heat rising

Åshe had made her grave error when she saw his towering figure on the opposite side of the boulder. He didn't give her time to reconcile his presence, no, he launched himself towards her without hesitation. Tumbling they went, and she had ended up with her belly against her snow and his arms locking her against her sides.

"Tíkarsonur," — Son a bitch. she growled beneath him, writing against his arms. Adrenaline had shot up through her body, burned her arms, scorched her blood. Most of all, it had her dripping onto the snow. Her attempts would be fruitless against his strength, but she had preferred to have it that way.

"Bairin is clever," she hissed, turning her head up to face him, jaws snapping before his snout. She would play hard to get at every chance she got, even playing up a ridiculous scowl on her elegantly crafted face.

Despite her expression, her hips created friction between them. She lifted her abdomen, attmepting to pushing against him. She raised on her forearms too, letting her neck reach back to let her cheek caress the side of his neck. A mewl bubbled in her throat, please, her body begged, and so did she.

"Does he fuck like bairin, too?"
 

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The snow was a balm to the fire and friction between them.

When the tumbling was finished, all that was left was them together. He was pressed tightly against her — and he did not bother to hide the shifting of his hips against her little movements. Oh, how his forelegs tightened firmly around her when she seethed a word at him.

"Tíkarsonur,"

It was new and he wondered if she might at once demand to be freed from him. Instead only came that more familiar title one again and the claim of cleverness. He remained wordless, only a heavy breath and the low rumble of something ancient in his bones, in his roaring blood. Teeth sought to come through the warm scented tangles of delicate furs upon her neck and shoulders. A moment of tenderness before his hips shifted once more.

His tongue pressed along the back of her ear for a moment in what might be called a kiss, before he finally managed to find his voice, husky and thick —

“Vould you like to know?”

His lower body pressed firmly into her arched form, but not in yet — he wondered if she might crumble beneath him now.

“Tell me ahnd I vill show you.”

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A loud moan vibrated in her chest from the contact of his teeth against the thick fur of her neck. She had wished his teeth punctured deeper, deeper so that even when she bled she would smell of him.

She would tense as his hips continued to shift against her own. Fuck, if he didn't mount her here on the mountains of Morðfjall, she may have to find someone else willing to take on the task. Her mind swam in nothing but the masculine testosterone that dripped from his neck. She got lost in it, unable to find an escape. But it felt homely, safe. She wasn't afraid to drown.

And then he had kissed her, a tender gesture as if they had been lovers, and she felt her legs shake with anticipation. He had barely been able to speak his words, masked by the lust that dripped from his voice. Åshe would drink every last drop of that gruff-y voice of his. It shook her, a vibration of his chest that shot straight to her core. Red hot, swollen.

She had to bite back a whimper that threatened to escape. Withhold. He was so close to her now— all she had to do was move her tail aside, and she would've been sent into a euphoric state. His weight teetered above her, strong arms at her side. He wasn't putting everything on her, hadn't mounted her properly. She would shrug her shoulders up, rigid muscles of her back flexing in order to support him. She had been raised for moments like these. Tender moments shared apparently with a man's name she didn't even know.

"Your name—" she breathed, breathless by the desperation in her voice. "Tell me your name and I'll let you show me."
 

---

let me know if you prefer fade to black or writing it out— doesn't matter to me!

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His name.

His warmth shoved next to her own and she asked his name. It was right and proper and it warmed him with shame that he had come this far without giving her a name. Perhaps he would have made up something whimsical for her to remember if they did not live together already.

“Bartel,”

He rasped low and unholy unlike the name that had been bestowed upon him. Oh, but perhaps the way he'd worship her in the moments to come was holy — even if primal in its nature too.

His legs shifted some around her waist, a slight adjustment, that last little tug to pull her closer. His chest settled comfortably along her shoulders now. Prepared and willing. Truthfully he ached with his desire now. The smell of her thick in his nose and the perfume of her own lustful aches topped it all off.

“Vill I know yours before...?”

Oh, but he taunted and teased! Prepared to press himself just barely inside and wonder if her answer might turn into a cry or moan!

---

good to write out!

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The man didn't hesitate as he hovered above her. Holding himself, nudging against her, Åshe proceeded to attempt to back herself against him. It had been overwhelming, the feeling of him so close, yet he felt so far all in one.

Bartel had been his name. It was dark on his tongue, a sultry sound that would be engraved in Åshe's mind. The way he sounded as he withheld from thrusting into her, such strength, her mind purred. He could've shoved her face into the ground, taken her belly up, made her bleed— but he didn't. He didn't. That is what mattered most to Åshe above all. He had a sense of manners, a gentry that had been rare for the males of Hrafnsvaktin.

