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Summary
“Must you jest at my goodwill, Mydeimos? Fine, undress yourself. I am no longer in any mood to help you.” Your skirt flares when you turn, preparing to stalk to the sofa, but his fingers catch on the fabric, effectively halting you in your attempt. “Mydeimos.” Your voice is chiding, tired, and annoyed, but his fingers do not hold onto your dress tightly. If you so wish, you may slip away.
“Spare my insolence for tonight. I will make it up to you.” The tone he uses is one he can only use around you. Something soft, almost apologetic, rumbling through his chest that could make you ever-so-slightly less incensed.