Tuesday, February 2, 2016

An Arthur Pendragon Lemon -- Radiant Demise

Character: Carina

Fandom: BBC Merlin

OC: Carina, long curly black hair, blue eyes, confident and stubborn

Inspiration: I’ll admit, I borrowed some of this from Zorro…except backwards ;)  Not sorry.  And for the last few people waiting on requests, I swear I'm working on them and won't abandon you x) I'm taking Accounting this semester so.  Seriously just kill me.  I can barely even count to ten as it is.  

She is trying to kill him.  There’s no other explanation.  And he thinks it might actually be working.
He grips his sword, ducks back and parries when Carina lunges forward.  Her blade nips the bark of the tree he uses to shield himself, and before she can fully pull it back, he’s swinging at her from the side.  Dirty fighter, she glowers – yet still manages to stop his blow by spinning a dagger out from her belt and clanging it against metal.  The defense lasts two seconds before he overpowers it, but by then the sword is back in her hands and Arthur is scowling.  His plan has, evidentially, failed.
She laughs.  “Come now, darling, this is only a bit of fun.”  She jumps out of the way of a particularly determined swing and purses her mouth.  “There’s no need to get so worked up about it…”  She has no idea if her voice is annoyed or amused or maybe a strange combination of the two.
Arthur narrows his eyes at her and skims his sword over hers.  The sound of metal on metal slides over their ears.  She holds firm, waiting for him to knock her blade aside.  He’s being quite antagonistic, really – she wouldn’t have been very surprised if he tries to knock her feet from beneath her.
“I’m not getting worked up, I’m just trying to beat you,” he tells her, and before she can respond, Arthur is twisting around her and lunging toward the opening beneath her arm.  But she has followed his movements carefully and has already planned ahead, knocking the blade out of the way and dancing backwards.  And as she does, she loosens the already loose collar of her shirt, revealing several more inches of skin.  She is definitely trying to kill him.
Her eyes sparkle when she casually glances down at his body, and she chuckles.  “Oh, I think you’re a little worked up, Arthur,” she purrs, and he grinds his teeth together.  It isn’t that obvious, is it?  That he is completely lusting over her right now?  Well he is her husband, so he of all people actually has the right to. 
“Must be hard to spar when you’re so hard down there,” she teases quietly, voice low and almost taunting, in a way.  He knows she is only trying to get a rise out of him, and he is half tempted to let her if only it would result in them being done with this silly sparring match.  He wants her writhing beneath him in the grass, gasping his name while he brings waves of pleasure down on her.
His head tilts back a tiny bit and he swallows back every impatient, desire-fueled thought.  Yes, he might be occasionally willing to sacrifice his power for her, but this time the more stubborn side of his nature is winning.  Unfortunately for him, his lovely wife has more stubbornness than a fucking ox.
“It’s not that bad,” he says, voice measured and calm.  Too calm.  Like he’s trying to outwit her.  She doesn’t rise to the bait, only makes some of her own.
A raised eyebrow pierces the air between them.  “Oh?  Maybe for you.”  And then suddenly she’s slipping her hand beneath her loose fitting tunic and he’s frowning in confusion as he watches her do…something…  And he knows he should probably use this distraction to his advantage, but really, the only thing Arthur can do is stand there and stare as he realizes just exactly what she’s up to.  She’s untying her breast band.  She’s untying her fucking breast band in the middle of a spar.  And he just got a little harder.
“Mmmm…that’s much better,” Carina says as she shifts the binding out of her shirt.  It falls to the grass beside her, and her now freed breasts push against the thin fabric of her tunic.  Her nipples are hard and he can see practically every detail, has memorized every detail – knows what’s waiting for him and fuck everything to hell, he can’t think of anything except ripping her clothes off.
That is most certainly the response she’s looking for.  She smirks and reaches up again, this time to loosen her shirt once more.  The stays between her breasts are undone, displaying a fair amount of cleavage to her husband’s hungry eyes.  Far too much for a proper lady to show in a public place (she supposes that the forest outside the palace is technically still public).  But then again, Carina has never been a proper lady, at least not where desire is concerned.
“You’re going to kill me,” he muttered to himself, the thought once again spinning through his head.  His wife is a superb swordswoman – he never knows if he’ll win or lose when they have a match – but she’s never used such tactics before.  She wants him to go crazy.  And if he knows his wife at all, she won’t be satisfied until she sees it rip him apart. 
Carina smirks and stalks forward.  They dance again, and Arthur barely has time to block her strike before the blade is twisting to the side and trying to disarm him.  He catches the hilt of his sword firmly to prevent it from flying out of his hand and watches as she spins away.  Every fucking movement draws his eyes to her chest.  He can’t help it.  He’s a man with a fucking hard on and the woman he’s desperately in love with is twirling around him with her breasts free and begging to be touched.
“God damn it,” he mutters, lifting his sword to parry yet another blow.  Truthfully, he’s getting a little tired of this game.  He can’t think strategically when all he can think about is the boner that’s lifting up his trousers.  It’s gotten worse.  Much worse.  And she knows it, because her eyes are twinkling with mischief.
“I think you should follow my example, Arthur,” she says, the side of her mouth twitching up.  She looks so wicked that he’s overcome by the very real desire to throw down his sword and just grab her like the brute she’s turning him into.  He can be a bit of a bully when it comes to the things he most wants.  It’s not something he’s particularly proud of, and he’s been working on it, but she makes him crumble.  It’s a very good thing that she can be a bully too, at least enough of one to match him word for word, touch for touch.
Still, he’s slightly confused by her words and the rest of him doesn’t even care.  Talking takes effort.  Moving takes effort.  All he can think about is what it’ll feel like to spill himself inside her hot, wet, tight –
The very tip of her blade is suddenly right in front of him and he jumps in surprise because of the way he’s so brutally dragged out of his daydream.  She could have ended this so easily – but she hadn’t.  Instead of pushing her blade to his neck and calling victory, Carina hooks it into his collar and pulls down…ripping his shirt in two from top to bottom.  Then she dances back with a laugh and Arthur stares in total shock.
“You just – did you really – damn it Carina, what am I going to wear back to the castle?!” he exclaims, but he’s not really angry.  No, her movement has only succeeded to make him even more lustful than he’d been before.  Fuck it, but he loves her brusque attitude, her ‘I-always-get-what-I-want’ demeanor.  He’s got it too.
She stalks to the side and says in a positively sinful voice, “Guess you’ll just have to go half naked.”  The idea is not at all enticing, but the way she says ‘naked’ definitely makes him shiver.  Her eyes glint at him, like she’s telling him that she wants him to get naked right now.  With a tilt of her head, Carina says, “You know, I think I’m a bit bored with this match.  I’m going to go wash in the river.”  She drops the sword to the ground. 
