needled no doubt by her protective stance, and a flash of irritation, a cacophony of unpleasantry, chords through her sinews, sawing away at any remnants of sorrow. It doesn't matter that Lilómiel antagonized him—no, it mattered that Volterra didn't care, it mattered that he was so... why couldn't he just be happy? Why couldn't her thick-headed brother with his angry eyes and pinned audits realize this is what she didn't want? It glows in her spine, her eyes, her curling neck and demanding stance, a summoning of her mother's presence: courteous annoyance, indignation, and piqued displeasure.

Then he puts it away, his trotted-out façade annoyance, and she huffs a little, relaxing (if somewhat reluctantly.) If he was mature enough to put behind his ire, Nymeria could forgive him for it. It was the least she could do, when it came down to it—if their positions were reversed, she would be immobilized by jealousy and frustration, envious and begrudging him each moment. Even in her youth she knew that; knew that... she wasn't cut out to be selfless. Nobody was truly selfless, anyway, that's what mother said—that if anyone is giving something, they will expect something in return, even if it's something so small as friendship.

Things just don't come for free.

A deep and slow exhale overrides the smaller, more polite notion of her brother's, a profound statement all on its own. It's not meant to be communicative, to speak, and yet it does, in the rise and fall of her breast and the way it whistles out sorrowfully from between her teeth, summoning adjectives of patronizing and pretentious, pretty words on paper more ugly when alive. What does he know? Volterra doesn't have a companion—Volterra couldn't know this feeling of togetherness being woven between her and Lil, this growing, encompassing sensation of being bound and glued together, all their delicate little individual pieces being put aside to make way for their bonded-ness.

One brow arches fiendishly, an arrogant rise that she foolishly lets her face get away with. Had she been a couple weeks younger, she might've even stuck her tongue from between her teeth, let a 'pfft' appropriately and neatly tear apart all his mature musings. "No," Nymeria beseeches him, letting her voice ripen with arrogance, brutishly uncaring of the results. "I'm not his mother, Volt. I'm his friend, his companion." Don't you know what that means?

It hurts. The black's talons hook into flesh without remorse, inscribing his claim unto the dark filly who he rides, causing for a strange glee to echo through their bond. She cannot quite decipher the alien creature's reason for it, not yet; but when she is older, more experienced with his ways, she would realize this pivotal point was where Lilómiel took her hand in his, clutched at her fingers and held her tight.

Nym is quiet—she doesn't let the pain get the better of her perfectly saucy expression, but the clutch of his claws is distracting nonetheless, needle-points of agony shrieking and sliding across shadowy flesh. As Volterra approaches, her cheeky countenance softens to a naïve fondness, a hum of adoration reverbrating through her lungs. Eyelids slide shut, a cherished smile twining across her lips, as she leans forwards to embrace him in a press of blood to seal their bond.

"You could never deserve too much."