Herbalists' Cache hoof cache

blackfell moves without thought, without hesitation. because she allows him. because she does not pull away, because she does not tell him to stop. because she whispers his name like that. like it still belongs to her.

his breath is hot where it spills against her throat, the faintest growl curling from his chest as his teeth find the delicate skin just beneath her jaw. you are a dangerous woman. she was and too few realized it. perhaps blackfell was the only one. he saw it now: he had doubted her. called into question. and she had been here all along, playing the game; surviving.

he shifts, pressing his nose to the hollow of her throat, dragging his mouth lower, grazing sharp fangs along the ridge of her collarbone. he is careful and gentle but there is nothing hesitant about him, nothing uncertain in the way he urges her downward, guiding her not beneath him but to the ground alongside him. until she is against the stone, and he is against her, caging her in. drinking gulps of cold breath to contain his desire, his urges. he burns hot and it is not just with what he feels for her, but his frustrations with gjalla. he yearns like a dog writhing for a bone; let us hide from them. he says to her. we can be together… an idea.

and not be together.

it was untraditional—but perhaps that was what they needed. it is uncertain. but there is nothing uncertain in the way he tastes her. in the way his tongue flicks against the curve of her pulse, mapping her with his mouth. the slope of her shoulder, the dip of her collar, the center of her chest. slow, reverent and worshipful.