Lion Head Mesa needy boy speeding off in a limo stretch

For the first little while he was above-ground, if you could call the confines of the small, cramped room as above rather than within.

Accustomed to his freedom, Drusk suffered in these early days in a way that was more esoteric and psychological; under the watch of @Zaahira who refused visits from anyone else, he spent hours huddled at the back of this cave in the dark. Seething, staring, and spurning every attempt that was made to get information.

There was little he could offer them but his fangs, grimacing; his voice a cacophony of sounds they could not translate; laughter and spit, and the occasional lashing-out when he saw a chance at freedom.

They could not hold him forever.

:DD mental/reader note: ambiguously dated to before the travels

a set of long black nails clicked against the sandstone floor.
she was better than this, and she knew it, made it clear in the way she looked at him with a squinted gaze of pure disdain. the position of jodai was coveted and gave her great power within akashingo — she had earned her place, done the work, and this little emasculated mass of worthless meat thought it was within his right to defile her home.
twice.
if she looked closely enough, she could have perhaps recognized him, but there was not even a hint of this now. she scoffs as she leans back against the wall the way a detective would in a chair, eyebrows lifted tauntingly, though the rest of her face remained taut. so, little boy, she hums. are you going to sit there and pout? or are you going to talk? speaking may even buy you freedom, you know.

The boy was afraid, of course he was afraid. There was no point in avoiding the obvious. All he could do now was watch when the bodies came too close and he would bare his fangs, and writhe, and make it as hard as possible for his captors.

The woman, she was smarter. She kept back and she watched, and maybe her words were meant as a goad; he couldn't know. Her tone was simmering and focused. She wanted something from him—and the only answer he had was...

Annevalat! Chakat jin, sajak mesilat!

He frothed and swore, but kept himself back against the wall.

had zaahira any clue what he had said to her, she would have roasted him over a fire right then and there, or perhaps stoned him. thankfully, however, she is oblivious; she only watches him, composed and measured, as he squirms deliciously.
hal tatahadath alearabiatu? she asks then, her accent worn away by the red sands. do you understand what i am saying to you at all?
how pathetic, she thinks. but one way or another, he will talk.
you are afraid, she gestures with a muscled limb to his jagged posture, the stiffness of his muscles. i am not here to harm you, boy. pharaoh is not a fan of needless bloodshed, and i abide by her wishes, if nothing else.
she moves now to stand, to slink close to his flank, arched catlike as she lowers herself down beside him. one foreleg drapes over the other while she turns to expose the curve of her belly, her slender hips. men are simple creatures. perhaps he will respond better to the unimposing bloom of femininity. is there anything i can do to make you feel more comfortable?

Unlike the first tongue she used, the second was quite different and somehow also unintelligible to him. It was of some similar make to the language of mountains, but it flowed like water from her—no, like wind. Blustering.

He spat at the earth and pivoted; and when she drew closer he moved to keep a sight-line of her. There was something being offered here and the boy could assume what based on her posturing; the look in her eyes.

Drusk had never had a woman. As much as he threatened, he was still only a boy. Raised harshly yes, and among terrible men, but still only a boy himself. A lewd stare accompanies his defiance as he drinks in the look of the woman.

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he is quiet now, but to zaahira, this means her ministrations are working. it disgusts her, having such a leer be laid upon her, but it is bitten back behind a soft laugh.
determination blazes behind the bright summery eyes. her thighs part; nothing is left to the boy's imagination, and she takes pride in this. if she knew who had birthed him in this moment, she would have laughed at how similar he was to his father-figure; so easy to sway, so easily struck by the greatest weapon of a woman and stupidly happy about it.
will you speak now, ya azizi? she purrs, gesturing for the boy to come closer as her lips twist into a venomous grin. or do you need more guidance?

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The boy looks upon this woman as a starving man looks upon stale bread; as a drowning man witnesses floating wreckage in the wake of disaster.

Despite the tension in his body (perhaps because of it) he takes a few motions closer as he is lulled by her voice.

Not too close—but enough so his low, laviscious words can rumble to her hotly, Diwelat metorgas oakah ovrakh, mezhah; sorfo thom, and he spits at her again, this time squarely in the face.

His laughter thunders in the room and he sinks against the wall again, comforted by the shadows; his eyes brightly staring out at her in triumph.

he
spits at her
and the guise is immediately foiled. instantly her reflexes kick in and she slams him down against the floor with a paw pressed sharply to his pulse point, a snarl rippling from her throat. a salmon pink tongue slithers from betwixt her lips and runs over her gums, the sharp teeth that now hang low in front of his face.
you listen to me, you roach, her ears fall down into a splay, blades of hickory fur spiked upward. do you know who the fuck i am? i'll serve your tiny cock to pharaoh beside a bed of wine.
again, again, she is reminded of the hubris of the male species! the gall! she could have killed him right then and there if not for the fact that she unfortunately needed him alive. you are weak. pitiful. nothing more than a pile of shit beneath my feet. now;
she leans close now, breath hot and heavy against his lips; sekhmet, burning within her; you will tell me who fucking sent you, or your skull will become my newest altarpiece. your choice, boy.

That stare lasted only a moment. The woman's demure tone fell away immidiately. The glee within Drusk is shoved in to the dirt and pinned there, and all he could see after that was the crooked array of teeth beyond the dirt being ground in to his face. As he had been trying to get a rise out of her, he was glad to see his efforts come to fruition—even if it led to a beating; even if he would wake tomorrow with purple skin and a swollen tongue.

She vollied more words at him which he could not understand. Whatever it was she wanted, she could not get it even if he had the capability to give it; but as Drusk was as ignorant of common as she appeared to be of the voice of the mountain, there was no remedy.

At the very least he was no longer laughing, or grinning, or even struggling against the pressure set upon him.