He looked down at her, his face sober as he took in the rather wide swath of death and distruction that she had used to get to him—mass planticide. He snorted at her mock pouting, as well as her display, when it appeared that she was distressed that he had left her. Everything about her was so serious—until one got to know Ecco well. She was all about the show, and he rolled his eyes and stepped forward to her, closing the distance between them. His cold, not dead body brushed with the warmth of hers, and he exhaled audibly, sucking what little life was left of the world around them, shriveling up the leaves until they were black and falling off the trees around them like crinkled pieces of crushed origami. Deimos moved his head into the crook of her neck, and then stood tall looking past her body and into the open expanse.
“You know what I have been about, you silly girl,” he says. He is not the nicest to her, but that is not in his personality, and Ecco knows that. “The wolf is on his last legs; the time is coming sooner than even I would have suspected. But even magicians do not know everything.” His voice carries warmth despite the briskness he feels. Deimos, the son of Mars, is death incarnate. And yet, he has made his bed with the woman at his side. He does not think twice to question the nature of their relationship. Does it have a label? This writer is not yet certain. But what is obvious is that Deimos has taken a liking to the lavender mare—despite her ever lingering mother—that he has not taken in another individual in a lifetime. She had given him power, and he had given her; a girl.
Deimos had lingered long enough to know that the child was a girl, and he had not ventured too far from Ecco’s side ever since.
Deimos had a Deathwish. Literally.
And yet, here in this twisted menagerie of emotions he’d learned to develop for the woman into whose embrace he has so willingly stepped into, Deimos finds that even for such a demon as he, peace is found, even if it is fleeting.
Yet, even still—while he is having his very serious thought process—he hears her continue to pout… bestowing upon him another obtrusive nickname. Puddin’. Just as her ability to take the world of its life, she would do whatever she could to get underneath his skin—a place she very much liked to be. Deimos snorts again, and steps back from her—bringing his red eyes down to stare into her exquisite face. “About as much as you miss me, sugar.” Again with the sarcasm.
He rotates around her then, nipping her rump with just the barest bit of teeth. When he comes back around her he poses, showing off his fine black muscled body rippling underneath pleather… because he knows that’s how she likes her men. Beautiful, well chisled, black…
And squeaky.
DEIMOS
cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
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