05-05-2019, 11:21 PM
Atrox has never been one to deny his more base desires.
He has never been one to pretend that they don’t exist.
He has been carnal in nature, a predator before the world was overrun by magic too complex to ever understand. He has sunk his fangs into throats more times than he can count, and he has populated the world with dozens of offspring, but that has never slaked his thirst. Even when his heart had beat for that scarred, foul-mouthed Amazon Queen, he had hungered for more. It was an unquenchable need and he has long since pretended he could ignore it.
“I am not being elusive now,” he says with that roguish smile, with his matted and tangled hair curving around a hard jawline—a face that has never truly known the touch of age. Perhaps it was what happened when the Chamber brought you back from the dead only to rip your heart from your chest. Perhaps it was what happened when your pulse beat underground and then sunk into the heart of Beqanna.
It doesn’t matter.
He is alive now, and he feels the familiar heat flare to life in him.
It has been so long since he has indulged in a comfort such as this.
Ryatah is the perfect indulgence—and she knows it. She’s always known it. There’s something beautiful in the lines of her, a body worn smooth over the years, a purity despite everything she has seen and done. It brings a growl to back of his throat as he finally closes the distance between them, taking the first touch without asking.
Sharp teeth and rough lips find the arch of her neck, breathing in the honeysuckle of her.
It takes everything in him to slow down, to savor rather than rush.
He could lie and say that he keeps control for her sake, but it is for his own pleasure more than anything. He does not often get these chances to steep in history, to teleport to the Beqanna of yesterday, and in this moment, he can close his eyes and pretend. He can pretend that he is in the Chamber and not Tephra. He can pretend the souls of his past are still alive and the game is one that he recognizes; more importantly, one that he cares about.
He nips at her neck, feeling the give of her flesh and feeling a rush of desire because of it.
“I am not gentle,” he warns as his war-scarred lips travel down her neck to her withers.
“I do not expect that matters to you much.”
@[Ryatah]
He has never been one to pretend that they don’t exist.
He has been carnal in nature, a predator before the world was overrun by magic too complex to ever understand. He has sunk his fangs into throats more times than he can count, and he has populated the world with dozens of offspring, but that has never slaked his thirst. Even when his heart had beat for that scarred, foul-mouthed Amazon Queen, he had hungered for more. It was an unquenchable need and he has long since pretended he could ignore it.
“I am not being elusive now,” he says with that roguish smile, with his matted and tangled hair curving around a hard jawline—a face that has never truly known the touch of age. Perhaps it was what happened when the Chamber brought you back from the dead only to rip your heart from your chest. Perhaps it was what happened when your pulse beat underground and then sunk into the heart of Beqanna.
It doesn’t matter.
He is alive now, and he feels the familiar heat flare to life in him.
It has been so long since he has indulged in a comfort such as this.
Ryatah is the perfect indulgence—and she knows it. She’s always known it. There’s something beautiful in the lines of her, a body worn smooth over the years, a purity despite everything she has seen and done. It brings a growl to back of his throat as he finally closes the distance between them, taking the first touch without asking.
Sharp teeth and rough lips find the arch of her neck, breathing in the honeysuckle of her.
It takes everything in him to slow down, to savor rather than rush.
He could lie and say that he keeps control for her sake, but it is for his own pleasure more than anything. He does not often get these chances to steep in history, to teleport to the Beqanna of yesterday, and in this moment, he can close his eyes and pretend. He can pretend that he is in the Chamber and not Tephra. He can pretend the souls of his past are still alive and the game is one that he recognizes; more importantly, one that he cares about.
He nips at her neck, feeling the give of her flesh and feeling a rush of desire because of it.
“I am not gentle,” he warns as his war-scarred lips travel down her neck to her withers.
“I do not expect that matters to you much.”
@[Ryatah]
![[Image: atrox.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/XBppy9VY/atrox.png)
now be defiant, the lion, give them the fight that will open their eyes