Herbalists' Cache hoof cache

blackfell stills beneath her touch. she slips past his defenses, worms into the cracks of his anger and makes him stop long enough to listen. her voice is a silken vox and he finds it calms even the worst parts of him. her body, her fur, a touch that is his kryptonite. pressing against the sharp edges of his rage like river water against stone. but he is not soothed. he rebuts angrily, but his voice has lowered, head going with it, jaw agape as puffs of air breathe. it is not about them. it is about her.

gjalla.

he watches morwenna closely as she speaks, searching her face for something—what, he does not know. some reassurance, some understanding, some fucking explanation for why the woman who was meant to be at his side had turned against him. his ear twitches.

you think it’s that simple? his laugh is bitter, jagged at the edges. she thinks she was right. and if she thinks she was right, she will not yield. blackfell is begrudging now. and without thinking, he reaches for morwenna, pressing his forehead into the backside of her neck, seeking the comfort of her body. breathing heavily, taking deep gulps of her scent as it is woven within her. she would have me be her subordinate the rest of our lives.

it is the bitter truth he had not seen before. had refused to see. i have only ever been complacent for you. he whispers, fanning breath up her neck and against her cheek where he noses softly. and even then, i am a stubborn bastard.