[mature] a wind full of infinite space; Longclaw

[Longclaw]

LongClaw

-I close my eyes, Ignore the smoke-

Her blood dribbles down his lip. It rims the crease of his mouth, stains his lower jaw, and saturates his tongue in copper tones. He hadn’t meant to take so much but it had bubbled up from the prick of his teeth and spilled forth in a gush of hot liquid. Now, with his body cloaked over the golden mounds of Femur’s back, it drips to land spot by spot atop her withers while he waits for her reply.

“YOU!” She wails, but he’d known it all along. Longclaw had wanted her to say it, to scream it, and the verbal affirmation is enough to cinch the grip he already has that much tighter. There’s nothing more pleasant than the sound of her ringing soprano, especially when it concerns the matter of his greatest pride. “Claw, please!” His lady begs, the final, masterful stroke of a woman whose greatest power has always been in bringing him to his knees.

“Gods yes,” He moans, sliding backwards to leave a trail of crimson streaking her topline.

This time, there’s no taunting involved. He takes her swiftly enough, a forceful plunge that rocks them both forward underneath his guidance. Each return is teasingly slow, however; drawn out and elongated until he finds that he’s nearly free and then, he plummets between her thighs again and again. She felt like velvet, like sin and something that could unravel him. His tongue flicks free of its place to glide over her the shimmering curve of her shoulder and he growls, “Remember this?”

His hind legs buckle to shift his hips up; the beast enters her from a new angle and forgoes the pleasantries of meticulous building in favor of a tried-and-true method: fucking her senseless. The blue gild of his knees flashes as he presses them further into her sides, forearms bulging with the effort of forcing himself deeper inside of her. He’s so mad with untapped desire that even his heels lift free of the earth, tipping themselves to the rim with every forward motion.

Longclaw is drunk on her, the rest of the world entirely forgotten. His Mate’s lifesblood has dried on his face and he can feel himself close to a precipice but he’s far from done with her. “A goddess,” He names her, the sound muffled into the humid folds of her gleaming mane.

And then he pulls free.

Instantly he misses the racking spasms of her beneath him and his member agrees, protesting the action in a jerk of anger. Claw ignores it and shuffles back, prickly chin rolling over the hitch of her croup with intentions of finding that delicate pearl she’d exposed so prettily before. He’d always admired how inconceivably perfect Femur was, top to bottom, and now he wants to appreciate this particular part in a way she’ll find … surprisingly pleasant. (his curiosity over the matter of her reaction was enough to stiffen him again, perhaps worse the second time around.)

He chuckles before driving the point of his nose between her sopping thighs and then his tongue flicks free again, just to brush the opening of her sex with the faintest of touches. Claw pauses - he wants her body to adjust to this new advancement and, simultaneously, wants to feel her reaction too - but a pause is all he can manage before a fresh sheen of sweat breaks out across his body. The animal inside of him roars to life.

It hungers for her, leaves his tongue slathering a mix of them over her puckering cunt before diving inside to toy with her there. Wordlessly, he challenges himself to make her finish this way. Longclaw has never considered a mare’s satisfaction above his own but for some reason, (as was usual when his Ghost-girl was involved) the idea of pleasuring her fully with just his mouth made the idea of his coming in second place all the more wicked and wonderful.

@[Femur] I debated for a good 20 minutes if I should even post this or not so I'm officially calling it: smut-a-la-smut with a cherry of smut on top. Lol.