zorah graves . (patricides) wrote in exsanguious, @ 2015-08-31 20:54:00 |
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ZORAH: Though there was only two of them they hunted as a whole clan of hyenas should. They had done this dance so many times that they did not need to discuss tactics, who would go where and do what, they just knew. This hunting was as much a part of their relationship as the way they kissed or when they sat down to eat together, it was a normal, healthy part of who had what they were and Zorah loved it. As she slunk through the shadows she could taste Aren on her lips and she knew that he would be waiting for her to drive the prey towards him. They knew the territory well enough to know where the choke points were and as she slipped down a side alley to circle the cougar and kept the layout of the area in her mind.
It wasn’t hard to move the cougar without seeing it, once the shifter caught her scent,knowing it was in hyena territory, it started to move in an attempt to avoid her. Zorah slipped out of her heeled shoes and started to circle inwards, pushing the creature closer and closer to where her mate was waiting.
When she came to the edge of the clear area, narrow between the buildings, she could sense that Aren was there even though she could not see him. Zorah didn’t need to, she knew he was there and between them was the cocksure cougar shifter, glancing this way and that. Zorah ghosted out of the shadows behind him and whistled. His head turned sharply and he growled at her. All she did was smile.
AREN: Even before the cougar came into view Aren became increasingly aware of it, he could hear its breathing and the sound of its footfalls as it came towards him, its scent grew stronger as it mixed with confusion and fear and anger. Aren’s grin was dark and dangerous and it was still on his face when the cougar arrived on the scene, bursting out of the opening and into the clearing without even checking the way ahead was free of danger. The fool. Any shifter that reckless and ignorant deserved whatever end came its way and Aren waited until his mate came striding confidently and predatorily into view. When she smiled it was like everything in the world fell into place and Aren felt a thrum of electric excitement shoot through his veins as a low growl rattled in his throat. That sound rolled from the darkness in the seconds before he stepped out of it and the cougar sensed the movement, whipping their head around towards him with that snarl on his lips.
Aren didn’t say a word, his dark eyes fixed on their prey keenly, his feet carrying him in a pacing arc before the cat on the opposite side to where his mate was standing. It wasn’t easy for him not to look at Zorah when she was right there, so powerful and so pleased with that smile on her face but the longer he kept his gaze off her the sharper his focus became. The hunt was over but the fight had yet to begin. It might not be much of a fight once he got going, the cougar was in good shape and he seemed eager, but Aren was certain of the outcome. There was no fight he could not win, no adversary he could not overcome. If he could make it a good show for his mate, though, that would make things even better.
When the cougar’s gaze wandered back to Zorah and lingered there a little too long Aren’s growl deepened and gained volume. That was unacceptable. Without any further warning he moved in and snatched a handful of the cat’s shirt collar, yanking his opponent back enough so that he could slam a balled fist into the feline’s face. In doing so he not only shattered the cougar’s nose but put himself well and truly between his mate and their prey.
ZORAH: It would easily be enough to watch him beat this shifter into a bloody, messy pulp just because he was the prey that they had come across that night, but the fact that the cougar looked at her and the way Aren growled, taking it as an affront to his claim on her, to their status as mates, her pulse went fast and hard in her throat and she stroked her fingers across her decolletage as she watched that mate of hers, brutal and possessive and loving, pull the other shifter back and smash a fist into his face. It made her feel weak in the knees, a hot flush going through her; watching him fight, display his prowess as a predator, would always get under her skin immediately, it would always make her feel dizzy with admiration and lust, and tonight was no different.
Zorah dropped her shoes, not paying attention to them any more, needing both her hands to steady herself against the wall of the building beside her as she watched the blood explode from the cougar’s nose, the crunching of teeth as that powerful, ancient fist smashed into his face. Barefooted and thrilled, still smiling with excitement and glowing pride, she moved along the wall a little to gain a better view as the ill fated shifter tried to throw a punch back at the older male.
