Whitebark Stream put your ring back on honey-tits, you haven't had enough porridge this morning (mtr.)

@Wintersbane
a.k.a babyg mode activated ft. reunion
Setting Morning, during return journey.
Time Sometime during 1.23-1.27.

The serenity that comes with seclusion is one of the many reasons why Aure appreciates solitary travel. Another reason is that there were no companions to see how frequently she made an utter fool of herself; first with that stubborn maple's-syrup, and now... this. This was her, shivering on the riverside crags, still drowned cold from her tousle with this bedeviled stream, and... nothing but nothing to show for it. (Twigs don't count.)

Sniffling through a pink, soot-smudged nose and blinking hard through runny eyes, she made to hobble down from her snow-dusted perch. But-- her coltish legs had never been more colt-wobbly, and frost pricked at her dazed eyes, . A snowshoe paw held itself in the winter air for a moment, before she promptly floundered, pitched, and Frenched the snow scars-first with a strangled yip.

Any and all fishers who were able to preform within their element had the pathetic skayona's utter and unending admiration.

Otherwise, as said before: Aure couldn't be more appreciative of traveling alone, because nobody would see her persistent lack of decorum. Nobody from Drageda would see this. She would rather drown herself in the creek if anybody saw this: a scrawny, winter rabbit of a female with her face down, bum-up, buried to the shoulders, and hindlegs childishly stomping in vain. She would rather choke on a fishbone-wishbone than know someone heard her muffled, tearful procession of injuraturi and rugăciuni finale.

She wouldn't be remembered as the skayona-of-the-sea. She would never find her brother, or see her Drakru or dragă again. No. She would be remembered by the fish that slapped her so badly it still stung; she would freeze to death of cold and starvation, and become known by cruel fauna alike as Aure, She Who Died with Her Ass in the Air.

with a semi-solid presence in permafrost hollows wintersbane takes a break from ceaseless recruitment in favor of exploring the territories of the taiga further, curious about what resources they had to offer the vartija; because without competition from any other packs in the region wintersbane had every intention of taking advantage of the resources provided by the neutral territories in the region. anything that would give the vartija an advantage — which would no doubt cause strife if any other pack decided to try to settle in the taiga ( oops ) — but until that became a situation wintersbane put it out of his mind. for now, the taiga belonged to them.

there is mild surprise when he comes across a familiar pale sylph ( identity tell-tale by her scent ) buried into the snow bank up to her shoulders with her bum in the air. if wintersbane would've been a gentleman he would've rushed forward with the intention to help her. instead, a loud laugh rips itself from deep within his chest. to say this wasn't a predicament he ever expected to find himself would absolutely be an understatement. if he'd thought aure was elegant and prim she appeared quite determined to prove him wrong. and here i thought you weren't a damsel in distress. he drawls, feeling the intense need to tease her. you want help there, princess? he asks, trying his best to mask the laughter in his baritone.

Every part of her froze at that voice, the question forgotten in the wake of memories of late autumn and of sanctuary with Easthollow and — apărător?! The fur along what was seen of her broke out in shivers of joy, and had she been unearthed, she would've twirled right into her once-guardian's embrace.

As it was though, Aure was still quite intimate with the earth, so she had to compensate for a frenzied stamping of her hindpaws and her tail shivering with heartiness; a low, embarassed-but-thrilled whine arced up to him from beneath the snows. Well, she couldn't actually reply; not in a way that he'd hear her. But her eyes began to prick with tears at his teasing, because Wintersbane was the second predicament today... but not entirely unwelcome, truth be told.

It'd been so long since she'd seen him, heard him, and there was an honest ache in her soul at how he'd guided her from the tail-end of the Sunspires all the way to its crown. Shameful of her as it was, the ache grew from her soul and into her body; and if she hadn't been so flustered of her position before... well, now that he'd arrived and it was he who found her like this... The skayona pressed her eyes closed, hard, against the indolent mirth that'd been his laugh; the husk of it.

He was so cruel.

