[ What can I say? Blondes with wild personalities might be an actual weakness for him.
When he had first begun to work ( for ) within the Coliseum, it was as a figure of sinister intentions. His first 'manager' had attempted to set up a storyline to go with the inevitable bloodshed, to pit him against people with empathetic backgrounds and capitalize upon his sheer power and less-than-stellar personality; she had been sacked, soon after, because the Coliseum itself — the regulars, the benefactors, the fans! — preferred organic developments. This was not mere spectacle, organized by external officiants, it was bloodsport and violence — no better represented than the god of war who inhabited the arena.
He won, more than he lost, by virtue of being a Shard-bearer. Yet, when other Shard-bearers were introduced to the pleasures of combat, the fights became infectious — the skill and ferocity on display magnetizing. For him to select someone out of the crowd is well-within his bag of tricks, the actions he performs so naturally that make him a fan-favorite ( 'You see, I just love that you never know what he's going to do next!' / 'This is what the Coliseum is about, you know? He wins, he loses, but it's always visceral, it's so cool.' / 'I stopped going for a while, I just wasn't thrilled by the grind, yanno'? Like, it's kinda' neat to know someone's just here to hurt people and not feel bad about it. Not to mention he's a real hottie!' ) — and for him, it is because he enjoys it.
He enjoys fighting, and he enjoys not having to think.
There is no need to think when she punches through the wall of sand he's dragged around himself, revealing him below. His forearms held at an angle to absorb impact, dark claws unsheathing against her thighs to slow her at the moment they connect — eyes burning red, his pupils thinned into mere slits as he smiles, all gritted teeth and savage delight as she fucking flattens him into the dirt. Ow. She is warm, burning-bright-incandescent with her divinity, while his flutters and gutters like a wick trying valiantly to stay alight in a brisk wind. ]
Well, [ he utters, rasping from somewhere between her strong thighs, ] I cannot say this is not a pleasing position, despite the pain.
[ Even battered as he is, strength flagging after a day of combat and a few clashes with this goddess, he folds himself in half at the waist, throwing his legs up behind her in order to attempt to lock his knees around her neck from behind and drag her backwards into a triangle choke. Defiant, as ever, until the last. ]
no subject
When he had first begun to work ( for ) within the Coliseum, it was as a figure of sinister intentions. His first 'manager' had attempted to set up a storyline to go with the inevitable bloodshed, to pit him against people with empathetic backgrounds and capitalize upon his sheer power and less-than-stellar personality; she had been sacked, soon after, because the Coliseum itself — the regulars, the benefactors, the fans! — preferred organic developments. This was not mere spectacle, organized by external officiants, it was bloodsport and violence — no better represented than the god of war who inhabited the arena.
He won, more than he lost, by virtue of being a Shard-bearer. Yet, when other Shard-bearers were introduced to the pleasures of combat, the fights became infectious — the skill and ferocity on display magnetizing. For him to select someone out of the crowd is well-within his bag of tricks, the actions he performs so naturally that make him a fan-favorite ( 'You see, I just love that you never know what he's going to do next!' / 'This is what the Coliseum is about, you know? He wins, he loses, but it's always visceral, it's so cool.' / 'I stopped going for a while, I just wasn't thrilled by the grind, yanno'? Like, it's kinda' neat to know someone's just here to hurt people and not feel bad about it. Not to mention he's a real hottie!' ) — and for him, it is because he enjoys it.
He enjoys fighting, and he enjoys not having to think.
There is no need to think when she punches through the wall of sand he's dragged around himself, revealing him below. His forearms held at an angle to absorb impact, dark claws unsheathing against her thighs to slow her at the moment they connect — eyes burning red, his pupils thinned into mere slits as he smiles, all gritted teeth and savage delight as she fucking flattens him into the dirt. Ow. She is warm, burning-bright-incandescent with her divinity, while his flutters and gutters like a wick trying valiantly to stay alight in a brisk wind. ]
Well, [ he utters, rasping from somewhere between her strong thighs, ] I cannot say this is not a pleasing position, despite the pain.
[ Even battered as he is, strength flagging after a day of combat and a few clashes with this goddess, he folds himself in half at the waist, throwing his legs up behind her in order to attempt to lock his knees around her neck from behind and drag her backwards into a triangle choke. Defiant, as ever, until the last. ]