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

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.