AREN: It was always like this when he was riled, everything was amped up to an absurd level and as possessive and territorial as he was on a good day those traits went through the roof when he was tense and irritated, when all he wanted to do was break bone and spill blood. There might not have been any kind of intent in the cougar’s gaze towards his mate but Aren couldn’t have cared less even if he’d been thinking about it rationally to begin with -- which he most certainly wasn’t -- and before the cat could finish rearing his arm back to swing that punch another strike was being landed.
Aren smashed his fist into the cougar’s face again, snapping his head back before he drove the same powerful blow low into its gut, under the floating ribs so he could hear and feel them crack before the strike was finished. It was his elbow he struck with next, raising and cracking it into the cat’s face with enough force to fracture his cheekbone.
When he stepped back it was with a heaving chest that he did so, adrenaline searing through his veins, his breathing deep and ragged but not from exhaustion. Far from it. The hand that had smashed into the cougar’s face lifted, still balled into a fist, so that Aren could run his tongue over his bloodied knuckles. Waste not want not.
ZORAH: Aren was just so fast, so brutal. There was never any quarter given, there was never a moment for his opponent to breathe, catch their breath, regroup. Watching him fight was always exciting for her but more than that she saw the artistry in it. Even if he did not think of it that way she did, she had her artist’s eye well and truly open when she watched him and every snap and strain of sinew and muscle was something gloriously beautiful to behold to her. Back reeled the cougar, chuffing and wheezing and spitting little horrid curses that bounced weakly off the walls; it nearly fell right over, only catching itself on a stack of wooden palettes that had been forgotten in the alley space.
Keeping to the lip of the shadows she mimicked the motion he made, lifting a hand to her lips, touching her tongue to the knuckle of her index finger. There was no blood there but she could practically taste it on the air anyway. More than anything at that moment, more than watching her mate fight and kill this shifter, Zorah wanted to kiss him, to share the blood and adrenaline with him, but she only whispered his name under her breath, hypnotised.
“Aren.”
AREN: Those moments were weaknesses, needless shows of arrogance and pride that could get you killed or at the very least wounded. Meria had not allowed for such moments, such weaknesses, her only son would be a pillar of strength, a reflection upon her and the rest of the Clan as a whole, unwaveringly strong and indomitable, something to be feared and respected. At his most basic Aren was a weapon and he had never for even a second felt any shame about that, it was something he owned, something he carried with him with his head held high and his shoulders squared. From a young age he had been taught how to incapacitate, how to cripple and maim and destroy, his mother had shown him all the pressure points in a body and how best to utilise them to get the best of an opponent. This cougar didn’t know it yet but he would be broken in every way a body could be broken by brute force alone before the fight was through, before Aren finally took his life, snuffed it out with all the indifference one might show the flame of a candle when its purpose had been served.
That whisper of his name didn’t go unheard and he released a low growl of pleasure as it caressed his senses, almost as sensual as her lips on his skin and only making him want to excite and impress her all the more. Meria would not approve of that, she would frown upon showy displays for the sake of those looking on but his mother was not here now, she could not see the way they behaved with one another. This was for them, this was private and intimate, not something to be shared.
Before those hissed curses had even finished spilling from lips wet with blood Aren was moving forward, his footfalls so light they were little more than whispers against the ground carrying him towards his prey, approaching from the side after he paced to the right, never for a second taking his eyes from his quarry. One hand lashed out with the speed and accuracy of a striking snake and caught that same shirt in his grasp, this time he yanked the cougar forward and down so he could drive his knee up into its chest in a heavy slam that would steal its breath and very possibly break its collarbone.
A choking sound accompanied the breaking of bone, contrapuntal to the gasped shriek of delight from the shadows close by. When the cougar went down it was right into that stack of palettes. If he felt the impact he didn’t show it, or he couldn’t with the pain that was already thudding through his chest cavity. Cats were nothing if not resilient, though, and he snapped back up nearly immediately and he was grasping one of those wooden palettes in his hand. He smashed it into Aren side on.
