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

It is not often (read: only once) that the once-heiress has many captives; nor has she taken them, as she does now. Whatever it is that she is in this moment, she practically mewls a stuttering, stubborn ”Yes” as he gives a cruel shove into her, trying to meld himself into her as deep, as far as she could admit him. But this captivation is one she revels in — from the rasp of his plead, how his voice fades into the tremble of his silvered body. This surrender is what they both need.

With a tinge of pain enshrouded in all the pleasure, lathering his chin with messy kisses, ”Wintersbane—c-come-“ Her voice became half-moan, half-wail as she pressed her spine, her ass, herself against the violent quivering of his own body; rutting herself with abandon on him, wet as they were. All it took was a twitch from him, a spasm from her own sex, and she whimpered the sotaherra’s name once more before finally, finally brimming into her release.

She writhed underneath him, writhed as she whimpered into his jawline; erratic around him, pathetically clutching at the pebbly terrain; stung the pink pads of her paws as a bit of spittle crested her the corner of a lip. Her orgasm tore through her, ferocious and smoldering and insatiable. The last noise that left her was something airy, winded, longing and undone, moaned into the silver of his throat.