come here , let me look at you . (but she's saying this in the most annoyed voice ever)
𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒.
THE DROW TWISTS HIS NECK AT AN AWKWARD ANGLE, looking at her through the gauzy veil of his lashes; something devious stirring beneath the surface. There is something witty, insufferable thing he wants to say, and it dangles from the tip of his tongue, caught between his sharp incisors.
Spindly fingers clutch the fresh puncture wound scarring his lower abdomen, but he hadn't asked for help; the red on his hands feels achingly familiar, and reminds him of simpler times, when it hadn't been his own. That tame look on his face feels like a practiced act as he crawls to her, encircling the small of her waist with both arms, entrapping her; vexing, utterly incorrigible.
"Well?" He taunts, the words cloying-sweet on his treacherous tongue, and pushes the jut of his chin against her stomach, flashing those perilous red eyes like a plea, looking like a puppy begging for scraps. "Are you going to heal me, Sharran?" There is a sharpness to his tongue, but it borders on flirtatious.
