Had he not moved to begin dealing with the shitty critters, Ruth would have flashed her a feral grin, laughing. He laughed for a while, the widest smirk spread across as he yelled back, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dora, one day, might be you on your knees begging me!” Then shaking his head dramatically, “Yes, yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to do what you say. You can’t make me.”
He’d thank her if she did, though being completely unaware of her minds inner workings Ruth could only dream of such a fantasy. If he allowed someone to whip him, he’d allowed them close, grown attached enough that he could be, ugh, vulnerable and that was something he didn’t indulge in. The heavy doubt that also clouded his mind was her opinion of him, which there was little of given her joy at seeing who her saviour was.
Anyone else, but him.
Still, he wasn’t offended by it and watching her in action was incredibly terrifyingly arousing, even if the excessive gore did turn his stomach a little. His job was putting people back together, so watching folks, even asshats like these fools, be unceremoniously and justifiably dispatched jarred some. He eyed the scene once she’d calmed some. Lips twitching, eventually giving in to his nature and asking, fully seriously, “You think you got him?”
And of course she wasn’t done. He rolled his eyes a little, withdrawing his hand from around the root and catching his breath. Ruth gave a shake of his head, the magic still relatively new to him and his senses, the trail end of it still vibrating along his nerves as he made his way back to her. “Silk rope is for amateurs.” He’d quip back, tone tighter now as he looked over her critically. The slightest of grins began, though he paused it to fold his arms over against his chest, soon enough realising and they were on her, fingers flicking latches with well honed skills, brow heavily furrowed while annoyed frustration filled his gaze. “Every fucking time.”
Ruth set her down, the breastplate removed and discarded, magic coming to one set of fingers while the other peeled away the soaked jerkin. “Every fucking time. You fucking dwarves. This. This is why there aren’t many of you.” Grinding his teeth, Ruth then set his jaw, eyes closing to concentrate. Often he’d grumble disapprovingly while his other hand joined in, the pair working in weaving, knitting flesh properly. “Do. Not. Fucking. Move. You tore your renal artery, if you want to piss normally again, do as you're told.”
He’d thank her if she did, though being completely unaware of her minds inner workings Ruth could only dream of such a fantasy. If he allowed someone to whip him, he’d allowed them close, grown attached enough that he could be, ugh, vulnerable and that was something he didn’t indulge in. The heavy doubt that also clouded his mind was her opinion of him, which there was little of given her joy at seeing who her saviour was.
Anyone else, but him.
Still, he wasn’t offended by it and watching her in action was incredibly terrifyingly arousing, even if the excessive gore did turn his stomach a little. His job was putting people back together, so watching folks, even asshats like these fools, be unceremoniously and justifiably dispatched jarred some. He eyed the scene once she’d calmed some. Lips twitching, eventually giving in to his nature and asking, fully seriously, “You think you got him?”
And of course she wasn’t done. He rolled his eyes a little, withdrawing his hand from around the root and catching his breath. Ruth gave a shake of his head, the magic still relatively new to him and his senses, the trail end of it still vibrating along his nerves as he made his way back to her. “Silk rope is for amateurs.” He’d quip back, tone tighter now as he looked over her critically. The slightest of grins began, though he paused it to fold his arms over against his chest, soon enough realising and they were on her, fingers flicking latches with well honed skills, brow heavily furrowed while annoyed frustration filled his gaze. “Every fucking time.”
Ruth set her down, the breastplate removed and discarded, magic coming to one set of fingers while the other peeled away the soaked jerkin. “Every fucking time. You fucking dwarves. This. This is why there aren’t many of you.” Grinding his teeth, Ruth then set his jaw, eyes closing to concentrate. Often he’d grumble disapprovingly while his other hand joined in, the pair working in weaving, knitting flesh properly. “Do. Not. Fucking. Move. You tore your renal artery, if you want to piss normally again, do as you're told.”
02-28-2024, 02:35 PM
