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

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 she has not withdrawn from him ...and he does not push her away.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?