Larksong Grotto done running

he does not push those teeth away, does not fight emýr's hold on his throat. he welcomes it, paws resting lightly atop broad gray shoulders. his breath comes in whistling gasps. his heart beats wildly against his ribs, as if seeking escape. but there is none for either of them.

prove me wrong, those eyes plead. own me.

those teeth rest just above his jugular, an unspoken threat, and– sick fuck that he is– erys relishes it. emýr's attention, lavished upon him alone. even if it is cruel. even if it is rage.

even if it breaks him.

erys tilts his head back further, baring his throat in full, the gesture as ancient and primal as it is obscene. submission, yes, but not without challenge. there's a dare in the arch of his spine, in the rake of claws against emýr's shoulders. his voice, when it comes again, is hoarse and defiant both.

"do it," he rasps. "do what you came here to do."

a low, dangerous growl vibrates through emýr's chest. erys feels it in his bones. the heat of him, the weight. the way every muscle tenses, caught between restraint and ruin. he's always been a weapon looking for a hand to wield him, and here– now– erys offers himself up like a lamb on an altar.