Redtail Rise [m] Sīkärr

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: suggestion later in thread

“Har jeg bragt skam til dig?”
The evening is mild as they make for home. The meeting among packs had been tense; strange. There burns a bright fire of half-formed thoughts in the huntress. But most pressing is the mind of her husband, for she had spoken unprovoked in ways which may have obscured the norseman’s own voice. His expressive face has always been clear to her, but now she does not know.
And if she had embarrassed him? Ayovi contemplated if she wanted to be a silent possession in a world which had stung too many times.
She leans forward to see @Skorpa through a wind that whips tiny snowflakes against their cheeks.

---

skorpa was surprised. snow flurries settled upon his withers, his neck. they tumbled down the strong broad lines of the northman. he opened his bearskin for ayovi, pulling her close in the whitefall.

she was good and warm; his kiss for the hollow of her throat roamed to her shoulder, feeling the swell of her belly between them. "hvorfor tror du, at du har gjort mig til skamme?"

in the light cut by whirling flakes, the northman grinned a bright smile, for it was not shame he felt at all.

---

If she was good, he was better.
Ayovi allows the caribou to slip from her shoulders as the man draws her beneath his bear. Her belly is a new obstacle between them; she can no longer fit so seamlessly against his chest. The realization makes her laugh and she lifts her chin to hold Skorpa’s eyes in warm amusement.
“At the gathering you siger… Ayovi’s mand.” Her smile stalls, mouth struggling with his north on a tongue not shaped for such vowels.
“Jeg bekymrede… mig ønsker stille kone. Traditionel.”
She can feel her heart pounding, the press of her stomach into his flank, the strength of his arms over her back. The connection between them, she knew it was not tenuous, nor frail, but it is her father’s voice running through her head, reminding her constantly how a good Ashēeran wife will conduct herself for a husband.

---

tradition.

the caribou hide against the snow carried its own meaning as they gazed into the eyes of one another. skorpa took the time to understand, allowing the eddies of stormwhite their meandering before he spoke again.

her eyes, stark before the storm. "hvad er tradition andet end det, vi altid har vidst?" the bloodied mouth curved in a grin exclusively reserved for her eyes, one of resplendent desire and deepest love.

a heavy paw rose now to cup the side of her exquisite face. the way ayovi looked at the northman always sent his heart into a gallop. "min regnvandskvinde," skorpa said softly, "jeg vil ikke have en stille kone." his eyes shone. "og det er sandt. jeg er ayovi's mand. der er ingen skam i at sige det."

---

There had never been hesitance when it came to Skorpa. He gave her everything; all of himself. This great feeling is caught so roughly in her throat that Ayovi can only blink away the emotion in her eyes; clench the fluster between her teeth. His paw rises to take her face, and her’s to streak over the strong arm that holds. Down his to his shoulder, down across his chest. Touching; always. Playing. Laughing.
"Alt nu være anderledes. Bjerg, mig, du. Jeg havde blueprint jeg følger, Jeg vidste, hvem jeg var, hvem jeg gifter mig med, hvordan så dagene de næste tolv år ud."
She shifts a little more, widening her stance, making room for the lives they’ve made.
“Jeg har ingen anelse hvad sker der i morgen. Og jeg elsker det. Jeg elsker vores bjerg. Jeg elsker vores liv." Her tongue thrums, mouth breaking into a grin as she hovers her lips over his.
"Men, guder - jeg elsker dig højest, Skorpa."

---

his nose stung with the shimmer of tears. skorpa did not know it was possible to be so powerfully moved, but over and over she shifted great boulders of feeling within him. he responded in the physical, sweeping her face with soft breaths, gentle kisses which brushed along her cheekbones and up into the proud uptilt of her ears.

"blandt mit folk ønsker krigere at dø i kamp." skorpa traced ayovi's face with his gaze, almost too soft to be set in his craggy features, the stoneman who looked upon the sun. "vi vil til Valhalla for at feste, drikke og kæmpe i ærens haller for evigt."

"jeg tror, jeg har fundet den herlighed her hos dig."