He raises an eyebrow and is about to say something but then his mouth goes dry, because as she turns her back on him, Carina lifts her tunic up and over her head.  Her back is completely bared, and he can see the sideline of her breast as she turns to the water that’s gushing nearby.  She starts for it…but she doesn’t make it very far.
He’s behind her before she can take three steps, arms hooking around her waist and body pressed tightly to hers.  Carina tilts her head back with a heady sigh as his hands lift up to her breasts, cupping them firmly and squeezing.  He mutters out a curse and drops his fingers to her leggings, mouth searing over the skin of her neck as he struggles with the ties.  And she bites her lip, closes her eyes, and laughs lowly in her throat.  He’s acting like he hasn’t had sex in months.  (A gross exaggeration.)
But she doesn’t complain when he shuffles her leggings down.  She’s a little too preoccupied for that, especially when he tips her chin up and crashes his lips down over hers.  He kisses her like she’s the only thing he wants, ever.  And as his lips move over hers, his fingers brush over her body, sliding his touch against her bare skin and making her burn.
“Arthur…” she whispers, the edge of a plea gently encasing her voice.  He kisses it away, devouring it, one hand rising to cup her face.  She cranes into him and moans breathlessly.  Her legs rubs together, hoping to somehow ignite her lower body in the way she’s craving, but the only thing she succeeds in doing is drawing Arthur’s attention down.  Not that that’s a bad thing.
His eyes slice back up to hers, looking dark and wicked, and she purses her lips to hide her smile.  “Would you like me to touch you, my Lady?” he purrs, voice rumbling low.  She pauses and takes a moment to study him – the blown eyes, rumpled clothes, ready-to-kiss mouth, and the hard bulge that has manifested against her rear and pushes against her in a way she cannot ignore. 
Remembering that he has asked her a question jolts Carina from her momentary stupor.  Her eyes jerk up to his, which are crinkled in amusement as he watches her.  He raises an eyebrow and leans closer, running his hand down her stomach to the crevice of her thighs.  “Is that a yes?” he wonders idly, casually, as if he’s not inches away from her very aroused core.  Carina gives a breathless laugh and leans her head against her shoulder, murmuring a soft, “Yes.”
It is all he needs.  His fingers converge on her, slipping between her legs and tracing her core.  With a grumbling sort of groan, Arthur mutters, “You’re soaking.”  He sounds ridiculously pleased about this.  Carina hums out a breathless agreement and shifts her legs further apart, hips slowly grinding up against his.  He swallows at the feel of her rubbing against his erection, and nips at her ear for good measure, just because.  His fingers increase their pace, thumb shifting over her clit as he slides one slowly inside.  She spreads easily for him, and he adds another, gently thrusting.  His mouth finds hers again.  This time, their kisses are languid, lazy.
But Carina doesn’t want him to be gentle with her.  She finds herself craving a different sort of passion, one that begs for a more hardy touch.  Her teeth nip at his bottom lip, a quick drag of painful pleasure that leave Arthur wanting more.  He kisses her harder in retaliation and she smirks.  He raises an eyebrow at the expression, and chuckles.  She’s so asking for it.  And he isn’t the sort to deny his lady anything.
With a lurching heave, Arthur abandons his position to instead lift her up into his arms.  Carina lets out a surprised laugh that’s quickly muffled by his lips.  He stumbles a ways over to a patch of grass and lowers her down, breaking the kiss and reaching for his tunic.  She stretches out her bare body and peers up at him, watching the twist of his muscles as he moves it over his head.  An impressive body, he has – built from years of training.  It certainly isn’t wasted on her, either. 
He comes back down and murmurs, “Would you like to do the honors?”  His eyes shine with amused desire that is clearly reflected in her own gaze.
Carina smirks and drawls, “The honors?  And here I thought your arrogance had somehow faded over the years…”  Arthur only gives her a swift grin and shrugs, neither negating nor agreeing with her. 
She laughs and slides her hands down his body, making sure to trace every contour of it before she reaches his trousers.  And then she’s slipping them off his hips and freeing his very hard erection, and Arthur leans down to kiss her again as she brushes her fingers over him.  Very hard indeed.
“As much as I’d like to take my time with you in this…romantic glen,” he whispers a little sarcastically, “I don’t think I can be patient.”  His hips surge forward in her fingers, and Carina swallows tightly.
“Mmmm…good,” is all she says, and he relaxes against her gratefully.  She guides him forward, legs shifting around his waist, and her breath catches as he fills her.  Taking their time is all well and good, but this – this desperate hasty mess that they’re in, the firm ache of their bodies, the impatience in their kisses – it is infinitely more enjoyable.
He thrusts slowly at first, patient enough to, at the very least, make sure he isn’t hurting her.  She’s tight and probably not as wet as she could be, and it is uncomfortable in the beginning.  But Arthur’s fingers descend on her core, rubbing pleasure into her body and making her react to him in the basest of ways – and after hardly a minute of this, she is even wetter and moaning his name and there is no more discomfort, only dark shades of desire shirking the tides of their passion.
She moans a low, heady moan and Arthur picks up his pace, angling his body above her to sink more deeply into her core.  The subtle movement makes her crazy – she grasps him and whimpers, biting her lip and wrapping her legs firmly around him.  With every downward thrust, she pushes her heels against his hips to force him even deeper.  He thinks her enthusiasm is delicious; it makes him absolutely insane.
“Arthur,” she moans, arching herself into him.  His lips descend upon hers, his hand rising up from her core to clutch at one breast.  He rolls her nipple between two fingers and longs to lean down to suckle at it, but he doesn’t want to interrupt his pace and so he tells himself he will enjoy her more thoroughly later on, when they are more comfortable in their chambers.  The thought spurs him, makes him push himself faster, feeling the delicious strain of his orgasm slowly building, shivering over his form like heat lightening on a summer night.
His fingers return to her core, rubbing at the top of her clit with firm, controlled movements.  He tries to hold his finish off, slows his pace down a little – he wants her to come first, needs to see the pleasure cocoon her body – and it’s definitely worth it.  The feel of him inside her, the quick way his fingers glide over her core, it makes her arch up and clutch at him desperately, eyes locking with his in silent warning.  He watches her as she shatters, body coiling as her orgasm thunders through her, and before she’s finished, he hurries his pace once more and throws himself back into the passion with a low groan.
Carina lies back, gasping.  She’s more than satisfied, and Arthur appears to share the sentiment.  He sends her a boyish, tired smile and curls up beside her, dragging her body against his as they lay together in a patch of sunlight.  
And if this is heaven, then Carina isn’t sure she’d be that surprised.  Because what makes her more happy than anything else is the feel of him beside her, skin warm and arms strong and eyes tinted with familiar, beautiful love.


