The Bracken Woods there is nothing fragile about you

the viperess plays with fire; coaxing the length of her body against his. the muscles in his ribcage, in his hindquarters jump with restraint. they are not familiar and he stares ahead, a low rumble building in the strong column of his throat. a warning, perhaps. an army, she promises. an army of ...what? she looks at his sturdy build and assumes it is war that would appease him. though she inadvertently hit the nail on the head of what kind of beast he is: hierarchical and militaristic — was she some sort of witch? he wonders... — he doesn't like being put into a box all the same.

her offer was not exactly appealing to bambam for several reasons, chiefly, that it was all theoretical. he was not made to trust promises. promises without anything solid could not and would not feed him. find me when you can prove your words are good, he tells her. and then we'll talk.

now get off me. a command given with a twinge in his muscles as he snaps his teeth at her, intending to chase her away — if she has not already ceased the cat-like rub of her body along his — at the very least from being so close to him.