( It's okay, just as long as you don't fill in reactions from him or anything. ;] That's my job! )
If Ric smelled fear, it hadn't been coming from him. Rath was far too caught up in trying to keep the pheromones at bay, the chemicals so wonderfully powerful that even his demonic blood rushed to the surface. Sure, his curses may have sounded... /pained/ in a way, but that was a far cry from the true nature of them - he had only been trying to settle the inevitable cascade of feelings from breaking through the barrier of his free will. If he let the pheromones take hold, he might do something he would regret.
More pressing matters were at hand, now.
His back was to the advancement of the tendrils, and the sounds of dead wood splintering beneath them didn't register past the lust-induced haze that blanketed his senses. Once the things came in contact with his skin, however, he recoiled like he'd been touched by a branding iron. The /last/ thing he needed right now was for something to be touching him.
Five wickedly sharp claws swiped at the tendrils in a last attempt to escape them before they grasped his body, and he fell victim to whatever she'd wished to force upon him. Rum ran like liquid fire down his throat, and he coughed and sputtered in it's wake.
Of course he'd drank alcohol before. And he wasn't a virgin, either, so he wasn't new to the feelings the pheromones were provoking. In the frigid hellhole of Hyoite where he'd grown up, there wasn't much else do to besides drink and... heat sheets to chase away the cold. That was just the way it was in the region he'd reigned from. But he'd never been so inactive a participant before, and everything that was taking place was so... blunt and forced.
Rath's breath hitched at the new behavior of the tendrils, couldn't stop himself from leaning into it. Dammit! Angrily, he observed his body's reactions like a third party. It was as if he wasn't even in sync with his own body anymore, and even his demonic blood was betraying him. He growled low in his throat, the soft 'rrr' sending tremors throughout his chest that she should surely be able to feel under her hands.
Now she was making short work of the lacerations he'd earned back in Zantaric. The flesh had been in the process of closing the wounds due to the shadow magic housed within his body, but the lot of them had reopened when he'd been knocked around earlier.
Still, if he'd known she was going to try and do him a 'favor' by cauterizing his wounds, he would have /never/ approached her.
"F-Fuck!" He cried out from around the bottle, half in pain and half in alarm as Ric's magic singed his skin. The smell was so sickening, he thought he might retch. Tossing his head to the side, he spat the bottle from his mouth and tore free of the tendrils, sprung away from her hand in an attempt to rid himself of her magic. Rath was crouched low to the ground now, his body taut like a cornered, wounded animal. Jet black locks of hair fell over his face, chest heaving with pants of panic. He was still growling, though in a more savage way.
The steam that rose of his body began to tinge some dark purple, until it'd been replaced entirely by curling ribbons of plum smoke. Rath was enchanted with archaic shadow magic, an esoteric manifestation of darkness and demonic energy passed down for generations in his bloodline, and it was currently violently rejecting Ric's intrusion of her own magic. His body pulsed with its wrath, trembled against the painful war waging inside of him. It was as if his insides were melting with the unbearable heat.
"What.. did you do to me..?" He ground out, his lip curled in a snarl to bear his fangs. He forced himself to his feet, albeit with a little difficulty, and clutched at his bare chest with a clawed hand. One staggering step towards her, another, until he was standing right in front of her.
He looked like something born from nightmares. Eyes as silver as spiderwebs narrowed dangerously, the bladed pupil dilated in feral anger. Even his mouth still had traces of blood, which dripped delicately from the razor tips of his vulpine teeth. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to attack her or ... well, attack her. Standing on the edge of the two decisions, wavering.