Aza had no idea what 'lithesome' meant, but in context, between 'fucking' and 'whore,' it didn't sound respectful. When did Dean start<em> dis</em>liking whores, anyway? "Tawdry fucking hustler," she answered as a growl. It was fifty-fifty whether or not Don and Methuseld could even hear the exchange through the darkness still cocooning the fight. That darkness was ominously beginning to spread, shadows unnaturally drifting and rolling off the bed, creeping over the floor and curling up into the air like fingers of black fog.<br/><br/>Once Dean had managed to mostly fend off the fox's initial salvo, she found herself on her back with him working determinedly to pin her. There was a great deal of hair yanking by both parties, which Dean seemed to think paired nicely with wriggling his hips up against hers and imitating kisses. This probably wasn't much different from his usual method of lovemaking, actually, complete with a questionable level of consent. Like Methuseld, maybe he thought he enjoyed a battle, because that was what he was accustomed to initiating and winning... since he just happened to be bigger, and stronger, and just much better at all this shadow stuff.<br/><br/>Well, then, time to redefine the conflict, to terms more of Aza's liking. The next time his lips came near hers she tipped her chin up and caught them with her own for a real kiss, just as her body went supple and slack beneath his taut one. Her arms wound loosely about his neck rather than attempting a headlock, her legs cradling his hips. And she purred, tongue touching his, one of her palms at his cheek. "No fight," she murmured between more soft little kisses, her other hand cupping the nape of his neck and gently squeezing. His hips moved between her spread thighs again, and she sighed a breathy moan. "Truce, yes? And then, what I might<em>give</em>to you... is more than if you should<em>take</em>it..."<br/><br/>She nuzzled the corner of his jaw below his ear, placing a tender lick over where a moment ago she'd bitten him. Her teeth were still rather fanged and foxlike, though her tone was faultlessly dulcet. "Unchain me... Please? Dean? For you," she whispered, her eyes wide and sparkly silver, her hardly-covered breasts rising against his chest as she gave a slow writhe between his greater weight and the deep pillows. See if<em>that</em>amused him.