Monday, January 25, 2016

A Haldir Lemon -- March Back To You

 Character: Haldir

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings

OC: Alana, wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, cheerful, a bit of a tease

Inspiration: I have no idea how this happened, but apparently Haldir is kinkier than I imagined cause this story just wrote itself.  ;)  And with that, I’ll leave you all to enjoy the read~

Caras Galadhon has never looked so lovely, nor so welcoming, as its Marchwarden steps foot back into the borders.  His heart sings at the familiar sight of the city, and his pace quickens.  He has only one destination tonight, only one desire, and it has everything to do with returning to the place he has called home for many years.  He knows what waits for him there, can imagine the cheerful smile that will greet him upon entering.  The brimming fountain of love that will burst into his arms like a song waiting to be sung. 
His speeds up the steps, passes doorways that are not his, faces that do not smile with the joyful desire that he has imprinted in his mind.  Until – at last – he sees the Talan that is his and the Elleth that waits for him on the porch beyond it.  She had known he was coming then.  The Lady perhaps told her – or she had just felt it herself, that delicate breeze that rose up the moment he left the outskirts of the forest for the gem within.
“Haldir!” she cries, her mouth upturning, and he reaches her with a grinning embrace and a kiss that is entirely inappropriate for their public setting.  But she melts against him and hugs him back, weaving her arms around his hair and holding him close.
“I feel as if I have not kissed you in months,” he mumbles against her lips, even though it’s only been two weeks.  She laughs and kisses him firmly before pulling away, all too aware of the sight they must make.  But the elves around them do not question it, or even seem to care, though they have perhaps breached a sort of propriety that is held very dear in the heart of this kingdom.  Anything for their Marchwarden, the trees seem to say, and Alana returns the sentiment as she loops her arm in his and pulls him into their home.
The moment the door closes behind them, Haldir is kissing her again and pressing her to the closed door.  She quivers against him, half laughing, half passionate, and murmurs, “And here I was, thinking that my husband would be far too weary for such voracious affections…”  Silly of her, she thinks with a subtle blush, but doesn’t deny him as he pulls her close.
“Never,” he tells her, hands drifting up and down her sides.  He will never tire of her.  Even the mere thought is ridiculous.
Alana hums and pulls away, giving him a smile that merges with mischievous lust.  Oh but he likes it when she smiles at him like that.  It promises many dark and beautiful things for the night to come.
“There’s a bath waiting for you,” she says breezily, drawing away to unbuckle his belt.  He lets her pull it off of him, grasping the hilt of his sword and propping it against the wall.  His bow comes next, and his quiver, and then when he is properly weaponless, Alana takes his hands and pulls him behind her to the bathing chamber.
The sight of the warm bath has him nearly sinking with relief.  Two weeks with only the stream to wash in has done little for his already legendary temperament.  There is absolutely nothing like a decent bath after a two week shift on the borders – but the sheer joy of it increases tenfold when Alana begins to work at his clothes, and he reforms his thought.  There is nothing like a bath and her to lighten his spirits and remind him what he has waiting for him after every long, torturous shift.
She smiles as she unlaces his tunic, then his trousers, shucking away his shoulder guards and lifting up his shirt.  At every removal, her fingers wander over his skin, searching for bruises or cuts.  Haldir chuckles and catches her wrists, murmuring, “I am not injured, Alana.  There is no need for such worry.”  But he does love it when she worries over him.
She narrows her eyes at him and says, “I’ll be the judge of that, Marchwarden.  Even if you had a dagger in your gut, you would pretend to be fine.”  She annunciates her words with a tug at his leather leggings, and he chuckles again, partly amused and partly roiling with subdued desire.
Yes, he is stubborn but so is she, and Alana doesn’t stop her inspection until she has seen all of him.  Had they not been married for so long, he might’ve been a little bit wary of her roving gaze.  But as it is, he finds himself only amused and maybe even a little excited – well, very excited, to be truthful, and very much in need of returning her examination.  She laughs when he pulls her toward him, but her laughter transforms to low, amused chuckles as he playfully tugs her clothes away, making no effort to disguise his clearly carnal desires with every pass of his fingers on her skin.
“You are very insistent today,” she muses, body thrumming with anticipation as he shifts the rest of her gown away and sets to work on her underclothes with a determined look in his eyes.  His touches are almost brusque, his expression set in careful steadiness, as if he is working new recruits rather than unlacing the stays of her slip.  But Alana is not naïve to the heat that lingers just beneath his gaze, nor to the smirk that just barely skirts over his mouth.
Haldir grunts – it is more of a rumble, really; a low pitch of air that passes against his vocal cords and shifts them into a sound that makes her shiver.  He wrestles with the last of her clothes with the same resolve he would use in all other action, in the bedroom or out of it, and it makes her body sing for him.
“Does it bother you?” he questions, dragging his eyes up every curve of her and locking their gazes together with a subtle smile.  He already knows her answer, or so he thinks.  But Alana surprises him when she sends him a particularly wicked smile and brushes past him on her way to the tub, taking care to drag a hand over his bare abdomen as she goes.  He stiffens, if only because he’d much rather feel that touch move slightly lower – and because, of course, he has dreamt of it during the entirety of his long shift outside the borders, with only the memory of her to keep him warm at night.
She glances at him over her shoulder and shrugs, a delicate lift that makes the muscles of her back coil beneath her skin.  His eyes lower, and he is captured by the desire to kiss every inch of that back, and more of her too. 
“Has it ever bothered me in the past?” she asks, eyes positively sinful as she lowers her gaze to his own body.  It is quite clear that she is as equally struck as he, especially when she not-so-casually glances at the hardening shaft between his legs, which is easily on its way to becoming a persistent erection.
