Herbalists' Cache but my aching soul

@Gjalla

with the burning of the evening sun, envious upon his onyx hide, blackfell sought out the warmth of gjalla.

his approach was silent until he was near, until the heat of him curled at her side, until his teeth found the thick fur of her neck and gave a sharp nip—immediately staggering backwards in preparation for her reaction.

an amused, mischievous look upon a scarred face. crimson eyes burning into her raven fur. she had been plagued with thoughts since they had returned. blackfell wished to ease the tension from her fur, and thought an adrenaline-fueled tryst may do the trick.

he too felt pent up.

come, hound rumbles when he comes forward again, teeth grazing her cheek next. another nip, sharper. you and i. a fight... he presses thick fur of his chest into her shoulders, bearing weight down upon her. he enjoys how she fights back against him. and maybe later...

he trails off. thoughts conquer his mind, briefly. they still had yet to leave for their seven day rendezvous out of territory. gjalla had not yet been in the correct space of mind—and her lover respected that. he would go when she was ready.

gjalla knew blackfell well enough to sense his approach, silent as it was. she felt him in the way the air shifted, the slow burn of his warmth against her side. his heat licked at her skin before his teeth did, sinking into the thick fur of her neck with just enough force to coax a reaction from her.

she jerked, though not out of surprise. she snaps her teeth, glares at him with a mix of irritation and amusement as he staggered back in anticipation of her retaliation. bastard knew better, lucky him. 

"mmh, tempting," she muttered, though her tone suggested otherwise. dry as sand.

still, she let him crowd her, felt the heat of his chest press into her back and resisted—barely—the impulse to immediately push back. she wanted to dismiss him outright, but he knew her too well. knew that she knew she needed an outlet, that the tension beneath her skin wouldn't disappear on its own. he was giving her one, the bastard.

her ear flicked at the way he trailed off. gjalla exhaled sharply through her nose, already irritated with herself for indulging, but still… fighting was fun. and the promise of afterward? well, how could she refuse?

she turned her head just enough to meet his gaze, sharp teeth flashing in something that was almost a grin. "fine, you've convinced me."

"mm," he grunts, breath warm against her ear. "convincing you is easy." he instigates.

his teeth graze the fine hairs along her jaw, another provocation. the irritation in her voice is like music to his ears—few things set his blood to boil like it. it was why she loathed him so much in the first place, before he'd won her over. he was, at his best, a man with a stinging tongue. looking to cause mischief when it most amused him, and angering others did that for him.

he knew she would relent! she is not a woman who denies herself for long.

when she turns to meet his gaze, flashing teeth in that sharp, wicked way of hers, he already knows her answer before she speaks it. he simply smirks at her, teeth revealed, giving her a playful wink. he can see in her eyes the begrudging affection she feels towards him. but he does not give her time to reconsider.

the instant the words leave her mouth, he lunges.

there is no warning, no pause, only the sudden force of him as he barrels into her, thick shoulders slamming against her side. he aims to take her off balance, to see how quickly she will recover, to see how hard she will fight back.

gjalla hardly had a moment to roll her eyes at him before he was on her.

a sudden burst of movement—no warning, no tell—just pure force as he slammed into her side. it sends her feet skidding against the earth as she fights to keep herself upright. her legs lock beneath her, desperate to maintain her footing beneath the weight of him.

she twisted sharply, using the momentum of his lunge against him. her frame was lean, and built for agility whereas he was brute force—her shoulder angling to absorb the brunt of his hit before she shoved back, hard, throwing her weight into his chest in retaliation.

already, it was reminiscent of their first reunion. "still an oaf," she bit out, breath quick, eyes bright with something sharp and eager. her heart pounded in her chest, body thrumming with energy—adrenaline licking at her veins like fire.

with no hesitation, she lunged back at him, teeth flashing for the thick fur of his ruff, aiming to knock him off balance in return.

blackfell relished the way she met him, force with force, neither yielding nor shying from his challenge. this—this was why he loved her. why he would always love her. because she was not made to be still, to be docile. she was made for this, for the fight, for the fire.

her weight collided with his chest, knocking the breath from him in a short, sharp burst. he staggered, but planting himself firm against the ground.

and you are still as sharp-tongued as ever! he rumbles, voice laden with grit.

her teeth snap for his ruff; he lets her grasp her hold, let her think she had him, before twisting sharply, his own teeth flashing for the thick fur at her nape.

gjalla felt the satisfying jolt of impact as she crashed into him, heard the breath leave his chest, and for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—she thought she had him. her teeth found their mark, sinking into the thick fur at his ruff, her hold firm, claiming.

he was just as quick, just as relentless.

a sharp twist, and suddenly, his teeth were at her nape, seeking flesh between his fangs. gjalla snarled, low and vicious. her own grip tightened in a heartbeat before she could wretch herself from his grasp, twisting just enough to drag him down with her.

if she was going down, he was coming with her.

blackfell felt her teeth at his ruff, a firm and claiming hold—one she had every intention of keeping. but he was not so easily kept.