And as he pulled her closer, tightening his grip on her body, he asked if she would return the favor. Auspiciously, she'd look to him. She shook her head, "You know after," she ushered, voice raising to a lilt towards the end of her sentence as she whined. She turned her head away from him then, looking towards the ground and clamping her eyes shut. Her body dipped more into a bow, a comfortable position for her shoulders to lock, the same with her knees. "Only if good."

Her tail shifted to the side, her wet slick practically dripping down her thighs. She didn't need to say anything more, her body had done that just perfectly for her. Based on the size of his body alone, she could practically salivate regarding the intensity of the stretch of his length inside of her. A low whine left her throat, her head turning slightly to catch his eye. Please, please, her eyes said. Her ears flickered against the back of her head.

 

---

ssssounds good!

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It was a challenge.

That was the way he saw it. A challenge to be good and pleasing, to put work into this. It was not a casual fuck in his eyes now. She was not a woman who might be forgotten in lands far away or left behind in the wake of this.

He would see her again, he wished to make her tremble with the memories he'd leave upon her. Inside of her. Along her lean body.

He could resist no longer and saw it fit to begin to press himself slowly but surely within her. A hot core awaiting him as he became nothing more than a moth to a light.

With a thoughtful force, he sought to clutch at the back of her neck with strong jaws as he rolled his hips further into her own at a slow pace. Sinking within as if she was an ocean to be carefully charted — wet as one surely. He was not a barbarian who sought to ram roughly, not yet at least.

Even if he groaned into the pale furs of her neck with a satisfaction that was unmatched by any other earthly pleasures or delights.

He did not think about the fact that any upon Hrafnsvaktin might hear the collection of their bodies and the sounds of pleasure — oh he hoped he heard all her sounds of pleasure.

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Åshe knew that she had sealed her fate once his jaw clamped around the back of her neck. A fate that she had happily welcomed. Rejoiced in it, in fact, overwhelmed by the feeling of his cock driving into her. She had been right in her assumption— thick and long in length, she yelped at the connection.

The stretch had been painful, as expected, but his pace had been slow. He was giving her time to adjust. A man of many secrets and luxuries— How Åshe would be so grateful. The pressure of his jaws around the back of her neck helped stimulate a sense of normalcy. She felt him bottom out inside her, graze the walls of her cervix, and pierce the bud that made a coil sizzle in her belly.

Tears molded in her eyes from the pain, but there had been a serial pleasure that added to it. A series of whines left her throat as he continued to move, heinously slow, and she began to grow impatient at his speed. The sounds their bodies made were practically wet— a token burst to Bartel's ego no doubt.

And then she had gotten antsy, "More," she mewled, the words caught in her throat, coming out as both a pant and a whine. The pain had diluted now, only replaced by a criminal amount of pleasure. She wanted him to make his mark on her, claim her, have other men running for the hills if they had gotten a whiff of her. There was no doubt about that now— her slit growing with a swollen heat at his pressure, dribbling, and pulsating with each well-timed thrust of his hips.

"Svo gott," she had uttered, tears dripping down her cheeks, breaths heaving with combined moans. So good.

 

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It was mid-stroke when he heard the mewl of her voice over the grunts he buried in the thick of her nape.

More.

A simple instruction and one he meant to overachieve while they were here like this, tangled together while he thrusted inside her. Hot and wet, far different than the cold terrain around them. Perhaps that was why he was so desperate to drive himself deeper inside, to wedge himself firmly within her.

There was a neediness with the way he shoved his hips against her hind now as his thrusting stayed rhythmic but the force of it was stronger than before. How could he deny her what she wanted? And he was not so inexperienced as to lose himself so suddenly among the pleasures she provided him too.

Yet somehow he felt he had not had enough of her at all. Like he somehow needed to feel more, grab more, claim more. Perhaps it was why for a moment he released her nape, nose finding the back of her ear again as he groaned lowly —

"Svo gutt,"

It was not so different from his own — “So gut, ja.” — rumbled out. Enough so that he figured they understood one another despite their different languages of proclaimed pleasure.

And for a moment his thrusting stopped, trembled and quaking inside as he still kept himself fully within.

“More still?”

She need only say it once more and he would give her all he had to offer.

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Åshe screamed. Belted against the ire of her throat, so much so that her vocal cords could be heard echoing against the tall spire of the mountain itself. How he pounded into her over and over, obliging to her simple request. There was nothing more in this world she wanted in this moment than him crushing his hips against hers. She continued to moan, and whimper at the slap of his hips.

The springing coil in her belly had been rippling with tension. More, more, her insides screamed. She could feel herself tightening, clenching around his erect length, practically squeezing the life out of him. Her body, out of her control, beckoned his. It demanded something from him that Åshe wasn't sure she was ready for.