But then, as with everything, she took his inquiry to heart; her tail was soon feathering beseechingly at her hocks, and she tried to lower her boney bum on them to further plead for his help; "Yes, please. Please please please, please. Please help me, please! Please?" Aure would nip him in the nose for those little epithets later, but for now, she'd condescend to more begging if only to see the sunlight and breathe once again. She would really cry if she didn't.

there is a moment where wintersbane — as the pale sylph's predicament finally sinks in in full — worries if she can actually breathe. it's enough to bite back the brunt force of the mirth that rises like a hiccup in his throat. unavoidable and unbidden. but there was no telling how long she'd actually been face first in the snow mound and the rise and fall of her sides assured him that she was, indeed, breathing. for the time being, at least. she stops her indolent stomping and lowers her bum to the ground and he draws nearer, circling around her in an effort to examine. it was hard to tell if the snow mound was just that, or if there was something earthen beneath that she was stuck in. he is inclined to assume the latter if only because if it was just snow surely she'd have the ability to pull her own head out.

but it's not like he's ever seen anyone in this type of situation before and thus has no previous experience to draw from. stay still. he commands as he moves to her left side begins to dig at the snow to loosen it. he follows the line of her shoulder, side pressed against her own so he doesn't accidentally hit her in his ( hopefully not futile ) effort to dig her free.

The more pressure that is rid of her thin shoulders, the more her tail hitches to and fro from between her hocks; at the prospect of sunlight and, now, seeing apărător once more. The mauve of him is pressed against the ivory of her, and the strain of musculature along her made her quiver; but she obeyed that command all the same. Please, please hurry up- pleasepleaseplease— And once there was enough wriggle room, she wrenched herself from the frost, squeaking with a hiccup of relief—

If there was one thing that Aure was seasoned in and had no shortage of, it was unending affection, in the form of nuzzling and kisses.

With a pirouette into Wintersbane, intent on crowding against him and cuddling him into a snowy tomb and inciting a slurring of "Apărător apărător apărător apărător apărător!
Cum pot să vă mulțumesc vreodată? N-am crezut niciodată că te voi vedea din nou!" while entirely forgetting herself, any arousal there'd been, and resolutely kneading the crown of her head into the silver of his throat, his jaw, his snout. Her tail was an untamed flurry behind her.

All the same, the dove pecked his cheeks and temples with incessant kisses of abysmal gratitude, the ridiculous tears from before warbling in her argent eyes. But then she delievered a quick, nipping kiss to his temple, and withdrew to pout up at him, doing her best to return to regality. "Și nu sunt o prințesă! Or a distressed damsel!" But her absolutely non-threatening fury quickly melted as she crescented back into him, smiling without constraint.

wintersbane's digging wrought victory for with a tug from the pale sylph herself, aure is free! relief causes the tundrian to slump slightly against the uneven snow and he aims to cast her a smug, side glance only to be taken throughly off guard by her utter excitement at being free. aure's gratitude is unparalleled as she then begins to pepper him in a flurry of kisses all over his cheeks and temples. and now it's wintersbane's turn to gasp for air as he lifts his chin. because damnit he wants to give her a hard time about it and it's impossible to taunt her — in good nature — when she's showering him with her gratitude along with a whole slew of words he doesn't know.

ok, ok, ok. like an owner to their over excited doggo that hasn't seen them in a few hours that felt like eighty four years. the flurry of kisses ends with a nipping kiss to his temple, allowed with a wag of his tail in the snow that unintentionally forms a mini snow-angel wing. i should rescue you more often. the tundrian flirts with a crooked grin and rolls his eyes theatrically as she pouts up at him and tells him that she isn't a damsel in distress.

bullshit. wintersbane counters with a snort that couldn't be more condescending. you think so? then what d'you call that? he gestures with a large paw to the heap of snow where she'd been stuck and he'd dug her up. because i'd definitely call that a situation in which you were, in fact, a damsel in distress.

”No." Her denial was faint and insistent, compared to the baritone that tumbled through her; and rather than look to where she’d most certainly been in distress,  she pressed her scarred face further into the periwinkle ruff. ”I-I was fine, I could have shown you that... that I had everything under control.” With an inward curve of slight shoulders, Aure stubbornly nestled into her old friend, pouting the whole while.

