Firefly Glen bones, coiled spine, patient spring

qupirruarjuit wakes beside the nameless man, and today something is different. a familiar ache rests in her bones, and she nudges her companion with a growl. it is finally time.

she has not been alone with a man since her husband, and she does not relish the feeling. but this one, she supposes, ranks just above the rest. the fact she cannot understand him is a bonus.

the mountain woman begins to circle, hackles bristling, and curls her lip in challenge. they will fight. if he wins, he will bed her and they will part.

she looks at him, gait slowing as he rises from sleep, and she prays for daughters.

he stirs with a grunt, pulled from sleep not by warmth or comfort, but by the tension in the air—and the sweet, alluring scent of something heady. her growl rumbles through his ribs before he even opens his eyes.
he sees her circling. with that, his suspicions are confirmed. and it is not hard to gauge what she wants.
the wind brushes past him as he rises, stiff-legged and slow, but there is no hesitation. his eyes meet hers. he does not ask. does not need to.
this is the old way.
he stands tall, scarred chest lifting with breath. then steps forward once—heavy, solid, accepting. one step, another, and then he is barreling down upon her. attempting to wrestle her to the ground, their teeth snapping in a harsh clash like two swords raised in battle.

he is upon her within seconds, attempting to force her face into the earth. but qupir has fought her fair share of eager men, and none have left her without wounds. not her husband, not the wild men of the mountains, and not this one either. jaws snap open and shut like a vice, aiming to close his muzzle between. and there is no lenience, no friendly waver beneath those eyes.

she will fight him as if her very life hangs in the balance, and if he falters she will wound him greatly.

eyes are wide with a fury unrestrained, jaws foaming with saliva as their bodies slam together like two quaking mountains.

her teeth are at his muzzle before he can pin her fully, and he jerks his head to the side just in time—her fangs graze the skin, not enough to break it, but enough to sting. his own snarl rips loose, guttural.
she fights like a beast unchained. this is a battle raedwulf relishes.
they crash together, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, muscle on muscle. his paws dig for purchase, trying to twist her down, to flip her weight. jaws snapping for the thick ruff of her neck to push her beneath him and claim an early victory, both adrenaline and desire now pooling through all extremities.

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they battle like the beasts of old, something unspoken and primal driving them both.

their battle is a lengthy affair, no shortage of superficial wounds or nicks, but the wild man emerges victorious, and qupirruarjuit finds herself pleased. he wrestles her to the ground with a throaty growl, teeth finding purchase in the fur of her neck. his claws scrabble desperately at her sides for a moment before finding their place too, and the mountain woman knows at long last her fight is over.

she thanks him when all is done with a dip of her head, turning to leave, but pauses, frowning at the effort it takes to speak.

"sons...yours. daughters mine."

raedwulf’s chest heaves, sides rising with exertion, but he does not falter as he leans over her—dominant, unyielding, yet not cruel. his weight pins her, but there is no smugness in his stance. only the fire of victory and the steadiness of one who knows what he has claimed. her throat is beneath his breath, and he holds it with reverence, not scorn. hips working quickly to cement himself.
it is over quicker than he would have liked.
when she dips her head, he steps back, the growl fading to something quiet. respectful. his gaze lingers on her.
her words come low, rough. he does not know all of them, but he understands enough. the message is clear.
his brows lift. a pause.
then a simple nod.
ġe. then watches her go.

fade!