heaven sent; any

[Wyrm]

when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:

If he had a healthier sense of humor, he might have laughed. Instead, he narrows his eyes and every trace of easiness in his features disappears along with the action. What soft angles had given him the look of a healthy sort of creature now take sharp edges- a cutting, fierce sort of danger to reflect his mood. He stitches new muscles, molds new skin, and bleeds that golden color until he’s nothing but a melanistic lion with a hard, hungry look. Epithet’s sudden turn of attitude is very unbecoming. In a single, fluid motion he rises and jerks forward with a leap, encasing her between his four legs and pinning her down through probing red eyes.

“What a shame.” He hisses, cord-like tail snapping through the air in irritation. Those feral, sallow teeth of his clicking keenly together while his lips draw back to expose pink gums. “I always took you as one to rise to the occasion, rather than swat it aside.” The dark male growls. Wyrm’s chest is heaving with the exertion of containing himself astride her, a mixture of longing and utter hate broiling deep in his gut. Exasperated, he snarls and pins black, rounded ears to his nape before shoving off her to pace some feet away.

Mistress, the very word makes him scoff as he rounds into a comfortable sitting position once more. He won’t deign to look at Epithet, not until he’s ready. “You test me,” He speaks cooly, “don’t do it again.”

did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?

ooc: worth the wait