His once-protected seemed intent, too, find a temporary respite from all weariness of travel and her recent fatigue in the curve of his neck, his chest. That was, until his nonchalant gesture caught her eye —

Without another word, she withdrew, pupils blown and surging for his paw through an urge that had consumed her during childhood. Her breath skipped towards his paw, and then her tongue and teeth and scarred lips followed as she locked all upon his ankle. Eyes gleamed like stars, brimming with delight as an appallingly smug, girlish, self-assured giggle quivered from her.

In her conquest of his ankle, which she now began to — ever so gently — gnaw on, it had left the pale curve of her neck and shoulders exposed to the tundrian. ”Ith this distreth enoufs for yous?” came the mischievous purl. Should he decide to exact whatever he thought proper upon her impish (oblivious) self, well... she wasn’t exactly going here, when she’d finally caught something.

she is insistent but wintersbane doesn't buy her 'no' at all. he offers her a 'oh really?' and skeptical lift of his brow. i won't tell anyone, don't worry. he assures her smugly, lifting his chin so that she could tuck her face against him. he's not big for invasion of personal space but what the hell, this was nice; and who was he to deny her her manner of offering him gratitude? not that...he'd done it for any reason other than genuine concern — even if it had came after the mirth that seeing her in that ridiculous ( if not a bit sexy i mean let's be honest here ) position.

unsuspectingly, she launches herself at his paw and gnaws at it. for a moment it twists something sorrowfully in him. it reminds him of astara, though the shadowstalker had been more of an ear muncher than a paw muncher. sorry princess, wintersbane drawls in a tone that suggests he wasn't even the slightest bit sorry. munch on my paw all you want but you're still a damsel and i still had to save you. and no, he wasn't going to forget it anytime soon.

Her dove’s ruff shivered to life, her voice stepping lower, as did the ache from before. A wreathing came to her snout too, as she promptly released his ankle in favor of buffing her fangs through the plush, softer fur of his forearm. ”I am not a princess. Not anymore,” she lilted, accent rolling, argent eyes peering heavy-lashed to his smug face. The glacial of them ensnared her, kept her pupils blown black and languid as something molten settled in her.

It lurched in her, arching and needy — Keep calling me that — but she kept herself admonishing as her scarred lips prowled for his elbow. ”I am Aure, and I want your name.” Pink nostrils began to flare, only a little, as a film of thin want fell over her eyes. Her breathing slowly turning bated, unsteady; the north of her straining for him.

Thin, as thin as pixie wings, because — because dragul was waiting for her, how could she be doing this? Indulging, when she needed to hasten to the cliffs before her heat came. A meek little keen left her, full of indecision as her mouth found the sotherra’s inner elbow, and she worried at it and stressed with little, longing nips.

wintersbane peers down at her, heavy-lidded as her teeth rake through the fur of his forearm as far from clinical as he'd like it to be. she has not withdrawn from him ...and he does not push her away. she rebuffs his use of the nickname 'princess', adding that she is no princess anymore. then what do i call you? because 'princess' was the only thing he could think of that enraptured her delicate, lovely, and regal beauty. the words do not rumble from his throat in his deep baritone — they are not needed for as her scarred lips searched for and found his elbow — she gives him her name and demands his in return.

which one? he almost asks, as if they are still playing a coy game. the tension he feels in the air is hot and heady and smoldering and it no longer feels like a flirtatious game to him. whether she knows it or not, whether it is of her intention or not her searching lips stoke a fire low and hot within him; and he can't help but wonder if she would feel as delicately beneath him as she looks or if there is hidden strength in her svelte body.

wintersbane. he offers it to her in a low, sultry rasp that wordlessly relays what she is doing to him as she worries the flesh she finds. his muzzle drifts, feather light, like the trail of fingertips down a lover's spine, over her slender shoulder, his teeth leaving a small nip in return for the one's she's left upon his flesh. and what do you plan to do with it now that you have it?