He watches her step into the tub and quickly joins her, never having been one to allow teasing to get past his defenses.  (Despite her being very good at doing both, when he is more inclined to allow it.)  As he lowers himself into the steaming water, Haldir sighs with a happiness that seems to have eluded him for the last two weeks, and is quick to wrap his arms around his wife and pull her tight into his chest, legs propped up around her.  It is a very pleasant position, especially because her perfect ass feels sinfully delicious pressed against his shaft.
She seems to agree, but does little more than rub very lightly against him before settling down – an action that he is sure is both strategic and carefully innocent.  Oh yes, she is good at teasing him in all the right ways, and for now, Haldir is happy to bask in it, and her.
“Mmm…” she sighs, nearly hums, her voice a cadence of comfort and giddy awareness as she turns in his arms and lowers her head to his chest.  “I have missed you, Haldir,” she tells him, stroking a hand over his arm.  Her fingers trace the muscles beneath his skin, and Haldir gives her the barest hint of a smile.  He winds his own fingers into her hair, eager to touch her, to familiarize himself with the body he has also missed, more than he can say.  A mere two weeks should be nothing, really – he has been gone far longer – but he cannot deny that every absence grates on him.  He raises her fingers to his mouth to kiss them, and she sighs again.
“Did you think of me during the long, lonely, desolate nights when you slept alone?” she asked a moment later, her voice taking on all the playful teasing he had become quite used to.  She blinked up at him with a smirk and he laughed. 
He leaned in, pushing his body from the edge of the tub with a short growl and heaving her body against his.  “You haunt me always, meleth nîn, [1] especially on the nights when my own touch cannot give me the relief I need.”  The words are carefully constructed for a single purpose: to see her fall apart with the desire they bring forth.  It is neither a lie nor the full truth – he has given in to his own touch many times during extended shifts, though only when the need is great and unable to be ignored.  
But it is neigh impossible to truly be alone during said shifts.  Even when he has a Talan to himself, elfish ears are, after all, very keen.  He has only ever given in to such temptations during stints to the stream, when he is as far from the other scouts as possible.  But regardless, it has the desired effect.  Alana shivers vividly against him, lips parting in vague surprise – probably that he had been so forward in such admittance.  He does love to surprise her, to show her that he is not the stoic, cold Marchwarden that most believe him to be.  Of this she is already quite aware, but to have the knowledge rekindled in such a lovely way makes him hum with masculine pride.
When she does not immediately move, Haldir smirks, a chuckle resounding through his chest and rumbling against her.  He’s very hard now, and doubts that he will be able to think of little else but ravishing her to his best abilities.  Not that she minds.  His choice of wife had been a good one, for she is nearly as unquenchable in her desire for him as he is for her.
“…Alana?” he asks, sounding a little warbled as he fights off a laugh.  She is rarely silenced in such a way.  He rather likes to be the one to take her so off guard that she cannot even think of a response.
She stares at him and draws closer, the corner of her mouth drawing up into a perfectly wicked smile as her eyes melt with desire.  “Haldir…do you really pleasure yourself when we are separated?  Do you desire me that much?”
Her question catches him off guard, this time, because he had thought it obvious.  He can barely keep his hands off her when they’re together, in public or otherwise – which has led them both to rather amusing, clandestine comments from others around them.  That she is surprised at how much he wants her makes him surprised, too.
He raises an eyebrow.  His hand slides up her body and she shivers brightly, but doesn’t look away from him.  Their gazes are locked.  He stares at her like she is prey beneath him and he is readying himself to utterly devour her.  His eyes flash and he murmurs lowly, “I often think of you when I bathe.  It is the only time I am able to have a private moment away from the others.  And I imagine you in the most sinful ways, meleth nîn.  It makes me eager for you, but alas – “ he smirks, cupping her breast, “I must take care of the problem myself.”
Her breath shortens as his thumbs circles her nipple in that seemingly innocent way.  They have never had a conversation like this before.  It makes her absolutely crazy with desire.  She can imagine him now, leaning back against a rock, his bare body surrounded by water, his hand grasping the hard erection that splinters to life between his thighs…murmuring her name as he pumps himself between those calloused fingers and imagines that they are hers…
She decides that perhaps it is time to act out this particular fantasy of his.  After all, they are in a bathtub together.  It is probably the closest they will get to living in these imaginations. 
His eyes flutter when she reaches down to curl her fingers around his hard length, slowly dragging her touch up and thumbing over his tip.  When his throat convulses, she leans in and kisses it, whispering against his skin a secret of her own, “I imagine you, too.”
He pauses, body at once tense, and she wonders if that means that he is not pleased with the admission.  But mere seconds later Haldir is growling wickedly and slipping his hand into her hair to drag her head forcibly back.  His eyes are dark, near black with a passion that makes her breath short and her body ache. 
“Tell me more,” he orders, almost begging, though he would never admit to it.  She has seen this side of him before, heard such sinful orders directed at her, but somehow in this moment, they are far more poignant than ever before.  She feels as if she is on fire.
In a breathless voice, Alana whispers, “My fingers are no comparison to this…”  She gently squeezes his shaft and he lets out a shredded breath that makes her press ever closer to him, eager for more.  “…but I imagine they are yours.  And when I touch myself it is almost enough…”  Almost, but not quite, because nothing feels as perfect as the fullness of him inside her, shifting her off the corners of reality and into the thoroughly unknown.
Haldir’s eyes squeeze shut.  He shivers when she so clearly murmurs that she touches herself – and all he can imagine is her, naked and glorious on their bed, legs spread and fingers stroking over heated flesh.  At once, he can think of only one desperate desire that he absolutely must partake in or he fear he may unravel from the sheer need.
His voice is strained, clenching over the syllables as he hoarsely says, “Show me.”