But she was blinded by it. Eyes squeezed shut, tears of salt dripping down her cheeks, she gripped harshly into the terrain. She continued to thrust her hips back into his, aching to feel him rip her apart. She had been so, so needy. Needed to feel him, feel this close to another. To beg for this warmth, this carnal need that slithered up the vertebrae of her spine. It was only natural.

He had let go of her neck, and his thrusts halted. He uttered sweet words to her, but didn't continue the motion of his hips. She felt lost, a high fleeting from her. Stimulation burned in her lower belly. Åshe felt herself grumble. She whined, confused. He had asked her if she wanted more. She didn't hesitate, truthfully— she didn't even think about the question. Åshe wanted to feel his knot explode inside of her, feel the stretch tear her apart and bind him to her just for a little while longer. To feel the hot pressure of his seed fill her. To have him drip out of her, having their perfumes combined to ward anyone off this area of maybe months.

She could only begin to tear up at the thought— again.

"More, Bartel." she whined, voice shaking as she dipped herself into a full bow now, hips entirely lifted in the air for his easy access. "Show me,"
 

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She was loud and it was a glorious song.

He could deal with the aftermath of the whole mountain and beyond hearing their affair afterwards. After he had satisfied her, searched each and every inch of her being. It could be said that physically there would be no part of her left that he had not touched. After all, he was thrusting as deep within her as he could get.

Yet he knew that the same would be said for her too. That she had received every part of him physically.

Lust at first sight, perhaps.

It was what him and his cocked ached with in those moments of waiting for an answer. A searing lust and draw to her. Again she asked for him and this time by name — she did not prod a name at him in her own tongue. Now he had become Bartel, more than just some childish taunting to get him to fuck her. She need not to taunt him anymore. He only meant to give them what they both wanted...

It would not take very long from here. Her hips high into his own now. With each thrust his pulse raised it felt, until his blood was a roar in his ears, a warm feeling budding between his legs until suddenly — “Ah—” Followed by a grunt and the knowledge that his hips were now very firmly connected to her own for the time being. He felt washed in the soft glow of the light here and the coldness of the mountain. Euphoria briefly opened up his world and yet all he was focused on was her.

Tight, close beneath his behemoth form.

They would be like this for some time and he should perhaps make sure she was still okay.

No regret filled a single ounce of him. What of her?

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Åshe found her own release with the final snaps of his hips against hers. A tortured mewl left her throat, the roughest sound that scratched the surface. Her vision blurred, flashed of white, and she came undone beneath his touch. Somehow, she became tighter around him. She took everything he gave her, nothing left over.

And with the grunt in her ear, final rigorous, deep thrusts of his hips, he became undone against her. Inside her body he had found a home, blessing her with a warmth that she desperately missed. Craved, even. Was it such a crime to wish to be desire for? Sought after? This man, Bartel didn't hesitate. He took her, hunted her, rightfully earned her. He deserved to mount her, but even more so, she deserved to be held.

His knot had stretched her, expanded inside of her with every second. She winced, light whimper drawing from her mouth, but she would take it. She had asked for this. Practically begged him, and the pain had been soon subsided with a warm comfort. As well, the topical thought of having such a man choose her above all. Not that there were many choices, she supposed, but this is what she wanted. Wanted to have him to herself, to find him seeking her out to stretch her out, explore the insides of her body once again.

She was thin beneath his weight, but her body had been well-carved of muscle to support him. Now, as he was tied against her, she would turn her head to look at him, her cheeks wet with tears. "Åshe," she'd say, breathless, chest heaving. "Name, Åshe."

Beneath him, her hips would sway. Perhaps teasingly, but she would hiss at the pain it caused her to move. Her legs were growing tired, sizzly with numbness. "Lay, bairin." She would still tease.

"On me. Tired, very tired."
 

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happy to either fade this for something new?? or keep going, either or <33

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Her face was wet and at once something in his chest lurched — had he done wrong? Was perhaps her regret so large that she had wept freely in the wake of it all? Or had he missed something somewhere? His mind did not think such were tears of enjoyment.

If she was upset with him, she handled these moments forced together with grace. As would he, intending to be gentle once more again. “Åshe,” He drawled her name warm across his rugged tongue. Spoken nearly sleepily as he sought to carefully lay them both down now. Near cradling her so that he would not crush her, muscle or no he fretted over these little things. Especially when he was the one that kept them so warmly tied together.

“Rest.” He encouraged warmly.

Hrafnsvaktin was hushed in the time following their binding, he felt confident in their ability to sleep quietly here if she so wished for it.

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