His name bedded down within her ears, curled into the silken sheets of her mind. Cruel — Wintersbane was so cruel in his amusement. Her eyes were so heavy, as if she’d only just woken to ravishment. She kneaded her talons into pebbly soil, cinched them as if half-heartedly trying to remain tethered to the Wilds, rather than losing herself to the North of her upbringing.

”Perhaps I will tell ze heavens who made me writhe today. Who I begged to make me see stars.” Her breath turned shivery, talking herself into an irrevocable, foul-tongued arousal; her gauzy eyes unfocused as the molten of this moment pawed at her belly, her thighs, her sex. But still, she reveled in restraint, ”Or, perhaps I will keep it to myself.”

With those words, she drew herself up, peering down at him with a deep, deep lust that nearly made the stars of her irises go dark. And they stayed like that, with the ivory of her breast arching into his great, ashen shoulder; tasting the embers of another’s breath as her stilted, pale body veered into his; a breathy, coarse moan murmuring with each terse exhale. Felt his other, coiled forearm pressing burning at her ribs; all this as her body clenched around nothing. Wanted him to feel it; wanted him to claim her languid and deep.

When the heat consumed her, she would choose Vercingetorix — she would always choose him, the way she’d always chosen, trusted to have her virginity ridden by him. He was who she loved; what she burned with for Wintersbane was engulfed, incomparable to the immense inferno she would incessantly give herself to her iubit with; would always give herself with. Yet, here, at this very moment, she had the chance to return to her North; the North that was her, that was Wintersbane.

She had never taken pleasure for herself, before; had never held sway of the next moment, like the opportunity she’d once been given in that apothecary. Yet again, here it was: the last time she would ever be unengaged, unmated  
by body and soul. What held her back from this, still? Nerves? Inexperience? Loyalty, even though both men were most certainly indulging themselves in the season? So why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she visit the North, just one last time, before she finally bound herself by the sea? Why should she always be so fearful of her own wants? 

With one last, faltering flutter of lashes, her frost-limned spirit wound about his; and she found herself wounding her white throat about his own, too, her shoulder leaping into his mouth. "P-please, wh-what should I d-do?" not so lost to lust to forget her manners; ground her cheekbone into the juncture between his great shoulders and bent neck. ”W-want you,” but I’m so in love with another, but it’s the season, and I want you to devour me—An airy, throaty noise left her at the sting of teeth, and she only pressed that sensitive sweet-spot of hers further into his fangs.

Because even with a man here, knelt before her, once again allowing her to reign over him, it... it was too good to be true. How could she be wanted enough? Was she even wanted? Aure was independent, as free from the tethers of her making as any young adult could be. But when it came to love, to lust... what were you to do, when you had no idea how to step into someone’s bed? Or heart? This was where her expertise sorely lacked, and she pressed a whine of uncertain longing into Wintersbane’s ruff as her body waited, impatiently, for her choice. Her decision.

wintersbane was just one of the many names he's gone by thus far in his life and yet when he'd chosen it, it felt more solid, more right than any of the others that came before it; perhaps because it was of his mother, given to him especially by her. a journey to the stars, hm? i think i can arrange for that. wintersbane's voice is a low, sultry murmur, a honeyed promise of passion and pleasure that would put a dying star to shame; despite the 'i think' that began the second sentence he's confident. she teases further by mentioning that she may just keep it to herself. you can try to keep it to yourself but i'm well acquainted with the gods. he partially jests, though he speaks specifically of one god. no doubt the daedra prince mephala ( if she hasn't entirely forsaken him ) would relish with glee in the sensual turn this reunion's taken. it was her domain, after all, and though he'd left the dark woods behind he is still her servant.

the seductress's role she'd been playing slips as the play reaches nears it's climax, creating a plot twist that the other actors weren't aware was even in the script. it's not like he's ever been with anyone that was unsure before. her pleading cools the smoldering and hot fire that'd risen in the forge of his body and soul and he releases her shoulder after drawing his tongue against the area he'd bitten to soothe it. he regards her carefully, unsure if she wants him what the issue is. this situation wasn't like with elixir. she was not in the full swing of her heat and there was no possibility of her womb swelling with his children.

wintersbane is many things and few of them good but he'd never force himself on anyone, and he wasn't going to coax her into sharing a bed with him if she was conflicted. she had to work through her conflict on her own and tell him what she ultimately decided. you have to decide that on your own, princess. wintersbane rumbles gently. if asked he would say there was nothing wrong with it — there was nothing wrong with two wolves that shared an attraction blowing off some stream, especially when there were no strings attached; but his devotion to mephala gives him a more liberal view of it.