Alana pauses, but does not linger in her indecision.  Her body is on fire from this conversation alone, and she bites back a smile that Haldir eagerly returns.  She feels like they are giddy newlyweds, unable to keep their hands off each other and racing to discover and explore new forms of pleasure.  She had thought they had already learned all there was to know about the other, but this…Eru save her, this is making her crazy with want.
She stands, water cascades down her figure.  With a haste that Haldir is quick to match, they stumble out of the tub and towel themselves dry – just dry enough to not make a watery mess of the floor as they fly to the bedroom.  They get to the threshold of it before Haldir grasps her around the waist and drags her against him, claiming the hungry kiss that he has been waiting for since the moment they entered that bathtub.  Alana sinks fitfully against him, mouth eagerly working against his, tongue delving against his mouth – but before she can continue, he pulls away and gives her a firm squeeze around her hips. 
“I want to see you,” he whispers, nipping at her bottom lip before fully dragging his mouth from hers.  She shivers as he guides her to the bed, and when she slowly lowers herself onto her back, he follows.  “Pretend I’m not here.  Touch yourself like you would if you were alone.”  He settles himself on the edge of the bed, too far from her to touch but not so far that he cannot see everything she does, and waits with baited breath.
Alana chuckles and murmurs, “I can’t pretend you aren’t here, Haldir.  I’m too aware of you.”  Her entire body is aware of him – of the fact that he is utterly naked and hard and just beside her, eyes watchful.  But she gets comfortable anyway, laying herself down on the pillows that wait for her, and glances at him in an almost shy way.  He opens his mouth to say something, anything that might dissuade such silly nervousness from her, but she cuts him off before he can.  “But…I will try if it will please you…”  She sends him a small smile that he returns.
He wants to say that it will please him very much, especially when he is sent out again.  He’d like to tell her about how this image will burn into his mind, how he’ll think of it when he is hard and searching for his own pleasure.  But he doesn’t get the chance, because before he can so much as inhale, Alana is shifting her legs apart and closing her eyes and sighing.  Her hands start at the top of her body, drifting over her collarbones and then her breasts, and Haldir’s gaze turns hungry and desperate as he watches her play with her nipples.
Intimacy is not new to them, but something about this kind of intimacy makes Alana tremble with newfound hesitance, as if she is a virgin on her wedding night.  They are together but separate, basking in desire that rolls fluidly around them.  She can think of nothing besides the watchful gaze he sets upon her, and even as it turns her shy, it also instills a fervor that she cannot describe.  That he is watching her, enjoying her, desiring her so fiercely makes her shiver and spread her legs wider, slowly inching her hands down to the crevice of them.
One finger dips into her folds.  Haldir grits his teeth, blood boiling and body tense.  So this is what she does when he is not there to please her.  This is the expression on her face when she imagines his fingers are touching her rather than her own.  What else is she imagining, he wonders?  What other fantasies does she create as she launches herself into this delicious pleasure?
Her other hand joins in, thighs trembling as she closes her eyes tight.  Desire pools in her belly, fire like no other twisting through her like vines climbing always upward.  Her thumbs her clit, circling the bud at the top and arching her body into the press of her fingers.  A breathless moan spills from her throat before she can catch it, and she hears Haldir beside her, shifting as he absorbs the tiny shred of sound.  Her shyness soon morphs into desperate passion that doesn’t allow such delicate emotions – this is her husband and she isn’t ashamed of her blistering desire for him.  And so she takes it up a notch, partly because she desperately needs it for her own arousal but mostly because she knows he’s staring at her and loving every movement she gives him.
She hears his ragged inhalation when she brings her finger to her mouth, licks her juices from it, and bring it to her breast with a moan.  Kneading the soft flesh with her fingers, Alana whimpers, pushes her chest up, and hastens her fingers below.  She adds another finger into her core, thrusting it in tantalizingly smooth circles before dragging them out and rubbing her clit.  And then, trying to recreate her usual routine as accurately as she can, she moans her husband’s name as she slips her fingers back inside her, rocking into them as she would if it was his length that filled her up.  “Haldir…”  Her voice, a quilted mess of desperation and arousing, blind desire, makes him snap.
He growls, heaving with breath that never seems to fill his lungs.  How can she entice him so much?  His very blood is on fire, drilling through his veins like a purgatory of jaded arousal.  Flames lick at him, sets his skin melting, his nerves shivering as a sapling might shiver in a heavy thunderstorm – and his heart is that thunder, the rocking sway of a sky adrift with clouds about to burst, pulsing with a need to release every spent emotion that has ever taken a hold of his seemingly stoic persona.  There is nothing stoic about him now.
“Come for me, Alana,” he growls at her, overcome by the sheer need to see her crumble before him.  Unprepared to hear his voice, Alana’s eyes burst open and she turns to stare at him, wide and trembling like a sparrow.  All at once she’s caught up in that storm, bolstered back and forth with the gusty winds of his passion – and the sight he makes before her.
He has his hand wrapped around his member, pumping himself almost idly, trying not to push himself too far too soon.  He wants to finish inside her but he can’t help the brisk, quaking need to touch himself.  And what a beautiful sight he makes, she thinks as she draws her gaze down to his hand.  He’s already leaking, precum beading at his tip.  His graceful, calloused fingers curl around his girth, sliding slowly back and forth.  Every downward pass pulls the skin back, every upward one and his thumb accompanies the dance, shifting over his head before plummeting back down.
“Come for me,” he repeats, drawing her attention back to the matter at hand.  She flounders for a moment, swept up so completely in the glorious sight of him that she has forgotten to keep touching herself.  She jumps back in, both literally and figuratively, fingers delving inside her core as she tries to picture that hard shaft filling her up instead.  It’s surprisingly easy to do.
Haldir purrs at the sight, squeezing himself a little and tipping his head back when the pleasure of the movement briefly overpowers him.  His chest ripples from the toss of his head, and her gaze snaps up to watch.  It’s so much better this way, she thinks.  Watching him as he watches her, unabashedly staring.  But Haldir, as always, somehow manages to make everything so much…more.
