Herbalists' Cache but my aching soul

he presses his teeth against the curve of her ear, before he kisses his muzzle there, lingering. warmth curling in his chest, satisfied, as he lays claim to her. he had her, here, belly to belly, thrumming with life and fire and fight.

oaf, he mocked with a click of teeth, grinning against her fur, shifting slightly so that she lay heavier atop him. if i recall you fancy this oaf. what does that say about you, princess?

he tilts his head, pressing a fanning kiss to her throat, where her pulse pounds against his lips. he feels her breath hitch, just barely; and his voice, when it comes, quieter now—rough around the edges, grating like soil upon rock, when he breathes against her throat.

then we’ll have to train them well, won’t we? he nips at her skin, before he burrows his nose into the thick raven fur at the base of her neck, seeking to roll her onto her side, and subtly take the upperhand from her. painting her in kisses, in whispers of his affection, shifting to rise only briefly before pressing his chest against her backside. breath fanning over her spine as he lays down just behind her, crimson eyes staring up at the side of her face where she looks back at him.

i want you, gjalla. a confession he's made a thousand times, but this one is weighted. with expectation. he does not want to wait any longer. there buzzes flies in his ear, whispering things he should not listen to. he should listen only to her, this woman he holds now, and indulge himself in what she saw fit to give him.