Both responses elicited a hushed groan from her, of desire, restraint, of her own indecisiveness. As he’d risen to look at her, the she-wolf's throat had been rid of his shoulder, and she allowed her muzzle linger along the velvet of his own; stare into those wholly-uncharted eyes so like the realms beyond the Wilds. It occurred to the heiress still-whispering within her how she’d never bedded a lord of war before.

Aure was no apostle, followed the preachings of no gospel, no gods; no patron to anything but her heavens and all they held for her. She knew this was, in all actuality, sex at its most insolent and indulging; and the promise in his voice made her quiver, as if she hadn’t been so this whole time.

For once, she didn’t reprimand his epithet of her; not as her arousal flared again. The smoldering thrum that prowled through her did so with a vengeance—she was arcing into him once more, thighs stretching and straining luxuriously beneath her. ”Make me how you want me,” she breathed, letting herself be lulled right back into that simmering sensuality. It felt a bit different, though; more patient, more intentful—more decided. She still wanted him slow and and languid and deep and to make her writhe.

Without withdrawing, she curved about in place, so that as she reclined once more, tucking herself back into the black-blue of him, her ribs quivered along his forearms and her narrow hips practically arching her aching sex into his lap — if he had one. Vaguely, she wondered a bit depravedly if he wanted her the way he’d found her. Either way, the bones in her long, ivory neck flickered as she leaned back into him; rolling her shoulder for his mark once more, teeth, tongue. Before she lost her nerve. Before she remembered the rest of herself.

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for a moment, even though she remained touching him the entirety of her consideration, wintersbane considers that she might change her mind. it would no doubt seem like a waste, coming this far only to turn away from the flames that have stoked between them by the other. wintersbane is a firm believer in making his own fate, stringing along his own destiny and he does not go forth as she arches against him with the consideration that this means anything beyond what it was. attraction; a pull of the season that will dull and fade with the intoxicating perfume. until the next season.

she turns in place, her svelte figure slipping beneath him. she is small and she fits in the leonine cut of his own. the elegant curve of her spine presses flush against the taunt musculature of his underside and he takes a moment — because he does not fool himself into thinking this chance will ever come to him again — to relish in it. to explore the feel of her and how it almost reminds him of relmyna. desire vocalizes in the form of a rumbled growl as she arches her hips against the cradle of his own, against the physical evidence of his desire for her. the roll of her shoulder, begging for attention does not go unnoticed. lips and teeth latch upon her delicate shoulder curve, a hairsbreadth from the last mark, sinking into her soft flesh, nipping and suckling and laving his tongue against the mark as he nudges her up to bear his weight with a roll of his hips.

he would take her like a queen, instead of a warlord's prize. the pose he'd found her in had certainly been sensual but hardly befitting a woman of her status. she was not a prize even though this was fated to only be a one night stand. wintersbane's forelegs lock as he rises up along her spine, peppering it in small, teasing nips. he rolls the majority of his weight back upon his hind legs. they join with a throaty groan from the sotaherra, muffled as he grasps her scruff betwixt his jaws, as he guides her hips back into the cradle of his own.

The two frostborn became one with a thump of the sotaherra’s hips and a feral groan. The rasp became ensnared within her own stuttering, warbling moan; so full of cold that he burned, so full of the warlord that there was no room within her to breath. A heavy pant tore from her breast as Wintersbane sauntered her back until her boney ass was flush to those straining, evening hips; all the way, until her tail unfurled along her bum, further moved aside in the wake of their union.