he turned into her, using her momentum against her, jaws snapping for the vulnerable stretch of her nape. he felt fur between his fangs, the warmth of her flesh just beneath, and for a moment—just a moment—he thought he had won.

then she twisted. a sharp, sudden jerk, and the ground was no longer beneath him. she was taking him down with her.

a snarl ripped from his throat as they crashed, tangled in each other, limbs grappling for control. snow kicked up around them, sharp and cold against the heat of their struggle.

he did not relent.

his grip on her nape tightened as he wrenched them sideways, seeking to pin her, to press her into the dirt and claim victory before she could find another way to drag him under.

they were a tangle of limbs and bared teeth, bodies colliding with the earth in a flurry of snow. gjalla felt the bite of the cold against her back, the weight of him pressing down, but she refused—refused—to be subdued. 

a sharp, guttural growl tore from her throat as she bucked against him, twisting with all the strength in her lean frame. she would not be pinned, would not be claimed so easily.

think, gjalla. her legs coiling beneath her, weight into his ribs, twisting fiercely to throw him off-balance. instead she feels teeth clench tighter around her nape, hard enough to force a yelp from her throat that sounded like more than just play.

blackfell does not loosen his grip.

her body twists and legs coil beneath her as she fights for leverage. her fight brings him amusement, great joy; to know he would wed a woman who held more fire than even he. it is what he admires, what he craves, what drove him to pursue her so fiercely.

he reminds himself of this.

she yelps and it causes a flash of concern. he feels the wild thrum of her pulse beneath his teeth, the rise and fall of her breath as she still struggles, still refuses to submit. he second guesses himself then, questioning the idea of fighting with her to begin with even if it was play; his grip loosening, leaving rope for gjalla to yank if she were smart—which she was.

yield, he rumbles, flanks heaving high as he breathes. he does not want to spar anymore, lest hurt her!

the second his grip slackened, gjalla struck. a ploy, a well-timed deception—her yelp had been calculated, a sharp little sound meant to dig into his instinct, to make him hesitate. he did. 

his grip loosened just slightly, concern flickering in the way his breath caught—and that was all she needed. 

with yet another sudden twist, she wrenched herself free, muscles coiled like a spring before she launched upward. she pressed into him, legs bracing against his chest, forcing him back. she shoved him with all the strength in her body, aiming to roll them, to shift the balance back in her favor. 

"no!" she scoffed, looming over him, "you yield!" she was breathless but grinning now, teeth flashing as she bore down, trying to pin him instead.

blackfell lands hard, back pressing into the snow beneath her weight. the cold bites into his spine, but the warmth of her thaws that cold. onyx man huffs out a breathless laugh: fine. you have me. i yield. his eyes squint with his joy.

a swift arm reaches around her, pulling her flush against him, dragging her down into the snow with him. playful growl rumbling deep in his chest as he traps her against him as she thrashes.

you fight dishonorably, teeth flash when he rumbles words against her ear. bringing his cold nose to swipe against the flesh there, then against her cheek, bearing down his weight against her so she cannot escape his warm affections. seeking to place a kiss on her, wherever she might allow.

i forbid you from teaching our children your dirty tactics. a challenging growl. he knows he cannot forbid her from anything, and so that is what makes it so fun to try. not some manly urge to control, but hunger to see her flame in any capacity.

gjalla barely had time to savor her victory with an indignant laugh before he dragged her down with him, yanking her flush against him with all the force of a trap snapping shut. She let out herself go willing, belly to belly with the man, laughing all the while.

"oaf—!"

his laughter made it difficult to stay mad. she wanted to be mad, wanted to summon something mean and bare her teeth just for the sake of it, but she cannot bring herself to. a cold nose brushes against her ear, her cheek. 

our children.

her lips curled at the notion, the challenge sparking in her eyes before she could stop it. "forbid me?" she scoffed, breath still coming quick. "a dirty fighter is a smart fighter," she nipped against his jaw, "they would be better for it," she muttered against his skin.

Her fight eased just slightly, just enough to let him press another kiss—wherever he pleased.

he presses his teeth against the curve of her ear, before he kisses his muzzle there, lingering. warmth curling in his chest, satisfied, as he lays claim to her. he had her, here, belly to belly, thrumming with life and fire and fight.

oaf, he mocked with a click of teeth, grinning against her fur, shifting slightly so that she lay heavier atop him. if i recall you fancy this oaf. what does that say about you, princess?

he tilts his head, pressing a fanning kiss to her throat, where her pulse pounds against his lips. he feels her breath hitch, just barely; and his voice, when it comes, quieter now—rough around the edges, grating like soil upon rock, when he breathes against her throat.

then we’ll have to train them well, won’t we? he nips at her skin, before he burrows his nose into the thick raven fur at the base of her neck, seeking to roll her onto her side, and subtly take the upperhand from her. painting her in kisses, in whispers of his affection, shifting to rise only briefly before pressing his chest against her backside. breath fanning over her spine as he lays down just behind her, crimson eyes staring up at the side of her face where she looks back at him.

i want you, gjalla. a confession he's made a thousand times, but this one is weighted. with expectation. he does not want to wait any longer. there buzzes flies in his ear, whispering things he should not listen to. he should listen only to her, this woman he holds now, and indulge himself in what she saw fit to give him.

gjalla's breath shuddered as his teeth grazed her ear, a surge of warmth spreading through her as he kissed the delicate curve there. It was a silent claim, but it spoke louder than words ever could. her pulse thrummed, still erratic from their fight, but her temper simmered—not entirely soothed, but no longer fierce. not entirely.

her heart was a treacherous thing, thudding violently in her chest. She had expected it from fight, but instead it beat for him, every touch a reminder of how much he had come to mean. 

