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Biting In

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"Freya", Merlin moaned. His eyes were wet, his lips also. Freya couldn't see them, and for that she was glad. But she heard the tremble in his voice.

She felt anger and lust make the fur on her neck stand up. Her nape was prickling. Her tail was pushed on the side, curving clumsily over Merlin's arm. Her paws were spread wide over the dusty floor of the tunnel. Their tunnel, their lair, their nest against the loneliness. Theirs.

She pushed back, grinding her rear into Merlin's trusts. Driving him harder into her. One of his arms was braced on the floor over her, the other digging into her curving back. She bent her head to the side and caught his sleeve between her teeth, yanking his arm forward. He toppled over her; caught himself with that hand now on her shoulder. His rhythm didn't stutter, but his breath did. She licked his fingers in thanks, then bit gently into his palm. She tried to be careful, but wanted. Needed it. Harder.

She growled. Pushed again. He jolted a little, cursed. Then he used her shoulder for leverage and fucked harshly into her. She keened.

She didn't get wet in her monster form. She could feel every shift, every trust, every burn. She could thrust back with more strength than her other form would ever possess. She could claim what she wanted.

The candles were out, the moon was out. Even without the faint moonlight, she'd have known how they looked. She could smell her own saliva where there would be raw patches on his tights. Smell the blood on the long claw lines on his back. Smell his sweat all over herself. She smelled him all around: behind her, his torn clothes under her, his first ejaculation caught in her whiskers.

She could almost swear she could smell him thrusting in and out, the maddening way his scent would grow stronger or fainter over and over.

Afterwards she would say she didn't remember much from these nights, but she remembered everything. Cherished those memories, secretly. She wished she could hate herself for them, but he didn’t, so she couldn’t. They were the only thing keeping her warm sometimes. The only nights making bad days bearable. She was glad he had found her, these days where she only waited. Waited, and trusted Merlin to come back every time.

(Freya knew it had been too much to ask of him, that first night they did this, to try it this way. She wanted, but didn't wish to impose this on him. Yet Merlin had listened, and he had trusted her.

He'd heard her request. Listened in shock, yes, and she thought as she watched him go that he wouldn't be back. She was the one surprised when he'd came back that night wearing old clothes with better ones in a bag.

She'd taken him in human form for as long as she could hold back. In her hands and mouth, because later she wouldn't be able to. Then had turned her back to him. Offering. Requesting. Maybe, even, begging.

When she changed, he didn't pull out. For the first time, her transformation wasn't painful so much as it was intense.)

She growled again. Merlin picked up his pace. Shifted back, his weight leaving her back. She almost bit over her shoulder to bring his arm back. But he balanced himself on her thigh, grip hard through thick fur. His other hand slid down her back, fingers raking. She whined loudly when they reached the base of her tail. He scratched there again. Pleasure rippled through her. Saliva filled her mouth. Moonlight glinted on the debris surrounding them.

Her claws dug into dirt when she came. His fingers gripped her fur when he did.

(She turned over when he slumped next to her. Cuddled close, wanting his warmth back already. His eyes were wet, so was his mouth. She licked it, and tasted blood. He laughed, buried his face into her neck, and said "Freya". The sound of her purrs covered every other sound.)