This morning, she wasn’t Aure, or Aurëwen; she wasn’t The Undimming, or a Lady Starlight. This morning, she only was a woman of the Far North; she would take what was hers with winter and rime. But first —

”W-Win... Wintersbv— Her voice was shivery, a weak pronunciation of his name; all trembly as he held himself mid-rut against her, muted, openmouthed moans leaving her whenever she felt him twitch. With his hips massaged (plainly speaking) balls-deep against the ivory curve of her ass, words began to lose meaning. Her long forelegs wobbled precariously; felt him keep her hitched by her nape.

The she-wolf began to slur, becoming a mess as her sex coaxed him deeper anyway. ”Wintn- Winterbsn— f-fuck, Wintersbane, p-please. Plea-ase m-move.” Her words left her as an utter beg, a plea, anything, and her thin shoulders curved forward, white crown lolling in his glacial hold.

as the entwine wintersbane takes a pause to treasure the feel of her. her body bowed and curved against and beneath his, and more intimate yet how she feels around him. she engulfs him completely and for this moment of heated want he drowns in her; and the way she tries but ultimately fails at saying his name mid-rut earns her another scrape of his teeth against her shoulder. unlike elixir she does not command him but instead pleads — still fumbling over his name — for him to move. he gives a slow, languid roll of his hips that feels as torturous for him as it no doubt feels for her.

aure's more vocal than he's used to and he thinks to himself very briefly that it shouldn't surprise him. she's quite chatty, after all. winterbane readjusts his weight upon his back paws and moves in earnest then, finding a steady rhythm for each thrust — not too fast because he wants to enjoy this — wants her to enjoy it and because he's in no rush.

The torture of that first strain of his hips have her lashes fluttering closed as her eyes — melted argent points of deep lust — tumble in her skull, had her straining and brimming; and all that she could really do, when he began a steady, easy rhythm was to writhe against and round him. Regardless, his hips snapped into her with a renewed, feverish strength despite all languidty considered, driving each stroke deep with a pronounced, underlying sharpness. To her credit, the wintry she-wolf made an attempt to poked her bum up (albeit quivering-weak the whole while) to keep herself as flush to the sotaherra's cradle of hips as she could, tried to savor more of him as he did with her.

As she let herself be taken further into his embrace, murmuring incoherent, and a part of her wanted him to use every inch of himself against her for his own gain; but he held her like the queen she never deserved to be. Already, her breath began to turn uneven, staggering from her in little moans and whimpers; any words unable to not slur from between her scarred lips. Eyes became glassy, and soon she was bearing more of their weight into her pale forelegs; an arch became evident in her svelte spine, and she only pressed her hips further back against him.

as wintersbane seeks, with each thrust of his hips into and against her own, feed the fire, sate the desire that thrums within him like a second heartbeat, fervent alongside the steadily increasing wardrum of his actual heart. he turns attention to her other shoulder and grazes her supple flesh with sharpened canines, biting and suckling and laving the new mark with his tongue though hardly in apology. their collective weight shifts as she bears more of it, and his rhythm shallow but deeper; harder ...because he does have a reputation to maintain and he doubts a warlord would be gentle even with a queen.

despite that each arch of her spine, each press of her hips, each clench of her around him makes him feel as if he's ascending into something mightier than man or lord of war ( a man's ego is a dangerous thing ) in a way that might be considered holy an ungodly noise; partially a growl and partially a moan intermingles and winds it's way up the strong column of his throat as he gives a rough thrust, sinking into her decadent warmth as far as she'll take him. it's heavenly and he gives a series of shallow rolls of his hips, not wanting to withdraw even a little bit. he's nestled within her and yet he aches still. for more. for the release.

teeth rise from her scruff then to her ear, grazing against the warm flesh, tasting the velveteen fur as he nibbles upon it's tip. say my name, kunnhehku. make the stars burn with envy. he commands of her in a low, sultry murmur. a soft gasp that tapers off into a covetous rumble as his hips give another small, involuntary thrust and he continuous with a slow, languid pace now meaning to draw out her apotheosis. for she must shatter before he does; that was his number one rule of being a lover; cater to your partner's pleasure before your own ( a rule he might've forgotten while actually copulating with a woman in heat, oops ).