It wasn’t that Aren saw the strike coming, exactly, but retaliation was certainly expected and Aren’s reflexes were on a par with a cat’s if not superior to most he had met in his lifetime. One arm came up to protect his head and face and when the pallet shattered the splinters were thrown in all directions. It was entirely possible several stuck in the flesh of his arm but Aren was beyond feeling -- let alone reacting to -- that kind of pain, more than anything it was amusing to him, little more than a fleabite. His laughter was a sharp roll off his tongue and followed directly and suddenly, swiftly, by a kick to one of the cougar’s knees. The blow was powerful enough that the joint would strain if not outright buckle and Aren listened for the familiar crunch of bone and cartilage.
A good strike, sharp and clean and fast, but the cougar was ready for it and though the joint did strain and send bolts of pain up his nerves he went with it, moved back with the momentum and managed to save the joint. He took a breath, a short one, all he could afford with such a fast, brutal opponent in front of him, and then he rushed forwards to tackle the hyena shifter and drive him down to the floor.
Impressive. Perhaps the cat would be a half-decent opponent after all, not that Aren would voice or show that train of thought before the feline’s end, the creature would go to its grave never knowing what his murderer thought of his skills, such as they were. When the cougar charged forward he stood his ground just long enough for the other shifter to think he was going to allow himself to be driven to the concrete beneath them but at the last second he twisted enough so that he could drive his prey around and down, carefully positioning his leg so that he knocked the cat’s out from under him. Without even missing a beat he drove a solid slam of a kick up into the cougar’s gut.
Another jolt of pain. Another strike landed. Another swipe at those nine feline lives. The cougar coughed, blood hacking past his lips. One way or another that hyena was coming down to his level, though, and he moved fast, sweeping out against the male’s legs to shatter his balance and give himself a fighting chance at getting a few hits of his own in and, ultimately, getting away from this psycho.
It was a predictable enough strike but one that connected all the same, cats were notoriously quick and Aren was too close to avoid it. Not so close that he couldn’t counter, however, and when he went down he did so in a tight tuck so that he could roll his weight over and around, pivoting on one hand down on the asphalt as his other lashed out in a kick. It caught the cougar in the back of the skull, the kind of blow that would have killed a human but was more of a stunning -- not to mention painful -- strike for a fellow shifter.
It was certainly a stunning blow. It dazed the cougar enough that he retreated rather than attacking, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to strike back with his vision so blurred and his ears ringing so violently. He rolled away, following the momentum of the hit and scrabbling to his feet in an attempt to put distance between them only he stumbled right into the path of the female hyena. The brunette slapped him with a smile, the crack of her palm sharp and sudden enough to split his cheek right open.
Aren was already back on his feet by then, moving his weight with all the grace and ease of a predator comfortable in his own skin and a wealth of experience in combat and violence. There was no doubt in his mind that he had been fighting and killing since long before this cat had come into the world, he was capable enough but there was a youthfulness about him, something in his eyes that told Aren all he needed to know. Being back on his feet already gave him a perfect view of the cougar’s attempt to get distance only to plant himself in Zorah’s path and it was with a toothy grin that he watched his mate land a blow of her own. The laugh that bubbled out of Aren’s throat was unbridled, full and abrupt, so very fitting for a hyena, his mirth out there in the open and undeniable, as impossible to escape as his barbarity. There was enough time for him to meet Zorah’s gaze, the heady exhilaration of combat plain for her to see and when he smiled he showed her his teeth. Just like that he was moving forward again, taking advantage of the cougar’s surprise to land a strike at the back of one knee, driving a hammerstrike of a blow down towards the space between his shoulders.
ZORAH: It didn’t seem fair that he was immobilising the cougar in front of her, practically right at her feet. It was difficult for her not to get involved when he did that kind of thing and she had already broken her own unwritten rule by weighing in with that slap. Zorah was here to watch, she wanted to observe as Aren beat the ever loving shit out of this creature beneath her, beneath him, beneath both of them. It had given as good as could be expected when faced with someone as old and experienced as her mate, a perfect predator, an animal in every sense of the word.
