Sunspire Mountains so deep down in your ground

If there was anything that Vonnaruil had in common with his twin aside from looks, then it was tension and how they both adored coaxing it to its quivering limits. Tension was that delicious, precarious knowing that had you wavering with any soul or situation. Once the otherworldly anticipation that came with it finally peaked, it was so nearly orgasmic. Whether you were falling out of grace or into another’s embrace, the only moments that mattered afterwards was how you left yourself trembling for the unknown of what “next” would bring.

And he could feel it burrowing beneath his ivory coat, nestling into his blood until it made him simmer. With a low, soft groan — half in part because it meant straying from his path — the White Crow veered his attention elsewhere, before his argent, libidinous eyes alit on a rook-dark, gloaming female of utter perfection perched some ways below. 

The faint notch in his muzzle deepened as he outright tongued at his fangs — and as he picked his deft way down through whelp’s play, the tang of blood only piqued his senses more. Slinking upon a ledge above her lashing form, he leisurely stretched out onto his belly, and primly crossed his snowshoe paws at the wrists. It was with a heavy-lidded gaze and drawling curl of his lips that he crooned, in an intimate hum, ”May I be of some assistance, señorita?”