It seems that he has lost the ability to make his voice anything but a growl, because his next words are exactly that: “Imagine me moving above you, inside you – imagine your fingers are my cock and I’m thrusting into you like a savage animal – “
“Haldir,” she whimpers, half embarrassed at the vulgar words that he so rarely speaks but mostly completely crazy about them.  He never talks like that, never.  That he is now only spurs on the fire that threatens to swallow her whole.  She heaves, squeezing her breast tightly and trying to imagine him – but it’s so hard when he’s staring at her like that, like he’s the one whose about to swallow her, devour her; a savage animal indeed.
“Faster,” he demands, leaning forward on the bed and pumping himself quickly in her hand.  “Move your fingers faster, like I would if I was inside you right now.” 
She can barely breathe anymore, but she somehow obeys, thrumming her fingers faster.  Her hips tilt up to meet them.  She tries to set a pace that he would, if he was indeed inside her and thrusting into her.  He would be wickedly fast now, so caught up in pleasure that the idea of going slow wouldn’t even grace his mind.  So she tries, his words spurring her on when he purrs, “That’s right.  Now come for me, meleth nîn.”
She does.  It’s so easy, her body is so hot, and she falls into her orgasm so quickly that Alana can do nothing but gasp and cry out his name and arch her body right off the bed.  He watches every movement with sharp eyes, not missing anything, and only when she has wrung out her orgasm does Haldir move.
He crawls toward her – leaps, really – pushes himself between her legs and heaves her hips into his.  Alana isn’t ready for the movement and it takes her by surprise, but she lets out a long moan when he enters her slick core.  She’s still shaking with the remnants of her orgasm when he hilts himself inside her with no trouble, and as he gathers her in his arms and starts to move, she really thinks she might be delirious because it feels so good.
“Haldir!” she cries, almost sobs as he thrusts into her.  She’s so hot around him that he moans, a raw pleasurable sound that makes her grasp him tightly and toss her head back.  His mouth converges on her pale throat, nipping and biting and making her writhe beneath him as she struggles for more pleasure, more of him.  It’s so wantonly blissful that he nearly comes right then and there, before he can even enjoy himself.
“Alana…mmm…” his eyes drift closed, burying his head into her neck as one hand comes up to play with her breast.  It is more of a soft squeeze than anything else, so overcome as he is with the desperate cycling burn of his finish as it drives through him.  But the touch makes her gasp, fingers tangling into his blonde hair and twisting, clenching him close to her and tightening her thighs around the graceful swoop of his hips.  Fire consumes her for a second time, and with a cry Alana rushes forward to meet it, gasping his name as it jumps from her tongue.
He joins her, snapping his hips against hers for several long, drawn out thrusts as he feels himself burst and fill her.  Tight around him, she milks him clean, her muscles fluttering intermittently as she drifts through her finish and hangs limply beneath him.  Her limbs are a melted pool of heat and she can only lie there, clutching him to her heart and practically crying from the sheer joy that he has given her.
Haldir groans, moves his hips sluggishly in a few last thrusts that make pleasure sing through their bodies, and then pulls out of her.  He shifts them, pressing himself down beside her and gathering her up in his arms.  She swings a leg around his waist and an arm around his chest, nuzzling her face to the crook of his neck and breathing deeply.  His hand comes down to her ass and pulls her close, giving her a playful little squeeze before settling at her waist.  The warmth of him surrounds her like a sheath, and Alana can’t think of a time when she was more comfortable than she is now.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” she mumbles, stubbornly trying to refuse the exhaustion that creeps through her.  The light of evening makes the room gray and lovely, and she knows they have an entire night of sleepless lovemaking to get around to.  But Haldir only chuckles, gruff and tired and sounding so satiated that she feels a burst of feminine pride resound through her.  He pets her hair as if she is a cat, threading his fingers through it and drifting them over her scalp.  It feels so good that she sighs and nestles closer.
“Mmm…I’ll never be done with you,” he replies, pressing a firm kiss to her temple and then murmuring, “Now rest.  If you want to keep up with me tonight, you’ll need it.”  There is amusement in his tone that makes Alana laugh.
“Oh?  A challenge?  I cannot wait to meet it,” she whispers against him, and he reaches down to pull the blankets up around them.  As he arranges them, he playfully slaps her ass and she lets out a sound of surprised enjoyment, curling her leg tighter around his waist and pressing her core against his.  It might be her imagination, but she thinks he feels a little harder and she thrills at the thought.  A roll of her hips and the suspicion is confirmed – her husband’s warning has been rightfully said.  He is definitely not going to let her sleep tonight.
“Don’t tempt me,” he growls in her ear, nipping lightly at the sensitive flesh.  He drags her roughly against him before settling back down, drifting his hand up her back in lazy patterns.  Alana bites her lip and laughs softly, closing her eyes.  “Oh very well,” she breathes, “but if you don’t wake me up in an hour I shall be very cross with you.”
Her words make him chuckle darkly.  He purrs, “An hour?  You give me far too much credit.  I doubt I’ll get through half of that.”
She giggles and basks in the feeling of his skin pressed against hers.  “What a resilient husband I have.  How lucky I am.”  She sends him a smirk that makes him slowly, lazily grin.
“If you don’t get some rest right now, I won’t give you a break at all,” he warns, and she knows without a doubt that he is being absolutely serious.  Which is why Alana raises a jaunty eyebrow and murmurs lowly, “Maybe I don’t want a break.  Maybe I just want you.”
He stares at her for a moment as if he’s trying to decide if she’s worthy of his attention.  His mind is made up when she rolls her hips into him again and pleasure shoots through his body.  With a predatory gleam in his eye, Haldir rolls her onto her back and crawls up her, hovering above her with that stormy, passionate expression.  “When I’m through with you, you’ll regret saying that.” 
A shiver bursts through her at his words, and Alana draws a hand up his body.  “I don’t think so,” she whispers, and as she brings him down to kiss him, says, “Shall we test your theory out?”
He laughs and swoops down, taking her mouth firmly with his and proceeding to do exactly that.