Despite herself and her love of control and delayed gratification she could not help but interject again, this time by slamming her bare foot down on the back of the cougar’s neck, grinding him into the concrete beneath him where Aren had already brought him down to the level he belonged at.
Zorah’s dark eyes rose to look at her mate, almost apologetic for having joined in again.
AREN: When Zorah’s lifted her gaze Aren’s eyes looked all but black in the low light and with the fierce intensity of the situation, the rush of the fight pumping through his veins. The smile on his face was anything but light, anything but innocent and soft, it was sharp like a shark’s and just as hungry, wicked and vicious. With heavy breathing and his heart thundering in his chest, the frustrations from earlier in the night forgotten now that he had gotten a taste of what he needed, he let out a low growl and then dropped his gaze to the lesser shifter at their feet. A pitiful creature, little more than an insect compared to the likes of them.
Driving his knee into the small of the cougar’s back Aren laid his hand on Zorah’s leg, his fingers sliding first up the smooth skin towards her knee and then back down, his gaze fixed now on the back of the cat’s head. Pinned as it was it could only writhe and squirm, like a bug at the mercy of a curious child but there was no curiosity here, the hyenas knew exactly what they were doing. The analogy was not an inaccurate one, though, they were not too dissimilar from those same children at times, the kind that pulled the wings from a fly’s back just to watch it twitch and spasm. Just because they could.
Silent save for his heavy breathing he looked back up at his mate then, gazing at her from behind a veil of dark hair that made his eyes look all the blacker. There was a wordless question in that gaze: Enough?
ZORAH: Enough? It was never enough, not where he was concerned, not where violence was concerned, not with blood or bone, not with physical contact, touch or taste. It was never enough. Zorah stood where she was, her foot on the cougar’s neck, her eyes on her mate as his hand moved over her leg, brushing up to her knee and then smoothing down again. Aren knew it, too, the effect he had on her, the way he made her feel with those simple touches, those looks he levelled at her that were all animal hunger. Aren knew it and he used it to great effect when he touched her that way, when he looked up at her.
Zorah shook her head. No, it was not enough. She didn’t want him to stop, she wanted him to finish what he had started, to get the release of tension that he had needed so badly after their territory had been breached. It was not going to be enough for him to leave the cougar like this and it was not going to be enough for her to watch him if he did not end this fight in a kill. Her foot pressed down harder.
“Finish.” That was all she said, reaching out a hand and pushing back those black curls of his hair so that she could see those near-black eyes. Zorah had come out here with him to achieve a goal and she wanted to watch every second of him reaching it.
AREN: Touch was as much a weapon with them as anything else could be, much more lethal than any blade, they knew precisely where to lay their hands on another to maximum effect and that applied to one another as much as it might a stranger. When Aren set his hand on Zorah’s leg he knew exactly what he was doing, that it would drive her wild, but that was exactly what he wanted. Aren wanted her wild, he wanted her riled up and out of control for what came next, the thrill of watching him fight had gotten her blood pumping but he wanted her on the very brink, so very close to tumbling right over that all he would have to do is make eye contact.
Finishing was exactly what he had in mind, he had every intention of smashing the life right out of this pitiful creature beneath them now and as his mate uttered the word and brushed his hair from his eyes he released a low roll of a growl in the base of his throat, an acknowledgement and a reassurance both.
With his hand already on her leg it was easy for him to close his fingers around her ankle and ease her foot up off the cougar’s neck, freeing the cat enough so that he could roll him roughly over onto his back. It would be more satisfying if the lesser shifter thought he could fight back, if he could put up a struggle for Aren to overcome and subdue. Immediately the feline thrashed and flailed and just as swiftly Aren drove a hammer-strike of a fist down into that already shattered nose, spraying blood and dazing the creature enough as it sputtered and choked that he could slam another blow down into its exposed chest. Bone cracked, shifting unnaturally in the cavity and pressing against organs and Aren saw in the strain on the cougar’s face that the pain was so immense it stopped breathing for the shock of it.