---

It always takes her a moment; an extra few seconds to parse the danish in her mind. And as she does, she grins widely, lids closing in rapture of the lightest touches.
“Vi kan feste. Vi kan bygge haller. Men du må ikke dø, jeg forbyder det.”  She becomes intensely aware of everything about him then. The weight of his furs on her spine. The wilderness in his breath; old blood from old kills. Fetid. Dirty. A tongue clicks against her teeth. Language is beginning to open up a greater understanding between them, and now the huntress can liberate her questions, if only she knows the words. 
“Hvor gammel er du?” She asks, eyes opening on his.   “Har du familie?” She tenses then, eyes slipping over her fullness tucked between both their bodies.
“Har du nogensinde gjort… dette – før?”

---

"så vil jeg ikke dø," nuzzling toward the hollow of her throat while palm roamed her swelling flank. ayovi, in the rounding of her gravid sides, had become even more fiercely desirable to skorpa, and he wasted no opportunity to show her.

but his wife was in a seeking mind, and so he put his own thoughts to listen. "jeg tæller fem år." there came a nudge of worry, for he had never considered his age before this moment. "en mor. en far."

he lodged his tongue in silence a second. "en bror." surely ayovi asked if he had built another settlehearth with another woman, and skorpa shook his head. the rogue-turned-mountainman might never know if he had left children scattered in villages, but he had not ever sought a hall nor one woman to fill it with warmth.

"jeg er vant til en hård gåtur, en blodig kamp og at sove under stjernerne," skorpa murmured. "dette, alt dette - det er alt sammen nyt for mig."

his eyes closing, forehead lowered to brush her own; "jeg er lykkelig. jeg ville ikke have det på nogen anden måde. jeg har fundet kærligheden."

---

Skorpa is the first of many things. The first to answer such hunger in Ayovi’s body. The first to partner with her. He knows where to place a paw to coax his wife into a squirm. His breath; his wildness, it is in all the ways that the northman is her antithesis that she craves him. But she is the first for him, too— a first in love.
Heavy eyes trail down to the attention of his dark paws, enamored. Too captivated to tease him for being her father’s age. She stifles a thick breath.
“Når de er alder, hvorfor kan vi ikke vandre? Sove ved stjerne?” Her nose cants, eyes blinking serenely.
“Far, mor, bror. Jeg vil gerne vide det. De kommer møde hvalp og mig?”

---

"vi kan vandre," skorpa hummed, pleased with the image of it. "vi vil gå til det kolde hav og lade dem løbe."

all golden rose. all gilded pink, until the questioning came. until a shared tongue brought pathway to a past he would rather forget.

a long breath widened his chest. "det er ikke sandsynligt. vi er ikke tæt på." and defiantly the ursine man did not wish them here. this was his home. he had not built a life away for the past to tear it down.

---

What she thinks in return, she does not know. A question floats up into her mouth. It was not so strange a way for Skorpa to put it. Certainly not everyone was close with their family. Wolves were meant to disperse; to go their own ways and break off familial ties.
But it was the way Skorpa sighed, like he was keeping something from her. A secret that had been planted not as a stone in her heart; but a seed.
The air burns still with the aftermath of their council. The north is drenched in emotion and tension. And where Ayovi might have coaxed an answer from him, the huntress settles, leaving it for another day. For she had begun to shift herself against Skorpa in earnest, each movement peeling away the strain of the meeting. The only sound then is her paws and muffled, tightening breaths. Tendons in his neck are traced with teeth.
“Ærlig mand. Stærk mand. Ledende mand. Du laver mig glad i dag. Du gør mig… vække.” A flush spreads over her skin; a little coy embarrassment.
Ayovi leaps away then, tugging the caribou back onto her shoulders, her soft hums dreaming of the sea.

---

his ears were all her own when she spoke. ayovi's growing command of the tongue now shared always reminded him that the rainwater woman who had chosen him possessed a language all her own. he would ask about it — she scorched skorpa at that last, and with a rolling thunderous tone he trotted after her, breathing a nip against her flank, raking fangtips through velveteen fur at tailbase.

she was his breath and his exhale; skorpa wished to lie with her in meandering escape, all thoughts of war gone to dust for however long a time they deemed it. "geg tror også, jeg er vågen, skjoldmø af winsook."

so bountiful she was —!

teeth tugged the caribou hide to finer height, skorpa grinning almost foolishly beside her as they went.