[1] Meleth nîn ... My love

Saturday, January 23, 2016

A Vilkas Lemon -- Feral

 Character: Vilkas

Fandom: Elder Scrolls Skyrim

OC: Ryiah, Imperial, dark eyes, blue eyes, hot headed

Inspiration: Maybe next time I'll write something for both Farkas AND Vilkas... that would be hot ;D  

There is nothing quite as inebriating as the throes of battle.  It doesn’t particularly surprise him that he finds her attractive when she’s gutting bandits or wearing their blood on her armor.  Perhaps it’s a little strange, to find such violence arousing, but he has long become used to the destructive call of his blood.  No, he is not surprised that he finds her to be as attractive as ever – the only shocking thing about it is the fact that he is no longer a wolf, yet his blood still boils as he watches her open the throat of the enemy that tries to kill her.
Being ambushed in the wilds is no great surprise either.  Vilkas had been expecting as much the moment they had entered Falkreath hold, where bandits and roadside vagabonds are easily come by.  He is not worried about such things though.  Their small two person party is often outnumbered, but made all the fiercer by their unique talents.
He loiters over the man he’d just skewered, his long sword dripping with blood.  Adrenaline pumps through him, and he knows that he should scout the area, make sure these bandits are the last of their group.  But he does not move.  He cannot move.  Not when Ryiah holds every last ounce of his attention.  Let more bandits come – his blood is boiling and he could use the peculiar release which comes from hunting these ne’er-do-wells.
He watches her put her boot to the bandit’s chest and push him off her sword, which is buried in his stomach.  The man falls and takes a short rattling breath.  Ryiah is not cruel, not even to such scum, and she gives him a quick end: a downward arch of her blade, then silence.  Sweet silence, tattered only by the desolate winds and the furious beating of his heart, which whispers at him and draws him forward.
She in the middle of saying something about searching the bodies when he drags one hand around her waist and pulls her forcibly towards him.  Surprise jolts across her features, perhaps at the determination in his eyes.  It turns into pure and utter shock when Vilkas goes one step further and pulls her against him, lips scorching over hers in a very heated, very unexpected kiss.
To be truthful, it’s really more of a hard press of lips and teeth than a kiss, but it still makes Ryiah moan and careen into him.  It’s the reaction he’s searching for and he takes her into his arms, holding her so firmly that it’s almost as if he’s garrisoning her against him.  No matter – she doesn’t care – she can only kiss him back and try to keep up with him.  A difficult feat, to be sure, because apparently Vilkas is a much better kisser than she could have imagined.  (And she has imagined it numerous times.)
It’s a little funny, really.  They’re covered in blood and gore, surrounded by corpses, and they’re kissing each other as if they’re back in Jorrvaskr sharing the empty mead hall late at night.  She’s often imagined him taking her off guard like this, but never quite like this.
With a gasp, she pulls away and Vilkas follows her back, clearly having none of it.  He presses his mouth to her jaw, the scruff of his unshaved stubble scraping against her.  She feels amazing, despite the rather unromantic atmosphere around them.  Doesn’t matter, she thinks.  Vilkas is finally (finally!) kissing her, and she isn’t about to start complaining. 
She’s wanted him since their very first argument, when she’d walked into the mead hall and he’d laughed when she said she wanted to join.  And every insult thereafter had made her blood scream for him – a strange effect, but one she could not deny so easily.  She must’ve been more of a sadist than she realized.  But this – this kiss is worth the long wait, the insults, the arguments.  So so worth it.
“You look surprised,” Vilkas mutters, face looming close, only a breadth of space between them.  He raises an eyebrow and gives her a cheeky smirk that makes her want to devour him just to teach him a lesson.  Ryiah rolls her eyes and says, “Surprised that you kissed me, or that you chose to do so in a field of corpses?”  She thinks she’s actually more surprised about the former of the two.  Vilkas has never been the romantic sort.
He purses his lips just a little to hide his smile and shrugs, “I’ve wanted to kiss you for months now.  Just didn’t want to do it as a wolf.”  The admission clearly takes her off guard, because Ryiah stares at him in shock…and then proceeds to fall into a rage that, frankly, he’s surprised has taken so long to surface.
“Months?!” she exclaims, pushing him back.  He lets her, watching her anger with an expression of content amusement.  He loves that fire, the way it lights up her eyes, the way it challenges him.  “Divines!  Are you saying we could’ve been doing wicked things months ago and you were holding back?!”
Her choice of words interests him.  Vilkas tilts his head and questions, “You want to do…wicked things with me?”  A subtle flashing smirk turns his expression into pure mischief.
Ryiah huffs.  “I thought it was obvious.  I’ve only been drooling over you since the day we met.”  She ignores him and bends down to wipe her sword free of blood.  Vilkas watches her every movement, taking in this new information with keen interest.  Since the day they’d met?  That was almost an entire year ago.  And their first meeting hadn’t exactly been…amicable, to say the least.
He barks out a laugh that almost makes him sound like the wolf he used to be, and chuckles, “You must be more of a masochist than I thought.  If I recall, you tried to gut me during that first sparring match…”  Perhaps that makes him the masochist, he thinks dryly.
Ryiah laughs too and says, “Mmhmm.  Well, you asked for it.  Now come on, I want to go wash this blood off.”  There’s something in her eye – a strange mischievous spark – that makes him wonder if perhaps she plans on doing more than just wash her armor.  Naturally, his curiosity is piqued.
“Oh?” he hums, smirking widely as he follows her to the nearby stream they’d passed on the way into the little mountain crossing.  “I suppose that’s your feeble attempt at seducing me?”  Her response is only a sly glance behind her shoulder and a crass shrug.
She’s never been all that embarrassed about these sorts of things, and what Vilkas calls a ‘feeble’ attempt is actually a lot more successful than he initially lets on.  She sheds her armor, piece by piece, as he trails behind her.  By the time they reach the stream, she’s got it all pushed under one arm and drops it on the bank, clad only in the sweaty clothes she wears beneath it all.  He’s really not sure what she’s planning other than an obvious bath.  She almost seems to forget about his presence entirely as she walks to the water’s edge, even though he’s probably piercing a hole in the back of her head with his sharp, watchful eyes.
But she hasn’t forgotten about him, how could she?  Her body is on fire with anticipation, and she wastes little time in stripping her clothes off.  Her back is to him as she sheds everything, even the under garments.  Vilkas doesn’t take his eyes off of her.  He just watches, feeling a little like a voyageur, taking in every reveal of her skin.  His eyes trace every firm muscle, every scar.  And when she kicks her underwear off and stands naked before him, he wonders if perhaps the wolf never left because he feels absolutely feral.
She gives him another glance over her bare shoulder and smirks, wading into the stream without another moment of hesitation.  Its cold, but not overly so.  She shivers anyway just to be dramatic and then raises herself up out of the water.  Yes, her feeble seduction attempt isn’t so feeble after all, especially when she purrs, “Aren’t you going to join me, Vilkas?”  And he thinks he might actually rip his armor apart as he tries to get out of it.
He joins her, as bare as she is.  The water’s freezing but he barely feels it.  His skin is so hot that it feel feverish, the heady spike of arousal pulsing through his veins and lighting him on fire.  He’s already half hard from her little show of skin, and he eyes her hungrily, scanning over every scar and every contour of muscle that tapers down her back.  Such lovely skin she has – marred but perfect, just what he’d expect from a warrior such as herself.  The urge to kiss every one of her scars jolts through him, and he cannot stop himself from coming up behind her and splaying both hands over her hips.  The water just barely reaches their waists.  It laps just above the curve of her ass – which apparently fits perfectly in his hands, something he’s wondered about for many months now and finally has the opportunity to test the theory out.  She gasps when his rough fingers grasp the firm, supple skin of her rear, and gasps again when he moves his hands to her hips and drags her ferociously up against him.
Divines, he’s already so hard.  His arousal burns into her skin, pressing up into the crevice of her ass like it is meant to be there.  She falls back against him and everything – fucking everything – gets very suddenly lost in a whirlwind of complete lust.  His hands cup her breasts and his thumbs tweak at her nipples and his mouth – Gods, his mouth is a symphony against her skin.  The unshaved stubble of his jaw scratches her, the desperate thrum of his tongue cages her, teeth nip, lips devour, until Ryiah is nothing but a trembling mass that drowns into his chest.
