#rotwar

WET MUSCLE MOVES to moisten lower tier;  whiskey hues darting to doting decay.  lithe digits work to fuss with his attire--  busying herself instead of answering gruff inquiry.   it was more often than not the assassin watched him with microscopic precision.  &  there she sat,  neatly upon the elder’s lap.  exasperated sigh fleeing plush mouth.        ❝   mon dieu.  ❞    shaking her head,  palm moving to push against carved features.   ❝  i understand togetherness, oui?  ❞   a fib, obviously.  ❝ but-- why must we dine together.  i am afraid i do not yet share your love for... flesh,  gabriel. ❞