"i suppose it means I like a challenge. even an arrogant one." his kiss to her throat was like fire, and she could feel her resolve crack. his breath against her skin was enough to send her thoughts scattering. he presses closer and there a shift in his voice, made her muscles tremble in anticipation. He knew—he always knew.

the confession isn’t new, but the way he says it is. it traps her breath in her lungs—her body went still. it did something to her chest. she didn’t need time to think, not anymore. she knew what she wanted, even if it scared her. 

she turned her head to meet his gaze, a mirrored hunger. "so take me," she whispered. it was as close to surrender as she would ever come.

he kisses her again—slower this time, drinking in the sweet of her surrender—enjoying the pride it stirs in his chest. a well-earned victory: his. teeth scrape down the line of her jaw before he buries his face into the thick fur at her nape. her scent drowns him. his hold tightens, his limbs tangling with hers, possessive in the way he molds himself around her.

and the onyx man he watches her from where he lies, cheek pressed against her shoulder, amusement flickering in his crimson gaze. soft, he thinks, smirking. she will bite him for saying so, but it does not make it any less true. he speaks after some time, voice gravelly with desire for her that he won't yet act on.

to torture the both of them.

we will leave in three days time.

blackbird presses a kiss to her shoulder before trailing up to speak against her cheek. before she can rebutt, or ask why, he nips softly at her chin. ishmira, a wordless explanation. but he adds on: she hasn't settled in yet. she was strong, he knew this, but she was still young. still learning. and though he had no true obligation to the girl, he had brought her here. her survival, in some small way, still rested upon him.

his breath is warm against her ear as he adds, softer now, but then, you are mine for a week. and then he rolls over, pulling face away from hers, trying to avoid any further talk of ishmira. they had yet to talk about the girl, as blackfell had been avoiding it.

"i did not peg you as the type to take strays, blackfell," she remarked, a hint of surprise in her voice. she had encountered the girl just a few days earlier. gjalla was notorious for making snap judgments, and despite the yearling's inexperience, she found the girl’s spirit striking enough. blackfell, too, must have seen it if he took her to ward.

perhaps, in time, they would both come to see her as part of their small circle. blackfell had yet to share the story of their fateful meeting, leaving gjalla curious. "How did you end up with this one?"

she rolled onto her back, stretching out beside him in a deliberate display of ease when he spoke again. periwinkle eyes burned as she stared at the darkening sky above them. she knew the girl was still adjusting, still learning, and it had become her problem because Blackfell had made her theirs, whether gjalla had agreed to it or not.

"three days, then," she murmured, voice husky, taunting, before drawing back with a satisfied hum.

blackfell scoffs, head tilting slightly as he glances down at gjalla where she sprawls beside him. his expression is unreadable, and his voice is so very dry, dismissive. he huffs: she isn’t mine. and it is a fact! unable to be challenged, this he is cemented in, as he too sprawls out alongside his lover.

i found her on the river. she was tracking me. his lips curl slightly, amused, as if the memory still entertains him. persistent little thing. i thought she might drown before she gave up. he exhales sharply through his nose, looking away. crimson eyes scan the horizon, sharp, watchful. i don’t want her. but the way he says it... even he doesn't seem to truly believe it. he is sure gjalla can hear it, clear as the rivers that carve the land. she is a bullshit detector.

the way he speaks of the girl with irritation that is not truly irritation. how he says he does not want her, and yet he has made space for her. how he watches, how he corrects, how he teaches. he grumbles something unintelligible.

gjalla watches him, eyes sharp—too sharp, piercing straight through the paper-thin dismissal he so casually throws out. She isn’t mine. lies.

her smirk deepens. “mmm.” a simple sound, noncommittal, but pointed and utterly disbelieving.

the arch of her brow is all she needs to make her disbelief clear. he does not yield, no, never. "how strange it is, then, that he waits to take a wife based on the state of a child he does not want," she drawls, eyes gleaming with something smug, something taunting, because she sees straight through him. sees how the girl lingers at the edges of his watchful eye.

he is full of shit.

blackfell watches her, unimpressed.

“you are insufferable.” he resigns to that.

the way she can read him has become both his greatest frustration and his deepest comfort.

“she isn’t mine.”

the words sound hollow even to his own ears. gjalla knows it. sees through it. calls it what it is without needing to say a thing. her brow lifts, pointed, smug, waiting for him to admit it.

blackfell exhales sharply, eyes narrowing. “she needed a teacher. that is all.”

fade?