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

as wintersbane seeks, with each thrust of his hips into and against her own, feed the fire, sate the desire that thrums within him like a second heartbeat, fervent alongside the steadily increasing wardrum of his actual heart. he turns attention to her other shoulder and grazes her supple flesh with sharpened canines, biting and suckling and laving the new mark with his tongue though hardly in apology. their collective weight shifts as she bears more of it, and his rhythm shallow but deeper; harder ...because he does have a reputation to maintain and he doubts a warlord would be gentle even with a queen.

despite that each arch of her spine, each press of her hips, each clench of her around him makes him feel as if he's ascending into something mightier than man or lord of war ( a man's ego is a dangerous thing ) in a way that might be considered holy an ungodly noise; partially a growl and partially a moan intermingles and winds it's way up the strong column of his throat as he gives a rough thrust, sinking into her decadent warmth as far as she'll take him. it's heavenly and he gives a series of shallow rolls of his hips, not wanting to withdraw even a little bit. he's nestled within her and yet he aches still. for more. for the release.

teeth rise from her scruff then to her ear, grazing against the warm flesh, tasting the velveteen fur as he nibbles upon it's tip. say my name, kunnhehku. make the stars burn with envy. he commands of her in a low, sultry murmur. a soft gasp that tapers off into a covetous rumble as his hips give another small, involuntary thrust and he continuous with a slow, languid pace now meaning to draw out her apotheosis. for she must shatter before he does; that was his number one rule of being a lover; cater to your partner's pleasure before your own ( a rule he might've forgotten while actually copulating with a woman in heat, oops ).