ZORAH: At first she was only dimly aware of the cougar as a far off concept when Aren took hold of her ankle like that and removed her foot from the creature’s neck. It was difficult to concentrate on anything other than the very gentle but deliberate way he touched her, moved her. Then the prey was on it’s back and squirming and fighting back and she watched, thrilled, as Aren smashed his fist down into the cougar’s face; the blood that sprayed from his shattered nose splattered all over her dress, the flecks of arterial red dappling the white fabric between the red flowers that were already printed on it, a subtle addition, one that might go unnoticed if she were walking down the street but closer inspection showed it up for what it truly was.
God, but it was exciting to watch her mate at work. Bone cracked and caved, succumbing to superior strength, the pressure of near three hundred years refined to the force of a fist. Breath stopped in the creature’s lungs, the shock zipping and zapping through synapses was too much for simple mechanical functions like breath to handle and from her vantage point above she saw petechial haemorrhaging in the cougar's eyes, sclera turning pink as he suffocated a little.
Fucked up as it was to the mortal, rational world, this was what he needed. This was what they both needed, ultimately, too long spent in the trappings of human society, too long cowing to the leash of the lions who tested their borders and frayed their tempers. Zorah hoped he felt better now, she hoped it was enough.
AREN: Blood had spread over his knuckles, spattering the back of his hand along with his chest and neck, it was a welcome and familiar feeling, the scent of it on the air was exciting and satisfying, the promise of the taste of it was almost more than he could bear. Zorah standing so close, literally within reach, was at both times helpful and a hindrance, it was always difficult to concentrate when she was in such tight physical proximity but it was thrilling as well, knowing that she could see every little move he made, every single flex of the muscles through his arms, the way his shoulders tightened with tension every time he prepared to land a blow. A captive audience, the only one he ever needed, the one person in all the world who always admired and never judged.
The next strike landed against the cougar’s throat, a devastating blow that collapsed his windpipe and silenced him completely, permanently, choking him on blood as it rushed up into spaces it had no business being. Aren kept his gaze locked on the cat’s face as he struck, wanting the creature to see the predatory calm and control he possessed as he so clinically ended its life.
When he struck the cat in the face again he shattered its jaw completely, blood bubbled and oozed from split lips and a whining sound spilled from the ruined throat and up over its tongue. Its teeth were stained, a couple of them loosed from its jaw completely, they tumbled into the back of its mouth and choked him further. Aren held his bloodied fist aloft, over the battered and broken creature’s face, breathing hard from the thrill and exhilaration of it but wanting his mate to see what he had done before he ended it, before he obliterated this mongrel’s skull and spilled its worthless brains all over the ground.
ZORAH: It might not have been the sort of match that he had been looking for. It was certainly no bear, nothing so fierce or powerful, and the fight had been largely one sided as a result but she had to hope that the tension she could see, the thrill of the violence, that it would be enough to soften the razor edges of his aggravation, to blunt his anger and frustration enough for the time being. Managing him when he was out there on the ledge was difficult, Zorah would have liked nothing more than to let him loose to obliterate whatever and whomever he chose but they had to disguise themselves, they had to be civil when they were absolutely anything but.
Zorah saw what she wanted to see when he paused like that, fist raised in the air so that she could soak in the moment; he had enjoyed the bloody beating, it had reached past the surface to scratch the itch that had been driving him crazy, and even if that was only temporary, even if it lasted mere hours or a few days it was enough to make the present bearable for him and that was what was the most important thing to her.
A surprised little laugh chimed out of her when he finally struck, the suspense breaking with an almighty crunching, cracking, smushing sound, wet brains everywhere, blood and spinal fluid. It all washed over the ground, spilling over her feet, splattering her shins. Zorah was panting now too, even though she had not exerted herself.