---

His rasp is a primal siege within her own blood, beating hotly against the laboring gales. The feel of him near her tail spurs the huntress into a run, making a game of winding through trees, the thrill of play delaying what she truly craved. Eventually Ayovi slows, coursing back within reach to push her muzzle into the gritty fur of his neck; letting him fill her lungs, heating her veins.
She wondered at his desire. Even in this new, fuller condition, Skorpa wanted her.
Ayovi never felt more beautiful.
She pushes the fur aside to nuzzle along his cheek— right where an old scar tugs through brackish skin. A lap there, a trace down to his shoulders, to inside elbows, to hardening flank, then the woman is spinning, positioning her spine against the wide span of Skorpa’s chest, tail lifting to flaunt the roused point of herself which would please them both.

---

a whirlwind of heating snow, sending northman scudding to heaven on the icefire of all senses focused there, there with her — skorpa entranced ayovi into the first trembling, laying down their furs thereafter, shielding regnvand from the motes of whorling winterclasp while he built a fire instead.

kindling and tinder, a northman's exploration in appreciative bounty.

waking what he knew, meandering to know what had changed in response.

until when ayovi opened her eyes again, she would see his own darkened not only with desire but mischief, teasing — he was unhurried, using all he had ever learned to titillate the only he had ever loved.

---

An exclamation, half laugh and half sob as they gather atop his fur and beneath her’s. Skorpa is slow, exploratory, maddeningly so, and she wonders at it. “Is this some viking custom; to bring your lover to madness?”
His lips close over her’s, caked fur rough upon her chin, but she opens her mouth willingly to his, breathing the scent of his bloodied skin, tasting his tongue. She turns her face into his, nuzzling the snout of his crooked norse nose. She presses her lips onto his eyelids, his brows, the corner of his mouth.
Afraid; she’d been so afraid of his kind. Afraid he would kill her. Afraid of being made the wife of a northman.
But now she understands she never wanted only to be a wife. She wanted a partner; a friend. Soul upon soul, and she moves instinctively, seeking release, claws digging into broad shoulders, pawtips pressing against his thighs.
Her body swells between them, a new obstacle, and Ayovi breaks into a breathy grin.
“Min— min belly.”

---

their kiss was a study in runes carved to stone; slow with patience firm between. ayovi was a fluting call in wanting arms; skorpa teased, though muscles tensed to arrange regnvand against the stonefall of himself. hearthwife's single pale-flared flank turned skyward, second pressed into the furs; skorpa teaching with a new splay that all could be accommodated.

gentling self with control, for these images of ayovi in such new sights were too sweet to be long confined.

love, a conflagration to light both braziers.

---

Protrusion and all are featherlight within the norseman’s strong grip, maneuvering them both into place. Ayovi laughs, and kisses him through the laughter, grazing her lips on his landmarks; unerring despite the gathering dark. “I have been thinking of nothing but you and me— like this— all through the meeting,” she confesses sheepishly in ute, a language he will not understand.
Knowing their world was going to get much harder, knowing the challenges of both politics and parenthood awaited them in the months to come—
Ayovi dreamed only of this.

---

breath to stir her ear. "jeg vil gerne lære de ord," northman growls, "Jeg kan godt lide at høre dig bevæge dig mellem din tunge og min."

one flesh they were made, his voice coming undone and ragged; he smoothed his roughened paw along her silken flesh;

"jeg lever for at høre din sang."

---

Perhaps it is his desire to speak her people’s words. Perhaps it is the drive of her own want. His touch tingles across her skin and Ayovi toys a paw along the edge of one dark ear, lips once more in his. She guides him into her and with a low moan buries her claws in the tangle of red nape.
“Nüga küütak, Skorpa,” she lathers his name with her native tongue; again and again until all speech is lost.