She comes to him, accepting his nip but returning it with a tug on the tatty strands of mane that hang across his forehead - a low, animalistic growl leaves him at the stinging sensation of hairs tugging against skin. Delicious. She is a tease, a succubus, and her shoulder collides against his with a wet thump of flesh on sweaty flesh. Her neck crosses with his, two entwined snakes, and the blunt edges of his teeth aim to rasp sharply up her neck in a lover's kiss. All too soon she withdraws, leaving his simmering skin feeling cold and needy in the absence of her warmth. His groin burns, heat gathering between his thighs and tail thrashing against muscular flanks to display his ire - does this damnable woman know what she does to him? Yes, she probably does, and she probably thrives on it. Cynder, although distracted buried up to her neck in the foal's innards, mimics Mongrel's snort of derision. She, unlike her bonded, is not so weak to the primal urges of the flesh and of the stallion's needs that devour him.

"Then what is it you want?" he demands, but his voice is knowing - he just wants to hear her say it. Lips peel and nostrils open to taste the air, on which hangs the heavy scent that lets him know she is physically accepting of him, at least - the only question is whether she is mentally prepared to take the plunge with her dragon king. Her next words momentarily snap him from his desires, silver eyes turning to lock upon her as his ears slam to lace into his mane. "Stolen? I trust the thief rests beneath the ground now?" Who would dare take her! She is his, or so cries his testosterone, his to own, to service. His queen, destined to rule alongside him, not the chain-bound slave of a lesser creature. And, from what he knows of her, she will not react well to captivity. Her slaver must surely rue the day he took her - if he still has blood in his heart and breath in his lungs, that is.

Her suggestion, her musing, has him thinking, to. The Regime had failed largely because its members were only held together by the faintest sense of loyalty - they were not blood-related, nor had they sworn any sort of blood-oath. For what Confutatis suggested, they would need somebody completely trustworthy, a puppet that they could truly rely on, whose loyalty would never waver. Kin. "Who would be more loyal to you - us - than a child? A child you raise; teach, corrupt. A soldier, devoted to our cause. Our child." Naturally, the black behemoth has ulterior motives. He wants her, needs her, and what better way to have her than to ensure their union will create something great? Any foal of theirs would have strength etched into his very genetics, so think what he could do with the right training. Confutatis', of course - Tyradon has to return to his herd at some point, as much as he would like to see this plan come to fruition. "And, when he or she is old enough to survive alone, strong enough to continue the work we started - you could get the hell out of this shithole and be a queen beside me." A womanizer's smirk flees across his snout as he steps forwards again, aiming to press his meaty chest against hers.