AREN: The wet heat across his fist and all up his arm, against his throat and the underside of his chin, the taste of it and the thick smell in the air, it sent a shudder up the length of his spine and chased a satisfied sigh of a sound past his parted lips. Dark eyes flooded with a heady kind of elation turned from the ruin against the ground and up towards Zorah, past the spatter and gore against her feet and lower legs all the way up to her face, his breathing still ragged and heavy but the anger and the ferocious need to destroy at least temporarily worked out of his system. With brain matter and blood and bits of bone all over his hands he felt better now, lighter somehow, and it was with a low rumble of a sound that was almost a purr as much as it was a growl that he rose from where he had been poised over their prey.
Rising to his full height he ran one of those bloody hands up her leg, dragging the edge of her dress up higher than modesty would have permitted but neither of them cared about such things. His fingers trailed a gory trail up across her hip, over her waist and abdomen, through the space between her breasts so he could take hold of her by the back of her neck.
Aren pulled Zorah into him, flush against him, feeling the thunder of her heart and the searing heat of her skin as he took her mouth with his in a hungry kiss. Some of the blood that had erupted from the shattering skull had found its way onto his tongue and he shared that with her as he did everything else, wanting her to taste the kill that had been as much for her benefit as his.
ZORAH: From the moment he started to rise she knew that he was going to kiss her like that. From the trail of his hand, hot with blood, hot with primal tenacity, to the near purr from his throat she knew that now he had killed he would want to share the moment with her, the elation they both felt at the climax of the kill. There would be blood in her hair, bits of skull caught in the dark curls, but she didn’t care. There was blood all over her skin, her legs and her throat, the wash of it between her toes like a gentle ocean wave and just as calming. There was blood in her mouth when he did kiss her, grabbing her, pulling her into him. Zorah was hungry and biting in return, hands latching onto his shirt, body curving to match his.
They had a body to dispose of. What was left of a body, anyway, and it was important that they do that, to keep the territory clean and without anything getting back to hunters or the human authorities, but it was so hard to think when his hands were on her like that, blood all over them, all over the alley, every sense doused in it like petrol, and the kiss the match that set it off.
They had a body to dispose of but all she could do was tug on his shirt and say: “Take me home.” Now.
AREN: In the back of his brain, behind the buzz of excitement and satisfaction in the wake of such a vicious kill, he had already considered the need to clean up after themselves, to pick up the pieces of the creature who had only moments ago been alive. They could hardly leave such a bloody mess behind, it would invite too many questions, welcome all kinds of trouble that Meria would not appreciate and Aren knew better than anyone the kinds of repercussions there could be for upsetting the order of things where his mother was concerned. Their Matriarch would be far from pleased if they left such a telling mess in her territory and Aren was not in the business of defying her rule, not in such a staggering and glaring way at least. The little things he could do. Not this.
At the front of his brain, far from that logic and reason, it was a different story. Up there it was all heat and intensity, passion and desire and need, it was his mate’s hands tugging on his shirt and her breath against his lips when she issued that command. “Body,” he breathed, all but gasped, sounding just as strained and torn as he felt, his brow actually furrowing in what could only be described as distress or at least his version of it. More than anything he wanted to get her back to their apartment, rip that bloodied dress from her body and have his way with her as much as she would have her way with him, they were both so aroused and fired up that there was bound to be a struggle for dominance and even that was something Aren desperately wanted.
The body, though, it was like an insect buzzing in the back of his brain. “Body,” he panted again, groaning almost in complaint with his fingers tangled in her hair and his chest heaving so badly it brushed hers with each deep and rough inhale. They had to take care of the body.
ZORAH: The last thing she was thinking about was the body, but it was also in the forefront of her mind. Disposing of it, the clinical need for precision and preservation of their territory, that was the last thing that she wanted to focus on with Aren kissing her, grabbing her, but the brutality of what he had done to it, that was right there in every heated point of contact. Zorah shoved at him, heeding that groan but choosing to ignore his repeated protests that they needed to take care of the body. Fuck the body. There was time for that.
