[mature] tell that devil to take you back; ryatah

[atrox]

hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive

She reacts so naturally that it only makes the ache spread in his gut. She presses against him and it stokes the fire in his chest until it is an inferno, until it sweeps through every inch of him and makes him nearly blind with the fever of it. His name is a whisper on her lips and he growls in response, nips again with slightly sharpened teeth against the angelic velvet of her neck. He could take it slow, he knows. Goodness knows that he has dragged it out long enough between them, but it is impossible for him now.

Impossible to slow down, to ease the pain and the want in him.

Impossible to decipher the emotions that tangle and wrap around him.

He steps away and continues to bite down her side, gentle and then rough, taking and then soothing until reaches the end of her. He drops his head and bites into her thigh like he had that meeting so long ago, letting his teeth sink into the flesh of her and feeling the shudder race up his spine in response—that coppery feel of her coating his tongue. It was exactly what he knew it would be. Exactly what he knew.

Without further pretense or waiting, he lifts himself over her and into her. Finds that rhythm and the warmth and the need as he grabs for her neck, as his teeth puncture her skin once more. He holds her as he takes her, as he takes everything. There’s a moan in the back of his throat and he says her name—says something for the first time in he doesn’t even know how many pairings that he has had. But it escapes him and he presses it into her, presses the syllables as an exhalation into her spine.

“Ryatah,” again, and he feels that inferno race through him once more.

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING