Herbalists' Cache life feels worse, but good with you in it

a shuddering breath rips through gjalla’s chest. 

the air is crisp, filled with the raw, simmering tension between them. predatory, seering hot. she looms over hawk, braced, breath heaving—half-wild with exertion, with the remnants of her rage, with the electric thrill of a fight somewhat well met. her eyes bore into blackhawk's, daring her to yield further, to admit what lurks beneath a wolfish grin.

then there are teeth—tawny woman reaching. stained teeth grasping for obsidian tendrils draping from her neck, seeking purchase, to keep her close. she should not be so close - she knows this. next, a sharp bite against the fur of her neck, something wanting, something that sends a jolt of something hot through her bloodstream, lighting up every nerve with something that is not anger, but just as reckless. 

gjalla snarls—not in warning, not in threat, but something darker. she wants. she hates that she wants. and fuck, this woman knows.

she knows. she knows and she taunts—dangles paradise before her eyes because some part of her knows she cannot refuse. lust is infectious, and gjalla is weak for a woman's touch. it is a desire unexplored, soon rectified. "guð hjálpi mér,"

gjalla lashes out—not to hurt, not even to end the fight, but to test the waters that this huntress had brought her to. she shoves her weight down, forces her muzzle against hawk’s throat, teeth scraping—seeking. 

she feels the heat of her own breath against hawk’s skin, feels the flex of muscle beneath her, feels the way Hawk’s chest rises in anticipation. her's does too.

“you want. tempt me for it.” she snarls, but she does not move. "take it."