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

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.