+- Wolf RPG (https://wolf-rpg.com)
+-- Forum: In Character: Roleplaying (https://wolf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=5)
+--- Forum: Rising Sun Valley (https://wolf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=6)
+--- Thread: Stone Circle no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin (/showthread.php?tid=65781)
no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin - Anoré - April 21, 2025
@Drøugr — backdated to april 17
the stone circle pulses with a strength that grows with each passing day. draugr’s men—his warriors—were many things: disciplined, brutal, loyal. the jarl's claim had not been made lightly. and she had been impressed. the wight was truthful, and he showed promise.
she paces the perimeters now, eager for a moment away from the men, for there was a throbbing in her belly that curls with an upset hunger. the woman stubbornly rolls her shoulders, but the motion eases nothing. instincts burn even hotter beneath her skin.
every exchange, every bark and clash of sparring males—muscle slamming onto muscle with teeth bared in mock war—raked an unwanted restlessness within her. a primal thrum that coiled hot and uninvited.
it wasn’t tender. it wasn’t romantic. it was animal.
still, her tail lashed. her stance grew taut. and the scent of sweat and grime stirred that low-burning ache again, like iron struck too many times, ready to break.
she ached to be taken. to feel a grip stronger than her iron-clad restraint. but pride would not let it show in front of these men. her men, perhaps, one day. instead, she searches for blood upon her tongue, just to still the hum beneath her skin.
she calls for drøugr.
RE: no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin - Drøugr - April 21, 2025
ᚦ — the call reaches him in the marrow.
draugr had been overseeing the war circle—scarred backs slamming, men grunting with effort and the hiss of breath between bloodied teeth. but for her voice,
he leaves them without a word.
guided not by her scent—though it drives like fire into his lungs—but by the pull. the knowing. she waits. and he is not a fool. he had seen the tautness in her spine, the flint in her gaze when she looked too long at the fights. he had smelled the heat curling beneath her flesh. she was iron, but even iron must be tempered.
you burn. i smell it on wind. like pitch before fire. what do you need of me?he is not so foolish to believe she wanted him atop her yet. no.
he would resist until she decided she would have him.
RE: no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin - Anoré - April 21, 2025
anoré does not greet him. she is a live wire, muscles tight and snapping. when she finally speaks, it is with a voice roughened by barely contained restraint.
what do you need of me?
"—to stop thinking." she growls, turning to face him fully. her jaw is tight with the effort to not bare teeth.
"i need something that hits back. you, or one of your men." nostrils flare with the wind, catching the scent of sweat and smoke and him. all ash and earth and death. it only pours kerosene on the blaze within her, "i prefer you."
there is no flirtation in her voice. only fire and ice. a berserker's need attempting to mask a woman's want.
"all that muscle, and still no mark on me? fix that."
RE: no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin - Drøugr - April 21, 2025
ᚦ — he watches her, head tilting slightly, as if to better hear the snarl under her breath. the demand. the ache. his blood stirs.
his voice will be low, husked by want and restraint alike.
ek skal give you war.his chin lowers, jaw tensing. heat pours from his body in waves, misting against the cold.
ek skal strike you down, ef that er what you need. break you. hold you down and carve rage from you like bone from flesh.
he comes close—close enough for her to feel his breath across her muzzle, hot and laced in musk and mead.
claim my blood.
RE: no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin - Anoré - April 22, 2025
his musk fans across her face and ugly instinct flares. every inch of the titan threatens to smother her control. like a splinter lodged too deep to ignore.
and she must move now, for every moment spent without gnashing teeth only urges her to pull him closer until there is nothing but sweat and feverish release between them.
it sickens her. so, the woman does not warn.
her shoulder slams into his chest like a battering ram, teeth snapping inches from his throat.
there is nothing false or tender about this. tyr dons her skin—woman made god of wrath and ruin. and her snarl is no mere sound. it is torn straight from the gut and rattles through her ribs like the drumbeat of death.
"then fight, norseman." she rasps, hoarse with heat and hunger clawing at her throat 'til it is raw, "i told you before: words mean little."
she shoves him again, daring him to answer, eyes wild with something torn between desire and slaughter-want, "—i've seen your men, your lands. now show me how you conquer."