At his words she only hums, lashes heavy as she lets the heavens see the strain of her throat; her ass remained as cinched up against the swath of his hips as tangibly possible, yet she hefted it back into him just as he roughly jostled her all the same. She could feel each drag of him as he rutted inside of her, and she only wrested him deeper; the arch of her spine only arching more. She wanted to work herself towards an unbearable threshold, and with a low, hoarse laugh poked her hips forward despite how his arms gripped them. Her sex kept to him like a vice, regardless of the inch that’d faltered from it. 

Even as piercing rutts that massage her from within, even at his command, she remains all petulant and quiet; feigning unawares even when in the midst of anything but innocence. ”Only i-if you say please,” ‘Kunnhehku’ wisps — the only thing still tethering her to the Below — with daring shiver from her lungs, something a little devilish, too. She pushed herself up on her forepaws then, curving her ivory throat back in an attempt to lave her tongue along the midnight-blue snout, her little teeth flashing with a simper.

But her act at dominance from beneath is so weak, as a wavering moan stutters from her breast as she quivers around his cock and at the new, languorous tempo he furled into her with. All the same, she curved her boney hips with his own, a heady, low groan issuing from her throat as she began to come unraveled; but tried to stave off her own orgasm as she held him as taut as she could. ”S-say please, lord.”

kunnhehku defies his sultry command and for the briefest of moments wintersbane is insufferably insulted. he might hold her like a queen in the cradle of his hips but if he is to play the part of warlord he bows to no queen, irregardless of whether she was born of sweet moonbeams, regardless of how she might've reminded him of his dark priestess. he nips at her ear again and gives a punishing and snap of his hips against her's a rasping and defiant no. rumbling in a weak growl that is more groan than it is anything else. he half has the mind to withdraw, to torture her ...but that would only be torturing himself and she is like a vice around him anyway. he doesn't think, at this point, he could even if he wanted to ( and that is to say he does not want to ).

his legs began to quiver from his own weight, from bearing it upon tiptoes and the delicious heat of her. it's all right there, right within his grasp. all it would take would be the swallowing of his pride. the game and squabble of dominance in their current position was only fun for a while and the truth was he was close to release. he quakes against her, forelegs digging harder, as if that could stave off the inevitable.

please kunnhehku. follows his eventual sigh of surrender.

It is not often (read: only once) that the once-heiress has many captives; nor has she taken them, as she does now. Whatever it is that she is in this moment, she practically mewls a stuttering, stubborn ”Yes” as he gives a cruel shove into her, trying to meld himself into her as deep, as far as she could admit him. But this captivation is one she revels in — from the rasp of his plead, how his voice fades into the tremble of his silvered body. This surrender is what they both need.

With a tinge of pain enshrouded in all the pleasure, lathering his chin with messy kisses, ”Wintersbane—c-come-“ Her voice became half-moan, half-wail as she pressed her spine, her ass, herself against the violent quivering of his own body; rutting herself with abandon on him, wet as they were. All it took was a twitch from him, a spasm from her own sex, and she whimpered the sotaherra’s name once more before finally, finally brimming into her release.

She writhed underneath him, writhed as she whimpered into his jawline; erratic around him, pathetically clutching at the pebbly terrain; stung the pink pads of her paws as a bit of spittle crested her the corner of a lip. Her orgasm tore through her, ferocious and smoldering and insatiable. The last noise that left her was something airy, winded, longing and undone, moaned into the silver of his throat.

we can probably wrap this up with your post, if you want. :-)

he doesn't appreciate the permission to release even as she peppers his chin in messy kisses. his lips curl back from his teeth, trying to stave off his own climax as she shatters around him, though in half defiance of her own command. alas, her orgasm draws out his own and he crests the peak, seed spilling within her with a crooning moan and a low rasping roar into the velveteen of her ear. he draws is a greedy breath of air as his sides heave from exertion and he slides off of her, mindful that they are still entwined. from the times he'd been with his dark priestess wintersbane knows that it will take some time until their joined bodies can separate. his legs still quiver from the throes of pleasure that still ripple down his spine in ghosted shivers, peering over a broad shoulder at her. how's that for a journey to the stars? wintersbane inquires in a haughty rasp.