“Mmm…Vilkas – “ she begins to say, rubbing her thighs together in nervous anticipation.  Nervous, because she cannot remember wanting a man quite as much as she does now.  Nervous, because this is Vilkas, and she knows without a shred of doubt that whatever he has planned for her, she’s going to both love it and hate it.  Because it’s him, and love and hate always run together when it comes to him, and it’s beautiful.
His teeth scrape over her neck and she whimpers, pushing her breasts into his hands and arching into him.  She’s got a few tricks up her sleeves yet – and when she rubs her ass into his groin, Vilkas lets loose a growl that makes shivers skid over her skin.  The sounds he makes are heavenly.
But after that single, brief complaint, Vilkas goes along with the movement.  He lowers his hands down to her hips and pushes them back against him, bucking his own and rubbing himself into her with feral eagerness.  There is no control, no thoughtful persuasions.  There is nothing but the wild blood that pumps through his veins and serenades her with rough promises of what is to come. 
He chuckles low in his throat and attacks her jaw with his mouth, tongue lapping over the tiny hurts caused by his teeth.  “To think…” he mumbles, fingers drawing circles over the tops of her thighs and slowly, slowly meandering toward the crevice of them.  “…I could’ve done with the moment we met.  You remember?  Could’ve dragged you right on top of the table in the Mead Hall and fucked you right in front of everyone – would you have let me?” 
His fingers slip against her and Ryiah can’t from coherent thoughts.  Her mouth opens in a silent gasp as he slides his touch over her slit.  Apparently Vilkas can only take so much teasing, but she can’t find it in her to complain about that and maybe never will.  She’s wanted him for so damned long that the thought of dragging this out any further makes her quail.
He nips at her bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth to give it a fierce suck, and brushes his thumb over the top of her clit.  Her body explodes into shivers that he absorbs into him, feeling ridiculously proud that he could make her quiver like this, so thoroughly desperate.  But he needs to hear her answer, and when she doesn’t immediately respond to him, a growling sound rumbles through his chest and he stops touching her, freezing all movement until she’s whimpering that much more.
“Vilkas!” she whines, practically thrashing, eyes wide and dilated with arousal as she looks up at him.  He drags a lazy finger over the edge of her folds and demands, “you know how much I wanted you after that sparring match outside?  It took me what seemed like forever to take care of myself after you beat me.  Never been so turned on as I was when you managed to get on top of me.”  He drags her earlobe between his teeth and she shudders violently, moaning the prettiest moan he’s ever hear.
“Divines, yes,” she breathes, slipping her hand down to his and forcing it against her clit in hopes that he’ll continue touching her.  The action makes him chuckle, mouth curling up in amusement.  But he doesn’t make good on it until she moans, “Wish you’d told me – I could’ve snuck into your room and let you fuck out all your frustrations – oh fuck – “
He gives a throaty groan and brushes his thumb over the bundle of nerves, dragging one finger inside her at the same time.  She’s so fucking tight.  Her muscles cling to that one finger, and she so incredibly hot that Vilkas can think of nothing but putting more than just his fingers there.  What would it feel like, to have this heat clinging around his cock?  The thought makes him shiver, and he adds another finger and starts thrusting them into her, watching her come apart in his arms.
She’s babbling.  The Dragonborn and the Harbinger is babbling, and it makes Vilkas smirk because he knows that he is responsible for her reactions.  She arches into him, and his free hand immediately comes up to grasp her breast and redden it with a fierce touch.  Whimpering, Ryiah breathes, “Vilkas, fuck me now.  Fuck me like you wanted to fuck me that first day – please, please – “ 
He stares down at her and she stares up at him (all molten eyed, quilted passion serenading every bit of blue), and what he sees makes Vilkas snarl and let go of her, only to heave her body up into his arms and splash them hurriedly to the bank of the river.  Saying no doesn’t even cross his mind, he wants her so much.
What Vilkas wants, he takes.  But it isn’t without gentleness.  He lowers her into the grass and Ryiah immediately spreads her legs, opening her body to him and pulling him against her.  His shaft burns over her core but he takes a moment to lean down and kiss her, something he’s wanted to do again for a while now.  She returns the affection, but reaches her hand down to curl her fingers around his cock.  When she gives it a few thrusts, Vilkas goes crazy, eyes opening to stare at her as he shiver and thrusts his hips into her hands.  She smirks, and he wants to devour that twist of her mouth.  He wants to – but he forgets everything when Ryiah slips the tip of his member into her opening, and he can’t help but sink down into her. 
“Fuck – “ he groans, eyes fluttering as he slowly fills her.  If she’d been tight around his fingers, it is nothing compared to the way her muscles cling to him now – gripping around him and surrounding him with such blessed heat.  He heaves out a breath as he hilts himself in her, brimming her up with his shaft, and them drags himself back out because he needs the friction, needs it with everything he is.
Her hips follow him, arching up as he leaves her.  The shattered little gasp that breathes through her as he slides back down is worth every sliver of discomfort and he longs to hear it again.  So he fills her back up, entirely, and then drags out at a faster pace, thrusting down and out, down and out, until Ryiah is a breathless formless mass beneath him.
She moans, loudly, when he slams down inside her, forgoing the gentleness that he’d been desperately holding onto until this moment.  But something within him has broken, it seems, and all he can do is go faster, push himself harder, longing for more of her – every part of her – and he receives it all. 
“Vilkas!  Oh fuck, yes!” she cries.  His thumb brushes against her clit because he needs her to come, and soon.  He’s wanted her so much that he can’t drag this out even if he wants to.  He’s going to come.  He’s fucking going to come.
She heaves into the ground, legs tight around his hips, heels digging into his ass and dragging him down hard when every thrust.  The way he sinks into her, the fullness she feels when he’s hilted inside, it’s like nothing she’s ever felt before.  It’s amazing – and the thumb that burns her closer to her orgasm is a prayer fervently uttered.  A prayer that she cannot help but succumb to.
“Vilkas, Vilkas – “ his name morphs into a long moan as her body explodes, shattering beneath his touch and arching and thrashing and Gods, it’s beautiful, the way she comes.  He stares at her, watching her every movement, slamming his cock into her as she unravels and rubbing his thumb against her incessantly.  Her orgasm bristles through her even as it finishes, thanks to that thumb, and the way she mumbles and whimpers has Vilkas cursing out and bucking his hips faster because fuck it all, he wants to come.  He wants to spill himself inside her and make her his once and for all.  He wants her warm and full with him. 
Her name is a rumbling shout that makes her shudder.  Moments later, she’s watching him unravel and it’s probably the sexiest thing she’s ever witnessed.  His face twists, expression desperate, eyes beautiful.  His body shivers down against hers and his hips hasten their already quick movements, flat lining into her until she’s so utterly full of him that her entire world seems like it’d be nothing, nothing without him. 
He sighs, a long heaving breath that flutters over her neck, and lays himself down beside her with a tired grunt.  Ryiah tilts her head to look at him, breathing fast in the grass.  And he smiles.  It’s a lovely sight, seeing that mouth curl up like that, and suddenly she wants to kiss him again.  So she rolls onto her side, throws a leg over his waist, and leans down to press her mouth against his.
He drags her on top of him, thick muscled arms wrapped firmly around her waist.  And against her lips, he mumbles, “Next time, I’m fucking you over the table in the Mead Hall.”  She’s so surprised that she laughs, loud and bright and happy, and Vilkas smirks at the sound.
Her eyebrow twists up.  “Oh really?  How scandalous.”
He smirks wider.  “You think I’m all talk, don’t you?  Just you wait, the moment I’ve got you alone…”  There is definitely a promise in his voice that Ryiah can’t ignore, doesn’t want to even, and she smirks right back at him.
“I can’t wait,” she says, kissing him all the fiercer, and he hums against her mouth.  He can’t either, but he’s willing to take his time on the return journey, as long as the rest of their evenings are so pleasantly spent.