There was a hollow clanging sound as she shoved him bodily into the side of an industrial garbage can. It might have hurt, even, she was hardly being gentle with him but when did he ever want her gentility? Zorah liked to think she knew what he wanted and it was usually her violence, her ire, the vicious, voracious parts of her that lusted in extremes. Zorah kissed him harder, drew blood from his tongue, pulled at his shirt to untuck it from his pants wherever it had not already worked free while he had been fighting.
“Do you think lion brains look that pretty?” It wasn’t playing fair to whimper those words into his ear but she never played fair when it came to these kinds of games.
AREN: There had been just enough time for a growl to rattle up his throat before she shoved him hard enough to slam him into the side of that dumpster or whatever the hell it was he collided with, Aren was too far gone to notice or care. Though he felt the pulse of discomfort through his back he didn’t complain -- when did he ever? -- and only grabbed at her more desperately as she worked his shirt from the waist of his pants. It wouldn’t be long before she yanked his belt free, he was sure, by now they had been through these motions more times than he could count, enough times that he knew exactly how it went. If they managed to get back to their apartment mostly clothed or at least with a majority of their attire intact then that was saying something.
Those words really weren’t fair and she knew it, the tight groan that knotted in his throat was a sound she knew well, one of unbridled arousal and need, of want and fierce hunger, his hands grabbing her more tightly, more demandingly. That dress of hers was definitely not going to last the night, it was already stained and spattered with blood and gore and beyond the haze of desire and lust he thought he heard the stitching split. Aren didn’t care. Zorah probably wouldn’t either.
Without warning he used that grip he had on her to forcefully swap their places, to shove her back against the garbage can, eliciting a fresh clang from the buckled metal. His hands were already moving again, roughly pulling up the skirt of her dress to get it out of his way.
ZORAH: It hurt when he swapped their places, possibly more than he realised; he was a good deal older than her, stronger, more powerful in every way that a shifter could be. It was just difficult to care when they were caught up in the moment like this; Zorah gasped at the sudden shock of the impact but it didn’t stop her and it didn’t stop him and it never did because they knew the boundaries and the buttons each just as intimately as the other. As much as anything she was relieved that he was back to his normal self again, back to the man, the monster that she knew and loved so well, because before the kill he had been so tense and snappish, so caught up in the indignity of a breach of the territory on top of the sting of knowing he could never hurt the lions who had so badly hurt her months ago. It had worried her on some level, that perhaps there was a level to which he could sink that even she could not reach. Zorah feared losing him to some unknown, primordial depths of insanity that she could not plumb with her youth. It was good to know that he was still with her, still her Aren.
Tear her skirt, rip her bodice, she wouldn’t care so long as she had him there was no worldly possession that she cared for. It might not seem that way, she was materialistic to some degree, but strip it all away and there was only ever Aren.
Agile and enthused she hopped up and he caught her, she wrapped her legs around his hips, one hand free to find that elusive belt buckle, and clutched at his throat with the other, a savage gesture undermined by her words; “Love you, baby.”
AREN: There it was, the fire and the ferocity he loved so much in the woman he had chosen to spend the rest of his days with, from the way she wrapped her legs around him to the way she grabbed at his throat, possessive and aggressive and so very wild she was everything to him, everything he could ever want or need. Whatever she wanted from him she would get it and at moments like this it was easy to succumb, their desires lined up so perfectly, so neatly, amidst all the jagged lines and splattered blood and gore in their surroundings this was tidy and clean. Easy.
A rough breath of excitement rushed out of him, searing up his throat in that tight grasp of hers to rush along the underside of her jaw and through her hair. Loose and wild and tangling around his fingers when he grabbed it, his other hand supporting the underside of one slender toned thigh as she held herself around his waist with the practised ease of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
“Love you too,” he growled before he claimed her lips with his own in a deep hungry kiss, all clashing tongues and blistering heat, holding her head as she worked his belt free with deft fingers, perfectly positioned to slide into place before he slammed her back against the dumpster again.